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October 25, 2005 My www Welcome
Coming up on our one month anniversary on the www. E-mails are piling up and need answering. Well, all four of them kind of stack up. My cracker jack
time management skills allow me to know it would be easier to do them all here in the Slipstream than on individual messages. I am all about time
management. Here we go:
E-
U suck.
Ben
Dear Ben-
Encouraging. Thanks.
E
E-
Go from little to GINORMOUSLY HUMONGOUS. It’s an all natural herb. 100% safe and effective.
Click on this and the ladies will be clicking on you. You will thank me later and I know it works.
Ginorm Humongo
Dear Ginorm Humongo,
Do I know you? I addressed this already in the Slipstream way back on 10/7.
Unless you got me a sailboat suit, do not e-mail me again.
E
Dear Mr. Luck,
IMC is the International Management Conglomerate. We represent Mr. Mickey Rourke in all business dealings. We insist that you cease
and desist any and all mention of Mr. Rourke in any of your ridiculous rantings on the internet or anywhere else. You are hereby
notified that Mr. Rourke is considering legal action for transgressions against him in your previous writings. We are watching and will keep
you advised.
IMC
Dear IMC,
Mickey said it. I responded. Otherwise, see US Constitution, Amendment 2, maybe 3 or 4, I'm not sure. Maybe you'd better read it all in case I got other
protections I don't even know about. And thanks for reading my crap. Glad to have you watching.
E
Lucky-
Googled your ass. Nothing but a conveyor belt fabricator and a heavyweight wrassler. Figured that one must be you. If so, hit the Zone diet, man. U R a
pig. And a twit. Stick it.
Bob
Dear Bob-
Love you.
E
That wraps up all responses to all e-mails to my little corner of the www so far. Four hits to the site, four e-mails. Thanks guys.
Keep ‘em comin’.
get in on the action & e-mail me at eric@ericluck.net
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October 21, 2005 PASS THE BUTTER
I am pleased to report that I have finally found employment. Bunny is so proud.
I don’t like to drop names. But around the first of the month, I will be the new
personal shopper for…none other than…the most humble…Mr. Mickey Rourke.
Mr. Mickey Rourke is clearly a master evaluator of talent because I know how
to shop, baby. I am expecting to open my new job with a little seminar for my
new boss. I like to call it “Fun with Coupons”. Coincidently, I am considering
a major liposuction operation for myself. Been a long time needed.
Mr. Rourke says it will be awesome. Will keep you posted.
From the news wire, I see that while setting up shop for the State Fair of Texas
this month, the life-size butter sculpture of Elvis fell and was damaged. Yep...that says butter.
The sculptor was immediately called in to repair it. All is well at the butter Elvis exhibit and
they are packing in the crowds for viewings.
Now, there are several appealing elements to this story, from a purely comedic point of view.
Here, we will bypass most of the obvious ones…maybe. Let’s face it. The most obvious ones
are really, really tempting. Butter…how?...And why? Why not cream cheese? And it is still really
hot in Texas, even in October. Is this the best media for sculpture in Texas? Oh, man. It’s a gold mine.
How can we not go there? Not the least element of which could possibly be the term “life-sized”.
Don’t do it. Don’t…
Isn’t Elvis dead? Or…is he? Dead-sized?
So tempting.
It’s gotta make you ponder exactly how much edible art is out there?
In college, I was a part of a very eclectic and collaborative art show at the end of my senior year in which many artists participated. It was collaborative
because all us “artists” met many times together before the show was finally displayed. The show ended up including only pieces that directly made fun of
other art shows in the campus art studio over our four years at the university. Since we judged most of them to have been absurdly ridiculous, not only was
it easy, it was a blast. The show was a smash hit with both students and with critics. None of our art was edible that I can recall but it was as much fun as
you could ever have at an art show. The few people laughing at this paragraph were there with me.
