Articles

Divide By Zero

2009-02-09T21:19:00Z

I was presented with a pretty interesting situation the other day:

Can you divide by zero. This is what one physics professor says:

Actually, zero divided by zero is not necessarily infinity. ANY number qualifies as zero divided by zero. It is when you get to dividing NON-zero numbers by zero that you confront infinities.

Think of this in terms of the definition of division. A divided by B means: How many times must you subtract B from A to reach zero?

For A divided by zero, where A is any number except zero, the number is not even infinity, because infinity itself is not big enough. No matter how many times you subtract zero from, say, five, you will never, ever reach zero. So even infinity is not big enough to be 5/0.

What does this tell us about zero divided by zero? Well, how many times must you subtract zero from zero in order to reach zero?

Zero times? Sure. That works.
One time? That works too.
Two times? Yes. If you subtract zero from zero twice, the result is zero.
Pi times? Again, if you subtract pi zeroes from zero, the result is zero.

We can do this with ANY NUMBER THERE IS, even zero. So, zero divided by zero is truly a special way to define a number. The answer can be infinity, or it can be zero, or absolutely anything else. All numbers satisfy the operation.

I want to hear your thoughts and opinions. TheZone -- what say ye?!

How to Quit the Internet

2004-10-06T07:00:00Z

You know, I don't want to date myself by broaching this subject, but at the same time I feel like it really needs to be addressed. Back in the day, like a lot of people, I was on AOL. Yes I know, as cool as I am, it's really tough to believe that. Still, I was there. I was also one of those guys who was there at a time when 32 bit programming was just permeating the juarez...I mean warez community, and everybody and their mama wrote AOL Add-ons. Seriously, my mom had this one IM Punter called You're Grounded...but that's besides the point.

I don't remember specifically when I saw my first official internet quitting, but I think I was probably away from my keyboard. Like you know... 14 inches away. In another window. Because if there's one thing AOL taught me, it's that you can't do anything else while AOL is open. So when you went away, you had to let everybody know about it. So of course, I opened Bikini³² AFK Bot, and sat back. This ensured that everyone in the private chat room knew I was not looking at the chat room. That way if someone were to say "hey Syber... blah blah blah.", somebody else could say "He's AFK right now.", and they wouldn't be left to thinking I was either ignoring them, or just didn't like them. It was during these times that I learned there is a right way, and a wrong way to quit the internet. Sometimes you have to be a quitter. Now I'm going to show you how to do it right.

The important thing to remember is that if you want to quit anything, you have to be credible. I'll continue to touch on this subject throughout the lecture. If you're not credible, you can't really "quit" per se. If you're not credible and you stop doing something, you just stopped. You left. You didn't quit. Only people with credibility get to quit. If you leave with credibility on good terms after a distinguished career, then it's a retirement. You don't want to retire though. you want to quit like a pro. Quitting is the only way to leave a scandal behind, and have something to tell your kids about.

The first step to quitting the internet is to spend every waking moment of your life on it. If you're not there all the time, it wouldn't be a big deal if you stopped going. That'd be like if I gave up smoking, but I smoked 1 cigarette every 6 months. So get started now being online at all times of the day and night. Even if you're not physically in front of your PC, leave some sort of program running so that people can see that you're online. I recommend Kazaa or some sort of a Trojan that reports to a website. If you're a mac user, then just close this browser right now. Mac users can't quit the internet to begin with, because you have to have a reputation and/or friends to have credibility, and Mac users have neither. So eat it, you cock suckers.

Once you spend a good 16 hours a day on the internet, you need to start building that reputation I was talking about. First things first, you're going to need to meet some people. Wait. Close www.match.com asshole, I didn't mean like that. You need to go to a chat room, or an IRC Channel, or a bulletin board, or their gay versions, WebTV, Observers, or MySpace, in the same order. Start making friends, hanging out, etc. I recommend following my previous advice to never leave those places, so you can further prove you're online all the time. If you're on a bulletin board (hitherto referred to as a BBS so I don't have to type that word out), I recommend checking the option to save the cookie so you don't have to login all the time. You never know when you'll be in a real hurry to post some pointless fact about your life. Your friends can't be expected to wait until 1pm the next morning when you wake up, to hear about your E-Date last night.

If you've made it this far you can pat yourself on the back. Don't start planning your exit yet though, we've got one more critical step. You can't just leave for no reason. You have to quit because somebody made you. But you don't want to say that. Then you're just a pussy. You have to leave because you can no longer "take it". Because this "place" is full of so much bullshit, and hypocrisy, and probably a bunch of other shit that you, as a superior being, simply cannot coexist with any longer. So with your friends in place, now it's time to make enemies. The easiest way to do this is to go wherever you're always hanging out, and disagree with somebody. For the first instance, you should wait for someone to make a statement, and then disagree with it. This makes you the antagonist. You don't want to say it first, and then be disagreed with. You're fucked if you do it that way.

So once you're effectively in disagreement with a member of your community, you need to dwell on the issue at had forever. Never let it drop. If you make the mistake of letting the issue cool off, start another problem. Remember I said you can't start the problem the very first time, but now you're at liberty to be a real prima dona. Start the second issue if necessary, and then quickly remind everyone of the fact that this guy/girl is a real dick/bitch because last time you had a problem, he/she was too stupid/menstruating to see the truth staring him/her in the face. If you're in a chatting environment, make sure to continue to talk about the problem for days. Inquiring for the opinion of every single person who joins the chat, even if they don't know either of the parties involved. If the joining party agrees with your slant on the situation, you should make sure to point that out to the opposing party. If the opposing party isn't present, make sure you suggest that the reason they aren't present is because they know you're right. Flawed logic like this is the only way to properly prepare to quit the internet.

If you're carrying this mission out via a BBS, then you need to be posting at least 3 to 5 times per hour, on multiple threads. If your opponent posts a response, I recommend immediate name calling, and any other playground tactics you can think up. If at any point in the thread you lose the upper hand, promptly start a separate thread, and claim that your opponent is such a fag/dyke that he/she has to hijack your thread to get a point across. Keep in mind of course, that you'll have to monitor 2 threads at this point. The trade off is well worth it however, because innocent bystanders will see the 2 or more threads and think, "Wow, these people just won't leave this guy alone!"

Finally, when this has all dragged out to astronomical proportions, you can make the announcement condemning this person, the situation, glorifying the old days before this person showed up, explaining that the whole thing sucks now, and that you're leaving and never coming back. Make sure you list off like 50 reasons you're leaving. Also, don't forget to say that you've giving this a lot of thought. Oh! And make sure they all know how big of a sacrifice this is for you. Make sure you point out that you still like so-and-so, and if you're lucky it'll be a friend of the opponent. That way neutral parties can know that you're not just a jerk, and you still have a heart. Make sure you use a lot of capital letters, and bold if the format supports it. If you have any powers, abuse them all before you leave. If you're a moderator of a BBS, ban somebody, and make your quitting thread a sticky, so it stays at the top. You may even want to comment later that you hope nobody removes the sticky on your thread, so everyone can be sure to see that you quit. This way they won't wonder if you died when a tower of Big Macs fell on your bloated ass. DO NOT LOCK THE THREAD! If you lock the thread, nobody will be able to voice their support for you. Remember everybody loves you, and you're the greatest thing that ever happened to this situation, before so-and-so came along and fucked it up. Also make sure that you use finite words when you're done. Like "this is it. my last post.", and "after this, I won't post anymore. After this. This period at the end of THIS sentence. I mean THIS sentence. Now." Somebody will usually post afterwards, and say it was cool knowing you, and they hope you change your mind eventually. Feel free to post back at any time even though you already said you weren't coming back at all. Nobody will notice that you're probably just yearning for attention because you're a fat sack internet slob. Moreover, I doubt they'll figure out that all this "I'm leaving..." nonsense is really just a a self glorifying test of popularity that you need to justify to yourself that you're as cool in the eyes of others as you say you are to yourself, every day, in the mirror hoping God himself doesn't reach through the clouds and crush you for being a brutal liar. Those same people won't notice that your post count keeps going up on the BBS, despite the fact that you claimed you quit. Or that the little piece of text under your User Name, identifying the last time you logged in, reads 5 minutes ago. They also probably won't notice that after you signed off your 2Kool4Skool screen name, another user joined named Not2Kool4Skool.

See, the great part about the internet is that stupidity breeds ignorance. The morons of the internet love to hang out together. Which actually, leads to the beauty of this situation. You get to quit and cause this raucous because these douché bags are stupid enough to let you do it. And why shouldn't you? Like I said already, you're probably fat. If you're a guy, you probably don't have a girlfriend. If you do, you've probably never seen her in real life. And the furthest base you've gotten to, wasn't second base, but the 8th base on the 4th moon of the second planet you E-Met her on. You were a wizard, she was an elven princess. It was really romantic I'm sure. You cast a "Movement of the Third Leg" spell that led to your current situation. Only now you have to quit. It's about respect. You'd be a quitter if you didn't quit at this point. It takes a real pussy to quit quitting. Now quitting a quit can be done, but I won't get into that here. Besides, she can come with you. There's nothing to worry about.

If you think you can't accomplish this, I will be the first to say you're wrong. If you're quitting the internet, you've already quit real life. That's one success under your belt! I'll bet you weren't even counting that one. See? I told you that you could do it. Now dust your hands off, you've successfully quit the internet. Have your girlfriend come over, and you can have sex with her. Oh wait... right. Just send her an email to... oh yeah, I keep forgetting. Well, instead just eat a Twinkie. You sad, sad, fat little piece of shit.

Now fuck you all, I'm leaving, and this time I mean it. As of now. As of this period.... There.

Originally posted 10/6/2004 by Syber

We're going to crash. Dive-Roll!

2004-07-15T07:00:00Z

Alright, so as of this piece of writing I’m 23 years old; which means a few things. First of all, I drink on an almost daily basis. I stay up until 3am every night, and then go to work the next morning all fucked up. I do more pirating than Black Beard himself. At this stage of my life, my parents have forgiven me for being a teen-ager—which incidentally led to my 3 younger siblings having a much easier time with it, since I did all the trailblazing—and most people think I’m an adult now. With that being said, I watch more cartoons now than I have ever watched in my entire life. Now, in my defense, I do some drawing now and again, so some of my watching is motivated from the standpoint of a curious artist. But most of it is because cartoons kick ass. All of them don’t, but a good deal of them do.

In this day and age of terrorist threats, shitty International politics, and arguably the dumbest human ever running our country, not a lot is going right for us. Let’s face it folks, that guy might not even be the brightest person in a kindergarten class, let alone the brightest guy leading a global super power. Still, with that being said, if cartoons have taught me anything in life, there is nothing to worry about at all.

