Bits and Pieces: Stupid white crap edition
You know how back in high school, there’d be this girl (or guy) you’d like, and you’d go all drooly over her, and you’d tell friends who would tolerate you that she was the perfect woman, that yeah, she was part of that one assholish group but wasn’t the same as the others in it, and didn’t really fit because she wasn’t a bitch but instead was this person with all sorts of integrity, and she also didn’t have that giant hairsprayed ball of hair on the front of her forehead like literally every other girl had in 1989? And you’d do stupid shit like make your user name on computers “CarlaLover,” and write her name on overpasses and try to kill a celebrity to impress her?
And then like two weeks later, you’d be over it and you’d notice that she had a bunch of acne on her chin and looked into the tissue after she blew her nose and that she was not only a bitch but a REAL FUCKING WHORE and you’d be embarrassed at yourself? And it’d be like, What the hell was I thinking, liking this dickbag?
That’s how I feel about snow right now, after doubling last year’s snowfall and getting my car stuck three times in the driveway. I used to be so into it. But now it’s a whore that doesn’t wipe properly, and I can’t believe I used to like winter.
So you get more bits and pieces. Enjoy.
1. Canada Dry Refreshingly Raspberry Sparkling Water may be the worst product ever made
We were over at our friends Sarah and Mike Glazzman’s house this past weekend, and Sarah offered me a drink.
“We have Canada Dry, Diet Canada Dry, and Raspberry Canada Dry,” she announced, head deep in the fridge.
“Do you work for Canada Dry?” I asked.
“The regular is like Vernors,” she told me. “The diet is like Diet Vernors. The raspberry is terrible.”
“Terrible?” I asked?
“If you like it, you’re taking the rest of the case. Because I won’t have it in my house.”
I figured it had to be like one of those Aquafina flavored waters. Those are good. So I opened a can and took a sip.
“This is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve every drunk,” I said.
I can’t believe Canada Dry allowed the product to go to market. It combines all of the delight of a sparkling beverage with all of the nausea induced by camping at the bottom of a park outhouse. It really is quite insidious. The packaging is pretty. You want to believe it.
I took another sip.
“It’s like… it tastes okay while you’re actually drinking it,” I said. “But the minute you stop, it’s like a hobo has been living and defecating in your mouth.”
Sarah nodded. Mike nodded. The dog did not nod.
I refused to believe it. I took several more sips, each time expecting a fruity explosion with no aftertaste. Every time, I got bile. Literally.
“I will not be taking the rest of this home,” I told them. “If you try to make me, I will burn your house to the ground.”
Canada Dry, be on the lookout for my lawsuit.
2. Tony the Tiger’s bandana does not go all the way around his neck.
It just floats in front. The ends totally stick up and go nowhere. WTF?
3. I’m keeping AdSense for the entertainment value.
I’ve had Google AdSense on my site for around two months, and I have made a little over five dollars. Normally, $2.50 per month isn’t really worth a lot, but I’m keeping the ads because they’re so hilarious.
Yeah, for real. Happy birthday, dude. You guys may not know Jesus, but he’s a waiter at this great Mexican restaurant I go to all the time. One time, Jesus dropped like three serving platters onto the floor and his mother came out and started yelling shit at him and even though I don’t speak Spanish, I’m pretty sure she said something about Depeche Mode and then hit him with an oven mitt. Good times.
These actually make sense and were probably clicked on by a lot of my visitors. Not only do my readers really get into utility repairs, but they apparently live in Vegas. I’m absolutely calling these guys the next time my toilet overflows at the Palms.
Then we move on to a slightly different, but highly relevant, aspect of plumbing:
And of course,
Pimsleur! It’s cheap now; only $9.95. I think it might be a type of driveway sealer, or possibly a Hungarian spice. Either way, I’m absolutely on board. I’m tired of overpaying for Pimsleur. Especially at the dentist’s office.
And for all of you with pet issues, it’s good to know you can get all the info you need by checking into:
and then afterward, after Puffy is either saved or sacrificed to buy a ceiling fan for a third-world family, you can improve your mood and your style with:
which will be perfect for when you check into some:
Yeah.
4. Speaking of making money, I’m beating the recession by attending a pretty awesome telesummit.
This bit isn’t funny, but it does give me something to look forward to as even now, as insidious white shit slowly buries me in a cold, dark tomb.
