Saturday, January 20, 2007

Decaf Poopacino

in case anyone missed Dave Barry's spectacular rant against starbuck's regulars and their ilk, here's an oldie but a goodie. no wonder i'm slowly switching to whiskey.
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I have exciting news for anybody who would like to pay a lot of money for coffee that has passed all the way through an animal's digestive tract.

And you just know there are plenty of people who would. Specialty coffees are very popular these days, attracting millions of consumers, every single one of whom is standing in line ahead of me whenever I go to the coffee place at the airport to grab a quick cup on my way to catch a plane. These consumers are always ordering mutant beverages with names like ``mocha-almond-honey-vinaigrette lattespressacino,'' beverages that must be made one at a time via a lengthy and complex process involving approximately one coffee bean, three quarts of dairy products and what appears to be a small nuclear reactor.

Meanwhile, back in the line, there is growing impatience among those of us who just want a plain old cup of coffee so that our brains will start working and we can remember what our full names are and why we are catching an airplane. We want to strike the lattespressacino people with our carry-on baggage and scream ``GET OUT OF OUR WAY, YOU TREND GEEKS, AND LET US HAVE OUR COFFEE!'' But of course we couldn't do anything that active until we've had our coffee.

It is inhumane, in my opinion, to force people who have a genuine medical need for coffee to wait in line behind people who apparently view it as some kind of recreational activity. I bet this kind of thing does not happen to heroin addicts. I bet that when serious heroin addicts go to purchase their heroin, they do not tolerate waiting in line while some dilettante in front of them orders a hazelnut smack-a-cino with cinnamon sprinkles.

The reason some of us need coffee is that it contains caffeine, which makes us alert. Of course it is very important to remember that caffeine is a drug, and, like any drug, it is a lot of fun.

No! Wait! What I meant to say is: Like any drug, caffeine can have serious side effects if we ingest too much. This fact was first noticed in ancient Egypt when a group of workers, who were supposed to be making a birdbath, began drinking Egyptian coffee, which is very strong, and wound up constructing the pyramids.

I myself developed the coffee habit in my early 20s, when, as a ``cub'' reporter for the Daily Local News in West Chester, Pa., I had to stay awake while writing phenomenally boring stories about municipal government. I got my coffee from a vending machine that also sold hot chocolate and chicken-noodle soup; all three liquids squirted out of a single tube, and they tasted pretty much the same. But I came to need that coffee, and even today I can do nothing useful before I've had several cups. (I can't do anything useful afterward, either; that's why I'm a columnist.)

But here's my point: This specialty-coffee craze has gone too far. I say this in light of a letter I got recently from alert reader Bo Bishop. He sent me an invitation he received from a local company to a ``private tasting of the highly prized Luwak coffee,'' which ``at $300 a pound . . . is one of the most expensive drinks in the world.'' The invitation states that this coffee is named for the luwak, a ``member of the weasel family'' that lives on the Island of Java and eats coffee berries; as the berries pass through the luwak, a ``natural fermentation'' takes place, and the berry seeds -- the coffee beans -- come out of the luwak intact. The beans are then gathered, washed, roasted and sold to coffee connoisseurs.

The invitation states: ``We wish to pass along this once in a lifetime opportunity to taste such a rarity.''

Or, as Bo Bishop put it: ``They're selling processed weasel doodoo for $300 a pound.''

I first thought this was a clever hoax designed to ridicule the coffee craze. Tragically, it is not. There really is a Luwak coffee. I know because I bought some from a specialty-coffee company in Atlanta. I paid $37.50 for two ounces of beans. I was expecting the beans to look exotic, considering where they'd been, but they looked like regular coffee beans. In fact, for a moment I was afraid that they were just regular beans, and that I was being ripped off.

Then I thought: What kind of world is this when you worry that people might be ripping you off by selling you coffee that was NOT pooped out by a weasel?

So anyway, I ground the beans up and brewed the coffee and drank some. You know how sometimes, when you're really skeptical about something, but then you finally try it, you discover that it's really good, way better than you would have thought possible? This is not the case with Luwak coffee. Luwak coffee, in my opinion, tastes like somebody washed a dead cat in it.
But I predict it's going to be popular anyway, because it's expensive. One of these days, the people in front of me at the airport coffee place are going to be ordering decaf poopacino. I'm thinking of switching to heroin.

