World of Suck

I've mentioned it before, and I'll probably do so again. The Digital Millennium Copyright Act sucks donkey balls. And so do most of the people that use it. It's poorly designed, vaguely written, and grotesquely overpowered.

I offer up as evidence, exhibit A: Viacom's attack on YouTube user Christopher Knight. Mr Knight is running for the County Board of Education of where ever the fuck he lives. So he made a funny little commercial that apparently aired on local TV. He also uploaded it to YouTube.

Because people were amused by it, it got a lot of views, and eventually VH1 got wind of it. They thought it was funny and decided to put it on their YouTube thievery show 'Web Junk 2.0'. Basically a show that looks out for the new hot video, and puts it on TV. Apparently because they can't be bothered to think of original ideas.

So, Mr Knight hears about it and laughs a little. He was amused by it and decided to take advantage of his little moment of fame. He took a clip of the Web Junk show airing HIS clip, put it on YouTube, and linked it in his blog.

Naturally, Viacom, owners of VH1, sent in a DMCA takedown notice. Totally fucked up. He has a clip of them broadcasting HIS clip, and they have the nerve to demand he take it down?

But it gets better. Oh yes. You see, VH1... never ASKED him if they could broadcast it. And just for bonus points, they violated YouTube's terms of service by stealing his video. His not-for-profit ad was pilfered by a for-profit corporation and they give him shit when he puts it up online?

Fuck them and fuck the DMCA

I and a couple other co-workers are "temporarily" relocated to another part of my building - away from our office mates. Usually it is fine. Relatively peaceful, in fact. However, the group who we are sitting near frequently has conference calls, out in the open, loudly. A couple of guys insist on using the speaker phone even when either one is the only person on his end. It is distracting.

Then lets not forget the daily sports talk. Watching the game was simply not enough, discussing it for an hour is necessary.

Then there is the secretary who has Poison as a ring tone at the highest possible setting.

Someone in this group complained about our "kitchen" - a fridge, coffee maker, electric kettle and toaster. The only thing slightly unusual is the toaster and I use the kettle may once a month. So the toaster got put in the proper kitchen and the kettle got stowed. Besides the "safety issues" - the kettle is only plugged in when used, the coffee maker has a timer, the toaster is only "on" when the little lever is pushed, and I never heard of a refrigerator causing a fire - the complaining party (who did not sign their letter to management) cited a "distracting atmosphere".

Hello!!!! I know Dick's kid just started at the local community college. I know the Yanks are in the toilet. I know Will just bought a house. I know some chick that I have never seen is moving to Arizona. I know way too much about the secretary's social life. I know someone in large city is fucking up an important program. I hear things I know I shouldn't know and might have bright lights shown in my eyes if anyone realized I knew them. And it goes on. How do I know this stuff? Certainly not cause anyone ever told me directly. And headsets can only go so far.

So, who are the distracting ones? The people who carry on all day about everything, private and work-related, or the people who might yap for all of about a half hour while getting their morning coffee and might occasionally confer with each other? I realize I may not be the most quiet person, but the volume coming out of all of your pie holes is not on whisper either and I'm also not the one bitching to management. Cubicle hell offers little privacy - deal with it.

Oh and by the way - the fridge and the coffee maker are staying. Whoever complained can go fuck himself.

There's a lot of things we take for granted until they're absent. Standing on a long line will make you wish for something to sit on. At a certain point we're willing to compromise and anything, even a fire hydrant will look good. After that initial rush of relief as you take the weight off your feet, it doesn't take very long to realize that yes - you're sitting on a cast iron bullet and it's pretty damn uncomfortable.

Office work chairs are a practical example of this. It's really hard to find an office chair you can sit in for hours and still be comfortable in, however once you do find that perfect marriage of tukus to tapestry the lengths one is willing to go to defend the item is without precedent.

It's an unusual thought that a component at one end of the torso can have so much affect on the other, but to do good, extended work the quality of comfort at the ass-end cannot be underestimated in terms of value.

Seen this morning on the commute to work: Mork and Mindy era glitter-blue Trans Am complete with ram, firebird decal and tinted T-top. Behind the wheel, white polo, avaitors and grecian formula.

Buddy it may be almost thirty years late but you still got it.

...by the diameter of the holes in the toothbrush holder.

Just a thought.

Stop it. Please for the love of all that is sacred... stop it.

