No entry yesterday because my internet connection was giving me no love. Or maybe it wasn't working due to outrage. You see, someone left a startling message in the comments for CarlosJacott.com last night (seen at the bottom of this entry). The rogue wrote:
Is it true that Carlos did an adult video during his rougher, pre-'she spies' days in LA? Can I get it on DVD from you?
I would like the people of Goulash to weigh in on this. What are the odds of Carlos having appeared in porn? I am going to lay it all out right here and say no matter how much each of us has hoped for it, it's probably not true. Now soft core, that's a possibility. You know, he could be the warden at the women's penitentiary or something. Anything more than that seems unlikely. The only place you'll be seeing Carlos getting it on with a gila monster and an amputee with a harelip is in your dreams, buddy.
However, the dude who posted this did allude to some rougher days for Carlos. What does that mean, I wonder. Did Carlos used to have a goatee? Did he chase around old ladies with poop on a stick? Maybe the adult video was part of his initiation into a biker gang? I must find out! I guess I shall be adding one more thing to the list of New Years Resolutions: figure out the Carlos Jacott Porn Riddle.
Woah buddy, Christmas has come and gone like a crafty gypsy. I guess this would be considered my first adult Christmas, where I gave more gifts than I received. It was fun. It was fun to shop for the perfect gift for someone. It was fun to not find said perfect gift and then to begin searching out of pure desperation, only to find myself in a 300-deep line on Christmas Eve at Best Buy, screaming "Why Santa, why?" And it was also fun to leave the store and collapse in tears on the hood of a station wagon in the parking lot. It was even more fun when the owner of the station wagon discovered me and tried to cajole me into moving, only to discover that out of Christmas frustration, I had renounced all wordly possessions and claimed the hood of his car as my new sovereign nation. It was also quite a bit of fun when he finally wised up and decided to offer me some goodies out of his car as bribes to get me to leave. The best part though was wrapping these gifts from Santa up, and seeing the looks on their faces when my mom found a half-eaten Egg McMuffin from 1987, my dad got one of those beaded seat covers, and my sister got an expired insurance card. It was pure Christmas magic.
But anyway, I had a good Christmas, and now I'm ready for New Year's. The odds of finding my bloated body on Jan 1, at the bottom of Lake Granbury with a bottle of paint thinner in one hand and a Sega Genesis controller in the other? Roughly even. Needless to say, I wait with breathless anticipation.
PS: New entry up on CarlosJacott.com! Note to all: My one true wish for Christmas, to go carolling with Carlos, did not come true. I will not hold this against Carlos if he asks to move in with me, though.
Christmas Eve in the hizzie! When I was a little CWMP, Christmas Eve was the most frustrating day of the year for me. I don't remember where I came up with this idea, but I was certain that if I was awake when Santa Claus came to my house, he would leave without giving me my presents. While this bit of info could motivate some kids to go right to sleep on Christmas Eve, it served to terrify me. I would get so worked up about Santa Claus passing our house that I would be absolutely incapable of sleeping that night. Then, as the clock started inching towards midnight, I'd go into colossal freak-out mode because I knew that at any moment, Santa was going to pull up in his sleigh and then fly right off again. Yelling, crying, ripping my room apart: these late-night Christmas Eve nervous breakdowns became a time-honored tradition in the Powell household.
There was nothing that anyone could do to cheer me up on Christmas Even, because I was absolutely inconsolable. My parents would always attempt to talk me down off the Christmas ledge, but it never worked. Our exchanges would go something like this:
Parents: Don't worry; we'll make sure Santa doesn't skip you if you can't go to bed.
Me: I know the rules; it doesn't work that way!
Parents: We PROMISE he won't skip our house.
Me: Who do you think you are, bossing around Santa Claus like that?
We'd repeat those lines until 4 AM Christmas morning, at which point I'd fall asleep for 30 minutes and then go wake my parents up to get my presents on. So, to any 5 year olds who happen to be reading this, I feel the need to first commend you on your reading skills, and second, inform you that Santa Claus won't skip you if you have a hard time going to sleep tonight. Unless, of course, you've been bad, which is another thing to obsess over. Have a great Christmas everyone, and I'll be smelling you guys again on the 26th.
Short entry because it's Christmas Eve Eve, and some of us (hint: me) have a few carols to sing tonight.
