Feedback Friday (The 11th Hour)

Okay - it is 11 O'Clock on an actual Friday and I'm in the mood for some serious feedback.

I'll make this short and relatively sweet.

If you are so inclined, and you do in fact choose to participate, then please go ahead and read the previous post and leave a comment with one or both of the following:

-- What would you add to the list? What is your 11th statement of ultimate fact? Go ahead and put some time into this one. Let's don't just reach for the stars here, people . . . let's strive for a new level of complete and utter mediocrity never before witnessed on an English-Speaking Blog.

-- Use the word "Buffoon" in a sentence. If you've got nemos of steele and you think you can handle the Advanced "Bonus Point" Level, then we're gonna need for you to use the word "Buffoonery" in a sentence. (Using both in the same sentence will only look like you're trying too hard and will incidentally result in a loss of points.)

Have fun. Your time starts . . . NOW!


Ben O.

If I Wasn't Chained To The Desk, I Would Totally Get Up and Walk Right Out The Door

Okay - let's get a few things straight before we go any further . . .

1. Star Wars is cooler than Star Trek.

2. Regardless of what you may have heard, most people react negatively when a spouse says "Your body odor, as foul as it is, is somehow eclipsed by your breath".

3. If you're dead set on throwing something at me, why not make it wadded up $100 bills?

4. It's okay to quit in the middle of doing something as long as you don't leave some guy stranded on a window-cleaner scaffolding 275 feet above the ground.

5. Service in Best Buy's "Geek Squad" does not qualify you for burial in Arlington Cemetery.

6. I don't care what Steve Irwin says, there is no good reason to ever pinch a crocodile's genitals.

7. Time is crueler than Gravity, but Gravity doesn't give a crap.

8. Whatever the reason you have for calling your boss a "Bafoon" to his (or her) face, it isn't going to keep you from getting fired.

9. We as a society simply do not use the word "Bafoon" nearly enough.

-AND-

10. The correct answer to the question "Would you like paper or plastic?", is "Yes".


Ben O.

That's It . . . That's The List

Okay, here's one for ya . . .

If we could somehow toss Dracula, Ron Popeil and Dog the Bounty Hunter into a large padded Ultimate Fighting Arena Chamber, who would emerge victorious? I humbly submit that, after much spraying of mace and biting of jugulars, and to the inevitable chagrin of the entire viewing public, it would probably be Captain Sells-a-Lot himself. Although Dog's wife might have something to say about it. (And you don't want to upset that woman without pre-arranged police protection.)

Let's face it, next to made-for-tv movies, ice-skating and Michael Bolton, infomercials are the bane of every American's existence. No un-stoned person in their right-mind would ever be caught dead sitting around in their underwear late at night watching 3 hours of Kenny Rogers and the fourth runner-up in the 1984 Miss South Dakota Pageant trying to sell them a 15 disc Favorites of Instrumental Country Collection.

I feel like watching "Deliverance" for some strange reason.

Now I'm certainly no expert on the fineries of Italian Cuisine, but the last time I inadvertently ventured into the local grocery store, I could have sworn that I saw an entire cornucopia of relatively inexpensive, perfectly normal-looking pasta. They had the stuff right out in plain view, sandwiched in-between the canned soups and those funkly little jars of pimientos. The natural assumption then, is that whenever I get my next sudden craving for penne with butter sauce, I could simply waltz over to the nearest supermarket, smack down my buck-fifty and purchase a big, beautiful bag of pre-made pasta. Thereby wholly avoiding the need to call up Mr. Popeil at the Ronco World Headquarters and order one of his $375 Noodle-Press-O-Matic 2000 Home Pasta Makers. As everyone now knows, I sort of ditched my only College level Economics class, so I'm admittedly playing with substantially less than a full deck in that department, but I'm pretty sure that the afore-mentioned "pay-as-you-go" plan is still relatively sound fiscal policy. Am I even close here people?

For cryin' out loud . . . let Yogi do a freakin' tattoo on an actual customer already!

Sorry.

