"AT&T: Rethink Possible. Because Using the Internet You Pay Us For? Not Possible."

There's a good chance you will have seen some coverage of the recent storms that tore a hole in the midwest, and then proceeded to do same in the South. There's an equally good chance that, since I brought it up, you won't be surprised to find that I was affected, albeit in a rather minor way. Once the pool furniture was airborne, I grabbed my cat and my computer to wait out the storm in the bathroom. That was pretty much the extent of the life-threatening portion of my evening - not very noteworthy. But the sanity-threatening portion had just begun! You see, some time during the storm we lost power. And when we lost power, I lost the internet. Quick summary of the first 45 minutes:
- the modem was disconnected
- upon reconnecting it, I misstyped my login information
- my ISP's Opposite of Helpful Customer Service Site failed to help me recover my password, then locked me out and suggested I call the toll-free number

This is where shit gets real.

First, I was treated to a 5-minute wait, during which a computerized voice assured me of the importance of my call, regretfully informed me that all attendants were busy, and encouraged me to wait it out. After a while, an automated voice took my call. An automated voice. Why did I have to wait 5 minutes for the computer to speak to me? Did I just have to prove I wanted help badly enough to wait? FAIL, AT&T. FAIL.

ROBOT: Please describe the problem you are having in just a few words.
ME: Internet FAIL.
ROBOT: OK, you're having problems connecting to the internet. What brand of DSL modem do you have?
MY CAT: MEOW!
ROBOT: I'm sorry, I didn't understand...
ME: Sebastian! Shhh!
ROBOT: I'm sorry, I didn't understand...
(7 minutes of this farce, interspersed with mind-numbingly dumb questions regarding whether my modem is plugged in, whether my computer is on, etc. Finally, we get to this:)
ROBOT: Is the "ethernet" light blinking or solid?
ME: Solid
ROBOT: Is the "DSL" light blinking or solid?
ME: Solid
ROBOT: Is the "internet" light blinking or solid?
ME: Solid
ROBOT: WAIT - THAT MEANS YOU CAN CONNECT TO THE INTERNET! Thank you for calling AT&T. Goodbye. (Dial tone)
ME: What? NO! WAIT! THAT WASN'T THE PROBLEM IN THE FIRST PLACE! YOU STUPID [censored]

So yeah. Without so much as a "Has this solved your problem?", the AT&T robot hangs up and leaves me to fend for myself. And I've given a lot of thought to that last recorded message, because it is faithfully transcribed above: "Wait - that means you can connect to the internet..." To me, this phrasing suggests that it's basically calling me a liar. I called and said I couldn't connect to the internet, and this is the nicest way it knows how to say, "You stupid bitch! You said you couldn't connect to the internet, but I've just proven you can! BURRRRN!"

I was pretty mad.

I redialed the same number and listened to the same idiotic suggestions regarding how I could very easily I could fix my internet connectivity problems simply by using the internet, which had been conveniently rendered unusable by AT&T. This time, when the robot picked up, I tried all the usual methods. I dialed zero, but she just kept talking. I said "attendant", "human being", and "person" to no avail. When she said, "Please describe the problem...", I simply started saying, "Nope! No. No. Nonononononononononononononono..." To which the cheerful robot replied, "Please hold while I connect you with someone who can help you."

I want to make one very important point here, which is that the actual human being I spoke to was incredibly polite and helpful. We talked about my cat and the Masterpiece Contemporary retread of Sherlock Holmes and the fact that Benedict Cumberbatch's full name is entirely too long while we waited for the system to run various checks and updates. It took another 45 minutes, but that wasn't really her fault. It was just that - you know - AT&T bites. And to support this statement, I'd like to share with you the most illuminating part of our conversation:

ME: I tried to do the online password recovery...
HER: ...where you enter the last 4 digits of your SSN or your birthdate?
ME: Exactly. And I tried it both ways, but it kept saying what I entered didn't match your records.
HER: Hmmm. Let me pull up your information. Oh I see - yeah, we don't have the last 4 digits of your SSN or your birthdate on file. Can you give me those now?

