ABSURD AND ABSURD.

Because I'm interested--and because it's part of my job--I've been following Team USA in the FIBA Americas Championship. It's currently round two and I'm watching a nail biter between the US and Puerto Rico. We're clinging to a slim twenty-nine point lead. Drama at its finest. Anyways, today I was checking up on the Brazil game stats (not that it was any closer) and was greeted on the FIBA Americas page by this badass FIBA mascot:


Huh. Nothing says basketball like a blue muppet in a backwards cap. With gold rings on every finger. And a sweet Lucky 7s necklace. Seriously FIBA, can't a cartoon muppet at least get some platinum? It's not costing you anything. And no earings?

Then I was browsing through an e-mail from Ad Age, an advertising magazine that sends out daily industry updates. In addition to the most recent buzz as to what's taking place in the industry, they sometimes offer what they consider to be helpful articles written by industry insiders. This was in the mix today:


You want one essential tip that will help you with your next phone interview? Never, ever, take tips from an article entitled, "How Can I Kick Some Serious Butt in a Phone Interview." If you're to the point where you're relying on a 200-word article to supply you with some magical formula to nailing a phone interview, you're a long ways from working in advertising. Hell, you're a long ways from working in anything. I mean, are you really going to ask Brad?


Really? Brad? Really? Come on now.

MASTER CLEANSE.

The master cleanse diet. Perhaps you've heard of it. Perhaps not. Basically, it involves a total halt to the eating of all foods. You survive on a regimen of salt water, lemonade (with Cayenne pepper and maple syrup) and a herbal laxative tea. Not for one or two days, either. For ten days.

If you know me, you know eating isn't my favorite thing. Some days I even consider it a hassle; deciding what to eat, going to get it, actually eating it. I just can't be bothered. Many are the day I've longed for a pill that would provide the same result as a meal. Yet, despite this occasional aversion to eating, I still like food. Chicken wings, pizza, cheeseburgers, anything BBQ or fried, McDonalds, anything soaked in butter, ranch dressing, beer, dr. pepper, steak, milk, salt, hamburger helper. My tastes are for food that will one day lead to my untimely death.

If anyone needs to cleanse their insides, it's me (well, perhaps Brandy needs it more). So I took great interest in tracking the progress of my friend and associate as he attempted to flush his system of all the accumulated shit. Literally. The result seems to be positive, though I'll let you decide for yourself.

Follow the adventures of Nicholas.

Note: It would have been helpful for Nick to provide before and after pics of himself as well as a poop by poop visual tracking of his excrement.

Could I do it? My non-eating lifestyle would lend me to believe I could. Instead of having to make a decision about eating, I would just drink some lemonade. But I don't quite have Nick's resolve. The things I do like, I like a lot. One thing I definitely do not like is having to shit frequently. Even worse is having to dump out strange things that could possibly make me bleed and cry. When Nick decides he's going to do something, he does it, no doubt.

I can barely decide what I'm going to do from one day to the next.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Perhaps.

That's about how committed I am to any one thing.

BAD KIDS. WORSE PARENT.

After arriving at the airport this evening to find that my flight had been re-delayed (an annoying story for a different time), I made my way to the seating area outside my gate and found a nice quiet place to sit and catch up on some work. No less than five minutes later, a big fat woman and her three fat kids decided the best place to wait would be in the row of seats behind me.

To be fair, there was some reasoning behind her choosing these seats. The same reason I picked them: they're kind of isolated from groups of people. And that's just the type of waiting area required for fat, loud, crybaby kids. It just happened to be my unfortunate luck that I had chosen to sit there first. I didn't see the "fat shouting crybaby kid area" sign.

Normally, I like kids; I think they're funny. But I guess once they reach a certain age (probably about 8-9?) they become loud and obnoxious and--though this may not typically be the case--obese. Of course the loudest of the kids and the mother decided to sit directly behind me, as close to my ears as possible, to ensure maximum annoyance. They began with a ten-minute back and forth about why the girl couldn't have a laptop. The mother's reasoning?

