thelooneys.com

Returning March 12 (UPDATE: 2012)

Jason Looney — Sun, 11 Feb 2007 14:15:00 GMT

It has come to my attention that I've been tagged by the secretGeek. As you may know, few have ignored a tag from secretGeek and lived to tell about it. So I don't plan on doing that. But I do have a few more things to wrap up before I can return to the world of blogging.

I hope to return to posting around March 12, with a minor re-design of this site coming sometime soon after that.

Something tells me secretGeek will be distracted for a while anyway... Congratulations Leon!!!

Go Speed Racer

Alan Dotson — Tue, 11 Jul 2006 19:24:47 GMT

Autoblog has a really good article about taking your car to the dragstrip for the first time. Since I have been thinking recently about doing this very thing, it may come in very handy.

The launch is by far and away the most critical part of a quick run down the strip, especially for vehicles with automatics (those driving manuals will be provided with an opportunity to slow down the run during every shift). The reason is simple; the car is moving the slowest here and wasting the most time, so get the damn thing moving!

Back when I was young and stupid (now I’m just old and stupid) I used to do some street racing, but apparently official dragstrip racing has a few more rules. Now I just need to get the nitrous hooked up on the minivan.

Coming to America

Alan Dotson — Wed, 05 Jul 2006 22:54:00 GMT

On the boats and on the planes
They're coming to America
Never looking back again
They're coming to America

We went to the park to watch fireworks last night. After much searching and comparison of sight-lines, the softness of the grass, proximity to street lights, and nearness of obnoxious revellers, we finally chose the perfect spot and settled in.

Did I say it was the perfect spot? Well it was, right until about 2 minutes before the fireworks started. Then the man next to us dug out his portable radio. The volume level wasn't horrible, but it was still a little intrusive and annoying, especially when he tuned the radio to an 80's rock station. I don't know about you, but I just can't hear "Some Like it Hot" by Powerstation enough times. I only heard it eight or nine thousand times prior to 1987, and I would like to get up to an even 10,000 before I die.

I found myself becoming more and more irate. Who was this person to impose his music upon me? Didn't he have any common courtesy?! Couldn't we just enjoy the fireworks with our families in reverent and patriotic awe without music? And why the heck wasn't he sharing his Doritos with me? But as the fireworks started, I noticed that the station began playing patriotic songs, almost in synch with each crash and boom of the display overhead. God Bless America. America the Beautiful. America by Neil Diamond. (I didn't say the songs were all good, just that they were patriotic, alright?)

So maybe this person's choice of music wasn't so bad after all. He was just a patriot, a lover of his county, trying to enhance his enjoyment of the beautiful spectacle. I watched my neighbor with new eyes, noticing that he seemed to be Latino. He would raise his cup occasionally to toast a particularly breathtaking display of pyrotechnics. He would sing aloud some of the lyrics to the songs in Spanish. I immediately began to feel guilty about my previous judging of this person. Here he was, possibly new to this country, glad for the chance to celebrate his joy at being in this wonderful land of opportunity. Who knows what hardships he had to endure just to get here, and I dared to begrudge him this opportunity? No way.

I sat back to enjoy the rest of the lightshow with a smile on my face, content with my place in the universe. There may have been a tear in my eye, or perhaps it was just a little dusty at the park that day. The fireworks came to a resounding conclusion followed by thousands of people applauding the show. My newfound Latino compatriot stood up, shut off his radio, and announced for everyone nearby to hear. "Well, that sucked!"

Welcome to America my friend. Welcome.

Linday Lohan Hates Kids

Alan Dotson — Thu, 29 Jun 2006 17:05:00 GMT

This story is kind of old, but someone just recently brought it to my attention. Lindsay Lohan doesn't like kid movies.

"(I don't) need to do any more kid movies," Lohan tells Harper's Bazaar magazine in their upcoming issue. "The word kid makes you feel like a child. Someone I dated called me kid all the time. I hated it... I've been through more than some people have in lifetimes."

Lets just recap the points Lindsay is making here.

The word "kid" makes her feel like a child.

Other words and phrases that make her feel like a child: little girl, little baby, small fry, tot, papoose, minor, tyke, jail bait and barely legal. Ironically, she later revealed that the word "child" makes her feel a bit like a wax pear.

A guy she dated called her kid.

Ah ha! So the rumors about her and Clint Eastwood were true! Which is creepier, the fact that she dated a man who called her kid, or the fact that she admitted this in an interview? I can so relate to her too, because someone I dated always called me ugly, and it made me somehow feel less attractive.

Just kidding, of course I have never dated anyone.

She has been through more than some people have in lifetimes.

Ok, I'll give her this one. Dating Wilmer Valderrama has got to be a kind of hell on earth that only victims of war crimes and patrons of Taco Bell can relate to.

But hey, if it means extreme riches, I will gladly follow in Lindsay's footsteps and intentionally spew 95% of my meals and get a series of breast augmentation procedures. I draw the line at dating Wilmer however. You hear me Fez?! Now stop calling!!

Bigger than a Breadbox

Alan Dotson — Mon, 26 Jun 2006 15:27:00 GMT

When I play "20 Questions," and it's the other person's turn to guess the noun in my head, I like to choose "breadbox." When the other person asks if my noun is bigger than a breadbox, I can say, "No, it's exactly the same size. And shape." The game usually ends with the next guess, or, in cases of severe retardation, two guesses. For cat lovers and Lindsay Lohan, you have to spot them three.

Occasionally people will out think themselves. "Hmm. What is exactly the same size and shape as a breadbox?! Is it a microwave? A small TV? A block of government cheese?" For some reason, once they discover the answer, these people don't want to play with me anymore.

Anyway, I tell you all this to determine, EXACTLY HOW BIG IS A BREADBOX??! Growing up, my breadbox was large, I guess. It was roughly the size of an industrial 70's style microwave; I think it could hold 14 or 15 loaves of bread and a jar of government pickles. In fact, being one of five children, I would sometimes sleep in the breadbox to get a little privacy. (And I was a "husky" child.)

My wife, on the other hand, grew up with a breadbox held exactly one (1) loaf of bread, with extra room for, maybe, a butter knife. So we have totally different ideas of how big a breadbox is, resulting in years of 20-Questions-related frustration. It has placed more stress on our relationship than the “Frosted vs. non-frosted Pop Tart debate of ‘98”.

If you have an opinion on the "correct" sizing of breadboxes, let me know. Next time we will determine the exact definitions of person, place, and thing.

The Wrong Side of the Tracks

Alan Dotson — Fri, 23 Jun 2006 20:14:00 GMT

I am far too lazy to write actual blog posts, so instead I'm posting a recent IM conversion between two fictional characters. We’ll call them say… “Alan Dotson” and “Jen Dotson”.

Jen: We should move to Alaska
Alan: Minnesota is warmer, let's move there
Jen: Minnesota? No way. Alaska is beautiful
Alan: So am I, but you don't see people moving to me.
Jen: Not that you know of, anyway.
Alan: That could be embarrassing. "Excuse me Alan, you appear to have a small family living in your ass crack."

Home Improvement Tip: Replacing a Water Heater

Jason Looney — Tue, 18 Apr 2006 23:30:00 GMT

Yesterday, after enduring weeks of erratically lukewarm water, I submitted a ServiceMagic request for estimates on replacing our 40 gallon water heater. We’ve been having trouble with the stupid thing for a while now, and since it recently reached its average lifespan (10 years), we figured it was time for a replacement.

But, life is too short to just replace things. One should always take opportunities like these to upgrade. I did a bit of research and found that tankless water heaters are gaining in popularity here in America. They carry promises of endless hot water and increased efficiency since they heat the water as it’s being pulled through the pipes, as opposed to heating a giant tank of water that may or may not be needed anytime soon.

The plumbers who came by the house today all had varying opinions on the various approaches to heating water. One guy said the tankless units don’t work very well and that I should be fine with a simple 40 gallon tank. Another couldn’t stop singing the praises of the tankless setups, even offering the phone numbers of local, recently-satisfied customers. Still another maintained that a 50 gallon “high output” tank would give us all the hot water we could ever want.