I rest my case.

Ceci n'est pas le français.

Fun fact: I speak French, and I am a HUGE pain in the ass about it. Seriously. You can ask anybody.

Once upon a time, I could speak and read French, and that was fine. Then I spent 3 years teaching it, and now every time I see or hear a grammar error in French, it makes my face contort into inhuman shapes and I make a weird high-pitched shrieking noise that only dogs can hear. It doesn't bother me that people make mistakes with languages they're just learning - that's normal and perfectly alright. What bothers me is when companies with billions of dollars decide to slap some French on an advertisement or a product and can't be bothered to take 5 seconds to ask someone if it's right. Google it, for God's sake! Ask your kid's French teacher! Call the French embassy! Ask ANYONE who took five seconds of high school French! Most francophones I know would gladly review this stuff for free JUST so they could be spared the endless onslaught of Franglais that greets them around every corner.

So you can imagine my consternation when I was shopping for a new wallet and came across a gaudy travesty of a leather thing emblazoned with pictures of the Eiffel Tower and peppered with font screaming "LA TOUR D'EIFFEL*".

Cringe.

I wish I had a picture for you, but then again no I don't. Because if I had that image on my phone, said phone would then have required an exorcism, and I've already lost 3 phones that way. I glared at the wallet and, finding it unmoved to spontaneously correct itself, threw it violently back into the pile on the shelf.

Two minutes later, as I browsed a nearby aisle, I heard a teenage girl say "Oh mom, I want THIS one! It has French on it!"

...and one more kid gets her IQ lowered by corporate America.

*In case you were wondering: there shouldn't be a "d'". It's just "La Tour Eiffel". YOU'RE WELCOME.

Stay Healthy, Jerkface!

Today I would like to present to you my favorite photograph in any magazine ad ever:

What I love about this ad is that it purports to be about living a more active (and presumably better) life, but the picture simply shows the two biggest assholes in the world mocking their child.

I'm not the only one who sees this, right?

In the foreground, we have a sweet looking little girl who seems very intent on her bike-riding. Perhaps she's just learning, or maybe she's off in a world of her own, where she is a warrior princess surveying her forests on her trusty steed! In any case, she is clearly engrossed in what she's doing, and it's adorable. A few feet behind, her father is laughing so hard he looks like he might piss himself and/or fall off his bike. In fact, he has to steady himself on his wife's back just to keep from keeling over. And what's so funny? Judging by his eyeline: his daughter. It is BEYOND HILARIOUS to him that she is riding a bike in the woods with her family. Look at him! His face is turning red! The man cannot breathe! THAT'S how hard he is laughing at his innocent, oblivious little girl. Meanwhile, his wife has also gotten lost in the carefree rush that can only come from bullying one's own child, as she has lifted her feet off her pedals in sheer joy. Obviously she doesn't find this *quite* as funny as her husband does, but she's used to that. He probably laughs that hard at Mad TV too. I've updated the photo with captions to clarify what's going on here (you'll probably have to click through to the enlarged version - I'm new to this photo editing thing)...

Enjoy your probiotics, asshats.

Cake-astrophic FAIL

For once in my life, I am not on a diet. The amazing thing is that I haven't needed to be on a diet for a while, because I'm currently riding a wave of productivity that has resulted in less stress-/boredom-eating and helped to me slim down quite by accident.

The biggest obstacle I face, then, is stress/boredom. Unfortunately, the Universe's Epicenter of Stress/Boredom happens to be located right on top of my desk at my day job. So I thought there might be trouble yesterday morning, when someone (probably a convicted war criminal) left a sheet cake out in the staff break room. It looked like someone had taken about 2 bites out of it. It was HUGE. It was covered in white icing with purple flowers, and it said "CONGRATULATIONS! CLASS OF 2011! You earned it, [who cares]!" Obviously this was potentially a problem, but I reminded myself that it was 8:30 in the morning - surely an inappropriate time to have cake. Ah yes. 8:30 yesterday morning: the last time I exhibited any level of decorum.

