This won't maker any sense unless you have read the previous post.
Ok, the experiment is a bust. Yes it is true that I was able to create a profile that has got me zero hits. But what I was not expecting is that I feel like a complete liar and cheat...not cheat, a callous cheat.
Sure, Match picked out women I'd never consider and rated me as near matches. Really? Such a simplistic modeling. "I like movies, you like movies... aha a match..." But the gotcha was there were real matches and I felt badly that I went down this road.
Before you think I have lost my mind, yes, I realize that there is a big difference between being ONE of many returned results in a query AND NO FOLLOWUP and stringing some girl along and then rejecting her. I am just saying I liked a few of my matches and after a week have decided I don't like my Match.com game. I have a soul I guess after all.
One interesting side effect is that the diversity of women I got matches for was unexpected. I wonder what I would draw if I actually tried. Just not there yet.
For the record, the deal breaker was a 35 yr old gal that looked amazingly like a girl I dated 20 years ago. I am a total sucker for long hair and glasses: the "porn librarian" look. Sigh.
So I'll probably keep checking out the matches for a while, but my attitude is a lot more respectful. So I am now looking for new material again. This was way too easy.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Ross vs. Online Dating
Okay, let me start off with a preface: I am not looking for a woman on Match.Com. This is just an experiment to see what insane matches the cyber world would match me up with.
This idea came from an event several years ago where a friend of mine, his girlfriend and I invented the Match.Com game. Rules were simple: Invent any outrageous search criteria (say tallest lesbian over 75 years old) and the closest match won. We played our game for hours. It proved to me there is something for everyone up there. But I was curious about my luck.
Finally, I broke down when a female friend who had been looking on all the big sites threw out the notion that there were more women up on Match than men. A firm believer that the ratio of desperate men to women was about 100 to 1, I had to set up my own account to see if my theory held.
So Step 1, the Profile.
I wrote a profile that I was sure would completely decrease my odds of getting a hit. I described myself pretty much as I am and listed such high qualities in her as: not in prison currently and does not kill small animals (my Australian ex-boss would advocate a gal who DID kill small animals) but I digress. I was even bold enough to use a real photo of myself. But it was me holding a pink t-shirt that read “Are you tough enough?” A fitting profile picture. So the stage is set.
I confessed to my Match pal what I had done and she was all over me to share. I was reluctant at first, but finally I said “ok” and she went to search for me but I was not there. Odd, I had done all the stuff and it said that I was live. At this point I assumed my lack of being there was due to me being a cheap bastard and not paying for the service, so I could look but not “touch” as it were. But within minutes of her searching I propagated through the system.
Then sadly for me all my new searches took me to my friend. I felt this was some subtle Jedi mind trick. But after a rather frantic troubleshooting session I freed myself. I could search for whatever I wanted.
Now, I have to explain my pre-conceived notions about on-line dating. One on-line dates if one is desperate/lazy/crazy. I expected all three. Yes, intellectually, I knew there could be some edge cases where some sweet, normal chick was looking for love, but I highly doubted it.
Step 2, My First Trolling
She is: 25-35, tall, and athletic. Likes movies, long walks and playing cards. I am amusing myself now. My ideal is way more complex than that, but baby steps. Run the query… Ding, ding, ding! Let’s look at the winners. First gal is very hot. Looks like a model. I am starting to rethink my views on this dating thing. Haven’t tackled the problem of she’d never date me, but don’t care. She’s hot. So I look at all 6 posted pictures of her. Number 4 was the deal breaker. Crazy eyes. She was batshit nuts. I’ve seen this look before. I know this look. This look is the look of “I will make you beg for death by the time this is done…”
Gal #2 was less hot and less crazy, but very bland: romantic dinners, long walks, talking (oh good god) and her love of Jesus.
Gals #3, 4, 5 were frankly rat-women. Skinny, boney, and with big Ocelot eyes. Sort of Gollum-like if Gollum wore summer dresses and flip flops.
Gal #6 made me feel bad that I was not taking this seriously. She was nice enough looking and she clearly was being honest. Her profile read snarky and made me laugh. I almost thought about emailing her, but decided not to, because I felt she deserved a decent treatment… plus she lived in Everett, WA and I sure wasn’t going to date anybody that willingly lived in Everett. I might think about it if she was held captive by a crazed cult of ninjas and bears, but not willingly. I am a snob that way.
Just checked my email and Match has matched my profile up with twelve lucky winners.
Hmmn.
To be continued….
This idea came from an event several years ago where a friend of mine, his girlfriend and I invented the Match.Com game. Rules were simple: Invent any outrageous search criteria (say tallest lesbian over 75 years old) and the closest match won. We played our game for hours. It proved to me there is something for everyone up there. But I was curious about my luck.
Finally, I broke down when a female friend who had been looking on all the big sites threw out the notion that there were more women up on Match than men. A firm believer that the ratio of desperate men to women was about 100 to 1, I had to set up my own account to see if my theory held.
So Step 1, the Profile.
I wrote a profile that I was sure would completely decrease my odds of getting a hit. I described myself pretty much as I am and listed such high qualities in her as: not in prison currently and does not kill small animals (my Australian ex-boss would advocate a gal who DID kill small animals) but I digress. I was even bold enough to use a real photo of myself. But it was me holding a pink t-shirt that read “Are you tough enough?” A fitting profile picture. So the stage is set.
I confessed to my Match pal what I had done and she was all over me to share. I was reluctant at first, but finally I said “ok” and she went to search for me but I was not there. Odd, I had done all the stuff and it said that I was live. At this point I assumed my lack of being there was due to me being a cheap bastard and not paying for the service, so I could look but not “touch” as it were. But within minutes of her searching I propagated through the system.
Then sadly for me all my new searches took me to my friend. I felt this was some subtle Jedi mind trick. But after a rather frantic troubleshooting session I freed myself. I could search for whatever I wanted.
Now, I have to explain my pre-conceived notions about on-line dating. One on-line dates if one is desperate/lazy/crazy. I expected all three. Yes, intellectually, I knew there could be some edge cases where some sweet, normal chick was looking for love, but I highly doubted it.