I’m seriously. All the people we’re at war with right now are from the same planet. How minor is that? I’ve seen quite a few shows where people come from Outer Space, and try to kick our asses, and it never works. I know for a fact that the human spirit can prevail against anything; including death rays. On a quick side note, once somebody had a debate with nobody, that it was kind of stupid that all the Aliens you see in movies and shit are way more advanced than us, and that’s not very likely that we’re that far behind EVERYONE, in the grand scheme of things. Now, in principle this is true. But we’re not talking about EVERYONE. We’re talking about (simply by nature of the conversation) aliens that have left their home planet, and traveled light years away, to our planet. The last time I checked, we can’t do that. So by the associative property, and the powers vested in me by the state of world affairs, I think it’s pretty safe to say they’re more advanced than we are. Dumb ass. Anyway, let’s get back on subject.

As I was saying, the human spirit can prevail against anything. In this case, we have to prevail against human spirit, because we’re fighting other humans. But I’m pretty sure we ( America) will win, because we’re the good guys right? Right. Remember in Transformers, how the Decepticons talked funny? All of them had weird voices. I chalk that up to them being foreign terrorists, who also talk funny. I mean sure they’re all robots, so you’re going to get a few regional colloquialisms and what have you, but don’t be petty.

If my cartoon watching is correct, then all we have to do is wait for the bad guys to get greedy, which is only a matter of time, then we can just trace their illegal cable TV feed that they’ve tapped into to, to declare world domination, then we can rush in there with a handful of guys who shoot blue colored laser guns, and BAM! All done. Play close attention to that detail, by the way. Bad guys shoot red lasers. Blue is good. I couldn’t understand how the military is always reporting all these friendly-fire casualties for a while. Then in hit me: night vision. All the good guy armies use night vision, where everything just looks black and white, or green and white if it’s being broadcast on the news by some asshole reporter who’s probably giving away our troop positions as we speak, and may or may not be operating as a double agent for COBRA.

Can I tangent for a minute? Thanks.

What the fuck is up with reporters all over the fucking wars these days. They go standing in front of the proverbial bus, then we’re all outraged when they get kidnapped by the bus, and held hostage for not bringing correct change for the uptown fare. I pose this question: do you have a blue laser gun? I didn’t think so. Stay the fuck out of our wars. I don’t want fucking Duke, and fucking….Snake Eyes, and shit, god forbid, Shipwreck out there, risking his life for your douchéy Geraldo mustache and your idiot cameraman. You don’t see Bazooka and Hawk sitting next to your Channel 53 Local Faggot News sign when you’re back in the studio during peace time do you? Of course you don’t. They’re out there dive rolling over red lasers so you can have that shit to begin with. Show some fucking respect.

So as I was saying, you can’t see the colored lasers with night vision. This brings me to my next points, which are the battles themselves. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a single battle fought at night, so I’m not sure what the hell they’ve been doing over there in Iraq these days. If they’d quit trying to improvise, and make a name for themselves, they’d just follow precedent, and charge forward at 12 Noon, when all respectable battles are fought. Just pick a large empty field somewhere, and then line your boys up on one side, and they’ll use the other. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Now, I’m not trying to say this is simple. But I’ll try to sum it up in a way so this article won’t last for 9 pages. The boats go in the water, the tanks and shit, go on the grass, and the airplanes and helicopters, and any assorted hovering vehicles you have, go in the air. What you don’t want to do—and I can’t stress this enough—is to get ahead of the General. The General is huge. It’s got like 40 wheels on it, 2 trailers, 140 laser guns and rockets and shit, and it costs $50. Don’t fool yourself hero, your time to shoot at the red lasers will come, but it’s not worth getting in front of the General just to have your standard issue army jeep shot with a rocket, then you’ll have to dive-roll out of it, and you’ll just look like an ass.

This is another key moment to not be a hero. If, for some unforeseen reason, your vehicle does come under fire—believe me it happens—don’t panic. You’ll have plenty of time to see the missile the size of a sperm whale, coming at you. Don’t try to evade it. Simply pop open your bubble top, and get ready to jump. You have to time it perfectly. If you jump way before the missile hits, you’ll just look like some idiot who bailed out of his standard issue jeep, and you don’t want that. The vehicles are built tough, so they won’t explode as soon as the missile hits. It has to like… go through the outer armor first. Once that happens, THEN you jump. If for some reason you fuck up, and you don’t jump in time, that’s ok. Wait for the jeep to roll over. They always roll over. Then, climb out and look for somebody on your team with blue lasers, and give them a thumbs-up letting them know you’re alright. Once that’s accomplished, run like hell, because NOW the jeep is going to detonate like an asshole on Ex-Lax.

Just remember the following key factors to staying alive in a battle:

Never underestimate the dive-roll. Ninety percent of all attacks can be avoisioned with a well timed roll. Plus, chicks dig it.
When in doubt, dive-roll.
Don’t forget your parachute. You ALWAYS need a parachute. You never know if you’re going to be in a helicopter being downed by a well placed nuclear projectile. Your dive-roll is important, but it’s not going to mean shit from 50 feet up, which is where airborne units operate during a war.
Take your own jeep. You want as many vehicles as possible out there. Plus if you’re at full capacity, you can’t pick up your buddies, who may have gotten a flat tire; which of course means their jeep rolled over and subsequently exploded, while they dive-rolled out of the way.

Once you’re on foot, the battle isn’t over. The first thing you want to do is try to get in a buddy’s vehicle. If you can make it to one, you’ll be fine. If not, that’s ok too. Just keep shooting at the red lasers. If you’re a robot, then I’d recommend changing into your vehicle form at this time, and just flying or driving away. Get back to the base for repairs. The base isn’t that far away. Any battle can be reached within one or two minutes of driving—even if you’re driving a Big Rig, which can go just as fast as the Porsche and the Lamborghini. If you have a red Trans-am, then you can actually just pop your doors up and fly too, which I’ve seen on M.A.S.K. In the unlikely event you can’t find a buddy, and you’re fighting on foot, don’t worry. You can never run out of lasers for one thing. Just keep charging forward and eventually one of two things will happen. You’ll get behind enemy lines and single-handedly win the battle, or you’ll get shot, and captured. Now, if you get shot, there’s like a 90% chance the shot will strike your weapon, rendering it inoperable. Just drop it. Put your hands above your head, and you’ll be escorted to the enemy jail, which is back at their base, 5 minutes away. When the battle is over, your buddies will come to rescue you, and take you back home. They won’t destroy the enemy base though. That’s just poor sportsmanship. If you’re lucky, you’re a robot. If you’re really lucky you’re a really kick ass robot that can fly and shit. If this is the case, and you get shot you’ll probably notice you’ve been rendered completely inoperable. I’m pretty sure you can just change into a vehicle and leave though. In the worst case, drive into the trailer of the Big Rig, and wait the battle out while playing solitaire or something.

The biggest mistake you can make is to underestimate the enemy. Just because you fought them 8 times last week, all with the same outcome, you always have to be on your toes. In fact, they usually have recruitment offices right there in your own town, which is about 5 minutes away from the base. They sit outside and sign up foot soldiers like it’s a $1 kissing booth at the county faire. The only difference is, you can’t get mono here. You don’t really have to worry about these guys though. A good rule of thumb is if the guy you’re fighting has the same uniform as another guy, he’ll be easy to beat. The guys you need to watch out for are the ones with weird or unique uniforms. I realize it can get confusing since your guys will be wearing some unique threads as well. But unless it’s your resident ninja, who might wear black like the standard baddy uniform, just shoot anybody you see with a different colored laser. Remember, if the unthinkable happens, and you shoot your own guy, you’ll probably just hit his gun, or blow up his standard issue jeep. Embarrassing? Sure, but it’s not the end of the world, and you can always dive-roll. Hey, it can’t hurt.

Once in a great while, the enemy might get the drop on you, and you’ll have to execute a tactical retreat. Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll find a way to get them back within the next 22 minutes. If a buddy out on patrol with you gets captured, or vice-versa, just return to base, and organize an all out assault on the enemy. They probably won’t expect it. When you meet on the field of battle, and it’s all over, you can casually stand around and discuss what a great day it was. A great day for blue lasers. A great day for the good guys. As an added bonus, you might even explain that leaning your head forward as opposed to back, is a better solution for a nose-bleed, or that sniffing paint is a bad idea.

P.S. I recently brought it to my own attention that in a lot of cartoons of Japanese origin, people really die right and left. I could explain it, but it’s not worth it. I don’t know what kind of fucking fantasy world those people are living in.

Originally posted 7/15/2004 by Syber

.NET Encryption with Private and Public keys

2004-06-08T07:00:00Z

This example will show you how to use public and private keys to encrypt data.

First off lets create a class and call it CryptoService:

Imports System.IO
Imports System.Text
Imports System.Security.Cryptography

Public Class CryptoService

Now we are going to add a two properties and two methods to our class. The properties will hold the public and private keys and the methods will encrypt and decrypt the data we pass. Lets start with the properties first:

We will first add two private variables to our class to store the property data:

Private bytKey() As Byte
Private strKey As String

Now lets add our two properties:

Public Property Key() As Byte()
    Get
      Return bytKey
    End Get

    Set(ByVal KeyIn() As Byte)

      If KeyIn.Length < 8 Or KeyIn.Length > 8 Then
        Exit Property
      End If

      bytKey = KeyIn

    End Set

End Property

Public Property KeyString() As String
    Get
      Return strKey
    End Get

    Set(ByVal KeyStringIn As Byte)

      If KeyStringIn.Length < 8 Or KeyString.Length > 8 Then
        Exit Property
      End If

      strKey = KeyStringIn

    End Set

End Property

Notice that we will only except 8 numbers for our Key and 8 chars for our KeyString.

Now we will add the heart of the class with the two methods Encrypt and Decrypt:

Public Function Encrypt(ByVal Data As String) As String

    If Data = "" Then
      Exit Function
    End If

    If Key.Length = 0 Or KeyString = "" Then
      Exit Function
    End If

    Dim bytKeys() As Byte = Encoding.UTF8.GetBytes(KeyString)
    Dim bytIn() As Byte = Encoding.UTF8.GetBytes(Data)
    Dim objMs As New MemoryStream
    Dim objDes As New DESCryptoServiceProvider

    Dim objCs As New CryptoStream(objMs, objDes.CreateEncryptor(bytKeys, Key), CryptoStreamMode.Write)

    objCs.Write(bytIn, 0, bytIn.Length)
    objCs.FlushFinalBlock()

    Return Convert.ToBase64String(objMs.ToArray())

End Function

Public Function Decrypt(ByVal Data As String) As String

    If Data = "" Then
      Exit Function
    End If

    If Key.Length = 0 Or KeyString = "" Then
      Exit Function
    End If

    Dim bytKeys() As Byte = Encoding.UTF8.GetBytes(KeyString)
    Dim bytIn(Data.Length) As Byte
    Dim objMs As New MemoryStream
    Dim objDes As New DESCryptoServiceProvider

    bytIn = Convert.FromBase64String(Data)

    Dim objCs As New CryptoStream(objMs, objDes.CreateDecryptor(bytKeys, Key), CryptoStreamMode.Write)

    objCs.Write(bytIn, 0, bytIn.Length)
    objCs.FlushFinalBlock()

    Return Encoding.UTF8.GetString(objMs.ToArray)

End Function

This class is now ready to be used to encrypt and decrypt data based upon the keys we submit to the class, for example:

    Dim objCrypto As New CryptoService
    objCrypto.Key = New Byte() {100, 20, 32, 77, 65, 89, 44, 2}
    objCrypto.KeyString = "!#e^*h&="

    Dim strEnc As String = objCrypto.Encrypt("my string")
    Dim strDec As String = objCrypto.Decrypt(strEnc)

    MessageBox.Show("Encrypted Data: " & strEnc & vbCrLf & "Decrypted Data: " & strDec)

I'll be posting more examples as I have time. If you would like me to make an example of something specific, just let me know.