And what exactly does it say about anyone that is actually still awake when normal programming is suspended for the night and the infomercials are let loose? I'm pretty sure the word you're looking for, but are too kind (or afraid) to utter, is "Blood-Sucking Vampire". It's almost October, the season of Halloween, so I think we can go ahead and call it what it is . . . the crypt has been laid bare and the creatures of the night are sitting three to a couch in apartments across the country. I could go on, but believe me it ain't pretty.

Ronny-baby . . . sell away! You got any of those rotisserie ovens tonight? I could really use a $459 leg of lamb slow-roasted in it's own juices.


Ben O.

BTW - I want to shout out a big thanks to everyone for helping me make some changes to the blog's appearance. I know everyone has just been dying to know what I'm reading.

I especially want to thank James O'Conner over at Bloglogo for his help with the new banner. Great work dude - thanks alot!

Dude Gets Technical

Okay - I want to get a few boring things out of the way today.

1. I am soliciting informative comments on how I can spiff up the ole Blog. In particular, I was hoping to do three things . . . I want to create a cooler looking banner for the top. I want to include a picture link along the side that shows what book I am currently reading and I was also hoping to activate the links section. I am a borderline idiot on HTML, so any easily followable helping hints would really be choice.

Thanks in advance on that.

2. I have to pass on a link that has been eating up my freetime. I just get such a kick out of it.

http://monkeydyne.com/rmcs/buildmeat.html

It is a comic creator using the Redmeat comic characters as a framework.

(Be warned that it gets a tinsy bit addictive.)

Here are a couple of my own submissions -

http://monkeydyne.com/rmcs/opencomic.phtml?rowid=87340

http://monkeydyne.com/rmcs/opencomic.phtml?rowid=87347


(The Management)

Ben O.

Feedback Saturday (#5)

Dude - why is it so hard for me to get my Frito-eating, Shiner Bock-swilling butt off of the velcro couch and post Feedback Friday on an actual Friday?

Anyone?

Okay here we go - for the weekly feedback portion of the ever-increasingly popular Procrastination Station Super-Blog, I want to hear your best joke. That's it. That's what I'm askin' for - a good, relatively-clean joke that is actually funny.

And I know you have a couple . . .

Now, I understand that it might seem completely inappropriate to my rabidly loyal and energetically fanatical reading public out there for this blog to attempt to deal with a subject that is not entirely serious. (3 people are shaking their heads and 2 of them don't even know why.)

So, in a stark departure from the norm . . . I want us all to reach down deep and get seriously funny.

After looking up the word "humor" in my handy-dandy Websters Dictionary, I see that any attempt at being funny can have unforeseen repercussions. Apparently, humor is subjective. What cracks the heck out of one person will only rattle around inside someone else's skull causing them to scratch their head and innocently mutter the phrase "Why would one of them there chickens want to cross the road anyway?"

So with that - I bid you good luck and I leave you with a little joke I've enjoyed telling for some time now . . .

Question - What is the difference between Broccoli and Boogers?
Answer - Kids won't eat Broccoli.


Ben O.

The Un-Sexiest Thing Ever (Part One)

Okay, here's one for ya . . .

I woke up this morning reminiscing blissfully about flyfishing the South Platte River earlier this week (It's good to be back, btw) when, as I turned on the bathroom lights, I just about had a heartattack. Apparently, it doesn't take a full moon to cause the werewolf to emerge from the shadows. Staring back at me through the mirror was what looked like either a Madame Tussaud's wax interpretation of Ted Kaczynski or one of Sasquatch's long-lost Southern relatives.

Now I know God never thought to ask us as his creation what we would change about the whole human condition and the mortal coil we're all currently hitching a ride upon, and far be it from me to recommend any drastic changes . . . but what is up with all the ear hair? Is it really necessary that we, as maturing males have small shrubs growing out of the sides of our heads? Is anyone with me on this? Anyone? Hello out there?

Fine, I'll just go it alone. Who needs ya anyway?

