Silly Things I Find on the Internet When I'm Bored at Work #1

So I had to be at work at 6 this morning because I had to get coffee and cookies ready for conferences. After I was done setting up, I had a couple of hours to kill. This is what I discovered:


When you get to the site, select that you are UNDER 21. Seriously. Oh my god.

http://blackacrebrewing.com/home/

Garfield Had It Right: The Terror of Mondays

Sometimes as you are waking up you have this feeling that you should just call in sick and stay in bed. I'm not talking about the way you feel every day when you are forced to crawl out from under the warm blankets and blinking step into the sun. No. I am talking about those rare occasions when there is an ominous sense of foreboding in the air, and you just know that your karmic number has come up. The world has chosen you to get covered by all the shit hitting the fan.

I should have listened to my gut instinct, curled up. and gone back to sleep. Even my cat knew that I should stay in bed. She came to cuddle with me beneath the blankets. She never does that.

Ignoring my intuition, I got out of bed and got dressed. I wore a new lavender top that I had only ever worn once. This is where the Universe decided to send me my first hint of impending disaster. For some unknown reason, my nose started bleeding. Gushing. Blood was everywhere. All over my new top.

By the time I cleaned myself up and changed clothes, I was running late. I scrambled to grab breakfast and my keys so I could eat in the car. Now, here was another hint. I should never eat in the car. I'm a klutz at the best of times. Add trying to drive through morning rush hour traffic, a driving sense of panic and impending doom, and a bagel and it is a recipe for disaster. Especially considering my luck and the fact that I had already demolished one shirt this morning.

I slid into the front seat and tried to turn the key in the ignition. It wouldn't move. It was locked. Panic set in, and my logical brain dissolved into a weeping pile of mush as I tried to accept that I was doomed. I would never drive my car again. How would I get it fixed? I couldn't drive it to the mechanic! Would they come to me? Surely not! The stupidity of my panic-stricken brain is embarrassing.

Now, had I been able to put two thoughts together, I would have remembered our old van. The Wookie-Wasp. So named because it made a disturbing sound like a Wookie, Transformers had just come to the big screen and my sister and I desperately wanted our own Bumblebee, and I like alliteration.

This old van had often had a problem in which the wheel would lock and the engine would die after it had been started. The brakes wouldn't work, and you couldn't turn it off to restart it because the wheel would lock, so you would find yourself unable to stop as you backed helplessly down the driveway. You had to quickly put the car in park, jiggle to wheel until it was loose, and then the ignition would work.

Why didn't I jiggle the wheel of my car? Panic-brain was too panicked.

Instead, I threw my keys on the counter with the intention of calling my grandpa when I got to work so he could look at the car. I grabbed my mom's keys, hopped into her van, and took off.

I arrived at work in a triumph of self-congratulation. I was just barely on time. Feeling pretty good about myself, I walked toward the front door. And realized that my key to the building was on my keychain. The keychain with my car keys. The keychain that I had thrown on my counter for my grandpa. I was locked out. Furthermore, I was the one with the master key. I was supposed to open everything for everyone else.

This is when I gave up. I plopped myself onto a picnic table, dug a granola bar out of my purse, and waited for someone to rescue me. And this is also when the side door opened behind me, and my boss asked what I was doing. For once, she had come early to get some extra work done.

So that is how my Monday morning went. The rest of the horror was the usual computers failing, not being able to get through to the system helpline, and being buried under fifteen billion things that need to get done. Thank god there was beer in the fridge when I got home.

Creepy Awesome Pandora

Oh, Pandora. You are awesome. You play all of the various, eclectic types of music that I like without the annoyance of commercials or songs that I despise. This is so much better than a radio station that does both of those things and will most likely only play music that I tolerate not that I actually like. You not only play my favorite songs from European bands that few people have heard of, but you also suggest new bands and songs that are similar so that I can easily find new music that I like. You are truly wonderful.

But, Pandora, it is creepy when I am singing a song in my head as I am pulling you up on my computer and you immediately begin to play that song. Especially because it is not a Top 40 song that is played every five minutes but an obscure piece of musical magic. It is even creepier when you do this as I am thinking about a remix and not the original song. Though I appreciate you trying to be helpful and play what I want to hear, your telepathy sometimes gives me nightmares of computers invading my brain. Please just play a mix and don't feel as if you need to go overboard to make me happy.

A Tragedy

This is an observation that I have recently made: Some people are way too focused on making money. Now, you may be thinking, "No shit, Sherlock. Were you born yesterday?" Obviously I wasn't since I have a job and am not rolling on a blanket making spit up and poop all day. I've made this observation before, but it hasn't hit home quite as much as it did tonight.

You see, I had a fantastic idea for a Christmas present for my sisters. I can't say what it is because both of them read this. Sorry guys. In my excitement, I took my computer to my dad and asked him to help me. He, of course, said sure. But then he asked me if I thought we could sell it online.

This floored me. I will not lie and say that the thought did not cross my mind, but I discarded it because it made the gift feel cheap. I wanted to make this to see the happiness in my sisters, not to make a buck.