As I do with everything, I have begun to go overboard with my PDA. I brought it up briefly last week here, but I feel as if I owe it a better introduction. Here's what I should've written:
I recently got a PDA for work. It's almost like the people at work got together and said, "Is there anything we could do to make him nerdier?" And then they started shouting out, "Make him carry around a slide rule in a holster!" and "Dress him up like an Ewok!" Then, someone just slammed their fist down on the table and said, "To hell with that, let's give him a computer he can take EVERYWHERE!" I just played into that trap like a sucker, because I am always screwing around with that thing, trying to calculate how many milkshakes I could buy with 150 million dollars. Then, I amortize the cost of those milkshakes over 20 years. The possibilities are endless.
I have decided that el PDA's name shall be Samwise, since it goes everywhere with me, and the case looks exactly like Sean Astin's head (I ordered it specially). I didn't have too much to do at work today, since it's my last day of the year, and so I decided I would write a little app for it in C#. It ended up just being a little form with a button on it that said "SELF DESTRUCT". Whenever you hit that button, you'd get some text that read "AIIIIYEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" and an explosion sound. I devoted far more time to that than I should've. Also, I downloaded Pong for it. Between the Ponging and the self destructing, I look forward to a non-stop battle of wits between myself and Samwise over the next 2 weeks.
Going home for Christmas tomorrow morn. Even with that, I won't be stopping Goulash. Unlike the Post Office, Goulash recognizes only one holiday a year (George Washington's Birthday), and even that is done grudgingly.
Aww snap, it's December 22 and I still have one present left to buy. The store where I have to get it is completely insane with shoppers right now, and it is times like these that I wish I could make something with hands besides the most sublime banana pudding you ever did taste. The rough part of going shopping now isn't my paralyzing fear of people carrying shopping bags, which often leads to the untimely release of my bladder in social type situations. After all, I have learned to live with this, and in fact, I have even learned to use this to my advantage. The scary part is the fact that all of those people, carrying (gulp) shopping bags, wouldn't hesitate for one second to pop a cap in my ass if it meant they got the last Donald Rumsfeld Coloring Book. So, as schemer extraordinaire, I have been trying to think up a way to obtain this last gift without having to deal with all of those freaks.
My first thought was to put up crime scene tape all around the store. Perhaps I would put up a chalk outline of Santa in the parking lot. Then, while all the rubes are jackalacking around out in the parking lot about what happened, I would sneak into the store in my policeman's outfit, grab what I need, and haul buns out of there. If anyone happened to catch me during my escape, I'd throw out a little diversion. I'd say, "You want to hear what Santa Claus's last words were? He said, 'Psych!! I ain't dead, you turkey!'" Then I'd bop them in the nose and run like the dickens out of there.
I see the short-comings to this plan. First of all, where am I going to get all of that crime scene tape, not to mention the police outfit? I don't even know where to look for that. Second, do I really think that the death of Santa Claus would stop people from shopping? No way, fool. So, the next best thing is just to light myself on fire, run into the store, pick out what I need, and run out; I can only hope they'll have the sprinklers on when I run out. Yes, I'll mail them the money for it later. This is a good plan because the only person who risks injury is me (I wouldn't mine) and whatever poor sap tries to stop me (probably deserves it). Anyway, I will let you guys know how this works out for me.
In nerdly news, does anyone want to work on a little programming project with me? The idea is a chess program/web app that generates an rss feed of all the moves made for each game you're playing. Not too hard since it'd be strictly 2 player, plus think of all the chicks who'll come a-running once your name is attached to something like this. Merry Christmas, indeed!
Deckie Holmes' man-servant, Dennis Proctor, was kind enough to post my Best of 2003 CD list on his master's weblog. Then he made the crucial error of showing a picture of me with prize winning perch, Lil Jawz. For that, Dennis, you shall be beaten soundly with a sack of spoiled figs. Since it is Christmas, I will let him eat the figs after the thrashing.
Woah, it's the December 21! What will all of you be getting me? Hmm, I don't know, could it be..... HOMEMADE JAM?!!? I know, I always tell everyone to get me the same thing, but when you eat as many biscuits as I do, a stockpile of jam isn't a luxury, it's a necessity. Hey, this is my first Goulash Christmas. I don't know what to expect there, in that I've heard Goulash gets a little rowdy during the holiday season. It knows its way around the eggnog is all I'm saying. Nevertheless, from all the commercials I've been seeing lately, I expect Goulash to get me a luxury car or a diamond-studded jump suit. It better start showing some porn ads if it wants to raise that kind of dough! Zzzzzing!
