Everything is wrong with me
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
just bullshit.
I have a terrible problem on my hands.

My work computer is affected with some sort of worm or virus or whatever (I don't know what I'm talking about, since anyone who knows about computers is a nerd, and a "nerd" is the last thing I am, aside from "haver of consensual sex").

Basically, this thing from searchmiracle.com has infected my computer. Any time I bring up a webpage, this "worm" will look through the page, and seek out words to highlight and link it to the result of a search performed for said term on searchmiracle.com.

For example, any time I'm looking at a webpage that contains the words games, travel, health, mba, bed, moving, etc, these words will appeared underlined in the text and hyperlinked back to the damn searchmiracle results (and it doesn't have to be whole words - for example, it could say embedded and the "bed" will be underline and hyperlinked).

At first, I didn't think too much of this. Sure, I didn't like it, but I am in no position to have the people from IT looking into what I download, or what sites I visit, or how much time I spend on the internet, or who I email and what I say in my emails. That is a can of worms that I would like to leave closed at any and all costs.

But eventually I noticed that this fucking searchmiracle thing links other words. Word like sex and xxx and, most damningly, anal.

This is bad. Really, really bad. All day I look at analyst reports, and analysis. Sometimes, my boss will be in my office standing behind me and reading the same analyst reports over my shoulder. It can be very uncomfortable when, in plain and obvious view, every time the word "analyst" or "analysis" appears in the text of the report on the webpage, anal is underlined and hyperlinked.

So please, I know a lot of you are computer nerds - you have got to help a brother out here. I downloaded something called "Spybot - Search and Destroy" but that did nothing. There is really no way I can report this problem to IT, because in a matter of hours after doing so my boss would call me into this office and read me some of my finer emails:

My boss: "Jason, I want to read you something and ask for your explanation on it."
Me: "Ok."
My boss: "Ok, here goes:
'That bitch Cara - I bet her bush is HUGE. Seriously, you can just tell a mile away. I'm talking late '70's-up to the belly button-pubes four inches long style. Still, I would fingerblast the shit out of her, but she's so dank and nasty I'd put a condom on my finger before doing it, or at least wrap it in my shirt first, or maybe put it in my some hoagie wrapping, because I'm sure her roommate The House has plenty of spare sandwich wrapping lying around. Not that I even remember what fingerblasting is like, since the last girl I fingerblasted was that fat bitch Chunky Monkey, and I think I had to actually lift up a roll or two of her fat to get to her [said in a Borat accent] vagine. I don't remember much though; I was so drunk that night I probably would have stuck my dick in an electrical outlet.'
It goes on and on like this for four pages, and at one point you write 'Cockass bitch motherfucker cock balls poop bitch balls fuck.' Can you explain to me not only why you wrote this, but also why you felt compelled to do so on company time, at 11:03am on a Tuesday morning?"
Me: "Is it too late for me to resign?"
Boss: "Yes."
Me: "Damn."
Boss: "Yes."

So help me out here. I'm dying. Literally and figuratively, of course.


Last night I went home and heated up some delicious leftovers. After consuming the nearly two pounds of food, I thought to myself, "You know what? I'm not going to have dessert. Nay, I'm never going to have dessert again. I'm just gonna quite cold turkey."

Less than two hours later I had eaten three donuts.

In my defense, number one, I totally forgot about the whole "no more sweets" promise. I was watching the game, and I had a lot going on, what with all the, um, you know - I had a lot going on.

Number two, I didn't mean to eat all three donuts. You see, I had one, and noticed that though while it was still delicious, it was going a little stale. So, rather than waste such deliciousness and let the other two go stale, I took it upon myself to eat the rest, to ensure good karma.

I remember being you and my mom going on and on about "not wasting" and "eating everything on your plate" because there were starving kids everywhere. I'm sure she said this to make sure I got my daily nutrition, and never imagined that it would become the basis by which I live my life.

Have a giant plate of food in front you of? Eat it all - don't waste it. Hear that there's still a little whipped cream left in the canister? Hold it over the stove to melt a small hole in it from which you can suck it out - don't waste it (note: do NOT try this as home, as the pressurized canister will burst). Drunk and coming home at 5am and noticing there are some floaters lying around? Drink 'em up, even if they have a cigarette butt or two in them - don't waste them.

How impressionable we are whilst still young.


Two things I have to clear up first:

1) I am not a Yankees fan.

2) I am not a Red Sox fan.

That being said, Curt Schilling's performance last night in Game 6 has kept me weeping all day. I'm not ashamed to admit this; I believe it's ok for a man to cry. Especially when sports and/or dairy is involved.

But Schilling...what BALLS. What a real fucking man. I don't want to go too into it, because the stories are everywhere, plastered on the internet and morning newspapers across the country, but with dislocated tendons snapping on every pitch and an ankle leaking blood through his sock, Schilling willed the Red Sox into a deciding Game 7 tonight at Yankee Stadium with a remarkable seven-inning, one-run performance, when on Sunday this same Sox team was only three outs away from a sweep at the hands of the mighty Yankees.

Good lord. The Boston Red Sox, one of the most "cursed" franchises in all of professional sports, now stand one game away from not only finally beating their hated rival and advancing to the World Series, but are one victory away from the greatest comeback in sports history (and I write that without the slightest hint of exaggeration or hyperbole).

[A few days ago, I wrote on here about how all I wanted, as a long-suffering Phillies fan, was some exciting baseball. Um, yeah, I think I got it.]

My question now is: how could anyone not be rooting for the Sox tonight? It's an incredible story, and the identity of an entire region hangs in the balance. Many have written that Sox fans even (gasp!) like losing; that the trials and travails of the Sox are the core of their very existence. Without these disappointments and heartbreaks, the Sox would be just another ordinary team, and their fans would be like any others throughout the country. The Red Sox and their fans like being losers, because, in essence, it defines them. It gives them a reason to be.

Anyone who is a real sports fan would agree that's hogwash. As someone who would give a testicle and a half and three inches off my penis for a championship (knocking it down to negative one inch long), I and most Sox fans would gladly trade a history of coming up short, a culture of losing, and an identity as the accursed for that sweet, sweet championship.

And now they have a chance to get one step closer. Tonight, Game 7, Red Sox versus Yankees. You can bet yours truly will be glued to the couch tonight, pizza on one side, another pizza on the other, watching the drama unfold. My prediction: Yankees 7, Red Sox 3.

Come on - they can't win. They're the Red Sox!

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