As a rapidly rising titan of industry, I knew that one day, I'd have to start travelling for work. At first, I was scared. What if the security guards at the airport thought my delightful demeanor was all a sham, and decided to perform an exhaustive cavity search on me? What if the stewardess misinterpreted my hatred of peanuts as a critique of her performance, and peed in my Fresca in retaliation? What if the pilot, *gasp*, accidentally gave me Tetanus while trying to pin on my commemorative flight wings? After months of fear, I decided that the only way to deal with this crisis was to spit in its eye and start preparing now. I bought a full set of luggage, I memorized the entire SkyMall catalog, and I played hour after hour of Pilot Wings on SNES, in case the pilot got sleepy and wanted me to take over. I was ready to rock.
After a few false alarms, I finally got the call today. Sometime next month, I'm headed to either Billings, Montana or Santa Margarita, California, the two epicenters of the software industry. Since there are two options here, I get a choice of where I'd like to go. This is an interesting dilemma. I've been to California before. I thought it was an okay place, but the aspect that had the largest effect on me was that I had to pay to use the bathroom in McDonald's. It wasn't a lot of money and it was only in McDonalds, but I hate to carry change and I'm pretty fond of urinating regularly, so this is just a brewing disaster. Yes, I could wear adult diapers, but I'm scared it'd undermine my professionalism if I had to constantly leave meetings to go put on a new pair of Depends.
The other option, Billings, Montana, doesn't seem like it was made to order, either. I imagine I would get stomped on by a buffalo immediately upon leaving the airport. If I somehow managed to avoid the buffalo stampede, I am certain I would wake up in the middle of the night and find a grizzly bear trying on my pants. I can come up with an endless number of crazed wildlife scenarios, leading me to think that Billings is a city I should only dream about.
After waffling back and forth on these for roughly 30 seconds, I consulted with Paddy, who'll be going to the location I do not visit. He had no preference, so we elected to find a regulation quarter/dime/nickel and decide this like two rational adults. At this point, the boss man set us straight and said I should just plan on going to California. That's cool with me, but I feel I need to make an announcement. If you happen to be in Santa Margarita in 3 weeks and you see me barreling through the streets with a pained look on my face, for the love of God, toss me a roll of quarters.
I've got nothing to write about tonight. Rather than mailing it in like I usually do in these occasions, I've decided to search the web for the phrase "Cody is" and then make dumb remarks about the results. Eat it up!
Cody Is Rodeo. I'd be impressed to see a one man rodeo in real life, unless of course the one man happens to be me. In that case, I'd be worried about getting a hoof in my mouth. I've never even been to a real rodeo, which makes no sense to me because it's the one venue where there are both clowns and bulls attacking people.
Cody Is a Nutritional Repressor of Flagellar Gene Expression in Bacillus subtilis. Hmm, I understand roughly 3 words of all that. Does this make me good or bad? Whatever the case, I'm going to keep on nutritionally repressing the flagellar gene expressions because I don't give a damn what society thinks. Leave me and my Bacillus subtilis alone!
Cowboy Cody is a rootin'-tootin' cowpoke that will liven up your desktop. It's about damn time someone got the point of this website. If I have to do it all by myself, I will bring rootin' tootin' cowpokery back to the forefront of the web. You have my word on this both as a gentleman, and as the last of the cowboys.
I love Cody. Cody is hot. Cody is sexy. I want to have Cody's babies! I miss Cody. This certainly isn't the first time I've stumbled across such sentiments. Reading that story, I quickly went from being flattered to being terrified; it's like some demented 7 year old is obsessed with my genitals. I'm going to be honest: that will negatively impact the author's chances of having my babies. However, beggars can't be choosers, so she's still in the running.
Cody is now laying in front of the patio door and making the weirdest sounds, not quite a meow, not quite a chirp. I don't know what's going on here. Either I went over to this guy's house and started speaking in tongues, or I'm part of an extremely surreal game of Charades where I'm trying to imitate a paralyzed cat bird. Or maybe it's just a Silence of the Lambs type situation where this guy has kidnapped me to make a skin suit. I don't like this one bit, Mike Cohen!
Cody is just tooooo precious! Guilty as charged.
Things just got a little more interesting at work. No, I wasn't fired, and no, a rabid capybara wasn't assigned to be my new partner. The big news is that the powers that be are now stocking Junior Mints in the vending machine. Perhaps to you, this doesn't qualify as a momentous event. However, as Treasurer Pro Tem of the North Austin Candy Appreciation And Confectionary Ingestion Society (NACACIS), I have to say this is the biggest snack related event to hit 78727 since the Skittles Embargo of 84. As such, I decided to devote some time today to researching the storied history of Junior Mints. Put on your candy learning pants!
Did you know...
Is there anything tastier than the intersection where candy and knowledge meet? You're welcome, people of the Internet!
Well, the weekend has come and gone, like some sort of fancy-ass jewel thief. Mine was pretty standard: went home, got some presents, rode around on an ostrich, fought a cyclops, and ate the world's largest hamburger. Just another couple of days for C-Murder Pizzowell, Austin's most notorious wet willie giver.