Step 2, My First Trolling
She is: 25-35, tall, and athletic. Likes movies, long walks and playing cards. I am amusing myself now. My ideal is way more complex than that, but baby steps. Run the query… Ding, ding, ding! Let’s look at the winners. First gal is very hot. Looks like a model. I am starting to rethink my views on this dating thing. Haven’t tackled the problem of she’d never date me, but don’t care. She’s hot. So I look at all 6 posted pictures of her. Number 4 was the deal breaker. Crazy eyes. She was batshit nuts. I’ve seen this look before. I know this look. This look is the look of “I will make you beg for death by the time this is done…”
Gal #2 was less hot and less crazy, but very bland: romantic dinners, long walks, talking (oh good god) and her love of Jesus.
Gals #3, 4, 5 were frankly rat-women. Skinny, boney, and with big Ocelot eyes. Sort of Gollum-like if Gollum wore summer dresses and flip flops.
Gal #6 made me feel bad that I was not taking this seriously. She was nice enough looking and she clearly was being honest. Her profile read snarky and made me laugh. I almost thought about emailing her, but decided not to, because I felt she deserved a decent treatment… plus she lived in Everett, WA and I sure wasn’t going to date anybody that willingly lived in Everett. I might think about it if she was held captive by a crazed cult of ninjas and bears, but not willingly. I am a snob that way.
Just checked my email and Match has matched my profile up with twelve lucky winners.
Hmmn.
To be continued….
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Applied Chaotic Testing - Draft 1 work in progrss
To Joel as promised:
Applied Chaotic Testing:
How many times have you run a test pass for your product and bugs have slipped by that could have been caught if others had been testing as well? Big corporations can afford large teams or extended beta programs. The little guys are strapped for money and resources are stretched with no time.
How to get the maximum return on testing?
One way is to shake up the patterns we all fall into. Implement what I like to call "Applied Chaotic Testing". As much as one may feel they are being creative and representing their user base as domain experts, there are certain techniques that are ingrained in us that make our testing results measurable and predictable. We all know that is does not reflect real world usage. How many times has customer support reported issues that come from the field that when researched come from environments that could not be predicted? I remember my days in support taking a call from the field where the user was running an English version of our software in a Danish version of Windows 95 running from a Japanese version of Dr. DOS. Who does that? This was an excellent example of an "Applied Chaotic User". Another was from a heroic fellow that had no hands and was struggling to calibrate my company's touch screen with a pen in his teeth. Turned out to be the wrong version of the driver.
As a tester with 22 years in software testing, I have seen many unique testing methodologies introduced into the field: Unit testing, Systems testing, Exploratory Matrix testing, Moge-Warwick Centralized. Analysis, Certified Emulation testing, RGB testing, Lowest Common Denominator testing (LCDT), and Micro testing. But overall there is still a need to capture the majority of chaotic users.
Remember that an IQ of 100 is average, so this should be the goal when test planning. To increase the target zone, plan for 85 instead. Don't forget to factor in one-off anomalies like managers of companies in the Fortune 100 and the elderly.
Applying Applied Chaotic Testing:
At irregular intervals, an Applied Chaotic Tester will change his/her testing approach by doing the unexpected. A sample scenario might look something like this:
Test with the mouse in the left hand
Reconfigure your keyboard to be Chinese
Turn off the monitor and try using the software via a screen reader with the volume set low
Try testing on an operating system in a language you can't read. I find Arabic or Hebrew most effective given these languages are right to left.
Try testing under duress. Many users have deadlines that keep them awake extra longs hours. Try testing in sleep deprivation of 24 hour increments. Eating poorly also can create a source of duress. Try an entire build cycle eating nothing more than Hostess HoHos and drinking Red Bull.
Create a software configuration that is prone to random crashing. A great solution is to test on virus-ridden operating systems. A quick source of viruses is AOL or several shadier porn sites, but clear this with the IT department to ensure it does not conflict with company policies.
Get small children as beta testers. Be aware and sensitive to the fact that criticism on their performance can make them cry. Same guidline goes for ESL (English as a Second Language) students.
Ask (if possible) to sit in on your company's support center. Listen with a careful ear for customers with attention deficit disorder preferably from non-English speaking countries and/or the clinically diagnosed bi-polar because they will have the most challenging questions and having the most questionable scenarios. Ideally the tech will share these same qualities. Take many notes and as detailed steps as possible. Don't worry if you miss a few steps here and there. It just leads to better Applied Chaotic testing.
To sum up, Applied Chaotic Testing taps into the undiscovered country of random and unmeasurable use cases. Forgot how your software is suppose to be, or even should be, think of how it is.
Applied Chaotic Testing:
How many times have you run a test pass for your product and bugs have slipped by that could have been caught if others had been testing as well? Big corporations can afford large teams or extended beta programs. The little guys are strapped for money and resources are stretched with no time.
How to get the maximum return on testing?
One way is to shake up the patterns we all fall into. Implement what I like to call "Applied Chaotic Testing". As much as one may feel they are being creative and representing their user base as domain experts, there are certain techniques that are ingrained in us that make our testing results measurable and predictable. We all know that is does not reflect real world usage. How many times has customer support reported issues that come from the field that when researched come from environments that could not be predicted? I remember my days in support taking a call from the field where the user was running an English version of our software in a Danish version of Windows 95 running from a Japanese version of Dr. DOS. Who does that? This was an excellent example of an "Applied Chaotic User". Another was from a heroic fellow that had no hands and was struggling to calibrate my company's touch screen with a pen in his teeth. Turned out to be the wrong version of the driver.
As a tester with 22 years in software testing, I have seen many unique testing methodologies introduced into the field: Unit testing, Systems testing, Exploratory Matrix testing, Moge-Warwick Centralized. Analysis, Certified Emulation testing, RGB testing, Lowest Common Denominator testing (LCDT), and Micro testing. But overall there is still a need to capture the majority of chaotic users.
Remember that an IQ of 100 is average, so this should be the goal when test planning. To increase the target zone, plan for 85 instead. Don't forget to factor in one-off anomalies like managers of companies in the Fortune 100 and the elderly.
Applying Applied Chaotic Testing:
At irregular intervals, an Applied Chaotic Tester will change his/her testing approach by doing the unexpected. A sample scenario might look something like this:
Test with the mouse in the left hand
Reconfigure your keyboard to be Chinese
Turn off the monitor and try using the software via a screen reader with the volume set low
Try testing on an operating system in a language you can't read. I find Arabic or Hebrew most effective given these languages are right to left.
