Underpants On The Outside

Just like he used to when we were in elementary school, Big Brother (or as I call him, The Ugly Guy Who Looks Like Me) came in and put a stop to the beatings.  I had already drank half of my IT department, but I was still working in the wee hours trying to figure out how to change the color of the rassafrassin links when he got on the phone and pulled some Extreme Makeover: Blog Edition.

When I die, that guy totally gets my comic books.

(Yes, yes, I’m still working on the landscape photos.)

Lost has a habit of setting up dozens of mind-boggling mysteries and solving NONE of them. My friend Jordan, whose use of imagery is nothing short of genius, describes the experience of watching the show as frustrating as “Dry Humping a Supermodel”.

This week’s mystery: Visions.

The visions are one of the larger blue-ballings that the Lost writing staff has given me. Early in the first season, Dr. Dreamy kept seeing a man in a suit, standing at the edge of the jungle. As it turned out, the man was Jack’s father, which makes sense, because Jack’s father was also on the plane. Except he was in the cargo hold.

See, Jack’s dad died in Australia, and Jack was bringing the body and a lot of emotional baggage back to the States when the plane went down on Blueball Island. So when Jack sees his father, I can believe that Jack’s subconscious is conjuring up hallucinations with the hopes that Jack will finally come to terms with his dad. After all, he’s spending a lot of time in the sun, eating nothing but fish and mangoes, and every time something threatens their camp he has to run off and get beat up by it. There’s no mystery there, until Jack goes wandering in the forest and finds a section of the plane. Wouldn’t you know it, lying in the wreckage is a coffin. Even though the coffin is shut and intact, does anyone believe there’s going to be a body in there? Of course not. This was back in season one. In the dry-humped supermodel analogy, season one took place around 10:00 at night. Me and the model, we’ve had some drinks, she’s got her hand on my thigh, and I’m making a list in my head of all the people I’m going to call and tell that I JUST HUMPED A SUPERMODEL!!!! I couldn’t wait to find out how Jack’s dad was alive and moving around.

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It’s 11:30 in the morning.  Underpants had a bit of the epilepsy there, as I changed the look 18 times over the past half hour.  But for the rest of the day, this is going to be the face of the site.  Future improvements: the borders will not be green forever, and those pictures at the top are going to be swapped out.  Stay tuned.

Lost has a habit of setting up dozens of mind-boggling mysteries and solving NONE of them.  My friend Jordan, whose use of imagery is nothing short of genius, describes the experience of watching the show as frustrating as “Dry Humping a Supermodel”.

Okay, so I got a little behind on Lost.  To be fair, the show has been slacking off a bit too, so I don’t feel bad.

(Last Week’s) Mystery: The Others

The Others are the Pedophiliac Uncle of the island: they’re unkempt, they can appear right next to you without making a sound, you can’t get them to leave, and their fascination with children is frightening.

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My previous ugly template was having an off day and inserting weird symbols everywhere I had punctuation, so I’ve switched to the default ugly template.  I plan to find a new ugly template this weekend, and little by little make it less ugly.  Please keep in mind that my IT department consists of me and a six-pack of Miller Lite.

Last season, I got into 24 quite a bit. Most people I know say it’s the best show on television, and I have to admit, I see their point. I’m mostly impressed by how much Jack Bauer manages to squeeze into a day. To illustrate, I’m going to compare each hour of Jack’s day to the corresponding hour in my own day.

Jack Bauer’s day, 11-12 AM: One of my dad’s gripes about the show is that Jack never has to go take a shit.  To him, it is more plausible that a man could save the world in a single day, not just once, but four times, (likely five, at the end of this season) than go one of those days without a couple hours in the john.  If my father had to go a day without taking a shit, the newspaper would go unread, his checkbook unbalanced, and his emails unsent.  (Let’s hear it for wireless networking!!)  Furthermore, his philosophies in life would be far less thought out.  How can Jack possibly do the things he does while he’s Prairie Doggin’??

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Over the course of the day, I never know what’s going to work its way out of the attention-deficit carnival in my head. I’m sure this is how life is for most people, but since I’m trying to make it as a writer, I try and write these ideas down in notebooks or on small scraps of paper; maybe a word or two, or a short phrase, something to jog my memory later. You’ve probably seen people like me doing this in coffee shops. We tend to be obnoxious about it.

Well, I cleaned my room tonight, and I just found a note on the dresser by my bed that says:

“Cracked Rib Assassin”

That’s it. That’s all it says. You can’t make this stuff up. It’s written in my handwriting, I have no idea when I wrote it, and I have no idea what it means.

This sucks for two reasons.  One, not only am I losing my mind at the ripe old age of 26, but I have definitive proof.  I feel like the guy in the Advil commercials who can’t go flyfishing because he has arthritis.  Two…I don’t know what a “cracked rib assassin” is, but now I think that one is after me. I’m scared shitless, it’s two in the morning and no one else is home. At least my apartment has really creaky floors.

If anyone wants to send me an email, go right ahead. I’m guessing I’ll be awake.

It’s been brought to my attention that Underpants on the Outside was not yet updated today. My bad. For all of my readers (what’s up, metropolitan D.C. area!) who might be thinking it’s cause I’m lazy (yes) drunk (no, but the night’s still young) or sitting around with my dick in my hand, (no… well, not anymore) I didn’t post today because I was making pie charts all day for work. Too bad 24 isn’t on tonight; this little Microsoft Excel monkey would have given Jack Bauer a run for his money. I’ll post tomorrow. Promise.

Meanwhile, in the spirit of things, I worked up a graph representing the response I received from yesterday’s column “Holy Shit I Am Smart”. (Still available on collegehumor.com)

Oh dear. Cue the “Your graph looks like shit” comments.

Today was a crowning achievement: I have finally been published, over on collegehumor.com.  It’s a pretty funny piece, titled “Holy Shit Am I Smart”. 

But in response to most of the emails I have received in response, I only have this to say:  I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally wish I hadn’t misspelled “plebeian”.

Update, 4:30 pm: The article has been corrected.  I am once again super-duper smart.