I'm slightly worn out from my trip, so I am going to half ass this entry and just say that I've added a new part to the site, a little forum. You can rock it out here. What are the rules for this forum, you may wonder. Well, there's only one, really.
Rule #1: Carlos Jacott may not post, no matter how badly he wants to.
Sorry, C-Jac, but them's the breaks. Maybe one day, when you're crying yourself to sleep on your solid gold pillow, you'll realize that the gravy train, conducted by one CWMP, has long since passed you by. But really, all of this was covered in our court depositions, so I won't air any more of your dirty laundry here. To the rest of you, go check out the forum, comment on something, and then we'll all forget about it in a week. Are we cool, or are we cool?
This weekend, I'll be making my way back to my ancestral highlands of Dallas/Fort Worth to do a little celebración del cumpleaños, in the words of the Spaniards. If your idea of a tickle-fest is 3 straight hours of pastures, Dairy Queens, and begging truckers to honk their horns, then you'd be right at home on this trip. Usually on longer trips like this, I like someone else to ride with me so I can play road-trip games. Road-trip games include the license plate game, Guess what I'm humming, and the crown jewel, 20 questions. You kids can have your X Boxes and your sex robots; 20 questions is the only entertainment I ever need.
I like that game so much, sometimes I'll just be hanging out with my friends and I'll ask if they want to play. You know, can we turn this movie off and do something fun for once? Like, ohh I don't know, maybe play 20 questions? 20 questions! 20 QUESTIONS!!!!! AHHHH!!!!! Sadly, I hang out with a bunch of punk weinerbiscuits who wouldn't know fun if it sank its teeth into their genitals. My only outlet for this passion then is to be trapped in a car with someone for several hours so I can wear down their resolve and get them to play. And when they relent, they regret it for two reasons.
Reason #1: I am awesome at 20 questions. I have rarely encountered someone better, and when I do, I pick something so strange that it demolishes their self-worth and keeps them from playing ever again. Give us an example of something that strange, the people yell. How about a lock of Dean Martin's hair? I picked that one time during a game with someone who thought she was hot shit, and I had her guessing for hours.
Reason #2: I am a gloater. This is slightly understandable, as I'm horribly incompetent at sports, academics, money, social affairs, and romance, which are typically the things people gloat about. I have to find my glory somewhere. Nevertheless, people get annoyed.
So, with no driving buddy for this trip, I can't get my 20Q on. Had I been thinking ahead, I would've got myself a CB radio for the ride and coerced some truckers into playing. Why don't I ever think ahead? I either need to find a CB rental shop (no idea if those exist), or do away with the CB idea entirely and just find a trucker who's headed to Arlington, is looking for a little non-sexual companionship for the road, and enjoys a few hours of spirited questioning. The loser empties out his pee bottle.
I have been really busy at work lately. How busy? Well, a lesser man would say I've been busier than a one legged man in a butt-kicking contest. However, I am better than that. As such, I declare that I've been busier than a no-lipped man in a beat-box contest. That's slightly busier than the paramedic at the sight of a grab-ass game played solely by people with hooks for hands. And that, in turn, is slightly busier than the receptionist at your mom's S&M dungeon. Are we clear here?
You poor fools may not know that besides being a man of letters, a universally feared gunfighter, and the world's foremost faberge egg expert, I am also something of a cook. I'm not really sure if it's cooking, actually. It's more taking a bunch of stuff, mixing it up, and forcing myself to eat it. My most daring combination? Tooth paste, motor oil, and ground-up unicorn hooves. Not really. But a while back, I was cooking with one of my friends and I decided to mix the following:
1 can of pinto beans
1 box of macaroni and cheese
1 box of instant rice
1 chicken breast
The end result was a little something I like to call Teddy P casserole, in honor of the soulster playing on my stereo while all of this was going on.
I think the reason I like to mix weird crap together is because I've always thought the coolest job in the world was mad scientist. Due to a down-turn in the mad science market, I really can't fulfill that dream. Instead, I'm forced to make up a lot of crazy food, feed it to my guests, and then see what happens to them. So far, no one's died, although a few are now wheel-chair bound (pretty sure they're faking it). And that one dude is now half-elephant, half-manatee, but I'm chalking that one up to a fluke. Nevertheless, I think I have a knack for it; it's just a matter of time before I'm the world's most beloved mad scientist. I urge all of you to get in on the groundfloor of the Teddy P casserole train while you still can: go home right now, mix a load of this up in your bathtub, and eat it all in one sitting. Then what happens? Well, you prepare for superhuman
powers. When you're seeing through walls and kicking dumptrucks all over the place, you can thank me and Teddy.