The prices I was quoted ranged from $800 for a cheap tank to $2700 for one of the “continuous flow” systems. Which leads me to my tip for the day…

Tip: Always double-check the temperature dial on your water heater before calling in teams of plumbers. Otherwise, the first plumber who shows up will turn the dial from it’s current setting, “Warm”, to another setting, such as “Hot” or “A”, and there will be much awkwardness in the room. The awkwardness is followed by a string of white lies to the other plumbers who stop by that day, all of whom are unwittingly wasting their time in the home of a moron.

Anyway, I hope you find this tip helpful. For some reason, none of my Internet research revealed this nugget of wisdom.

(The upside to all this, of course, is that I just saved $2700.)

The Microsoft Interview

Jason Looney — Tue, 18 Apr 2006 05:00:00 GMT

I’ve always assumed that I would be too stupid to survive the Microsoft interviewing process. In case you don’t already know, Microsoft is renowned for asking clever little logic questions during their interviews, and I am renowned for being really stupid. Not a good combo.

But then Jensen Harris linked to a list of the questions a while back, and I gave them a look. Much to my surprise, they weren’t that bad. So I decided to face my fears, print out the questions, and give myself 30 minutes to answer all of them.

Over all, I did pretty well. There were only a couple where I didn’t quite understand the question.

If you had an infinite supply of water and a 5 quart and 3 quart pail, how would you measure exactly 4 quarts?

Um, haven’t you seen Die Hard 3? This is one of the puzzles Bruce Willis and Sam Jackson solve during their little game with the terrorists. I’ve seen this movie eight or nine times now, so it would prove absolutely nothing if I sat here and recited the answer to you. Even if I could remember it.

But, come to think of it, if I had an infinite supply of water I would end world hunger by watering the desert. Then I’d use the proceeds from my Nobel prize money to buy a four quart pail. And I’d do all of this just to satisfy you. Tell me, would you love me then?

If you are on a boat and you throw out a suitcase, will the level of water increase?

Unless it’s a water-tight suitcase, yes, the level of water will increase. Also the suitcase will feel abandoned as it drowns.

Note: I don’t think this question actually makes any sense.

On average, how many times would you have to open the Seattle phone book to find a specific name?

Know this: I am not a quitter. I will open a phone book looking for a name, and I'll keep flipping around until I find the name. I don’t know about Seattle, but in Denver, our phone books are alphabetized. Between that and my never-say-die attitude, I don't think I've ever had to open a phone book more than once.

If you look at a clock and the time is 3:15, what is the angle between the hour hand and the minute hand?

AM or PM?

There are 3 ants at 3 corners of a triangle, they randomly start moving towards another corner. What is the probability that they don't collide?

The probability of them colliding is zero for I would kill them. Even if they look like circus ants. If you're looking for the ant kingdom's genocidal maniac, you've come to the right place.

Actually, they'd all have to go the same direction in order to not collide, right? So either they all go left, or they all go right, right? Three ants, each with two choices, gives us 2^3 possible combinations of movements. 2^3 is somewhere around eight, so I'd say you have a 1 in 4 chance (2 in 8, really, but I reduced, because that's one of my key skills (see Education and Certifications section on resume)) of them colliding.

If I'm anywhere nearby, though, those odds turn to 0 in 1000, since I really, really like killing things, and no one minds a few dead ants. I'm not kidding.

What new feature would you add to MSWORD if you were hired?

I would add a button to the main toolbar that said "Quit Sucking Balls". When you clicked the button, it would stay depressed and change to "Start Sucking Balls." With the "Quit Sucking Balls" feature enabled, MSWORD would quit sucking balls. It would stop re-underlining things I've told it to ignore, automatically formatting things I don't want formatted, and do away with the whole paragraph/style/styles-based-on-styles/everything's-a-nasty-long-style paradigm.

Why did you pick the school you graduated from?

First, it's nice to see you aren't all stuffy and serious about the whole "don't end a sentence with a preposition" thing. Me to.

I'll tell you this… My wife and I graduated from two different universities, and neither of us have a sweatshirt from either university. In fact, we've never owned such sweatshirts in our lives, not even during the combined 17 years it took for us to get two bachelors degrees (and three STDs).

Now, I'm sure you're asking this question for some sneaky reason, so let me assure you, I'm much more assertive now. If I were choosing today, I would probably pick MIT, because that's where Matt Damon went.

Why do you want to work for Microsoft?

Okay, no kidding here. Take the highest prime number you can think of, square it, then round up to the nearest rhombus.

That's how much I love Microsoft.

How many Gas stations are there in the US?

No way you can expect me to know that. Are you merging with Exxon or something?

Ah, wait... This is one of those, "How do you think?" questions, isn't it? Okay, then, here's my algorithm:

1) Start with the highest prime number I can think of (11)
2) Square it (100+)
3) Round up to the nearest rhombus (400,000)

So, 400,000. On the nose.

How would you weigh a plane without using scales?

I'd hold it with my right hand for a while, write down an estimate, then hold it for my left hand for a while, write down that estimate, then average the two estimates. Given the situation, I think a median average would be more telling than the mean.

How would you move Mt. Everest?
I would tell it a touching story about a boy in love with his bunny. (Note: The bunny dies at the end.)

Two MIT math graduates bump into each other at Fairway on the upper west side. They hadn't seen each other in over 20 years.
The first grad says to the second: "How have you been?"
Second: "Great! I got married and I have three daughters now"
First: "Really? how old are they?"
Second: "Well, the product of their ages is 72, and the sum of their ages is the same as the number on that building over there.."
First: "Right, ok.. oh wait.. hmmmm.., I still don't know"
second: "Oh sorry, the oldest one just started to play the piano"
First: "Wonderful! my oldest is the same age!"

Problem: How old are the daughters?

Hopefully old enough to run away from their freakish parents. I have to say, this test is starting to get a little weird.

Why are beer cans tapered at the top and bottom?

How would I know? I drink beer from bottles. They're tapered at the top to serve as a proper handle in bar fights.

Soda cans are tapered, I believe, because soda’s for pansies.

Why is it that hot water in a hotel comes out instantly but at home it takes time?

It takes a while at home because the water sits around in the pipe and cools down, and you have to warm the pipe. In the hotel, your pipe is already warm, if you get my drift.

How many times a day do a clock's hands overlap?

I'm going with 24. Here's my algorithm:

1) I think the hands cross once every hour.
2) I think there are 24 hours in every day.

I can't wait for you tell me, with your smug little smile, what the hell I'm missing here.

Mike has $20 more than Todd. How much does each have given that combined they have $21 between them. You can't use fractions in the answer.

So Mike has whatever Todd has, plus a twenty. This means that there's no way for their total to be an odd number (since any amount Todd has must be multiplied by two, and 20 is an even number), and that you are stupid for asking this question.

(Unless I can use decimals in the answer…)

There are four dogs, each at the counter of a large square. Each of the dogs begins chasing the dog clockwise from it. All of the dogs run at the same speed. All continously adjust their direction so that they are always heading straight towards their clockwise neighbor. How long does it take for the dogs to catch each other? Where does this happen? (Hint: Dog's are moving in a symmetrical fashion, not along the edges of the square.)

Thanks for the hint.

Do they take any timeouts to poop in my yard? If not, then this question is too hypothetical and I’m done with this interview. If so, then the answer is: they never catch each other. They spend their entire lives pooping on my lawn, just like every other dog in this neighborhood.

I guess I’m not what you’d call “Microsoft material.” But then again, neither is this guy. But this guy is.

No, We Aren't French

Alan Dotson — Fri, 07 Apr 2006 16:59:00 GMT

My 4 year-old son Noah recently had to go to the doctor for his 4 year checkup. The 4 year checkup provided him with his first opportunity to pee in a cup. Once we finally convinced him that it was ok to go ahead and pee in the cup, he thought it was pretty hilarious. I can imagine the thoughts going through his head. "So I pee in a cup, and put it in this little cubby over here? And the next time I look, Voila! The pee cup is gone! I am going to have to try this at home!" I am expecting to open the microwave one of these days to find my collectible Garfield coffee mug full of pee. I AM easy to get along with when things go my way! (Note: A cup full of pee = Things not going my way. At all.)

Later on in the checkup, they did some testing to make sure that his mental development is on track. He had to name the colors used in certain pictures, do some counting, and finally identify what some common objects are used for. He was doing great, answering all the questions no problem, until the doctor asked the question: "Noah, what is a cup used for?" His gleeful answer was, of course: "To pee in!"

