Thunder Volcano

Boundless enthusiasm for something stupid

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I Told You That Story So I Could Tell You This One

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Back in high school, my brother Duke was in a creative writing class that he largely treated as a joke because he was in high school and high schoolers are assholes.  A day or so before the end of the semester, it occurred to him that he should probably write something for his final project.  Given that it was Christmastime and that we went to a Catholic high school, he wrote a heartwarming holiday anecdote about animal abuse.  Despite it being a creative writing project, the story was far more grounded in reality than he cared to admit at the time – he pretty much compiled a series of unconnected true events and then got Creative with some of the facts.  I won’t spoil it by telling you which parts are and aren’t true, but to answer the two questions you’ll have (in order): kind of; and no, not really.  Without further ado, here’s Duke’s story:


It was a clear, crisp, starry night. The temperatures outside were nearly cold enough to freeze Crisco on the back of a dog. Yes, that Christmas Eve was the perfect night to travel around the neighborhood singing carols, reveling in God’s creation. Fortunately, I was inside with the heat turned up watching cartoons. My family had returned from church and had already devoured our traditional Christmas Eve duck. While my parents were ensconced in their room, furiously wrapping the bounty for the following day’s festivities, my brother and I were keeping ourselves occupied by avoiding cleaning the kitchen.
I had just settled down to get my nightly dosage of Scooby Doo’s zany hijinx, when my brother’s dog, Shelby, came waltzing into the room wearing a crazy disco shirt and my brother’s underwear and sporting a three wood duct-taped to her back. Dangling from the club, three feet in front of her snout, was a red Milkbone. Deftly maneuvering the club, Shelby managed to smash my mother’s entire collection of stained-glass angels, before somehow managing to get her feet entangled with the club. As she writhed on the ground, frantically trying to get her paws on the Milkbone, my slightly demented seven-year-old brother (I was nine at the time), Baron glided into the room, clad in his customary ratty green bathrobe and moldy slippers. His eyes glittered and he had a maniacal grin on his face. In his right hand, he proudly held aloft his favorite roll of duct tape – which he frequently claimed to be, “Good for what ails ye!”
Suddenly, there arose a tremendous Crash! followed by the spectacle of plates rolling into the living room. Seconds later, my loyal, if none-too-bright, dog, Leibschen, emerged from the kitchen, grinning dumbly at us from behind the coat of white powder that covered her once-black face. Leibschen then nonchalantly wandered away as if nothing had happened. When Baron and I peered in on what had once been our kitchen, we discovered that Leibschen had been filching some Christmas cookies off the table and had managed to upend the whole table. Baron and I opted not to disturb the scene of the crime and moved on to more important things.
Following floured footprints, we tracked Leibschen down and got most of the powder off her face. While re-fluffing her fur, we decided that Leibschen definitely needed a new Christmas “doo”. I colored her light brown eyebrows a fluorescent yellow and trimmed the whiskers off the right side of her face; Baron used Crisco to stylishly spike the hair on her back. Little did we know that Leibschen used her whiskers to help maintain her direction. We only discovered this when she spent the rest of the night constantly making left turns.
Following that little fiasco, we decided to let the dogs out before they could completely destroy the house. When I opened the door, Shelby came running out at full speed, hit the icy deck, and went helplessly skidding all the way down the stairs with a series of audible thumps. Leibschen, on the other hand, got up a good head of steam and took a left turn right into the Christmas tree, bringing it crashing down on the coffee table, adding to the ever-growing pile of glass on the living room floor. Leibschen scrambled her way downstairs and was not seen for the rest of the night.
Soon, there was a “plumping” sound at the front door. On inspection we discovered that Shelby had materialized with a ham twice the size of her head protruding from her mouth. On any other night we may have considered this strange, but on that particular Christmas Eve, we took no notice. As Shelby was sitting amongst the rubble in the living room attempting to inhale the ham, the doorbell rang. In the doorway stood an enormous woman clad in a fuzzy pink bathrobe roughly the size of our pool cover. She bellowed her asinine story about how our dog had stolen her ham. After listening to this tirade for several minutes, Baron and I declared that we owned no dogs and quickly closed the door.
Back in the living room, Shelby had devoured almost the entire ham before collapsing in a blob amongst its tattered remains. We decided that it would please my parents to no end if we were to wash the grease and the meat off the dog, so we plopped her in the tub. Just as we were finishing rinsing her, Baron mentioned how funny Leibschen had looked with all that powder on her face. On that note, we decided to go for the same effect with Shelby, but to a greater extent. Baron scampered into the kitchen and grabbed the flour which we applied liberally to the dripping wet dog. Voila! An albino porcupine.
Just as we were admiring our handy-work, we heard our parent’s door open. Thinking quickly, we ran out to the couch and casually pretended to be watching the Scooby Doo Christmas Special. As my parents came down the hall, one of them made an unintelligible noise. My dad immediately began to try to scrape the flour off of Shelby, but to no avail; it had quickly hardened into a thick paste. My mom walked over to the couch before very slowly and calmly asking, “What is all this?”
Baron and I gave each other a sidelong glance and then replied in unison, “All what?” My mom just sat there, thinking this over and giving us the frowning of a lifetime. Realizing that the jig was up, Baron burst into tears. When I looked over at him and saw the pasty flour all over his face and that weird yellow stuff all over his robe, I burst into tears, too.
My mother considered us for a moment before coming over to comfort our sorrow. When our tears had subsided, she looked us both in the eye and said, “I’m sure this isn’t as bad as it looks. It really isn’t a big deal. It should only take an hour or two to clean up. And then … you still never cleaned the kitchen.”


