Anyone else getting sick to death of people lying to your face just to sell you something?
Recently, Sunny and I attempted to change the long distance service on our phone. Basically, we got a call from MCI, and they undercut what we were paying.
However, I asked two questions:
"So, you'll just be for long distance, right? This won't effect our local service?"
Answer : "Yes, this will not effect your current local service at all."
Then I asked:
"Now, I get my internet service through Bellsouth. This won't effect that, will it?"
Answer : "No. Definitely not."
Of course, today I received an email from Bellsouth, informing me that as I was no longer using their service, we now had to pay them for internet service with a credit card, and that the price would go up as I wasn't a Bellsouth Phone company. It turns out that we are no longer Bellsouth customers, and yes, it DID affect our internet service.
Thanks for lying directly to me, MCI.
Basically, I got Sunny to call up Bellsouth (The account is in her name), and got them to switch us back.
Up yours, MCI, I'll never use your service again, and I'll make sure that no-one I know uses it either...you cheating, lying bastards.
As a little aside, it turns out that that Bellsouth had mailed us a special 'privilege pack' that said if we switch back, we'll get lower rates, no re-connection fee, and hundred dollars cash back...RESULT!
The problem with all this, is that the MCI telemarketers are obviously being paid on commission. So when you ask a question that has an answer that is a deal-breaker... they'll just lie through their teeth.
It doesn't matter to them if you totally get screwed, or switch back within a week. They've already got their commission check, so who cares, right?
ME! That's who fucking cares!
I just wish that companies in general would realise that they'd do a whole lot more business if they were much more honest, and didn't hide charges and fees.
Take Bellsouth for instance. They're preferable to MCI, but they're no angels either. I got a thing through the mail which said I could get fast access DSL for the low, low price of $25 a month....with speeds of up to 3mb! I'd also get a free MP3 player! Where the hell do I sign up? That's only $10 more than I pay for dial-up!
However, being a cynical, non-trusting kinda guy, I went to their website to read the small print.
So after I'd acquired an electron microscope in order to read it, I discovered the following:
a) They do charge $25 a month, however, this is for their lowest speed service, at only 256kps. The 3mb service costs in excess of $50
b) You also have to pay $70 for the DSL modem, and a $50 setup fee.
c) You only get the MP3 player if you get their fastest service.
So, the quick, easy and cheap setup would actually cost $145.
Why not just put that on the friggin' offer? I'd have to pay it anyway! Do you think I'll just not notice when the first bill comes?
Oh, they also now offer a FREE!!!! DSL modem.
However, you still have to pay for it.
Basically, to Bellsouth, 'free' means that if you still have their service after a year, they'll give you the money back for the modem.
How in the hell is that 'free'?
It's not just phone services. I recently emailed for information on a Tempurpedic bed. They sent a truck load of information, but never actually told me the price.
Oh, and in case your wondering, their amazing 'Try in your own home FREE for 180 days!" offer is a load of bullshit. What happens is, they bring the bed to your house, charge you for delivery, and then charge you the normal monthly payment. If at the end of the 180 days, if you don't want it, you have to pay to have it shipped back to them, and basically get a few hundred dollars back.
In short, you can rent it from them instead of buying it outright.
Here's an ad, or junk mail circular I'd like to see:
"Paulius Inc would like to sell you a product. Now, at first, we may seem to be more expensive than most other places, but the difference is, the price you see is the price you pay. This includes all taxes, delivery etc. There's just no hidden costs. Look. we're small-print free!"
Am I wrong in thinking that if someone offers me a product or service for, say $100, I should be able to pay them that hundred bucks, and get what they advertised?
Of course I'm wrong. That would be far to simple and easy.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Today's Blog Contains Monosodium Glutamate
A short while ago, Sunny asked me if I liked ‘Potted Meat’.
My first answer was, of course, ‘What in the blue hell is ‘potted meat’?
She explained.
“It’s like these tiny little cans with meat in it, that you spread on sandwiches.”
The penny dropped. You see, I thought when she said ‘potted meat’ she was describing a line of products. In England you can get ‘potted meat’ spread that comes in tiny little jars. You can get beef spread, chicken spread…all kinds of yummy spread.
So I answered in the positive. That is to say, I said ‘Yes, I like potted meat.’
However, American potted meat is not what I thought it was. Rummaging in the cupboards this week, I found a little tin, on the side of which was written ‘Potted Meat’.
This rang alarm bells right away. I know it’s ‘meat’, but why did they not specify what type of meat it is? If you can’t name it, you’ve got something to hide.
You see, I have a rule. If you can’t name it, I’m not eating it… I eat purely named meat, and by ‘named meat’ I don’t mean ‘Spot’, ’Tiddles’ or ‘Rover’.
However, it was served for a snack this week. I ate a sandwich, not knowing what was on it. I’m ashamed to say it tasted good.
Unfortunately, I’m a curious type of soul, and I made the mistake of reading the ingredients on the can.
“Mechanically separated chicken, beef and pork parts.”
Let’s stop right there. ‘Mechanically Seperated’. What in the blue fuck does that mean?
‘Mechanically Separated’…isn’t that road kill? Does ‘mechanically separated’ mean the abbatoir worker ran it down with his truck on the way to work?
Also, what ‘parts’ were mechanically separated? Eew, I don’t even want to speculate on that one.
If that didn’t make me sick enough, what came next made me turn green:
“Partially de-fatted fatty tissues.”
HUH???