"Well, you could have had a vacation to Las Vegas or a laptop."

Now, I'm not parent, but I'm pretty sure Las Vegas vacations are for adults. If you bring your kids along, they'll have fun because they're kids and there are pools. That's all kids need. But don't pretend that you "gave" them this vacation instead of a laptop. I'm not fooled. That's just poor logic.

Then, after some nonsense babble from the young girl (something about how a girl asked God to kill her brother but she really just wanted her brother to get better and blah blah blah, I tuned out the moral), came the part that made me realize a child is only as bad as its worst parent. A one-way conversation that almost ended with me punching a 45-year old woman in the mouth.

Keep in mind that I couldn't see what was taking place, but this is roughly the conversation that took place and my rough estimation as to what was happening:

MOM: Lauren, your doll is crying. Stop that. Lauren.

I can't hear the doll crying. The youngest girl is lying on floor doing something to her doll that I can't see. She also makes a whining noise.

MOM: Stop doing that to the doll. Stop it. Stop.

Kid apparently does not stop.

MOM: Stop that. Stop doing that to his leg. Stop. The doll wants to sleep. Let him sleep.

The kid doesn't stop; the doll doesn't sleep.

MOM: Stop now. Look at the doll's leg; it's all red. Look what you did to his leg.

Kid continues doing something.

MOM: Stop that right now.

No stopping.

MOM: I'm taking the doll. The doll is mine now.

Mom possibly takes doll. Kid whines. Mom possibly returns doll to kid.

MOM: Lauren, stop that. Stop now. Let the doll sleep. Stop.

Lauren continues.

MOM: Stop mistreating that doll. Look at that leg. Look what you did. Stop it. That's it, it's my doll, I'm taking it.

Mom retakes doll, maybe.

MOM: It's my doll now. You can't take care of it, it's my doll. No, it's my doll. It's mine now. It's my doll.

Mom possibly returns doll, possibly keeps holding doll, kid makes a little crying noise.

MOM: Stop that. Stop it now. Stop. Stop. Lauren, stop that. You're acting like a spoiled little brat. Stop it.

Kid must have gotten the doll back.

MOM: Give me the doll. Give it here. Give me that doll. It's my doll now, no, the doll is staying with me. No. Stop.

If you think this is annoying to read, imagine some fat lady shouting it in your ear. And you might think I'm exaggerating the length of this exchange. But I'm not. It was probably even longer, because when I left the area in a fog of fury it was still taking place. I could see no end to this sequence of ridiculous discipline--if you can even call that discipline--so I had to get up and leave before I shoved that fucking doll in the mom's mouth. It probably would have been better for all involved if I had just taken the doll from both the mother and the daughter, since neither of them seemed to be able to handle having it around. Maybe then they could be quiet and not incite murderous feelings in others.

Holy hell. That was awful. But now I'm alone again in a quiet area several gates from that fat family.

Hopefully they'll sit next to me on the plane.

ADULT DANGER.

Being an adult does not make you immune to the dangers of fireworks, especially when beers and a parachute soldier are involved.

YOU KNOW WHAT?

You know what I don't ever want to hear about again?

Barry Bonds breaking the home run record.

You know what I think would taste good on pizza?

Fried chicken.

You know what?

I like you know what.

JOHN AND SEBASTIAN.

I've been watching a new HBO show, John From Cincinnati, since it started. And until about three episodes ago I was really liking it. It's random, kind of funny and pretty mysterious. Then--and I'm not sure if it was written in the script or a director decided this should happen--Sissy, the mother/grandmother on the show became a complete nut job. I don't care if you want a character to be overly protective and prone to fits of hysterics, but sometimes she has to shut the fuck up. All she does is scream and shout and kick things; she's constantly pissed and flustered. There's nothing endearing about that. There's not even anything entertaining about that.

Nevertheless, I still like the show. And even though I think it's a common assumption that John is some sort of Jesus, I'm waiting and hoping there's some strange twist we didn't see coming. My guess right now is that the stick figures are foreshadowing that if John is indeed Jesus, the rest of the characters will become John's apostles.