Recently I was witness to a Chainsaw Art Exhibit in Buffalo, NY. They have an “art-off” (not their name) competing against each other to sculpt with a
chainsaw something “artistic”, but in a huge hurry. Speed art. They stand there in flannel shirts, ear-protection and safety glasses for an hour shooting dust
and chips all over the place from a log. When the whistle blows, it is chainsaws down. The artists, all former stunt doubles for Grizzly Adams, near collapse
by that time from holding up and operating a chainsaw for a solid hour. At the end, you might get dolphins. You might get a partially finished Winnie the
Pooh diggin’ in the honey pot. You might get one more Last of the Mohicans, teardrop on his cheek and all. I was so stunned that I failed to take a
photo. Sorry. But we got the www, baby. Turns out they got a circuit of these folks that compete with each other. There are chainsaw art schools and
everything. One has a motto, “Rev up your life.”
But as cool as it is, none of that is edible. Yeah, I know. It’s a long way to go to say that I am unfamiliar with edible art. So I’m gonna look it up. I’ll get back
to you on that.
Speaking of getting back, let’s go over the list of today’s events of particular interest at the State Fair of Texas. Because of my predictable and tired, worn
smart-ass writing style herein, you may get the wrong idea. I love the State Fair of Texas. It is ridiculous, varied, random, surprising and fun. It is chock-full
of all things fried. So gross. Fried Twinkie? They got ‘em. The corn dogs are, without a doubt, edible art. Mustard, not ketchup. And this from someone
who believes French fries are merely an excuse to scoop up a mouthful of Heinz. I am not a fan of the Smoked Turkey leg. I think they sneak some buzzard
leg in there sometimes. Who would know? Sometimes it resembles severely beaten roasted yak.
So, when I point out the highlights from today’s schedule for you here, do not conclude that I am making fun. Well…okay…you can conclude I am making
fun. Just don’t think that I think that they should change one single thing down at Fair Park for the Texas State Fair, including traditional greeter, “Big Tex”.
Fasten your seat belts, kids:
• Monarch Butterfly Tagging Demo; 3 p.m. These guys put little, non-intrusive stickers on the wings of live butterflies.
Scientists are gathering information on the migrating monarchs. They get info on migration paths, butterfly influence on the weather
(huh?), survival rates, migration timing and estimates of their population. Last year, five of the tagged Monarchs were found
wintering in Central Mexico. Volunteer kids help in the sticker tagging. Now how can you not want to see that?
• Top Flight K-9s; Hourly from 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. I don’t know what this is, but I would go just to see the pooches.
• Pig Races; 3:30p.m., 4:15 p.m., 5 p.m. Bet the pigs are tired by the 5 p.m. races. A definite must see.
• Best Spam Recipe Competition; 10:30 a.m. They need to rethink that scheduling. Spam dishes at 10:30 a.m.? That’s like
tequila shots for breakfast. Hard to fathom. But just the thought of having Spam involved in any competition? I am there.
• Kielbasa Sausage Sampling; 10 a.m. As soon as we are done here, we sprint over to that Spam Competition at 10:30. Bring
your acid blockers.
• Piranha Feeding; 11:30 a.m. From the Spam-races, we gotta roll over to the Piranha tank. Not kidding. They got 'em. I’m
thinking we test out some Spam recipes on those man-eaters.
• Kraig Parker as “Elvis”; 4:30 p.m., 5:30 p.m. and 6:30 p.m. The Dallas Morning News says it is standing room only for every show.
These are just my highlighted events. The regular displays, booths and stuff is open all the time. For instance…the “life-sized” butter sculpture of Elvis.
Texas is not alone. Iowa loves buttered Elvis. Minnesota too. Minnesota has a potpourri of butter sculptures. Artist girlfriends, beauty queens, salute to Iwo-
Jima.
This one I understand. This is the model checking out the finished butter sculpture of
her. Like buttah. If an artist works in butter, why wouldn’t you sculpt attractive young women with
very few clothes on? What are you gonna do? Carve the modelesque young miss out of a log?