If anyone wants to know why Christmas is fun with CWMP around, let me give you a taste of what I've cooked up for this year: National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation Trivia Game. 50 questions, sorted by hardness, yours truly as the gamemaster, and an optional Physical Challenge, a la Double Dare. I would post it here, but then I know my rogue of a sister would dedicate the next year to memorizing all the questions, after my mom's crushing victory last night. Fat chance of that happening, Grinchola Powell. Also, I don't know if I said this or not, but I put some tinsel on my rubber tree. My mom sent me a 60 ft string of it. My first reason, and probably yours too, was, "Will that be enough?" Wow, it got a little tight at the end, but somehow, I managed to give the 2 ft tall plant the splendor it deserves.
2:00 PM. Work is going well. I am doing my nerdy thing, bebopping in my office, when I hear the foghorn that means a ship is pulling into Powell Port. My spirits are high, as I think it is Santa Claus. Oh no, it is the USS Sickness, and it wants to throw a Vomit Party with me as the Guest of Honor. Long story short, I left work early and I feel like poop. However, this will not get in the way of my Constitutionally-mandated Thursday post to Goulash.
I may've mentioned this already, but I had an incredible no-vomit streak going when I was at college, in San Antonio. My luck didn't hold in other cities, but for like 3 and a half years, I didn't throw up in the city where I spent the vast majority of my time. I thought I was going to make it the whole way through school without doing so, and there was a definite buzz around campus. People would speak in hushed tones whenever I entered a room, and I was advised to look into getting a tuxedo for graduation time. Why, a graduation party? No, a banquet to celebrate 4 vomit-free years. I was pumped.
But of course, I flew a little too close to the sun with that one, and one early morning about two months before graduation, the streak died. Likely I was poisoned by someone jealous of my gastrointestinal success, but whatever the case, I came to discover that I was indeed a mortal man inside the 210 area code. There was much sadness when I informed my adoring public of the news; Will cried even more than normal. I didn't let it keep me down, though; I knew there would be other cities to not throw up in. It certainly worked for a while here in Austin, but today, Austin failed to live up to her side of the agreement. So, yes, I'm sick and gross and unhappy about all of this, but even more than that, I feel betrayed. You must atone for this with an Eskimo Pie, city of Austin.
Woah, Office Christmas party tonight. If the conventional wisdom holds for these things, I look forward to seeing plenty of photocopies of my coworkers' buttocks. Note to coworkers: do not use that last sentence to justify any unwarranted butt copying. I am serious this time. A lot of people get the wrong idea from my email address, ShowMeAPhotocopyOfYourPosterior@codypowell.com, but that's more of a figurative thing than a literal one.
Should I even get into how pee'd off I am that I didn't get to go to the midnight premiere of Return of the King? I had shelled out some major bucks to get a velour jumpsuit monogrammed with Gollum's face on the back, only to find out late-night movie premieres aren't a valid excuse for missing work. I asked if there was an exception for Sean Astin movies, and my boss said there used to be, until too many people abused it when Toy Soldiers came out in 1991. I just went into hysterics at that point, screaming over and over, "But I already told the usher at the movies about the jumpsuit!" Sadly, specially made clothing/movie memorabilia doesn't carry the weight it used to. And besides, I already have my viewing planned for this Friday in Fort Worth with Frito of the Shire. Look at all those capitalized F's in that last sentence! Someone call the Guiness book of world records!
Speaking of the Guiness book, I gave that thing the once-over Sunday morning while recovering from a little too much Warsteiner, and I found a record I think all of us could join together to break. The largest hobby horse collection is only like 400 horses. I am not even sure what a hobby horse is, so I am not going to commit myself just yet. Is is the same thing as a stick pony? I hope it's not those miniature horses, as I just don't have the room for those dudes, no matter what my heart says. Anyway, think it over, people. ALSO, I keep forgetting to say this, but Tim, one of my friends from college, has started a very amusing website that I encourage everyone to devote to memory.
Last night, I watched Kicking and Screaming with one of my friends who knew nothing of my obsession with Carlos Jacott. Whenever Carlos came on screen, I was really tempted to lean over and whisper, "I wonder if he has a website!" I think maybe that'll be my new hobby. I'll make a stranger watch a Carlos movie with me, and then I'll bombard them with questions about the existence of Carlos Jacott's website until they finally agree to check it out. Then, once the glory of CarlosJacott.com comes up, I'll yell out, "Aww, snap!" and start dancing the cabbage patch.