Originally posted 6/8/2004 by pre

Smile and Nod

2004-03-29T07:00:00Z

So the other day, I'm at this convention put on by the Chamber of Commerce of the city I work in. The conference is about internet security and other topics relevant to today's (2004) businesses. My boss is the chairman of the board of directors of the chamber, so I'm there helping out. Setting shit up, etc. etc. Anyway, to get to the point, I'm sitting in on some of the presentations being given by some bright dudes. An author, a Secret Service agent, and the list goes on. About half way through this one guy's presentation, I become aware of an increasingly annoying presence.

There's a guy sitting behind me, and about 2 chairs over who's nodding. A lot. I mean like every sentence. And I'm not talking about nodding off to sleep; I mean nodding in agreement. Now in itself, I probably wouldn't give a shit. I rarely ever care what people are doing or thinking, even when they're doing it to, or thinking about, me. Now that you have that ever-important little insight into my psychi, let me continue. This douche bag behind me is nodding after everything the presenter was saying. Granted, the presenter was actually pretty good, and I was enjoying (and agreeing with) what he was saying. Still, I wasn't fucking nodding my head after everything.

Now, at a point in the presentation when a lot of facts are being listed and explored, the nodding escalates to the next stage: commentary. It goes a little something like this:

Presenter:	So as you can see, FACT A is prevelant throughout the community.
Idiot:	nods Hehe. Yep.
Presenter:	Fundamentally, the only way to combat FACT A is through a community-wide initiative involving EVERYONE. If everyone doesn't participate, there will always be holes. And as the old saying goes 'A chain is only as strong as the weakest link.'
Idiot:	nods Yeah. they all have to participate
Me:	thinking ...What the hell dude, he just said that.

So being the nice guy I am, I try to give him the benefit of the doubt. I'm thinking, maybe he just didn't hear that, or whatever. Even so, it's a fucking presentation idiot. Not a fucking round table discussion. Notice how there's ONE mother fucker in front, and the rest of us are sitting in chairs? Not really a communist situtation where everyone's equal right? Yeah. No shit. There's a reason asshole. YOU'RE NOT THE PRESENTER. As such, kindly SHUT THE FUCK UP!

So at this point, I start to assess the situation. Middle aged guy. Not really a geek in the fat, glasses, I-got-caught-for-distributing-the-blaster-worm, sense of the word, but he's probably the "IT" (I use the term VERY loosely) guy for some gay ass company that probably doesn't really need a lot of IT work or security performed to begin with. But these days if a company buys you a laptop and a cell phone, every ass is running around like he's Bill fucking Gates. This is one of those guys. I heard him check his PDA like 5 times during the session. For what? You're not getting shit. Trust me, we're 2 floors underground. There is NO FUCKING SIGNAL.

At one point the conversation touched on TCP/IP technologies, and subsequently, ports. All million ports right? Wrong.

All 65,535 ports.

How do I know that's how many ports there are? Because that dumb shit actually RAISED HIS HAND, in the MIDDLE of the presentation mind you, and mentioned (very nonchalantly) that "blah blah blah, I'm actually a moron, but I want to ask this question because you're presenting, and that makes you an expert, and I want to pretend like I'm sort of an authority on all things technology, and maybe you should explain that a 'port' is kind of like a window, and there are 65,535 ports available and blah blah blah."

I was fucking stunned. Sir, will you kindly SHUT THE FUCK UP! Jesus mother fucking Christ. Are you absolutely serious? Was that necessary? Was that in good taste? Fuck no, son. Shut your fucking hole! I can't express how annoyed I was. And yes, he really said that entire sixty-five thousand number.

You know what? Fuck it. Let's assume for a split second he actually had something relevant to say. I have assembled the following "Benefit of the Doubt" list for our friend the ass pirate.

Nobody fucking cares that there are exactly sixty-five thousand, five hundred and thirty five ports. Saying "Sixty-five thousand" is more than adequate. Stop dropping numbers to sound smart.
"It's kind of like a window into a building..." Sure. I guess. You're so smart for being able to come up with that INCREDIBLE analogy. But hey, did it ever occur to you that since most of the folks present are completely uninformed, that you should refrain from using terminology that directly represents another technology? In this case Microsoft's WINDOWS operating system? As a "tech" guy, I know, and I'm sure many of you reading know how easy it is to confuse people who don't know any better, which isn't their fault. All I'm saying, is that it's a tricky situation, and if you've ever said "open up windows explorer" and somebody goes "for the internet?", you know what I mean. That being said, Mr. Genius-Stupid-Ass-Comment-Guy, don't fucking say "window" when you're talking about ports. Nobody knows what a port is! So just call it a fucking port! Don't contribute to the problem of misinformation. And secondly, if you're going to make an analogy, do it fucking right. Call it a street, or better yet, even more generally speaking, a point of access, or a "way in" to a computer. PERIOD!
"Haha yep." Is not a viable response. In fact, NOTHING is. There is no need to respond at all! It's not a question! The guy is just up there talking. Shut the flying fuck up and let him talk. If it was your turn to talk, then YOU'D be in front of the podium.

Now on a day to day basis, I'm sure we all deal with these Know-it-all type people, who always want to drop in their 2-cents, regardless of whether or not they were asked. Fine. This is another level though. Not so much a Know-it-all, just the kind of person that gets around certified experts and the next thing you know, they're all into what THEY know how to do, like they need to prove themselves to whoever the expert (who incidentally doesn't give a shit who they are) is at the time. They're kind of like Yes-men, but not quite. They want to be cool by association. Like if I stand next to an ugly dude, I'll look better. So if they stand next to an expert, that makes them one too.

I'll tell you what, it makes you a douché bag. My list of people I hate is longer than ever, and this guy just made it. When I take over the world asshole, you're going down. And you know what else? I'm purposely going to have all the guys like him IQ tested, and then get a guy slightly dumber than he is, and force him to listen to that dumber guy's solutions and insights in life. Then, and only then, will that first idiot have any single solitary fucking clue how annoying he is, and what listening to him did to me. Fucker.

Now I just reread everything I wrote, and maybe I got a little sloppy in the underlying message, so I'd like to clarify. Society today has a lot of problems. I realize this. Still, there is one underlying problem: nobody has any fucking common sense anymore. Just because you're the leading authority in your neighborhood when your friend's computer stops working, doesn't make you an expert. Still confused? You know those guys who are always telling jokes, but aren't funny? Ok here's a quick test. If nobody in your life has ever told you "hey, you're funny!", then you aren't. That's why nobody's told you that. So with that in mind, shut the fuck up. If everyone thinks you're the smartest guy ever, but you've only hung out with special-education students your entire life, then you're not the smartest guy ever. In fact, you're probably barely the smartest guy if everyone else died and left you and just the 'tards. The reality is there is probably a monkey somewhere who can peel one hell of a banana, and has one-upped you. That being said, before you speak in the future, think about what you're about to say. If you're going to tell a joke, and you're not funny: don't. If you're going to say something intelligent, but you didn't graduate highschool: don't. If you're about to mack a broad, and never once have you had a girlfriend: don't. If you're going to say something to me: don't. Now, sit back and let me crack you across the face with this impressive right back-hand Andre Agassi taught me. I'm Rick James bitch.

Originally posted 3/29/2004 by Syber

Me Against the World

2003-11-12T08:00:00Z

You know the old saying "When it rains, it pours", right? Yeah same here. Good saying. My Dad used to say that shit all the time. Come to think of it, he's pretty much full of hilarious, and some not-so-hilarious little sayings. I like to repeat them to my friends for the purpose of amusement. Anyway, I'm getting side-tracked already.

First of all let's get one thing straight. What I'm about to describe to you is based on a couple of personal experiences that just so happened to occur within days of each other. Don't trip, this isn't turning into some fruity web log. As funny as I'm sure my life is to you people, you're out of luck. I'm just going to use these occurances as an example of why I'm the fucking man, and everyone else is not.

Everyone who knows me knows I slave away hardcore at my job, day in and day out. Nonetheless I manage to keep a nice optimistic outlook on life. So this particular day, it's 5 p.m., so I mash out. Bam. Hit the door, get into the Mule (one of my rides), and roll out. The city I work in, is one of those yuppy mother fucking cities that's all full of itself, and is filled with Police who don't have anything to do; ever. Nothing really ever happens there, so it's not like they're used to solving crimes. Most of them spend their time driving around issuing tickets for incomplete stops, expired registration tags, and harassing me. I once got stopped before work by the Elroys, and he had the nerve to ask me why I wasn't in school.

	::Car stops hard as I cross the street (J-Walking) to my job::
Pig:	Shouldn't you be in school?
Big P Funk:	Yeah, if it was like 4-years ago.
Pig:	4 years?
Big P Funk:	Since I graduated.
Pig:	Oh. Well, you should use the cross-walk.
Big P Funk:	Yeah, true. Thanks for the tip. But, you're a trained professional, I wasn't scared you'd hit me.
Pig:	Ok, wise guy. Just use it next time.
Big P Funk:	Ok.

Now on the surface, that seems a bit exagerated, but that's just how I really talk. I'm not saying it's easy being the man, but somebody's gotta do it.

The purpose of that, was just to give you a background of my situation. So let's get back up to speed. I got off work, and mobbed out. So I'm cruising down the street, which is pretty populated by pedestrians, at about 25 (legal in a business or residential area in California). I get about a block from my job, and this older guy is off to the side of a crosswalk, deep on the sidewalk. I notice, because he's looking dead at me. As I approach, he gives me the middle finger! HARD!.... I was fucking shocked... this isn't even like a pro middle finger. It's the ugly finger. You know the one when you grip your index, ring, and pinky finger's HELLA hard with your thumb. So your middle finger is way in the air, flying a solo mission; with no wingman at all. You know what I'm talking about. The finger the chess club gives you, because they have no experience giving the finger; and their hands just don't work that way. So yeah, this old fucker gives me the ugly finger. THEN... he says (I'm guessing because i'm reading his lips at this point) "It's a fucking crosswalk!", as I pass slowly by.