Everything is not dominant. In the past month, you've said that this program was dominant, that band is dominant, those cars are dominant, and the headphones you wear are all dominant. And that song you love is dominating.

You describe everything as either dominant or not dominant. There are dozens of good synonyms you can use as an alternative. Supreme, prominent, authoritative, controlling. Hell, try something simple like BEST.

Quite frankly, I'm sick and tired of it. It's depressingly repetitious. And while you may like the word, the more you use it, the lower the standard seems to be for it. The over usage of it has made it into an everyday occurrence. The word carries significance when it's an uncommon. When you use it to describe every third item, it doesn't mean much to me. It's impossible to discern which instances are really remarkable. I don't have the time to check the credentials of everything you mention. So, my natural response is to assume that nothing you describe as dominant is actually that impressive.

Expand your vocabulary a little and people will pay more attention you your opinions.

If you ask me to solve a problem, be prepared to hear an answer you don't like.

If you ask for my help, be prepared to have the work done on my schedule – which is now rather than later.

If you have received my help, don't be surprised if I turn you down on the same topic the next time.

Actions speak for themselves. If I go to the trouble of outlining a solution and you don't take it don't expect me to listen to you bitch and moan for eternity. Either do or do not, but don't fucking waste my time.

Remember the Ren and Stimpy episode with Billy the Beef-Tallow Boy? The one that makes the statement that “if it's fried then Dad will eat it”? The cartoon goes on from there to fry all sorts of items, including non-edible things and Dad eats it and in the end dies of a heart attack. I have to wonder if the artists had Texas in mind when they created the short. It seems that things are not very far from the truth. The latest entries this year in the Big Tex Choice Awards items are all revoltingly fried items:

Deep Fried Lattes: Fried pastry with ice cream, caramel, whipped cream and instant coffee powder (I rate it a 1 out of 5 on the aneurysm scale)

Deep Fried Guacamole: Gobbets of guacamole fried in balls and then served with ranch dressing or salsa (again a 1 out of 5 )

Deep Fried Cookie Dough: Just like it sounds (3 out of 5)

Deep Fried Sweet Potato Pie: Anyone who's ever dealt with sweet potatos knows that they absorb oil like a sponge. (4 out of 5)

Peach Cobbler on a Stick: Yep impalings go so well with heart failure – ask Vlad. Peach cobbler with dumplings covered in pastry dough and ... yes fried, and stuck on a stick. (4 plus 0.5 for the stick)

Deep Fried Frito Burrito and Fried Banana Pudding, it goes on and on and on.

Apparently this is what passes for “cooking” down in Texas: Take something – if it runs club it till it stops, toss it in a deep fryer and then jam it on a stick. I guess it gives them a break from the standard fare of miraclewhip and crushed potato chips on wonderbread with a side of Fried Coke.

Yep, disgusting and bad for you at the same time. I think people need to look at obesity as Darwin's way of saying “hey if you're too fucking stupid to figure out what to eat, die and leave the world to the rest of us.” Frankly I wish Texas could have a state fair every week...

At least in England the "tabloids" are unabashed dens of inequity. That's what they are and no one, much less the publishers, maintain a false pretense to the contrary.

Here in the US, however, with the exception of the oddly formatted, garishly colored rags that sit next to the checkout at your supermarket we don't have the same trash reporting that's massively consumed... or do we?

Lately, as in the past n+1 months, virtually every glossy magazine has reported on Brittany and her antics. For a brief, altogether too brief, moment Paris managed to steal the limelight. But currently no one, not even Pam Anderson, has been able to wrest the covers from Britney Coverage.

It's not like anyone really cared to begin with, but by now even people who don't read this trash are so jaded by the topic that it's an exercise in pain to shop anywhere. But the magazines still keep reporting it. Like an endless nightmare of blonde, brown or bald headed bimbos with oversized glasses we're bombarded with pictures and commentary on her boozing, partying, mothering, with a putrid condiment of what her mom or ex-mate are up to (latest headline - "are they a couple?")

Besides the same "who cares" comment from above, the headlines grieve for the treatment of her children ("they share her bed! they saw her drunk! she says they were a mistake!")

Why, why, why?