What part of the animal is fatty, and why was it partially de-fatted?
So, basically, once everything edible has gone from the animal, they ‘mechanically separate’ what was left, partially de-fat the fatty tissues, mince it up, put it in a can…and I ate it.
I’m going to sue.
My first answer was, of course, ‘What in the blue hell is ‘potted meat’?
She explained.
“It’s like these tiny little cans with meat in it, that you spread on sandwiches.”
The penny dropped. You see, I thought when she said ‘potted meat’ she was describing a line of products. In England you can get ‘potted meat’ spread that comes in tiny little jars. You can get beef spread, chicken spread…all kinds of yummy spread.
So I answered in the positive. That is to say, I said ‘Yes, I like potted meat.’
However, American potted meat is not what I thought it was. Rummaging in the cupboards this week, I found a little tin, on the side of which was written ‘Potted Meat’.
This rang alarm bells right away. I know it’s ‘meat’, but why did they not specify what type of meat it is? If you can’t name it, you’ve got something to hide.
You see, I have a rule. If you can’t name it, I’m not eating it… I eat purely named meat, and by ‘named meat’ I don’t mean ‘Spot’, ’Tiddles’ or ‘Rover’.
However, it was served for a snack this week. I ate a sandwich, not knowing what was on it. I’m ashamed to say it tasted good.
Unfortunately, I’m a curious type of soul, and I made the mistake of reading the ingredients on the can.
“Mechanically separated chicken, beef and pork parts.”
Let’s stop right there. ‘Mechanically Seperated’. What in the blue fuck does that mean?
‘Mechanically Separated’…isn’t that road kill? Does ‘mechanically separated’ mean the abbatoir worker ran it down with his truck on the way to work?
Also, what ‘parts’ were mechanically separated? Eew, I don’t even want to speculate on that one.
If that didn’t make me sick enough, what came next made me turn green:
“Partially de-fatted fatty tissues.”
HUH???
What part of the animal is fatty, and why was it partially de-fatted?
So, basically, once everything edible has gone from the animal, they ‘mechanically separate’ what was left, partially de-fat the fatty tissues, mince it up, put it in a can…and I ate it.
I’m going to sue.
How To Be An Online Ass In One Easy Step
Ok, this has been bugging the piss out of me for a while.
Many sites allow users (That’s you and me), to submit user reviews of their products. Anything from games, to DVD’s to farm equipment.
Now, at first, this may seem like a great idea. Your average user has no hidden agenda, gets no ‘back-handers’ from companies to talk up their product. It should be completely unbiased.
Of course, there is one major little fly in the ointment of online user reviews.
99% of people on the internet appear to be complete and utter morons.
Now I’m not getting pissed because someone gave a bad review to something I like, or a good review for something I hate. I know people have different opinions. No. It’s just that most of the people who write these reviews probably have difficulty tying their own shoelaces, never mind writing a review.
Here’s the run down of the people who write online reviews.
The first type is such a tiny minority they’re hardly worth mentioning. These are the people who play a game, watch a movie or buy some consumer electronics, and give a clear, concise review. Like I said, you’ll have difficulty finding these.
The second type is the Fanboy. These people write absolutely glowing reviews for things that are complete and utter shit, just because they like the franchise. If it’s games they’re reviewing, they will review everything as a comparison to their favourite game, and will get in major flame wars with anyone who suggests that their favourite game might not be all that good. Example post:
“Ths gme is crap!! Halo is much better! If u dunt thnk so ur a fag.”
The saddest thing with this type is they will actually ‘review’ something before it even comes out. You’ll see a post of ‘This is an Excellent game! Buy it, Buy it, Buy it!!!” …Unfortunately, that game isn’t going to come out for another month and a half. I’m not exaggerating here, go look on IGN or Ebgames. Hate to tell you this, people, but just because the first in a series was good, or just because it carries the Star Wars label or something, does not guarantee it’s going to be any good whatsoever.
The third type, I have named simply, ‘The Fuckwit’.
They can’t write, they can’t spell. Their IQ is the same figure as their shoe size. The formula’s simple, anonymity, plus an audience, equals Fuckwit.
These are the people who love to start flame wars. These are the ones that will post reviews of MMORPG’s like World of Warcraft with something like:
“Dese games r 4 fags! Git a lif lusoR!!!”
Hate to say it, you retards, but just because you don’t like a particular genre, doesn’t mean you should slag it off in a user ’review’.
I’d like to go slightly off topic to give a message to these people. They’re obviously about 12, think they’re hot shit, and are the kind of people who like to bully the shit out of the geeks and nerds at school.
To you people, enjoy your moment in the sun, because once you leave school, everything is going to change. Yes, you might be popular now, but you’ll be working for that nerd one day. School lasts a few years. That geek/nerd will get revenge every single day of his life afterwards, when you find yourself ringing up his order in Taco Bell, just before he gets in his BMW and goes home to his big house.
Rule #1 : Be nice to nerds, you WILL be working for them one day.
The fourth type are what I life to call ’The Oxygen Thieves’.
Let me explain something to you. The dictionary definition of a review is:
1. survey of past: a report or survey of past actions, performance, or events
a review of the stock market for the past five years
2. arts journalistic article giving opinion: a journalistic article giving an assessment of a book, play, movie, concert, or other public performance
Read that over. Does it mention anything about talking about something that you haven’t seen yet? No. Does it mention offering an opinion about what you think something will be like, when you’ve had no access to it?