I don't mean to brag, but a certain someone whose name rhymes with Body Bayne Baxwell Bowell just got himself a fancy schmancy PDA at work. Actually, it's not a PDA, it's a taser gun that looks like a PDA. That way, whenever a criminal is about to beat my face to pudding, I can say, "Wait, let me show you this Excel spreadsheet!" He'll lean in to look, and then I'll introduce him to an old friend of mine, Mr. Johann Von ZappedButtocks. It'd be cool if they made taser guns that played that Peter Gabriel song "Shock the Monkey" after you got done shocking someone. Even the victim would have to laugh a little bit about that.
Okay, it doesn't really have the taser gun functionality. I don't even know what it does yet. I do know that there are parrots on the front of the box, as it is a ViewSonic product. So, extrapolating from that, I look forward to keeping up-to-the-minute stats on it regarding my flock's dietary and mating habits. It's about time someone brought a little bit of professionalism for the world of high-stakes parrot ownership. In other news, if you live in Austin, I encourage you to go check out the Christmas lights on 37th St. There's a Christmas robot and a volcano, just like the baby Jesus had. Very cool stuff.
Well, they got Saddam Hussein. I guess this leads to one big question: what does this do to the value of my Iraqi Most Wanted playing cards that I bought off the internet? While we're on the subject, can anyone seriously think of a better way to support our troops while playing Old Maid? I don't think so. Getting past my love of patriotic game pieces, I think it's a good thing that he was captured. I don't think there are many bad people in this world, but he's probably one of them; I can only hope that when Saddam is imprisoned and then traded by the muslim gang to the white supremacists for a pack of smokes and an old issue of Hustler, it will be broadcast on every screen in Baghdad.
To really put the Saddam thing into perspective, I would like to point that the villain in Hot Shots!, a truly great movie, is none other than Saddam Hussein. When was that movie released? 1991. What was Charlie Sheen's status in Hollywood at the time? Superstar. What craze was sweeping America then? Urkel-mania. What was I wearing to school in 1991? Sweatpants with dinosaurs on them. Yeah, things have changed quite a bit since then, with the sole exception of Saddam Hussein as international evil-doer and my love for dinosaur sweatpants. So, even though I wasn't the biggest fan of the war, I do think it's a good thing someone finally did something with that guy.
Now, getting past all of that, here are a few other interesting happenings in the world of CWMP. This weekend, I discovered the San Antonio hang-out for the late-night homosexual taco afficionado. Also, I got a Venus Flytrap that will soon grow to a monstrous size and eat me in my sleep. Furthermore, I updated CarlosJacott.com with a crossword puzzle about everyone's favorite character actor of indeterminate ethnicity. Yeah, you can say it; everything's coming up Cody.
It just doesn't feel right to go through the month of December without having to take final exams. This is definitely the first winter since I was rescued from the feral hogs that I haven't been reduced to a blubbering pile of failure by an indecipherable essay question, and to be honest, I have missed it a little bit. That is why I devoted this weekend to searching for a test around Austin that I could take.
I wasn't sure where to start, but from my encyclopedic knowledge of the Karate Kid and its sequels, I seemed to recall that the mystical art of karate involved a lot of tests. So, Saturday morning, I went down to the local karate school to see if they had a test I could take. Before I went, I donned black sweat pants and drew a big dragon on my chest with a marker, just to let them know I was no pushover. When I entered the dojo, I bowed to the receptionist and then demonstrated a picture perfect dragon punch from Street Fighter 2. I wanted to demand my black belt test after that, but I got a charlie horse from the dragon punch, so I had to walk around the building a few times to work it out. After that, I announced, "I am Sensei Powell. I have come to be tested for a black belt. Also, I have a coupon for a free pair of nunchuks."
The receptionist started to hand me a clipboard full of paperwork. I snatched it from her, put the paper in my mouth, and then swallowed it. "That's what I think of your stupid procedures. Now send Master Splinter out," I commanded. She started to question me, but then I assumed the dragon punch position and she immediately become much more cooperative. She handed me my free nunchuks and pointed me down the hall to their testing room. The room was empty, although I knew it'd soon be filled with screams of anguish from my opponent. I began to practice a few punches and nunchuk swings, when I heard the door knob begin to turn. I ran behind the door. An old man shambled into the room, and I jumped out from behind the door, bopping him in the nose with my nunchuks. Then I assumed my defensive stance, known as the truffle shuffle.