The horrified doctor flunked him back to being a 3 year-old. I guess we will try the test again next year.

God put this here for me and you. Take advantage man, take advantage.

Alan Dotson — Wed, 29 Mar 2006 14:51:00 GMT

Since I can't get any real people to send me email, I like to get on some nice mailing lists so I can be popular too. It makes me feel loved to check my messages and see that Columbia House misses me and wants me back. (Talk about an "in your face!" to the girls that dumped me in high school!) Not only that, but according to Scott's Fertilizer and Smith & Wesson, spring is the best time to apply crabgrass killer to my lawn AND the best time to purchase a semi-automatic weapon. Ah spring! The smell of chemicals and cordite is in the air!

I think I may skip the crabgrass killer, buy the gun, and just hope for a mid-summer shootout with the crabgrass.

I recently signed up for the Park's Seed company email newsletter, and to be honest, I had less than high hopes. But then in my inbox, I found the very first email:

Well what do you know, free illicit drugs! Maybe not right up my alley, but perhaps the free Oxycontin email would come tomorrow. But no, the next day I found this in my inbox:

Turns out they are just going to give me some kind of crappy foam container. Talk about your false advertising.

The Switch Works Both Ways

Alan Dotson — Thu, 23 Mar 2006 15:18:00 GMT

I haven't been blogging much this month, I gave it up for Lent. I know it might appear that I am breaking my vow right now, but I actually wrote this post sometime after Easter then back-dated it to appear today.

I was driving home last night around 5:15 PM, almost a full hour before the "official" sunset at 6:14 PM. It was a little overcast, but the sun was still blazing away up there, above the clouds, lighting the world around me. My commute home takes all of about 10 minutes.

I give you all this background so you can understand my horror at what happened next. No, I didn't run over a family of fluffy ducklings or decapitate myself on a defective airbag and defenestrate my head. No, it was MUCH, MUCH WORSE.

No fewer than three people flashed their headlights at me. That's right, three (3) people felt that their decision-making abilities were superior to mine in this area. Three (3) people were afraid I might not be able to see the road and would careen to my death because I didn't have my headlights on in broad daylight. Three (3) people who could all see me from 100 yards away were worried that someone else might not be able to see me.

When the first flashing took place, I just laughed and continued on my way. When it happened a second time, I grew angry and screamed profanities at them in Arabic. When it happened a third time, I threw the car into a power-slide/U-turn and chased down and rammed the offending car repeatedly.

At least that's what I meant to do. Unfortunately I couldn’t see very well in the poor light and ran my car into the ditch.

I guess I should have had my lights on.

"I'm A Bad Boy, Cuz I Don't Even Miss Them"

Jason Looney — Mon, 20 Mar 2006 19:15:00 GMT

To paraphrase the great Tom Petty, our boy Joseph is free. Freeeee-ballin’.

At the tender age of 19 months our little Joe Baby has figured out how to remove his pants and the accompanying diaper. And remove them he does, nearly every time we leave him alone.

Let me assure you, nothing is cuter, and nothing is scarier, then coming upstairs and finding a free-ballin’ toddler running around. What’s truly frightening is that even if the backside appears clean, you probably still have trouble. I’ve come to learn that carpet makes a great wipe.

Naturally, we're concerned. We're hoping it's just a phase and not a prelude to a life of inappropriate genitalia exposure. But you know what? Even if it is, he's our boy, and we'll support him no matter what. In fact, for Easter we’re getting him a trench coat.

It's adorable.

Love, Dove, and Dove

Jason Looney — Tue, 14 Mar 2006 21:00:00 GMT

Dove is good at making soap. Dove is good at making chocolate. But, for some reason, Dove doesn’t make chocolate soap. This seems like an oversight. I say, these two companies need to get together and have a chat. I believe that not only is chocolate soap the wave of the future, it is the brown wave.

Who wouldn’t love a bar of chocolate soap? People with cocoa allergies and communists, that’s who. As for me, I’d love it. I’d take twice as many showers and stay twice as clean. Of course, I’d also eat twice as much soap. But hey, that would keep my insides nice and clean, and the toilet room would smell better too. (See? Upside all around.)

I would also enjoy chocolate shampoo. It should resemble Hershey’s syrup, only soapier. The conditioner, ideally, would contain a hint of vanilla. Or even: butterscotch.

The lotion could moisturize and tan, with options ranging from milk to dark.

Really, I can’t even tell you how much better my life would be with chocolate soap. For one thing, my wife loves chocolate more than air. So if I had chocolate soap, I would only partially rinse my privates.

And then everyone would be happy.

Well, unless they advertise it with naked fat ladies covered in chocolate. That wouldn't make me happy at all. That would make me sad.

To The Guy Who Occasionally Leaves a Copy of The Denver Post in the Handicapped Stall at Work

Jason Looney — Thu, 02 Mar 2006 17:30:00 GMT

You have no idea what you’ve become to me. I consider you both friend and hero. You are perhaps the only person on this planet who really “gets” me.

Thank you. Thank God for you. You are the wind beneath my taint.

Warmest,
Jason

Annoying Lists

Alan Dotson — Wed, 01 Mar 2006 01:43:00 GMT

Everyone who knows me knows how much I love these blog meme things. It’s like taking the quizzes in Cosmo magazine, painful and possibly relationship-ending. Nonetheless, I’ve been tagged (Thanks Jason! Check your porch for burning paper bags!), so without further ado, here it is:

Four jobs I’ve had:

Carpet Cleaner
Pizza Deliverer
Parks Maintenance Guy
Whatever it is that I do now

Four places I’ve lived:

Loveland
Ft. Collins
Chicago
Longmont

Four movies I can watch over and over:

Pulp Fiction
Heat
Shawshank Redemption
Veggie Tales (Can watch, Have to watch, what's the difference?)

Four TV shows I love (Love is a strong word, lets just say like):

Musclecar – These may be two of the most annoying hosts in TV history. They shout more than Sterling Sharpe’s wife.
My Name is Earl
Lost
Horsepower TV – What these guys lack in shouting, they make up for with cheesy jokes.

Four places I’ve vacationed:

Cozumel
Orlando
Maui
Kauai

Four of my favorite dishes:

Pizza
Spaghetti
Tortilla soup
Buffalo wings

Four sites I visit daily:

Four places I’d rather be right now:

Cozumel
Orlando
Maui
Kauai

Four books I love:

Four video games I can play over and over:

Four people I’m tagging: (We’ll just see if I can end this meme right here)

British Phil Doesn't Read

Jason Looney — Tue, 28 Feb 2006 06:00:00 GMT

British Phil usually has techie magazines lying on his desk. Recently, I wandered into his cube, picked up one of the newer ones, and asked:

ME
How are you liking this mag?

BRITISH PHIL
I read maybe one article per issue.

ME
Hmm. If you were smarter, do you think you'd like it more?

BRITISH PHIL
Probably.

ME
I'll take a look.

An American would have shot me by now.

#1 on Google

Jason Looney — Sun, 26 Feb 2006 19:30:00 GMT

It means something to be #1 on Google. It’s important. Unfortunately, I'm #1 on Google for some crazy things, things I don't WANT to be #1 for. For example, a while back I tried to avoid any more weird searches coming in by breaking up some questionable phrases, such as “Brooke Burke nud|e”. Well, now I get all kinds of hits from people who can’t spell “nude.” (I had no idea that word was a tricky one.)

If you really want to be #1 on Google, I bet all you have to do is write a bunch of crazy sentences that match what the crazies are searching on. If you’re good and you guess right, I bet you blow right past the competition.

The trick is to be both common and unique. For example, take this sentence: Why does it hurt when I pee blood?

Boom! See? Someone asks Google that question tomorrow, and I’m #1!

I think… Let’s see, I bet I will be if quotes are used. Right now, here's what you get if you put in quotes:

So see, if they use quotes, I'll be the ONLY one! And the number one! Thrilling!

[Public service announcement: If you are here because you are peeing blood, please call 911. Whether it hurts or not, peeing blood can’t be good. So get off the Internet, and go get some medical attention. If you have to drive yourself and your bloody privates to "Urgent Care," then that's what you have to do. Just go. Now. Bye bye.]

[Oh hey, be sure and bookmark my site before you leave!]