So please explain to me why you feel the need to post the following review on Ebgames?
(actual review)
“This game looks like it’s going to be cool! I’ll definitely buy it!”
No, you Oxygen Thief! That is NOT a review. Not only are you wasting everyone’s time, because no one trying to find a review or preview of a game gives a tin shit that you think an upcoming game is going to be good, you also give it a 5-star score, which throws the average completely out of whack. If three of you dumb-asses do that, and the site gets 10 reviews…you’ve added an extra star to the overall ranking, you fucking idiot!
Leave the previews and opinions about upcoming games to the actual professionals, the ones who get advance copies and a few playable levels so they can actually form an educated opinion. Just because you like the look of the screenshots does not qualify you to write a review or preview.
The last type, are the “Whiny-Bitch-Dumbasses’.
Now, while the rest of the people I’ve described get on my nerves, these people are like splinters in my brain. These are the kind of people who I just want to strangle.
What happens is, they buy a PC game, and then find that their PC won’t run it. Usually they’re too fucking stupid to read the minimum system requirements or just have some sort of conflict on their computer, and go to every review site they can find to bitch about it. Yes, I’m talking to you, Mr. Anonymous on Ebgames. Yes you, the one who posted this about Chronicles of Riddick: Escape From Butcher Bay:
“This game is SHIT!!!! It crashes right after the opening movie!!! I’ve spent months on the phone to them (I’m guessing he means the game studio), and they’ve been no help at all! Don’t buy this game or anything from them! This game is SHIT!!!!”
Ok, let me explain something to you, Mr. Anonymous, and all you other Whiny-Bitch-Dumbasses out there:
If you encounter a game that is full of bugs, feel free to review that, and bitch all you want. However, when the problem is entirely down to your system, it’s your own damn fault. You can’t call a game shit, and give it a minus rating, just because you personally can’t run it!
I bought Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, and my computer wouldn’t run it. It has a problem where it can’t handle a graphics card that uses shared memory. I didn’t bitch, whine or go on an Anti-Lucas arts, Anti-Bioware crusade. I just thought: “Huh! I need a new graphics card.”
Now, what you’re doing is the equivalent of buying a diesel car, the bitching to everyone you know, and don’t know, because it won’t run on gas. Then going round and telling everyone that gasoline is worthless because it won’t run in your car. You see yourself as some wronged victim, out to expose a heartless corrupt game studio…but everyone else just thinks you’re a twat.
If you absolutely MUST post something, give your system specs. At least that way, you might actually be writing something worth reading. If I knew KOTOR wouldn’t run on my graphics card, I wouldn’t have bought it. Calling a game shit, and trying to take business away from a games studio, just because your system can’t handle it just exposes you as a dumbass, whiny bitch.
Understand?
Thus Endeth The Rant.
Many sites allow users (That’s you and me), to submit user reviews of their products. Anything from games, to DVD’s to farm equipment.
Now, at first, this may seem like a great idea. Your average user has no hidden agenda, gets no ‘back-handers’ from companies to talk up their product. It should be completely unbiased.
Of course, there is one major little fly in the ointment of online user reviews.
99% of people on the internet appear to be complete and utter morons.
Now I’m not getting pissed because someone gave a bad review to something I like, or a good review for something I hate. I know people have different opinions. No. It’s just that most of the people who write these reviews probably have difficulty tying their own shoelaces, never mind writing a review.
Here’s the run down of the people who write online reviews.
The first type is such a tiny minority they’re hardly worth mentioning. These are the people who play a game, watch a movie or buy some consumer electronics, and give a clear, concise review. Like I said, you’ll have difficulty finding these.
The second type is the Fanboy. These people write absolutely glowing reviews for things that are complete and utter shit, just because they like the franchise. If it’s games they’re reviewing, they will review everything as a comparison to their favourite game, and will get in major flame wars with anyone who suggests that their favourite game might not be all that good. Example post:
“Ths gme is crap!! Halo is much better! If u dunt thnk so ur a fag.”
The saddest thing with this type is they will actually ‘review’ something before it even comes out. You’ll see a post of ‘This is an Excellent game! Buy it, Buy it, Buy it!!!” …Unfortunately, that game isn’t going to come out for another month and a half. I’m not exaggerating here, go look on IGN or Ebgames. Hate to tell you this, people, but just because the first in a series was good, or just because it carries the Star Wars label or something, does not guarantee it’s going to be any good whatsoever.
The third type, I have named simply, ‘The Fuckwit’.
They can’t write, they can’t spell. Their IQ is the same figure as their shoe size. The formula’s simple, anonymity, plus an audience, equals Fuckwit.
These are the people who love to start flame wars. These are the ones that will post reviews of MMORPG’s like World of Warcraft with something like:
“Dese games r 4 fags! Git a lif lusoR!!!”
Hate to say it, you retards, but just because you don’t like a particular genre, doesn’t mean you should slag it off in a user ’review’.
I’d like to go slightly off topic to give a message to these people. They’re obviously about 12, think they’re hot shit, and are the kind of people who like to bully the shit out of the geeks and nerds at school.
To you people, enjoy your moment in the sun, because once you leave school, everything is going to change. Yes, you might be popular now, but you’ll be working for that nerd one day. School lasts a few years. That geek/nerd will get revenge every single day of his life afterwards, when you find yourself ringing up his order in Taco Bell, just before he gets in his BMW and goes home to his big house.
Rule #1 : Be nice to nerds, you WILL be working for them one day.
