Well, we're having a Developers' Conference at work that started today. In a move of incredible wisdom, I was slated to present first to the group. Here were my opening remarks.
Ladies and gentlemen, we're here this week to talk about software. And no, by software, I ain't talkin' bout your grampa's fuzzy sweatpants. *pause for laughter, and perhaps standing ovation* But seriously, I feel if we're going to devote a few days to this, I need to let all of you in on a little something right here at the start: You guys don't know crap about poop when it comes to software.
Hey hotshots, software runs on computers, right? WRONG. Software runs first and foremost on the juiciest meat machine around: our hearts.
"Our hearts? What in the wang dang doodle is this jerk-o talking about?" you all exclaim.
Listen, if we're going to do this my way, this software will be pumping so much blood, it'll need sanitary napkins. The reason the heart is so important is because it is only through it that we can get our users to love us. If they're loving us, then the bling bling rolls in, and it's just a matter of time before we're rolling around the parking lot in diamond plated tanks, filled with asian concubines.
So, how do we make them love us? We must seduce our users with our products. We must take all opportunities to have our products send the users flowers, singing telegrams, and pornographic emails. We must make them want us so badly, restraining orders and armed bodyguards will become necessity. If we back out on this solemn promise to sexify those who depend on us, then I'm walking out of here right now and never coming back.
I'd share the rest of the speech, but it's just a bunch of dirty talk and pelvic thrusting.
Note to employers: only kidding, please don't fire me.
It's been a long day, and I'm incapable of writing anything good. So, here's a little email I sent to Darby today when he asked me how much beer he needed to buy for his party on Saturday. It's been slightly spruced up.
Let's bust some logic. You say your party will bring forth 30 people, who may average out to drink 4 beers each. Sum total: 120 beers. If that's the case, I advocate getting a keg, pouring out whatever's left at the end of the night, and using the hollow container as a weapon in an East Austin street war.
However, I think the situation is going to be a little more complicated than that. There are classes of drinkers, and only by analyzing these classes and the distribution of people in each class can you determine how much beer will be consumed.
Class 1: Professional rock and rollers. Not only will these individuals drink way more than 4 beers, but there's a good chance they'll urinate in your oven and then pass out while trying on your underwear. Should the beer run out, they'll make a mad rush for any Lysol/oven cleaner/athlete's foot medication in your house; it is important to keep these people happy. Let's say you have 4 of these, drinking 12 beers each.
Class 2: The casual partier. "Wooo, let's crack one open and talk crap about our Common Law prof," these people say. While still out to have fun, they're shooting to a) remember the evening and b) not have to leave the country suddenly for a place with no extradition treaty. I have nothing against these people, although I'll never understand their ways. Let's say you have 20 of these, drinking 3.75 beers each.
Class 3: The Smirnoff Ice crowd. "Tee hee hee," these girls and effeminate Asian men giggle, "I like things that are Spritey!" One of this group will have too much of their premium malt beverage and begin to weep inconsolably, while another one will engage in a regrettable makeout session with the 14 year old next door. Let's say you have 6 of these, and they drink 1 beer each before they get obnoxious and demand something that will make them like they're making out with a dude from N Sync. Note: they will not actually drink the whole beer, but will take two sips before pouring it out and starting into an impassioned defense of Clay Aiken.
Class 4: Hot, trampy women. To be honest, I have no idea what they drink, but I'm hoping to find out Saturday night.
From that, I get a total of 129 beers. Yes, it only took me roughly 3500 words to get an extra 9 beers. Nevertheless, I say keg it, or else I'll have to get a keg of my own and set up shop in your drive way. I'll refuse to share with anyone, and when someone asks if I'll be joining the party inside the house, I'll scoff and say, "Party? I don't see a freaking party here, numb nuts!" It won't be pretty.
In Cody Powell lore, this weekend will come to be known as the Weekend of Intrigue and Scarification. What started with a completely terrifying phone call received Friday morning at 1 AM just wouldn't quit until I was given a cursory overview of a variety of horrifying deaths (drowning, lightening strike, rabid raccoon attack), courtesy of the Guadalupe River. To clarify that last bit, my comrades and I decided to go tubing on the Guadalupe River on Saturday. It turned out to be far more exciting than we planned, as the date fell exactly during the 1 day long monsoon season of Central Texas. There was so much water by the end of the day, I seriously considered hauling buns to the forest and creating an ark from tree branches tried together with the draw string from my bathing suit. That would've been splinter city though, so I abandoned it after an initial set of blueprints.