In other news, troubled basketball phenom (or former phenom) Sebastian Telfair is taking steps to clean up his life and make a new start in Minnesota.

"I have not been charged with anything," he said. "I've been in some unfortunate situations where I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I fully take responsibility for that. I grew up learning how not to be in those situations." Telfair also said he's moved out of New York City and into Las Vegas in order to stay out of trouble and "concentrate on basketball."

Um, nice try Sebastian. But don't you think that if you wanted to stay out of trouble you could find somewhere more appropriate than Vegas? Like, sayyyyy, Minnesota? I bet you could stay out of trouble there. No one goes to Vegas to stay out of trouble. People go to Vegas to FIND trouble. It's like the world headquarters for trouble (or maybe the US headquarters, I'm pretty sure Amsterdam is Europe's).

The only logic--and it's pretty poor logic--that I can see in this is that Telfair has placed too much stock in commercials claiming, "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." I don't believe that should be taken literally.

WILL POWER AND ANGER.

Recently my roommate went home for the weekend and I volunteered to watch the little dog, Ralph, who lives in our apartment. I did this freely and of my own free will, thinking it would be good bonding time for me and the little fellow. He spent years living with only ladies, so a weekend alone with the boys would do him some good.

The first day went great. We went for a walk and aside from the fact that he kept eating grass and rubbing his face on urine-soaked walls, we were getting on just fine. I've taken him for walks before and am no longer annoyed that he has to smell everything. Other dogs seem to understand the concept of walking as a form of travel, while Ralph sees it as a thirty minute, one block smell tour.

Anyways, it was a Saturday. It was hot outside and I really had nothing to do. So I sat around the apartment watching television. Ralph sat with me. I thought he would be anxious and want to play or something, but that's not Ralph's style. Ralph is more like a cat than a dog. He walks around the apartment, occasionally tries to eat trash, but mostly just sits and watches you. Today I wasn't doing anything, so he got tired of watching me and went to sleep instead. He slept basically all day. But so did I. After a long day and night of lounging around, I figured it was time for bed. In order to keep the trash safe, I put the trash-eater into his cage (where he lives all day when no one is home) and went to bed. The time: 2:30am. No sooner had I turned out my light, than the crying began. Little yelps coming from the next room.

At first, I resolved to let him yelp for 10 minutes or so and he would probably get tired of it and go to sleep. But no. Yelp yelp whine cry yelp. Until 3:00am. At that point I thought maybe the little guy had a legitimate gripe. It was hot, so he was probably thirsty. I got up and let him out. He bolted straight to the kitchen, only not to the water. He ran to the middle of the floor and began licking it. Annoyed, I grabbed him up, grabbed his cage and moved it into my room. I thought maybe he just wanted a person in the room with him and he would go to sleep.

This did not stop the crying.

Next logical problem solving step: let him out. He probably just wants to sleep in the bed with me. Wrong. Apparently what he wanted to do was run around my room, crying, sit by the door snorting in anger, climb onto my bed to lick my hand and basically do anything but sleep. Shit, he had slept all day; he just wasn't tired. At around 6am, after some on and off sleep, I put him back in his cage and went to sleep.

The next morning, after a few good hours of slumber, I got up and let the fuzzball out of his cage. As soon as I cracked the door, he bolted into the kitchen and began licking the floor again. Whatever was on that floor was like a drug to Ralph. All night long, all he could think about was getting back to that spot on the floor to lick it. Maybe if I had let him finish his first bout of floor-licking he would have gone right to sleep. But I've never really owned a dog, so I don't know how they work.

Regardless, it was a rocky first night. One in which I learned I can not lie still and listen to a dog cry, which makes me feel weak. I also learned that when something is keeping me from going to sleep it makes me very angry, which does not bode well for any children I may have in the future. They better learn to cry quietly from their cages.

In related news, my other roommate dropped a chicken parm sandwich on the floor that night.

THE HELMET DEBATE.

Should you wear a bike helmet?