Now before I go any further. Let me say that I am a really nice guy. All things considered, I tend to be pretty observant of feelings (albeit not always sympathetic to them), and I respect people. Especially old people. I even let old people fuck up for free, because the chances are, they shot some Nazi that allowed me to be here today, or rivetted the gun that the other geezer used to shoot the Nazi that allowed me to be here today. Trust me, I appreciate it. Now I don't want this little rant to drag out, so I'll get right to the point: I stopped the car. All the respect in the world isn't going to stop me from flipping out on this guy. SKIRRRRT! Stop the Mule in the middle of the street. Open the door, step out and say "What's the problem?". He says "This is a fucking cross-walk! I'm a pedestrian! I have the right of way!!!" And damnit, to an extent, he's right. But not that right. So I say: "Yeah but you have to be in the fucking cross-walk to get the right of way. You can't be all the way against that building on the sidewalk, flipping me off and expect me to stop! Look it up! You know you haven't been to the DMV in 40 years anyway!" Bam. Slam the door, and smash off. Fuck that. Like I said, I'm all for respecting elders, but don't go throwing your age around. I'll show you what's up, and whoop grandpa's ass if necessary.

I realized the first time I retold this story how fucked up it seems on my part. But really, I gave that dude a shot, and he tried to pull rank. So, I had to let him know how I roll. Basically, I'm not to be fucked with. Period. Which brings me to my next story.

Not a week later, I'm mobbing up to my other job place, on a 2 lane freeway. Typically, trucks and old people drive in the right lane, at the speed limit (65) or less, and everyone else drives in the left lane to pass. I, typically do 70-75mph, because the Mule isn't fast. This is typically fast enough for the left lane, and if someone mashes up behind me, I move over at the first opportunity to let them continue on their way. That is, unless you tail-gate me. If you tail-gate, then I stay right where I'm at, and let you do all the hard work of moving over a lane to go around me. Yeah, if you want to be an asshole, you do the work. Bitch. Sure enough, after a while, this van comes up behind me, and is RIDING my ass. I mean like... ALL the way on my ass. He didn't pass right away because a nice 18-Wheeler was to our right. So I give this dude the benefit of the doubt and continue at 70mph until we pass the truck. I'm thinking the van behind, will just go around me. He doesn't. He's got plenty of open space to go around, but he's trying to make a point that I'm going too slow in the fast lane. Well, let me tell you who teaches me lessons in life: my mom. That's it. Certainly not this mother fucker.

I'm rapidly approaching another truck on the right, and he's still behind me, so I let got of the gas right next to the truck, and just ride there. He is still all over my ass, but now he's really stuck. I'm holding up hella traffic; not giving a shit. I turn around and look out my back window, directly to his face. It's blatantly obvious that I'm upset that he's tail-gating, but he holds, and doesn't back off. At this point I'm mouthing obscenities. All the while, slowing down. I was doing 50mph when we finally passed the truck on the right, and I knew at this point, he'd try to go around me. So i'm watching my mirror. As soon as I see the weight on the van shift left, as he pulls right, I stand on it, and take off. Right up to the 3rd truck, and he gets stuck, and gets behind me again. Yes. I am the man. This guy is so pissed at this point, he's seeing red. I, on the otherhand, am cracking myself all the way up. Finally, we pass the 3rd truck, and he moves to go around me again. I've made my point, so I let him. Nobody, and I mean NO-FUCKING-BODY teaches mother fucking me a lesson like that on the open road. I will rip your eyes out, and shove them up your ass so you can have a great view as a kick your ass all over the place. Dumb mother fucker.

He pulls up on side of me, and makes a motion for me to roll down my window. So what does your boy Paul do? I give that faggot the finger. The ugly finger. BAM! All in your face mother fucker. Now what?! He obviously is not aware of who I am, so he speeds up, and cuts me off hard. I mean I was on the shoulder, because he would have hit me otherwise. I deftly tap the brake, and tuck in behind him because I have the driving skills of Mario Andretti, and that's just how I do.

Now you might be saying "OH SNAP! In your face Syber!". Touché. He got me back pretty good. But I've got an ace up my sleeve. BAM! Whip out the phone.

	::Ring ring::
Woman:	Bob's Hardwood Refinishing, this is Carol, how can I help you?
P:	Hi Carol, how are you today?
Carol:	Great, thank you.
P:	Great. Listen Carol, I have a question. I assume you have a fleet of vans. Now, is each van driven by the same driver every day?
Carol:	Um, not necessarily... I'm not sure I follow.
P:	That's fine. I don't mean to pry. I'm sure you have drivers' logs anyway. I just called to inform you that whoever is driving van...3... today, is one of the most unsafe drivers I've ever seen. He was tail-gating me for at least 5 miles. He has since cursed at me, and then cut me off so bad, I had to swerve to the shoulder.
Carol:	Oh, my.
P:	Yes Carol, I was shocked too. That's why I pulled over and placed this call. I didn't want to endanger anyone talking on the cell-phone and driving at the same time. Oh, and Carol, I'm a great driver, I'm 22, and I have 20/20 vision, so trust me when I say I know what I'm talking about, and I'll be calling the CHP (California Highway Patrol) after this. I just wanted your company to be aware.
Carol:	Yes of course, thank you.
P:	No Carol, thank you. I trust you'll inform the proper supervisor. Have a good day.
Carol:	Yes, goodbye.
P:	Goodbye.
	::Click::

Yes folks. I narked. I narked HARD. And I love it. I laughed all the way to work. And if I have it my way, that asshole will get fired. That would be fucking sweet. All in his face. That'll teach that mother fucker to fuck with me. Normally, I wouldn't support narking. But in this case, it was not only an idea, it was THE idea.

The moral of the story is, I am awesome. For 3 reasons. The first reason is the first story I told. The second reason is the second story I told. The third reason is that everyone knows when you're doing something in life, you try it, and whoever wins 2 out of 3, wins everything. So really... I won 2 out of 3 situations. In fact, 2 out of 3 IN A ROW. In your face life. I kicked your ass. And TECHNICALLY, telling it makes the third reason. So really, I played rock-paper-scissors with Life, and won back to back. THEN, I played the 3rd round even though I didn't have to, and won that anyway. I'm really not sure how I could be any cooler. That being said, hot ass girls feel free email pictures of yourself here.

Originally posted 11/12/2003 by Syber

Dear Bertha

2003-06-19T07:00:00Z

Dear Bertha,

I regret that this letter means it’s over between us. I have tried to be patient, and supportive, but I can no longer support you with my bad back. I have to face the facts, I just can’t lift you.

Look, I’m not trying to be judgmental, but I just don’t think you’re committed to the idea of losing weight. You’ve tried diet after diet; pill after marketing gimmick. I’ve tried to tell you Bertha; you can’t lose weight unless you STOP MOTHER FUCKING EATING! Damn woman! It’s not low fat yogurt if you’re bulldozing through a half gallon package daily!

I used to love your cute ankles. Now, I can’t find them—and it makes me sad Bertha. No, don’t try to talk me out of it. It’s time for me to move on, and replace the springs on the passenger side of my car.

I don’t mean to sound insensitive. I will truly miss you. Whether it is memories of us going out to eat, ordering pizza for delivery, or just plain old “Super-Sizing” it, a part of you will remain in my heart forever. Hopefully just a small part, otherwise there won’t be any room to pump blood, and I’d die of cardiac arrest.

That being said, I hope we can remain friends. I tried to take care of you as best I could. I plan to buy a house in the near future, with the money I’ll save stocking a fridge you no longer have access to. Good luck with your new job. You’ve always loved kids. I’m so proud of you for volunteering to be that big ass thing they land on when they jump off the rope swing at summer camp, after their original sprung a leak.

Please don’t cry, I don’t want you to stain your shirt. You know how hard it is to get grease stains out.

Love always,

Syber

Originally posted 6/19/2003 by Syber

How Dare This Lunchable Call Me Retarded.......!!!

2003-06-12T07:00:00Z

What’s up Bone Diddleys? I've received a lot of flak for writing articles that are too long to read in a Roman Calendar work week, so I've tried my best to keep this brief.

Ok, so the other day I’m sitting around on #Idlewhores chopping it up about Lunch (the meal). More specifically, the conversation turns to Lunchables. Then it hits me: Lunchables are ‘tard food. It’s a product directly marketed at a slow audience. For those of you who don’t know what a Lunchable is, check their website out, and it will sort of give you the gist of it. Basically, it’s a lunch in a card board box that you get to build yourself. As exciting as it sounds, try to stay with me here. They give you a bunch of ingredients, with a goal meal in mind; that you’re supposed to build. So one box might be a pizza right, and another is a salami sandwich. Get it? Ok it gets worse.

My first tip off was the general idea behind it. Sure it’s an “activity” for kids, to put their own lunch together. But hey, I can do that at home in the morning. Take out a loaf of bread, and assemble my sandwich. Fun right? You bet! On top of that, I get to EAT during lunch, instead of making my lunch during lunch. I mean think about it. What if you were hella slow? The lunch bell rings, all the kids scream “Yay!”. You spend the whole time assembling your lunchable. You’re all set to put that huge triple-decker cracker sandwich into your mouth… and the bell rings. Time to go inside Billy! Lunch is over. Thanks Lunchables!

You know I’m right. In any other context, that kind of a situation would a fucking joke. What if you showed up to a meeting, and you were supposed to give a presentation. Everyone has a packet. Instead of getting there and giving the presentation, you crack open your brief case, and start collating papers and stapling packets together. Nobody’s giving that guy a boost up the corporate ladder. If you saw that situation, you wouldn’t think to yourself “Nice. That’s how I need to get down.” No. You’d think to yourself, “What a moron.” That being said… how do you think the other kids think of the Lunchable children? Yeah, the exact same way.

This deal is too good to be true

So the question isn’t “Does this Lunchable think I’m a retard?” The question is “How MUCH does this Lunchable think I’m a retard?” The answer is: A Whole Much. Oh, believe that my friend. It gets worse. Ok so we’ve already established how stupid it is to be assembling your lunch at a time you’re supposed to be eating it. However, the insults flung at you by that stupid ass cardboard box don’t stop there. Remember in kindergarten and grade school, when you had to cut something? Hell, when you had to do any sort of craft. You had paste, not glue. Glue can run. Damn that crazy concept called gravity! It always makes that glue do such unexpected things right? Crazy glue. Get it? Crazy Glue? You know, because there’s the brand? You know? Crazy? Ok. Anyway. Remember the scissors? Ignore the fact that they were always covered in the paste that we just talked about. That’s not the point. The point is that they were safety scissors. They had round edges. Oh, and they were always lefty scissors, so you looked like a fool trying to get them to cut anything thicker than air. Either way, they were rounded to be safer. So you can’t poke an eye out. Lunchables use the same theory, because if you check out their meat and crackers, they’re all round too. I don’t know what backwoods school house you went to, but I’ve never seen somebody poke an eye out with a renegade square saltine cracker. I’ve certainly never seen a double amputee as a result of a piece of ham that got away from him. Apparently however, the Lunchable people took this to heart, and they’re not taking any chances. They certainly don’t want any of the “less than average intelligence” people consuming their products to result in any sort of a lawsuit.