The best part of the entire trip was the bus ride at the end back to the place we had parked. We were wet, drunk, and in high spirits. As I sat there, waiting for us to leave, reflecting on the day of great excitement, I could've sworn that everyone around me was talking excitedly about raccoons. I too am fascinated by the raccoon, but I usually keep it to myself. After a few minutes of confused questioning put to those around me, I deduced that someone in our midst had brought a raccoon onto the bus. I'm as much a fan of rascalism as the next guy, but I draw the line at kidnapping woodland creatures and forcing them into confined spaces with lots of loud drunkards. That'd be hilarious if it were a subplot in Meatballs 4, but it becomes slightly more frightening when it's playing out in real life, a few feet from your genital region.
Anyway, shortly after we pulled away from the river, one of the guys sitting with the raccoon stood up and yelled, "Who here has a buzz?" Much hooting and hollering followed. After it had died down, I raised up and bellowed, "Who here's got a raccoon?" If some members of the bus didn't know what I was talking about, they certainly didn't show it, because the response was deafening. It's always nice to know that when I get fired for gross incompetence, I can make a living as the MC on the bus that goes between the river and the parking lot.
For some reason, I can't think of anything good to write today. Of course, that last statement is completely absurd because it presumes that my usual output is good. It's not, it's FRIGGIN STUPENDOUS! But anyway, since whatever I put here tonight will be crap, I have decided to use this space to send a threatening letter to the girl working the concession stand at the movie theater last night.
Thanks for trying to poison me. I thought that here in the US of friggin A, we had a gentleperson's agreement not to feed each other tainted food products. Apparently, your fingers were crossed when you made this promise, because the turkey sandwich you served me last night unleashed a veritable tsunami of gastrointestinal discomfort. You even had the gall to charge me for it. For this, I can only hope you were chased by a rabid puma all the way home.
Perhaps you are taken aback by my offensive. Allow me to anticipate your response. "But Mr. Powell, why the hell were you buying a turkey sandwich at the movie theater anyway?" Listen honey, I was slapping down the turkey when you were still in short pants, so I'll ask you to stay out of that relationship. Not only that, but I placed my order because I seemed to remember the menu reading "Turkey Sandwich", not "Meatdemon on a Kaiser Roll". If I misread it entirely, then not only do I apologize, but I insist on placing a billboard in front of your establishment with my picture, saying "If you think this place has poisoned you with their foodstuffs, you should think again, because a similar situation happened to me and I turned out to be completely incorrect. Eat up, fatties!"
I can only hope that you're a Mortal Kombat character whose fatality is the Death Sandwich, and that you somehow got transported from the arcade in some sort of Weird Science like situation. Anything else is completely unacceptable. I shall be waiting for my year's supply of free turkey sandwiches with baited breath.
Master Cody Wayne Maxwell Powell
Oops, no Goulash yesterday. Here's what I did: woke up, went to class, then had my volleyball skillz ridiculed by some fat guy. Apparently, the fat boy didn't know that I perform much the same in both athletic events and amorous activities: with great enthusiasm, but no skill whatsoever. Maybe he would've realized that if he joined the rest of us at the pre-game make out session in the parking lot. Not only that, but I gave up on all sports when the XFL disbanded. I thought about telling all of this to the obese volleyball virtuoso, but there are just too many syllables there to properly combat his hootin' and hollerin'. Instead, I planned on yelling out, "Heeeeyyyy, why don't you put a sock in it, volleyball Tommy Lasorda?" In the heat of the moment, Mr. Lasorda was the only fat dude I could conjure up in my imagination. Luckily, I accidentally kicked sand in my own face before I could manage to scream that out.
I'm not sleeping very well in my lodgings here at the flophouse. To make up for it, I decided to pull off a little nappy nap this afternoon, and it got intense. When I woke up, I was all sweaty and the sheets were strewn all over the place. The TV blared a soccer match broadcast from Telemundo. At first, I had no idea where I was. Then, I saw a wad of dollar bills on the nightstand, and it all started coming together. Clearly, I was waking up from a lengthy stint in the illicit world of male prostitution.
Eventually, I was able to piece together all of the clues (C# books on the desk, a turtleneck monogrammed with my name, my Alf thermos) and deduce that I was in Dallas in my hotel room, and I'd merely been a party to one hellacious napping session. That's good, because the other option meant I'd have to dye my hair and change my name to escape my sordid past. We all know how complicated those situations turned out to be.