Seriously. . . I can remember, not too terribly long ago, when 30 seemed like it could possibly be the end of life as I knew it. Back then, I could still get out of bed without producing a bizarre cryptkeeper-like symphony of sounds that would make those cartoon cereal-elves Snap, Crackle and Pop envious. If I only knew then what I have unfortunately come to know all-too-well now . . . I would have invested heavily in one of those Swedish therapeutic back-massage companies (oh, and I might have thrown a little cash in Microsoft's direction too.) Who would've thought that a supportive, comfortable pair of shoes would become the ultimate object of desire? Pretty pathetic, huh?

Now I don't want to get a bunch of emails inviting me to kindly shut-the-heck-up until I'm at least 40, when you're officially allowed to join the "Bitch and Moan"Club. Let's just call it practice, okay? The last time I checked (and I check frequently), I could've sworn that one of my unalienable rights as a tax-paying, CNN-watching American citizen was the right to complain ad nauseum about the rampant relocation of hair from my head to other, less-primo locations. This isn't Transylvania here people!

Man, I feel like howling at the moon for some strange reason. Where is that number for Cletus's House of Hair Removal? I know I have it here somewhere.

Great, now I'm losing my mind too.

Ben O.

Feedback Friday (#4)

Yes, it's that time again . . .

The air is getting cooler, the leaves will soon be changing, college football is in full swing and Halloween is just around the corner. So, in that vein, what could possibly be scarier than Britney Spears having a baby? I humbly submit that there ain't much that is.

Now I know it's a free country and all, but when did we all flip out and decide to start giving our precious little babies the most ridiculous names? Is it simply a big game to see how many vowels can be squeezed onto the "name" blank of a birth certificate. It sort of makes me feel like spinning the wheel and saying, "Pat, I would like to solve the puzzle now."

Believe it or not, VH-1 actually had an hour-long show about goofy baby names last month. Among the most unusual were "Rebel", "Apple", "Reighnbo" and my personal favorite - "Jermajesty". You heard right . . . Jermain Jackson actually named his son "Jermajesty Jackson". For my money we could have skipped all the rest and devoted the show's entire hour to how retarded that name is. (And please don't email me and say that your name is Jermajesty and you just love it, because it isn't and you don't. It's stupid . . . period.)

Now, let me put my three and a quarter inch tall soapbox away and get to the Feedback portion of Feedback Friday.

Here it is -

Everyone who is still reading this is invited to leave a comment detailing either a goofball name that makes you crack up every time you hear it, or some traumatic story from your youth about how you always had to explain to everyone how to spell or pronounce your own name.

For the last time . . . there is only 1 "l" in the name "Pear Salad Jones".

Ben O.

The Quest For The Holy Paddle

Who says we don't listen to the comments of our adoring public . . .

In response to the spirited and overwhelming feedback about the previous post (Please see "Bombs Away!"), we here at Procrastination Station have decided to relay to the readers the entire story alluded to in Brother O's comment.

Here goes -

It all started one hotter-than-normal morning in the heart of the DFW Metroplex in the beautiful state of Texas. I was off from college and thoroughly enjoying spending vast quantities of time watching TV and talking about all of the things I had recently seen on TV. When all of a sudden my brother showed up and started knocking on the door to the apartment I was sharing with a high school friend. After sitting around not doing anything fun for awhile, the three of us decided to see how much late 80's Atari equipment (read "junk") we could scrounge together in an afternoon of pawn-shop cruising. (Brother O. help me out here . . . were there any other dorks with us, or were we three dorks it?)

Fortunately we lived pretty close to what has to be the tightest cluster of crap-dealers du jour this side of New Jersey. Within an hour we had a console, a set of joysticks and at least 375 cartridges. I jest, but seriously you wouldn't believe how many Atari games are just sittin' out there collecting dust, waiting for some poor sap(or 3 poor saps) to pony up $1.50 and proudly take them home. The funny thing is that the older and dustier they are, the better they seem to play. Isn't life strange that way?

So, after repeating this somewhat pathetic and already all too familiar scene way too many times (and pulling Brother O. away from every Fender guitar within sight), we finally decided that we had enough of an Atari stash and it was time to head back to the apartment and fire it all up. Our eyes were sparkling and wide and our hearts were afire with the undeniable giddiness that only a kid can generate in anticipation of a sparkling new, much sought-after toy.