So when I started writing this, I went to their website to see if I could get some pictures to go with the article. No dice. Apparently, they don’t have any. BUT, I can build my own lunchable on their website. That’s right! Take all the fun of putting a Lunchable together, and take away all the fun of being able to actually eat it! Wow! Where do I sign up?

Tell them what else they're going to get Pat!

Let me quickly recap all the fun that can be had with a Lunchable:

Stupid round crackers
Stupid round meat variety
Stupid square cheese (Yeah, because one square item in a stack fits perfectly. Am I supposed to be learning shapes here?)
A juice drink smaller than many cups intended for use in doll houses.
A wet nap for when you make a huge mess with crackers that don’t make a lot of crumbs to begin with.
A Butterfinger for dessert. Can someone get me a microscope to open this thing?

So you get all this great stuff, PLUS you get to waste half your lunch putting it together. Plus you look like a moron, because you’re rocking a cardboard box with a peel back plastic wrapper, instead of the latest awesome Hulk Movie lunchbox, complete with the Hulk-up thermos that stores your milk while turning green when it gets cold. PLUS!!! Yeah, there’s another “plus”. PLUS this lunch time fun can be had for the low, low price of like five bucks in your grocers refrigerated section. Are you kidding me? I can spend 5 bucks for a lunch that I can make at home for like less than a buck, AND I can send my kid to school looking like a fucking fool? Damn it! I feel so deprived that I didn’t have this luxury when I was growing up. Kraft foods, you evil geniuses.

Originally posted 6/12/2003 by Syber

Operation: Population

2003-04-25T07:00:00Z

If there’s one thing I take seriously these days, it’s my family lineage. In that, I don’t want to continue it at this point. China had the right idea with the 1-Baby-Per-Household law they had going on. With that said, I feel that the ladies of the world have a lot of responsibility when it comes to children, like making sandwiches for them and so forth. I, as a man, am quick to step up to the plate and take responsibility for not making those women make sandwiches. Because let’s face it: the more sandwiches they’re making for little Billy, the less they’re making for me. It’s just too much to ask. Cutting the sandwich diagonally; removing the crust; lightly toasting. It’s a full time job. I don’t even know how little Billy likes his sandwiches, but I’m sure it’s not any easier.

Scientists today have been kind enough to perform countless hours of research to invent birth-control methods, prophylactics, and various castration techniques, in an attempt to quell the ridiculous rate that women of the world are getting knocked up. Guys, it’s not her responsibility. If you stab somebody with a sword, it’s your fault. Your sword went into her tour bus, and overthrew the Cardinal’s Guard. End of story. Pardon my analogy, but I’m sure we ALL know what I mean now.

Keeping the preceding text in mind, I took it upon myself to test some of the more reliable methods of not getting a girl pregnant. I enlisted the help of five test subjects. So as to avoid any unnecessary confusion, we’ll refer to these girls as Girl-A, Girl2, Girl-D, Girl-4, and Chica-Cinco. Optionally, I’ll substitute the pronouns “So-And-So” and “her” where appropriate. I don’t want anybody getting lost. Just to make sure the facts and findings are unbiased, I deliberately selected women who hated me at one point in life, so they wouldn’t be tempted to lie. So, given that I had that strict criterion in mind, I easily narrowed the candidates down to roughly 4,000 people.

The Rhythm Method

To start this experiment off, I wanted to stay as far away from the wild and crazy methods as possible. So, reflecting back on 7th grade sex education, I says to myself “Paul…what is GUARANTEED not to get a chick pregnant?” After some intrapersonal time, it hit me. What was the teacher always saying: “Abstinence Paul.” And what did I say every time she said that? “No way! I’ve only been abstinent like twice all semester. I’ve been here all week for sure.” That teacher sure was stupid. So obviously, the Rhythm Method is the OBVIOUS choice here. I’m pretty sure I remember reading somewhere that it’s like 98% effective, if not more. Although I’m pretty sure it is, I don’t want to misquote and say it’s 100% effective, because you never know what can happen these days what with various fertility drugs like Stacker 2 and Nut Bust 5000 and stuff.

For those of you who don’t know what the Rhythm Method is, let me summarize. The universe is governed by mathematical equations and logic and junk. So, everything is based around numbers; sort of like math is. There are 28 days in the lunar cycle. For those of you who don’t know what the lunar cycle is, lunar means moon, and cycle is a vehicle you pedal. So basically, the lunar cycle is that car they took up to the moon that one time. It takes 28 days for that car to drive around the moon, and on the 28th day, most human woman start bleeding to celebrate. I know it sounds weird, but it’s probably some ancient religious practice somewhere, so don’t question it. Just take my word for it.

In order to use this information to not impregnate Girl-A, I basically just had to pie her when the Lunar Mobile was NOT visible on the moon. I repeat NOT. This is really important. I once had a guy tell me he used to sing “La-Cucaracha” in his head while thrusting with his pelvis, to keep the Rhythm. If you think that’s what the Rhythm Method is, you’re a fucking moron. Pay attention. In fact, despite the fact that I have no rhythm on the dance floor, I seemingly excel at the Rhythm Method in sheer spite of this. Eat your heart out Soul Train.

Now it’s pretty safe to say that some of you are a bit skeptical about my theory. That’s understandable, and I encourage debate. Feel free to use the comment section at the end of this article to share your thoughts. But in the mean time, let me point out that in Super Mario Brothers, you have to like…jump on the Goomba’s head to kill him. Basically what that entails is timing. You have to run, and jump at the right time to land on his head right? Ok great. Now, think of Girl-A’s uterus as the ground. Mario is one of million potential baby makers. So there I am…running along, right? The ground is pregnancy. The Goomba is the Fact-1 test coming up negative. I’ll give you a minute to digest all that.

Come on it’s not that hard. The Goomba, the ground, Mario, and the Koopa Troopa. Right? WRONG! There is no Koopa Troopa. God you’re a moron. Try to stay with me here.

The point is that if I jump at the right time, I land on the Goomba’s head, and I won’t get Girl-A pregnant. It’s all about R-Y-T-H-M. I mean R-H-Y-T-H-M. The Rhythm Method works, and using Nintendo’s tried and true system, I’ve adequately proven this. Everyone likes Nintendo, even the people who don’t like them. So I rest my case.

So, after the year long testing period, Girl-A only had 1 baby. And really, that’s not too bad considering I’ve beaten Super Mario Brothers like…I don’t know 15 times, without warping. If you think about it too, Girl-A was also dating another guy at the time, and he looks like a Koopa Troopa. So does the baby. So really, I think I can safely say that the Rhythm Method was totally 110% effective because of my proper use of the run-and-jump, avoiding the Goombas. If anyone has any questions about this technique, just reread this section. At first it may sound complicated, but it’s really not.

The Yellow 5 Technique

With Girl2 I took a different approach. I was really sort of hesitant to try this whole Yellow 5 Technique because of the fact that I’m a pretty holistic person, and as such, not a huge fan of supplements. Basically what happens is that there is an artificial dye called Yellow 5. One half of the name is obvious, but I’m not quite sure where they came up with the “yellow”. In any case, this dye can be found in products like Mountain Dew, yellow Skittles, and stuff like that. Let me go ahead right here, right now, and say that this is what I call a Heavy Early Research, Preparation & Envisioning System, or H.E.R.P.E.S. for short. If I just wanted to bone Girl2 whenever I felt like it, I’d have to go to the store first, buy a case of Mountain Dew, and a 5 pound bag of skittles. THEN, I’d have to ingest all of those products to drop the ‘ol sperm count. Then, I’d have to throw up, because I just ate five pounds of candy (As a side note, this is a surprisingly effective method of weight loss as well). Then I’d have to piss like a racehorse. Finally, I’d have to tap Girl2 on the shoulder and let her know I’m ready. Unfortunately, she’d be dead, because 78 years passed by in the time it took me to do this. Ha ha. Zing!

Ok that’s a bit of an exaggeration. However, this process does take a bit of prep time, so don’t forget to plan well ahead of time to boink your woman if you intend to use the Yellow 5 Technique. The nice thing about this technique is that if you fail, and she gets pregnant, at least you have like 6 cases of Mountain Dew to drink, so you can sit with her and be bloated together. It’ll be a bonding experience. Chicks are into that kind of thing. Trust me, I know, because I’m not. Therefore, since I’m not a chick, and I’m not into it… the transitive property of the law of sine curves says that chicks are.

Now at first, I had a running theory that it was all in the nature of the food, and not the Yellow 5 dye itself. So I conjectured that if I ate McDonalds every day I’d be as impotent as a guy with no balls. Well, either I messed up, or I was just wrong about my theory, but 3 kids later, nothing seemed to be working. As such, I shelved that tangent theory, and returned my focus to the Yellow 5 technique.

I should point out that there are some possibly undesirable side effects to drinking 24 cans of Mountain Dew every day. For one, I noticed I started saying “Dude” a lot more. Also, certain areas of my body started to develop piercings. Once, one of my friends was eyeballing my Mountain Dew, and I straight up head-butted his ass. Finally, I started listening to a lot of those bands that aren’t really singing, just shouting. And they’re not really playing the guitar, just wiggling one hand up and down over the same chord, possibly with a white guy “rapping” in the background. “Rapping” is quoted, because it doesn’t legally qualify as rapping in certain parts of the country. So where was I? Oh yeah.

Those are just a handful of side effects I noticed. Luckily it doesn’t really change your life much. Unless you’re like… a guy named Leroy who lives in the projects, and you all of a sudden started listening to that music, and playing the guitar. If that’s the case, I suggest you stop drinking Mountain Dew immediately, and get a 40 oz. of King Cobra to try to reverse the process. Trust me, if that’s your situation Girl2, probably Shaquanda in your case, does not want her baby-daddy gallivanting around like that, embarrassing her. The fact that her name is Shaquanda is more than adequate embarrassment.

One final thought is that I may or may not have flat-lined once, but I’m not entirely sure I can attribute that to the Yellow 5. Sure it’s an outside chance, but if I cite that, it’ll affect the results of this experiment in a negative fashion. It’s hardly even worth mentioning really. So the bottom line is that if you’re one of those anal retentive planning guys, this technique is incredible. H.E.R.P.E.S. is the key avoiding pregnancy folks. Don’t you forget it.