I pointed out that selling it would be breaking copyright laws, and he said that that was fine. We would do it until we received a cease and desist letter. Now, I am sure he was half joking, but his recent obsession with trying to make money online is proof that he was also half serious. And that disturbs me.

How can someone sacrifice moral integrity to make money? I know people do it all the time, but I feel like that is part of the reason that our society has gone to shit. Money cannot buy happiness, and having a ton of money will not fill an empty life.

I for one refuse to sacrifice joy for cash. I prefer to have a rich life, not a rich bank account. I want to see my sisters smiling on Christmas day and know that I have given them a unique gift that no one else has. I am making this for them, not some stranger online.

Murder? Horror Movie? Zombie Apocalypse?

Things went very very wrong on Friday night. Very wrong. More wrong than they should have, and that's saying something because I was in downtown Minneapolis on Friday night, and we all know how that usually goes. In fact, that is part of the reason that things went so horribly terribly wrong.

It started because I am poor. I am poor and I can't afford booze at the bars. And when I start drinking I start to believe that I can afford booze, and then my credit card is worn out the next morning. My hungover conversations with my purse usually go like this:

"What the hell happened last night?"

"You drank."

"I can't have had that much."

"You whipped me out and started buying Liquid Cocaine shots for the bar."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah-huh."

"Why didn't you stop me?"

*Snort* "My great and mighty masters want your money. You will be indebted to them for eternity."

"But don't you have a limit?"

"My limit is when my barcode is worn away and I'm broken in half. Which, by the way..."

"Shit."

Ok, it isn't usually that bad. But there is always a shock when I get my bill. Except in Wisconsin. Drinks are cheap over there. Minnesota sucks.

So things started to get bad because I pregamed. I pregamed hard. I had two bottles of rum that were near the bottom, so I decided to finish them. Consequently, I had had five very strong drinks and was starting on my sixth when my friend arrived to pick me up.

I thought I was fine, but apparently not. I found out the next day that we stopped at a liquor store to pick up provisions. I have no memory of this, but apparently I was acting like a champ because I bought booze. Pat on the back for my acting skills.

By the time we got to my friend's apartment, I was definitely feeling hazy. I plopped myself at the kitchen table, had a shot of schnapps, and poured myself a glass of wine. I wanted to keep the haze going for as long as possible.

As I was sitting there, eyes unfocused, waiting for my friend to get out of the shower, my phone rang.
Now, my parents knew that I was going out. They knew that I would be partying. So this phone conversation should have maybe gone a bit differently.

First of all, I was confused because the Caller ID said "Work." For a split second in which my heart rate skyrocketed and panic flooded my every sense, I thought it was my current job. I thought I would have to somehow handle a complicated computer question that I was in no way capable of answering in my current condition. But then I remembered that my dad's phone was on the fritz and he was stuck using the office phone. Thank god.

I answered, and this is what I heard:

"Hi, Sweetie, I know you're out having fun, but I wanted to tell you not to worry about the blood when you get home."

WHAT???

You cannot even imagine the horror that those words inspire in someone who does not currently have the strongest grasp on reality. All I could think was that the zombie apocalypse had finally happened. My panic came surging back, and I desperately tried to figure out how I could get home. There was no way that I would be able to find my friend's keys in my current state, much less drive. Was the train running? How many miles was it? Did anyone have a bike?! I thought I saw one in the hallway, but it was locked up, so that brought me back to the fact that I couldn't stay steady enough to work a key. Oh god what was I going to do???

All of this went through my inebriated brain in about a nanosecond. There was barely a pause at all, but it felt like an eternity before my dad continued speaking:

"A picture frame fell on your mom's head. We had to take her to get stitches. She's fine, but it bled a lot, and the stairs look like something out of a horror movie."

Why couldn't he have led with that? To this day, I will never know. My panic calmed a bit, but I wanted to be sure that there was nothing I would have to worry about. Completely forgetting that I was partying with a medical fraternity and was in fact currently in an apartment with five doctors, I texted my best friend.

"How much are head wounds supposed to bleed?"

I expected a derisive text back, but my phone immediately began to ring. I answered, barely said "hello" before I heard his resigned voice:

"What did you do this time?"

I love that that was how he reacted.

That is the story of how my Friday night turned out to be way more dramatic than I expected. I didn't even see the blood when I got home, but in the morning I noticed the splatter all over the stairs. If anyone asks I will tell them that I shot someone infected with the T-Virus.

The Fiery Death of the Terrifying Eight Legged Thing From Hell

I need to preface this story by saying that I am terrified of spiders. In my opinion they are proof that Satan hates us. If I see one, I immediately search out the nearest method of extermination. Usually this is a shoe or a Kleenex, but I prefer to call someone to fetch a vacuum while I keep an eye on the unholy terror so that I can suck it up without getting close. Spiders are scary.

Do you know what the worst thing about spiders is? They hide in unexpected places, waiting to scurry away from you when you disturb them, pretending to be scared of you when we all know that they are laughing on the inside and plotting a new hiding spot. Bastards. Well one of these horrifying monstrosities finally got its due.