My only complaint with this story is that my mom (who was and still is an English teacher) helped Duke revise it and in doing so convinced him to change the original ending.  The rough draft was the saddest goddamn thing I’ve ever read in my entire life.  I can’t really do it justice here, but originally my mom paused for a long time after coming into the living room and then started slowly and wordlessly picking up the scattered fragments of our treasured family heirlooms.  The End.  I think I almost started crying when I read it.


Written by Baron Volcano

02/24/2013 at 8:48 pm

Figured Out

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Part of my job involves receiving beer deliveries every week, a job which is as terrifying as it is physically taxing. Once every few weeks, one of the guys who regularly did this job with me would insist that we “have a beer and play some Big Buck Hunter” at the bar upstairs. That “one beer” almost inevitably turned into something more like “eleven beers and smoking weed in the parking lot of the Sleepy’s next door*.”

On the day in question, my friend Desmond had shown up. At some point circa pitcher number four, he started talking about the blind date he had planned later in the evening. At first I thought it strange to have Many Beers before a blind date. But once he invited me along for some reason** it suddenly became the Best Idea I’d Ever Heard. I agreed to go along and a celebratory pitcher was ordered.

Eventually, we retired to Desmond’s place to get ready*** and soon headed out to the bar… two hours early****. The original plan had been to go to the sister bar of the bar I work at (the same one we had been at earlier, incidentally), as it is one of the few places in the neighborhood that has pool tables. Thankfully I managed to convince everybody to go to a different bar, based on the fact that it still had at least one pool table. I’m not exactly known for making the best decisions while inebriated, but I still had the sense to figure out that it would be a bad idea to run into my boss(es) whilst hammered. At seven PM. On a Tuesday.

Anyhow, the girls showed up to see a couple seriously classy dudes with bright red eyes wolfing down a shared trough of mac and cheese. As the icing on the cake, I was still wearing my work clothes which can be somewhat charitably described as “grubby and torn.” Nonetheless, the night seemed to start quite well despite our stellar first impression. Shots abounded and I spent much of the night talking to Desmond’s date Beth*****. In the interest of not ruining my friend’s date, I was on my best behavior: trying to be nice (for once), avoiding crass jokes (for once), and all around acting like a gentleman (as always).