Well, as Brother O. has already let slip - we got home, plugged it in, started it up and . . . almost immediately got so bored that I think after about 15 minutes we all just erupted in laughter at how retarded we all were. Imagine that . . . actually laughing at what we had just done.

It sounds sort of silly now, but I'm personally convinced that "The Quest for The Holy Paddle" will ultimately go down in the annals of pointless and senseless adventures someday. Actually, I'm not sure if they even keep track of that sort of thing, but if they did . . . we would almost certainly be in there. Right after that guy who walked the entire length of California barefoot.

The saddest part (as if you are still looking for something sad in this story), is that we never even found a freakin' paddle. I know they exist, but on that particular day, it just was not to be.

We never got to play Kaboom.

I think I might actually cry a little.

Ben O.

Bombs Away!

Here's one for ya . . .

Does anybody out there remember the Atari 2600? I bet if I asked everyone who owned one of these somewhat less-than-attractive, brown on brown gaming consoles to raise their hands in a proud show of nostalgic 80's solidarity, the Earth might suddenly and mysteriously shift a little bit off of its axis.

The fact is that unless you were really cool and somehow managed to convince your unsuspecting parents that you needed a Colecovision, you more than likely wound up just like the rest of us . . . with a beautiful, brand-spankin'-new Atari 2600. And you were darn happy to get it too. I believe, if the decades have been kinder to my memory than they have to my body, that the console came packaged with the appropriately named "Combat" game cartridge. To this day I still wake up, sweating profusely in the dead of night, vainly trying to get those funkified cannon balls to wrap around the TV screen the right way.

No question about it though . . . the best game ever had to be "Kaboom". To those of you who never had the distinct pleasure of becoming hopelessly addicted to this frantic monstrosity of early video-game age paranoia, try to imagine the most obnoxious person you have ever known sitting atop a brick wall ala humpty-dumpty, wearing black & white convict stripes, while non-chalantly dropping a never-ending supply of bombs down on your head. Fortunately you have what everyone in that precarious situation would want . . . some barrels full of water. All you've gotta do is catch the bombs in the barrels. Sound like fun? Oh Little Grasshopper, you are so naive. After about 97 hours, when the stream of bombs is moving so fast that your brain starts to sputter and hiss like a broken-down Ford Pinto, then you'll be sorry.

Try it in the advanced mode where the barrels are thinner than the straps on Lindsay Lohan's G-string. Have you ever seen a grown man cry? You will.

Of course there was "Pitfall" and "Superman" and "Haunted House" and "Defender" . . . the list is endless. These are the games we will always remember with affection. These are the games that shaped us and formed us . . . making us into the proud modern-day computer savvy techno-geeks that we are.

So hit reset, pass me a joystick and stand back, because . . . I'm feelin' lucky tonight.

Ben O.

Darn-It-All . . . My Kicker Just Threw a Shoe!

Okay here's one for ya . . .

How many Jim Beam jello-shots would it take to get Monday Night Football's John Madden safely onboard a Delta cross-country red-eye flight? Strangely enough the Applied Science Department Fantasy Football league at the New Jersey satellite campus of Harvard University recently posed this very same question to all of its dues-paying members and the general consensus was that it would be easier to convince Santa Claus to go on a crash-course diet than it would be to get the beloved Mr. Football anywhere near a departing airplane.

Fire up the bus!

Now I'm certainly no expert, but I'm pretty sure that we used to play a game that was very similar to Fantasy Football only we called it Dungeons & Dragons. I still get goosebumps when I think about all of the hobgoblins and orcs that my Class 2 Paladin slayed with the Enchanted Crossbow of Elvendorf. Those were the days - when a geek was a geek and a jock was a jock. Now it appears that the lines are getting a tad bit blurred.

The most heard phrase on high school campuses across the country is no longer "Hey, can I borrow your IPod for homeroom?" or "Can you see my thong in these jeans?", instead you're much more likely to hear something like this coming from the football practice field, "Dude, I can't wait to get home and check out how my fantasy team did this weekend."