The fourth type are what I life to call ’The Oxygen Thieves’.
Let me explain something to you. The dictionary definition of a review is:
1. survey of past: a report or survey of past actions, performance, or events
a review of the stock market for the past five years
2. arts journalistic article giving opinion: a journalistic article giving an assessment of a book, play, movie, concert, or other public performance
Read that over. Does it mention anything about talking about something that you haven’t seen yet? No. Does it mention offering an opinion about what you think something will be like, when you’ve had no access to it?
So please explain to me why you feel the need to post the following review on Ebgames?
(actual review)
“This game looks like it’s going to be cool! I’ll definitely buy it!”
No, you Oxygen Thief! That is NOT a review. Not only are you wasting everyone’s time, because no one trying to find a review or preview of a game gives a tin shit that you think an upcoming game is going to be good, you also give it a 5-star score, which throws the average completely out of whack. If three of you dumb-asses do that, and the site gets 10 reviews…you’ve added an extra star to the overall ranking, you fucking idiot!
Leave the previews and opinions about upcoming games to the actual professionals, the ones who get advance copies and a few playable levels so they can actually form an educated opinion. Just because you like the look of the screenshots does not qualify you to write a review or preview.
The last type, are the “Whiny-Bitch-Dumbasses’.
Now, while the rest of the people I’ve described get on my nerves, these people are like splinters in my brain. These are the kind of people who I just want to strangle.
What happens is, they buy a PC game, and then find that their PC won’t run it. Usually they’re too fucking stupid to read the minimum system requirements or just have some sort of conflict on their computer, and go to every review site they can find to bitch about it. Yes, I’m talking to you, Mr. Anonymous on Ebgames. Yes you, the one who posted this about Chronicles of Riddick: Escape From Butcher Bay:
“This game is SHIT!!!! It crashes right after the opening movie!!! I’ve spent months on the phone to them (I’m guessing he means the game studio), and they’ve been no help at all! Don’t buy this game or anything from them! This game is SHIT!!!!”
Ok, let me explain something to you, Mr. Anonymous, and all you other Whiny-Bitch-Dumbasses out there:
If you encounter a game that is full of bugs, feel free to review that, and bitch all you want. However, when the problem is entirely down to your system, it’s your own damn fault. You can’t call a game shit, and give it a minus rating, just because you personally can’t run it!
I bought Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, and my computer wouldn’t run it. It has a problem where it can’t handle a graphics card that uses shared memory. I didn’t bitch, whine or go on an Anti-Lucas arts, Anti-Bioware crusade. I just thought: “Huh! I need a new graphics card.”
Now, what you’re doing is the equivalent of buying a diesel car, the bitching to everyone you know, and don’t know, because it won’t run on gas. Then going round and telling everyone that gasoline is worthless because it won’t run in your car. You see yourself as some wronged victim, out to expose a heartless corrupt game studio…but everyone else just thinks you’re a twat.
If you absolutely MUST post something, give your system specs. At least that way, you might actually be writing something worth reading. If I knew KOTOR wouldn’t run on my graphics card, I wouldn’t have bought it. Calling a game shit, and trying to take business away from a games studio, just because your system can’t handle it just exposes you as a dumbass, whiny bitch.
Understand?
Thus Endeth The Rant.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Those Crazy Sith Lords.
The doors whisk open, unnecessarily fast, as Darth Vader strides into the Emperor’s Chamber. Slowly, he takes a knee.
“I bring grave news, My Master.”
The Emperor puts down his PSP in irritation.
“Yes, Lord Vader, what is it? Have you played luminous yet? That soundtrack’s bangin’!”
“Errr,” says Lord Vader, as he stands up and uses his Asthma inhaler. “The Rebels have destroyed the Death Star, you know, that big ball thing we call a ‘Battle Station’, despite the fact it appears to be capable of moving long distances?”
“Impossible.” Spits the Emperor. “The Rebels simply don’t have the fire power! That guy you choked in Act One said it was the ultimate power in the Universe!”
“Yeah, I know.” Replied Vader. “That was soooooo cool! ‘I find you lack of faith disturbing’ ‘choke’, ‘thud’. That’ll teach the sissy bitch to mouth of to a Dark Lord of the Sith. By the way, did you get that ‘Sith Happens’ T-Shirt I sent you?”
“Yeah, it was cool, I got it on right now.“ The Emperor pulls aside his robes to show his fetching new T-Shirt. “So did a Jedi do it? I hate Jedi! Didn’t we kill them off after I destroyed your family, made you evil and blamed the death of your missus on you?”
“No, it wasn’t a Jedi, something about a thermal exhaust port. Apparently, our ultra-powerful, ultimate weapon, that cost an amount of money that looks like Pi recited to all currently known decimal places, had a glaring weakness a 5 year old should have spotted. It was destroyed by a few grands worth of antique fighter, and a two hundred dollar missile.”
“Well, doesn’t that just suck ass?” Said the Emperor, wistfully. “I’d go so far as to say it sucks great big fat donkey dicks!”
“Well, I told you we shouldn’t have hired those consultants. Bean counters they were. Just think, a few thousand dollars worth of titanium mesh over the exhaust port would’ve stopped a missile cold. Whats a few grand next to the squijillion trillion kreduliliium dollars the damn thing cost? It’s amazing how no one spotted that. I only survived because for some reason, my tie fighter bounced off the trench wall, while all the others tended to explode even if the rebels only gave them a dirty look.”