"What is wrong with you? I'm the janitor!" he said.
"Or, more likely, a karate master dressed as the janitor!" I bopped him again with the nunchuks, and he fell down. While he was unconscious, I could see that he went to great lengths with his janitor costume. Not only was he carrying around a mop, but he had a wallet that said World's Greatest Janitor. Yes, he did get points for the thoroughness, but no points could make up for the vicious ass thrashing I had doled out on him. He didn't seem to have my black belt on his person, so instead, I took his shoes.
As he was beginning to revive, I got right up in his face and said, "Thanks for the sneaks, pops; I'll be back next December for the belt." He mumbled something about being a diabetic and needing insulin. Sensing that he was trying to trick me into my own demise, I jumped through the window into the parking lot. Yes, the shards of glass tingled a bit, but what tingled even more was a little something I like to call the sense of accomplishment.
Well, someone has beaten me to the punch in the search for the world's largest prime number. Maybe you didn't know that searching for prime numbers is a hobby of mine. No, finding the largest prime number is not as much of a hobby as it is my single reason for breathing. However, unlike Mr. Michael Shafer of Michigan State, I don't use a fancy computer to find my numbers. No sir, I do it the old fashioned way, with an abacus, a piece of paper, and some coal to write with. Yes, I occasionally double check my work with my Garfield calculator, but the vast majority of the work is done by me and my lucky troll doll.
I've had some good success with my prime number search. Not only have I found some numbers that I previously had no idea were primes, but I found some numbers that I didn't even know were numbers. That's just how it is when you reach the highest echelon of abstract mathematics; it's like going to Mars for a taffy convention. Nevertheless, what I found last week astounded me. I wasn't entirely sure, but it seemed like I had found it. That's right, fools, the world's largest prime number. I had a hard time believing my results, so I went back and looked at my work. Yes, I had definitely lined all my digits up correctly and carried the ones; I was absolutely positive then that I had found the world's largest prime.
My first instinct was to call CNN. As I began to dial their special Prime Number Discovery hotline, I had a moment of insight. While it seemed totally out of the question, what if I had made an error? Tensions were already high between me and CNN from last year, when I called them claiming to have found the corpse of Aqua Man (turned out to be a jellyfish). I'd get laughed out of Luby's if I tried to pull another thing like that over on them, without first verifying it. I decided the only way to be sure was to hunker down and reprove the prime number. I called up my office and said, "I can't come in this week, my wife is sick." "Oh, I didn't know you were married," the receptionist replied. I yelled back, "Yeah, she goes by the name of Mathematics!" Then I slammed down the phone and got to work.
Time was of the essence, and even though I am probably the world's foremost mathematical genius, I was worried that someone would swoop down and steal my prime while I was trying to verify it. I decided to call on an old ally. An old, lasagna eating ally, that is. I broke Garfield calculator out of his carrying case and screamed, "Tonight, we calculate!" I was going to ride his fat kitty cat butt all the way to the finish line.
I faded in and out of conscious the next few days as I tried to verify the world's largest prime. I never stopped for a meal or a pee break the entire time, as I was suckling on science's teat for knowledge, and peeing in her dixie cup for relief. After 6 long days, I couldn't deny that my original results were correct. With utmost confidence, I dialed CNN.
"Hello, CNN Prime Number Discovery Line," the operator said.
"I have done it! I have found the world's largest prime number. Send the camera crew out immediately."
"Awesome," the operator said. "Have you double checked it?"
"By hand," I said, as I winked at my Garfield calculator.
"Actually, sir, we had another individual call in tonight with a possible largest prime. How big of a number is yours?"
"Crapballs! Well, to be honest, I'm not worried. This number is big. Like, really big," I said.
"Come on, how big? You must tell me!" she pleaded.
"Fine, fine." I brought the phone up to my mouth so I could whisper the number to her. "The number is..... 45."
"45?" she said.
"Yes, it is incredible, isn't it?"
"I hate to be the one to tell you this sir, but the gentleman who called in earlier has your number beat by roughly 6 million digits," the operator said.
"What?! Preposterous!" I yelled.
"Not only that, but I'm pretty sure that 45 isn't even a prime number. Can't you divide 5 into it?"
