I wanted to share a short news post from a couple of weeks ago that I found interesting. Rapper/producer Kanye West made a name for himself last year when he released his debut album College Dropout. I picked it up on a whim, having heard the first two singles and figuring, what the hell, I'd give it a shot. I was very pleasantly surprised. He's strong lyrically, and creative in his own right, but the overall production is what impressed me most. Musically it was certainly the best rap album I'd heard in quite awhile, so I was in no way surprised when it won a Grammy. All of that is beside the point, other than to give background as to why the following story caught my eye (reprinted from Yahoo! news, AP): 
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As my readers may know, I am, let's say, outspoken in my support for the Theory of Evolution and my outrage at school boards even suggesting that ideas like Creationism be taught alongside science. Awhile back I followed a link from Boing Boing to an open letter to the Kansas school board. I recommend reading it, it's only a few paragraphs and it contains several sly jabs at Intelligent Design. Here's the opening: It has been a slow summer for evildoing and general mischief-making. Much to my chagrin, that contemptible harpy Mother Nature has made the process of formulating a delicate plot a difficult task, what with her incessant heat and reluctance to deliver even a single drop of precipitation. Seriously, my butterfly garden is a frightful shame--it's embarrassing to have company over when it's in such shambles. And of course it's been hell trying to fund any worthwhile endeavors. Do you think it is cheap to air-condition a secret hideout in an active volcano when it is already 90 degrees outside? I assure you, it is not. And let us not discuss the price of distilled petroleum! I can't even send the henchmen out for donuts and bedlam without emptying the coffers to keep the Kato Wagons running.
Plus there was the unfortunate incident with the HK Virus earlier this year. That set my nefarious plans back at least a whole month, not to mention dangerously depleting our supply of facial tissues and hand-sanitizer. I had to shut down operations for at least a week just to wipe down all the equipment. Have you ever looked at a Death Ray control panel under a microscope? Dear god, it's a microorganism jamboree!
Speaking of which, the Death Ray has been more a source or consternation than of mirth. Originally I planned to threaten the nations of the world with it, demanding of them some ludicrous and un-payable ransom in exchange for not blowing up their miserable national landmarks. Of course I would have done it anyway, even if they had paid--I have a reputation to uphold. But then, on the eve of my devious plan's execution, I received a summons to the Court of Nefarious Deeds sent by the Guild of Calamitous Intent. It would seem that the Storm Bringer (a hotheaded egomaniac if you ask me) demanded an injunction against my use of the Death Ray! The nerve! His claim was that, as the de facto bringer of storms, he is the only guild member allowed to rain down destruction from the heavens! Something about infringing on his evil trademarks or other such hogwash. I clearly explained to the tribunal that it is a Death Ray--it deals out death. It's not like I built a giant lightening gun or an evil sno-cone machine. It probably didn't help that I called the Storm Bringer a whiny little weather-bitch. Long story short, I can't use the aforementioned ray of death in an instance when it "could be perceived as a destructive force emanating from the sky or associated with the destructive force of nature's fury." Well, what's the freakin' point of having it, then? I honestly don't know why I keep paying my guild dues. I guess it's the need to see my handsome visage gracing the pages of the monthly newsletter some day. In a flattering light, that is. I wasn't thrilled about them naming me "Most Likely To Wind Up Dead In A Hotel Room Watching Pornography" in last month's "Who's hot? Who's not?" issue.
Ever vigilante and faced with an abundance of time on my hands awaiting the fall season of Desperate Housewives, I set my superior intellect on my latest brilliant scheme. This one is so ingenious it will earn me Villain of the Year for certain. In a laboratory deep below Mt. Kato, next to the break room and down the hall from the roller disco, I thumbed my nose at evolution itself! Through a recombinant gene process known only to myself, Dick Clark, and the Raelians (who knew?), I was able to grow, if you will, a specimen with which to carry out a dastardly plan.
I carefully extracted samples from various species: the South American Hypnotic Frog of Guyana, the Albino Wooly Bear Caterpillar of the Upper Great Lakes Region, and the David Crosby of, well, The Byrds and Crosby, Still, and Nash (and Young). The samples were placed in my genetic splicer known fondly as the Blend-A-Tron and then transferred to our EZ-DNA Oven for recombination. When all was said and done, the genetic code for a new species had been created, which when implanted in an ovum would develop into an organism expressing select traits from each of its donors. The process was completed successfully. Behold, my diabolical creation: The Hypnostache!
The other evening I heard a knock on my door. It was shortly after six and I had only recently returned home from work. I was a bit puzzled, as no one ever knocks on my door, but I thought perhaps it was a friend in the area or a neighbor looking for a lost cat or llama or some such thing. I peered through the peephole and saw a young man in his early twenties standing there. I didn't recognize him. What follows is an account of the encounter, paraphrased to the best of my memory, with bonus annotations featuring what I should have said instead of what I actually did say. For convenience sake (since I don't remember his name), we'll just call this gentleman Tool.
It is perfectly acceptable for your dog to bark. It is completely unacceptable for it to BARK INCESSENTLY AT SIX O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.
As I was logging into my machine at work today, I accidentally bumped the Caps Lock key. It can be horribly frustrating on any system to get locked out of your account because you typed the password wrong repeatedly, but more so if you didn't realize you were typing IN ALL CAPS (seen here). Fortunately, XP tells you, "Hey, dumbass, you might want to watch where you're putting those sausage links," when it thinks you probably didn't mean to shout your password. I was saved from the agony of calling tech support to unlock my account and got to thinking about the Caps Lock key.
I answered my cell phone at work a short time ago and walked away from my desk to take the call. When I had returned there were three people sitting in my section of the office waiting for me--a meeting that I didn't realize would take place in front of my desk. Let me tell you, it's awkward trying to explain why you have an Internet Explorer window open displaying a picture with the words "I HATE JESUS" printed across it in large letters.
Which is better, Chewy Chips Ahoy! or Keebler Soft Batch? Is there room for them both in the cookie pantheon?
My loyal readers, please forgive me. In the past week I have written scant few words. My free time has been consumed with the sweet joy of playing video games. Mmmm... carpel tunnel syndrome.