The Jesus Route

Ok I’m no psychiatrist. I’m no psychologist either. In fact, I rarely ever get the –gist of anything. So with that in mind, let me bring you to speed on the Jesus Route. I was using my incredible powers of deduction again. I got to thinking, how many priests do I know that have ever gotten a girl pregnant? NONE! Maybe it’s happened, but *I* don’t know any, and that’s good enough for a scientific fact in my book. So then I got to thinking, what is it exactly that these guys (priests) are doing to not get chicks pregnant? I quickly leafed through the Bible, the Torah, the Koran and that other Bicycle riders’ book; the Book of Moron or something like that. I noticed that the whole time, chicks are getting pregnant like it’s going out of style! In fact some guy named Abraham, who is apparently my father, had like a billion kids, and lived to be 634! I know, I know, I’m thinking the exact same thing you are… What kind of a name is “Abraham”? Don’t worry about it; let’s just stay on subject here. Oh and don’t laugh, he’s your father too. It said he’s everyone’s father.

The point is, somewhere in recent history, priests everywhere figured out how to get some Tang, without stirring the Kool-Aid. Which is great, because even though Kool-Aid is easy to make (I can’t believe this analogy is still working), once you make it constantly, you have to keep buying sugar. Once you keep buying sugar, you have to… have to uh… ok and I lost it.

Anyway, long story short, I basically just researched the stuff that priests do, and I figured if I could do the same with Girl-D, I’d have no problems keeping her from getting pregnant. Let me tell you friend, this exercise was a raging success. I had at it for upwards of like… I don’t know… maybe 5 months! She didn’t get pregnant once! Furthermore, I was only arraigned on gross misconduct charges twice! That may sound bad on the surface, but trust me, paying some fines and taking 5-10 was a LOT cheaper than raising a child.

Cherry Poppin’ Daddies

I was discussing the premise of these experiments with a female friend of mine, and she was like “You can douche with coke.” I was like “Yeah, but coke is expensive as hell, and if you get caught with it, it’s a narcotics charge; which is a felony.” Then she was like “Yeah, except I’m talking about pop.” And I was like “What the fuck does this have to do with your dad?!” Then she was like “Coca Cola you asshole.” And then I was like… ok this is getting ridiculous; I think this warrants a dialogue. Here we go:

Her:	You can douche with coke.
Me:	Yeah, but coke is expensive as hell, and if you get caught with it, it’s a narcotics charge; which is a felony.
Her:	Yeah, except I’m talking about pop.
Me:	What the fuck does this have to do with your dad?!
Her:	Coca Cola you asshole.
Me:	What about it?
Her:	!!!!!!!
Me:	??????
Her:	I said you can douche with it.
Me:	…so you did. Why?
Her:	Because coke kills sperm.
Me:	Get the fuck out of here.
Her:	Seriously.
Me:	So….does Cherry Coke work on virgins then? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
	::: 15 minutes pass :::
Me:	HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Her:	Shut up.
Me:	Fair enough.

And that folks, is when it hit me. The cherry. Sweet cherry. I heard that you can bang virgins until the cows come home, and pigs fly; which in my estimation will happen at the same time because the pigs can fly the cows home. So anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. All I had to do, to not get a chick pregnant, was to only have sex with girls who are virgins. PERFECT! Enter Girl-4.

Dudes, this theory is totally on point, because I had sex with her just like instructed, and she didn’t even get pregnant. Now, the NEXT time I had sex with her she DID get pregnant. So that just further proves the theory that you can’t get a virgin pregnant. Now I hear you “Sure, but that could just be a coincidence.” You’re absolutely right. So I didn’t take any chances. She got pregnant the 3rd AND 4th times we had sex! Every time EXCEPT the first. Trust me, the theory is water tight. Rock solid. Impeccable. I’d be a fool to say it’s 100% fool-proof, so let me just say it’s 110% fool-proof!

The Manpon

Ok so the virgin theory works fine right? I agree, I’m really pushing the envelope by trying to out-do myself there. But I strive for perfection, and the virgin method has a flaw. You’re only a virgin a few times in life, and somewhere before you become one again, you have to be born. That makes you a born again virgin. This process can take a while, because the medical field hasn’t made any advances that I’m aware of. So until they do (or I write another article) I needed another method that let me get all Marvin Gaye on a chick on a regular basis. I needed more absolute control. After all, this is all about what *I* can do, not what I have to rely on her for.

It all happened one day while I was rubbing one out to the latest Playboy magazine. I know! Of all places to learn about sex, Playboy was the LAST place I would have thought to look. Anyway, I start reading this article about how constant pressure on the gonads reduces the sperm count. I finished reading the article about 3 hours later—no it’s not what you’re thinking. I’m not some kind of endurance champion or anything, I just had to turn the page, and it got a bit awkward. Anyway, I was determined to apply constant pressure to my gonads in order to lower the sperm count. I wasn’t about to get all gay and creative, so I just started with the basics. I put my hand on my shit. Yeah. I just cupped the balls. I think it was working fine from a technical standpoint, but it made it really hard to type at work. Also, people kept looking at me funny. I decided I needed a way to pull this off, hands-free.

It was time to wrack the brain. I went to my room, grabbed my trusty sketchpad, and whipped it out. The sketchpad, that is. That’s what I whipped out. I quickly eliminated some easy ways out.

Duct Tape. Duct Tape was out of a question for 2 reasons. One, I’ve had that shit pulled off my arm, and it’s not a pleasant feeling. One can only imagine how that would feel separating from your Taint. Secondly, and most importantly, I used all my Duct Tape on my windows, preparing for a chemical weapons attack.

Constrictors. I’m talking about like rubber-bands and stuff. All the ones I could find had newspaper ink on them. NEXT!

Buying small ass underwear. This was a great idea in theory. But then I realized what a huge expense this would be. Plus, your ass crack will be hanging out, which I think would jeopardize any respect you could command, unless you were in the plumbing industry. Furthermore, you’d look like an ass shopping in the little boys section for some He-Man skivvies. BUT, I really felt like I was on to something here.

That’s when it hit me. Instead of buying small ass underwear, what if I could modify my existing ‘dees to fit the bill? Ingenious! I paused to congratulate myself. It was only fitting to pat my own ass, professional sports style, because it also offered me an opportunity to investigate my underwear. Boo-yah. I hit up my closet for supplies. It had to be stuff that every guy owns, so soap and food was out of a question automatically. I figured I could use video games and electronic equipment, but then I couldn’t use them for their intended purpose, so I ended up back in my closet. I quickly used my Boy Scout skills mentioned in my other article to fashion a pseudo-diaper/rock climbing thingy. All it took was like…3 or 4 extra belts. I had like 3 that were broken, but apparently I was hanging onto for sentimental reasons. I’ll have to cover those reasons some other time.

This, gentlemen (and concerned ladies) is the Manpon. It’s like a Tampon, for a manpon. I mean for a man. For anyone who’s going to chastise me for stealing the Bro, or Manzier idea from Seinfeld, I can’t really fault you. All I can say is that I honestly thought of it without thinking about that. If you just came here to accuse me of plagiarism, then there really is no soup for you. All you have to do, is fashion your Manpon by wrapping the belt between your legs, and around the side of a leg of your choosing. Whichever leg you feel most comfortable with is fine. Fasten the belt, or if you’re using some rope or twine, tie a knot and apply some moisturizer to the areas you’ve already chaffed.

Next, get the second belt, and toss it over your shoulder like a continental soldier. This should only be attempted if your ears hang low and optionally wobble to and froe. You should now look like a very gay Andre the Giant in your belt/rope/twine singlet. Now, with that said, you take this second belt/rope/twine and apply a Taught Line Hitch to it. I have cleverly provided this link to help anybody who doesn’t know how to tie this particular knot. This should be done AFTER you pass your second belt through the first belt that I told you to tie around your leg.

I assume that you have let this first belt/rope/twine fall to the floor, so pick it back up. Got it? Ok now bend over and pick up the second one you just dropped by bending over. HOLD ON TO THE FIRST ONE! You dropped it again didn’t you? Idiot. How the hell are you expecting to avoid children if you’re this incompetent to begin with? Christ. Ok so loop it through, and tie the above referenced Taught Line Hitch. Once that’s in place, you should have a nice little Schlong-Sling going on. Go ahead and tighten the knot slowly, until you feel pressure. Now, sing a note….not something easy either, I’m talking about like a high C or something. Hold it. Hold it. Keep tightening as you’re holding. Keep tightening until your voice pitches somewhere above Justin Timberlake, but not quite Prince. If you hit The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, you’ve gone too far.

That’s it. You’re done. Finish clothing yourself, and go ahead and parade around like this ALL DAY! Now, whenever that special lady, in my case Chica Cinco is ready, you just flip the belt buckle, and have at it! Ohhhh that’s it now. Work it. Put that thang down. Flip it. Reverse it. That ‘a boy.

You should be using your Manpon whenever she’s NOT using her tampon. When she is, she really can’t get pregnant, so you’re in the clear. Of course, she’ll be bleeding. But hey, if you want to play Moses and part the Red Sea, that’s none of my business.

I can say with confidence that with the Manpon method, I didn’t get Chica Cinco pregnant more than once a year. I attribute those rough spots to the belts wearing out and so forth. Nonetheless, I think we can all agree it is a highly effective method. This kind of a success rate will keep you hearing “Daddy” all night. And for once, it won’t be to change a diaper! BOO-YAH!

Survey Says…

Well that’s it folks. I’ve laid out the facts, the fiction, and all the other genres in between. I feel like if you can walk away from this with at least 1 method, and at most 10 children, then I’ve done my job. Remember, you should never attempt any of these techniques unless you’re in a committed relationship with a woman, and you’re a registered U.S. citizen. If you fail either criterion, you should immediately rectify one or both of the situations. Ironically, either can be solved by leaving the country. I highly recommend you do. Take it from me.

Syber
4726 Zebra Lane
Tongueclick Zimbabwe

P.S. I would like to dedicate this work to my 17 lovely children the world over. You should never think that Daddy doesn’t love you—he simply doesn’t acknowledge your existence.

Originally posted 4/25/2003 by Syber

Tengo Numero Dos Para A Ir, Por Favor

2003-04-01T07:00:00Z

-- I’ll take a number 2 value meal. Ah, and no lettuce, or dignity; but extra ridiculousness.

Word up mother fuckers. It’s Big P Funk coming at you. I haven’t written some shit like this in ages. Mostly, because I’m a lazy bastard. But all reality aside, here I am before you again with more nuggets of wisdom. Possibly, Nugettes of wisdom. I haven’t decided which, at this point.