In conclusion, let me set your minds at ease about “Big Tex”. After some esophageal surgery, he is resting comfortably in his off hours and working a full
schedule at the State Fair of Texas.
eric@ericluck.net
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October 17, 2005 MICK, RHYMES WITH ICK
OR DICK
I caught this decade’s interview with Mickey Rourke on TV the other day. Protect your retinas. Avoid looking directly at him.
AN OPEN LETTER TO MOVIE ACTOR, MICKEY ROURKE:
Dear Mickey,
Heard an interview with you lately and saw you on the TV. I don’t know…Entertainment Tonight or some such. It doesn’t matter. I think your plastic surgeon
might have left a sponge or two in there during the last collagen injection operation. It has started to absorb your brain. The good news is that you might get
smarter as a result.
You used to look…uh…well…not too terrible. Maybe. Really. Okay, maybe a little too piratesque in many of your mug shots. By the way, have you noticed that
most available photos of you are mug shots? Please. A little introspection maybe? Uh, sorry. That means that maybe you should THINK about the way you
are about to speak and act before you do so.
But somewhere along the way, dude…you just flat-out lost it. Looks-wise. I mean, what a spook. Happy Halloween, by the way. Maybe you participated in the
“sport” of boxing for just a few too many rounds. Whatever.
I can take the elephant man looks you asked your surgeon for, but it just simply cannot hide the stupid, can it Mick? Usually, regarding a public glimpse into
what people like you are really like, all we have to go on are the movies in which you appear. “Diner”, uh…er…”Diner”…and…oh, uh…”Sin City”…somebody
said you were in “91/2 Weeks”, but I only remember the extra-quadruple plush Kim Basinger. If you were in that movie with her, congrats. Don’t feel bad. I
wouldn’t have noticed Santa Claus in a movie with Kim Basinger.
Oh…wait. There was a jerkwad guy in that movie who spent a couple of hours trying to dominate, degrade and humiliate Kim’s character in every way
possible. I kept waiting to find out why, but the only payoff was getting to look at Kim. Turns out that miserable guy was just a miserable guy after all and there
was no reason for the way he behaved except that he was morally bankrupt. Was that you? Wow. Wonder why they thought of you for that role?
Anyway, maybe you should write out what you will say in an interview ahead of time to prevent any spontaneous answers from rearing their ugly heads in the
future. Have someone smarter than you review what you write out before you memorize it. That won’t be difficult. Pick anyone at all. Follow what you wrote out
no matter what they ask you…no matter what they ask.
This particular interview was cream gravy drivel until you got to the part about how you knew that your career had actually gone in the toilet. The part that roasted
my chestnuts was when you were mysteriously compelled to tell America that you knew your career was in the crapper when you found yourself wandering
around in a grocery store pushing a buggy because you had to do your own food shopping.
Are you retarded?
I am pretty sure you have reached a whole new level of retardation.
Did the doctor liposuck the humility out of your head?
I know you don’t know what the word humility means. Look it up. Yes, all by yourself.
Folks? If you see this man or this boob wandering the jelly and ketchup isle at the Tom Thumb, please direct him to the pharmacy for some ginko-biloba
and a good long look in the mirror. Maybe then he will remember to not be such a dumb-ass while looking like one.
Life sucks when you have to buy your own Charmin, huh Mick? And, by the way, your career is pathetic no matter who is doing your shopping.
Idiot stick.
Bunny told me that you like dogs. Well, I guess there is some hope.
But I gotta go take a shower, you farkling jackass.
This will make me feel better. Hey, Mick. Here’s what renders me almost as stupefied as you are all the time. This is Niagara Falls at sunrise from the
Canadian side looking at America. Me and Bunny got this shot just the other day. A good.
eric@ericluck.net
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October 12, 2005 WORLD’S BIGGEST HOT DOG
Maybe some of you remember A-Rod.
Great player…but what a wiener.
Bunny and I just returned from a drive around the New England area with some good friends.