Here's how I see that scenario working out.
To the citizens of Snowy Falls, ND, I'd be mild-mannered Lazlo Turnipheart, the night manager of the Citgo. But then, one terrible night, an unexpected visitor would remind me of my stint as Cody Coconuts, notorious Dallas streetwalker. To protect the kindly retarded boy I'd adopted, I'd have to shoot the stranger with a harpoon gun and bury him in Old Man Knudsen's grain silo, only to be stopped midway through by Cus McGorkin, the lovable township of the province. "We can do this my way or yours, Cus," I'd say. Then I'd I throw grain in his eyes and run towards Saskatchewan.
As you can see, that's a lot more than a weekend's worth of activity. So, as I say so often, allow me to give thanks that I'm only a ferocious napper, and not a cog in the licentious underworld of the streets.
If I were one of those famous web dudes, whose mere words could bring entire empires to their knees, I'd try to organize a letter-writing campaign to the Fairfield Inn in Dallas to get me some better pillows. I secretly think I may be resting my head on trashbags filled with toilet paper. If you were to organize some sort of blindfolded pillow test, most people would think the ones from my room came from a Filipino brothel or a Tehran prison camp. I'm as much of a fan of Filipino brothel fantasy camps as the next guy, but it just doesn't make sense to have such a retreat that only applies to my bedding. If you're going to do it, Fairfield Inn, do it right; I would gladly pay extra for such a program.
Okay, I'm in Dallas for this training class, and it's going pretty well so far. They sure have fancy sandwiches in the cafeteria here. The name of the cafeteria is the High Tech Cafe, and I must say that's a little misleading. My meal was prepared by neither prepared by cyborgs, nor supersmart nanotechnology. In fact, to give you an idea of how misnamed the cafeteria is, the fat lady who served me my food took a look at my laptop and asked me why I brought my Atari to supper. Then she threatened to chain herself to my booth unless I let her play Frogger. There was no way for that situation to end well, but I'd like to thank the security guards for going easy on the pepper spray.
Yeah, travelling for work isn't very much fun. When I was little, my dad had to spend every other week out of town, way out in the boonies of West Texas. Luckily, I'm in a town where I know lots of people. If I were in the situation he used to be in, spending weeks at a time out in the middle of nowhere, they'd probably have to invent a new monetary figure for the amount of hotel porn I'd buy. Maybe I'd just get really into Mexican soap operas. Whatever the end result, I wouldn't spend a lot of time talking about it. I salute you, road warriors!
Well, I let everyone down on Thursday by not doing an entry. Apologies. That afternoon, we had a party for work at Dave and Buster's, and the day degenerated into insanity after that. Had I been allowed near a computer, the end result would've been something that would get me sued/disowned/having my citizenship revoked. Not only that, but I had to save my energy for this crappy video game at D&B's where you tried to stack chips in piles. It is my theory that this game is here solely for the benefit of senior citizens and mentally retarded individuals who happen to find themselves abandoned at Dave and Buster's. Whatever the case, the joke was on them as I only had to spend a mere $40 on the game in order to win enough tickets to buy a plastic zebra head toy thing.
When I initially selected the Official Olympian of Goulash, I had high hopes of elevating myself to a Don King-like position in the world of international sports. If I managed to select the right athlete, perhaps I could look forward to a lifetime of bribery, corruption, and velvet tuxedos as a kingpin of Olympic athletics. Water polo teams would be disbanded and pommel horses repainted based upon my whims, if I could just get off to a good start here with my first Olympic endorsement. Today was the big day for Asafa Powell, our chosen one in the 100M, and with the eyes of Goulash upon him, Asafa finished 5th out of 8 runners. I should note that even though he didn't win, he did move much faster than I am capable of, even if I were shot out of a cannon, chased by killer bees. Nevertheless, I am disappointed.
Asafa, was it me? Was the pressure of being the Official Olympian of Goulash too much pressure? When I sent you that gallon of buttermilk before the race as a good luck gesture, I did not intend for you to drink it all before the start. If your loss today really was my fault, then I want to set it right. I cordially invite you to Austin, Texas for a race to determine the world's fastest man. I'll invite the winners of your race today, and set the whole thing up at the elementary school down the street from me. There will be cones set up for the lanes, a string for the finish line, and everything. I'll either pay half the bus fare for everyone, or get my mom to pick you guys up at your houses. Should the other competitors fail to meet my challenge, you get to race Frito, who ran track in high school.