I love adventure. Given a choice between eating at TGI Friday's or at a Peruvian hot dog stand run by a syphilitic gypsy, my only question would be, "Do she need me to bring my own relish?" To some, it's a strange choice, but you're just not going to get any intrigue on the side of your jalepeno poppers at Friday's. This love of the unknown has been the catalyst behind an unbelievable amount of bizarre decisions by yours truly. One of these was deciding to take a trip with Danza and some assorted weinerbiscuits to Oklahoma to hit up some Indian casinos while all of us were seniors in high school. Just from that last statement, there are all of the requisite elements for a great story: gambling, teenage stupidity, and tribal government. Yet, the greatest part of the story has absolutely nothing to do with any of that.
Being a bit of a journey from Arlington, TX to the casinos in Oklahoma, our agenda for the trip included dinner. I don't remember how I came up with this place, but I was dead-set that we hit up this rib joint in Ardmore, just across the Oklahoma border. If it's like most of my dining tips, a vagrant at the bus station probably screamed it at me before hurling a cup of urine in my direction. Whatever the case, with sufficient weeping, I managed to convince my comrades that this was indeed the place for us, and after a minor amount of dicking around, we located the place. From the outside, it looked okay. Not great, but okay. I was a little disappointed, as I expect more in my travels.
As soon as we entered the place though, it became apparent why I was drawn there. Sitting in the middle of the room, wailing away at the piano, was this tiny, ancient black man. You only had to hear him for a minute to realize that he didn't cotton to society's idea of a song. For him, it was all about bangin' and hollerin', and I was loving every minute of it. Midway through our dinner, someone in the eatery yelled out a request. The piano player stopped what he was playing, scrunched up his brow for a minute, and launched into this opus. No amount of writing could describe the song that may or may not've been requested, but the only lyrics were:
Salt pea-nut! Salt pea-nut!
Salt pea-nut Salt! pea-nut!
He played that over and over again, for at least 30 minutes. It just wouldn't stop. As soon as you thought he'd hit the end of Salt Peanut, he found a coda and went back to the middle. The diners and the waitstaff were scratching their heads, wondering if this man had finally gone over the brink. Through the entire thing, I was bobbing my head, getting into the groove, and struggling over whether it'd be appropriate to throw my underwear at him. Eventually, he bowed to the pressure and played a different gibberish song. Those songs were good too, but they weren't up to the level of "Salt Peanut"; for me, no song since has been.
Ever since that day, whenever I see a bluesy guy taking requests, I always ask him to play "Salt Peanut". The usual response is, "Folks, there's a white boy up here trying to talk dirty to me." That is to say, no success yet as far as hearing Salt Peanut Part 2. To compensate, I've started belting the chorus to the song whenever I experience a personal triumph. Whether I'm around friends, family, or coworkers, if it's time for the Peanut to make an appearance, I'm not scared to bust out a few bars. I've even come up with a little dance for it. Sometimes, you just have to find the Salt Peanut within.
Look out, folks; birthday princess coming through! I hit the big 23 today. That's slightly old, but nothing too bad. It gets mildly depressing when I convert it to dog years, though. 161! I'm almost older than Moses! At that age, I could've ridden a tandem bicycle to school with James K. Polk! I don't even wish to consider the task of giving out birthday spankings to a 161 year old. Not only would you need a team of marathon spankers, but the spankee would almost certainly die in the midst of an avalanche of swats.
One of the coolest things I've gotten so far is a cookie bouquet from my mom and sister. Most of the cookies are shaped like computers, complete with little cookie monitors showing bar graphs. Not only that, but the centerpiece of the whole bouquet is a big bear-shaped cookie, all decked out in a suit and tie. There are two messages I could get from that. One: I am the grizzly of the software world. I thought I had already established that, but it's good to hear someone else admit it. Two: it's a sign from God that my mission in life should be teaching Excel to wild animals. I'm slightly conflicted about that, but I'm willing to give it a shot provided my students are eager and devoid of any blood-lust.
Now, as sweet as today has been, it could've been a little bit better had someone jumped out of a cake for me. I don't know if that happens in real life or not, but I think I deserve it. And I don't want some half-assed gesture with a 6 foot tall plastic cake with lots of ventilation holes. I want a real, regular cake that somehow manages to conceal a scantily clad woman. That may require the use of magic, I don't know. But it is 364 days until my b day rolls around again, so I think you guys have ample time to figure it out.
Many moons ago, Delta Burke, William Shatner, and I all made a sacred pact not to do any work on the day before our birthday. Thus, no entry today. Get over it, you big babies!
Short entry today since I'm going to be attending some of the SXSW stuff today (read: getting annoyed at a bunch of out-of-town douchebags who won't stop talking about their blogs and their mini iPods).
In the days since I've emailed Warwick Davis, I've gotten a little despondent. Each time I checked my email and saw no response, it was like a dagger in my heart. The interview was a beautiful idea and so easy to realize, yet the Lords of the Internet had conspired against us. Had I offended them with the Haiku contest? Were they opposed to the Bicentennial interview? I cursed the heavens and briefly considered swearing off the internet entirely.