They haven’t requested anonymity, but Bunny says to give it to them anyway. She is pretty
sure that she’s not the only one who would not want to be id’d next to any of the material herein.
Is it too late for me to remain anonymous from this stuff?
Before we started on the trip, I figured we should maybe see a couple of states worth of leaves. Bunny said we had to see them all. I am not kidding. She not
only meant all the States, she was talking about all the leaves. All of them. Turns out that the leaves on the deciduous trees turn all sorts of shades of yellow,
orange and red, but they are different shades in different states. You must see the trees in every state in New England to fully appreciate this. Bunny told me so.
Niagara Falls was double cool. We were at Lake George, NY the day after the terrible accident when the boat full of senior citizens went down. Rough stuff.
Ben and Jerry’s will never be the same after we hit Vermont. Sue and Chet’s place in New Hampshire housed us while the Astros beat the Braves on TV one
night. One guy in their B&B was visiting from Atlanta. He didn’t have much to say to us Texans after that game. Go ‘stros.
We brought home irrefutable evidence that we went to Maine. Had chowda. We ran by Fenway in Boston a few hours before the White Sox made chowda out of
the Red Sox. Boston was pretty quiet after that. “Yankees Suck” shirts were still plentiful.
Since we apparently still needed some frequent flier miles, Bunny and I hit Chicago on the way home to watch some other friends compete in the Chicago
Marathon. Fun times had by all.
My kind of town, Chicago is. I originally reported the following incident to my word processor entirely in the original, rather crisp language used by the actual
parties. The computer burst into flames. So harsh. It was just too painful to try and read it.
The incident was so real and so funny. It must be told.
As a result of my further review, for writing and reading purposes below, here is the code:
F-bombs will be played by the word “farkle” and all tense variations therefrom (farkled, farkling, farklehead, farklewad, etc.)
S-bombs will be played by the word “shipshape” and all tense variations therefrom (shipshaped, shipshaping, shipshape-head, etc.)
A-hole will be played by the word “jackass”, which is a way funnier word.
Brace yourself. Piss and buttface will play themselves.
After reviewing the code, you can decide for yourself if you will read further. If you continue, when you get to the end, realize that I toned it down significantly. Not
kidding.
Today’s playlet: Sol and Bernie’s Pre-Vacation Poop
It could have happened in any airport or sports venue where there are lines in the men’s room. In this case, it was at Chicago O’Hare Airport.
The lines were long for the stalls and for the urinals. The sea was gray and angry that day, my friend. (Stolen from George Costanza on “Seinfeld”.)
Sol and his younger friend, the eighty-something-year-old Bernie waited in adjoining lines for their own stalls to attend to business. Sol and Bernie, clearly
unrelated by genetics, were brothers from the WWII generation. Judging from their dress, vacation was in their plans. They presented with jaunty caps,
sweaters, plaid and/patterned pants in springtime colors. Sol had a white belt. Bernie stuck with brown. They waited patiently for their turns. They clearly knew
how to wait their turns. Sol and Bernie appeared as equal parts of fragility and sturdiness. These are experienced guys in all facets of life.
The only guys in front of Sol and Bernie in their respective lines were Gen Y guys. These were two 25-year-old rulers of the universe. Their names are not
important, but we will call them Jimmy Jakoff and Jack Jimoff. Jimmy and Jack were so much alike in presentation that you had to look twice to see if they were
twin brothers. They were, but only in appearance.
Bluetooth technology sparkled from their ears. Short, blonde-highlighted tips of their hair were gelled to attention. They each wore the most expensive golf
shirts made, $300 micro wool slacks, hours in the tanning bed and tasseled Italian loafers that would make your own baby’s butt seem like sandpaper. Jimmy
and Jack each sported expensive looking leather briefcases strapped over their respective shoulders. Their conversations to underlings unseen in their
earpiece telephones added significantly to the confusion. These are the kind of guys who believe there are more important things to attend to than whatever
is immediately in front of them. They believe in their misguided hearts that they are multi-tasking. In fact, they are simply annoying anyone in their presence and
anyone in their earpieces, all at the same time.
