I informed a customer yesterday that it was not possible to name his new server “BOB_BOB” because, for technical reasons, Microsoft operating systems do not allow for the use of palindromic names with an odd number of characters.

    ”This is why,” I told him, “you have never seen a Microsoft Exchange server named ‘MADAMIMADAM’.”
        ”It would be better,” I continued, “to name the server ‘BOBBOB’, as this is an even number of characters and would not result in the irrevocable loss of all your business data.”

    Don’t get too excited. You’ve already seen essentially everything this cartoon has to offer. It was, however, suggested to me that I might as well try entering something into the Aniboom/Fox Holiday Animation Challenge, so I hastily edited together the first four Don Juan Frankenstein shorts into the form of this:

    The grand prize winner not only receives a large quantity of cash but also the opportunity for a development deal with Fox. Not that I’m holding out an inordinate amount of hope for that, but hey, if a hack like Seth MacFarlane can have two fucking shitty shows on that network, why not a hack like me?
    Which brings me to the point: Four of the five finalists will be selected by a mysterious Fox voting panel of mysterious voting. The fifth selection will be made by fans via a nearly equally mysterious voting process that I’m assuming is tied to the Aniboom rating system and/or the number of times a cartoon happens to be viewed. Honestly, I’m not exactly sure how it works, but if you’re so inclined, you’re more than free to drop by and rate me.
    Besides, my birthday’s coming up–I’m turning the big three-oh, as the silly people like to call it–and you know what I’d like more than anything? A development deal with Fox so that I can sneak into Seth MacFarlane’s office and shit on his desk while he’s out enjoying the fruits of being the highest-paid TV writer in history, for God’s sake. Please! Help me shit on Seth MacFarlane’s desk!

    Heather and I have arrived safely in San Francisco.

    At least, I assumed we were safe as the flight staff seemed unconcerned about the noises, smells, flashing lights and open flames.

    I did my best to act nonchalant, which was made more difficult because one of the retractible wheels on our coffin-sized suitcase had grown shy over the years and the result was a scrapey-draggy mess.

    We are staying in the “Good Hotel“, a conscientiously eco-friendly place which boasts furniture made from reclaimed wood and offers to lend out bicycles to the guests for free.

    The room is very small, but comfortable, and we slept well. The eco-friendly tone seems a little superficial, but I think they mean well.
(there’s a reduce-reuse-recycle sign above some disposable individual packets of instant coffee)

    Heather is still scrambling for things to do today, but my GPS tells me it’s a short walk to Moscone.

Riley, shown here completing a work schedule for a local family restaurant.

I’ve recently stumbled upon the design for a new weapon.     First, locate a crying toddler.     Second, pick up the toddler and hold him/her under your arm with the noisy end pointing toward your enemies.     Congratulations! You’ve assembled your very own Sob Cannon.     This surprising* weapon is capable of clearing public restrooms, busy shopping aisles and other public spaces.     It may be an effective form of self defense against obsequious wait-staff or commissioned salespeople as well, though I’ve yet to try it on anything more threatening than a timid waitress who apparently was immunized as a child. I found that in her case a stern glare was just as effective but deprived me of a much-needed coffee refill.

Unfortunately, it seems to have the opposite affect on my parents and other older relatives.

* Surprising in that no one expects a Sob Cannon attack. NO ONE.

I made the coffee, but I had forgotten that I’d run out of milk. Sweetening the coffee carcinogenically and apologizing for the lack of cream, I presented the bitter Sumatran brew to him.

He sipped it thoughtfully while I surreptitiously checked my cell phone for a reply from Heather… Nothing so far.
I leaned in and read the addresses of the mail he had brought with him. It was not his mail and the collection seemed to an issue of Popular Mechanics and a couple of letters.

“What’s up with that stuff?”

“Oh, this?” he answered, drawing the little pile closer to himself protectively, “I just haven’t figured out what to do with it yet.”

I wondered if the pile of mail was somehow a source of stress to him, and offered to take a look at it.
In answer, he clutched the papers in his hand and stood up.

“Nah,” he said, dumping the remainder of the coffee into my kitchen sink, “its something I have to take care of myself.”

Although I then assured him that I was only idly interested in the mail, it seemed I’d agitated him with my offer of assistance. Shortly thereafter he excused himself and left my home.

Seconds after watching his car pull away I finally received a text from my wife with his wife’s phone number.

    At around 8:45 on Sunday morning he walked into my house unannounced, carrying a short stack of mail.
    He’d been in the area, he said as Samantha gave him a hello hug around the legs, and had decided to stop by and say hello.