All of a sudden, Beth turned to me and said flatly “I think I’ve got you figured out.”
“Okay, lay it on me.”
“You’re an asshole.”
Shit! How did she figure that out? I thought I was doing so well! Maybe she’s more perceptive than I think?
No. The general gist of the rest of her long, spirited, unjustifiably angry rant centered around the idea that I’m a rich kid who never really had to work for a living and I’m just living off of my parents and I was obviously in a frat in college. It may or may not have involved a phrase along the lines of “I hate what you are with every fiber of my being.” Now, it’s not like I grew up poor or anything, but if there’s one thing I don’t have at this (or any) stage in my life it’s money.

Desmond did the smart thing and ordered us more shots. Booze got us into this mess, and I’ll be damned if booze wasn’t going to get us out of it. Shortly thereafter, Beth – who had been complaining about a group of people that had been hogging the lone pool table the whole night – decided that it was Her Turn on the table. She went over to the group, which consisted of five or six large men and one girl, and demanded that she be able to play. Upon being told that they would not immediately acquiesce to her extremely rational demands, Beth did what anyone would do in that situation and physically attacked the one girl in the group, who had been sitting quietly to the side at the time.
As Desmond ran over to try and break up the fight, he spotted one of the guys in the group getting up and moving towards Beth in a menacing manner. Desmond decided that he wasn’t going to let a stranger lay a finger on somebody that he showed up with – no matter how crazy she was (the dude has manners) – so he ended up hipchecking a guy twice his size and giving him a stern lecture about the inappropriateness of hitting women. (Yes, seriously).
At this point, Beth had the aforementioned lone girl of the group by the hair and was thrashing her around as Desmond was being bodily hoisted away from the group by several additional guys who were also twice his size.

Nobody’s really sure where I was during all this. It’s entirely possible I hadn’t noticed.

As soon as Desmond got Beth untangled from that poor girl’s hair and outside, she tried to charge back in and restart the whole fight. Finally, Desmond’s patience and/or politeness ran out.
“BITCH. You are NOT going back in that restaurant.”
Miraculously, that worked. She lost all her momentum and just walked away. Her friend, who had presumably been observing the action from afar with me, followed shortly thereafter.

I’m told that Beth assaulted several passersby on the walk home, ostensibly because they had the gall to be walking on the sidewalk near her.

Acting on autopilot, Desmond and I did the only thing we could possibly think of – return to the bar and resume drinking. How the bar staff allowed us to do so remains unclear to me, but I think there were shots.
We ended the night by meeting some friends at Desmond’s apartment. I’m told that amongst a series of repetitive, incoherent accounts of the night’s festivities, I whiled away the remainder of the evening yelling nonspecific gibberish about science.

*I don’t really like using this blog as a venue to brag about How Wasted I Got That One Time (those stories are seldom actually interesting), but I feel like this is contextually relevant information.
**The main reason was that his date was bringing a friend, but alcohol was a strong secondary reason.
***Smoke a blunt.
****It’s probably worth mentioning that I don’t smoke drugs particularly often, so it’s a minor miracle that I was able to walk at this point.
*****While I am in the habit of using fake names on this blog, that may well be her real name. I’m bad with names even when I don’t have eight beers in me, and Desmond wasn’t any help with the matter later on.

This is how I Picture All Office Jobs

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I used to work as the IT department for a small company*.  The work itself was largely unremarkable, but my boss – the owner of the company, who I’ll call Joe – was a bit of a character: calling him weird is an understatement on par with calling the Pacific Ocean “damp.”  Joe was a talker, but seemed to have little or no understanding of how social interaction is supposed to work: I usually described him as having unipolar mania combined with Asperger’s, and I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if I was right**.