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Greg Giraldo Loves Him Some Bitches

From the man, the myth, Greg Giraldo:

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I don't know if you guys watch a lot of hip-hop videos, but, man, bitches are the shit. Bitches are so much better than regular women. They are way cooler than wives or girlfriends. If I had it all to do over again, I'd never get married or anything, I'd just get a bunch of bitches to have with me, 'cause bitches are fuckin' awesome. They're always in a good mood. They just dance around in their thongs with their high-heeled shoes, and you get to smoke bongs and play the X-Box all day long; they never seem to mind. Bitches never complain, they never tell you to take your feet off the couch or, "We gotta go see my mother." Bitches don't even have mothers. I don't where they make the bitches. Maybe some sort of genetics lab where they do that little ass-shake move--where they can just shake that ass like that--that only bitches can do. Let's say you've got a wife or a girlfriend: she might help you wash the car, but she's not gonna soap herself down with suds and press her tits into the windshield...but bitches will. That's how bitches wash shit. Bitches just soap themselves down and press their tits into things. They're always happy, and they won't do it alone; they'll invite a lot of other bitches over to soap cars down. Let's say you might like a little champagne, right? You like to have champagne, to pour it in a glass and sip it, but you don't shake it up and pour it all over your tits...but that's how bitches drink; they have a whole different anatomy. And if bitches get in a bad mood, all you gotta do is just turn the music up and they just dance more; they can't help themselves.

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True that, man. True that.

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Friday, January 12, 2007

George Carlin's Top 13 New Rules for 2007

13 NEW RULES FOR 2007 BY GEORGE CARLIN

New Rule: 1- No more gift registries. You know, it used to be just
for weddings.
Now it's for babies and new homes, graduations, and releases from jail.
Picking out the stuff you want and having other people buy it for you
isn't gift giving, it's the white people version of looting.

New Rule: 2 - Stop giving me that pop-up ad for
Classmates. com! There's a reason you don't talk to people for 25
years. Because you don't particularly like them! Besides, I already
know what the captain of the football team is doing these days: mowing my lawn.

New Rule: 3 - Stop saying that teenage boys who have sex with their
hot, blonde teachers are permanently damaged.

I have a better description for these kids: LUCKY BASTARDS.

New Rule: 4 - If you need to shave and you still collect baseball
cards, you're gay.


If you're a kid, the cards are keepsakes of your idols. If you're a
grown man, they're pictures of men.

New Rule: 5 - Ladies, leave your eyebrows alone. Here's how much men
care about your eyebrows: do you have two of them? Okay, we're done.

New Rule: 6 - There's no such thing as flavored water. There's a
whole aisle of this crap at the supermarket - water, but without that
watery taste. Sorry, but flavored water is called a soft drink. You
want flavored water?
Pour some scotch over ice and let it melt. That's your flavored water.

New Rule: 7 - Stop screwing with old people!! Target is introducing
a re-designed pill bottle that's square, with a bigger label. And
the top is now the bottom.
And by the time grandpa figures out how to open it, his ass will be
in the morgue. Congratulations Target,,,, you just solved the Social
Security crisis.

New Rule: 8 - The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger
the asshole. If you walk into a Starbucks and order a "decaf grande
half-soy, half-low fat, iced vanilla, double-shot, gingerbread
cappuccino, extra dry, light ice, with one Sweet-n'-Low and one
NutraSweet," ooh, you're a huge asshole.

New Rule: 9 - I'm not the cashier! By the time I look up from
sliding my card,entering my PIN number, pressing "Enter," verifying
the amount, deciding, no, I don't want cash back, and pressing
"Enter" again, the kid who is supposed to be ringing me up is
standing there eating my Almond Joy.

New Rule: 10 - Just because your tattoo has Chinese characters in it
doesn't make you spiritual. It's right above the crack of your
ass!! And it translates to "beef with broccoli."

The last time you did anything spiritual, you were praying to God you
weren't pregnant. You're not spiritual. You're just high.

New Rule: 11- Competitive eating isn't a sport. It's one of the
seven deadly sins.
ESPN recently televised the US Open of Competitive Eating, because
watching those athletes at the poker table was just too damned
exciting. What's next, competitive farting? Oh wait. They're
already doing that. It's called "The Howard Stern Show."

New Rule: 12 - I don't need a bigger, "mega" M&M. If I'm extra
hungry for M&Ms, I'll go nuts and eat two.

New Rule: 13 - and this one is long overdue: No more bathroom
attendants. After I zip up, some guy is offering me a towel and a
mint like I just had sex with George Michael. I can't even tell if
he's supposed to be there, or just some freak with a fetish. I don't
want to be on your webcam, dude. I just want to wash my hands.

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Tuesday, January 2, 2007

Nobody Hard-Drives Stick Anymore

The purpose of technology is progress. We all know this. With the advent of new technology, though, we have been steadily losing our abilities to perform basic functions. No one I know remembers ever having to stand up to change a channel on the television. Most of my friends cannot drive a manual transmission. Myself, I have almost totally lost the ability to perform simple arithmetic in my head; give me a long division to perform, and I will promptly cock my head like a cocker spaniel, cross my eyes, then search frantically for my trusty calculator. I realize that this ease implies relinquishing control, but, for the most part, this doesn't bother me. However, when it applies to something important--such as my pictures, files, research, and basic livelihood--I must protest. Though I am a lone voice crying out in the wilderness, I am adamantly Linux-loyal till I die.