And then, in my darkest hour, something funny happened. I checked my email this morning and for once, there was a message from someone who wasn't interested in increasing the size of genitalia. Well, maybe the sender was somewhat intrigued with that, but it wasn't explicitly in the email. Instead, all this person wanted to talk about was an interview. The origin of the email? A little spot in Merry Old England known as Warwick Davis's office. There is only one fitting response to this news: Praise the Lord and pass the biscuits!
I can't celebrate just yet, though. The text of the email said Warwick was a busy man, but that if I sent in my questions, he'd try to answer them. That makes sense; we're talking about one of the stars of Return of the Jedi here. If Warwick Davis didn't have anything going on in his life, he wouldn't be worth interviewing. All I can hope is that if I send in my questions this weekend, he'll have enough time to answer before the Bicentennial Express rolls through the station. If not, well, it was a noble effort. I'm confident we can get a response, though. If I could get Carlos Jacott mad enough to threaten to sue me, I can get Warwick to answer a few questions.
St. Patrick's Day! Woooo! Let's pour some whiskey in our mashed potatoes and pretend we're Irish!
St Paddy's is neat because all of us get to switch teams for a day and go Irish. We need more holidays where we can try on nationalities for a day, and we should start with Jamaica. I don't know why I love Jamaicicana so much (made-up up word for all things Jamaican), but jerk chicken, Red Stripe, and the phrase "Jamaican me crazy!" all play a large parts in it. Isn't that one guy on Futurama from Jamaica? I like him too, and that's pretty much all I need for a holiday. Once we have Jamaicicana Day down, we should do something with Chile. I'm thinking that day would be mostly chasing llamas around a soccer field, but I'm open for suggestions.
If you're really Irish though, today's probably not such a good day because everyone is stealing your thunder. You've probably been drinking green beer all year long, only to see a bunch of weinerbiscuits swoop in and go crazy over it one day a year. You get no credit for being the afficionado. Not only that, but your cheeks are probably going unsmooched as some stinker with a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" button goes to Smoochie Town. As unfortunate as all of that is, St Patrick's Day does work out well for those of us who aren't from Ireland, but nevertheless happen to sun-burn easily and love booze. I am firmly in favor of more days when those traits are considered assets.
Since I'm devoted to continuing this idiotic entry, I feel obligated to note that this is the only holiday that condones pinching. I don't know how I feel about that. If we're talking some playful pinches, then I am all in. Mean pinching is another thing entirely. You better believe I have some experience in that from the South Arlington Pinch Wars of the late 80s between HoPo and myself. But anyway, since it seems these ethnic holidays get an annoying action associated with them, I will be giving out Wet Willies on Jamaicicana Day. You'll want to wear your rasta hat low on that day.
PS: found a new way to obsess over the Dallas Mavericks. It's a little something called BlogMaverick.com, and it's Mark Cuban going crazy. Eat it up.
Was it really only 8 days ago that yours truly incited the largest haiku shit-storm in the history of the Internet? My, how the days fly by when you're immersed in poetry! Going into this whole thing, I was expecting a maximum of 3 entries for the Goulash Haiku Contest, 2 of which would be in Japanese, with the third being extremely lewd and sent by a convict/family member. Surprise surprise, not only did I receive 76 entries, but all of them were in English. All of you who entered certainly have your priorities in order. The unfortunate aspect that comes with the volume of submissions is picking a winner. Had things gone according to plan, it would've been a snap to just name everyone a winner and send out a few pieces of homemade crap. That's not quite an option with 76 entries and the laziest man in the universe as a judge, so I had to devise something else.
If there's one thing this site has stood for over the course of nearly 200 entries on Goulash, it's quantity over quality. With that in mind, the other judge (take a bow, nunchuks) and I decided to honor the three most prolific poets. Luckily, the three who sent in the most also sent in some of the best. Now, who are these mysterious bards? To anyone who has been paying attention to the comments, numbers 1 and 2 are evident: Danza and P Diddy. Apparently, these two just sat by their computers with some vienna sausages for nourishment and a bucket to pee in, and focused on the haiku for a week. A piece of homemade crap is the very least I could give them for their devotion to the cause. The third winner is marginally more interesting, but let's not start peeing our pants over it.
Winner #3 is a man of mystery who submitted his entries via email. His name is Stephen Fay, and he sent in a total of 12 entries, all of which were of most outstanding. I've posted his entries in the comments of today's entry. Their homemade prizes will be made this weekend by my day laborers, and will either be presented at a black tie affair here in Austin, or by your local mailman, if the winner's tux is in the cleaners. If Warwick Davis ever responds to my email, I will also try to get him to MC the event (don't hold your breath).
Congrats to the winners, and well done to all the contestants. I am glad we'll all be on the same side when the Haiku Wars erupt.
If you happen to be bordering on the insane, living alone is necessary if you want to preserve any dignity whatsoever. This became abundantly clear to me this morning as I turned on all of my faucets to make sure that water was coming out of them, not fudge. To clarify, I don't do this every morning, just ones in which I think there's a better than average chance that somehow the water pipes in my apartment got mixed up with the candy factory's fudge pipes.