Try testing under duress. Many users have deadlines that keep them awake extra longs hours. Try testing in sleep deprivation of 24 hour increments. Eating poorly also can create a source of duress. Try an entire build cycle eating nothing more than Hostess HoHos and drinking Red Bull.
Create a software configuration that is prone to random crashing. A great solution is to test on virus-ridden operating systems. A quick source of viruses is AOL or several shadier porn sites, but clear this with the IT department to ensure it does not conflict with company policies.
Get small children as beta testers. Be aware and sensitive to the fact that criticism on their performance can make them cry. Same guidline goes for ESL (English as a Second Language) students.
Ask (if possible) to sit in on your company's support center. Listen with a careful ear for customers with attention deficit disorder preferably from non-English speaking countries and/or the clinically diagnosed bi-polar because they will have the most challenging questions and having the most questionable scenarios. Ideally the tech will share these same qualities. Take many notes and as detailed steps as possible. Don't worry if you miss a few steps here and there. It just leads to better Applied Chaotic testing.
To sum up, Applied Chaotic Testing taps into the undiscovered country of random and unmeasurable use cases. Forgot how your software is suppose to be, or even should be, think of how it is.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
K-Mart
"I'm going to Hell again. It was a perfect storm: an obnoxious woman, obnoxious children, a stoner cashier, a really loud security alarm and me being in a bad mood, forced to shop at K-Mart because my white shirt was ruined and I needed a fresh one quickly."
This was my Facebook posting today and since I've been very negligent of my small band of blog vultures, I throw you a scrap of meat.
So yesterday I went and saw the Hubble movie in 3D at the IMAX theatre in the Pacific Science Center and quite enjoyed it even though (for me) 3D has always been a challenge. Testing-wise my spatial ability is quite refined. In my mind, I "see" spatial relationships quite well, but as the man who walks into doors and bus signs, maybe no such bragging rights.
Well after the movie I wandered over to the Center house to indulge in a childhood favorite, a Frankfurter cheese dog and an Orange Julius. Go figure, I remember the combo being way more awesome than I found it yesterday. Of course, at that point in my life I thought Mac and Cheese was like ambrosia, the food of the gods.
So I have feasted and now it is time to return the truck to take myself away from the churn that is Downtown. As is life in Seattle, I walk out of the Center House and get maybe 50 yards and - whoosh! - torrential downpour. I take cover under an over hang on the Seattle Rep building. I wait, wait, wait, wait and wait some more. But I am in a good mood so I take in the Seattle ambiance and amuse myself at watching my fellow citizens scurry to and fro.
Finally, I am thinking it's time, even though it is still raining hard. So I stroll on. Now at this point, I should point out I am not wearing a jacket. I walk to the truck a few blocks away and by the time I get to the truck, I am soaked. As fate would have it by the time I get to the truck it has stopped raining. Had I waited five more minutes I would have been completely on a different vector yesterday.
So I pile into the Toyota and hit Highway 99 and go north. All is well, I am on my way to my friend's place for dinner and experimental drink mixology and a great board game called "Kill, Dr. Lucky" For people who like board games, think "Clue" in reverse with an hint of "Tag."
As I am driving, I look down and realize that the orange parking ticket receipt has run ink all over my white shirt. Had it been a red ticket, it would look like someone had shot me. Well I wasn't going on like this and had decided looping back home for a new shirt would take too long, I decided to stop at K-Mart which was right ahead of me. I started to think Dante: "Abandon all hope ye who enter..."
Now, I must stop and explain K-Mart as I understand it. It is not inherently evil. In fact I believe it serves a purpose. If nothing else, it is a humbler Wal-Mart. No one looks proud to be in K-Mart. You don't see land masses pushing carts slobbering for their next round of "good eats" or pregnant teenage girls with tattoos looking at maternity clothes with that sort of "I am proud to be an Ugly American" Wal-Mart mojo.
K-Mart I think has Target envy. At Target, even snobby white elitists will frequent Target for "the basic stuff, you know" and K-Mart tries to lure the same. But, the formula breaks down because that also can't ditch the double-wide crowd. Heh. I get two for one on that last line...
So back from my social statement and on to going to Hell.
So after cruising for a shirt I made my way to the check out line. By the way, one can get a 5x shirt there, and despite a certain Australian voice I hear in my head at times regarding husky sizes, it was a fricken tent and I felt tiny. I had off to get in line to pay my part continuing to support some 14-year old Mexican seamstress making in a year what I spent on a cheese dog and smoothie.
So here is where I start to get nasty, so for those with delicate sensibilities read no further.
First, on an individual basis there is no good or evil here on the traits I describe. "Single" "mother" of "five" "shopping" "to get a deal." In fact, normally my liberal knee-jerk reaction is to feel compassion and if she's hot enough, to wonder if she's dating. Kidding, sort of. It's the degree of hotness.
But this day the combination is a vile one. Let's start this with "hot". Not so much. Unless you have a thing for the Muppet "Miss Piggy" with bad hair. Or maybe a beach ball that has mutated stubby legs and hands with a dead-rat wig.
I am not ashamed to admit, that if I had an inner conflict about judging a book by it's cover, it faded the moment I heard this woman speak in a gibber-tongue that resembled some phonetic cousin of English. When one thinks that Ebonics flows like Shakespeare compared to this hooting and snorting language of the inbred white trash backwoods, one realizes that Miss Piggy is in the big city shopping at her version of Barney's New York.
At this point, dear reader, you must be wondering exactly what happened? Showtime.
Tranlating from Gibber to English for your ease of reading.
"What? No, that's not right. That was on sale. It's half off."
"What? No, that was on sale too."
"What? That was "Buy 2 and get one free..."
This went one for every item. Hmmn. One was actually on sale. During this exchange, the cashier was a cross between the bus driver on the "Simpson's" and Ted from "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" kept saying in a stoned, lazy voice some version of "Whoa lady, I just scan stuff and take the money."
Annoying but finite.