Like many of its kind, this spider decided to hide in an unexpected place. Namely, a candle. Can you see where this is going? Foolish arachnid.

Being a pit of a pyro, I was unreasonably excited to use the new lighter that I had found in the dollar section of Target. It was one of those wand lighters that would finally allow me to be able to easily light my candles. And, as it turns out, allow me to keep my distance from spiders that lie in wait in unexpected places.

As I lit the first candle, a spider scuttled out from god knows where. It was a big one, and I jumped backwards to the other side of my room, vaulting piles of laundry, books, and unpacked college crap. When my heart had slowed, I approached my dresser and cautiously peered into the candle. The spider sat on the wax, as far from the flame as it could get. Fortunately, it couldn't climb up the glass and escape.

I saw an opportunity here to get back at all arachnid kind. Arming myself with the lighter, I stood guard over the spider's pyre just in case it decided to make a run for it.

Now, this is where we come to the dumb broad (as my best friend would say) portion of the story. I wanted to be prepared in case the spider made a run for it, so I kept my finger on the trigger in readiness. What I did not realize is that my readiness included keeping the gas turned on.

The spider made a frantic dash up the smooth glass side of the candle, and I lunged forward to knock it back into its waxy hell. The gassy tip of the lighter reached the flame of the candle and burst into a terrifying fireball that singed my eyebrows and had me staggering back to the opposite side of the room once again.

At this point I had an epiphany. Both the spider and I had made stupid mistakes. It had foolishly crawled into a candle, and I had left the gas on the lighter. Clearly only one of us could survive, and it would be the one furthest away from that deadly flame. My new plan, then, was to wait it out on the other side of the room. If the spider somehow managed to escape the pit of the candle, then I would have ample opportunity to find some other means of extermination. I hoped.

I could almost hear the other hidden spiders in my room chanting for their brethren to escape the candle just like in The Dark Knight Rises. But it was not to be.

When the molten waxy lake had risen sufficiently for me to know that the spider had indeed perished, I cautiously approached the candle. The shriveled body floated in the wax. Blowing out the flame, I fished the corpse out of the goopiness and flushed it to a watery grave.

Update

I just found this on the Internet, and I feel like this may be my future...

http://cheezburger.com/6778827776

Blood Sucking Bastards

This is the harrowing tale of how I found myself in a drug induced coma for three days:

Last Saturday was the day of the incident, and the next Friday was the first day that I was actually alert and able to form coherent sentences without the danger of drool or nonsensical words. Or, god forbid, sloppy grammar. I actually ended some of my sentences in prepositions this week. I just did not care because I was so out of it. And it is all because of those blood sucking bastards.

It all started on Saturday night. Following the summer weekend tradition, I was at a friend's house for a party. There was the typical drinking and card games as well as a viewing of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs that just happened to be on Cartoon Network. Let me tell you, we weren't drinking when we were watching that movie, but we were all confused and a little bit scared by it.

The night continued with Teen Wolf (a much better movie when you add alcohol), and eventually we found ourselves out on the deck. Now, I have lived in Minnesota for my whole life. I should have known better. We all should have known better. But little did I know the horror that was about to befall me.

When I woke up the next morning, everything seemed normal. I didn't have a typical hangover, but my usual "Oh God what did I do to myself last night?" feeling. Resigning myself to an unproductive day, I grabbed the fuzziest, warmest blanket that I own and unceremoniously plopped myself onto the couch for an all day Doctor Who marathon.

As The Doctor made eye contact with Donna through a window behind Matron Foster's back, I began to notice an itch on the top of my foot. I scratched it absentmindedly and went back to watching. About the time Donna started whining about not being able to save the people of Pompeii, my ankle began to torture me with insatiable itching. By the time The Doctor Donna saved the Ood, my feet were swollen and misshapen by twenty-six bites that all seemed to be located in the worst places. My toes, my insteps, my ankles, and my heels were torture.

I desperately tore apart the medicine cabinet searching for anti-itch cream. I slathered my feet with Benadryl cream and waited for it to take effect. It didn't. My mom had prescription strength anti-itch cream, and I covered my feet in that. It didn't work. I was in agony, but I refused to take Benadryl pills to knock myself out from the torture because I do not handle it well. Those pills knock me on my ass.

Finally, after getting only two hours of sleep because of the incessant itching, I resigned myself to the inevitable. I staggered out of bed and made my pathetic sleep deprived way to the medicine cabinet. By this time I was practically comatose already from exhaustion and painful itching, so I figured I may as well make it a drug induced coma.

And that is how I ended up sleeping for nearly three days. I took the Benadryl ungodly early Monday morning and continued taking it every four hours that I was conscious. The itching and the swelling were gone by Tuesday afternoon, but I continued to sleep until well into Wednesday. By the time two o'clock rolled around, I had had enough. I forced myself out of bed and made the world aware that I had not died.

Those damn blood sucking bastards.