You see, I had to come in to work early this morning for a meeting. I was scared I'd forget about this meeting, so I placed Post-It Notes all over my apartment that read, "Wake up at 8 on Monday! Don't be late!" I couldn't avoid that message no matter where I went in Powell Manor. As such, this was the foremost issue on my mind when I went to sleep last night. And because I overdid that message and got myself all worked up about it, I had a completely bizarre dream Sunday night that I was late for work because all of my faucets were pouring fudge instead of water and I couldn't get them to stop. I have no idea about the significance of the fudge faucet in my dream (which sounds pornographic), and I had a chuckle the next morning about how weird the whole thing was. Despite this, I still had to turn on all my faucets and make sure that water was indeed coming out before I could go to work this morning.
Back when I had roommates, if I had some kind of crazy candy nightmare like that, it was a lot harder to check all of the faucets in the joint just for reassurance. I could probably get one or two tops before a roommate would ask me what I was doing, I'd have to confess the whole thing, and I'd then get called Mr. Fudge Flood for the rest of my life. Nevermind that I was only doing it because I was concerned with their lives and our security deposit in the face of an unstoppable chocolate torrent! Somehow, Mr. Considerate is always the crazy guy in those situations. And really, if I'm going to predict one major event in my sleep, it's probably going to be some kind of candy catastrophe, so I don't see why checking it out the next morning is cause for concern.
Those of us with the courage to call a fudgey nightmare's bluff are the real heroes here. It is a damn shame that the roommates of the world are not ready to acknowledge that. Until they do, we will just have to monitor our own faucets and pray for mild suffering for all of those who don't share our amazing psychic abilities.
The haiku contest ends at 11:59 PM! Submit while you can!
Allow me to predict the top story on tomorrow night's news.
"An unexpected wave of absences struck businesses of every sort today across the globe. While the standard worker's excuse was a relapse of Monkey Pox, we have discovered that most people are simply staying home to finish up their last minute entries into the Goulash Haiku Contest, which ends Monday at 11:59 PM. The fact that some people think they can compete with haiku-juggernauts Danza and P-Diddy astonishes this reporter, but then this isn't the first time that people have gone overboard for one of Cody Powell's homemade treats. Cheech Marin has requested we refuse to elaborate on that last statement until his appeal has been heard."
Yessir, the contest ends on March 15th at 11:59 PM, so now is the time to pull out all the stops and make your bid for immortality. Don't be scared to scorn your loved ones for next 32 hours; no one can stay mad at a champion.
Speaking of champions, does anyone have any suggestions for the Bicentennial interview? When the Centennial rolled around, I interviewed Schumin on my 100th post and it was really great. So great, in fact, that interviewing Schumin may become a regular thing every 100 entries. My first idea was to interview Warwick Davis, the guy who played Willow. I can't really explain why Warwick Davis, except to say that he just seemed like the perfect guy. After mentioning that one time on here, someone left his address in the comments. I mailed him a letter asking him if he was down, but I've yet to receive a response. I don't blame Warwick for this; I blame the long-standing feud between Warwick Davis and the US Post Office. Or, perhaps more likely, me having no idea how to send mail internationally.
Due to that snafu, I must ask the most futile question in the history of the world: does anyone know Warwick Davis? If you do and you can get him in contact with me, I will send you $10 American. We're talking paper money here, folks, and what you do with it is completely up to you. Let's call in some favors and see what happens here.
After a long day at the salt mines today, I headed back to Powell Manor for a restful evening, complete with a bottle of sherry, a bowl of figgy pudding, and a tape of homeless people fighting. Imagine my surprise then when I finally arrived at my palatial estate and discovered a large, aromatic bouquet of flowers in front of my door. "Hmm, have I accidentally bewitched a young lady recently?" I thought to myself. That is not a novel occurrence. As I examined the card, I realized that the flowers weren't from a comely young lass at all, but rather a member of my rapidly growing list of enemies: János Mohácsi, the person who stole my #1 Google ranking for Goulash.
I covered my face before I opened the card, anticipating a boxing glove that'd pop out and hit me in the nose. I was a little disappointed with what I found inside. Rather than hiding some sort of devious attack, the card was full of tear-stained Hungarian sentimentality. It read, "I find it hard to take it personally when I've been beaten by the best. Sincerely, János Mohácsi." I dropped the flowers in disgust and thought, "What the crap is this about? I've only been at war with him for four days and he's already sending me flowers and asking for a make-out party." I began to prepare a scathing response.
My mind was preoccupied with János's impending doom as I opened the door. I hurried through the East Wing of the compound before I stopped in my study, found the sturdiest quill in my collection, and got ready to write. It was only then that I noticed my home was overflowing with balloons, cakes, bottles of champagne, and Cuban hookers. Fearing a disturbing escalation in the mental warfare between myself and János, I readied my muzzleloader and pointed it at one of the hookers.
"What is the meaning of this?" I bellowed.
"Haven't you heard the news, Mr. Powell? You've triumphed!" she said.