An estimated twenty to thirty percent of an average workday consisted of Joe talking at me and/or my coworkers.  And it was always the same conversation which would run through in detail every aspect of company operations, often excepting the parts we might have been interested in (for instance: he would continually mention by name people we’d never heard of, but would never explain who they were or how they were relevant to business.  One such person was named General Boinkin).  Any attempt at talking to him about something else (for instance, anything productive) was quickly derailed into this same speech that he made six times every day to whoever he could ensnare in his conversational trap.  Oh, and I usually telecommuted, so much of this was done via surprise phone calls or scheduled, daily, hours-long conference calls with no purpose.

Stranger still, he had a vanishingly small grasp of the written language.  Emails sent to him were clearly not read or understood in any capacity, and most emails from him were indecipherable gibberish (luckily, he would inevitably call immediately after sending an email and repeat everything he’d written).  There are two examples that really bring this point home.  First, the entire text of an email I received from him:


I noticed you called.


That may be the most coherent email I ever received from him, but the fact remains that it’s mind-bogglingly pointless.

Secondly, there was a paper that we needed to submit for a grant proposal.  He took my clear and concise one-page tech section and turned it into fifteen pages of gibberish and plagiarism, little of which related to what I had written or, for that matter, the subject of the grant.  I stopped reading his revisions (which he showed to me only after a nontrivial amount of badgering) when I got to this sentence: “During this phase we will the developer with the artist will ensure to develop graphical treatments for the environments and elements in which role-playing will take placed based on the detailed storyboards.”  And yes, that excerpt is fairly representative of the rest of the paper.  I began wondering if he actually knew how to read and/or write in English.    I’m still not sure.

Anyway, during his regular two-hour-long rants, he tended to say a lot of things that were extremely awkward, unintentionally (homo)sexual***, and/or hilariously nonsensical.  I spent a pretty big chunk of that time writing the funny parts in the margins of my notebook, and I’ve finally gotten around to typing them out.  I present to you my complete list (or at least all I could find), unedited, with little/no distinction made between spoken and email.  As always, names have been changed to make them sillier.  Also, I’ve included dates just for giggles, but mostly to show that there was apparently an eighteen-month gap where I stopped listening to anything he said whatsoever.
Note: some of these seem like they might just sound weird because they’re removed from context.  Rest assured, very few of these have any context that makes them any more logical.  Often, context makes them less logical.  Mostly he would take a semicoherent train of thought and turn it into a rant about green beans and Eskimos.

We can buy it by the drink. [I think this was referring to software?]

If we get so many hands in the pie, the pie isn’t gonna be very good.

Your efforts currently are to be charged to marketing.  Feminize yourself with the site.

He’s gonna sell it to the government like snowcones to Eskimos.

We cannot wait indefinably for an application that was intended to be completed months ago.

I was hunting the buffalo while they were out coding.

We’re delivering the Kool Aid.

You don’t want to give away the carrots just yet.

We’re gonna have to eat our own dog food here.

We’re really opening our kimono on this one.

Operational efficiency leads to one thing, it doesn’t necessarily you’ll be able to kill more chickens and sell them.

We’re not gonna try to jump through our butts just to get everything up and running.

You don’t want to be comparing a can of beans to a can of beans on the shelf.

If we can be a mouse in support, that’s our objective.

Let’s peel the banana one side at a time.

I’m like Gumby. [my notes specify that this was said “for no apparent reason”]

I blew out the demo by playing with the skins.

We’ve steelproofed this thing so that things are in sync.

These guys are secret squirrel.

The market is there.  It’s hot for us right now.

The next week, everybody’s gonna be humping in different directions.

Arnie West has a psychology PhD in psychology.

The course building is irrespectible of the conversion.

It’s gonna be a tough road to tow.

These are the two pieces of the magic sauce that we need to understand.

I used to be a sniper.  I learned a lot about women that way.  [this was said to the woman setting up our retirement accounts]

The other option is that they throw mud at the wall, then we tell them it’s the wrong color mud, then they throw some more up on the wall.