“Like I said, Donkey Dicks…great big fat ones.”
“Anyway, Mr. Super-Powerful Sith, I thought you could see the future?”
“Errr, I can.”
“So, you can see the future, but didn’t see a moon sized battle station going ‘boom’, along with a few million storm troopers?”
“Errrrr.”
“Seems like your ‘all seeing eye’ has got glaucoma. I would have foreseen it, but I thought you had it covered!”
“Oi! Less of it. I can fire electricity from my hands you know, and that suit of yours looks mighty…conductive.”
“Ok, point taken. So what are we going to do?”
“Let’s just send a few star-destroyers, you know, the overly large ships with their shield generators placed conveniently on top, with the bridge right next to them, so an antique fighter can blow destroy one pretty easily…and bomb the shit out of their planet.”
“Umm, not possible.”
“What do you mean? Not possible? Look at me, I’m dressed in black and have a lots of unsightly wrinkles and weird eyes! I’m evil! I can do whatever I want!"
“Well, we’re fighting freedom-fighters….um, I mean evil terrorists. We can’t bomb a whole planet just to get them! It‘s like burning down the barn to get rid of a rat!”
“So?”
“Have you seen the opinion polls lately? Put it this way, we ain’t popular. I’ve been Jedi mind-tricking my ass off to keep it in check!”
“Look. See this evil black cape?”
“Yup.”
“See my weird eyes?”
“Yup.”
“See my cool black swivel chair, and my uber-creepy voice?
“Uh, huh.”
“You would say, then, that I’m pretty bloody evil?”
“Well…yeah, if you had a breathing problem like mine, and a big, shiny black nazi-esque helmet, you’d look almost as evil as me!”
“So why can’t I bomb a planet again? Aren't I the undisputed ruler of the galaxy? Don't I have legions of fanatically loyal Stormtroopers at my disposal 24.7? Anyway, didn’t we just blow up a planet of vegetarian pacifists somewhere in Act Two?”
“Well, there’s something I didn’t know whether to mention or not.”
“What’s that?”
“Ummm, they’re on Hoth, and thanks to that Pimp-stylin’ Lando Calrissian, they’ve got our entire supply of Tibanna gas there.”
“Uh, oh. You mean the stuff we use to fuel our ships and make our guns shoot better?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Well, it’s donkey dicks again.”
“Big Fat ones, my Master.”
The Emperor sits in meditation for a few moment, while Vader takes another hit off his ventolin.
“I’ve got it!” Says the Emperor.
“You have?”
“Here’s what we do. We blame Alderaan on the rebels. Get the spin-doctors in on it. We can blame them somehow. Then we claim that the Rebels are constructing weapons of mass destruction…”
“Can I interrupt for a mo?” Said Vader. “We’re sitting in a Super Star Destroyer, a ship that’s about 50 miles long, with enough guns to do some seriously bad shit. Can’t that be described as a weapon of mass destruction?”
“Yeah, but it’s only bad if the other people have got them. You should know that by now. Weapons in our hands are for the public good. Anyone else's, it’s bad. Plus, we’ve got out shield generators on top of the ship also. This thing’s as fragile as a toothpick.”
“We really should fire those consultants.”
“Nah, gotta have consultants if you wanna be evil.”
“I know, I know. Too bad they all suck large, obese equine phalluses.”
“Too bad. Anyway, we say they’ve got WMD’s, go in there, guns blazing, kick some ass…while at the same time, dropping humanitarian aid, and launching a whole ‘hearts and minds’ campaign. We gotta stop the terrorists, everyone hates terrorists.”
“You mean, we cut off their food supply, bomb the shit out of them…then give them food and shelters, and expect them to be grateful?”
“Exactly.”
“Brilliant, my master, truly diabolical.”
“See to it, Lord Vader. Nice cape, by the way.”
“Thank you, My Master…err, any chance of me borrowing your PSP?”
“Did you bring your copy of Dance Dance Revolution?”
“Of course, I take it everywhere.”
“Including the dance mat?”
“Of course.”
“Ok, I’ll do you a swap. Only for a week, mind.”
“Thank you, my Master.”
“I bring grave news, My Master.”
The Emperor puts down his PSP in irritation.
“Yes, Lord Vader, what is it? Have you played luminous yet? That soundtrack’s bangin’!”
“Errr,” says Lord Vader, as he stands up and uses his Asthma inhaler. “The Rebels have destroyed the Death Star, you know, that big ball thing we call a ‘Battle Station’, despite the fact it appears to be capable of moving long distances?”
“Impossible.” Spits the Emperor. “The Rebels simply don’t have the fire power! That guy you choked in Act One said it was the ultimate power in the Universe!”
“Yeah, I know.” Replied Vader. “That was soooooo cool! ‘I find you lack of faith disturbing’ ‘choke’, ‘thud’. That’ll teach the sissy bitch to mouth of to a Dark Lord of the Sith. By the way, did you get that ‘Sith Happens’ T-Shirt I sent you?”
“Yeah, it was cool, I got it on right now.“ The Emperor pulls aside his robes to show his fetching new T-Shirt. “So did a Jedi do it? I hate Jedi! Didn’t we kill them off after I destroyed your family, made you evil and blamed the death of your missus on you?”
“No, it wasn’t a Jedi, something about a thermal exhaust port. Apparently, our ultra-powerful, ultimate weapon, that cost an amount of money that looks like Pi recited to all currently known decimal places, had a glaring weakness a 5 year old should have spotted. It was destroyed by a few grands worth of antique fighter, and a two hundred dollar missile.”