Asafa, reclaim your honor! My email box is waiting for your response.
One of the interesting things about having your own site is poring over the usage statistics. It's triumph for some, tragedy for others, and confusion for the rest, as they wonder why they're so beloved in the Czech Republic. I usually occupy that last camp. In fact, one of my main sources of delight is to check out my logs and try to imagine the response that's evoked when visitors from Uruguay stumble across this site. Here's a brief impression: "Que? Por que Chewbacca dicen eso? Aye aye aye!"
In light of that, today I'll be taking a look at the country of origin for my readers. They're ranked in order of popularity.
1. United States. This is no great surprise, since the only thing more American than Goulash is George Washington's wooden teeth. I don't know if it's all rumor or not, but I did hear something about Congress creating a new Infinity dollar bill, just so they could put my image on it.
2. Australia. I guess I could see this: I'm wily like an Aborigine, and I do like some Men at Work's earlier albums. Also, when I was little, I got a boomerang from the museum and I used to try to throw it around my backyard. I don't think I ever succeeded in getting it to come back to me, but that didn't stop me from hurling that thing around anyway, with it usually coming to rest in our neighbor's compost heap. Australia gives me an A for effort for that one.
3. Belgium. Apparently, the Belgians love me more than they love sugar beets (their #1 crop). I think it's precisely because I can talk about Belgian agriculture that they love me so much. I wonder if most of these folks are Flemings or Walloons. I don't want to alienate anyone, but I'm rooting for Walloons.
4. Netherlands. Belgium's Goulash fever must be contagious, and is now spreading over to the Netherlands. Or perhaps there's just something about the North Sea that makes people want to visit the site. I have no idea, but I will suggest that the people of Belgium and the Netherlands immediately start a letter-writing campaign to their respective governments so that I can make a goodwill tour over there. Luxemburgians are also invited to participate.
5. Taiwan. This one is easy to explain: my mail order bride is from Taiwan, so this is probably just her friends and family checking up on her. No worries, guys, Yong Ti is doing quite well and I promise she can use the computer again once she learns how to properly mend my pants.
PS: YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSS, the trailer for the new Wes Anderson movie is online.
Well, I have finished my mix of all of the good bands playing at ACL Fest, broken up by the days on which they're playing. As one might guess, I spent way, way too much time on it. If I had applied the same level of fanatic devotion to another project of equal stupidity, there'd be a mountain right now with Cheech Marin's face blasted into the side of it. The thing is, you can't just slap a project like this together; there's too much at stake. After all, if I half-assed the CD, I'd never be able to have the following conversation at the bus station.
Me to a stranger: You going to ACL?
Stranger: Maybe, I'm not sure who's playing.
Me: Alas, today is your lucky day! I have lovingly assembled a sampler of many of the bands, and I happen to carry several thousand copies of it with me wherever I go. Would you like one?
Me: When you listen to it, you'll have to tell me what you think of the order of the tracks. That was the sticky wicket. You see, I didn't think...
At this point, the stranger silently mouths "HELP ME" to those nearby, and I am unceremoniously gang-tackled and then beaten to a pulp.
Now, let me dispel a myth: just because I spent a lot of time on this, it's not necessarily going to be that good. That was confirmed one time in college, when I was ferrying this girl around town, listening to a CD I'd made. This one Propellerheads song started playing, and she began to yell and get really angry. I asked her what was happening, and she said I needed to turn the song off or pull over and let her out. Since I really liked the song, I tried just turning it down so it was hard to hear. That didn't appease her and she began to get a little violent. To prevent major bodily trauma, I changed songs, then made a mental note to install one of those plastic shields they have in police cars between the seats in my car. (Note to readers: I really wish I were exaggerating this for comedic effect.) (Note to that girl: You do not get one of these CDs.)
Anywho, if you want one of those, just let me know. If you don't, I'll probably give you one anyway. For the sake of my feelings, act like you like it. Whenever I'm around, play it and sing along. If you can, get it bronzed so that whenever I come over, you can nod at it, throw up a rock and roll hand sign, and get a little teary-eyed. After the last outpouring of emotion from one of my mix cds, the rest of you should definitely have to make up for it.