"5? How? I don't even understand what you're saying. Are you still sending the camera crew out?" I said.
"I'm sorry, thanks for calling." She began to hang up.
"Wait! But I already bought this monogramed jacket that says Prime Time on it! At least come take a picture of me in it!"
"I'm sorry, better luck next time." With that, she hung up.
And so, another of my scientific discoveries end in disaster. Even if it isn't technically the world's largest prime that I've discovered, I'm confident that one day, my keen mathematical insights will be recognized, and future scholars will unearth my bones to suck the knowledge juice out of them. Until then, I am gunning for you, Michael Shafer of Michigan State.
Running a website that attracts literally billions of people each day, I have gotten used to people trying to make a quick buck off Goulash. For instance, when Disneyland wanted to create Goulash the Ride, I refused due to my artistic integrity, even though the deal was sweet for me (free funnel cakes for life and breakfast with Goofy). Recently though, some scoundrels have left me out of the loop entirely and taken to exploiting the comments section of of older posts, trying to sell their penis enlargement services. Just to give you guys a taste of what's been going down, check out three comments just added to this entry from August.
Maybe those of you who are in advertising can straighten me out here, but I don't think these people will experience much success. First, the names they're posting under aren't very good. Who on earth is going to want to buy penis enlargement services from someone named Wacowski Kat Gloor or AuCoin Kelly? Wacowski Kat Gloor sounds like something they'd serve in the cafeteria of a concentration camp. Try going with something a little more provocative, like Professor Weiner. Second, the messages they post just don't make a lot of sense. The most recent one said, "The fear of death is the beginning of slavery," followed by a link to penis-enlargement-advice.net. While I guess you could extrapolate that message to mean something about the slavery of small genitalia, that's just too much work for a man who is in urgent need of penis enlargement advice. Simplify your message, perhaps through the use of haiku. Consider using the following:
You call that a
penis? More like a third nipple
And finally, I would suggest posting these messages on a place where this issue would tend to appear more frequently, like on a Nascar message board. As far as I know, most Goulash readers reproduce through Parthenogenesis, and so the penis info isn't really relevant. I think I speak for us all when I say that we appreciate the sentiment, but let's just leave the comments to their intended use, such as a discussion of how to mail Warwick Davis a letter.
Confidential to the spammers: PERHAPS I'd be willing to change my attitude about all of this stuff if you were to cut in me in on the action. Let's talk funnel cakes and a Dolly Parton autograph.
Oh man, it is coming quickly. The only way I could be more excited about Christmas is if a fat, bearded, supernatural being was going to sneak into my house and leave me presents. And to anyone who doubts my devotion to the season, let me pose one question for you: is there any sight more majestic than me, riding through the streets of Austin, on my sleigh that's being pulled by a few dozen reindeer? And to think, some of you laughed when I sold all of my possessions to buy that set-up. The only ones laughing now are two dudes named Dasher and Dancer, and that's because they have a playdate at Santa's Workshop, aka my apartment.
If I had to pinpoint my love of Christmas, it's probably due to the union of three great elements: gifts, magic, and elves. If you take 2 of the 3, it's still a good combo, but I can't imagine there being any Peanuts specials about it. For instance, elves who give gifts. Wouldn't that technically be a Keebler elf? No one gives a crap about those guys. And magic elves who don't give gifts? Man, that's just the plot of Willow. A good movie and all, but I'd be a little uneasy with the fate of the world in Warwick Davis's hands. It's not that I have anything against magic elves; I just think they need to be occupied with something productive, like the making of pogo sticks, if this society is going to get anywhere.
Now, all of this leads to the obvious question: what do you get me for Christmas? Well, in honor of the Christmas spirit, I'll say a big bag of money. Yes, I will accept coins. I will even accept coupons, provided they're for one of the 3 products I am willing to spend money on (Cool Whip, Brillo pads, taco seasoning). Failing all of that, you can get me the one thing it's impossible to overdose on: karate lessons.
Well, I'm feeling roughly 738% better than I did yesterday, so I will again assume the title of Grand Poobah of the Goulash. And let me tell you, holding that position down is no easy feat because I really got suckered into signing a bad contract when I applied for the gig. Not only am I obligated to do 5 entries a week here (3 good entries, 0.75 of a great entry, and 1.25 bad entries), but here are a few other things I must do in order not to get sued by CodyPowell.com, Inc.:
- Spend no less than an hour a day marketing CodyPowell.com merchandise, such as bibs, wooden shoes, and cake mix.
