Thursday, May 29, 2008

Mail time!

If the WW were to ever get a mailing address, I suspect some of the parcels that would come across my desk would be more of the bomb variety than anything else.

But most of you, my elite class of drunkards, seems to barely know how to pee out your own name in the snow let alone send this blog any kind of correspondence. So I at least know I am safe from having my face blasted off as I rip into a package that has been labeled Porn and Chicken.

Instead, I have to rely on the bizarre and deranged folks in the Northeast to get my jollies. In the last couple of months we have been getting anonymous letters sent to the office. The only reason we know all of these are related is because of the handwriting on the envelope.

No return address, no signed manifesto, no naked photos to identify our newly found admirer.

Rather, we get these weird and cryptic messages in what appears to be cards bought on sale from Hallmark — it takes special kind of twisted evil to send those.

The first one we got in February was processed though the local station here.

"My life was just fine until you came along..." the cartoon cat declares from the front of this offensive script. "...and made it wonderful!"

Nothing else was written. The card was not even signed. Someone, I figured, was interested in this bearded newsman and was keeping it to themselves.

The second one came in April.

"Just little old me wishing little old you..." The anthropomorphic ladybug said from a wobbly looking ladder. "...a great ig happy birthday."

My Birthday was not until May, you crazy admirer. This time, though, the card was signed. "RIB, 2008."

But this week, the newsroom found itself wondering if our brief love affair with our admirer had suddenly gone south. Was it something we did? I swear, baby, I didn't mean it.

"You kindness is greatly appreciated," said the printed portion inside.

But it was the hand scrawled message that made us believe we were being dumped once and for all by this caviler epistle.

"It took you five year to remember me. Now you can take five years to forget me."

Um, OK?

Friday, May 23, 2008

Soap box, please.

The hardest part about taking care of this dog has been the fact that he does not even have a name.

Well, let me back up. The hardest part about taking care of this dog is watching his owners abuse, neglect and generally act like regular prick-fucks every time they interact with the little pooch.

His only respite from soiled water and no food each day is when he jumps over the fence that divides our parking lot and his shit-pad of a backyard. He is chained up with a link that is heavier than his head can move and it frequently get caught in the trees and trash this morons keep in their backyard.

That means every once in a great while when he jumps over he does not have enough chain to make the leap and ends up committing something close to doggie suicide when he tries to escape what I can only imagine is a festering pit of despair.

We have attmpted to to creat a varitable Berlin Wall of newspaper pallets to discourage him from trying to escape to his own finale. But with each stiff wind or act of vandalism, the pallets are removed and he make his leap of faith that there is enough chain to merely lay on the other side of the fence.

If the grass is always greener on the other side, then he must have it pretty bad to envy the black top we have here on our side.

Don't get me wrong here, cats and kittens. I am no tree hugging hippie or card carrying member of PETA. I don't live in a fantasy world where the animals around us are somehow our equal — Max might be my only exception simply becasue he is better than most people I encounter in Northeast.

But the amount of neglect and abuse this dog has gone though is criminal. And I will be the first to admit that the only reason I am even involved is probably because every time he jumps that fence he stares right at me though my office window.

I don't know. I thought about stealing him. Giving him a bath and adopting him as my own. But keeping him in an apartment — especially with as much energy as he has — would be just as abusive.

He is a great dog that I have been able to teach how to sit and shake in only a few days. He also seems to remember me and the other writers who have dropped phone calls to run outside and lift him over the fence each time he jumps for it.

Now if only he had a name. Then his theft...err, escape would be that much easier.

Monday, May 19, 2008


Because it seems someone out there loves the little Dutch building blocks as much as I do.

This video, of course, combines Legos AND Indiana Jones — my latest fad obsession.

I have to thank the our newest Tourist to Geektown, Population: Me, for pointing this gem out. Oddly enough, not the first time I have gotten a link to this Web site about Legos from this person.

I wonder if that makes her more or less...well, never mind.

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UPDATE: Kill joy

Apparently, being accurate is better than being wicked cool.

Still, a 6-foot-tall Lego Ball, whether hollow or chocked-full of Legoey goodness still makes for an awesome feat.

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UPDATE - sort of: Amazing!

This guy can put together one little bad ass Lego car WHILE STILL IN THE BAG!

I know, I know.

This is more Lego posts than most of you can handle, but right now I am staring at my Lego Statue of Liberty I built almost a year ago and am wondering if I can fashion it into a statue of myself before my next meeting downtown this afternoon.

And I'll do it while inside a burlap sack... Take that Lego-in-the-bag-building man.