The aforementioned tilted-head-spaniel look is usually what I get when I tell people this. Linux does, after all, have one of the worst reputations in the computer world. It is reputed to be neither user-friendly nor user-oriented in the least (though I think the genesis of this reputation can be traced back to someone with the initials B.G. or S.J.). To paraphrase Joan Jett (as I am frequently wont to do), "I don't give a damn about its bad reputation." To me, Linux is my dream car: a '65 Mustang convertible. Maybe the diesel engine pollutes the air, maybe the 5-speed transmission is loud and the clutch sticks, maybe it'll never get more than 20 MPG no matter how much highway driving I do. The reason that car is my dream car is because of the control I can no longer have over my own car, which is run by computer. The human element is still present, and I still have the delusion that man is ruling the machine.

Linux is the same way for me. Granted, we have our problems. Most recently, I remember falling into a catatonic stupor when I couldn't get the system to reload after someone had made the egregious error of putting my laptop screen down when the system was locked. But the solutions to such problems are the reasons why I love it so; for instance, in the case of the system not coming back up, we just logged in as root user, cleaned out the bug, then moved on with our lives. No calls to Dell. No staying on hold for hours on end before some poor underpaid Indian employee comes on the line to ask me if the system is plugged in. No running down to Comp USA to be belittled by the pencil-necked asshole behind the counter who acts as though I must be the product of first cousins to have made such an asinine mistake--or, worse, that I must still program in Fortran or Java (snicker snicker). Instead, I get to control my own destiny, and that of my hard drive. I can open up the hood and tinker till it's fixed. I can do something active in the face of the imminent demise of all I've worked for. I can lay my own loving hands on my baby and make him all better. And that is something Windows or Mac could never offer.

Understand, I know full well that this desire to tinker is not for everybody. My parents, off the top of my head, would sooner perform their own dental work than try to fix a crashed hard drive themselves. All I ask is for acceptance. Just as I understand their reticence to log in as administrator and quite possibly wreak havoc on the interior workings of their computer for the sake of recovering their latest FreeCell escapade, I ask others' understanding that I will do just that to recover the results of the simulation it just took me 3 hours to run (and 6 years to write). Instead, I tend to find people looking at me when I tell them I use Linux as though I had just said I take baths in cling peaches: "But, for God's sake, WHY?!?!" their perplexed stares say, as they inch away from me, lest they catch the desire to do the same. This is the same look I get from people when I tell them of my preference to drive a stick, rather than automatic, even in my beloved hometown of San Francisco (rumored to be Spanish for "I just burned out my clutch"). And so I proffer this introductory column as an explanation, nay, a plea for understanding.

Linux may well not be for everyone. Hell, I even know people who don't like coffee. Fine. All I ask is for others to steel themselves when I tell them this, and not to immediately jump to the conclusion that I either live for gaming, web design, to marry an Elvish princess, or be a Level 50 Paladin with a +2 Broadsword. I merely love the idea of turning it on, popping the clutch, and telling Bill Gates to eat my dust.

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Monday, January 1, 2007

C++: A Diatribe

Wrecked 'em?! Damn near killed 'em!


And so my day begins: coffee on, computer on, segmentation fault number one, and then the cursing. When I moved into graduate school, I was excited to be introduced to new programming languages. Powerful languages. "User-friendly" languages. Languages to make my life easier and make my research flow from my feverish little fingers as quickly as it did from my feverish little brain. I introduced myself to basic Mathematica in undergrad, then onto Fortran 77 and Fortran 90. The promise was that the next step would send my programming ability into the stratosphere. The next step was C++.

It all started so innocently. C++ batted her eyelashes at me with the "Hello, world!" example code. I responded by stroking her ego with my friends, telling them how this code was much more logical to use than Fortran. C++ kept flirting with me, showing me how little header I needed to use to tell her what I wanted. She let me think she really understood me. All the scientists in my department told me it was time to commit, and that she was the right one. I did. The honeymoon promptly ended.

What I discovered was that I had committed myself to a cruel bitch. She was fickle: what was right today was wrong tomorrow...although she would never tell me directly. She'd let everything compile happily along, just as it did our first few dates. But once I tried to run it, the core dumps and segmentation faults began. Oh, the tears and the frustration: "If only you'd just tell me what you need?!" I began to think about other languages. The other scientists talked me out of it: "We know it's difficult, but you have to tough it out. We all do."

So I tough it out, through the abuse and the tears and the throwing of keyboards (well, almost). My friends try to help me by buying me shot glasses with the words "Core Dump," "Segmentation Fault," and "Oops" on them, laughing as i quickly develop a drinking problem. I discover that this is the object toward which C++ is oriented: ruling the world through their feeling of obligation toward her. It is time to stand up. It is time to walk out. It is better to be alone than be miserable.

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