I went about my day and hoped the cake would be gone soon. Each time I went to the break room, I saw that a little bit more had been hacked away. Having been too lazy to cook and too drunk to grocery-shop Sunday night, I hadn't packed a lunch for myself, so I ended up going to Taco Bell.

As I made my run for the border, I debated silently in my head. I wanted a 7-Layer Burrito, but I knew I shouldn't have one. Then again, I figured *one* indulgence wouldn't kill me, and besides, it was only 130 calories more than my usual Bean Burrito. I decided to go for it.

I remember getting back to my desk. I remember unwrapping the burrito. But from the moment the scent hit my nostrils, I went into overeating blackout mode. When I came to, I was looking at this:

The horror.

Apparently, having finished my big fat fatty burrito, I decided to have some of that cake after all! And since there weren't any plates, I just reached for the nearest conveyance - a coffee mug, which I crammed full of cakey goodness! And I sat at my desk, cheerfully eating my mugful of cake - with a spoon - as if it were the most normal thing in the world. On the one hand, I'm proud of myself. After all, this shameless display is surely an indication that I am secure with myself on a brand new level. I mean, Lady Gaga has done some weird shit, but have you ever seen her eat a stranger's graduation cake out of a coffee mug? NO YOU HAVE NOT. On the other hand, I went into work yesterday morning as a single woman who lives alone with her cat. I left work yesterday afternoon as a single woman who lives alone with her cat and eats cake out of coffee mugs...and blogs about food way, way, WAY too often.

The Kwerky Guide to...Facebook!

-Or: "How to be my Facebook friend without pissing me off"-

Facebook pisses me off. I used to think it was only ex-boyfriends and completely deranged acquaintances who had this power, but lately it seems like everyone is finding new and innovative ways to make me wish there was a "Slap Silly" button right under "Poke". So here's a helpful, friendly little FAQ for anyone who might NOT want to piss me off on Facebook (trust me: this includes you).

#1: Saying "Love it!" or "Love you!" after everything you put on Facebook doesn't make you seem any more approachable/friendly/cheerful/whatever. It just tells the whole world that you really want us to think you're approachable/friendly/cheerful/whatever, and you're probably only concerned about it because you're such a bitch. Just be honest.
WRONG WAY:
You guys! Look at the adorable picture a child drew of me! You know, I believe the children are our future, and I totally think it's awesome that I get to see myself through her eyes. Love it!

RIGHT WAY:

Check out this random scribbling some little brat drew and tried to pass off as a likeness of MOI! She WISHES I was a big fat bug-eyed freak like this picture so I wouldn't draw so much business away from her momma's corner! THAT'S RIGHT YOU HEARD ME BITCH!

WRONG WAY: 

Today at lunch, my friend Cindy told me what a skeez and a jerk my boyfriend is. I was really upset about it at the time, but I realize now how lucky I am to have friends like her looking out for me. Thank you, Cindy! Love you!

RIGHT WAY:

How about I went to Quizno's with Cindy today and she had the nerve to try and tell me Richard is cheating on me? I straight up threw my broccoli cheese soup in her face. FUCK YOU, CINDY!

#2: Even Jesus has limits. When you post a still photo of your topless feature role in "Lenny Landscaper Trims A Hedge", don't follow it with some BS status update about how grateful you are that God has blessed you with such a wonderful career. Don't drag God into this. That was all your agent: Lenny. The "landscaper".

#3. Have you lost a ton of weight lately? No one cares.

WRONG: 

Check out my new profile pic! All those salads and early morning runs really paid off :)

WRONG:

Yeah! Only 5 more pounds to my goal weight! Bikini here I come!