In today's uber-safety conscious world, this question continues to find it's way into beer-soaked conversations. When we were growing up we never wore helmets. Now parents make kids wear helmets when they ride bikes, skateboard, rollerblade and eat lunch. My opinion has always been that kids don't need helmets and parents are being over-protective.

This point of view has also led me to believe that adults don't need helmets either, since we're smarter than kids. Logic says yes, you should wear a helmet, since in an accident it could save your life. Pride says no, you look like a huge nerd and only idiots crash their bikes.

Almost immediately following a discussion I recently had with a friend, our mutual friend crashed his bike:

me: how'd you crash?

Ev: what crash?

me: bike crash.

Ev: what?

me: was that a lie? shannon is a dick.

Ev: ha.

me: skulled.

Ev: no its not a lie....
i crashed.
i got all scraped up.
it sucked.
i was on the bike path by the beach...
going to fast around a bend, and hit a patch of sand.
the wheels slipped out from under me, and i went sliding for about 10 feet on my skin.
and bounced my head off the ground.
i didn't like it.

me: yikes.
we just got done arguing about helmets

Ev: I have been a big proponent of helmets are stupid....
but wear one cause everyone says i should.
i guess now i agree with them.

me: looks like everyone is right.
damnit.
but that's probably the only time you'll crash like that. you can stop wearing one, based on the odds.

Ev: but i am an adult and was going between 15 and 20 miles an hour.
little kids go slow, and are close to the ground...
i wrecked a bunch when i was a kid....
i didn't need a helmet then...

me: I never wore a helmet in my life.
that's not entirely true
football, hockey, broomball, white water rafting

Ev: i know...i agree....but......i'm glad i had one on last week....

me: i was thinking though, about lifejackets, another of the "I'm an adult so I don't need this" item

Ev: i need that...

me: if you wrecked your boat and got knocked out, you'd drown for sure.

Ev: i'm a terrible swimmer.

me: you are a rock.

Ev: you won't get knocked out if you wear a helmet.
wear a helmet instead of a life jacket.
i gotta go.
i'm gonna be late.
see ya.

Luckily, I don't own a bike or have a kid, so I don't have to worry about this. If I did own a bike, I would wear a helmet while riding it in the city. Too many cars and pedestrians to crash into. My helmet would have flames on it, since I would ride at blazing speeds. And when I have kids, I'll let them decide if they want to wear a helmet or not. Maybe in the future helmets are cool.

DIRTY BASEMENT PORNO STORE

Every day on my way to work, as I exit at the subway system, I walk by a porno store whose entryway is in the subway station stairwell. And miraculously, one-third of the time I see professional-looking grown men exiting said store during regular business commuting hours.

This made me wonder:

Are you really buying porno at 9am on your way to work?

That's a pretty bold move, to do your porno shopping at the subway stop many of your co-workers probably use to commute. Running into a co-worker following your skin-flick purchase probably gives rise to an awkward situation.

"Hey Bill, did you just come out of that dirty porno store?"

"Um, no."

"Yes you did, you have a bag of pornos in your hand."

"These? They're not for me. They're for my friend who likes porno."

"Whatever, pervert."

And if they don't work in the neighborhood, my question is this:

How far do you have to travel from where you live and work to comfortably visit a porn shop?

One block? One mile? It sort of makes me sad. I like porn as much as the next guy. But these are 45 and 50 year old men. Maybe they don't know about the internet yet, but it's got to be pretty degrading to be getting that old and still buying porno from some dirty basement store.

Who knows, maybe they sell stamps down there.

BROKEN ENGLISH.

Who knew that in Brazil they spoke Portuguese? At a bbq this weekend I was talking to a nice girl from Brazil and she was explaining that some parts of the english language are hard to pick up on; that there are some words she can't hear the difference between. Like man and men. Or beach and bitch. They're too close.

And then she asked a question that almost prompted me to propose to her on the spot:

"So I don't get it. It's foot and feet. Why isn't it boot and beet?"

I love you.

MOVING PAST THE PENNY.