“Well, doesn’t that just suck ass?” Said the Emperor, wistfully. “I’d go so far as to say it sucks great big fat donkey dicks!”
“Well, I told you we shouldn’t have hired those consultants. Bean counters they were. Just think, a few thousand dollars worth of titanium mesh over the exhaust port would’ve stopped a missile cold. Whats a few grand next to the squijillion trillion kreduliliium dollars the damn thing cost? It’s amazing how no one spotted that. I only survived because for some reason, my tie fighter bounced off the trench wall, while all the others tended to explode even if the rebels only gave them a dirty look.”
“Like I said, Donkey Dicks…great big fat ones.”
“Anyway, Mr. Super-Powerful Sith, I thought you could see the future?”
“Errr, I can.”
“So, you can see the future, but didn’t see a moon sized battle station going ‘boom’, along with a few million storm troopers?”
“Errrrr.”
“Seems like your ‘all seeing eye’ has got glaucoma. I would have foreseen it, but I thought you had it covered!”
“Oi! Less of it. I can fire electricity from my hands you know, and that suit of yours looks mighty…conductive.”
“Ok, point taken. So what are we going to do?”
“Let’s just send a few star-destroyers, you know, the overly large ships with their shield generators placed conveniently on top, with the bridge right next to them, so an antique fighter can blow destroy one pretty easily…and bomb the shit out of their planet.”
“Umm, not possible.”
“What do you mean? Not possible? Look at me, I’m dressed in black and have a lots of unsightly wrinkles and weird eyes! I’m evil! I can do whatever I want!"
“Well, we’re fighting freedom-fighters….um, I mean evil terrorists. We can’t bomb a whole planet just to get them! It‘s like burning down the barn to get rid of a rat!”
“So?”
“Have you seen the opinion polls lately? Put it this way, we ain’t popular. I’ve been Jedi mind-tricking my ass off to keep it in check!”
“Look. See this evil black cape?”
“Yup.”
“See my weird eyes?”
“Yup.”
“See my cool black swivel chair, and my uber-creepy voice?
“Uh, huh.”
“You would say, then, that I’m pretty bloody evil?”
“Well…yeah, if you had a breathing problem like mine, and a big, shiny black nazi-esque helmet, you’d look almost as evil as me!”
“So why can’t I bomb a planet again? Aren't I the undisputed ruler of the galaxy? Don't I have legions of fanatically loyal Stormtroopers at my disposal 24.7? Anyway, didn’t we just blow up a planet of vegetarian pacifists somewhere in Act Two?”
“Well, there’s something I didn’t know whether to mention or not.”
“What’s that?”
“Ummm, they’re on Hoth, and thanks to that Pimp-stylin’ Lando Calrissian, they’ve got our entire supply of Tibanna gas there.”
“Uh, oh. You mean the stuff we use to fuel our ships and make our guns shoot better?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Well, it’s donkey dicks again.”
“Big Fat ones, my Master.”
The Emperor sits in meditation for a few moment, while Vader takes another hit off his ventolin.
“I’ve got it!” Says the Emperor.
“You have?”
“Here’s what we do. We blame Alderaan on the rebels. Get the spin-doctors in on it. We can blame them somehow. Then we claim that the Rebels are constructing weapons of mass destruction…”
“Can I interrupt for a mo?” Said Vader. “We’re sitting in a Super Star Destroyer, a ship that’s about 50 miles long, with enough guns to do some seriously bad shit. Can’t that be described as a weapon of mass destruction?”
“Yeah, but it’s only bad if the other people have got them. You should know that by now. Weapons in our hands are for the public good. Anyone else's, it’s bad. Plus, we’ve got out shield generators on top of the ship also. This thing’s as fragile as a toothpick.”
“We really should fire those consultants.”
“Nah, gotta have consultants if you wanna be evil.”
“I know, I know. Too bad they all suck large, obese equine phalluses.”
“Too bad. Anyway, we say they’ve got WMD’s, go in there, guns blazing, kick some ass…while at the same time, dropping humanitarian aid, and launching a whole ‘hearts and minds’ campaign. We gotta stop the terrorists, everyone hates terrorists.”
“You mean, we cut off their food supply, bomb the shit out of them…then give them food and shelters, and expect them to be grateful?”
“Exactly.”
“Brilliant, my master, truly diabolical.”
“See to it, Lord Vader. Nice cape, by the way.”
“Thank you, My Master…err, any chance of me borrowing your PSP?”
“Did you bring your copy of Dance Dance Revolution?”
“Of course, I take it everywhere.”
“Including the dance mat?”
“Of course.”
“Ok, I’ll do you a swap. Only for a week, mind.”
“Thank you, my Master.”
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Man DIY #3 : The Plumbing Chronicles
You’d think I’d know better by now.
You see, every time I attempt any DIY project, I usually finish with a decent job done. However, getting there is one hell of a battle. Usually,when I’m involved, it takes 15 times longer, costs three times more and involves such a long line of fuck-ups…I could fill an entire season of America’s Home Videos by myself.
This time, however, I’m pleased to announce that the actual problem wasn’t my fault.
I’m not pleased to announce that today’s problem was my ultimate nightmare.
Plumbing.
You see, when it comes to plumbing, I know exactly what to do:
I say, in a clear, loud voice:
“Dad? This pipe needs fixing.”