WRONG:

I can't believe I got up at 4am for a spin class! And yet I feel wonderful!

WRONG:

I'm doing my first triathlon this weekend! CAN'T. WAIT!

WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG!!!:

I cannot believe the crap people put in their bodies. I feel SO much better since I started eating clean. All the pizza and candy and junk people eat is just killing them, weather* they know it or not.

*You may have lost weight, but you still can't write for crap.

RIGHT:

Anna checked in at Joe Bob's House of Ribs 'n Deep Fried Everything Else

RIGHT: 

Check out my new profile pic of me winning a pie eating contest! 

SUPER HELLA RIGHT:

Turn on channel 3! They're going to do a live feed of the helicopter airlifting me from my bedroom to the hospital!

#4. Unless you yourself are a baby, your profile picture should not be an image of a baby. Period. 

#5. It's OK if your profile picture is a cat, provided it is your cat's actual birthday.

#6. If you're married and/or hopelessly in love, we are all happy for you. But if you have to post to your spouse's page every hour or so just to say "I love you" or "You're the best" or "Don't forget to buy mayonnaise!", then the rest of us will assume that your spouse has refused to give you his/her personal cell phone number, since that's the mode of communication you SHOULD use for shit like that. And if you don't have their cell phone number, then the relationship is clearly in the toilet, and we're going to start sending your spouse consolation hookers at work every day until you cut it the fuck out. Really HOT consolation hookers. They are going to console the hell out of your spouse. 

#7. If you have any co-workers as Facebook friends, either filter your posts carefully or just don't post the pics from your week at the S&M Expo. In fact, you know what? Let's just automatically go with the latter option across the board. NO S&M PICTURES. I can't un-see that.

By religiously following these seven easy rules, you can ensure that I don't show up at the next Event you're attending ("Mr. Snuggles' Kitten Cuddle Party" - YES, OTHER PEOPLE CAN SEE THAT) with a tennis ball, a sock, and the worst of intentions. You're welcome.

The Meteorologists are Taking the Piss, Literally.

There were about a billion things I loved about London, but my favorite morning pastime was watching the weather reports. Being from the US, I was accustomed to ridiculously detailed, number-intensive forecasts. I expected someone to tell me what the temperature would be at *every* hour throughout the day! I expected precise, localized statistics! Humidity! Highs and lows! Chance of precipitation! Windspeed and maximum anticipated gusts! The exact times I could expect sunrise and sunset! Barometric pressure, even though I have no idea what that is!

The weather reports we got in London were nothing like what I was used to. Obviously the temperatures were given in degrees centigrade, but that's easy enough to work out. What intrigued me were the vague descriptions of clouds - what colour (see what I did there?) they would be, whether or not any of them would rain, and if so, which ones. One morning, while I was visiting with my best friend, we heard a cheerful morning weatherman announce that there would be "some clouds over London [that day], and one of them would rain". I HAVE to believe he misspoke or we misheard him, but either way, we both agreed that this is what the man said. And we enjoyed a lovely day walking around London, pointing to clouds and speculating on whether that was the one that was going to rain. (Spoiler alert: if a cloud rained in London that day, we didn't see it.)

To be clear, I don't mean to mock our British friends. On the contrary, I effing LOVE the UK and would move there in a second if I could. Ask anyone. I suspect that the wildly different weather reporting is due to a variety of factors, including but not limited to the fact that their island is substantially smaller than our continent, and that the weather there is highly changeable (see: bordered by water on all sides, or "island"). And some of it is just plain cultural, I'm sure. We Americans are conditioned to expect information overload from our TV weathermen, and we will accept nothing less!

Or so I thought.

But sometime in the last year, the most breathtakingly asinine thing EVER happened, and they called it "The Wizometer".