I love the context-sensitive power of Google. Not only do they use it for advertisements and other non-evil things, but here they are, helping me out with my search. Look, next to the giant red letters ("Did you mean:") they've suggested a better search. See, that's the power of Google's technology. Not only do their searches take a fraction of a second, but they also index the searches themselves so they can show me one that’s more popular than mine.

But wait a second... Wait just a second.

People actually hurt when they see blood?? Wow.. that's really weird. I wonder what that's all about. Let’s try giving that link a try:

Doh! Of course no one has ever written that sentence on the Internet. How'd I get suckered into that?

But wow, look at those amazingly helpful suggestions from Google. Aren't those wonderful? Not the big red "Tip:" (that's pretty helpful, actually (if you know what I mean)), no, I'm talking about the giant "Suggestions:" there at the bottom.

Tell me, what kind of person is going to be helped by those suggestions?

----

INT. HAROLD'S AND MILDRED'S HOME OFFICE: NIGHT

Harold's alone at the computer.

HAROLD
(yelling)
Hey! Everytime I hit "Search" on the Google it says the same thing.

MILDRED (O.S.)
(yelling back)
Try different keywords!

HAROLD
What!? I don't think it's on the Internet!

MILDRED (O.S.)
I said, TRY DIFFERENT KEYWORDS!

HAROLD
Huh? I'm going to try it again!

Harold clicks.

HAROLD (CONT'D)
Nope! Still nothing! It says my search did not match any...
(to himself)
..."documents."

MILDRED (O.S.)
Try more general keywords!

HAROLD
Hey! Are we looking for documents!?
(to computer)
Maybe I'm on the wrong Internet.

Mildred comes in.

MILDRED
Honey. How are you spelling it?

HAROLD
Like it's spelled.

She looks over his shoulder at the screen.

MILDRED
No. There is no such thing as dotson puppies, Harold. They are dachshund. D-A-C-H-S-H-U-N-D.

Harold looks at Mildred for a moment, confused and quizzical. He looks back at the screen.

HAROLD
I don't think I want one anymore.

----

[Public service announcement: There is no such thing as a dotson puppy. It's dachshund. Quit coming to this site looking for dotson puppies. We only have Alan dotsons here. Now leave.]

[Oh hey, be sure and bookmark my site before you leave!]

Finally, we need to talk about one more thing on that results page: That creepy logo in the top left corner.

The first time I saw that logo, it was weird. It just happened to resemble what I was searching for...

So I thought, “Wow, maybe Google has made their logos context-sensitive too! How cool!!!”

I quickly tried another random search:

And Google gave me another context-sensitive logo that, again, matched almost PERFECTLY! Can you believe it!?

But then I thought that maybe that logo looked kinda familiar. So I tried another random search:

Hmm. That logo TOO looks familiar. So I had to try something I knew wouldn't work:

And that's when I knew it. It must not be a context-sensitive logo. Because that logo's not stupid at all.

Oh well.

Last Look at the Weather

Jason Looney — Fri, 24 Feb 2006 07:00:00 GMT

Don’t ask me how I know this, but somewhere around 10:45 each night our local WB station runs a feature called “Last Look at the Weather.” I don’t like this feature.

First, it’s not my last look at the weather. It’s my only look at the weather. I learned years ago that I don’t need to keep up with the weather since every human being I come into contact with is a walking, talking five day forecast. If I’m ever curious, I can turn my head in any direction at any time and ask, “Whence comes this chill?” Or, “Is it about to rain on my head?” And I’ll get a response. Often it’s a multi-faceted response, like, “Yesterday they said sunny, but last night they said cloudy, and now they’re saying partly cloudy with a chance of sun, turning into rain and hellfire.”

Actually, I don’t know what all they say. I drift off halfway through any explanation because, really, I don’t care. I’m inside all day. This is the nature of my pathetic, computer-bound existence. On any given day, I spend maybe 30 seconds out of doors. I might not be Superman, but I’m fairly certain I can handle 30 seconds of whatever our climate dishes out. Especially if I spread those 30 seconds out into intervals, intervals I call “walking from my car” and “walking to my car.”

When on the rare occasion I do catch a televised forecast, I regret it. They’re annoying. The news people know the entire population is weather-obsessed, so they tease us with little weather hints throughout the newscast. “Looks like tomorrow will be the same as today, with one MAJOR difference! I’ll have the full forecast at 10:23!” [1]

Worse, when they finally get around to the weather segment proper, 90% of it is spent on what happened today. Now tell me, who, exactly, is looking forward to this part of the show? Is anyone shocked that it was two degrees warmer five miles down the road? Doesn’t that happen every day? Are there groups of people gambling on these numbers or something? And what am I to make of all the giant maps of our country, with “jet streams” and “pressure systems” and temperatures that have already happened? Is there going to be a quiz?

Listen, news people of the earth, unless you have a photograph of ten identical clouds, all in a line, all resembling James Spader, I DON’T CARE what happened in the weather today. I lived it. I was there. I may have been inside all day, sure, but if your goal is to taunt, please, keep it brief. Just say, “Those of you who stayed inside today really screwed the pooch!” Or, “Those of you who had to work outside today, well, I bet you wish you knew how to use computers now, DON’T YA?”

As for the only “actionable” part of the broadcast – the part where they tell you whether you should cancel tomorrow’s picnic in the park – they blow right past that. It’s an afterthought. Only after Mr. Suit And Tennis Shoes has spent ten or so minutes at the giant green wall (telling you about today) will he saunter back to his desk and casually mention, on his way, what might happen tomorrow. Meanwhile, a grid pops up showing seven days of highs, lows, suns, and clouds… only you’re so distracted trying to figure out why the sun on Wednesday was crying, you miss it.

And that’s how they get you.

See, if weather forecasts could be trusted, we wouldn’t have twenty forecasters in every city. Think about it. Does each local station really need its own weather department? Its own custom software and maps? Its own NEXRAD? Should you make any decision in your life based on what some woman who majored in Communications (at Podunk U.) thinks of a satellite map?

Which brings me back to the “Last Look at the Weather” feature I hate so much. I hate it because (1) I don’t like weather forecasts in general, and (2) I don’t need to know which of The WB's “Looks” at the weather this is. Trust me, good people of The WB, I wasn’t tuned to your station for your frequent and accurate weather updates. You can go home for the evening without telling me. I don’t mind.

I’ll be fine for the next seven hours without a weather update from The WB.

Just fine.

——

[1] The major difference you waited 15 minutes for? “Tomorrow never comes,” chuckles the portly and soon-to-be-slain forecaster.

A Scanner Darkly

Alan Dotson — Thu, 23 Feb 2006 15:42:00 GMT

I just found the trailer to A Scanner Darkly, coming out this summer. (Found via Ed Bott's great Windows tips site) Based on the trailer, this is a movie I need to see as soon as possible. Check it out and give me a reason you don’t want to see it, I dare you. I will be dubunking your reasoning in advance.

I won’t see any movie with Keanu Reeves in it.
Whatever. If you are a guy, you saw all the Matrix movies. If you are a woman, you have seen at least one of his sappy movies, such as Sweet November. Let's just pretend that Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure never happened.
Robert Downey Jr. does drugs. He is evil.
Yes, he is evil, but I bet he avoids shooting up on film, so you probably won't have to see it. Besides, he is a good actor, and I heard he might bring back his hair from 1985 for this role.
Philip K. Dick's name makes me uncomfortable.
I heard he was changing his name to Philip B. Notphallicatall just for you.
That cartooney effect makes me feel like I'm watching a Charles Schwab commercial
I'm with you there, but I bet you get used to it after a couple of hours. If not, we can make some stock trades in the lobby while buying our Ju Ju Bees.
Winona Ryder steals things. She is evil.
Hey let he who has never borrowed a strangers car for a few hours cast the first stone. That's what I thought.

If I Had a Penny for My Thoughts, I'd be a Millionaire

Alan Dotson — Wed, 22 Feb 2006 16:04:00 GMT

Looking for some good sports-related quotes? The Sports Guy's Quote of the Day archive never disappoints. Here are a couple of winners:

"I think it's better to buy real estate than say, a yellow and purple Corvette or an elephant that can speak sign language. My parents help me out a lot with that stuff. They don't want to see me when I'm 30, dead broke, selling bootleg tapes of my snowboard movies on the side of the freeway."