We’ve got to hand jam it.

I’m gonna put the monkey on them to put the pieces together.

We gotta get him off the dime and on this thing.

I’ll stand in a box if I have to… I’ll stand in a trash can if I have to, to get him to approve the courses.

We’re gonna have to do some penetration analysis.

We’re starting to flush things out.

I’ve been on multiple contracts where it’s sand against sand every step of the way [grinds fists together]

The can of green beans is the same on every shelf.

You’d better get that back end running, ‘cuz hey – guys are asking for it.

I shared the benefits with this recruiting company who recruits, and he really liked our package.

We’re gonna have to start whippin’ it out.

I think they’re good secret sauce people… we may not be secret sauce guys, but hey – we can deliver.

I think the key is to get it up.

I’m gonna ping him really hard.

Tyrone’s probably been telling you I’ve been dumping a lot of load on him.

CompuTex as a future tool has no future.

We have to take what is in our heads and have produces that can be replicated and maintained.

Epilogue: in reading through the list, I’m realizing there are a few things that didn’t get written down for one reason or another, often because I heard them so regularly I became desensitized.  For instance, sending out an email to multiple people was always referred to as “blastin’ it out.”  Contacting somebody was “pinging” them, but in at least one case, he had to “pound Doug” about something.  It’s a fine line when a pinging turns into a pounding, but he seemed to know it well.  And, though it is in my list once, it’s worth mentioning that the expression “hand jamming” was used with abundance (a lot of these were pretty common, actually, but hand jamming has to be my favorite).

*No, that’s not a typo.  For a period of time, I was the entire IT department.
**Years later, my brother Duke was talking about his med-school rotation on the psych ward and described a guy with mania.  If I hadn’t known better, I would swear he was talking about Joe.  Duke also made a point of adding “you can’t fake mania.”  Turns out I wasn’t all that far off.
***Not unlike Tobias from Arrested Development.  It was suggested a few times that he may have done some of this on purpose, but he showed less than zero knowledge of this thing we call “humor.”  It’s possible he’d heard of it, but even that is uncertain.

Long Story (5th Edition)

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So there’s a girl I’d been sort of seeing for a short while (i.e. about a week), and after the first time I slept with her she asks “did that make you like me more?”  I say “after” as in “almost immediately after.”
I was half asleep and more than half drunk, but I still managed to say what I feel is the only logical thing: “…What!?”
“I was just hoping that would make you like me more.”
So not only was she serious, she really wanted this to be true (I still can’t figure out which answer would be more depressing).  I tried to avoid the question, partly because I wanted to avoid the “you’re just saying yes because I want you to” trap, and partly because that’s insane.
“Oh my god, that didn’t make you like me less did it?”
Well, that tactic didn’t work.  At some point she also said that “this was a mistake.  We’re never doing this again.”  Well, I’ve heard that from girls before.  Luckily, I’ve had a lot of practice in the art of Mumbling and Then Falling Asleep, so I eventually made it through the night.

The next morning, she treated me to a rather lengthy list of my faults (none were sex-related, for what that’s worth).  Some highlights include:
-I’m stupid for getting tattoos based on liking what they look like.  Her tattoos have meaning.  One is based on a Modest Mouse song, another on a song by TV on the Radio.  These tattoos say something about her.  She did not appreciate my suggestion that what they say is “I like this song.”
-I don’t like ketchup.  This was honestly the biggest sticking point, and one that’s apparently insurmountable.
-“When I met you I thought you were so cool, but you’re really not cool.”  This one I agreed with.
-My driver’s license says my eyes are brown, when they are clearly hazel.
-It’s pathetic that I can’t get up before 2:30 PM without an alarm.
-I never smile (not true) which means that it’s (apparently) impossible for anybody (i.e. stupid people) to tell when I’m joking.
-My whole life is meaningless.