Are we still living in a world where the value of something has to be broken down to the hundredth of a dollar? Was my pasta and Dr. Pepper today really worth $8.07? No, it was worth $8. Maybe $8.25. Let's start rounding to the nearest quarter. Then I wouldn't sound like the jingle-jangle man stomping around with ninety-three goddamn cents in my pocket.

The penny was invented during a time when a dollar was worth a lot; when spending a whole dollar on something was a real investment. You used to be able to buy a beer at the saloon with a nickel. Now a beer costs five dollars. So do the math. In today's world, five dollars = an old-time nickel. Meaning one dollar = an old-time penny. Meaning one penny today = fucking worthless.

I'm pretty sure we could figure out a fair value for everything on earth--a value that doesn't involve nickels, dimes or pennies. Except for candy.

You probably would still have to price individual pieces of Laffy Taffy or Bazooka Joe gum at $.05. You'd just have to buy a minimum of five. Problem solved.

IRAQI RAMBO.

Today I watched the movie trailer for the new Rambo movie, John Rambo. And can I say, holy shit. As if we need more of this shit. I like a good war machine movie as much as the next guy; give me a gritty ApocolypseNow-Platoon-Full-Metal-Jacket-Band-of-Brothers, guns-blazing, hero-making action adventure. But watching this and thinking of the other Rambo films made me think, holy shit. Holy shit, isn't it amazing how we can cheer for an American who goes in and slaughters some foreign soldiers we know nothing about.

Imagine if other nations could rival the talent and resources we have in Hollywood. What kind of movie would they make in the Middle East? I can tell you the plot:

Iraqi Rambo lives with his family in a war-torn area; we watch as he struggles to make a living. Americans bomb his village repeatedly, claiming to be hunting terrorists. When Iraqi Rambo's daughter is killed in a fire-fight, his teenage son tries to raise awareness. He takes his story to American journalists, provoking the ire of the military. But before the story breaks, he's abducted by US troops and taken to a secret island base where terrorists are held without trial.

Now Iraqi Rambo is angry. There had been all sorts of tails about abductions, but Iraqi Rambo had kept his nose out of it. No need to stir up trouble. His daughter was killed. He forgave. But now they have taken his son? No sir.

Iraqi Rambo flies to Cuba, the home of this alleged base. After scouting out the area, he recruits a few locals to help him rescue his son. Against all odds, he wages war on his son's captors. He heroically slaughters dozens of American boys men in gruesome fashion (reference John Rambo preview). And in the end rescues his son and some other local boys, leads them out of Cuba and back home, where they're happily reunited with their families.

Ah yes, Iraqi Rambo, I'm sure he would be a big hit here. Consider this my copyright notice. Warner Brothers? Paramount? Anyone?

KNOCK KNOCK.

I generally hate user-created videos on YouTube. But after having a discussion about knock-knock jokes, I stumbled upon this gem. Enjoy, or don't.



"...and the priest is my dad and he's not a priest..."

“Conflict Resolution” Seminar - Second Session

That was the title of an e-mail I received today at work. This was the content:

"Due to the high number of requests we have added a second session of Conflict Resolution.

On June 7th, [place of employment] will be presenting a seminar on Conflict Resolution presented by our EAP providers. This session will start at 2:30 pm and last for one hour in the 2nd Floor Conference Room. Snacks will be served.

Seminar Overview

In this interactive session the topics discussed include learning to manage opposition, conflict clashes, discord and disagreements which are critical skills for personal and professional success. In order to best develop these skills you will also learn your personal conflict resolution style.

Focus Points:

What is conflict
Characteristics of Conflict
Responses to Conflict
Personal Attitudes Toward
Dimensions of Conflict
Effective Ways to Handle Conflict
Problem Solving
Communication Rules

If you are interested in attending please respond to this email. Seating is limited, responses will be accepted on a first come, first serve basis."