-- Olympic gold medalist Shaun White on how he spends his endorsement money

"Everywhere I go, I hear 'Welcome back.' But everywhere I have been, I have always been with myself. I'm with myself now more than ever. It's funny people say 'Welcome back' when I haven't gone anywhere."

-- Ricky Williams (Before his most recent failed drug test)

There Should Be No Value Judgement Regarding Where I Leave My Clothes At Night

Jason Looney — Tue, 21 Feb 2006 18:00:00 GMT

I'm behind on my blog posts right now because I've been working on other things. This leaves me no choice (thanks to February (28)) but to "synergize" and post snippets of the stuff I'm currently working on.

(This type of thing that will eventually end up on the Blither Productions blog, as soon as I get around to launching it. Let me know what you think.)

INT. SHANE AND DIANE'S BEDROOM: NIGHT

Shane and Diane in bed. The lamps on their nightstands are on. She's reading a magazine, he has just put his down.

SHANE
Look, all I do is disrobe. The best place to disrobe is right next to the bed. I shouldn't have to walk naked across all yonder just so my clothes can spend the night in the hamper.

DIANE
Okay.

SHANE
You are a clothes changer, not a disrober. You change your clothes right in front of the hamper. So there should be no value judgement regarding where I leave my clothes at night. The only reason you don't agree with me is because you don't have to walk across the bedroom naked.

DIANE
The only reason I don't agree with you is because you never pick up your clothes in the morning.

SHANE
Aha! But see, that is not Nighttime Shane's fault.

DIANE
Oh yeah? Which Shane's fault is it?

SHANE
It is Morning Shane's fault. The guy who's still half-asleep and has to pee. The guy who, once he walks to the loo, will never have a reason to come back to this side of the bed for the rest of the day.

DIANE
One reason to come back would be to pick up the clothes you left there the night before.

SHANE
Exactly. There's nothing I can see that's wrong over here, and there's nothing over here that I need for my day. So I have to remember that I have some altruistic thing to do on this side of the bed.

Diane finally pulls away from her magazine and looks at Shane.

DIANE
So it's heroic when you actually manage to pick up your clothes.

SHANE
It's not an easy thing to remember.

Back to her magazine...

DIANE
You know, there are about twenty different ways you could fix that process and solve your problem.

SHANE
Yes. But my favorite way is to let you pick them up.

Diane gives a look, makes a show of turning the page, and goes back to her mag.

Beyonce and Butterscotch

Alan Dotson — Mon, 20 Feb 2006 23:55:00 GMT

You will have to forgive me (or thank me) for not writing more lately. I am recovering from a butterscotch-induced coma. My lovely wife Jen was kind enough to bake my favorite cookies last week, butterscotch chip. She made approximately 400 of the delicious little treats, assuming that our three children would help me eat them. This was a false assumption. It turns out that these children may not have gotten any of my genes at all. They prefer their chips to be chocolate, not the most delicious substance known to man: butterscotch.

So Jen threw down the gauntlet. "You need to take the cookies that are left to work on Monday and get rid of them." GET RID of butterscotch cookies? This is anathema to me. Does that French museum, what's-it's-name GET RID of the Mona Lisa? No. Does Jay Leno GET RID of his beautiful collection of classic cars? No. Does Jay-Z GET RID of Beyonce? No. (I know what you are thinking. If I were uglier, would Beyonce date me too?)

So I spent the weekend frantically eating cookies at every opportunity. Breakfast? Good time to eat 12 cookies! Overly full from going out to dinner? Why not throw down 6 butterscotchy-good morsels?

I gained 3 pounds, was blind for about 5 hours, and I now have something called Stage 2 Diabetes, but it was worth it. I didn't have to share a single cookie. In your face, co-workers!

Happy Birthday Susie!

Jason Looney — Sat, 18 Feb 2006 01:30:00 GMT

Today is Sarah's birthday but all she has to show for it, so far, is a cake that says “Happy Birthday Susie.”

We're celebrating her birthday with a dinner and a concert on Sunday, so today is mostly a non-event. I'm even waiting until Sunday to give her the goofy birthday cards from me and the boys, since I plan on buying those cards sometime tomorrow.

Whatever decorum was once attached to our gift giving is, obviously, long gone. I spent last Christmas Eve wrapping my own gifts -- DVDs that would have been surprising were it not for the barrage of e-mails I received regarding their shipment. On Valentine's Day this year I emerged from my shower to find a sweater in a shopping sack sitting on the bathroom counter. Later that day, I returned the favor by stuffing two DVDs into a gift bag with the price tags still attached. And, instead of chocolate, I included a gift certificate for chocolate, good wherever $20 bills are accepted.

So it's safe to say that, as of last week, I hadn't made any cake-related plans for Sarah's birthday. But then, just a few days ago, a miracle descended upon our household. A miracle in the form of a Safeway coupon.

Ladies and gentlemen: FREE CAKE.

The postcard was addressed to Sarah and said "FREE CAKE" quite clearly, as well as some other things… things that may have indicated that the FREE CAKE was intended for a child. But, knowing it was her only chance for a cake this year, Sarah called the store to place the order.

Halfway through the conversation she realized just how heavily Safeway was emphasizing the child angle. The baker himself made a point of it, saying things like, "Most children won't tolerate anything BUT chocolate icing!" (Sarah: “Nope! White is fine for us!”)

As things progressed, Sarah felt pressured to supply a fake name for the top of the cake. After all, the checkout girl might see the postcard had Sarah's name, and using one of the boys' names would make things weird around the house. Know that Sarah's love for cake runs deep. Very deep. It's not something that a few scribbled letters can deny. So when the baker asked Sarah what name to write on the cake, she answered, "Susie."

The baker sounded unsure.

“Susie?”

Sarah started to defend this not-so-common name as important to our family, but luckily, the baker moved right on to the spelling. “S-U-S-I-E???” he asked.

"That's it!" chimed Sarah.

The baker took the order, Sarah hung up, and our house smelled of victory. But, upon further review, tossing out a girl's name might not have been the wisest move. Our two children are both boys, and she knew that both of them would be with her when she picked up the cake.

All this made for a real dilemma late last night. It spurred a debate most spurious. How could we explain our missing Susie to the cashier and other shoppers? Would the baker be suspicious if all he saw was two boys? Would our white-frosting lie inspire a state-wide Amber Alert?

In the end, we took a long look at our two beautiful and innocent children, and asked ourselves a simple question. It’s one of the toughest questions in the world -- a question NO parent should ever have to ask...

"Which one do we dress like a girl?"

—

Happy Birthday Susie!

Writing Tips

Alan Dotson — Thu, 16 Feb 2006 17:20:00 GMT

If you are looking for some tips to get your writing up to my level, let me be the first to say: Welcome to America! Hope you pick up the language without too much trouble! And/Or: Hope you recover from the brain damage really quickly!

This page has some great tips that a lazy blogger like myself could learn from.

Torture Rarely Works (A Valentine's Story)

Jason Looney — Tue, 14 Feb 2006 17:30:00 GMT

Last night I asked Jackson, our three year old, about his day. He said, "We bought you a long shirt."

Jackson is definitely my favorite kid. The other one would never divulge a golden nugget of secret information like this, probably because he hates me. Or maybe because he can't talk yet. In any case, this was a great piece of data for me to have. It told me two things:

1. There is some sort of gift giving occasion nearing. This might be a good time for me to remove my head from my anus, at least long enough to glance at a calendar and figure out, roughly, what season we're in.

2. I'm getting a shirt. So assuming the gift giving occasion isn't within a few minutes of receiving this info, I should have time to purchase something shirt-level for someone else.

As the night wore on I grew more curious about this "long shirt." My bride has purchased some, how you say, interesting clothing for me in the past, so I decided to interrogate the boy further.

I chased him around his great grandmother's kitchen, scooped him up, and held him tight. From the outside it looked like a loving embrace. But I knew full well that, to a three year old boy, any cessation of movement while conscious is pure torture.

ME: What kind of shirt did you get Daddy?
JACK: Down?
ME: Was it a sweater, like this one?
JACK: Daddy, can I get down please?
ME: Does it have buttons?
JACK: [struggling] I said please!
ME: You can get down as soon as you tell me about this shirt. Which store did you go to?

Jackson thinks and thinks -- he doesn't know the name. This is good. It means it's not from Target, Wal-Mart, Hobby Lobby, Home Depot, or King Soopers. He knows the names of those stores. I press on.