Finally, Miss Porkchop Hill moves on to herd her pack of junior Yeti off to what I assume would be the YetiMobile when all of sudden when they near the door, the security alarm goes off.
Now in a normal store, the alarm is loud and draws attention. In a store where they are expecting shop-lifting, the alarm is deafening to the point I assume it is to daze and render the intended thief spasmodic (and taking those close to them down also). Ok, get it? LOUD!
So, what does the mother of the Yeti clan do? Stands there. Right next to the sensor. It was clear she expected a button to be pushed and she would be allowed to shamble on.
At K-Mart, not so much. So alarm and more alarm. People are yelling at her to move away from the door but she can't really hear well and basic directions would escape her on her best day (I am thinking the condom wrapper was too much for her).
I didn't see it, but I think Keanu Reeves little brother held up a Snicker's bar because she wanders back to him within hearing range and he tells her to move away from the sensor.
Now here is where it gets fun. She waddles back to her cart and with an effort of Hercules steers it away from the senors. Magic does not happen and it dawns on me one of the yeti is wearing clothing that is still tagged to set off the sensor. She's dressed the yeti in store clothing....
As I am realizing what is going on the Store Manager arrives and is playing catch up. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Piggly Wiggly does her best to deflect attention away for herself and starts bleating about how Keanu yelled at her.
Again translating from Gibber to the mother tongue...
"He yelled at me! He shouldn't yell at me. It was wrong of him!"
"I am never shopping here again!"
"You treat people wrong here!"
At this point my own transaction is complete and I have had enough.
So with her last proclamation of "wrong", I said:
"You know what else is wrong?"
I have everybody's attention. I make an overly-dramatic look at her children and turn back.
"Sex with baboons."
As I left I noticed Keanu gave me two thumbs up.
Poor Keanu. You couldn't pay me enough to do his job.
This was my Facebook posting today and since I've been very negligent of my small band of blog vultures, I throw you a scrap of meat.
So yesterday I went and saw the Hubble movie in 3D at the IMAX theatre in the Pacific Science Center and quite enjoyed it even though (for me) 3D has always been a challenge. Testing-wise my spatial ability is quite refined. In my mind, I "see" spatial relationships quite well, but as the man who walks into doors and bus signs, maybe no such bragging rights.
Well after the movie I wandered over to the Center house to indulge in a childhood favorite, a Frankfurter cheese dog and an Orange Julius. Go figure, I remember the combo being way more awesome than I found it yesterday. Of course, at that point in my life I thought Mac and Cheese was like ambrosia, the food of the gods.
So I have feasted and now it is time to return the truck to take myself away from the churn that is Downtown. As is life in Seattle, I walk out of the Center House and get maybe 50 yards and - whoosh! - torrential downpour. I take cover under an over hang on the Seattle Rep building. I wait, wait, wait, wait and wait some more. But I am in a good mood so I take in the Seattle ambiance and amuse myself at watching my fellow citizens scurry to and fro.
Finally, I am thinking it's time, even though it is still raining hard. So I stroll on. Now at this point, I should point out I am not wearing a jacket. I walk to the truck a few blocks away and by the time I get to the truck, I am soaked. As fate would have it by the time I get to the truck it has stopped raining. Had I waited five more minutes I would have been completely on a different vector yesterday.
So I pile into the Toyota and hit Highway 99 and go north. All is well, I am on my way to my friend's place for dinner and experimental drink mixology and a great board game called "Kill, Dr. Lucky" For people who like board games, think "Clue" in reverse with an hint of "Tag."
As I am driving, I look down and realize that the orange parking ticket receipt has run ink all over my white shirt. Had it been a red ticket, it would look like someone had shot me. Well I wasn't going on like this and had decided looping back home for a new shirt would take too long, I decided to stop at K-Mart which was right ahead of me. I started to think Dante: "Abandon all hope ye who enter..."
Now, I must stop and explain K-Mart as I understand it. It is not inherently evil. In fact I believe it serves a purpose. If nothing else, it is a humbler Wal-Mart. No one looks proud to be in K-Mart. You don't see land masses pushing carts slobbering for their next round of "good eats" or pregnant teenage girls with tattoos looking at maternity clothes with that sort of "I am proud to be an Ugly American" Wal-Mart mojo.
K-Mart I think has Target envy. At Target, even snobby white elitists will frequent Target for "the basic stuff, you know" and K-Mart tries to lure the same. But, the formula breaks down because that also can't ditch the double-wide crowd. Heh. I get two for one on that last line...
So back from my social statement and on to going to Hell.
So after cruising for a shirt I made my way to the check out line. By the way, one can get a 5x shirt there, and despite a certain Australian voice I hear in my head at times regarding husky sizes, it was a fricken tent and I felt tiny. I had off to get in line to pay my part continuing to support some 14-year old Mexican seamstress making in a year what I spent on a cheese dog and smoothie.
So here is where I start to get nasty, so for those with delicate sensibilities read no further.
First, on an individual basis there is no good or evil here on the traits I describe. "Single" "mother" of "five" "shopping" "to get a deal." In fact, normally my liberal knee-jerk reaction is to feel compassion and if she's hot enough, to wonder if she's dating. Kidding, sort of. It's the degree of hotness.
But this day the combination is a vile one. Let's start this with "hot". Not so much. Unless you have a thing for the Muppet "Miss Piggy" with bad hair. Or maybe a beach ball that has mutated stubby legs and hands with a dead-rat wig.
I am not ashamed to admit, that if I had an inner conflict about judging a book by it's cover, it faded the moment I heard this woman speak in a gibber-tongue that resembled some phonetic cousin of English. When one thinks that Ebonics flows like Shakespeare compared to this hooting and snorting language of the inbred white trash backwoods, one realizes that Miss Piggy is in the big city shopping at her version of Barney's New York.
At this point, dear reader, you must be wondering exactly what happened? Showtime.
Tranlating from Gibber to English for your ease of reading.
"What? No, that's not right. That was on sale. It's half off."
"What? No, that was on sale too."
"What? That was "Buy 2 and get one free..."
This went one for every item. Hmmn. One was actually on sale. During this exchange, the cashier was a cross between the bus driver on the "Simpson's" and Ted from "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" kept saying in a stoned, lazy voice some version of "Whoa lady, I just scan stuff and take the money."