Money. I want to learn how to make more money. Money! MONEY! SPARTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Check it out. You should absolutely get on board, with it being 12 speakers and only costing $37. Join me on the calls (well, you won’t know I’m there because it’s not like I’m speaking, but I’ll be listening) and we’ll all figure out how to start small businesses and make mad cash.
Okay, so that’s not the official pitch. But seriously check it out in full here. Michael Gerber, for Christ’s sake. Michael Port. And my own favorite foul-mouthed businesswoman, Naomi from IttyBiz! I’m already doing Naomi’s Online Business School, which is KICK ASS and you should totally do that too if you like money, but I’m absolutely going to listen to her here too. I mean, $37, hell. I’d normally think like a grand for something like this, but maybe I’m an idiot.
Haha, “maybe.” I like the hope that implies.
5. Cartoon characters often wear shirts but no pants.
I seriously have a problem with this. Do they not have genitals? Or if they do, have they sucked them up inside themselves like ninjas? (Got a request for more ninjas on the site. Maybe this will pacify the ninjaphiles.)
Although, it’s possible they do have genitals but are unashamed, unbound by the taboos that govern 3-D life. Yet they wear shirts. Maybe they have huge, embarrassing tattoos of, like, I don’t know… Calvin and Hobbes peeing on Daisy Duck. Except that I don’t think I’d hide that. I think I’d show it off with pride.
6. Diesel is nearly (NEARLY!) as funny as me. (I’m so excited and I just can’t hide it. And I know, I know, I know, I know, I know I want you, want you.) (The preceding is not to be perceived as sexual, even though the Pointer Sisters totally meant it that way, but who the fuck is looking for them anymore? Nobody, that’s who.)
I gave a brief shout-out to Diesel from Mattress Police a while ago, but I’m further into his book Antisocial Commentary: From the Secret Files of the Mattress Police now and wanted to say again more strongly that, under punishment of catapult (guess the reference), you should visit his site and buy his book, (but only after you buy my book).
The cool thing about Diesel is that he tackles relevant issues, like smiley inflation.
“Five years ago, the basic unit of currency exchanged for a moderately amusing remark was a regular smiley (
), grin smiley (
) or a simple ‘heh.’ These units were rapidly devalued and were soon replaced by the laughing smiley (
) ) or LOL. Now there is an increasing prospect of serious LOL devaluation, which has a lot of people concerned.”
To combat this, Diesel explains that the Fed is considering several high-end smileys including “Laughing so hard that you can see that thingy hanging down in the back of my throat” ( 
~) ) and “Laughing so hard that I wet myself” ( :-[X=| ).
Despite the fact that he continues to stalk me and send me the heads of dead animals (small ones like mice and gerbils; he’s not a psycho), I don’t actually know Diesel at all. He may actually be a blind Lithuanian giant who lives under a bridge, but I do know that it’s funny under there.
Now, I hope you’ll all excuse me while I go kick this white crap around outside in anger. I predict that it will make little difference, but it may make me feel better.
————
Seriously, though… do check out that telesummit. It’s a chance to sort of go behind the scenes with some really big and successful entrepreneurs and find out how to get more financial security and control than you have working in the uncertain corporate world.
I’m plugging this with some sincerity because even though the economy isn’t happening, it also kind of is. And it’s not always so cool.
I want your input
I used the below blurb as the intro to my last newsletter, but it wasn’t very formalized in how people were supposed to actually respond. John did post one in the comments of my last post, but that was about it.
Sort of looking for this site to be about ALL OF US, not just me. I’d like to know what you guys think.
—–
I’ve decided that a person is really only as funny as his audience allows him to be. There seem to be comedians and generally funny people everywhere who just do their funny thing, oblivious to the fact that nobody finds it funny anymore. And there’s nothing funny about that. I’d really like you, my readers, to help shape my site. I think the best stuff happens when people interact. I do a lot better when I’m bouncing ideas off of people. I think that I’m often funniest when I have others to react to… when others help me be funny.
Hey, this is all of your place too. If you don’t like it, you don’t visit. And if you don’t visit, nobody buys my book or clicks on my idiotic AdSense ads. But especially, nobody buys my book. Which some of you have still not done, WTF.