Jack and Jimmy must be the essence of Sheryl Crow’s lyrics in “There Goes the Neighborhood” about not being able to tell who the villains are ‘cause everyone’
s so pretty.
Their PDAs were held in one hand and their bidness in the other as they took their turns in their own stalls. Urinals would not be good enough for the
importance of their pee. Their bidness required the protection of metal walls and several gallons of clean water to receive it. They had to go in a stall. Since
their hands were busy with the important tasks of universe rule, they were each unable to close the stall doors behind them. Everyone in line behind the young
kings would witness their bidness in full glory. All of us witnessed the ensuing disaster.
Neither of the young royalty was able soil their own hands to raise the toilet seats before their golden pee burst forth towards their respective toilets.
Upon witnessing the youngster’s failures to raise the seats before attending to bidness, Sol was immediately incredulous. Look it up. It is the only word that
works there.
“What are you? A bunch of farkling animals?” Hand gestures accompanied the opening of his keynote speech. Massive amounts and volumes of hand
gestures were required. Chicago Midwestern incredulity was the tone.
The entire area stopped down at the raised volume of Sol’s confident soliloquy. Bernie nodded continuously in silent support. Sol continued speaking to the
backs of the young kings. “Can you not see that there are guys waiting to take a shipshape here? What the farkle? What the farkle we got here, Bernie?”
Bernie continued nodding silently. Sol took one step closer to the open stall door and the back of the young king, Jimmy. The king was speaking to Bluetooth
and had not yet noticed Sol’s indignation. The king had important bidness, not to be detoured by the concerns of elderly subjects.
“HEY! You can’t see there is shipshaping to be done by others after your are done? Farkling animals. Farkling shipshape- heads. You think we want to sit in
your piss?” said Sol. Bernie was stoic in his focused backing of Sol.
The shorter of the young kings, Jimmy turned toward the crowd while he pondered how to zip up with only one hand available. His telephone conversation
continued undeterred by the likes of the unnoticed Sol. Suddenly, Jimmy saw he was trapped in the open door stall by the now violent-hand gestures and
physical presence of Sol the Hot. King Jimmy was visibly stunned by the invasion of his personal space. Jimmy searched the smiling, lined-up crowd for
personal security personnel. None emerged. “I’ll have to call you back,” Jimmy spoke at Sol’s face, but the message was sent to the Bluetooth, not Sol.
Sol responded immediately. “Call me back? Call me back? I’m right here you farkling shipshape.”
The crowd loved it.
Jack, in the adjoining stall was still attending to his own bidness, but noticed there was a commotion outside his stall’s open door. Bernie stepped up to the
open stall door where Jack was finishing. Jack was trapped in his own stall by Bernie the Solid.
“What the farkle? You’re a farkling jackass!” Sol admonished Jimmy from the distance of less than one foot. The diminutive king Jimmy Jakoff was a full three
inches taller than Sol as they stood face to face.
Jimmy’s earpiece remained in position. He shrugged at Sol. When he raised his arms in his confused shrug, the zipper to his $300 slacks opened like a
blinking eye. It closed when he lowered his arms. The crowd behind remained in their respective lines, chortling audibly at the sight.
Jack, clearly the more sensible of the two young royals, stepped past the stern but still silent Bernie to help the trapped king, Jimmy.
Before Jimmy the king could be saved, he finally spoke to Sol.
“Wha’?”
The queued crowd poorly stifled full blown guffaws. King Jimmy blushed visibly.
King Jimmy’s demeanor suddenly turned sour in Sol’s face. His silent thoughts were about who would dare challenge the king. Two of us in the crowd
stepped up towards the aggressive king in a clear message that Sol had help and Jimmy did not. The king of Jimmyland is not so stupid after all. He clearly
noticed the crowd’s message and his anger immediately receded. Sol saw none of this taking place behind him. It would not have mattered to him in the least.