- Check the temperature once in an hour in the real Cody Powell's cryogenic chamber.
- One weekly guest appearance on the popular Spanish soap opera, "Aye, Mis Cacahuetes!".
- Serve as cheerleader for the Texas Celebrity Rollerball Championship (after the last one, I got bit on the ankle and thrown down a flight of stairs by none other than Mr. Troy Aikman).
- Accompany Frodo to Mordor to destroy the Ring in the fires of Mount Doom (not looking forward to this one).
- Forfeit any profits made off my new side business, Cody Powell's Fancy Dancing Academy.
Yeah, it's a lot of sacrifices, but as I like to tell random people I meet at the gas station, I didn't choose Goulash; Goulash chose me.
I normally don't do the link thing, but I found a good interview with the guys behind Aqua Teen Hunger Force on flakmag.com. Those guys are geniuses, and you can consider them officially invited to the Goulash Bicentennial.
Woah, I feel like I was competing in some sort of epic dog sled race this weekend. So, I don't think I'll be able to do my normal full 3 paragraphs. This will inevitably cause you to weep. If you happen to be incarcerated, this whole imbroglio will lead you to work out extra hard in the yard tomorrow, and perhaps beat up a member of a rival gang. If you're not incarcerated, you will wear a black sweat suit to work tomorrow, and whenever anyone asks about it, you'll scowl at them and then throw a styrofoam cup at their head. In the long run, though, it will be good for you.
It's been a weekend of disappointment for me. My beloved Dallas Mavericks were handed their galoshes by the Lakers. My not quite as beloved Cowboys were thrashed even more thoroughly. I am feeling a little sick. My rubber tree spontaneously burst into flames. Someone stole my car, peed in it, lit the pee on fire, and then returned it. Worst of all, all of my crazy swirly straws were in the dishwasher today when I wanted to sip some soda water. So, I am just going to cut my losses and go to bed early, and hope that no wild boars get into my apartment and eat all of my goldfish crackers while I slumber like a baby with a tummy full of pudding. Tomorrow, I get back to tax write-offs related to the purchasing of damaged wigs.
With all the hoopla over Michael Jackson going to the big house, the journalists seem to have missed one huge question: What does this mean for Captain Eo 2? I saw the first one when I went to Disney World with my parents as a wee CWMP. When you're 7 years old, a movie starring Michael Jackson is pretty cool. Then you add in the fact that he's a space pirate, and it gets better. And wait, they show it in 3D? BESTILL MY BEATING HEART! Now that I'm old enough to appreciate more of the subtlety involved in the space piratry, I think I'd like it even more. However, it doesn't look like I'll get a chance to test that hypothesis if Disney doesn't show some cajones and pony up for Eo 2.
In non Captain Eo related news, I would like to announce that I've written a commercial for rectal thermometers that ought to draw in the young people. Here it is, for your perusal.
The scene opens with two teenagers at a skateboard park.
Guy 1: Hey dude, that was a bodacious 720 Sweet Potato you just pulled.
Guy 2: Thanks, homeskillet. *cough cough*
Guy 1: That cough doesn't good, Dudezilla. I better take your temperature.
Guy 1 pulls a thermometer out of his skateboard dude bag.
Guy 2: Eww, I'm not putting that thing in my mouth!
Guy 1: It doesn't go in your mouth, you weinerbiscuit. It goes in your butt.
Guy 2: What? A rectal thermometer? I don't think so.
Guy 1: This ain't your momma's rectal thermometer. It's called an Extreme Thermometer, and it's the cool new way to check your temperature. Look, it has Pokemon on it, and it plays a Snoop Dogg whenever you insert it.
Guy 2: Dudaclicious! Lube that thing up and stick it in!
They high-five and then ready the apparatus
Yeah, I'm not sure what to make of that, but if you fat cats at the rectal thermometer companies are going to use it, I expect a little bit of the ka-chingo.
Alas, we meet again, Wednesday. Or as some of us free spirits like call it, Hump Day. Sometimes, I wish I could be a marine biologist just so that when someone refers to Wednesday as Hump Day, I can say, "Don't you mean Humpback Day?" And then I'd show them my whale suspenders and do a little dance. If they didn't laugh, then I'd grab them by the collar and scream, "But to me, every day is Humpback Day! It's called the ecosystem; look into it, chump!" Yes, I would be a high-strung marine biologist.
