Just, “WOW.” 37 pages of comments. Can you believe that? I can’t. Seriously, just in the range of about 740 goddamn comments.

All deleted, unconditionally. “Madness,” you say? Have you ever tried to sift through 740 comments in WordPress, at least 99% of which were SPAM and shameless self-promotion? Hell, most of it was in a cyrillic typeface. Do you think I speak Russian? Admittedly, I could take a bit more time, I suppose, to check up on things; maybe even write something new, once in a while, but if I were to take that seriously, then we’d have to start discussing a wage. No, for me; not for you.

The big problem, well, problems, that I’m up against, here, are that I hate blogging, I hate criticism, I hate praise (in fact, I hate feedback at all). I just don’t have the patience to keep up with a blog, and I certainly don’t have the patience to contend with requests for assistance with RSS readers, themes, and the like.

Stupid blog.

t.

Ok, I know it’s been a while, but this is insane.

The blog has “moderated comments,” which means you can leave whatever comments you like, but they don’t become visible until I clear them. I just logged in to check, and there are 308 goddamn comments awaiting moderation … and so far, they’re all assumed to be spam.

So, here’s the deal, and you can accuse me of being a Nazi for this if you like (everyone else in America seems to qualify as one to someone else in the country, anyway): if your comment includes a URL - any URL at all - I’m going to assume that it’s spam and nuke it. If I hit any comments that aren’t deserving of this treatment, I apologize, but this seems to be the only way that I can ensure that the terrorists won’t win.

t.

I just tried the Angry Whopper, and I’m torn. On the one hand, this was hands-down the best fast-food burger I’ve had in my life. It actually even looked like the burgers in the commercials. On the other hand, my burger was not angry. It was mostly confused, but also mildly annoyed.

Regardless, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of any company selling a product which it believes to be angry. Why in the world would this be a positive way to market anything? No, sir, this is wrong. The King should not simply sell angry food. This food should be given access to counseling, and not sold until it’s at least no-longer hostile.

If this didn’t make any sense, it’s probably because I haven’t had a cigarette since January 3rd. Until this, I’d been a smoker for about 17 years. Anyway, sorry for the non sequitur, but I’m nucking futs until further notice.

t.

It’s no surprise to anyone that the recording industry’s been suffering for a while. The only point of contention is whether the problem is due to music piracy or because the recording industry’s stuck with an absurdly ancient and obsolete business model. My money, and the money of pretty much everyone with half a brain, is on the latter, but generally speaking, we’re not overpaid executives.

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I’ve been plagued by bad dreams since posting the original Amish Engineering post, by which I mean that I’ve re-thought the grounds for my criticism following Mr. Pugh’s comments - I just mean it very dramatically.

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I must apologize in advance, gentle reader, for subjecting you to this blatant stupidity. It’s just too silly to keep to myself. The Amish, it seems, who are widely-known for their skills in electrical engineering, are now manufacturing spot heaters. But not any spot heaters, o, no. These are spot heaters with flat-screen television displays built into them to provide the image of a roaring fire. I’m not going to do them the justice of linking them, but you can find the product to which I’m referring at http://www.heatsurgetv.com/, or check out the video after the fold.
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We’ve taken people from various third-world countries that you probably couldn’t locate on a map if your life were on the line, who are used to eating things that you would either have nightmares about or adopt as pets with names like “Fluffy” or “Fido” or “Tycho,” given half a chance. These are the “Whooper Virgins,” untainted by experience with the heavy, greasy, cardboard-textured crap that we’ve been peddling since long before you were born. We’ve asked them to tell us which they prefer: the Bag Mic, or the Whooper.

Ai rhyk’a dees’wa. (Points at the Whooper.)

~Chek Ten Soh, China

The response has been overwhelming.

Nom nom nom nom nom … (Devouring Whoopers at an alarming pace.)

~Gerta Melanchoklovlobnihrakinbimivich, Latvia

The response has been terrifying.

*Click* *click* boo! *Click* wabbawabba! *Click!* *Click!* (Points Whooper at camera man and bares teeth threateningly.)

~Adanse Djibuar, Namibia

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Hey, sorry for the delay. I’m just not (nor will I really ever be) a chronic blogger.

We returned home from Gatlinburg late Sunday night, after a beautiful four hours of trying to keep my eyes open at 85-90 MPH the whole way. We were up over the weekend just to kick around, try to get some Xmas shopping done, and spend some time in Smokey. All in all, it was a relaxing weekend, with some caveats …

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Have you ever coughed so hard that you accidentally farted?

I have. I’ve done it a lot. I smoke a lot, which generally translates into coughing a lot, and coughing hard. Couple that with a weakness for Mexican food, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. It can be embarrassing, sometimes. Who can control when a coughing fit strikes? Then it’s done, you’re sitting there in shame with your spontaneously-released noxious fumes gradually dissipating into the unsuspecting crowd, and you might begin to suspect that you’ve gotten away with it. You might feel a little delight, knowing that none of your colleagues can pin the blame on you. They didn’t hear you fart; they heard you cough, and if you had whatever disease caused a smell like that to come out of your lung, then you’d surely be dead by now. You glance around to see if anyone suspects you, but you’re off the hook; you’ve been saved by your curse.

But have you ever coughed so hard that you pooped yourself?

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Hi, Uwe;

Please stop making movies.

Please, please, please, just stop.

t.