My immediate response was to copy it and paste it into this blog. My second action was to read it through again and try to understand what it's all about. Could there really be that many people who can't resolve conflict on their own; so many that they needed to schedule a second class? Could there really be that many people who think going to a class will actually make them proficient at dealing with other people? This is shit you should have learned in the class called The Last Twenty Years Of Your Life. I'm considering taking the class just to see exactly who in my company qualifies as "a huge pussy."

There's only one logical reason I can see for sending out this e-mail:

Fire anyone who replies asking to sign up.

When they walk in to the meeting, hand them a box and a note that says pack your shit and get out. Then we'll see what their "personal conflict resolution style" is. That, my friends, is conflict resolution class.

THE FURY AND THE PROFESSOR.

"When he's mad, nobody in the world can stop him. He was mad. He was pissed off."
-Richard Hamilton on Rasheed Wallace

It's just plain fun to watch.

In unrelated news, my brother is now a full-time professor. Congratulations on being the world's first Professor Therkalsen.

SPACE.

Courtesy of The Hawk:

"This is perhaps the most confounding issue I've ever thought about in life, ever.

Universe to Disappear From View?

My major question always is... if the universe is EVERYTHING... how is it expanding? Think about that for 5 seconds w/o your head hurting, I dare you."

Alien head...in your head...that guy knows what I'm talking about.

MORE WORDS OF WISDOM.

Until last week, I'd never really heard Tommy Lasorda speak. This is a classic mix of his press conferences. Not for children.



The man really, truly has no filter.

WORDS OF WISDOM.

This morning on the train I had a little knowledge dropped on me by a crazy man with a crazy beard and a crazy cane. As a girl sat down near him, he turned to me and said:

(please read in crazy-man voice)

"Look at that pretty girl. She looks pretty good for being retarded. (pause) Never met a pretty girl that wasn't retarded. (pause) Never met a pretty girl that wasn't a government agent. (longer pause, crazy laugh) Fashion models are too expensive."

Yes, sir, they are.

THINGS YOU SHOULD NOT DO AT THE SAME TIME.

Come on, seriously? You can't wait until you're done taking a dump to eat your Fritos? The worst part is that I work with this person. Never again can I accept a friendly Frito offer without wondering if I'm talking to the snacking shitter.

STREET-FIGHTIN MAN.

"summer's here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy."

Yes, Mick Jagger, it is. The temperature in the city reached 82 yesterday and it felt a little like summer in the afternoon. Then, as the evening wore on tempers were on the rise. While sitting outdoors and finishing the fourth of four pints, I heard behind me some shouting. Naturally, I turned around to see what the fuss was all about.

A fiery Welshman was shouting at an Italian guy, who I'll refer to as Mario. Mario was backing away as his friend--call him Luigi--was trying to separate the two. But the Welsh fellow was getting in their faces, shouting (the only word of I could decipher was "oy!"). The Welshman finally broke by Luigi, only to be greeted by a punch to the head from Mario. This stunned the Welsh, allowing the two Italians to retreat further up the street.

Once he regained his wits, the Welshman, henceforth referred to as Pedr (Welsh for rock or stone), decided on the most logical course of action: take off your shirt and charge after the two retreating Italians. When he caught them, he attempted to return fire, but was easily knocked off balance by a backpedaling Mario. Mario then dealt several close-fisted blows to turtle-on-his-back Pedr before standing up for some kicking and stomping.

Again, Mario and Luigi tried walking away. But Pedr was unrelenting. Now in the center of the street, he kept after Mario. Before long, he took a surprise punch to the jaw from the formerly peaceful Luigi. Then a punch from Mario, who continued to try and walk away. They went around the corner; luckily we had just finished our beers, so we could get up and join the following crowd. When we reached the corner, a shirtless Pedr was shouting at Mario and Luigi, who kept pushing him away. By this time I had taken my camera from my bag, set it to camcorder mode and began taping.

This, thanks to a having the wrong memory card, is all I captured. Notice the peace maker, still trying to hold Pedr back. Amazing.