As you can see, they contend that it's called the Wizometer because "WIZ" stands for "Weather Information Zone". I submit that it's actually called the Wizometer because whoever came up with it is taking a huge whiz on the collective brains of everyone in the metro Atlanta area. (NOTE: I realize that this joke is both unoriginal and just plain bad. But if they're going to set the joke up for us, we are morally obliged to keep making it until they end this madness.) This thing makes the "one cloud is gonna rain" approach look like an official NASA weather report. I genuinely thought it was a joke until I actually saw an 11Alive "meteorologist" referring to it with a straight face. Let's break it down, shall we?

What. The hell. Is this?

Point #1: The Wizometer goes up to 11. If this were a wry reference to Spinal Tap, I would say fair enough. But it isn't. It's just because the station is 11Alive, therefore the thing goes up to 11. You know why the whole "goes up to 11" thing was a joke in the first place? Because it is ridiculous to use 11 as the maximum number on any scale. There, I said it. It's even worse for being so blatant. Look at the screenshot above, where the elevens have been replaced with the station logo. Classy! This crap makes me want to kill myself, and I can't even coordinate my own clothes. I don't know how genuinely artsy people have survived looking at this train wreck on their TV screens day after day.

Point #2: These numbers are meaningless. As you can see on the so-called "5 Day Forecast" above, temperatures and chance-of-precipitation percentages are still displayed, albeit grudgingly and in much smaller/less attention-grabbing font than that of the Almighty Wizometer, blessed be its ridiculous name. So if that number doesn't tell me the temperature, or how cloudy the sky will be, why is it even there? My grandmother, who watches more of this crap than I do, said it was meant to be an indication of "how nice a day it will be". So in theory, a 1 on the Wizometer is a terrible day, and an 11 is a beautiful day! But that, too, is absurd. If I want to go ice skating, then below-freezing temperatures and precipitation = a perfect day. But if I want to spend a lazy weekend at the lake, 51/81 (listed as an 11 in the example above) won't be warm enough for my purposes. WHO GETS TO DECIDE WHAT CONSTITUTES A "GREAT" DAY?

Point #3: Atlanta already has a crime and violence problem.
ME: Hey, do you know what the weather's supposed to be like today?
11Alive Viewer: Six.
ME: (grabs 11Alive Viewer's copy of Eat Pray Love and beats her over the head with it)
C'mon 11Alive, be part of the solution.

Point #4: The Wizometer creates division and strife. As demonstrated in Point #3, by inventing their own little proprietary way of reporting what should simply be a dispassionate, objective series of numbers, 11Alive has ensured that their viewers will slowly become a population apart from the rest of the city. No longer able to discuss weather conditions with others, they will be rendered incapable of small talk at parties, or will sound like babbling idiots when they declare that "Tomorrow will be a 6 on the Wizometer!" No doubt some of them will think the proprietary weirdness of this system is a plus, as it means they'll get to explain it to the rest of us! To those people I say: "Do not try to explain the Wizometer to me unless you are wearing a helmet."

Point #5: The Wizometer is utterly superfluous. Who the hell demanded a new system of weather reporting anyway? We all know what the usual stats are, what they mean, and how to complain about them effectively. Was there a segment of the population that was overwhelmed by the quadruple-whammy of hearing the high, the low, the humidity, and the chance of precipitation for the day? Is there a moron somewhere in our fair city who was tearing his or her hair out screaming, "82 degrees...68 degrees...53%... WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? WHY CAN'T IT ALL BE BOILED DOWN TO ONE UNSCIENTIFIC NONSENSE TRADEMARKED NUMBER?" I mean, I've met some idiots in this city, but I still don't think this is plausible.

I just think we should let the meteorologists deal with the weather and keep the marketing department out of it. I will decide whether I think it'll be a great day or not, thanks.

Lunch American Style

For Mother's Day this year, we took my mom to the local Maggiano's. I only live a few minutes away, but I never eat there since 1) it's expensive and 2) I've had two disastrous relationships start there, and I'm not keen to make it three. Fortunately, I feel sufficiently secure in my relationship with my parents that I felt comfortable risking it. I don't think they're going to dump me for another girl, though I can't say I'm 100% sure. ANYWAY.