But: Would you participate if the site were more interactive? If so, what would you like to see? Photoshop contests? A forum? A featured comment of the week? What other ways would YOU, the readers, like to get involved? Or would you just want to hang back and read, making my question here pointless?
The revenge of Eugene the toaster
There are people out there who think I’m strange, and I really don’t get it. I think it’s a safe bet that at some point in just about anyone’s life, they’ve chased turkeys with a hose, attempted to electrocute themselves on a livestock fence, or made a documentary about a police chief who licks windshield wiper blades. And yes, let’s admit it — most of you have been in a club founded to appreciate an appliance.
Like the Toaster Lovers’ Association. Founded 1993, Springfield, Ohio. To appreciate toasters and all they have done for us.
To prove I’m not kidding, I’m posting our logo below. It may or may not have been created by Keith Haring, but mostly not.
“We have gathered here today to pay our respects to an appliance that has done so much for us, yet asked for so little in return,” said my friend Tom at our first gathering, for which he was unable to secure any club funding from our school. “And that is the humble toaster.”
“They really only ask for electricity,” said Brian.
“And so we hereby form this club, here at Uncle John’s Pancake House, to honor the toaster, in the presence of Uncle Tim and Aunt Joan and all of the other waiters and waitresses,” said Tom.
“And we offer as a door prize this toaster,” added Brian, “who we have named Eugene.”
I raised my hand. “We’re honoring toasters by selling one into slavery?”
“Let us give our thanks for toasters, oh toasters who always brown toast to a crispy tan crust, except for that time that mine burnt like four fucking bagels in a row before I beat the shit out of it with a crowbar.”
“Amen,” said Brian.
“And now let us eat pancakes.”
And so pancakes were eaten by the dozen, with the plain syrup and the chocolate syrup and the raspberry syrup that we called “Robitussin.” And it was good.
Admit it. Most of you just abuse your toasters. Most of you never stop to appreciate them, let alone have a banquet in their honor. I thought my affiliation with the TLA ended in 1994, but I realize now that I have never stopped appreciating toasters. I have never stopped thinking about them. On Twitter (where I sometimes spout such wisdom as “I’m pretty sure Morrissey is stealing my newspaper”), I find myself Tweeting a lot about toasters. Which, again, people find strange.
Like this Tweet, back on January 8th:
JohnnyBTruant: I think my toaster suspects me of something.
Which was actually crap, because I suspected the toaster more than it suspected me. Yet it was still watching me, waiting for its chance. Several fellow Twitterers expressed their concern. Then, an update:
JohnnyBTruant: Now the toaster is all eyeing me and shit. As if it doesn’t have some skeletons in its closet.
Now people were getting curious. And I got a lead, from an English lady who has already proven to be not quite right in the head:
TheCharmQuark: It’s one of my spies.
JohnnyBTruant: I KNEW it! I knew it when it started toasting crumpets!
Time passed. I started to forget about the toaster, which, ironically, was probably exactly what it had been waiting for. I think it was remembering Eugene, who I won at that first TLA meeting because, in Brian’s own words, “everyone else left.” But then I lost Eugene. From slave to MIA, soon to be remembered only in a limited series of commemorative buttons.
I kept working. And then then I got an email notification that I had a new follower on Twitter. This happens a bunch of times every day and I thought nothing of it, until I noticed who it was. I’m not even kidding. I sent this:
JohnnyBTruant: Shit. Now I think my toaster is following my Tweets. http://twitter.com/toasterferret
Sympathy was low. As if people didn’t care about my plight.
TheCharmQuark: Yeah, you may have identified the toaster but you don’t know how many of your kitchen appliances have turned to the dark side.
JohnnyBTruant: I suspect the coffee maker. It will no longer brew anything but Earl Gray tea.
I don’t know how this happened. Plenty of people beat their toasters up every day and never offer a thanks. Yet, those people remain unmolested by their toasters. I was supposed to be one of the good guys. I was their friend, their ally.
I was part of the TLA. I loved toasters. Sure, we only had the one meeting. Sure, it was more about pancakes than toasters. Sure, we were ostracized at school as weirdoes. But we were there. We made the effort.
Yet:
JohnnyBTruant: Toaster missing. Calling air- and seaports. It can’t get far. I have its passport.
MaryRW: Do you have a toaster oven? If so, does it look guilty?