It was just after this that the retreating Italians decided to stop retreating and just give Pedr what he was looking for, which was apparently ten yards of double face punching, followed by two--I shit you not--TWO flying karate kicks to the head. The fight came within a few feet of me, which would have made for amazing footage had I not been using the wrong memory card. Result, five seconds of pushing caught on tape.

After this flurry of action, Mario and Luigi, feeling they had made their point, again attempted retreat. And again Pedr gave chase. He was clearly "nothing can hurt me, not even flying karate kicks to my face" drunk. But before he could take more punches the police arrived. They corralled Pedr, talked to him for a bit and amazingly let him go. I guess they thought he had been punished enough.

Also, I apparently missed some punk rockers who dropped a giant jar of banana peppers on the sidewalk, shattering it. Without discussion, they quickly fell to their hands and knees and began eating the spilled peppers. If you live by one rule, it should be don't eat food off of New York city sidewalks. Nobody told those guys.

Welcome to summer in the East Village. Or spring. Whatever.

VERIZON RAPED ME.

Yes, it's taken me a few months to come forward, but I need to tell my story. Verizon took my trust and then violated me to the tune of $175. Here, in a letter I wrote to customer service, is the breakdown of what occurred:

Dear Customer Service,

I've written twice before and I just want to be clear about what I'm asking and saying. I left [Verizon] after I was informed it was time for my "new every two" phone credit. Common sense says "new every two" that means it's been two years since my last contract. So I switched services.

I was then informed that I'm being charged a $175 contract termination fee. Confused, I contacted customer service only to find out that "new every two" starts two months short of your actual contract date. Of course, I would have no way of knowing this, since my bills for the last year only state the day I upgraded my service (01/20/2006).

Conveniently, on the last bill--the one with the $175 charge--it lists the plan start date as 05/23/2005. I'm not contesting that's the right date; it probably is. I'm merely proposing that perhaps your tactics were misleading and unfair. It's not as if I skipped out on two years of service. I was barely a month short of fulfilling my contract. And it's not as though I purposely voided my agreement short of the end date. It was a misunderstanding.

I am willing to pay for the extra month of service I had agreed to (around $81), but if you insist on charging me the $175, I will spend $175 worth of my time badmouthing Verizon to anyone and everyone who will listen. I know that may not seem like much, but I believe that customer service and corporate responsibility still count for something.

I had been a loyal customer for some time and left on good terms, until this little $175 ambush. I'm not asking anything unreasonable, it's the principle. Anyways, I'm sure this will reach some generic customer service representative who will send me the standard "your contract started on" message, so I might as well send my check and start bitching about how Verizon was unfair to me. But on the off chance someone there has some sense, I thought I would try one more time.

Thanks.

Jim Therkalsen

So Verizon Wireless, this is where my revenge begins. Chances are I will get bored and stop posting about my bleeding anus and wounded pocketbook before I do any real damage, but I plan to spend ten minutes of each work day (because I have the time) posting my story on chat-boards. Verizon, you cocksuckingassfuckers. Eat shit.

If anyone has any suggestions on how to extact revenge on a giant corporation, please share.

THE BEST LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION.

One of my friends has the grand luck to be employed as a part-time receptionist here in New York City. Aside from answering phones and surfing the web, he is often assigned random tasks. Today one of his responsibilities was to write a letter of recommendation, from the owner of his company, for someone he's never met, to some unknown person, for some unknown reason. I submit to you--with the names changed in order to preserve anonymity--the best reference letter in the history of the world:

Dear Members of the Board,

This letter provides me the opportunity to discuss a great person, John Friendly. John has been a close personal friend of mine for years. I am the president of Billy Bossman Company in New York City. I have been in business for many years, and have worked with John for most of them.

John is a responsible and trustworthy person. We have worked together on many events such as the gloriously fabulous Name Of Event. He has contributed fantastically, as a Consultant, to all of my various and sundry tomes. I have entrusted him with the life of my firstborn son on numerous occasions and not once has said life been lost. In short, John Friendly is one of the ten best people I have ever met in my life, a handsome man, extremely well-respected by both myself and everyone that I know who also knows him in any sort of capacity. I’d take a bullet for this man, but I’m sure one of our faster mutual friends and acquaintances would be in the line of fire before me! That’s the level of love I’m talking about. Pure, unadulterated love, one human to another. This dude rocks.