I wanted to try something other than my usual ravioli filled with 2% mushrooms and 98% cheese, in a cheesy alfredo sauce with cheese on top and a side of cheese, so I was perusing the menu more carefully than usual when I saw this:

Ah yes. The American obesity epidemic is alive and well. You've just ordered enough fat, carbs, and salt to  clog the arteries of a family of four, so you'll obviously be wanting to double up. I felt like I couldn't POSSIBLY have read that right (although it *would* explain how they figured they could charge $13 for eggplant parmesan, because really?). Sure enough, when the waitress came to take our orders, and I asked for something off this part of the menu, she followed up with: "...and what would you like for your second entree?"

Maggiano's, I love you, but that question is absurd.

In other news, my entire blog is apparently going to be about food, just like the rest of my life.

Kwerky Poetry Corner: The Preposterous Game

While downing a beer at my local pub this week, I watched a bunch of softball players pour in after their game. Being a little drunk, still a little hungover from the night before, and quite tired, I became completely fixated on the players' jerseys. Presumably they were emblazoned with the team's name, and if that's the case, then there is a softball team in Atlanta called, simply: PREPOSTEROUS.

Being a mildly obsessive person anyway, I have not been able to stop thinking about that team name. And in an effort to get it out of my head and move on with my life, I have penned a poorly-structured poem about my new favorite softball team. Lucky you.

The Preposterous Game

As the sun beats down on a Dunwoody diamond
Two groups take to the dirt:
One comprised of the usual mortals,
One with "PREPOSTEROUS" on its shirt


The first pitch boards a train to Barbados
As the catcher begins to recite
The Rime of the Basement Pensioner
And the coach serves up Turkish delight


The batter is up to his eyeballs
In the wombats the cheerleaders brought
And his teammates look on in confusion
As their mascot is tied in a knot


But he nonetheless raises his bat,
Determined to give it a swing
Though the pitcher is already weeping
And the bases are flapping their wings


Then he makes a run for first,
But the opposing team takes note
One wants to tag him out
And they decide to have a vote


He wrestles first base to the ground
His teammates begin to cheer
But as he lifts his eyes
A glowing figure draws near


There stands the Queen of Sweden,
Offering our hero her hand
And helping him to his feet to survey
The pudding where once there was sand


By now the vote is taken
The verdict's been appealed
A footman has been sent
With an envelope, wax-sealed


He rushes to rip it open
Through confetti falling about,
And reads the gold-embossed message:
"We regret to inform you - YOU'RE OUT!"


His fanbase hoots and howls!
They wave their cookie dough mugs!
The ump calls ridiculous fouls
And rewards each one with a hug


As the winners return to their lockers
With rose bouquets aflame
They congratulate one another
On a truly preposterous game

Mellow Mushroom is My Travel Agent.

This year, one of my goals is to do some regional travelling and see more of the Bright Sunny South, land of my forebears and whatnot. I've been keeping a list of places I want to visit: Rome (GA), Columbia (SC), Pigeon Forge (TN)... and I just realized that every single one of those suggestions came from the Mellow Mushroom Facebook Fan Page. Here's what happens:

ME: A lava lamp fireplace?!?! That sounds AWESOME!

(writing on list of places to visit): Pigeon Forge, Tennessee

NEWSPAPER STORY:
32-Year Old Woman Spends Entire Allotment of Vacation Days Eating Pizza In Various Cities Around the Southeast
Atlanta woman wanted to go to London but "it turns out they don't have a Mellow Mushroom yet". 

It's sad enough that I am making travel plans based entirely on the Facebook status updates of a pizza chain, but the kicker is that there are no fewer than THREE perfectly good Mellow Mushroom locations within 5 miles of my home. It seems a bit excessive to plan multiple overnight trips with hotel stays just to visit different ones. And yet, that is totally what I plan to do.