First, a status update on my wellness. That which didn't quite kill me this weekend has made me stronger. Apparently the first stage of this newly acquired super human strength is an insatiable appetite for soft tacos. I just wanted to throw that one out there in case any of my neighbors happen to find me later tonight, rummaging through their refrigerators in a search for chopped-up lettuce. I can only pray they read Goulash before my taco madness strikes, so that we could resolve such a situation like two reasonable adults, and not get the apartment complex/swat team involved.
I've been getting into the Olympics a little bit. Yesterday morning, I happened to watch the USA play Venezuela in a game of Women's Doubles Table Tennis. I can only hope the Venezuelan ladies' minds were occupied with the big presidential recall down there, because they did not look like Olympic caliber table tennis dudettes. Maybe they could've passed for casual ping pong enthusiasts, but not cold-blooded, medal-worthy, plastic-balled assassins. In case you're wondering about whether I'm qualified to make such a statement, I should point out that a few years ago, I helped create the website for the English Table Tennis Association. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, if you get my meaning.
I feel so strongly about their lackluster performance, I'm considering the drastic act of turning my garage into a Venezuelan table tennis camp. If you happen to a Venezuelan interested in my proposal, I should note that at El Powell Campo del Tenis de la Tabla para las Floras Venezolanas is not going to be a tiptoe through the tulips. You will sleep on concrete and eat lots of gruel. The first time I hear any sass talk, I'll send everyone back to Caracas, courtesy of UPS. The people of Venezuela may question my methods, but never my results; please begin to stock up on medal polish immediately.
I have a touch of the sickies today, so I'm not going to be breaking off any pieces of delight here, like I usually do. I'm no doctor, but I'd put the odds of a SARS contagion running rampant around my apartment at about 93%. Perhaps it is merely my strength being channeled to Asafa Powell, the Official Olympian of Goulash. In any event, no entry. However, I will say that I did something this weekend that ought to figure prominently in my obituary. This obituary will either need to be written tonight, if i should fail to recover from this illness, or 80 years from now, when I plan to be smothered by the world's largest pancake in a publicity stunt gone awry. I'll be back in action tomorrow, ready for some rascalism.
Well, the Olympics are starting soon. Perhaps they've already started, I have no idea. I hate to drop such a bombshell on the eve of the events, but I will not be competing this year. It definitely crossed my mind, but I just couldn't decide on an event. 200 Meter Hurdles? Judo? Women's Synchronized Swimming? Give me a month to practice and I could at least get a bronze in all of those. Sure, I could've entered every single event just to see what I could pick up, but that's a lot of running/jumping/wrestlng/javelin throwing, and I'd probably end up spraining something. Nothing would frighten me more than to have an injured ankle poked and prodded by a swarthy Greek doctor, breath heavy with cous cous and lamb's meat.
Since competition is out of the question, I have decided to endorse an athlete as the Official Olympian of Goulash. What comes along with being named the OOG? I haven't decided yet, but I'm leaning towards a day pass to Schlitterbahn, along with full posting priviledges to the site during the Games. Also, let's not forget the OOG will receive wheelbarrows of honor and adoration from the herbal viagra merchants and confused Eastern Europeans who make up this site's core audience. All the OOG has to do in exchange is to bring home the gold and in the process, let everyone know which site is numero uno when it comes to daily distribution of delight.
Selecting the the OOG was not easy; many outstanding athletes were deserving of this honor. In order to make it easier for the judges (me and Octopussy), I decided to restrict the competition to only those Olympians with the last name of Powell, in the hopes that a shared last name will make it more likely the medal accidentally gets delivered to my house. That narrowed it down to Asafa Powell (sprinting), Jeff Powell (rowing), Katrina Powell (hockey), Nicole Powell (basketball), and Suzy Powell (discus). I'm sure all of those people are fine athletes, but one stands above the pack. When you combine a great first name with a really cool nationality, the decision pretty much makes itself. Thus, today, on the 12th day of August in the year of lord 2004, I proudly declare Asafa Powell the Official Olympian of Goulash.
Godspeed, Asafa. Even if you don't win the gold, you've won the Goulash.
Ohhh goodness, I just discovered that they're coming out with a special edition DVD of Lost Boys, also known as the best vampire movie to feature both Coreys and the Kief. When I saw that, I was pretty excited; I'd say about a 6 on the CWMP Jazzed Up scale. Then I read what the special features were, and I had to struggle not to wet myself. For such a big announcement, I want to spill the beans here in the coolest way possible, so let's do it in dramatic format.