Jack pulled on Jimmy’s arm. It was the only rescue offer Jimmy would get.
“I didn’t even notice the seat,” Jimmy said to Sol as Jack pulled him away.
Oh, good one.
“You farkling idiot. What an farkling animal. What a shipshapehead this guy is. You think anybody wants to sit in your piss to take a shipshape? You farkling
buttface punk. Step back in there. I’ll piss all over your ass and we’ll see if you like it, you farkling jackass.”
Jack wisely yanked the arm of king Jimmy towards the door. Jimmy struggled to perform a hands-free zip-up as they disappeared through the closing door and
into the general terminal population where they could once again rule Jakoffland on their own terms. Clearly, no lessons had been learned. The kings left so
confused.
Turning back from the closing bathroom door, the crowd saw the two stall doors close and lock in total synchronicity. If a standing ovation could be delivered
silently, this was it.
It was quiet for a minute.
The normal bathroom buzz with accompanying water running picked back up. Paper towels once again flew calmly across the landscape. Then Sol spoke
from within his lair.
All could hear.
“You okay, Bernie?”
“Ohhh, yeaahh,” replied Bernie from his own stall. “You?”
“Yeah,” said Sol. “Farkling jackasses.”
eric@ericluck.net
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October 7, 2005 hypnotized & mesmerized
There’s more to my previously reported resistance to starting a web page. Now there is one more
reason to not have a website, but just look at others. I guess the e-mail advertising businesses
get your new website name and then send you stuff you would rather not even know exists.
Sir Spamalot, the mad internet e-mail advertiser, has forced upon me a spamalicious-sandwich, a
rancid spam-fried burrito, a spam, shrimp and warm-mayonnaise sandwich and a virtual spamalanche
of penile-enlargement herb and woody preservative e-mail. I’m not sure how large a male organ is
supposed to be. Sir Spamalot the e-mail advertiser seems to have recognized an intense need in my vicinity.
The hell?
Does this crap actually work? Are there guys who get that kind of an e-mail and say, “Whoa! That’s for me! I haven’t had a woody since March. I’m orderin’ up.”
Where are such businesses located? I'm thinking a back alley in the seediest part of Las Vegas would be a big step up for one of these companies. This has to
be the apex of get-rich-quick schemes. Do new website owners generally fall for this junk? Has the www beaten them into submission so they click on anything
that comes their way? Is that why they get sent to new website owners? Seriously, who answers them or ever clicks on those e-mails?
I’m pretty sure the brains behind that operation is somebody like that wild-eyed, Ritalin-deficient, Professor-Irwin-Corey-hairdo, bug-eyed guy on TV commercials.
You know the one with the giant yellow question marks all over his suit screaming about government surplus crap that none of us can live without?
Him or somebody who I imagine to look like him must have stumbled into a batch of government surplus, herbal woody preservative and is trying to unload it on
me via e-mail. Whoever he is, what a spare. Well, I guess it’s possible that he is the only one reading my crap on the www. Check that. It’s probable.
Hey, dude. Where do you get a question mark suit like that? Have you seen one with little sailboats on it? Call me. If you don’t call me, I’m gonna hire me a
major domo www guy to blitz your e-mail box with offers of teddy bear crafts and Strawberry Shortcake yard art. You better call.
I looked it up. Used the extra double awesome www. That guy is a poser. He stole that question mark suit from the great Frank Gorshin. Yep. “The Riddler”.
You know, from the old “Batman” TV show. What do you mean, Jim Carey was the “Riddler”? Geez, you are so stinkin’ young. Yeah, they had a “Batman” TV
show way before Jim Carey was even born. Frank Gorshin was the guy who played “the Riddler”. Check out the suit on the great Frank Gorshin. Do you
think that newer question mark suit guy who tries to sell us government surplus junk saw an old “Batman” and said, “I’m gettin’ one of those triple-cool question
mark suits like that stud, the Riddler!”