If you haven’t figured out what this piece is about, based on the title (And I’ll be honest, I don’t blame you if you haven’t. The title is confusing as all hell.), let me go ahead and tell you. I’m referring to ordering food at a fast-food establishment. I’m talking about your Taco Bells, your McDonalds (aka McShiznit, McShizzles, and McShizarooni.), your Kentucky Fried Chickens, and yes, even Weiner Schnitzels. Feel free to laugh at the word “Weiner schnitzel” right now, because I’m not going to put up with that kind of behavior later on in this literature.

This piece is meant to both educate as well as inform. I’m going to talk about all kinds of activity that takes place in these establishments. We’ll all have a good laugh. Then it’s time to hit the books. You’re going to learn what to look for when you walk in. How you can tell if the Mexican behind the counter knows what the fuck you’re talking about when he or she has a grin on their face and is nodding along with you as you order.

Now at this point you may be saying “Who is this guy to tell me he knows all about fast food and food that’s fast? He’s not even fat! How can I take this guy seriously!?” Relax. Those are all valid questions. Allow me to explain my qualifications. First of all, I sit at a computer all day. Yeah that’s right. ALL day. When I leave work, I come home and sit in front of the computer. I don’t even have a girlfriend. That’s right ladies, tell a friend, bitch. I’m going to speculate that maybe 60% of you are convinced now. Let me take up the slack. My job is located next door to a McDonalds. We’re talking walking distance here. No, I don’t think you understand. I look out my window to judge the crowd at McDonalds, based on the free parking spaces in the parking lot. So don’t tell me I don’t know my shit here.

Let’s get started.

Lesson 1 – Get Focused

“He’s killing you Rock!” That’s what you’re going to be telling yourself when you stroll through that double door unprepared, junior. When you’re about to get your grub on, you have to have a plan. Otherwise, you’re going to end up wandering aimlessly around the menu in your mind, holding up the line, and pissing me off if I’m in line behind you. So straighten up, because we don’t have any time for your random shenanigans and tomfoolery here.

Ok so here’s what we do. First, know what you want. If you’re going to order a Big Mac, then you’d better walk up there knowing you want a Big Mac. Have a backup plan ready too. There’s nothing worse than confidently striking up to the counter and declaring “Good afternoon Jose. I’d like a Big Mac!”, only to hear “Es no Grande Mac’os senor.” That shit will totally ruin your day. Then you’ll be blubbering and stuttering like a kid who got off the short bus and uses safety scissors. Needless to say, you’re going to feel like an ass, and that is unacceptable.

Ok, so you know what you want right? Good. Now we’re ready to get in line.

Lesson 2 – Get That Fast Food Fast

More than likely when you show up at this joint, you’re going to have to wait in line. Choosing which line you’re going to stand in, is an art all in itself. It can cost you up to and including 5 minutes if you fuck up and pick the wrong green card connoisseur to help you. So let’s talk about some shit you need to keep your eyes peeled for. Sometimes, waiting in line can actually give you an advantage for a split second. But you’re going to have to make a decision quickly; especially if there is more than one line to choose from.

The first thing to assess (We’re assuming there are multiple lines here. For the sake of argument we’ll say there are two.) is pretty obvious: the count. How many people are in each line? This is a good starting point. By no means is it the determining factor, but it helps. Line A has 12 people and Line B has 10, stands to reason to go to Line B, right? Yeah, usually. What about if Line A has 9 people and Line B has 2? “LINE B SYBER!” Wrong dip shit. You think that if one line has 6 more people than another, that you’re the first person to notice that shit? Maybe, but the chances are really slim. It’s much more likely that Line B, with only 2 people has some weird shit going on that you don’t know about. Leave it alone. You have you use some common sense here.

That said, there are a few ways to avoid the lines altogether. So let me just briefly touch on that. Lunch time is at 12:00 pm. Well, sort of. It used to be. I’ve noticed, through my extensive research, that it’s actually somewhere closer to 1:00 pm these days. Why? Well, stupid people take lunch later, because when they return to work, they have less time remaining before they go home. It’s genius, except for the fact that you have to work longer in the morning before lunch. Sure, I suppose it’s all psychological, but if you hate your job, get another one. Taking lunch later isn’t going to fix that.

Anyway, to retract from my tangent; you can use this trend to your advantage. The employees come in about 11:30 to prepare for the lunch crowd. Now, if you figure the average worker has a 12:00 pm lunch, and it takes 10 minutes to get to McD’s, that the crowd is going to hit right around 12:15. I call this the “Quarter After Effect”. The same thing happens at about 1:15 pm, following the 1:00 pm lunch crowd. My solution is to hit about 12:45. The reasons are pretty simple. First, by that time, the 12:00 lunchers have to be getting back to the office. Secondly, obviously, it’s before the 1:00ers get there. Finally, it’s in between both, so the kitchen is still fully staffed. You don’t want to try this at 1:45 because although the lines will be down, the food will be an hour old, if it’s left over, and if not, the lunch work force is compromised, and even a few people in line will take forever to get served.

That’s all well and good, but I wouldn’t have to write a 45 page manifesto if that’s all there was to it. The real talent comes in the scouting. Yes that’s right, the Boy Scouts of America will teach you how to do things with rope you never thought possible. Just wait until you’re all grown up, and your girlfriend, or boyfriend if you’re one of the girls reading this (pause for laughter… then realize I said Boy Scouts, which girls can’t be in) is moving their couch, and you can confidently stroll up to the back of the pickup truck, take that rope and say “Over, under around and through… that’s what it takes, to tie a shoe” Following the laughter that you won’t get from that ridiculous recital, you’ll proceed to tie a complex knot that nobody:

Understands
Notices
Gives a rat’s ass about

On top of that, if I catch you pitching a tent while I’m trying to order my Big Mac, we’re going to have some problems. First of all, only girls use dome tents, and secondly, you can’t ram stakes into the ceramic tiles on the floor dumb ass. Furthermore, you should be out killing a deer with your bare hands or something, and then cooking it on an open fire. You certainly shouldn’t be here with me ordering McDonalds food that we all know is made out of kangaroo meat, mixed with the meat from kangaroos

Awesome. So, I actually wasn’t talking about the Boy Scouts, I was talking about the scouting abilities it takes to make your trip through the lines at Chic Fillet that much more fun. Let’s go.

Lesson 3 – Get That Fast Food Fast….er.

Ok let’s get a little more in-depth. Who’s in the line? This shit makes a difference. Here are a few customers you want to steer clear of. Them standing in front of you is going to cost you all kinds of valuable time:

Johnny McGymclass. Easy there cool guy! We all respect your coolness for cutting school and driving here to Carl’s Jr. in your mom’s Ford Taurus. Now that you’ve successfully accomplished the first stage of your juvenile outing, kindly SHUT THE FUCK UP until you get to the counter to order. See if there’s one thing I know about high school, it’s that when you’re in it, you are totally secluded from the outside world. This pertains to all aspects of life, including the way you act, the way you dress, what you think is funny, and the idea that Honda Civics are dope ass rides.

With that said, you can now understand why little Johnny will crack joke after joke, and all of the other kids he cut 4th period with will laugh uncontrollably until there are tears in their eyes. In the mean time, the other customers will look at their shoes so they don’t have to get into a confrontation with this bunch of hoodlums. Oh, and don’t take it lightly, I just overheard Johnny say he got jumped the other day. He beat all 35 of the guys up, spit on their leader, then he stole the guy’s car, and fucked his girlfriend. Honest to God. I’m not making this up. If that’s what Johnny said he did, then by God, that’s the way it happened. After all, what reason would he have to lie? After they stop cracking up, they’ll get quiet for a few seconds, until one of them will mumble something unintelligible, and then they’ll all crack up again. This is more than likely because they’re now making fun of somebody else in the room. Don’t worry, this is common practice. Just ignore it, the fun is only beginning. When Johnny gets to the counter, he’ll be laughing at the last joke, so it’ll take him about an hour to compose himself. At this point, he’ll order the whopper. This is the cue for his friend to start cracking up. When asked what he’s laughing about, he’ll manage to leak out “You said ‘whopper’!” after about 10 more minutes. This will then cue the rest of the dropout squad to laugh uncontrollably for just under the time it takes the moon to complete a lunar cycle.
Oprah Winfrey and Sally Struthers. I hate to say it folks. But fat people are going to slow your roll. And by roll, I’m not referring to the area of their body just above their hips. In the defense of these people who haven’t yet discovered Tae-Bo, they might actually be pretty decent at ordering. However, the fact remains that they’re going to order the entire lunch menu, this side of the hashbrowns. In this case quality just can’t make up for quantity. I almost want to give them the benefit of the doubt, until I think about the springs and shocks in the drivers side of their car, and it brings a tear to my eye.
Mom with more than one child. Forget this shit immediately. This bitch is about to take ALL FUCKING DAY ordering for her irritating ass kids. Chances are, one of them is running around like he or she is in mother fucking Disneyland to begin with. You have to remember what McDonalds does to kids. Barring the running child, she’s still going to order at least 3 times. Add that to the fact that she’s going to fuck up twice. So that’s 5 orders. Now factor in the specialty condiments, like little Billy wanting no ketchup, mustard, cheese, lettuce, tomato, onions, bread, or burger either… multiplied by Jill wanting the Barbie toy, and not the Hot Wheels. So, with that in mind, if you carry the 2, and divide by the time of day over the cosine of the day of the week, and the result is that you’re about to be one irritated ass McShiznit customer my friend.
Juanito, Mr. Chang, Olga, or Hardip Bin Laden: The immigrant crew. Anybody who fits this bill is about to cost you the big one. Now I’m not saying immigrants are stupid. I’m just saying they’re immigrants. They can’t fucking speak English. Don’t lie. You’ve lived here your entire life, and you’re not even doing too well with it, are you? That’s right Mr. English 101. Get your shit together. So anyway, these people are pretty self-explanatory. Their inability to communicate is going to cost valuable time. Let’s not forget that the person they’re talking to most likely can’t speak English either.
Agnes, Pearl, Harold, and Abraham. The geezers are almost as bad as the foreigners, albeit they’re a hell of a lot funnier to watch in action. Ok, so first off, you’re going to get a bit of the communication problems with these old farts. But that aside, these geriatric consumers are notorious for their special needs. And trust me, fast-food isn’t spared this stipulation at all. It pretty much goes without saying that they’re not going to know what anything is on the menu. In fact, it’s a fucking stretch if they even know what restaurant they’re in. Don’t be shocked to see Eugene slowly cane his way up to the Taco Bell counter and order a cheeseburger and a coffee. Coffee will be ordered. No matter what time it is, no matter how hot it is outside.

It gets even worse is when they travel in packs. Be on the lookout for the local retirement home’s bus or van outside. I’m dead serious. This is a fucking adventure for these people. If you see that shit outside your Burger King, it’s time to find somewhere else to eat lunch today my friend. Ok, then here’s what will happen. The idea of a value meal is lost on old people. The first thing they’re going to do is order their food. Which will be some ridiculous quantity, like one hamburger (plain of course), and a coffee.