I’m not actually sure what I’m recommending John for, but, believe you me, miss – you’d be a fool not to take, or to accept, or to give whatever he wants to him.

Please feel free to contact me with any questions regarding John.

Respectfully,

Billy Bossman

FIRE SOMEONE.

I'm sorry, but I was forced to watch the Brady Quinn Hummer ad again and thought posting a transcript of his testimonial would be appropriate:

"I’m Brady Quinn, quarterback from the University of Notre Dame. You know I think Hummer just offers, I think when you talk about off-roading, um you know just the overall luxury of of being able to drive, you know, sit up high feel safe. This car without a doubt exceeds every expectation I had. That is awesome."

Wow. Seriously, who at Hummer is in charge of this? I know it probably seemed like a good idea at first. Perhaps you invested a lot in the production. But when you saw this, did you honestly think it was good? At that point were you pot committed?

During the draft, when you were watching his stock fall you were probably thinking "oh crap, there goes my job." Well, if you weren't fired then, you certainly should be now for STILL running this. Put an old Hummer ad in its place, please, so I can watch ESPN clips online again.

That's the last I'll mention it.

THE DREAM.

My new job involves working on Nike's online advertising content, mostly for a project that is launching in August (stay tuned). But part of my responsibilities were supposed to involve working on the Nike Basketball and Nike Football websites, which is great since I love basketball and football. Here's the results of my first small basketball assignment--to write "Nike" summaries of the Pistons vs. Orlando and Golden State vs. Dallas playoff series.

GAME 3 & 4 PLAYOFF SUMMARIES

What I'm allowed to write is a little limiting. For example, I can't use team names, like the Pistons or Mavs or Warriors (some issue with the league). I'm also only allowed to mention Nike athletes, which isn't bad. And since they're summaries, they have to be short, so it's tough to get a lot of game action or personality into it. But hey, part of my job is getting paid to write about basketball. Can't argue with that.

Underused phrase that works good for kids:

You're not the boss of me.

No, you're not. Unless you're my boss and you're reading this. Then you are.

And here's a rule I learned today:

The Girls Never Tell Rule.

Thanks Brandy. You're a wealth of knowledge.

BRADY QUINN AND THE HUMMER DISASTER.

(AP) New York, NY - In this year's NFL draft, former Notre Dame quarterback Brady Quinn sat solemnly as he watched the Oakland Raiders pass on him with pick number one, the Lions at two, the Cleveland Browns at three, the Miami Dolphins at nine and so on and so forth. The college standout, at one time ranked as the number one quarterback in the draft fell all the way to the twenty-second pick, landing with the Cleveland Browns.

Teams unanimously cited one reason for passing on Quinn in the first round. "Did you see that Hummer commercial?" ex-Miami coach Nick Saban said, "the one that kept playing on the ESPN website during draft coverage? It was horrible. I need someone who can make good decisions; based on that abomination, I can't see anyone ever letting that kid on the field. I wouldn't even play him at Alabama, where I am now the head coach."

A Hummer spokesperson, in response to Quinn's demise, added that had they paid closer attention to their web advertising, they never would have released Brady's commercial. "It made him look like a complete jackass," an unknown source proclaimed, "and consequently made the Hummer organization look like fools for making him a spokesperson."

The Cleveland Browns, who traded up to get Brady at the end of the first round, seemed pleased. "We've had such success with our past draft picks--Tim Couch, Courtney Brown--that we felt safe ignoring the general Brady-Quinn-is-a-jackass consensus that had formed in response to the Hummer ad."

Brady Quinn studied under the heavily cheeseburger insulated Charlie Wiess at Notre Dame, where they both enjoyed numerous unwarranted blowjobs from the national media. The Browns are already looking forward to their next top five draft pick. "We'll probably take another quarterback," said team officials.