JohnnyBTruant: The toaster oven is apparently sticking with the oven, but for a while, it looked like it could have gone either way.
Then, an interesting development:
JohnnyBTruant: Toaster has returned. Says it was “just out and about.” Has urged me to ignore what looks like a camera in its hat. I remain suspicious.
Oh Eugene. Where art thou, Eugene? I have this photo, which I can’t scan because Chet McGovernson slathered it with paint and cobbled it into this giant wonderful mess that is on the wall behind me right now, showing me with Eugene. With his power cord in my mouth, the way we used to play. More and more, I was feeling this was about Eugene. About a seek and recover mission. Or possibly revenge.
JohnnyBTruant: I want to keep sight of the fact that this began because my toaster suspected ME. I may be being set up as a pawn in a spy game.
A lot of people started to swap toaster tales. My toaster does this. I own a such-and-such kind of toaster. My toaster was owned by Mickey Rourke. And so on. NOW toasters were getting appreciation. Now that they’d shown that they will only take so much.
I told these people:
JohnnyBTruant: I’m getting a lot of pro-toaster sentiment. Let’s not forget who the guilty party is here.
Astrogirl426: Can YOU brown a piece of bread perfectly? Huh? Can you? Huh? I didn’t think so.
JohnnyBTruant: That’s true. But for my part, that toaster cannot do a flip, and I can. ……. WAIT: Never mind; it can.
Tension mounted.
I sat in my office, afraid to move, afraid to trust anything that consumed electricity. Luckily, my computer had not yet started altering my messages. But it was really only a matter of time.
Most troublingly, my last communique on the subject was this:
JohnnyBTruant: HOLY CRAP THE TOASTER IS UNDER MY DESK STALKING ME TOTALLY FREAKING OUT NOW OH OH OH OH OH OH
Disturbing to say the least. I’m still not sure if I made it out okay.
But things are, I guess, cool. In fact, right now there are a pair of glowing orange lines in the shadows in the corner. What could it be? Probably a baby bird or a friendly bunny. I’d better go check it out. Man, those Samoans are a surly bunch.
I will kill Frosty the Snowman
I’m sitting here inside, by the fire, with the laptop on my lap where, strangely enough, its heat is not burning my genitals. Sitting by the fire in the winter is a pretty cool thing. You get heat, you get light, you get hydrocarbons combining with oxygen to create carbon dioxide and ambiance. But there’s one downside to sitting by the fire, and it’s that for normal people, it has to be cold outside in order to do it.
Stupid dumbass doucherocket cocksucking cold.
I hate the winter. It wasn’t always that way, though. We used to be cool, winter and I. We used to hang out and have drinks and score hot chicks. I remember the time winter got drunk and picked up this one girl at a a club who wasn’t even wearing a top but instead had little X’s of black electrical tape on her nipples and winter was all like, “I’m going to get this girl back to my place and videotape her in my sex swing” and I was like, “That’s totally a dude with implants” but winter wouldn’t listen to me and took him/her home and then he/she beat the shit out of winter with a Lionel Richie box set and tied him up in the bathroom and stole his copy of Gilmore Girls season 1.
But then it dawned on me that no matter how much I do for winter, winter always dumps snow all over me and makes my snot freeze into stalactites and takes like four hours of daylight every single day. So yeah, fuck him.
Last week, we got around seventeen feet of snow because apparently life had gotten too easy and I needed a challenge. I shoveled a trench in the snow heading back toward our barn and spent twenty minutes trying to start the tractor so that I could plow the driveway. This is an incredibly awesome and non-frustrating experience in which I sit on a cold metal seat, crank the engine, flood it, turn off the gas, crank, turn the gas back on, crank, drain the battery, trudge through the already-collapsed trench back to the house, get the battery charger, hook it up, flood the engine, lose feeling in my fingers and below the waist, turn the gas off, crank, turn the gas on, then hold the choke open while the engine catches, then struggles for five minutes.
After plowing the driveway, tundra winds arise and blow the snow back across it. We typically are able to ram the cars through these drifts a few times before getting one of them stuck, necessitating another fight with the tractor. At this point, the mailman will drop our mail into the snow and a drunk neighbor will find one of my paychecks, look up our phone number in the book, call, and leave a detailed message on our answering machine as to the check’s amount and my Social Security number.