Horse Racing and Cricket-Skewering

Yesterday I attended a big extended-family combination baby shower/Mother's Day/eat til you vomit celebration at my aunt's house in Suwanee. If you've never heard of Suwanee, you don't need to. The only reason it's relevant is because there was a horse in the Kentucky Derby WHO CAME FROM SUWANEE, Y'ALL! It was huge news, if "huge" is understood to mean "I had literally no idea about it whatsoever until about 10 minutes before the race started". Anyway, the Derby coverage was playing on a muted television during the festivities.

Obviously, my status as a red-blooded American Woman is instantly revoked if I fail to squeal "OOOOO HORSIES!" every time I see anything remotely equine, so I was riveted to the TV. You can imagine my surprise the first time I saw the logo:

This is unfortunate on so many levels. First of all, I would like to invite Yum! Brands to bump their bean burrito price up to $0.99 and use the increased revenue to hire someone to redesign their logo, because wow. You shouldn't put your grandchildren in charge of your branding. Second of all, in case I did not make this clear in the sentence I just finished typing: Yum! Brands owns Taco Bell (among other fast food chains). Taco Bell just got through that whole "not using [enough] real beef" PR nightmare; do they really want to make their comeback in the public eye by way of a screen that basically seems to imply that the Kentucky Derby contenders look delicious? "The losers are coming to a tortilla near you!" Use your heads, people.

My Kwerky Girl Sports Report on the Derby is as follows:

• Pants on Fire is the best racehorse name ever. 
• Archarcharch is the worst name for anything ever. Whoever was trying to come up with the nastiest series of sounds in the English language, congratulations.
• Per my grandma, "Uncle Frank says 'never bet on a grey horse'". I don't know who Uncle Frank is, but my grandma has never steered me wrong before. And sure enough, the grey one lost. 
• I think Animal Kingdom won, but you should double-check that somewhere reputable, especially if you had money on it.

In other Derby-related advertising news, who the hell came up with the Dodge Ram "Outdoorsman" commercial? If you haven't seen it yet (and I don't advise that you do), the basic idea is as follows: Alpha Male Hunter Man is sleeping by his still-burning fire. He has no tent because he is an Alpha Male Hunter Man, and tents are for pussies. He went to sleep with his fire still burning because he doesn't give a shit if the entire forest burns down. HE DOES WHAT HE WANTS. --> There is something (a cricket?) chirping in the distance, and apparently his Alpha Male Hunter Man ears are so ridiculously sensitive that he cannot possibly sleep through such a ruckus. --> He walks to his hugenormous truck and retrieves a crossbow from a side compartment. He always has a crossbow with him, because arrows bring a much slower, more painful death than, say, a bullet. And if the animal doesn't suffer, it doesn't count. --> He fires an arrow off into the darkness, seemingly at random. The chirping sound goes silent. --> He lays back down to sleep...and the chirping starts up again. 

It's basically a modern reimagining of "The Princess and the Pea", if the princess had an AK-47 and indiscriminately sprayed the mattresses with bullets. The message this ad sends is: "Are you such a whiny little girl that you can't sleep when crickets chirp? Do you go out into the woods anyway and then feel like you have more right to be there than the crickets? Do you solve all of your problems, no matter how small, with random, aimless violence? Then buddy, HAVE WE GOT A TRUCK FOR YOU!!!!"

I hope it has a fire extinguisher in the other side compartment.

Not Very Nice Quiz: What Kind of Employee Are You?

1. When you get a work-related email at work, how do you react?

a) read it silently, then mutter cusswords at the shit-for-brains who sent it

b) announce to everyone within earshot that you got an email, who it's from, what it says, and how you feel about that

c) start shouting for someone's attention so you can say "Guess who just sent me an email"

d) a what now? Do you mean a "phone call"?