I don’t disagree with all of these, but it’s kind of a low blow when a 22 year old advertising major calls your life meaningless.  I thought about trying to steer that one towards existentialism but big words tend to make her head hurt (she once described herself as a “very punctual typist” and called me an asshole when I suggested that “punctual” may not have been the right word) and she was severely starting to wear on my reserves of tolerance for stupid people as it was.  Plus she uses the same argument tactic my roommate does when he’s drunk – forcefully repeat the same one or two stupid arguments until the other person stops caring.  She actually takes it a step further by continuing to make stupid arguments at somebody who has given up and doesn’t care.  This conversation also involved her telling me several times that she never wanted to see me again.  Every time she mentioned that, I just said “ok” and resumed wondering if she’d stop talking (answer: no).  (It’s worth mentioning here that I dealt with this the way I did because a) I was too sleepy and hungover to feel too strongly about anything, and 2) she’s pretty damn hot and if I told her to shut the fuck up she might have put her clothes back on.)

Now, a short backstory: I’d known this girl for like two weeks, tops.  I was introduced to her through a friend and she and I played an online Scrabble game that somehow ended with her inviting herself to my apartment to drink beer in my bedroom (follwed by some sort of “Was that sexual? Tee Hee.” comment).  The bedroom beer drinking was postponed in order to go drink at a terrible bar (which I had to drive to, so I didn’t have my normal defense mechanism of getting hammered and being an asshole).  At some point during the night she told me that I’m (and I paraphrase) “tolerable, but mostly because you have great hair.”  The next day she told me I’d get more compliments if I told people to touch me.  Note: this does not work.  Even if you specify that it’s your hair, you get weird looks.  I did get told that I have really soft hair, but I was told this by a dude so we’ll count that one as more unsettling than anything else.
Other notable events during that one week (in no particular order):
-She started a text-message conversation with “I miss your face.”  Comments of the “I miss you” variety were quite common, to the extent that I once got an “I miss you” text message while I was still in the elevator at her apartment building.
-She repeatedly grabbed me by the belt to make out with me in the toy department at Target.
-I was told “I want to hurt you.”  She was gnawing on my cheekbone at the time and sounded serious.
-She asked me several times “Isn’t it sad that our time together is so limited?” and/or “Will you miss me when I’m gone?”  These are both in reference to the fact that she’s leaving town after her (expected) graduation in May.  Considering that it’s February, that would make our “limited time together” roughly seven times as long as we’ve known each other.
-She got drunk and started sending me pictures of herself.  Not sexy ones, unless you are turned on by pictures of girls drinking (and I am).  On the plus side, she has a penchant for see-thru shirts.
-She started calling me by pet names (well, we had known each other for almost a week).
-The first time I saw her in person after being introduced to her, she showed up at my bar shitfaced then stared at me wide-eyed and speechless when I said hello and asked how her night went.
-On at least one occasion, she repeatedly told me I looked like a hobo.  This was, I believe, because I was wearing a plaid shirt – hobos being known for having very specific fashion sense and a strong affinity towards certain fabric patterns.  Though now that I think about it, it may be because I was wearing a hat.  Every time she saw me wearing a hat, she’d get genuinely confused and ask why I was wearing a hat.

Anyway, a day and a half after she claimed to never want to see me again, I received the following series of texts, which I didn’t find on my phone until I was at iHop at four AM (and in suitable mental condition to be eating late-nite shitty pancakes).  For context, it’s worth mentioning that these were sent at 1:30 AM on February 15th:
“2nd times a charm. Speaking of charm, you have none. Thanks for the happy v-day txt! Just kiddinggg because you never sent me one!”
[A picture message of several pills on somebody’s palm]
“Drugs on drugs on drugs.  Maybe it’ll work this time?”
[A picture of baby food]
“I even got you a v-day present.  I bet you feel like the absolute worst now, huh?”
“Or you can ignore me.  That also works.”