Annoying but finite.
Finally, Miss Porkchop Hill moves on to herd her pack of junior Yeti off to what I assume would be the YetiMobile when all of sudden when they near the door, the security alarm goes off.
Now in a normal store, the alarm is loud and draws attention. In a store where they are expecting shop-lifting, the alarm is deafening to the point I assume it is to daze and render the intended thief spasmodic (and taking those close to them down also). Ok, get it? LOUD!
So, what does the mother of the Yeti clan do? Stands there. Right next to the sensor. It was clear she expected a button to be pushed and she would be allowed to shamble on.
At K-Mart, not so much. So alarm and more alarm. People are yelling at her to move away from the door but she can't really hear well and basic directions would escape her on her best day (I am thinking the condom wrapper was too much for her).
I didn't see it, but I think Keanu Reeves little brother held up a Snicker's bar because she wanders back to him within hearing range and he tells her to move away from the sensor.
Now here is where it gets fun. She waddles back to her cart and with an effort of Hercules steers it away from the senors. Magic does not happen and it dawns on me one of the yeti is wearing clothing that is still tagged to set off the sensor. She's dressed the yeti in store clothing....
As I am realizing what is going on the Store Manager arrives and is playing catch up. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Piggly Wiggly does her best to deflect attention away for herself and starts bleating about how Keanu yelled at her.
Again translating from Gibber to the mother tongue...
"He yelled at me! He shouldn't yell at me. It was wrong of him!"
"I am never shopping here again!"
"You treat people wrong here!"
At this point my own transaction is complete and I have had enough.
So with her last proclamation of "wrong", I said:
"You know what else is wrong?"
I have everybody's attention. I make an overly-dramatic look at her children and turn back.
"Sex with baboons."
As I left I noticed Keanu gave me two thumbs up.
Poor Keanu. You couldn't pay me enough to do his job.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Return of the Spider Vixen
So I am thinking about Halloween that is coming up. I am in need of a costume and the failure of the Spider Vixen costume from last year haunts me still. So I was in JoAnne's Crafts, home of reject art teachers and scary crap that only old ladies and really, really, really gay men would like. I fall into none of the above. My friend was buying something fluffy. But the store makes "Hello Kitty" seem mild.
Well, I started to look at my choices. Nurse with fishnets, Swedish milkmaid with fishnets, an even better Spider Vixen outfit. Or at least larger. A flight attendant outfit, Casperina, the Sexy ghost. Or some random combination therein.
It is appropriate as I write this I am listening to the Rolling Stones:
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes, you just might find
You get what you need...
There was a snake lady suit, a policeman's uniform (add a boom box and the imagined strip-o-gram will seriously hurt my co-workers), a female pirate costume (the mind reels on that one given a certain in-joke that uses "arrrggghhh!" liberally).
I just wish I had asked what exactly are "husky girl sizes." Sigh.
Well, I started to look at my choices. Nurse with fishnets, Swedish milkmaid with fishnets, an even better Spider Vixen outfit. Or at least larger. A flight attendant outfit, Casperina, the Sexy ghost. Or some random combination therein.
It is appropriate as I write this I am listening to the Rolling Stones:
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes, you just might find
You get what you need...
There was a snake lady suit, a policeman's uniform (add a boom box and the imagined strip-o-gram will seriously hurt my co-workers), a female pirate costume (the mind reels on that one given a certain in-joke that uses "arrrggghhh!" liberally).
I just wish I had asked what exactly are "husky girl sizes." Sigh.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Traffic Rant
New blog finally! I was in need of something snarky to say. I am there now.
First off, to my ambulance chasing following (all 5 of you), this could have been about me pinning myself in the backseat and amusing the Sikh taxi driver, or my accident with the waffle batter, or my last breakdown with the truck. It could have been about my intense dislike of the Greenwood parade or why you should not pour the wrong fluids into your engine.
It could have been… but it isn’t.
My suffering can wait.
Instead I want to rant about others.
Other drivers. In fact maybe even you!
So really my rant goes something like this: Why are my fellow drivers retarded?
To frame this correctly, I am going to examine my drive to and from work. It is the same stupidity every day and I have actually developed a series of mind-teasers regarding what I see.
So bending a rule of good writing, I now refer to “you” as the driving retard, not my adoring reader, however I do not always consider the two mutually exclusive. So if “you” seems sort of “in your face” despite my reader’s innocence, it’s nothing personal, I’ve just lumped everyone together as vehicular bottom-feeders.
Let the rant begin…
Hey You!
Yes, you… on the cell phone… ever heard of Bluetooth? I see you! Is that call so important? I am sure it isn’t. Use the technology and quit trying to kill me because your goddamn wife is too lazy to get off of her bubbled ass and get into her soccer mom mobile and get the milk and bon-bons herself. No, really, that call to your best friend about whether she slept with the hot bartender – unimportant. As unimportant as you are. There is this law… Oh wait, that begs another question…
Seriously, why does the f-ing law apply to everybody BUT you? You wonder why I laugh and point at you while you are pulled over getting a ticket? It’s because the law applies to everyone AND you!
Ha!
You in your Mercedes SUV? Oh, it makes my heart sing when I see a person of self-imposed entitlement get a $242 speeding ticket shoved up their bum for being a complete a-hole. Next time you’re at El Goucho in the Pampas Room, swirling your glass of Robert Biale Monterosso Sonoma Zinfandel and nibbling on your not-so humanly created foie grois, please tell your equally obnoxious associates how you actually were doing 45 in a 20 mph zone and almost ran over a little old man with a walker because you have to get home because little Hayden has to get to her fencing class and then be rushed to her play date with the other six going on fourteen year-olds because you don’t want her to miss any socialization windows.
God, what I’d give to key your car.
But wait, my contempt is not limited to wanna-be aristocratic suburban white folk, oh no I have a much wider field of vision than that.
Hey you, the extreme sports skate/snowboarding goatee and mutton chop side burns flannel shirt wearing granola boy! Yeah I am talking about you too!