"I did what now?"
"Google has relented; you're #1 again!"
Having learned the hard way not to trust any Cuban prostitutes, I fired up my computer and verified for myself. Ahh yes, there I was, back at the top where I belong. I struggled not to sob in front of the ladies.
Sensing my flood of emotions, a hooker with a glass eyeball dropped the bust of my face she was holding and came over to embrace me. Had I not been moved beyond words, I would've unleashed a string of celebratory profanity directed towards Hungary. The other girls looked down at the floor or cleared their throats, anything to evade the somewhat awkward scene in front of them.
"Look at this man," the one eyed woman said. "He is the #1 resource in the world for eastern european cuisine, and he has earned the right to cry. Tonight, he is a champion." She paused to let her words sink in. There was no longer a dry eye in the house. "Now, let's get naked and rub some of this cake on each other!" Ahh, victory.
Thanks to everyone who helped me get back to #1. And thanks to János, who put up a spirited fight for #1 before I utterly destroyed him. Only a few days left to enter the Goulash Haiku Contest!
Woo woo, today was Blood Drive day at work. Anything that combines wooziness with free Nutter Butters is aces in my book, so I signed up. In addition to all of that, I also got a very handsome red bandage wrapped around my left arm, which makes me look like a competitive break dancer or a Central American freedom fighter. As sweet as that whole set-up is, I was still a little reluctant because I have a phobia of needles. If I may do a little bit of soul baring, the greatest fear in my life is being chased by an enormous possum (or gila monster) carrying a bunch of syringes (seriously). If there's ever some sort of Human vs Talented Animal with Medical Supplies Contest and I'm involved, bet heavily on the possum/gila monster, no matter the odds.
In spite of all of this, I found the strength to subdue my terror and control my bowels. In fact, when the nurse brought out the needle, I even resisted the urge to grab her by the coat and whisper, "Put me down!" All I did was let out one mildly feminine gasp when she showed me how big the needle was, and that I cleverly covered up by pointing to the guy next to me when everyone looked and saying "Does that baby need a bottle?" After 23 years of training, no one can deflect humiliation like yours truly.
I'm getting away from my point here. If you happen to be the lucky individual receiving my blood in a transfusion, here are some things you should know about it.
1: I am invincible, as is my blood. Pillage with utter impunity.
2: Try to get my blood involved in your circulatory system's social scene, or else it's going to get bashful. What about a hemoglobin vs. white blood game of Scattergories? Don't be scared to throw some bawdy topics in there as ice breakers.
3: For the first few months, you'll want to try to recreate as closely as possible the environment my blood is used to, so it can get comfortable. Drastically decrease your intake of fruits and veggies, while dramatically increasing your intake of Thunder Bird and Play-Doh.
The Goulash Haiku Contest continues to rock and roll, so keep the submissions pouring in! Of course, you don't have to submit if you don't love totally great homemade prizes, in which case I don't even know why I'm talking to you.
If you people failed to check out the comments from yesterday's entry on the Goulash Haiku Contest, you are missing perhaps the most amusing set of comments ever featured here. A full-scale haiku war erupted, that saw 24 gems written by 7 people, all of which shall be counted as entries for the First Annual Goulash Contest. Not only that, but Internet Fancyboy Brendan Adkins got into the act on his site (03.09.2004 1235hrs post), contributing a moving entry that also struck a blow for victory in the Google wars. If this thing continues to bust up, I'll have no choice but to rename it Haiku Idol. Don't forget: you only have until 11:59 PM on March 15th to enter! Quickly, strap on your haiku pants and get to poetrifying!
With the smashing success of the contest comes a great burden. What happens when the deadline rolls around, I pick the best entry, and then the disgruntled losers storm Powell Manor, angry mob style? How on earth could I turn my legion of Sasquatch security guards against these people, whose only crime is loving Goulash too much? To be honest, I've done this before when Danza busted down the door after a Flintstone Vitamin bender, but I felt a tingle of remorse as my bigfoots thrashed him to the point of delirium with their bamboo rods. So, what I need is someone to help me take the heat when the highly questionable verdict is rendered for the winner. Are there 2 people out there who haven't entered the haiku contest yet who'd like to be judges with me? Email me or leave me a comment, if so. We'll split all bribes evenly, and in exchange for your service, you will also win a fabulous prize. I'm just like Santa Claus when it comes to haiku contests, except that I'll even let Jews and Muslims can get in on this.
Here's a PSSSST to all the nerds out there. PSSSSST: I updated my RSS feed today from RSS 1.0 to RSS 2.0, so you can now view entire posts in all their glory in the feed. If that causes anyone's aggregator to poop its pants, just let me know and I'll get to fiddlin' or, more likely, I'll just buy your computer some diapers. Hint, hint: this act of benevolence ought to inspire some haiku. Keep up with the contest entries!