Here are some fun winter facts I’ve discovered this year:
1. There are several things on a Toyota Camry that you should NOT attach a tow hook to. Attaching a tow hook to these things will result in damage and laughs by drunk neighbors. I will tell you what these unwise tow-points are as soon as the snow thaws and/or I puncture a tire on them.
2. UPS trucks get stuck too. The only difference is that UPS trucks are stocked with a lot of equipment that allows the driver to destroy your yard.
3. It takes approximately fifteen minutes on a metal tractor seat for the ass of a person wearing Dockers and boxer shorts to become completely numb. It takes another twenty minutes to approach pain. Imagining saying the phrase, “I lost my ass to frostbite” will not make this situation funnier. Sitting on heated gelpacks after coming inside will lessen trauma, but is not considered sexy by some wives.
4. The rules of winter driving say that you won’t skid off the road if you don’t accelerate, brake, or turn while on snow or ice. So the other day when I was in my car, I just turned on the radio and talked on my cell phone. It took me forever to get home that way.
5. Some websites have Boca Burger ads in the sidebars, and when you try to click on a link in the text, the ads expand out of the sidebars and cover what you’re trying to click. Then when you move your cursor away, the Boca ads retract and totally say, “Got you that time! But for real, go ahead and click that link now. I won’t expand and get in your way. Honest.” And then you move your cursor in again and the ad comes right back out and cockblocks you and is all like, “Ha ha, you stupid fucker!”
(Don’t watch the below video at work with the sound on unless your boss is way cool.)
6. Smokey the Bear says that only YOU can prevent forest fires, but that’s total crap because that would mean that everyone but YOU should be able to just kind of throw lit matches everywhere, and you know that the minute you try that, Smokey is going to come up to you, frothing at the mouth and wearing brass knuckles, and he’s going to be all, “Now I’m going to have to fuck you up.”
The last two really have nothing to do with the cold, but I did learn them this winter. Except for the Smoky one.
So, yeah.
The weather isn’t supposed to improve much. More cold, like in the teens and lower. More snow. Forecasters are predicting numerous hilarious incidents of people falling down. Ugh.
That’s it. I’m calling Boca. They’re going to pay for this.
7 things that are going to make my blog suck for today
So now I’m all mad at Joe Schmitt because he tagged me with one of these obnoxious blogger memes where I have to answer the questions he sent me, and then pass it along by choosing seven more people to piss off. It’s kind of like a pyramid scheme, but with more work and zero chance of making any money.
This put me in a tricky situation.
On one hand, I don’t like blog memes. It’s similar to how I don’t like I don’t like getting those emails that tell me they’re magically spreading happiness and that if I pass the message along to ten people within 24 hours, I will have lasting bliss, but if I don’t, my testicles will fall off and Betty White will come over and step on them.
But on the other hand, Joe may actually be a vampire, and I know this because not once have I seen him outside when the sun is shining, and if Joe is a vampire, I’m really going to be up shit creek when he comes over to avenge his failed blog chain letter and possibly gets further enraged when he slips on what remains of my floor-testicles.
So it’s a bit of a dilemma. On one side, I have my dislike. On the other side, I hate being eaten. And possibly beheaded, because you know that vampires like Joe don’t want to convert any new vampires because all that does is dilute the membership ratio in vampire HMOs. Which, really, doesn’t make sense anyway since vampires are immortal. Look, I don’t pretend to understand it. If you must know why vampires need HMOs, ask Joe. Just wear a turtleneck when you do.
So here we go: 7 Things You Didn’t Know About Johnny Truant.
1. I know all the words to “Ice Ice Baby”
Stop. Collaborate and listen. Ice is back with my brand new invention. Something grabs a hold of me tightly. Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly.
In fact, I used to have the entire album. First on cassette, then on CD. I got the CD when I worked at Bingham’s Bagel Deli back in college, and we used to play it on the stereo there all the time. The customers hated it. Many would ask us to turn it off.
What you don’t realize is that “Ice Ice Baby” is only one of the brilliant songs on that album. The whole thing is gold. We’d put that on a loop at Bingham’s and play it over and over and over again. At one point, someone stole the Vanilla Ice CD. So my manager bought a new one, put a note on it saying that theft of the Vanilla Ice CD would result in firing, and kept it in the safe when it wasn’t being played.