You see, my dad is the ultimate Mr. Fix It. I wouldn’t be going to far to say that my Dad is my hero. That guy can fix anything, and is one of those few people that knows a little bit about everything. The kind of person that really pisses you off by doing something in half an hour that would take you all week…and is far too good at ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionairre’ for his own good. At risk of sounding overly sentimental, if I make half as good a husband to Sunny as my Dad made to my Mum, I’ll be well ahead of the game.
Unfortunately, at the moment, my Dad is 3500 miles away. While he’s always been willing to put himself out, I don’t think an uber-expensive, 9 hour plane ride, just to fix a bit of PVC pipe is in the cards. I should’ve called and asked anyway…he enjoys a good laugh.
Anyway:
The plumbing problem was caused by my Step-son, who was cutting the grass for us. He moved the hosepipe out of the way, and the old PVC pipe that it was connected to just broke off, spewing water everywhere. One minute you have a perfectly functional hosepipe, the next it looks and sounds like a racehorse after an all night beer session.
Here’s the whole story.
I give you:
Man DIY Rides Again! The Plumbing Chronicles:
1) Attempt to find the main Stop Cock. Although the one in the house cuts off all the water in the house, it appears the outside hose is on a different circuit (Or whatever the term for ‘other pipes’ is.)
2) Locate stopcock, about 60 feet away from the house. Turn off water.
3) Borrow box of miscellaneous PVC pipe, joints, caps from brother-in-law.
4) Discover that despite the fact the worlds supply of PVC plumbing products is in the box, there isn’t a single one that will fit the pipe. The pipe we need to repair seems to be neither metric or imperial, and was probably made by some evil genius, just to annoy and frustrate me.
5) Drive to Home Depot. Discover that for some reason, the ¾ inch caps they have, won’t fit our supposedly ¾ inch pipe.
6) Leave home depot with an adapter, and screw in plug in order to make everything fit. Answer ‘yes’ when checkout girl asks if we have everything we need.
7) Get home, straighten up the broken end of the pipe with the Dremel.
8) Attempt to open primer and contact cement.
9) Discover that leaving said primer and contact cement outside for over a year causes the cans to rust shut.
10) Spend half an hour attempting to open cans.
11) Finally locate a pair of vice grips to open can.
12) Discover that primer is fine, but the contact cement has turned into a substance that looks like baby sick with extra lumps.
13) Note : Accidental inhilation of expired contact cement fumes gets you smacked off your tits.
14) Giggle for a few minutes. Utter the immortal Simpson’s line: “They call ‘em fingers, but you never see them fing! Wait! There they go!” Discuss ethics and philosophy with my own shoes, until someone thinks to open a window. Wait 15 minutes until all the colors go away, and the badger in the Top Hat and monacle stops telling me to burn things
15) Return to Home Depot for more glue. Jokingly tell the checkout girl that she jinxed us by asking if we’d gotten everything we needed.
16) Discover that Home Depot checkout girls have absolutely no sense of fucking humour.
17) Return home, noticing that it’s completely pitch black by now.
18) Get bit on the forehead by a mosquito, making it appear as though I have leprosy.
19) Watch as stepson primes and glues the new cap-contraption in place.
20) Do not read instructions. Instructions are for sissies. Stepson has used the contact cement before, and insists that it cures in 30 seconds.
21) Stand back and admire handiwork. Get that warm fuzzy feeling that we assume is the feeling of satisfaction of a job well done…until we remember to put the lid back on the contact cement. This time the Badger in the Top Hat tries to sell me a timeshare in Tortuga. We wait until the purple grass stops singing, and the house stops breathing, then:
22) Stepson runs to turn the water on, while I stand by to watch for ‘leaks’.
23) Dive for cover behind car as the pipe begins to shake like a Nun at a porn convention.
24) Utter the words : “It looks like it’s holdi…”
25) Backflip, Neo-style, as the new cap-contraction fires from the end of the pipe with the force of a bullet, managing to miss my ‘family jewels’ by a matter of millimeters.
26) Listen to stepson laugh. Wish I still had the vice-grips in my hand.
27) Pretend to read glue ingredients so we can read the instructions and not appear like little sissy bitches.
28) Discover that glue does indeed cure in 30 seconds, but suggests 15 minutes before pressure testing.
29) File glue off cap-contraption, re-prime, re-glue and re-fit.
30) Wait 15 minutes, check fit, wait another 15 minutes to be safe.
31) Turn on water, this time standing way to the side to avoid any potential plumbing-testicle interface situations.
32) The new cap holds, but for some reason, there is still no water in the house.
33) Remember that other stop-cock under the house is still turned off.
34) Make stepson go under the house, (or as I call it “Dark, Dank, Spider infested bug playground, Doom- drenched spider-filled Cathedral of Despair, and did I mention the spiders? hole”), to turn he water back on.
35) Get warm fuzzy feeling (not the contact cement this time), but because that my stepson has learned an invaluable lesson. Namely, not to laugh at me getting hit in the crotch with a ballistic plumbing component.
In closing, I just hope that our handiwork is still there in the morning when I get up. Or if it does shoot off again, I at least hope it hits the little bastard animals that keep tearing open our trash bags.
You see, every time I attempt any DIY project, I usually finish with a decent job done. However, getting there is one hell of a battle. Usually,when I’m involved, it takes 15 times longer, costs three times more and involves such a long line of fuck-ups…I could fill an entire season of America’s Home Videos by myself.