Riddle me this, Stephan…
Why do you have to bomb down the freeway at 85 and then slam on your brakes when you get up the traffic jam that you have clearly been able to see for a mile? Do the math (if you can, use your fingers AND toes if you need to), you save not one second! If you drive reasonable, you get there all the same. Oh and tailgating me, only makes me slam on my brakes to scare you to back off, I am not going to speed up because you are trying to make me think you are going to bully me and my P.O.S. truck. Don't you get the "I have no will to live" vibe come from my truck?
Why do you think that changing lanes in gridlock is so f-ing critical? Does going 6 mph, really make it go better than 5 mph. You are going NOWHERE. Chill out. And no, that car length in front of me is NOT an invitation for you to jump in. It is because I don’t want to rear-end the dumb ass in front of me, when some retard like you cuts him off.
By the way, you single-tasking, talking on the cell phone mofo, that turn signal thing really isn’t optional if you don’t want to have some a-hole in a P.O.S. truck like mine not hit you and crumple your little “save the planet” Prius. Especially when you are a dart-in-and-out of traffic punk. If you have any doubts, yes, the silver P.O.S. truck IS screwing with you and deliberately not letting you be the spastic you are.
But wait…there is more…
Hey you, the “I am nearly retired, get off my lawn you kids, stick up my ass, by God I am a Republican Tax Payer, driving my mustard yellow Hummer” I got some words for you too…
For starters, the fast lane is for people who drive the speed limit or somewhat faster, it’s commonly known as the “passing lane”. Despite you, it is not known as the “I have a small penis and drive a Hummer ten miles an hour slower than the speed limit because I can” lane. On that note, stay out of the HOV lanes, that’s a double crime against humanity: Going slow and acting like God’s chosen. Speaking of HOV lanes… Don’t get all pissy, but since you’ve just bypassed nearly an hour of gridlock by zooming up the HOV lanes. Don’t get all whacked when no one wants to let you in, we who have been sitting in traffic and try to nose your way in because you are in that big ol’ Hummer. I can’t speak for everyone else, but I’ll let you hit me AND let you have the ticket for not yielding the right of way. Buy me a new truck please!
Oh, before I sign off, let me take a shot at some others…
To the jerk with the over-powered bass in his trunk... If I wanted to hear your rap music from 10 blocks away, I’ll download the album. Turn your crap down…
To the grandma who insists on turning left on a major arterial out of the gas station parking lot. Turn right again go around the block, it’s just as fast. You are wasting not only your time but mine.
To Mr. California, I understand taking u-turns wherever you feel like it is legal back home. You are not home, dumbass.
To the homeless guy on the side of the road. Yelling at me and demanding money doesn’t endear you to me. It makes me wish you’d get a real job, or go off into the forest and die.
To the holier than thou, carbon-foot print shrinking, bicyclists who are not bound by the laws of traffic because they are noble creatures like bald eagles and Bengal tigers, all I have to say is go ahead and ignore traffic laws and assert yourselves as if you have the same rights as both cars and pedestrians at the same time. Physical laws trump traffic laws every time and all I can say is my favorite law when dealing with you self-righteous pricks, is the law of tonnage (oh and Newton’s law about things in motion stay in motion until acted upon…).
But I have been saving my best vitriol for the over-the-hill, absolutely uncool leather bound clod on a motorcycle or as I will refer to them as…donor-cycles. Forgive me, my friend, but because you think you should do 90 mph and weave in and out of traffic, or zoom up between lanes of slow traffic, or even just idling, revving your engine like you are Thor, god of thunder, when you die doing your completely brain-dead antics, well I can’t help think it is proof of Darwin in action. One less of you…
Rant over.
I feel better.
Time to love my fellow humans… until I get behind the wheel again.
First off, to my ambulance chasing following (all 5 of you), this could have been about me pinning myself in the backseat and amusing the Sikh taxi driver, or my accident with the waffle batter, or my last breakdown with the truck. It could have been about my intense dislike of the Greenwood parade or why you should not pour the wrong fluids into your engine.
It could have been… but it isn’t.
My suffering can wait.
Instead I want to rant about others.
Other drivers. In fact maybe even you!
So really my rant goes something like this: Why are my fellow drivers retarded?
To frame this correctly, I am going to examine my drive to and from work. It is the same stupidity every day and I have actually developed a series of mind-teasers regarding what I see.
So bending a rule of good writing, I now refer to “you” as the driving retard, not my adoring reader, however I do not always consider the two mutually exclusive. So if “you” seems sort of “in your face” despite my reader’s innocence, it’s nothing personal, I’ve just lumped everyone together as vehicular bottom-feeders.
Let the rant begin…
Hey You!
Yes, you… on the cell phone… ever heard of Bluetooth? I see you! Is that call so important? I am sure it isn’t. Use the technology and quit trying to kill me because your goddamn wife is too lazy to get off of her bubbled ass and get into her soccer mom mobile and get the milk and bon-bons herself. No, really, that call to your best friend about whether she slept with the hot bartender – unimportant. As unimportant as you are. There is this law… Oh wait, that begs another question…
Seriously, why does the f-ing law apply to everybody BUT you? You wonder why I laugh and point at you while you are pulled over getting a ticket? It’s because the law applies to everyone AND you!
Ha!
You in your Mercedes SUV? Oh, it makes my heart sing when I see a person of self-imposed entitlement get a $242 speeding ticket shoved up their bum for being a complete a-hole. Next time you’re at El Goucho in the Pampas Room, swirling your glass of Robert Biale Monterosso Sonoma Zinfandel and nibbling on your not-so humanly created foie grois, please tell your equally obnoxious associates how you actually were doing 45 in a 20 mph zone and almost ran over a little old man with a walker because you have to get home because little Hayden has to get to her fencing class and then be rushed to her play date with the other six going on fourteen year-olds because you don’t want her to miss any socialization windows.
God, what I’d give to key your car.
But wait, my contempt is not limited to wanna-be aristocratic suburban white folk, oh no I have a much wider field of vision than that.
Hey you, the extreme sports skate/snowboarding goatee and mutton chop side burns flannel shirt wearing granola boy! Yeah I am talking about you too!
Riddle me this, Stephan…
Why do you have to bomb down the freeway at 85 and then slam on your brakes when you get up the traffic jam that you have clearly been able to see for a mile? Do the math (if you can, use your fingers AND toes if you need to), you save not one second! If you drive reasonable, you get there all the same. Oh and tailgating me, only makes me slam on my brakes to scare you to back off, I am not going to speed up because you are trying to make me think you are going to bully me and my P.O.S. truck. Don't you get the "I have no will to live" vibe come from my truck?