2. You see that a coworker has Facebook up on her monitor. You:

a) feel better about the 45 minutes you just spent on Gmail

b) make a silent note to tell on her when the boss gets back

c) ask her to help you figure out how to change your profile picture

d) ask her to help you figure out how to get on the internet

3. One of your coworkers is having issues with Adobe Acrobat - it keeps trying to save things as .prg files! The boss has asked you to see if you can help. What's step #1?

a) ask your coworker what she's already tried and if she's consulted the Adobe website for possible solutions

b) start to help her out, but end up telling her a 30-minute story about this guy you met at the club instead

c) tell her how cute it is that "Adobe" sounds kind of like "Bartholomew" which, yes, is TOTALLY WHAT YOU'RE NAMING YOUR BABY THANKS FOR ASKING!!!!

d) wow her by spouting your best solutions. Has she tried "right-clicking"? With the "mouse"?

4. Yikes! The CEO has demanded that everyone in the whole company come to the conference room for a standing-room-only meeting! HR is walking around making sure all cell phones are OFF so information can't leave the room. This doesn't look good. How do you handle it?

a) check out the available dudes. The company is FINALLY parading every single man it has to offer in front of you!

b) hide out in a corner so you can talk endlessly the whole time

c) find a seat on a countertop - it's not good for pregnant ladies to stand for long

d) get in the middle of the crowd and then start loudly commenting on the fact that someone smells like BO

5. You're no pop culture expert, but you're pretty sure your new catchphrase "stop it!" is HILARIOUS. What's your strategy to get it incorporated into the lexicon ASAP?

a) deal with it in your off-hours. These people are NOT the target market anyway.

b) tell EVERYONE to "stop it!" ALL THE TIME! REFUSE TO SAY ANYTHING ELSE, REGARDLESS OF CONTEXT! "STOP IT!!!"

c) catchphrases? You don't invent those. You just jump on everyone else's!

d) try to insert it into conversation whenever appropriate, but fail to correctly identify "appropriate".

6. Someone somewhere in the world had a baby one time, and someone else told a story about it. How do you participate in the conversation?

a) YOU DON'T. Headphones on! Head down! Volume up!

b) STOP IT!

c) orchestrate the conversation such that all involved parties are huddled around your desk to hear your wisdom on the subject. After all, you once shoved one of those suckers through your vagina - who's gonna know more than you?

d) it doesn't matter how you get involved, but get involved! If you don't, there's a very real risk that you might end up doing some actual work!

SCORING:

Mostly A: Anti-social brown-noser! Congratulations! You may not have any work friends, but at least you have work.

Mostly B: You're the backstabbing gossip! "Stop it!"

Mostly C: Awwww, bless your heart.

Mostly D: It's OK; a lot of people don't understand how computers work.

10 Ways Triathletes are Like Gnats

1. There are, like, a billion of them all of a sudden.

2. From the Wikipedia entry on the “black fly” species of gnat: “[Their s]warming behavior can make outdoor activities unpleasant or intolerable.” Exactly.

3. They make irritating noises. With gnats, it’s a “bzzzzzz” sound. With triathletes, it’s the incessant sound of them retelling the story of the time they almost “hit the wall” but then drank some chemical sludge out of a pouch, lost control of their bowels, saw God, and ultimately finished in just under 59 hours.

4. They have special “cutting teeth” in their mandibles that they use to rip your skin open. 

5. They are often found near bodies of water.

6. They won’t shut up about their combination watch/heart rate monitor/GPS. Wait - am I thinking of gnats? I might have that wrong. Sorry; that was totally unfair to gnats.

7. Nine times out of 10, physical contact with them will give you a weird itch.

8. They always move really fast so it’s hard to hit them with your hands and fists.

9. If they get inside your house, the only way to get rid of them is to cut off their food supply.

10. They can ruin your whole night if they manage to get into your bed.