Kids are murdered on a daily basis, starved, maltreated, sold, forced into slavery, abused, abandoned. Consider the mass starvation of children in third world countries. Consider babies born with Aids. Ponder those displaced by war and those injured by disaster. Just how fucking important are Britney's babies compared to all the children who are currently suffering? I promise you her kids will never know pain or suffering that even ordinary children endure (an ear infection on a Sunday perhaps is a good example).

Would that I had dictatorial powers for just a day, I'd force every publisher who put Britney and her brats on their cover to take all the money invested in printing this crap and send it to the Red Cross in Darfur. At least then there would be a good reason to buy their garbage.

If you bid up an item on ebay to a dollar within the suggested retail price of said item, not including the jacked up shipping, you deserve to be poor.

Now stop bidding on my shit. Quit it. Retards.

There's not a hell of a lot of reason for an oversized pickup truck in a highly urban area, unless of course you're into construction. I can almost see the need for a carpenter, electrician, mason, although if you have a lot of expensive or flammable tools (such as a plumber) I'd think you'd want more of a panel truck. Whatever.

Anyway, today's cocktardedness was some bozo in a Ford F-AsBigAsTheyBuildIt pickup truck, with chrome rhino bar and glossy never-been-used bed. Part of the reason it had never been used, and probably never will be, is because the jackass re-routed his exhaust through a shiny pair of highly chromed 8" diameter smoke stacks which came up though the bed. Phenomenally brilliant, really. Not only did he take useful space out of the cargo area but he also provided the nifty chance to set it on fire. Yes exhaust is hot, and there were no covers on these megalithic pipes to prevent the transfer of heat to paper, wood, or plastic. I'd think it was safe to say he could only reasonably transport glass or metal.

I can't (and don't really want) to imagine what this must of cost. Nor can I imagine his infantile glee when he first laid eyes on his junior-grade Semi.

I will give it a four-star laugh factor, however. I'm willing to bet that I'm not the only one either. Probably the person who happily took his money to make the idiotic changes found it pretty amusing as well.

In some cases, if someone is really stupid, I can see the point of this bit of advice. A good example are games like FEAR and Half-Life whose primary concept is single player.

But on an MMO that can *only* be played online?

You think people just sit and watch the intro cinematics over and over and expect the game to play like that? I dunno, and frankly I'm scared to speculate.

Sometimes you see something once and you think "huh, I must have been mistaken." Then as you begin to see it more and more you realize that things just aren't so right.

Current case in point - jackass supercycle types wearing shorts, t-shirt, helmet and back protector. Back protector? So what - they can fucking find your spine when you crash?

A back protector is meant to be worn under - yes UNDER - your jacket and pants. Preferably under your CE-armor padded jacket and pants. It's not a fashion statement, unless looking like a semi-dismembered 'dung-beetle' is your style. See the idea of a back protector is to *add* to the protection you already have. It's really not going to do much of anything if the rest of the body its attached to (excepting your helmeted head) is crushed, mangled or cheese-grated.

I'm not certain why the idea of riding around with a back protector is suddenly in fashion, even if it does add a certain Klingon - je ne sais quoi.

And if you have a jacket on... please, for the love of anything you can think of, tuck the freekin protector into your pants. No one cares if you have it on or not, and you'd rather have it held in place to do its job than sticking out labeling you the cycle-nub you really are.

We were on vacation, but now we're back.

Oh yes we are.

Dirt caked. A rough powder under rubber and canvas - the daily chore of dressing. The one pair of shoes. The one pair of jeans and sometimes a shirt.

Work? Is there any? The tires of the blue Dodge sag under the weight of refuse. Garbage. Tools. Trade. Your ... livelyhood. When did it last move?

Plastic. Cheap, flexible and stressed - but yours. Planted daily, the plastic grows. It spawns. It devours until there is only dirt. Caked. Rotting.

The street is both entertainment and social circle. You yell. You guffaw. You carry your voice to places that it should never go. Your cadence reverberates for all. From three feet away, you yell.

Constant.

From where you sit, in your yard, in your plastic dirt. You and your kin. Your family. Your jackanapes in grime. From where they sit, they yell. They howl. They slaver in chorus, in mimicry, following their leader. In dirt.

Is that your dream? Is that what you look forward to? To come home, to wallow, to waste away in the yard. Yelling. Surrounded by rust. Degraded by plastic. Running stupidly down the street at night, choked on the alcohol that surely sits in the cooler that now has roots. In the dirt.