The storm clouds are gathering on the horizon, friends. We all know about the humiliation documented in yesterday's entry, thanks to the nefarious Google-fixing activities of one evil Hungarian. In addition to that, Will, my roommate for the last 3 years I was in San Antonio, sucker-punched me Saturday while I was drinking a beer at Tim's b day party. Finally, Will shows his true colors; your name's on the list, buddy. And then there's the fact that Toby Keith won't stop sending me dirty telegrams. I admire your erotic artistry, Toby, but I do not share your sentiments on us doing it.
Yes, lots of bad news, but if there's one thing that this site is about, it's making a positive out of a negative. In fact, if I had to sum up Goulash, I'd do it thusly: "When life gives you lemons, peel the lemons. Then use the peels to construct a fancy yellow mask. Put the mask on; you are now Lemon Man. You travel from town to town, making people eat citrus and convincing the elderly not to trust the UN."
In that spirit, I would like to announce the first ever Goulash contest. Here's how it's going to work. Everyone has one week from today to send in their best Goulash-inspired haiku, and the winner will get a special homemade treat. If you happen to be giggling at the thought of it, let me tell you now that I couldn't possibly be more serious about this. Just email me at email@example.com with your entries. You can enter as many times as you want, but your entries have to be submitted by March 15th at 11:59 PM.
In case you're stumped as to how to start, here's an example of a Goulash-inspired haiku.
man. Cody doesn't dance for
Carlos any more.
I don't want to be an alarmist here because it could just be a fluke. However, sometime in the past few days, those Hungarian bastards stole the only thing I really care about in this world: my Google ranking. It is with great sadness that I report that I am no longer the #1 result for goulash. After months of kicking ass at the top, I have suddenly and mysteriously been relegated to #2. While I'm not too sharp on my Hungarian, I am confident that right now, János Mohácsi is laughing hysterically and screaming, "In your face, Cody Powell!" For that, he/she will pay.
Not only do I find this humiliating, I think it's extremely questionable. How is it that after 172 entries of ass-kickery and several months of being #1, I get the boot? The only thing I can think of is that some Hungarian skullduggery is at work here. I don't know if it was a bribe or some threats, but János definitely got to the boys at Google somehow. Your bully tactics may work in Silicon Valley, but the people of the Internet aren't fooled. I'm the people's champ and I intend to fight like a bastard until I'm back on top, like I richly deserve. Your empire of lies will soon crumble, Mohácsi.
The idea of going into the Bicentennial ranked #2 fills me with fear, so I call upon you, the people of the Internet, to call in any favors you have stored up at Google to get me back where I belong. When people search for goulash, they want to find an inane personal website, not a stupid recipe. In time, Google will come to see that. Until then, I'll be camped out in their parking lot, throwing tomatoes at passing cars.
Update: Nunchuks is saying I'm still #1 when she googles for goulash. What is going on here? This lack of professionalism is unacceptable, Google! People, let me know if you search and I'm #1. If, God forbid, you search and I'm #2, just keep your sorrow to yourself.
I don't want to make any rash accusations, but I'm pretty certain that someone has been spiking my food with Nerd Juice. A few pieces of evidence, gathered over the course of the past week.
1. Last week at work, someone was trying to test something (a theory or something), so they told me to pick a number. I picked 8.2. They said, "No, a whole number." I replied haughtily, "Well, you should've specified that you wanted an integer!" It came out of my mouth so quickly, I wasn't even sure I said it. The only confirmation I needed, though, was the mortified look on my colleague's face.
2. During a profound, alcohol-fueled conversation on Saturday night with a group of acquaintances, someone mentioned that the universe was 13 billion years old. I then made out a big deal out of telling him that it was actually 13 POINT 7(!) billion years old, and that if he wanted me to document this fact, I could go home and get my old astronomy book!! I'll be damned if anyone besmirches the age of the universe on my watch.
3. In this entry, I was actually considered asking if anyone here was going to the Austin Dot Net Users Group meeting on Monday. Nevermind that this site is read exclusively by prison inmates and confused Japanese ladies; let's get together for some cream soda and compiler talk after the meeting!
It's not that being a nerd is completely unfamiliar to me. I go through alternating periods of almost-cool and then horrendous nerdiness on a 2 year basis; I've gotten used to periodically demolishing any status I've built up through good taste and pithy remarks with a few unfortunate tirades on graphing calculators and a zeal for the works of Gene Roddenberry. Even though I'm firmly nestled in a nerdy trough right now, I still think there's hope. If I were beyond repair, I would've noted by now that my nerdiness could be graphed across the years as a sinusoidal function. I'm only commenting hypothetically about that though, so I insist that I can be salvaged.
How will I bring myself back from the brink, you may ask. Well, this weekend, I am going to administer some emergency rations of Michelob Ultra and reality TV. That won't get me to almost-cooldom overnight, but it will dispel any notions I have on who'd win a fight between Mace Windu and Worf. It's not going to be pretty, but then it rarely is around my apartment.