That Riddler-copier has a bunch of these suits. I looked this up too. Orange; Blue with white punctuation; Green and even a yellow car full of
question marks; Blue with yellow; White with orange; Blue with orange; TCU homecoming Purple! This guy gives me a headache
in my eye. I am officially giving Jim Carey a free pass ‘cause he was so obviously saluting the great Frank Gorshin when he did the Riddle-bit. Besides, he was
riddle-icious.
I’d be "the Riddler" for Halloween, but I’d probably look like this. Did Peter Allen ever play "the Riddler" in anything? No? Well, okay, then who the fat is
that guy?
This all reminds me of the big regret of my life. No, not the porn. Real funny. By the way, after reading this, C has insisted that I refer to her heretofore as "Bunny"
or "the wife". Something about not wanting anyone to know that she and I are actually together, but she was mumbling that part. Done. Bunny and I were living in
Oklahoma City for about a year during our twenties. That would be in the mid-1970s. This is one of the few things either of us can remember from that era. We
were taking a break from watching the tornados frolic across the NW Oklahoma plain near our little apartment. That night’s amusement included
shopping in a thrift clothing store. Among the treasures revealed was a men’s royal blue suit with little yellow sailboats all over it. The fabric kinda looked like
this, but the boats were all yellow. It was bright yellow on royal blue. The fabric felt like an old canvas table cloth. It was a man’s dress suit. Not kidding.
Listen. With that suit, I coulda been a major evil genius on “Batman”. “The Sailor”. No, “The Skipper”. I would have shivered some timbers, baby. I would have
sailed off from the authorities at the speed of about four knots an hour. By the time they got around to making all the more recent "Batman" movies, they could
have hired this guy to play me, "the Skipper", in the movies. Just imagine those question marks are little yellow sailboats.
The sailboat suit was a size 39 short. At that time I was about a 42 long, though that is merely a fading memory. The price on the suit was $49. If I had only
known then what I know now.
At the time, Bunny and I were hoping to not find any treasures in that thrift store so we would have enough change to grab a burger and some rings at “Johnny’s”
on the way home. If we bought anything that night, dinner was a no-go. We hadn’t even been married a year yet. Money was scarce. Bunny insisted that I buy that
suit and wear it to work. She knew that if I did, it'd be mac & cheese & maybe a side of ramen noodles for a couple of days. She also knew we both would get a
giant hoot out of the deal. Bunny has always had a better sense of priorities than me. Bottom line? I passed on the suit. I was a responsible boob
even in my twenties. I have lamented about that suit ever since. Today, my grown son begs me all the time to please stop talking about the stupid sailboat suit.
Dude. Yeah, I mean you, the question-mark-suit, government-surplus guy. I’m looking for a sailboat suit, yellow on blue. I am talking millions of yard art e-mails.
I mean it. I will send them to YOU! Teddy bear and Hidee-ho Kitty yard art. I am not kidding around. I know mondo savvy www guys who are salivatin’ at the
thought of hitting the “Send” key in your direction. If those guys don't bring you to your knees, I'll sic Bunny on you. You will pay. You better call me. And quit
sending me those ridiculous porno-esque e-mails. Eat some of your own herbs, pal.
Only one other time have I regretted passing up a clothing purchase. Not these. Or these. Absolutely not these, although they look like they might fit me.
Nope, I am talking fur pants. Long pants made of fake fur. So awesome. Makes you look like you got gorilla-hairy legs. Why didn’t I buy those?
Dude! Second request! Sailboat suit and fur pants. You better call me.
Teddy bear hugs and candy cotton kisses,
E, Bunny & the real "Riddler" eric@ericluck.net
Copyright 2005 by Eric Luck. All rights reserved to me and the Riddler.
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September 30, 2005
IN THE SLIPSTREAM - the original
Pigs are flyin'.
Some say that it had to happen. I joined up at the www HQ. Yahootie.