Unfortunately, the bizarre stat-lust that descends upon America like a blanket of mix-matched scores every Fall knows no age-limits. I can't even begin to count the number of times that I've had to wait patiently while the the old guy down the hall re-inserts his teeth so he can tell me all about how he was going to bench his quarterback, but changed his mind at the last minute and thank goodness he did, because the rookie left-hander threw for 5 touchdowns and ran for another 3, carrying his fantasy team to yet another thrilling come-from-behind victory.

And for my money, the most distressing part of this rabid Fantasy Football trend has to be the all-but guaranteed lameness of the team names. I'm pretty sure they did an official tally recently and darned if the team name "Dave's Destroyers" didn't register 229,000 hits in less than an hour. "The Microsoft Marauders" was a close second. You don't even want to know what the third place name was.

Try and remember that there are 2 "P"s in "Power Puffs" when you engrave that league championship trophy . . . okay!

Now in all fairness - I have actually participated in a Fantasy Football league before and I do remember having a limited amount of fun for about the first day and a half. I was really enjoying myself right up to the point where my team had to play their first game. Everything after that was a relentless blur of spastic statistical analysis and overt dorkiness so intense that it would probably have made Bill Gates seem downright cool. I became a hideous shell of my former self - one part Dan Dierdorf, one part Frank Gifford and a little bit of that guy in the movie "The Waterboy". Trust me, it wasn't pretty.

Hopefully we haven't ruffled too many feathers here today. I guess the key to Fantasy Football success is to strike a balance between real life and fantasy life. Either that or total willingness to forsake any and all aspects of your previous life in a vain and hopeless attempt at complete devotion to the game.

I think you can actually buy those little plastic trophies at Super-Walmart . . . if it makes you feel any better.

I feel better already.

Ben O.

Feedback Sunday (#3)

Okay - I usually like to get feedback on Friday, but I've been pretty busy. (Please write any and all complaints on a crisp US $100 bill and mail it priority shipping to me here at my computer desk. Otherwise . . . feel free to read and pretend like it is still Friday. Consider it an experiment in discount time travel.)

I was thinking and I decided that this week's foray into feedback will be focused upon dreams. I would love to hear all about the strangest, most realistic feeling, scariest, whatever . . . dreams that you had within the recent past.

I'm looking forward to hearing all about the bizarre events that happen out there when we all turn off the lights and fall asleep.

Thanks (as always) for the input -

Ben O.

I'll See Your Bet and Raise You $100

Okay, Here's one for ya . . .

When is the only time that Two of a Kind beat a Full House?

Answer - When it's 2:00 AM, the frat house is full of empty beer bottles and you've got an Advanced Economics exam that you've yet to begin studying for in 5 hours.

Now I love playing a friendly game of cards as much as the next guy, but don't you think we're beginning to take our insane love for poker just a tad too seriously? When some rail-thin, pasty-fleshed dude known as "The 5-Card Terminator" is going through more women than 007 in an entire James Bond Box Set, just because he recently advanced to the semi-finals of the Iowa State Poker Championships . . . it might be time to start considering a reality check. Ya think?

I realize that I might possibly be the only person left in America that hasn't found himself sitting across the table from Uncle Joey of Full House, enthusiastically uttering the phrase "Ante up you Mary Kate and Ashley loving Doofus!" The fact is that up until about a year ago, I was still under the impression that the term "Caribbean Stud" referred to the Jamaican wind-surfing instructor at "Sandals".

At least sensible minds have prevailed so far and we haven't gone too far with the whole poker frenzy. It might be embarrassing if actual sports channels like ESPN began broadcasting 5-Card Tournaments. I mean, can you imagine the spectacle of a table full of out-of-work actors sitting around playing poker? They might as well put Tennis on TV too while they're at it. (Sorry Andre - you rock!)

All of a sudden, I have a strange desire to strap myself to the couch and watch a 12 hour marathon of Fear Factor. If only I had access to a Big-Gulp, some Sea Monkeys and one of those sticky lint-remover thingies.

(I guess this has gotten a bit off subject.)

I think what I'm trying to say can best be summed up by para-phrasing the newly adopted and unanimously ratified rules & guidelines of the National Poker Players Association . . .