This time, however, I’m pleased to announce that the actual problem wasn’t my fault.
I’m not pleased to announce that today’s problem was my ultimate nightmare.
Plumbing.
You see, when it comes to plumbing, I know exactly what to do:
I say, in a clear, loud voice:
“Dad? This pipe needs fixing.”
You see, my dad is the ultimate Mr. Fix It. I wouldn’t be going to far to say that my Dad is my hero. That guy can fix anything, and is one of those few people that knows a little bit about everything. The kind of person that really pisses you off by doing something in half an hour that would take you all week…and is far too good at ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionairre’ for his own good. At risk of sounding overly sentimental, if I make half as good a husband to Sunny as my Dad made to my Mum, I’ll be well ahead of the game.
Unfortunately, at the moment, my Dad is 3500 miles away. While he’s always been willing to put himself out, I don’t think an uber-expensive, 9 hour plane ride, just to fix a bit of PVC pipe is in the cards. I should’ve called and asked anyway…he enjoys a good laugh.
Anyway:
The plumbing problem was caused by my Step-son, who was cutting the grass for us. He moved the hosepipe out of the way, and the old PVC pipe that it was connected to just broke off, spewing water everywhere. One minute you have a perfectly functional hosepipe, the next it looks and sounds like a racehorse after an all night beer session.
Here’s the whole story.
I give you:
Man DIY Rides Again! The Plumbing Chronicles:
1) Attempt to find the main Stop Cock. Although the one in the house cuts off all the water in the house, it appears the outside hose is on a different circuit (Or whatever the term for ‘other pipes’ is.)
2) Locate stopcock, about 60 feet away from the house. Turn off water.
3) Borrow box of miscellaneous PVC pipe, joints, caps from brother-in-law.
4) Discover that despite the fact the worlds supply of PVC plumbing products is in the box, there isn’t a single one that will fit the pipe. The pipe we need to repair seems to be neither metric or imperial, and was probably made by some evil genius, just to annoy and frustrate me.
5) Drive to Home Depot. Discover that for some reason, the ¾ inch caps they have, won’t fit our supposedly ¾ inch pipe.
6) Leave home depot with an adapter, and screw in plug in order to make everything fit. Answer ‘yes’ when checkout girl asks if we have everything we need.
7) Get home, straighten up the broken end of the pipe with the Dremel.
8) Attempt to open primer and contact cement.
9) Discover that leaving said primer and contact cement outside for over a year causes the cans to rust shut.
10) Spend half an hour attempting to open cans.
11) Finally locate a pair of vice grips to open can.
12) Discover that primer is fine, but the contact cement has turned into a substance that looks like baby sick with extra lumps.
13) Note : Accidental inhilation of expired contact cement fumes gets you smacked off your tits.
14) Giggle for a few minutes. Utter the immortal Simpson’s line: “They call ‘em fingers, but you never see them fing! Wait! There they go!” Discuss ethics and philosophy with my own shoes, until someone thinks to open a window. Wait 15 minutes until all the colors go away, and the badger in the Top Hat and monacle stops telling me to burn things
15) Return to Home Depot for more glue. Jokingly tell the checkout girl that she jinxed us by asking if we’d gotten everything we needed.
16) Discover that Home Depot checkout girls have absolutely no sense of fucking humour.
17) Return home, noticing that it’s completely pitch black by now.
18) Get bit on the forehead by a mosquito, making it appear as though I have leprosy.
19) Watch as stepson primes and glues the new cap-contraption in place.
20) Do not read instructions. Instructions are for sissies. Stepson has used the contact cement before, and insists that it cures in 30 seconds.
21) Stand back and admire handiwork. Get that warm fuzzy feeling that we assume is the feeling of satisfaction of a job well done…until we remember to put the lid back on the contact cement. This time the Badger in the Top Hat tries to sell me a timeshare in Tortuga. We wait until the purple grass stops singing, and the house stops breathing, then:
22) Stepson runs to turn the water on, while I stand by to watch for ‘leaks’.
23) Dive for cover behind car as the pipe begins to shake like a Nun at a porn convention.
24) Utter the words : “It looks like it’s holdi…”
25) Backflip, Neo-style, as the new cap-contraction fires from the end of the pipe with the force of a bullet, managing to miss my ‘family jewels’ by a matter of millimeters.
26) Listen to stepson laugh. Wish I still had the vice-grips in my hand.
27) Pretend to read glue ingredients so we can read the instructions and not appear like little sissy bitches.
28) Discover that glue does indeed cure in 30 seconds, but suggests 15 minutes before pressure testing.
29) File glue off cap-contraption, re-prime, re-glue and re-fit.
30) Wait 15 minutes, check fit, wait another 15 minutes to be safe.
31) Turn on water, this time standing way to the side to avoid any potential plumbing-testicle interface situations.
32) The new cap holds, but for some reason, there is still no water in the house.
33) Remember that other stop-cock under the house is still turned off.
34) Make stepson go under the house, (or as I call it “Dark, Dank, Spider infested bug playground, Doom- drenched spider-filled Cathedral of Despair, and did I mention the spiders? hole”), to turn he water back on.
35) Get warm fuzzy feeling (not the contact cement this time), but because that my stepson has learned an invaluable lesson. Namely, not to laugh at me getting hit in the crotch with a ballistic plumbing component.
In closing, I just hope that our handiwork is still there in the morning when I get up. Or if it does shoot off again, I at least hope it hits the little bastard animals that keep tearing open our trash bags.
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