I've been incredibly distracted the past weeks, what with Carlos threatening to sue me, my trip to Mexico, and some employment intrigue that I don't feel like getting into. In fact, I've been so distraught the past few weeks, I've completely forgotten that SOMEONE here is going to be having a birthday soon. I don't want to spill the beans on his name, but it's the affable, urbane, and stunningly handsome bane of Carlos Jacott's existence. In case you can't put those hints together, on March 22nd, yours truly will be adding another ring of wood around
his trunk. I'll be hitting the big 23, bringing me another year closer to renting a car and running for Senator. Look out, Hertz and Capitol Hill!
Actually, I really don't get excited about my birthday because it's been all downhill since I was 10. In those days, I could always count on two things: my birthday falling during Spring Break, and one crazy ass throw down at the Putt Putt to celebrate. In a stunning twofer of malevolence, at about the same age that everyone stopped caring about how old I was, the school board rescheduled Spring Break so I had to start going to school on my Special Day. Now, it's inevitable that as you get older, your birthday stops being such a momentous event; I harbor no ill will there. But rescheduling Spring Break? That was unacceptable. One day soon, I am going to run for School Board President in Arlington, move Spring Break back so it includes March 22, and then while everyone's gone, I'll bulldoze all of the schools for catharsis. That's one birthday princess the Arlington Indepedent School District will never again trifle with.
Ever since that's happened, all March 22nd has meant is another tsunami of spankings directed towards my backside. I appreciate that, as there's nothing sadder than a birthday hiney going unsmacked, but I feel like this year, I should do something exciting as a way of reclaiming my birthday. Since I happen to share that birthday with Delta Burke and William Shatner, I've considered trying to get the three of us together for some birthday rowdiness, maybe at Medieval Times or something like that. Let me extend the offer again: Delta and Bill, please join me on the 22nd for some fun, food, and feudalism. If you agree to come along, I promise to buy you some chain mail at the gift shop afterwards.
What up, turkeys! Entry #170 in the hayouse. I don't suppose I need to tell all of you what we're only 30 entries away from, but here's a little hint: it rhymes with Moulash Fricentennial. I don't know if I ever shared the ideas that were formulated for the Bicentennial, but so far, I'm planning on having a piñata, a sack race, and a pie eating contest. It'll be like a booze-soaked church picnic. Perhaps you think I'm kidding here, but the joke is going to be on you if you show up on April 17th without your piñata stick and pie eating pants.
I don't know if this makes me an idiot or what, but I just realized that there was a search function on this page. It's only taken me a mere 9 months to become familiar with the basic functionality of my site, which is not too shabby. In case you're thinking my inattention applies only to the features, you're totally incorrect. About once a week, I'll start talking about something with someone, only to be interrupted with, "You wrote about that on your site yesterday." I'm always tempted to reply with, "Oh yeah? Well maybe you wrote about it on YOUR site yesterday and I'm just plagarizing you!" I really have no idea what I put on here, largely because I do most of my writing in a Flintstone vitamin-induced haze, so I will ask all of you not to torment me on this point.
But anyway, let's get back to talking about the Bicentennial. Is there anything else that anyone can think of that would make this thing cooler? I'm thinking maybe a celebrity host, but I have no idea what sort of celebrity I could lure with the offer of $7 and a 12 pack of Old Milwaukee, aside from Sherman Hemsley. Maybe some commemorative spitoons? The sky's the limit here, folks. If you have any ideas regarding this, leave them in comments or risk the wrath of the Pickle.
One of the great joys of running an internationally acclaimed website is the fan art that I often receive from Latin America. Another joy is seeing the search terms people plug into Google to get to this site. The top 3 terms people used to get here for the month of February were: goulash, edible soap, and Captain Eo. If you think about it, you can sum up the entire site with those three items, and I am proud to call them my top 3 google referrers. Not only that, but those are probably the three most searched for items on the Internet, so it's quite a coup for me to be so high in all three searches.
There's no point in even analyzing the first one, since everyone knows who dominates the discussion when it comes to that hungarian treat. You can just stuff it in a sack and boil it when it comes to searching for goulash. Regarding edible soap and Captain Eo, I don't talk about those explicitly that often. They've come up occasionally, but I'm far less obsessed with them than I am with Carlos, the Goulash Bicentennial, and the Skunk Ape. Edible soap and Captain Eo are definitely in the spirit of goulash, though. As a matter of fact, if you wanted to make a goulash t shirt, it could be Captain Eo both bathing and eating some edible soap. So, search terms #2 and #3 lack a literal connection, but they are majestic all the same.
Now for the next three: Britney Spears sex story, goulash cody, and Tito Jackson. That's a good trio in its own right. Just imagine me and Tito Jackson getting together to read a Britney Spears sex story; it's almost violently arousing. I think I brought the Britney Spears Sex Story upon myself with this story, so I can understand why the perverts flock here and then send me enraged death threats when I disappoint them. And if I daresay if there's any search term that ought to be point here, it's goulash cody. I can't even name another Cody who has anything to do with eastern European cuisine! For google referrer #6, I don't think I need to say again that Tito Jackson always has a home here. I'll make an honest woman out of you yet, Tito.