ME: Is it blue?
JACK: No.
ME: Is it green?
JACK: No.
ME: What color is it?
JACK: Um, I don't know. Down?
ME: Jackson, tell me the color and I will let you down.
JACK: It's blue.
ME: Oh yeah?
JACK: And green.
ME: Really?
JACK: With socks on it.
ME: Alright.

See? Torture doesn't work, even with three year olds. As it turns out, Sarah gave me the gift this morning, and it's an orange sweater with no socks on it anywhere.

The kid is good.

Hey Kettle, It's Me. You're Black.

Alan Dotson — Mon, 13 Feb 2006 21:13:00 GMT

Driving down the interstate the other day, we saw a gigantic sign on the right proclaiming: "Median Crossing Prohibited". Of course being a scofflaw, I immediately had to have a look at said median, just in case I might want to break this rule at some point in the future. I saw that the median has a rather large and very solid looking concrete barrier running down the middle of it.

Why bother to prohibit something that is physically impossible? Are they going to start putting up signs that say: "Switching Heads With Milk Cows Prohibited" or "Floating Above Roadway on Cloud of Pixie Dust Prohibited" or "Going the Speed Limit Prohibited"? Sure, this would lead to a bonanza for sign makers, but the rest of us non-sign-maker types would suffer. Eventually we would all starting ignoring the signs that cry wolf and possibly miss an important one. Like "Denny's: Next Exit".

Later on the same trip, I complained about a car ignoring a stop sign and pulling directly out in front of me. My beautiful wife pointed out that I, as a scofflaw, roll through 98% of the stop signs I am confronted with. I countered that only a select few of us can be scofflaws. If everyone were ignoring stop signs, it would be anarchy. We are a nation of laws and signs, people. Obey them. Because Alan might be coming the other way.

The 8:00 AM Meeting

Jason Looney — Mon, 13 Feb 2006 16:15:00 GMT

There's nothing quite like the 8:00 AM meeting.

As soon as you see the invitation you know it's trouble. You've missed these things before — the one morning you roll in at 9:30 is always the morning of an 8:00 AM meeting. So when you accept the invitation you take preventative action: you change the reminder from "15 minutes" to "20 hours." You know that Future You will appreciate the heads-up.

The day before the meeting the reminder comes. You pat yourself on the back a little and set the reminder to “snooze” for an hour. After all, you are a moron, and you'll need hourly reminders for the rest of the day if you're to have any chance of making the 8:00 AM meeting.

The reminders continue popping up all day, so you actually remember to tell your wife, "Hey, I have an 8:00 AM meeting tomorrow." This is a critical move on your part. Your wife is not nearly the moron you are, and she will remind you to set your alarm before going to sleep. (Nicely done.)

Later that evening, every decision you make considers the 8:00 AM meeting. Should we start this movie? What if it keeps us up too late? Should I eat this extra snack cake so I can skip breakfast in the morning? And why do we never have sex anymore? No seriously, why?

Morning comes, the alarm rings, and you press Snooze. At least you think you do. It's 50/50 that you actually turned the thing off. All you really know is that you successfully quieted the stupid thing.

Twenty minutes pass. Then ten more. You're dreaming now. You're on an island, perhaps, or in the mountains. Or maybe you're dreaming of a bed where people have sex at night. In any case, soon enough, a simple thought rips your dreamland apart:

8:00 AM MEETING!

Up like a bolt, you check the clock. [Expletive deleted!] You're late. You speed into the bathroom and become Economy of Motion Its Very Self. The shower is started, towels are thrown, clothes fall, and urine is dispensed. You will make up the lost time by multitasking!

"No shaving today," you say as you step quickly into the shower. With this sentence you've gained at least five minutes. Immediately, you soap up your face, and rinse. Other parts, and rinse. Some shampoo, and rinse. More soap, and rinse.

Golly, rinsing feels good. Very good. The water is warm, oh so warm. My body is finally de-thawing from the bed. Aahhh, bed. We used to have fun in that bed…

8:00 AM MEETING!

You've squandered the five minutes you saved from not shaving with unneeded rinsing. Idiot! So you kick into overdrive. One hand brushes teeth, while the other brushes hair. Shoes and socks are chosen by their proximity to your feet rather than their appropriateness with your attire. Lotion, of course, is summarily skipped. Lotion is a luxury for those without 8:00 AM meetings.

Miraculously, you make it to your car only a couple of minutes late. You know the commute well — if you can get just a tad lucky, maybe speed a little in a couple of spots, you can still make it.

Except you haven't factored in the rest of the planet, all of which is also trying to make it to work by 8:00 AM. (They must all have 8:00 AM meetings, or something.) Speeding and luck are no longer options. The roads are overflowing with cars and you're now hitting lights that you never, ever hit.

But you're an enterprising person — it takes more than a little traffic for you to give up. You decide that now is the time to explore an alternative route. These other cars are all driven by average people, lemmings. You can use your wit to beat them down the map.

So you turn. Only you don't really know any alternative routes. The road that looked promising is now curving, taking you AWAY from your office. And the road has no traffic whatsoever, which in hindsight, is probably not a good sign. After all, you're not THAT witty.

So now it's 8:00 AM and your car is parked on Farmer Jed's sprawling gravel drive. You have two choices: 1) Call the office and let them know you're "en route," possibly throwing in a lame excuse about vomiting children, flat tires, or a complete lack of sex at nighttime. 2) Build a time machine.

Being somewhat witty, you build a time machine, enter it, and go back 20 minutes and make it to work in time. (Nicely done.)

You stroll into the office and, without breaking stride, drop your belongings at your desk on the way to the meeting room. The office is quiet, giving you a fleeting moment of peace.

You enter the meeting room proud. You're not annoyed by the traffic or the fact that someone called an 8:00 AM meeting. After all, you made it on time, and now you know how a time machine works. It's all good.

Except…

The meeting room is empty. Completely empty. No lights, paper, people, or projectors. "Good thing I rushed," you think. Then, "Slackers. Can't even make their own meeting."

You pick the best chair and try to look relaxed, as if you've been there for hours. No one comes. You find a position that looks more relaxed, more confident. No one comes. You're now genuinely relaxed, even sleepy. No one comes. Now you look relaxed, sad, and lonely. Still, no one comes.

You return to your desk, press a button, and wait for your computer to do its thing. The office remains quiet.

A quick look in Outlook confirms your worst fear…

The meeting has been moved to 9:30.

February (28) Update

Alan Dotson — Sat, 11 Feb 2006 18:09:00 GMT

Just a little update on how the February (28) program is going. As of yesterday there were 10 days gone in the month and I had 8 posts up for the month. So I am barely, barely keeping a “B” average at 80% (Reminds me of college). We’ll see if I get around to creating some posts for those missing days or if I just say screw it and change the name of the program to February (26). Too bad I didn’t have this option in college, I would now be the proud owner of a Kinda Bachelors of Science in Sorta Computer Information Systems and I would have saved a couple of semesters of work. Live and learn I guess.

Jason is doing much better than I am at posting despite travelling to the ends of the earth this month. Well mostly the north end. Make sure you check out his most recent post, it is extremely good work, especially for someone who is hopped up on Fresca and Ding Dongs every waking minute of every single day.

I Really Am In Minneapolis Today

Jason Looney — Fri, 10 Feb 2006 18:00:00 GMT

British Phil and I are in Minneapolis this week for some hacker training.

You can tell which one of us has hacked your web server by studying the politeness and grammar of the messages we leave behind. Phil's messages are along the lines of, "I've compromised your site, as you do, and taken the piss out of your configuration files. I rode the lift this morning." Mine, on the other hand, are more like, "Elmo was here pooping in your lawn. And then Elmo left behind another surprise gift for you: poop on your lawn! By the way, you should check your lawn for Elmo poop. Because I'm pretty sure I just saw Elmo poop on your lawn. Poopie poopie poop! I took an elevator."

This is only my second trip to Minneapolis and I've enjoyed the town immensely both times. Here are 16 random observations from a guy who has spent a grand total of six or seven days here:

1) It's cold. You probably knew this, but did you also know that Jeff Bridges and Jeff Daniels are different people? Well, they are, and as a guy who has a home at 5,000 feet, trust me when I say you need a jacket in Minnesota in February.