Why do you think that changing lanes in gridlock is so f-ing critical? Does going 6 mph, really make it go better than 5 mph. You are going NOWHERE. Chill out. And no, that car length in front of me is NOT an invitation for you to jump in. It is because I don’t want to rear-end the dumb ass in front of me, when some retard like you cuts him off.
By the way, you single-tasking, talking on the cell phone mofo, that turn signal thing really isn’t optional if you don’t want to have some a-hole in a P.O.S. truck like mine not hit you and crumple your little “save the planet” Prius. Especially when you are a dart-in-and-out of traffic punk. If you have any doubts, yes, the silver P.O.S. truck IS screwing with you and deliberately not letting you be the spastic you are.
But wait…there is more…
Hey you, the “I am nearly retired, get off my lawn you kids, stick up my ass, by God I am a Republican Tax Payer, driving my mustard yellow Hummer” I got some words for you too…
For starters, the fast lane is for people who drive the speed limit or somewhat faster, it’s commonly known as the “passing lane”. Despite you, it is not known as the “I have a small penis and drive a Hummer ten miles an hour slower than the speed limit because I can” lane. On that note, stay out of the HOV lanes, that’s a double crime against humanity: Going slow and acting like God’s chosen. Speaking of HOV lanes… Don’t get all pissy, but since you’ve just bypassed nearly an hour of gridlock by zooming up the HOV lanes. Don’t get all whacked when no one wants to let you in, we who have been sitting in traffic and try to nose your way in because you are in that big ol’ Hummer. I can’t speak for everyone else, but I’ll let you hit me AND let you have the ticket for not yielding the right of way. Buy me a new truck please!
Oh, before I sign off, let me take a shot at some others…
To the jerk with the over-powered bass in his trunk... If I wanted to hear your rap music from 10 blocks away, I’ll download the album. Turn your crap down…
To the grandma who insists on turning left on a major arterial out of the gas station parking lot. Turn right again go around the block, it’s just as fast. You are wasting not only your time but mine.
To Mr. California, I understand taking u-turns wherever you feel like it is legal back home. You are not home, dumbass.
To the homeless guy on the side of the road. Yelling at me and demanding money doesn’t endear you to me. It makes me wish you’d get a real job, or go off into the forest and die.
To the holier than thou, carbon-foot print shrinking, bicyclists who are not bound by the laws of traffic because they are noble creatures like bald eagles and Bengal tigers, all I have to say is go ahead and ignore traffic laws and assert yourselves as if you have the same rights as both cars and pedestrians at the same time. Physical laws trump traffic laws every time and all I can say is my favorite law when dealing with you self-righteous pricks, is the law of tonnage (oh and Newton’s law about things in motion stay in motion until acted upon…).
But I have been saving my best vitriol for the over-the-hill, absolutely uncool leather bound clod on a motorcycle or as I will refer to them as…donor-cycles. Forgive me, my friend, but because you think you should do 90 mph and weave in and out of traffic, or zoom up between lanes of slow traffic, or even just idling, revving your engine like you are Thor, god of thunder, when you die doing your completely brain-dead antics, well I can’t help think it is proof of Darwin in action. One less of you…
Rant over.
I feel better.
Time to love my fellow humans… until I get behind the wheel again.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Okay, already!
Apologies to those whom I disappoint with a lack of blog. Joel, Ken, Melissa, etc. I needed some material. So from my Spokane trip, it’s the “How Did I Spend My Day” Show.
Day One:
So this morning starts out at about 6:30 am with some baboon in workman’s chothes working outside my hotel door dropping a ladder and banging away. I half expect to hear Jane Goodall narrating:
“See how Bobo makes his first attempts at using tools. He starts by mimicry but I believe he is actually learning to use the tools differently to yield best results after a while…”
Bite me Janey, it’s 6:30 am and if you want to see tools be used, check out the cranky primate without his latte, but with a .30 shotgun learning to use the tool differently to yield best results.
So my cousin and I finally get our act together and head out in her jeep which is totally tricked out with all the gadgets and joy that makes men love cars and we proceed into Spokane proper to collect my grandmother. Grandma insists on “Shari’s”. For those of you that have been to a Shari’s, I really don’t need to say more, but for those of you that have standards and/or feelings of elitism, let me paint a picture.
Imagine a place that looks identical no matter where in the world you may find the franchise. You could be in war-torn Iraq and go into a Shari’s and it would look exactly like a Shari’s from Iowa. Even more so than a Denny’s or a IHOP. Identical. I actually believe there is one Shari’s that is a nexus between dimensions and if you know the mystic words, you can travel anywhere. But I think I have to take back the identical label, because in Spokane, Shari’s is staffed by the un-dead.
“Would you like coffee, dearie, “ the She-Crypt-Keeper rasps and gurgles, as parts of her fall off.
Looking around the restaurant, one realizes that this is geezer central. Median age 120. I am sure this is the Spokane Retiree elephant graveyard and Gus, and Elmo are just waiting for the angels to take them to the “Monster Truck Rally” in the sky.
The menu has pictures of what the idealized version of the meal looks like. I find myself thinking the idealized version is sort of scary. Stuffed hash browns? WTF? Wait, I don’t want to know. But the interesting thing is the menu has been cut back quite a bit since I was last tormented by this ritual suicide. Guess the recession has other victims that GM and Morgan Stanley. Please Barack, do not bail out Shari’s.
So we go back to Grandma’s lair and do the gossipy family thing. Who’s sleeping with whom, when parole dates are coming up, etc. Then the Camel Killer calls. He wants to take Gram out for lunch. Part of me is torn. I’d like to tag along and see if he would be taking us all out to lunch, but I know since he is the world’s most stingy man (I once had to shame him by yelling out quite loudly in a restaurant that he forgot his tip), he’d be very unhappy to see me there and well, I also had no desire to listen to a one-sided conversation about himself and the fact he just discovered that Star Wars action figures can do the same job as a well placed gerbil. Ok, I am just being mean. To the gerbil.