Even funnier is when they order that same hamburger with fries. At that point, the employee of your local fast-food joint will say “Would you like the meal?” Which we all know is going to save them money. Of course, they’ll say no. Now some employees will push the issue “You get a soda, and it’ll be less money.” At which point the geezer will say “No, I don’t want a soda.” Yeah, it’s funny, but let’s face it, we didn’t come here to laugh. We came to get two things: Food, (fast) and the fuck out. Oh and it’s not over by a long shot. The next thing Ingrid is going to do is pay for her meal with nothing but nickels and dimes. Money is money to these people, and they’re always looking for a way to unload change.

You have, or had a grandmother right? Remember always getting coins from her? Yeah, you thought she was being nice. Not even. She was unloading her change on you like a bum harassing you in the Jack in the Box drive-through. So after she pays with the change, she’s going to take forever to move out of your way; or whoever is right behind her. THEN as if that’s not enough, she’ll more than likely move in the wrong direction to get her food.

Finally, to cap it all off, she’ll ignore the person who gives her the food, and go back to the cashier, who’s now helping you, to ask for some ketchup (which is right behind her, at the condiment island, under the cleverly concealed 8 foot gigantic mother fucking sign that says “KETCHUP”). So to sum it all up these people are going to fuck you over five-fold. Steer clear!
Trent Steel and Jane Glassceiling: Mr. and Mrs. Business. These people fucking suck. They have secretaries. They’re definitely used to giving orders. But for some reason they can’t seem to replicate their success at work in the fast-food ordering environment. They’re notorious for ordering all wrong like old people. Only money isn’t an object to them. It’s a guarantee they’re going to skip the McChicken, and go straight for the pricier Crispy Chicken Sandwich. That said, they’ll pay with a $100 dollar bill, and the whole fucking place will come to a standstill as a manager is called to the front, only to go back to the office to get change for it out of the bank. They think this is buying a fucking car; and they want all the options. Would you like cheese with that? Sure. Super-sized? Yep. Apple pies for desert? You bet! Make it four pies, Consuela! What a fucking winner. On top of all that, they’re more than likely on their cell phone, which is cause for an even bigger hold up while all of this joke of an order is going on. Shut the fuck up Max Power! I’m trying to get a goddamn 6 Piece here.
Woody Allen. This guy or girl is about to be totally indecisive. These people are bit harder to spot because they come in different forms. They try to plan, but they end up just confusing themselves. The tell-tale signs are someone who keeps staring at the menu for the entire time they’re in line. Even to the point where you have to poke them to get them to scoot up in line. They’re totally stuck. Oh and don’t even get me started about their train of thought. It’s like a fucking house of cards. One gust of wind and the whole thing comes tumbling down. Let’s say you’re lucky enough that they make a decision before they hit the counter. That person is going to ask them if they want cheese on their burger, and the whole situation is going to go Code Blue. They’re going to start stammering, and reevaluating their take on life and the existence of extraterrestrials. It’s just bad news. You can just see the panicked look on their face when the “What kind of drink?” question comes up. Their head snaps frantically back and forth, trying in vain to find a list of available soft drinks in the sea of short Mexicans, and shouts of “No yelo!” and “Con queso!” Jesus Christ.
Miss Daisy. You know who I’m talking about here. Those upper class white women who drive a Mercedes… a Mercedes… well shit, just the fact that they’re driving is bad enough. Don’t even get me started on women and driving, because neither of us has that long left to live. These people are one of my favorites to clown. First of all, they’re totally out of place at a fast food joint. They don’t do shit all day, because their husbands are bringing in six-digit salaries. They should be at some outdoor café sipping mocha lattes; extra tall. Nevertheless, here they are standing in line at McShizzalmaditch. You can tell they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing because like Trent Steel, they’ll order whatever the cashier suggests. That is, unless they’re one of those bony bitches who will order the cheeseburger without the patty. Yeah, you read that right: a cheeseburger without the meat. Which, the last time I checked, was a grilled cheese sandwich, but what do I know? Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. The greatest part about Miss Daisy is that she’s white and rich. These two characteristics make her better than anybody else in the building. Oh, and just in case you were unsure if she knows this, she’ll remind everyone at every opportunity. The catch is, she’s hell-bent on demonstrating how non-racist she is. People like me, who aren’t really racist, don’t call attention to this fact. You just go on living your life. She’ll hold up the line by ordering slowly, using her ATM card to buy 6 bucks worth of lunch, and then tell the cashier he looks exactly like one of the 3 gardeners they have at her estate. If you’re not cracking up already, wait until she shows poor Miguel how much she appreciates his culture:

“Thank you Ma’am, your order number is 154”
“Gracias, Miguel!”

HAHAHAHAHA. Gracias? Are you fucking kidding me? Way to go Miss Daisy! You deserve a mother fucking Nobel prize for that olive branch you just extended. If only Saddam and Osama could witness the kind of sisterhood you’re promoting here, the world would be such a sweet place.

Lesson 4 – Know Your Opponent

That’s right. It’s a jungle out there. We’ve discussed the problems with the other customers. Those guys are playing for the same side. Now we need to address the problem of the other team sucking. In this sport, you actually want the other team to be on their game. Otherwise, you’re not walking out the door with that coveted flame broiled trophy.

Here comes one of my patented breaks. I actually stopped writing this one day, and the continued the next day. Yeah. The internet is wonderful isn’t it? Furthermore, in that day that passed, I went to McDonalds again. All shitting aside. That’s how deep my dedication is to this cause. So let me tell you what I did. I mash up into the building, and I scope the place out. I’ve got Agnes and Earl on my 3. I’m quickly getting flanked by Mom, two kids, and a goddamn dog. That’s right. Apparently in Walnut Creek (the white washed, yuppie ass, upper class craptacular extravaganza that it is) you can just bring your fucking dog up in the establishment. It sure as shit wasn’t a seeing eye dog either. It seemed to me like the lady needed one though, because she sure was blind when her younger kid tried to play superman off the fucking highchair into the condiment island.

What the fuck people? I came in here to order a cardboard box full of Freedom Fries, (it’s my understanding that since the French won’t support us bombing the fuck out of Iraq, that we’re not to refer to the food as French Fries) with a Burger, and a Coke with no ice; and instead I’m getting my Mr. Rogers on by saving all kinds of random kids. Why the fuck should I really care? If little Billy wants to jump off the Grimace and Fry Kids highchair, then I should have let him. When he lands on the tile and splits his head open, then maybe mom will pay closer attention, plus I’d get to move up a slot in the line. But Nooooooooooo. Big P Funk here has to play hero (cue the Superman pose). Or so I thought. So I come with the “Hey lady….your kid is about to fall.” Do you know what this bitch did? Think about it. Take a guess. Got it? Wrong. She turned from the counter, looked at me, looked back, slowly got her change, and then meandered over to the highchair to “save” her child. In fucking fact, meandering would be like lining up a pinto and a funny car in a drag race compared to what this bitch was doing. I haven’t seen anything move that slow since I ask a waitress I know at Chili’s to bring me a drink.

I was all set to be totally furious, when I figured out that I was at the front of the line. FUCK! I didn’t even know what I wanted. Ah, but not to worry everybody. First, let’s assume that you were genuinely scared for me. We all know you weren’t. If there’s one person in life people love to see fail, it’s me. So, I’m sorry to disappoint you, because I came through in the clutch like Michael Jordan… before he retired. No, before he retired the first time. You know, before he sucked. Oh, I know, I know, he’s 40. He does suck now though. You don’t have to lie to kick it. So where was I? Oh yeah. Bam. I hit the counter. I have no plan. Check it out, because this is just how I do. “Hi, how are you?” Smooth, P. Way to buy some time by asking how she is.

Now mind you, I’m normally dead set against fraternizing with the employees, but sometimes slipping in a little informality is a nice change. It makes them feel human. Which they are, technically, regardless of their green card status.

In the split second it takes her to say “Fine.” I’m already all over the menu. I’m moving right past the pictures and looking at the prices. Bam, under $4. That’s my ticket.

It’s back to the basics. No more outside conversation. I have my eye on the prize.

“Number 8. No cheese. Coke, no ice. To go.”

Touch down. Michael Jordan wins the World Cup.

That’s how you handle the employees. No fancy orders. No unnecessary words. No fiddle fucking around. The number 8 is a McChicken, but you don’t say that. The shit on their screen has numbers. You give them numbers. It lines up. They’re going to ask if you want cheese. You squash that by saying no cheese. Then you order your drink. It’s the natural progression of the order. Don’t fuck with the order of the order. You’re dicking with tried and true sequences that I have perfected over years of trial and error. Don’t bother questioning it. Just take my word for it. It works. You don’t go to the ocean and tell it how to hold water. You just go there and get wet. I don’t know what that analogy means either, but trust me, my methods holds water. Ah, yeah… there’s the analogy. Good work Paul.

So, as I was saying, don’t make it harder than it has to be. It’s always Trent Steel, or some other fucking idiot who walks up and goes “Uh yeah… let me get the Big Mac Meal.” Mother fucker do you see anywhere on the menu that offers a “Big Mac Meal”. If you can find me where that’s written, I’ll buy your lunch for you. Because all I see is a big ass “1” printed up above the picture of a Big Mac with fries and a drink. You don’t go to the movies and say “Yeah can I a ticket for the movie with the gay bald guy who drives fast cars, directed by the Jew?” Damn right you don’t. That’s just not how it works. So I repeat, do not fuck with the system. Say it with me, “I will not fucketh upeth the system.” It fucks everybody up. Maybe you have time for that kind of shit, but I sure don’t. My cool ass has an IRC network, 3 AIM conversations, Kazaa, and 5 pieces of porn junk mail to get back to. Hot Horny Teens Waiting For Me?!? Why didn’t somebody tell me sooner!?

Lesson 5 – The Moral of the Story Is…

The moral of the story is that he who sticks face in fruit drink, gets punch in nose. There is also a secondary moral. The lesson learned here is that if you own a dog, and speak softly and carry a big stick, that dog will chase the stick if you throw it. Which in turn, leaves you vulnerable to attacks from other dogs, who aren’t interested in sticks at all. So put that in your pipe and smoke it. Ha ha ha. No seriously. Have you ever had an art teacher that said “Everyone can be an artist if they try.”? I’ll just go ahead and say that it’s not true. Yeah, that’s right. I’m sorry. Some of us just can’t draw. On the same token, some of us just can’t handle pressure. Others of us can’t communicate with the opposite sex. Still more of us are clumsy, crass, and/or rude. If you find yourself saying yes to any of these symptoms, call a 1-800 number that will offer help. Furthermore, if any of your symptoms can adversely affect the time it takes you to order food at lunch time, kindly GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!

Thank you.

Originally posted 4/1/2003 by Syber