    Furthermore, he stated mildly, he now knew about the colors.

    I wondered at his real purpose for visiting. His scrubby stubble, combined with the fact that my home is hardly “in the area” for him, meant that something was wrong. I asked him what colors he was talking about, speculating as I did so whether he’d had a fight with his wife or something.

    ”The colors“, he answered, tilting his head with an expectant expression, “of the teams“.

    ”The… teams?” But he didn’t answer this time, and my thoughts turned to more sinister possibilities than a little marital tiff. I asked him if his wife knew he was at my house, a question which he answered with a firm “maybe“.

    I began to suspect something was very wrong. I invited him to sit down in my kitchen and have some coffee, and presently he plopped down and laid his little pile of mail on the table. Was he OK? “Yes, ” he answered, he “was fine.”

    Watching me nervously pour him a mug of coffee, he straightened out the the Popular Mechanics magazine and the two letters he’d inexplicably brought into my house, leaned forward and spoke earnestly:

“I have been encouraged to invest in a civil war chess set and I was told you might have one,” he stated and, after a pause, “What do you think of that?”

I disavowed any knowledge of any such Civil War Chess sets and, as I did so, I picked up my cell phone and began tapping out a text message to my wife, who was out of town. I didn’t have his wife’s cell phone in my contact list, but she did.

My creativity and weight* are both at all time lows according to my bathroom Mass-Creatometertm.     By doing some basic correlation** and by drawing an attractive timeline in the snow with an uncooked spaghetti noodle I’m able to draw this startling conclusion:     There is a correlation between physical fitness and creative humorism.     I wasn’t absolutely sure, so I did what I always do. I hit the lab, donned my ceremonial latex hand coats, Leica manufactured goggles, ate three pieces of chalk and started writing on the wall with my tongue.     One half hour later I stepped back to admire my work:     Incontrovertible proof of the Piscopolean Mediocrousy.

Correlation(r) = NΣXY – (ΣX)(ΣY) / Sqrt([NΣX2 - (ΣX)2][NΣY2 - (ΣY)2])
N=the number of samples, in this case four
X=each instance of funny creativeness recorded. (on a ten scale where 1=humor sucking wasteland of absorbent pap and 10=gut-wrenching and devastating cleverness the likes of which would make a victorian bishop cook muffins on a stormy night)
Y=each weight recorded at the time in metric pounds.

date	X Value	Y Value	X*Y	X*X	Y*Y
July 2005	6.5(300)	215	1397.5	42.25	46225
June 2006	8(ep21)	230	1840	64	52900
Dec 2008	3(60′)	182	546	9	33124
Feb 2009	2(!!!)	177	354	4	31329

ΣX=19.5
ΣY=804
ΣXY=4137.5
ΣX²=119.25
ΣY²=163578

NΣXY – (ΣX)(ΣY) / Sqrt([NΣX2 - (ΣX)2][NΣY2 - (ΣY)2])
(4*4137.5)-(19.5*804)/Sqrit([(4*119.35)-(19,5*19.5)]*[(4*163578)-(804*804)])
16550-15678/Sqrt([477.4-380.25]*[654312-646416])
872/Sqrt(97.15*7896)
872/Sqrt(767096.4)
872/875.84

Correlation coefficient: 0.99

* 177lbs at present. I haven’t been this light since middle school

Tomas, you left sunglasses at my house. Don’t worry, I’ll bring them to you.*

* Originally un-published way back in June of 2005. Why’d I leave it draft?

    Nostalgia demands that I confess that early memories include waking up to the smell of coffee and the sounds of breakfast doings being done by the doers.

    I’m the doer doing the doings in my nuke-fam, and I now enjoy the production thereof as much as I once enjoyed the consumption thereof.

    Besides, I now have grinder, and beans disintegrate on the way to beverage-hood stink up the kitchen nicely.

    Heather says its smells like cigarettes but I think she’s completely off-base and should apologize.
        To me, to the beans, to God.

    A Chinese lady today tells me that I shouldn’t methodically and carefully peel the pith from my orange, that I’m discarding the most ‘nutritious’ part of the fruit and ruining it–RUINING IT!

    Petit and smiley lady, I peel the pith because it slows the eating process down and, since I don’t actually value the orange as food, I don’t give a crap about what nutritional value the damn thing has.     

    All that really matters is that it is not a corn chip nor has it a nougat center. I have a tangerine for later. ….I think it is later now.