This website will be perpetually under construction. If you don't believe me, check out the ericluck.net live webcam. We set goals quite low here in order to
feel better when we actually reach one. Want evidence? Here, our goals can often be reached…inadvertently.
If your life is simple and there are not enough frustrations in your day, you need to start a website. Www yourself to the death. It won’t take long. Stupid
www.interwebcom.netcom. Click on that. You’ll see what I mean. Stupid internet.
First you must learn a bunch of new buzz-words that, outside the world of the www, are otherwise meaningless and totally useless. Ponder that label for a
minute. Meaningless and totally useless? Ouch. That’ll teach ‘em.
Like most buzz-words, they were generally invented to make the inventor seem or feel way more important than they actually are. “Blog, site, hyperlink,
html, xhtml, hypertext, metatags, CSS, global styling, cascading toggle, two-column layout”, (which as near as I can tell has absolutely no relationship to
two columns or any other number of actual columns or columns in general).
Next, you must hire someone and pay them to not ever say those words or similar words in your presence. It will cost you. But it will payoff. ‘Cause this is
the person you will call and say “Can you put this picture on the website for me?” They take it from there.
The next advice is crucial. CRUCIAL! If you start your own website, remember that if you want to do it…you can’t. Someone already went there and
thought up a way to keep you from doing it. This applies to everything www. Not kidding. Everything.
If you choose to start your own website and you are occasionally suicidal, this path will take the ‘occasionally’ part…far, far away. Your own personal www
page is guaranteed to take you a mere shuffle-step from seeking narcotic relief. At the very best, the world of alcohol abuse will share time with the www
in your life. You will seek stupi-fication so as to facilitate forgetting all things www.
As a website owner, you must always keep in mind that you must have a target market. Aim at an audience. Mine is a specific demographic. It is aimed
at my brother, my son, my wife and myself. This group covers a couple of generations and geographic parameters. It is admittedly a little too heavily male
in nature. I know this because Cheri disapproves of everything I put here. Everything.
I am the entire focus group for this demo.
If I look at the material three times and still come close to snortingly snarking aloud, it is a go. Some of you may find the material for this target market
occasionally offensive. If you are in our target market and you are not me, you might even wince sometimes. Rest assured that Cheri shot me a look hot
enough to smelt lead when she saw it. Again, that applies to everything here.
Let me divert momentarily. You might read some material here that you could have heard out of my mouth. You might have even read it from me before
somewhere. Every time I re-use material, it keeps me from having to think up new stuff. I am all about preserving a smidge of my own brain power for
further use. Now, back to our program:
You are warned. This is not my Christmas letter. For you, this may be a little too close to a scruple free zone. Scrupulus- minimus, at best. Sometimes I
make up words. Some you won't like. You might step in something around here. Reflect on the joy that you should feel because you can still be
surprised sometimes. Celebrate the thrill of discovering that you are not nearly as cynical as me. Never admit if you chuckled. Never acknowledge that
you even saw it. I love the word “chuckled”.
Make you mad? Unless you are within our target market, just keep it to yourself. If you spot an incomplete sentence, missspelllling or dangling participle,
be happy you are mentally capable of recognizing such. I am not. You should not conclude that I put it there on purpose. I would never purposely allow
you any smug satisfaction in the fact that you are way smarter than me. It’s a given, okay?
Updates of this site will be sporadic, at best. Learn to live with it. It will not get better.
Www is not real life. It is not nearly as funny as real life. If you don’t like it,
you can shut down the computer and go watch the episode of “The View” that you secretly
TIVO’d. That is where I am headed in a minute.
So, we are specifically aimed. The apocalypse is upon us.
We are way closer to the end of the world than to the beginning.
We have proof.
Look, kids! It is www.ericluck.net. Got me a dot com too. Use either one you want.
If you are going to www, do it excellently. If you can't do it well, learn to enjoy doing it mediocre-ly.
I'll be back. Happy www-ing.
eric@ericluck.net
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