1. All players must submit a signed affidavit declaring that they will refrain from using the nicknames "Tennessee Slick", "The San Francisco Kid" and "Ruprecht".

2. At no time may any player use the phrase "X in the center to block". That is the sole property of Hollywood Squares.

3. It is generally considered bad form to get up on the table and "Shake your money-maker" in everyone else's face after winning a hand.

4. The NPPA is not responsible for any bodily harm that occurs as the result of playing poker with Mike Tyson.

5. For the last time - you don't need to say "Uno!"


I guess I'm just jealous because I stink at 5-Card. Of course, I could be bluffing.


Ben O.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday . . .

Here's one for ya . . .

I'm sittin' at the computer, after having just watched another exciting episode of Miami Ink, and it suddenly dawns on me that I have yet to purchase my tickets for the much-anticipated Denver showing of the upcoming Disney tribute to Boy Bands - "Puberty on Ice". So, I take a deep breath, check to make sure the furniture is still adequately covered in plastic and reluctantly head over to the dark-side of the internet - the dreaded Ticketmaster website. Oh, the horror!

Now I'm no expert, but does it really have to cost an extra $49.95 per ticket just to assure that the ticket sold to me is actually one which the venue will recognize as a legitimate ticket? I've been around awhile, but I've certainly never heard of an "Authentic Ticket Fee". Shouldn't the 2nd home loan I took out cover that as well as the ticket price? Apparently not . . . but thankfully they did offer additional insurance.

A week and a half later, a uniformed delivery boy appeared at my front door. The darn weasle had my tickets in his sweaty little hand, but all he would do was show them to me (and dance around making faces at me) until I agreed to pay the $29-per-ticket "Personal Delivery" fee. Now, we here at Procrastination Station would certainly never promote violence or abuse of minors, but if you remember that scene in the movie "Vacation", where Clark W. Griswold freaks out and cold cocks the Marty Moose statue in the nose . . . I'm pretty sure my exchange with Little Lord Fountleroy went something like that. If I'd have had a petrified twinkie, I might have really crossed the line. Those things leave a nasty bruise when you throw them as hard as you possibly can.

Okay - I'm not proud of myself. But I do have my front-row tickets safely magneted to the front door of the fridge. And I only had to donate blood twice to raise enough money to pay for them. Who's laughing now, Ticketmaster?

That's when I hear that the local radio station is giving away free tickets to the first 375 callers who can correctly identify all 7 days of the week.

Why is there never a petrified twinkie laying around when you need one?


Ben O.

Feedback Friday (#2)

Okay - Here's one for ya . . .

Other than actually doing what the Boss-man wants you to do, what is the single best way to spend all those otherwise useless "day-time" hours we all have laying around?

I humbly submit that the only way to while away the time is totally and completely obvious . . . playing those cute little online video games. I bet we could power a small midwestern airport for a week by harnessing all the wind generated as those hands go flying up when I ask how many of you out there have ever sat at your computer and appeared to be working, while unbeknownst to your superiors, you were actually just about to save the princess in a miniature, online version of Donkey Kong. Am I right? (Don't worry, the Boss-man wasn't working either. He was just about to go into extra rounds of Super-Tetris. Trust me - I've seen the video tape. And it ain't pretty.)

Who could ever forget the first time they logged on and played that funny "Kick the Penguin" game? I think I might still have the all-time high score.

Now, seeing as how it is once again Feedback Friday - I thought it would be fun to see how many silly little "time-waster" games actually are out there floating around the Internet.

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to leave a comment and include any and all links to online games that you personally know of.

I will throw in the first two. They are great. One is a fun beer-themed miniature golf game and the other is a game that pits chairlift riders against skiers and snowboarders in a grand, one-sided snowball fight. Check them out, but please don't blame me if you get busted.

The Management at Procrastination Station is not responsible for any one getting their sorry, online-game-playing self fired. Do I make myself clear?

Okay then, let the fun begin.

http://www.whtmtnliving.net/games/sports/beer_golf.htm

http://www.coloradoski.com/chairlift_bombardier/landing.cfm


Ben O.