INTERIOR: You're sitting at home one day, cataloguing your oven mitts, when you notice something approaching your front door. You peek out of your window and see nothing. Then, just as you get back to your collection, a thunderous knock rings out from your front door.
Lost Boys Special Edition DVD: Hi, I'm the Lost Boys Special Edition DVD. You can call me LBSEDVD.
You: Aww snap! Who's that you brought with you, LBSEDVD?
LBSEDVD: Oh, that? That's a second disc full of special features.
You: Holy crap! What are the special features?
LBSEDVD: The usual... deleted scenes, retrospective documentary, interactive map.
You: Anything else?
LBSEDVD: Well, there is one other thing, but you probably wouldn't be interested.
You: Tell me or I'll slam this door in your face!
LBSEDVD: Oh, just a little somethin' somethin' called a multiangle video commentary with both Coreys and Jamison Newlander!
You: Who the hell is Jamison Newlander?
When you combine Corey H., Corey F., AND muliple angles, you've got a dangerous recipe there; we're possibly talking about the most explosive round of Haim vs. Feldman ever played. I can only hope that Jamison Newlander is a skilled paramedic because it could get gruesome up in that biscuit. I'm almost scared to watch it, since it's nearly impossible for this to live up to my expectations now. Nevertheless, if anyone here is looking for a nice, understated Labor Day present for yours truly, I suggest you look no further.
One last bit of business here. Why is that no budding entrepreneur has started making landmines shaped like Corey Feldman? You could call them Feldmines, and right before they blow up, they can play a sound clip from one of his movies (I vote for something from The Burbs or Meatballs IV). In any event, I have given yet another million dollar idea to you people. I'd implement something like this myself, but I made a solemn oath to only use Feldman's likeness for good.
Man, I discovered a veritable comedic goldmine last night while poking around the White House website. They have a section on there called Ask the White House, where people can send it questions to be answered by people from the administration. While it's well-known just how much American citizens ask of our public servants, I wasn't aware of the issues they had to struggle with until I read some of these questions.
Walter Scheib, White House Chef
Fred, from Flint, Michigan writes:
If you were having a hot dog, what would you put on it - ketchup? mustard? Relish? All of the above? I think that mustard is best. Not ketchup!!!!!!!
Sally, from Alexandria, Virginia writes:
In your many years as a chef - how many times have people sent food back to the kitchen? How do you handle such situations? I recently sent food back at a DC-area restaurant and was surprised how accomodating the chef was...he fixed the problem right away - AND WITH A SMILE!
Blake Gottesman, Special Assistant to the President and Personal Aide
Nathan, from Indiana writes:
Is President Bush allowed to grow a mustache? If so, I think he should consider it. I believe he would increase his image by at least 45 percent by doing so.
Roland Mesnier, White House Pastry Chef
Anukul, from Pittsburgh, PA writes:
Does the Secret Service prevent you from serving flaming desserts: crpes suzette, bananas foster, etc.,?
Orlando, from NJ writes:
I can't get my dough to rise. How should I get sweet dough to rise, to make huge delicious cinnamon rolls?
Tom Sansonetti, Assistant Attorney General, Environment and Natural Resources Division
Reese, from Casper writes:
Mr. Sansonetti There are substantive rumors that there are vast coal deposits on the Moon. Do you believe the discovery of moon-based coal would have a negative affect on Wyoming's economy (as Wyoming is the top coal producer)?
If so, how much of your day is spent on this problem? Can I, as a Wyoming citizen, assist you in this pending crisis?
Not only are these people subjected to Dick Cheney's purple nurples, but they have to endure these questions as well. Government employees, Goulash salutes you!
In other news, I made quite a discovery today. It seems that my phone number at work spells out BIZ EGG A. There are a lot of things I could do with this number, but I think the obvious action is to use it to create an Egg Supply empire. Sure, your local Mom and Pop egg shops are nice and all, but can they handle your global B2B egg demands? When the Easter Bunny needs eggs, he'll call BIZ EGG A. When an eccentric billionaire wants to create the world's largest birthday cake, he'll load up at BIZ EGG A. And when we run out of bullets defending ourselves from alien invaders, our slingshots will be full of eggs from BIZ EGG A. Get on board or get out of the way, world economy!
I have three questions for you, the most attractive group of people on the Internet.