2) Minnesota's nickname is "Land of 10,000 Lakes." As you fly in, you can see why. There are a lot of lakes. All of them are frozen solid, of course, since it's cold enough here to freeze Han Solo. I've been trying to make friendly with the locals by inserting lake-related comments like, "Oh, I'd say that guy's a hectare or two short of a lake. He's a total pond!" Or I'll break the ice with questions along the lines of, "So, do you ice fish? Really? How do you catch ice? What do ice eat? How do you like your ice cooked? Can I huddle with you for warmth?"

3) Minnesotans are tall. I happen to be 5 feet and 11 inches of pure muscle, and in most parts of the country this makes me average. Not here. In Minnesota I'm the little guy whose head you pat when he says something cute. At the Timberwolves game last night I was carded twice -- once for popcorn and once for nachos. (In the lady's defense, I did order extra jalapeños.)

British Phil and I have been debating how to explain the noticeable difference in height out here. We've come up with a several competing theories.

a) From what we've learned from the sports mascots, this area was originally settled by Scandinavian Vikings who were too big, strong, and stupid to know that things get warmer the farther south you go. No one else comes up here to live, on account of the fact that the human body freezes at low temperature, so you have a fairly pure bloodline of tall ignorant people.

b) Tall people can climb out of a hole in the ice easier than short people.

c) Tall people's heads stay warmer (because warm air rises and they're closer to the sun and whatnot) so they have an evolutionary advantage.

d) The airplane ride shrunk us. By the time we get home we will be like Danny DeVito and Rhea Perlman. (I'm Danny.)

e) The taller people eat the shorter people because it is too cold in the winters to risk a trip to the grocery store.

4) Minneapolis is a really cool city. Downtown has some beautiful architecture (a nice blend of old and new), skyways everywhere, and one of those "silent killer" light rails (a must for any modern city). The "Uptown" area is eclectic and engaging, although I'm not entirely sure what that means. And down by the airport there's a giant shopping mall with parking garages that swallow cars whole.

5) There are a surprising number of fine-looking women here. Not that I've noticed, personally, of course, but British Phil keeps saying things like, "Wow, aren't you surprised how many skinny and pretty ladies there are here?" To which I respond, "No, Satan, I hadn't noticed. Hey, how about you walk behind me. Satan."

6) Even the finest of Minnesotan ladies knows how to stack a bowl of pork at the local Mongolian barbecue joint. I'm used to the place in Boulder, CO, where women bring their own chunks of recycled tofu for a light grilling. Up here they burn so many calories shivering and nearly dying that, apparently, they work up a real appetite. I haven't seen so many pork obelisks in one line since, well, ever. [Feel free to go ahead and insert your own pork obelisk joke here.]

7) It's so cold here that Antarctica called and they want my nipples back.

8) I am now a Ricky Davis fan. I don't really follow the NBA anymore (for all the same reasons you don't) and so I had no idea who Ricky Davis was before this trip. He's a Timberwolf and, man, that guy can play some ball. He's one of those players who brings it on every play, and whose presence completely changes the game. If every team in the league had a couple of Ricky Davises, no one would care what clothes the players wore to the arenas or whether traveling should be legal in professional basketball. He pushes the ball on offense, plays dogged defense, and can put the ball DOWN. I could give a rat's ass about a Wolves/Cavs game, but after Ricky reached back and grabbed a crappy alley-oop pass with one hand and put in the face of a couple of Cavs, I popped up and shouted like someone had just stolen my children.

This made it frustrating later, of course, when my children were stolen by wolves and no one noticed.

9) LeBron James might be overrated. I've seen him twice in the past two weeks, and I haven't been impressed. Phil and I think maybe he should have chosen a different jersey number than 23. He's more like an 18 right now.

10) MINNEAPOLIS is just too many letters. Even the locals agree — the abbreviation "Mpls" is used everywhere. Normally I would complain about such a stupid-looking abbreviation, but these people have frozen fingers six months of the year. I'm not going to start pointing my toasty warm Denver fingers at anyone.

11) The Mississippi River runs through Minneapolis, Minnesota. Try typing that twelve times fast. Now try it with frozen hands and a tall guy gnawing on the back of your neck.

12) Minnesotans are Minnesotans. By that I mean, there seem to be fewer racial cliques here than other places I've traveled. Of course, I'm making a lot of assumptions based on just a few days experience, but Minnesotans seem genuinely nice and pleasant. They seem honest and non-judgemental. I guess that's what happens when you're trying to avoid angering the tall frozen people who want to eat you.

13) Many people here have strong Minnesotan accents. I KNOW, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?? WILL THE WONDERS EVER CEASE?

14) New cars are nice. We rented a Toyota Camry that had 7 miles on it when we left the airport lot. It now has close to 70. We are responsible for increasing the mileage on this car by a factor of 10. I know I shouldn't feel guilty about this, but I do.

The car has a sunroof, which is a pretty cool feature downtown. You can look up at the buildings as you drive into the back of the truck in front of you. The truck with the giant lettering that says, "Life is a VIRGIN because if it were a BITCH it would be to [sic] easy." (Not only is there a misspelling in this professionally printed decal, but it makes no sense. What's "easy" about a bitch? Frankly, I'd rather be around virgins all day. And I will now stop talking about this subject.)

15) My family isn't here and I miss them. This situation isn't helped at all by my final observation:

16) British Phil doesn't like to cuddle.

Banned in Mesopotamia

Alan Dotson — Fri, 10 Feb 2006 16:20:00 GMT

So I’m sure we are all sick and tired of hearing about all the rage in the middle east over the Mohammed Cartoon. I too am outraged. Cartoons like Family Circus and Cathy have been horrible for a very long time, but have their been any riots against them? No.

I have hated Family Circus for a very long time now. I assumed when I was younger that once I had children of my own, I would grow to appreciate it. I was wrong. Apparently you have to have children AND a frontal lobotomy to enjoy the cartoon. Since I will never be a woman with a frontal lobotomy, I will also never enjoy Cathy.

So join with me and my righteous indignation! Let’s riot against… oh never mind. Sounds like way too much work. I guess I will just do the same thing I do every week. Ignore the cartoons that I don’t like. Read the ones I do. Thats the way the world works, right?

What Is and What Should Never Be

Alan Dotson — Thu, 09 Feb 2006 16:57:00 GMT

We've been watching season 3 of 24 lately on DVD. I was kind enough to buy the box set for my wife for Christmas since I really wanted to watch it. I also got her a Brooke Burke calendar and an intake manifold for a 72 Cutlass. She may have me figured out though. She gave me a Fendi handbag and a gift certificate to Bath & Body Works.

The episode of 24 we watched last night led to a question I've had about action movies and TV shows for a long time. Why do people always have to duck down when charging into a running helicopter? Jack Bauer and the gang did the duck down thing at least 4 times in one episode, and so have the characters in every action movie I've seen since Rambo.

I did a little research [1], and that helicopter rotor is a good 10 feet off the ground. If you are taller than that, then you can think about ducking down. Actually, if you are taller than that, you could probably stand to take a little off the top anyway.

Maybe this behavior is an artifact from early poorly-designed helicopters that were only about 5 feet tall. The pilot would jump out, stand up, and immediately be decapitated. After 10 years of this, when everyone was finally used to ducking down, and the people that couldn't get used to it were all decapitated, they finally came up with the brilliant idea of taller helicopters.

What is the real answer? I don't have any idea. It’s a conundrum. Wrapped in an enigma. Wrapped in a delicious donut.

[1] No actual research was done.

Fresca. Nature in a can.

Jason Looney — Wed, 08 Feb 2006 17:30:00 GMT

Today we have a guest blogger. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my beautiful wife, Sarah Looney.

My husband drinks Fresca with dessert.

Enough said.

Is it an Automatic or a Standard?

Alan Dotson — Wed, 08 Feb 2006 16:59:00 GMT

Thanks to Mr. Cody Powell, I now have a new insult in my lexicon. Stank butt tranny.

Ask Anyone Who Drinks And Writes Letters To Newsweek

Jason Looney — Mon, 06 Feb 2006 15:30:00 GMT

I subscribe to Newsweek, mainly for the columnists, but partly because it's now a thesaurus for awkward ways to say "an unidentified source." When Newsweek fell into hot water a few months ago because of their use of unidentified sources they committed to cleaning up their act. So these days, they still use unidentified sources for all of their political stories, but now they throw in overblown explanations as to why the sources are unidentified. Things like, "… a source who wishes to remain anonymous because speaking to the press can occasionally have unexpected and negative political effects" and "… a source who does not like the way his name looks in print."