Or God forbid, more tales of "Hospital Cop", his security gig at the local hospital. He once told me he was given the most heinous assignments because he lost his sense of smell in the Army. Don't wonder, just go with the flow.
Or how his girlfriend is bleeding him dry. Too much 99 cent store for her!
Or the series finale of Battlestar Galactica (which made me reel with how stupid I found it) and how humans sprang from the stars despite the fossil evidence. Reality it seems is subjective.
So I not only make an excuse for myself, but my other cousin who is sharing this little trek with me, that we need to “run errands”. My cousin is also relieved because she knows her peril. Plus she knows she’ll get a shot on Saturday which is the big party or what’s known as “Free Lunch On The Elderly” day. I think he will be doing a cameo and splitting before his brother, the born again White Supremist shows up. They don’t get along. I think it had something to do with CK being a dullard and his brother being a thug, but that’s just a guess.
Now this cousin I am traveling with is my favorite of the bunch because she has class and style and knows what to do with utensils. But she has siblings in Spokane and she was catching me up to speed. Apparently, her sister whom last I saw looked vaguely similar to beef jerky, has a new career as a “makeup consultant for Walgreens.” I am afraid this inspired me to want to go see this for myself. I wanted to watch her weave magic on the bovine cud chewers. What shade of mascara will attract the most mullets with El Caminos? My cousin who can match me pound for pound in derision and scorn would not indulge me, but we did laugh our asses off.
Getting back to the part with my cousin being able to use utensils, I think I should point out that she has a liberal definition of use. Numerous times, she has said to me, “I am going to so stick you with this fork…” I think she said it when I told her 15 year old niece who hadn’t seen her in the last decade and didn’t recognize her that my cousin just got out of the “joint” for killing a man. Truth is ol’cuz just can’t stomach Spokane, but why tell the truth when you can lie?
So more to come, but I gotcha something finally…
Day One:
So this morning starts out at about 6:30 am with some baboon in workman’s chothes working outside my hotel door dropping a ladder and banging away. I half expect to hear Jane Goodall narrating:
“See how Bobo makes his first attempts at using tools. He starts by mimicry but I believe he is actually learning to use the tools differently to yield best results after a while…”
Bite me Janey, it’s 6:30 am and if you want to see tools be used, check out the cranky primate without his latte, but with a .30 shotgun learning to use the tool differently to yield best results.
So my cousin and I finally get our act together and head out in her jeep which is totally tricked out with all the gadgets and joy that makes men love cars and we proceed into Spokane proper to collect my grandmother. Grandma insists on “Shari’s”. For those of you that have been to a Shari’s, I really don’t need to say more, but for those of you that have standards and/or feelings of elitism, let me paint a picture.
Imagine a place that looks identical no matter where in the world you may find the franchise. You could be in war-torn Iraq and go into a Shari’s and it would look exactly like a Shari’s from Iowa. Even more so than a Denny’s or a IHOP. Identical. I actually believe there is one Shari’s that is a nexus between dimensions and if you know the mystic words, you can travel anywhere. But I think I have to take back the identical label, because in Spokane, Shari’s is staffed by the un-dead.
“Would you like coffee, dearie, “ the She-Crypt-Keeper rasps and gurgles, as parts of her fall off.
Looking around the restaurant, one realizes that this is geezer central. Median age 120. I am sure this is the Spokane Retiree elephant graveyard and Gus, and Elmo are just waiting for the angels to take them to the “Monster Truck Rally” in the sky.
The menu has pictures of what the idealized version of the meal looks like. I find myself thinking the idealized version is sort of scary. Stuffed hash browns? WTF? Wait, I don’t want to know. But the interesting thing is the menu has been cut back quite a bit since I was last tormented by this ritual suicide. Guess the recession has other victims that GM and Morgan Stanley. Please Barack, do not bail out Shari’s.
So we go back to Grandma’s lair and do the gossipy family thing. Who’s sleeping with whom, when parole dates are coming up, etc. Then the Camel Killer calls. He wants to take Gram out for lunch. Part of me is torn. I’d like to tag along and see if he would be taking us all out to lunch, but I know since he is the world’s most stingy man (I once had to shame him by yelling out quite loudly in a restaurant that he forgot his tip), he’d be very unhappy to see me there and well, I also had no desire to listen to a one-sided conversation about himself and the fact he just discovered that Star Wars action figures can do the same job as a well placed gerbil. Ok, I am just being mean. To the gerbil.
Or God forbid, more tales of "Hospital Cop", his security gig at the local hospital. He once told me he was given the most heinous assignments because he lost his sense of smell in the Army. Don't wonder, just go with the flow.
Or how his girlfriend is bleeding him dry. Too much 99 cent store for her!
Or the series finale of Battlestar Galactica (which made me reel with how stupid I found it) and how humans sprang from the stars despite the fossil evidence. Reality it seems is subjective.
So I not only make an excuse for myself, but my other cousin who is sharing this little trek with me, that we need to “run errands”. My cousin is also relieved because she knows her peril. Plus she knows she’ll get a shot on Saturday which is the big party or what’s known as “Free Lunch On The Elderly” day. I think he will be doing a cameo and splitting before his brother, the born again White Supremist shows up. They don’t get along. I think it had something to do with CK being a dullard and his brother being a thug, but that’s just a guess.
Now this cousin I am traveling with is my favorite of the bunch because she has class and style and knows what to do with utensils. But she has siblings in Spokane and she was catching me up to speed. Apparently, her sister whom last I saw looked vaguely similar to beef jerky, has a new career as a “makeup consultant for Walgreens.” I am afraid this inspired me to want to go see this for myself. I wanted to watch her weave magic on the bovine cud chewers. What shade of mascara will attract the most mullets with El Caminos? My cousin who can match me pound for pound in derision and scorn would not indulge me, but we did laugh our asses off.
Getting back to the part with my cousin being able to use utensils, I think I should point out that she has a liberal definition of use. Numerous times, she has said to me, “I am going to so stick you with this fork…” I think she said it when I told her 15 year old niece who hadn’t seen her in the last decade and didn’t recognize her that my cousin just got out of the “joint” for killing a man. Truth is ol’cuz just can’t stomach Spokane, but why tell the truth when you can lie?
So more to come, but I gotcha something finally…
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