2. I think Twitter is the best thing since sliced bread
For real. People think Twitter is stupid, but those people don’t understand that, as my internet buddy Havi explains, “Twitter is a cocktail party.” That’s all it is. You put a bunch of people in a room and they’re only allowed to talk for 140 characters at a time.
At the cocktail party, there are the people with lampshades over their heads. That’s Joe, and me, and Jenny, and a bunch of other idiots. There are the networkers like Naomi and Marcia, who have good niche business info and are there in large part to make contacts. There are the elitists who deign to talk to a lot of people but won’t listen to anyone else. (I won’t name names; let’s just call them “douchebags.”) And the rest are people who are just there to hang out and chat, like Chuck and Trish and Ollie.
Jump in, for real. And everyone I linked to in that last section has a Twitter profile and are worth following.
3. I don’t get the expression “the best thing since sliced bread”
I guess I understand why sliced bread is good. Without the slicing, you’re pretty much left with a hunk of baked flour, and making it into slab form does allow for sandwiches. But do we as a society really want to establish changing the form of something pedestrian as the pinnacle of our achievement? We would have gotten along okay if nobody had figured out how to slice bread. But what about the polio vaccine? I mean, that actually saved lives. Or how about, “The best thing since Lincoln freed the slaves”? Because that was pretty good too. Are you really saying that modifying bread was better than ending a major form of oppression? You damn bigot. Get the hell off my blog.
I’ve never gotten it. It’s like saying, “This is the best thing since molding Play-Doh into the shape of a phallus.”
4. I still don’t like Favrd
Favrd is a site that ranks the best messages (”tweets”) on Twitter. You have to sign up, but after you do, Favrd keeps a record of every tweet that you mark as a favorite. If three people mark one of your tweets as a favorite, that tweet shows up on the Favrd leaderboard for everyone to see.
Confused? I was too until I realized I was thinking too hard. I do understand it. I just hate it.
Signing up for Favrd does nothing to help you. It only allows you to help other people by marking their tweets as favorites. And what if nobody ever marks any of your own tweets three times so that you never make the leaderboard? Then you start to hate the whole thing like I do. It becomes one more way you don’t measure up.
Here’s my history. NOT ONCE have I gotten three stars. Ugh. How incredibly annoying.
(I realize now that this one wasn’t funny. So I’m making some armpit farts right now in an attempt to make up for that. )
5. I’m an athletic Renaissance man
My biggest hobby is going to the gym to lift weights. Seriously; I’m a meathead. I even broke my arm earlier this year doing it, which means that I’m pretty badass.
But I also scared the hell out of a local gymnastics instructor when I called her up and asked if she could coach me in the skills I’d need for Parkour, and then told her that I’m 6 feet tall and weigh 205. Pretty sure she thought I was a psycho, which is an unfair reaction because it’s at least partially untrue.
And I also really like Yoga.
In fact, I totally just did it with my wife. (You heard me.)
6. I live in Ohio
Ohio sucks. Sorry, I’ve tried to defend it for as long as I can, but it’s winter here and the skies are gray and overcast for 7 months while the days get shorter and shorter and you slowly get buried in snow until you can’t take it anymore and you start writing a novel but it’s all just like “all work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy” over and over and over and then you find out that not only does the English butler at the party not exist, but he also killed his family with an axe and then suddenly your kids are all like REDRUM! REDRUM! and you can’t even watch TV because American Idol is back on and that makes you want to reach down your throat and grab your own ass from the inside and pull until it’s on the outside again so that you’re like a human Möbius strip or Klien bottle or some shit and it’s like HEY I’M NOT FUCKING MC ESCHER AND MY STAIRCASES DON’T GO UPSIDE DOWN what the hell am I in a painting or something because if I am I want to be the Mona Lisa but wait is that a dude oh hell no crazy Abe Vigoda with his castanets.
7. I don’t play nice in blog memes
So I’m totally not going to tag anyone. That’s right, I’m breaking the rules. If you want to tag yourself and say I did it, that’s cool. Just don’t tag me back.
I just re-read this post and realize it’s not funny. In fact, it kind of sucks. So please, nobody else tag me, even if you’re a vampire. Because if you do, you’re just making for more half-assed entries like this one that everyone has to suffer through. People will get angry. And I’m totally going to tell my readers where to find you, and they’re going to beat you with loaves of unsliced bread.