Needless to say, I was a tad confused.  There was slight context for a little of that, but not enough for me to be able to wrap my head around any of it.  But I’d resolved to see this out until it stopped being entertaining, so I had a responsibility.  This came into play when she invited herself to my apartment again later that week.  I showed up at her place circa 2 AM, as is my custom, and she asked “why are you here?  Did I call you?”  Just like Fight Club!  Except instead of the night ending in hours of weird sex, she kept telling me the same uninteresting story over and over and over and over and I think there was pizza.  Oh, also this is when she gave me my Valentine’s Day baby food.  She seemed really upset that I hadn’t eaten it by the time I left for work the next day so I told her I’d eat it at work (which, to my credit, I did do).

On the bright side, I get to see her again since she left her credit card and ID in my car somehow.  Well, I don’t know that her ID was left in my car since I found it under one of my windshield wipers a week later, but the credit card was definitely in there.

Written by Baron Volcano

03/03/2012 at 1:46 am


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I have to say that Johnny Cash’s “Boy Named Sue” better exemplifies the American Spirit than any other song I’ve heard.  The guy’s got an embarrassing name, so what does he do – change it?  Nope.  Use a nickname, perhaps?  Guess again.  Roam around the country beating people up?  Bingo.  If that doesn’t perfectly encapsulate the very essence of the American Can-Do Attitude, then I don’t know what does.

Written by Baron Volcano

07/21/2011 at 11:17 pm

Posted in Karate Explosion!

Ride on my Mustache Chariot

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I had a job interview this morning, and in what I hope is the first time in recorded history, the guy I interviewed with asked me if I have a mustache.  There’s a possibility that this was a job-related inquiry, especially judging from the hopeful tone in his voice when he asked.

Written by Baron Volcano

05/03/2011 at 12:39 pm

More Lazy, Self-Referential Jabbering

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WordPress helpfully offers a list of the search engine queries that people used to find this site, so as part of my ongoing effort to find things to write that don’t involve me putting in any actual thought, I started perusing this list.  The results were a 50/50 mix of entertaining and baffling.  Here are a few of my favorites (in rough order of least to most awesome) with commentary:

samoas cookies with a purple sneakers
The list was – by far (say, 95%) – dominated by phrases relating to Samoas and/or Coconut Dreams (though notably few mentioned Caramel deLites, the lame politically-correct title applied to Samoas in some states).  My first inclination was to assume I know a lot of people who liked that post but haven’t quite figured out the “bookmark” button.  But on second thought, it’s entirely likely that a lot of people on the internet are really interested in reading about these cookies for some reason.  Either way, I have no idea how the hell anything I have ever said relates to purple sneakers.

putting on uniform
I cannot possibly figure out what anyone would hope to gain by doing a google search for this phrase.

thought of the day about air
Are there a lot of people writing profound thoughts about air?  If not, there’s apparently a market for it.

why was there an egg in the fucking volcano
This is also sort of an odd thing to Ask Jeeves, but now I really want to know the answer.  Hell, I’d settle for knowing where this question comes from.  The most likely explanation I can think of involves the phrases “Dave Poole” and “drunken rage.”

“case of relish”
Can you imagine trying to find a place to purchase large amounts of hot dog fixin’s, only to stumble across an article about ejaculating condiments?  I hope I provided insight into this person’s quest for lots of mashed-up pickles.  Failing that, I kind of hope I made somebody swear off the internet forever.

how to become a semen volcano
There are few times in my life when I feel truly proud of myself.  But somehow, knowing I created something that’s relevant to this pervy dude’s absurd (and hopefully entirely sincere) question, I just swell up with pride.
It is also worth noting that this is the only search in the list that I didn’t repeat.  I’m not sure I want to find what this dude was actually looking for.

Written by Baron Volcano

05/01/2011 at 7:38 pm