1. Is it just me, or could the city of Austin use some mayhem?
2. Is it just me, or has it been a while since I endangered the personal safety of myself and my neighbors?
3. Is it just me, or is it about damn time that a gang of unruly hooligans destroyed my home in celebration of the Gou?
I'll answer all of those with a fourth question: Uhhh, Goulash Tricentennial anyone?
Fools better recognize that the Tricentennial is coming soon, and not even Santa Claus has enough power to stop it. By my count, we're at entry 269 right now, meaning I've got about 6 more weeks before I can stock up on Pine Sol and put the people at Poison Control on red alert. Let's answer a few questions about the Tricentennial, since some people may be unfamiliar with this tradition.
Q: What is the Tricentennial, some sort of lame ass tickle-party?
A: A party to celebrate my 300th entry on Goulash. I've previously hosted parties for both the Centennial and the Bicentennial, and they have been progressively cooler/more terrifying. I see no reason why we can't top ourselves this time and get someone deported or accidentally maimed.
Q: Where is this game of grab-ass going to be held?
A: Obviously the first choice is the Governor's mansion. Should our reservation not be honored there, I would guess my apartment.
Q: I suppose only fellow homosexuals will be invited?
A: All readers of Goulash are invited, except those that are incarcerated or intent on killing me. Email me for details as the date approaches.
Q: You don't honestly think I'm going all the way to Austin to hang out with a bunch of weinerbiscuits, do you?
A: I've thought about this a lot, and I think I came up with a good plan of attack for those of you who can't make it to Austin. On the day of the event, drink a bottle of Thunderbird and head for the bus station. When you wake up in a foreign dungeon and begin to plead frantically to speak to someone at the American embassy, congratulate yourself on a thoroughly realistic Tricentennial experience.
The date is still up in the air. Like I said, it'll be around 6 weeks from now, so the options are Sept. 24 or Oct. 1. If you have an opinion, let it loose in the comments section. If you have no opinion, then take long look in the mirror and ask yourself just what kind of lame-o you've become.
Well, it's time to add a new entry under the heading "Things Everyone Else Saw Coming": I didn't exactly win money at the dog track. In fact, if we're going to get precise, I lost some money in my time there. It wasn't so bad that I had to sell the fillings in my teeth to get back home, but I did drop enough to furnish the men's room with plenty of new urinal cakes. I will never experience these urinal cakes though, because I am boycotting that bathroom and all that look like it after the cyclone of lameitude that swept me up there on Thursday afternoon.
I made the trip up to the track by myself, since no one else saw the allure of Senior Matinee Day. As happens with most trips I take where the destination is not my apartment, I got lost. In my defense, there was no way to know where the track was, except for a sign and an enormous racetrack by the side of the highway. By the time I clawed my way through the Granny Estelles and the Great Uncle Julios in the parking lot, the first race had already begun. I stifled a few tears, and swore silently that on the next race, I'd make them all very sorry for getting in my way. Amazingly, I did just that and won $11 on race #2. Giddy with victory's sweet perfume, I promptly lost the next several races, bringing me back to even. It was now time to get down to bidness.
With the program and my slide rule, I made a selection for the next race that had triumph written all over it. Of course, I declare that over the intercom before each race, but I meant it that time. In fact, I was so certain of my conquest, I decided I'd go to the bathroom one last time as a poor person before I placed this fated bet. I don't know if it's because the greyhound afficionados all wear adult diapers or they just have enormous bladders, but I could only find one restroom in the joint, and the restroom in question had a short line. Since I had like 10 minutes until the next race and there were only a few people in front of me, I opted to wait it out in line. Also, I was worried that the combination of the stress of the upcoming bet and my urgent need to relieve myself might cause me to wet my pants. Victory is slightly less sweet when you're wearing soggy britches.
So, the line moved along accordingly until I was at the head of it. There was only one stand-up urinal that was functioning, but I had a few minutes so I was not worried. Standing at the urinal was an older gentleman, someone who had obviously urinated at some point in his life. Well, at least that's what I thought ,until he proceeded to take the world's longest pee. Empires have risen and fallen in the amount of time that this guy stood there. Had it not been for the incredible acoustics of the lavatory, I would've thought he was just standing there, admiring the facilities. It was insane, and if the activity in question been one that a person could hurry, I would've been throwing dollar bills at him to finish it off. Instead, all I could do was stand there and grimace as he emptied his giant Sasquatch bladder.