Speaking of high-strung marine biologists, guess who just posted something on CarlosJacott.com? That's right, ol' Stinks Powell. That being said, I have some exciting news to relate about my Carlos Jacott related activities: I have procured a lock of his hair. No, that's not it, not that I wouldn't be willing to be shell out some greenbacks for something like that (you hearing me, eBay?). The exciting news is that I am now only 3 degrees of separation away from Carlos Jacott. At this time last week, I was infinite degrees of separation from him, and now we're practically second cousins. If I keep up at this rate, I'll have to rename my apartment to the Cool Dude Express because Carlos will be living in my bathroom any day now.
All of this degrees of separation stuff has got me thinking about other notables that I'm connected with. Probably the coolest connection, aside from personally knowing Schumin, is knowing a guy who knows Prince. I think if I had to pick three people to be vaguely connected to, I couldn't do much better than Schumin, Prince, and Carlos Jacott. A triumverate like that hasn't been seen since Pompey, Crassus, and Caesar. You get the four of us together and you better break out the meat tenderizer, because this get-together has wasp sting written all over it.
Goulash by the Numbers for the month of November.
Number of people who searched for goulash on Google and ended up here: 546
Number of people who were dissatisfied with the results of their search: 545
Number of people who were so dissatisfied with this site being the #1 result, they snuck into my house late at night and dumped rotten taco meat on my keyboard: 126
Number of dissatisfied searchers who, after the taco meat thing, attempted to climb into bed with me: 61
Number of bed climbers who paused before getting into my bed to put on My Little Pony jammies: 9
Number of My Little Pony jammies wearers who cut off a lock of my hair, after successfully slipping into my bed: 7
Number of hair snippers who still expected me to cuddle them after all this crap: 4
Number of people from the Netherlands who accessed this site last month: 62
Number of Netherlanders who immediately after seeing the site, sent me a pair of wooden shoes out of gratitude: 57
Number of splinters I got for wearing the wooden shoes they sent: 197
Number of wooden shoe senders unwilling to foot my copay fee so I could see a doctor about all of the damn splinters: 48
Number of wooden shoe senders who then had a bounty sworn out on their heads for being cheap pieces of crap who care nothing for the well being of my feet: 48
Number of soon-to-be dead Netherlanders who tried to even the score with me by sending me another pair of wooden shoes, which they claimed to be magic , but were actually infected with monkey pox: 19
Number of times I tried these "magic" wooden shoes on and then promptly proceeded to urinate blood: 16
Number of Netherlanders who I consider friends: 0
It cheeses me off something horrible when I go to update this thing at 5:15 PM, just like I always do, and my leper of a webhost isn't functioning properly. Don't these people know that between 5:15 and 5:45 every day is my Magic Time, when the words pour from my fingers like juice from a Hi C Ecto Plasma Cooler? Somebody get me management. If the fatcats who run the joint aren't too busy driving around in their platinum Rolls Royces, let them know that CWMP is going to tear some crap up if he doesn't start seeing his $5 monthly fee in action. Okay, I feel a little better now.
I am super pumped about Christmas. Not really because of the gifts and the seasonal cheer, but because of the rash of crimes we'll see where the perpetrator is dressed as Santa Claus. People are always robbing banks and jacking cars this time of year dressed as old Saint Nick, presumably because most people would never turn in Santa to the police. They would rob him of his magic! Actually, I don't understand why people start committing crimes in December dressed as Santa. I think maybe it's because they don't want their crime to be taken seriously. That way, if you're robbing the bank and they're out of money or something, the guy could just say, "Ho ho ho, Santa would never rob you!" Then he could give them a candy cane and haul ass out of there, before they realized what was going on.
Also, I think it's strange that people will rob a bank around Christmas dressed as Santa, but no one does it as a leprechaun around St. Patrick's Day. That goes for the Easter Bunny and Baby New Year too (assuming i didn't make that character up). Doing that would be so much more clever, yet no one does it. What happened to the criminal masterminds in this country? The beauty part of picking one of these lesser known holiday mascots (that's what i'm calling those things, holiday mascots), is that it would give a little surreal edge to the crime, and the police could just say the victim is crazy. "Tom Turkey car jacked you? What the hell does that mean? Get out of here, Mr. Jacott, we have real crimes to solve!"