Anyway, I'm sure other newsy and political-type blogs are already covering this issue. That's not why I’m here. What I bring you today is a fun and exciting game that you can play while reading Newsweek's letters to the editor. I call it, Spot the Political Non Sequitur. The game is simple.

Find a letter to the editor about a non-political subject.
See if you can find the political non sequitur.
If you do not find the non sequitur, you lose, because they all have at least one.

Here are some sample letters from the Feb 6 issue. All of these letters are in regard to a cover story on Bode Miller, the American skier who recently admitted that his partying and his racing have overlapped a bit in the past (a first for professional skiers, I'm sure).

I'll walk you through the first one.

From Tuscon: Why do we have to send losers like Bode Miller to the Olympics? Is winning so important to us [Note: Remember, we're looking strictly for political non sequiturs in this game] that we have to send a disrespectful, egotistical showoff like Bode Miller to represent America? Or is his kind of personality the norm for behavior in our country? [Note: Not there yet. Righteous indignation is expected. In fact, it’s assumed.] Your article pointed out that each sport has had its bad boys. But to be blatant about it and to be proud of displaying it reek of a culture that has lost all respect for decency. [Note: Close, but not quite...] Isn't it bad enough that the United States' image has become greatly damaged by our political posturing? [Ding ding ding!] Why do we have to send this degenerate to the Olympics as a representative of who we are?

See, it's fun, isn't it? Here are a couple for you to try on your own.

From Chaska, MN: It's interesting that Bode Miller has gotten into trouble for telling the truth about skiing hung over. Our society encourages politicians, athletes, and other newsworthy figures to be as evasive as possible when answering questions so as not to get themselves in trouble. Perhaps if our Supreme Court nominees were as forthright when answering questions we would know exactly where they stand prior to making decisions that will have an impact on all our futures.

From Lahaina, HI: No bigger moron exists than Olympic-medal hopeful Bode Miller. Running his mouth on "60 Minutes," he sank what could have been a stellar career, along the lines of Jean-Claude Killy's. So, at 28, he skis drunk, or is still drunk from the night before. What a talent. Hear that sucking sound? It's his endorsements going down the drain. Ask anyone who drinks and drives: it's only a matter of time before you end up arrested, paralyzed or dead. [Note: ?] Please, send Miller to Iraq, where he can share stories with injured and maimed soldiers on how he blew his career -- but had a good damn time doing it.

Clearly these people need blogs.

Montana Secedes From the Union

Alan Dotson — Sun, 05 Feb 2006 18:56:00 GMT

As if we needed any more proof that Joe Montana is not worthy to carry John Elway’s support giving undergarments, here is a story about Montana refusing to attend the MVP ceremony at the Super Bowl with every other living MVP, except Terry Bradshaw (who?). What possible reason could he have for not attending? Sick? No. Traveling? No. Family commitments? No.

Joe thought his time was worth $100 grand.

This is a man who recently dusted off his 49ers uniform and tugged it over his fat belly to appear in a commercial for FedEx. Apparently he either has no pride, or he has blown all his millions building his ill-advised “Montawood” theme park.

So if you happen to run into Joe on the street, throw him a couple of Hamiltons. Apparently he needs the money.

Other Countries Elect Dips Too

Jason Looney — Sun, 05 Feb 2006 17:00:00 GMT

Alan: The Dilbert guy has a good post about Hamas winning that election.
Alan: http://dilbertblog.typepad.com/the_dilbert_blog/2006/01/dog_catches_car.html
Jason: I haven't watched television or read the Interline in a while. I'm completely out of it. I thought hamas was a dip for stale bagels. It isn't?
Alan: No, it is. It just won the Palestinian elections.
Jason: They voted in a dip? Have they even TRIED ranch dressing??? What about salsa?
Jason: No wonder there's so much strife over there. This whole thing could be solved by a single veggie tray from King Soopers.

We’re heading up to Alan’s to watch the Super Bowl this afternoon. We’re taking a dip that includes barbecue chicken, ranch dressing, mozzarella cheese, cream cheese, and buffalo sauce, among other things. We’ve never tried this recipe before, but on paper, it has the potential to change the world.

Could it be the long-awaited exit strategy for Iraq? Quite possibly.

If I Had Posted Saturday, it Would Have Looked Like This

Alan Dotson — Sat, 04 Feb 2006 15:57:00 GMT

Well, Super Bowl time is upon us once again. Since I was kind of counting on the Broncos to be in the Superbowl, I have been avoiding thinking about it for the past two weeks. No one wants to see a grown man in a Ron Dayne jersey walking around the office crying. Nonetheless, I feel the need to make a bold prediction about the game, so here we go.

I think the Steelers are going to win. They are also going to cover the spread, for all you illegal gamblers out there. I am extremely sure of this. Pittsburg will win by a score of 21–10. Hines Ward will win the MVP trophy and go to Disneyland. Mike Holmgren will go eat a really big block of cheese then work on growing his mustache for a couple of weeks. He will also probably make a point of blaming his quarterback for his playcalling limitations.

Remember, you heard it here first.

Dinner Time

Alan Dotson — Fri, 03 Feb 2006 08:08:00 GMT

We've been having some trouble lately getting the kids to eat their dinner. My wife is a very good cook, so I don't really understand this. Regardless, the kids will cry, pout, yell, and hold their breath to avoid eating something new. I vary between using my Voice of Authority™ and trying to use humor to diffuse the situation. (If you are going the humor route, I highly recommend armpit farts. Armpit farts make little boys laugh 100% of the time, even at funerals.) After 30 minutes when they finally eat it, they always say "that isn't too bad!"

Of course it isn’t too bad!! Do you think we are trying to feed you avian bird flu feces? No, in general we try to feed you food. Children seem to have no problem at all putting things that aren't food into their mouths however. Dirty washcloths, plastic sharks, oily screw drivers, dirty bathwater, a marble they found under the refrigerator, grave dirt. But don't ask them to try that new casserole. Gross!

So we have to look for alternate ways to get some nutrition into them. Chocolate milk, for example. A side benefit of the milk is, if you can get them to suck down a big glass, they will get cold and want to cuddle with you. (Warning: Armpit farts done in the middle of the chocolate milk drinking are not a good idea. Warning 2: Drawers in a kitchen table are troublesome, as they will often fill up with nose milk.)

Drinking the Kool Aid

Alan Dotson — Fri, 03 Feb 2006 07:03:00 GMT

Ok, ok. I too am participating in the February (28) program instituted by Jason Looney. What this means is that I am committing to writing a post every day for the month of February (Sorry Mom, you might have a lot of reading this month). I am coming in to this just a little bit late, but hey, I already had a post for February 1 so everything works out.

Maybe it will instill some good writing habits in me, or maybe it will cause me to give up “writing” forever and run back to the beloved green hills of Uzbekistan in revulsion. Stay tuned to find out what happens. Either way, it’s a win-win situation for both my readers.

Al-Qaeda Hates Pork Chops

Alan Dotson — Wed, 01 Feb 2006 16:16:00 GMT

A recent news story on CNN talks about Osama bin Laden's right-hand man, Ayman al-Zawahiri appearing in a video to taunt the US. Here is the “taunting” quote that seemed to get the most attention:

"My first message is to the butcher of Washington, Bush: You are not just defeated and lying about it, but you are, with God's help, a loser."

Calling W a butcher? Thats the best this guy can come up with? Come on, this is America, terror boy! We love our butchers. We love anyone involved in preparing food to shove in our giant pie holes. (Mmmm. Pie.) He might as well have called President Bush the ice cream man of Washington.

If he is trying to make President Bush seem unpalatable to the American people, he would have been better calling him something else. Let's see if we can come up with a list of professions that would be worse.

IRS Agent of Washington
Telemarketer of Washington
DMV Worker of Washington
Policeman of Washington (no i don’t have issues with authority)
Tow Truck Driver of Washington
Inventor of the Internet of Washington
Tofu Maker of Washington
French Waiter of Washington
Door-To-Door Salesman of Magazines of Washington (Technically not selling anything, just collecting points for his trip to Cozumel)
Barbara Streisand