When he finally left, I got in there and operated as quickly as could. No amount of rushing could prevent the fact that I missed the start of the race without placing my bet. Sure enough, my bet would've paid off to the tune of $60. Of course, had I really been able to place the bet, the dog would've turned rabid at the start gate and had to be put down. Nevertheless, I was depressed, utterly taken out of my game by the Lord of the Urinators. I proceeded to lose the rest every single bet for the rest of the day. Had I not been so in awe of his abilities, I would've tracked him down and pinched him until he hollered for mercy. I left the track a broken, dejected loser. However, on the way back to our hotel room, I saw a bar called the Poop Deck. In light of that, I declare the day a full success.
Today, at lunch, I ordered a chicken sandwich. Rather than being served that, I managed to end up with a burger and two tacos. Was that a test, Jack in the Box? If so, I hope the correct response was to peel out of the parking lot, honking my horn and screaming "FREE TACOS!" Each day when lunch rolls around, I can't help but think that it'd really come in handy to have a personal chef. Instead of shovelling down my McNuggets with the rest of the slobs, I could shovel down beef wellington in my underwear in the privacy of my own home. Hmm, I wonder if any culinary geniuses would be willing to price-match the $5 I usually spend on my midday meal. If they did, I'd probably only get a bowl full of gravel and sugar packets.
As I intimated earlier, I won't be doing an update Wednesday or Thursday. I'll be in Galveston, doing the family thing. In addition to doing the family thing, I will also be hitting the dog track, where I'll be doing a little bit of this: *pantomimes the counting of lots of money*. After that, I think I'm going to take a tour of NASA, where I'll be doing a little bit of this: *pantomimes the theft of moonrocks*.
Of course, after I put the dog track out of business with the precise mathematics of my bets, NASA will probably try to get me to work there. Here are my terms, rocket scientists.
Meet those and then we'll talk. For the next few days, enjoy the dreary existence of a life without Cody Powell, citizens of Goulash.
Hot diggity, my TCB coozie has been found! I am glad it was discovered before I had to resort to more drastic means, such as dredging the Comal River. I don't know if I'd need a tugboat or a special license or what for that, but I would be willing to do it. Yes, it only cost $5.99 when I bought it at the world's largest gift shop in Las Vegas, but its value has grown to over one billion dollars at the world's largest apple butter factory, aka my house. Without it, I was like Pootie Tang sans his belt.
A lot of people throw around the Pootie Tang lingo now, but I'd like to point out that when it first came out, I drove 45 minutes to see it at the only theater showing it in Dallas. The only people in the joint were me, the girl I was with, and this lady who brought 8 children. By the midway point of the movie, the lady and her kids had left in disgust, and I was stuck in a vicious argument with my companion over whether or not we should go. Ultimately, she stormed out, and it was just me, Pootie, and my uncontrollable tears of delight.
In retrospect, that story has only grown more absurd. You mean a female could actually believe I'd pick her over Pootie Tang? You must respect my priorities, ladies! If there's a reason I've yet to be enslaved by one of these menstruating menaces, it's because I'm still waiting for one to get with the program. Carpe Pootie.
Well, another weekend, another tubing trip, another valued personal possession lost to the water. Last time, it was my Budweiser old man hat, while my Taking Care of Business coozie was the victim yesterday. I find consolation in the fact that the items lost seem to be getting progessively smaller. Hopefully, that means that next time, I'll lose a finger nail or a one of those really tiny forks that came with my silverware set. I'm not sure what those little forks are used for; maybe they'd come in handy if Warwick Davis came over for dinner. However, far more serious than losing my favorite coozie was bashing the hell out of my back on a rock. The river is much like a meth-addicted lover: after she takes your stuff, she beats on you.
Aside from the pain, which, woe unto me, is great, the back whompin' is disrupting my life. For instance, I had to cancel my pick up basketball game with the neighborhood youth ballers today out of fear that if I showed up at 75%, I wouldn't be able to live up to my name as Slamma Jamma Powell. Also, since it makes sitting kind of painful, I lost some valuable crocheting time. Impair my hoops skillz and steal my ability to crochet: will you stop at nothing, whomped back? As you can see, this entry is horrible. I could blame many for this: myself, the government, Quadrophilios (the dark lord of the Internet). In the end, the blame goes where it belongs, to the crappy Advil knock-off that I got at the grocery store. Next time, I'll be putting my $1.79 worth of pain relief into something that can numb me properly into unconsciousness. I speak, of course, of furniture varnish. Tomorrow, I get back to the quality stuff.