this blog is eggsalady

It's A Beautiful Day

2014-06-23T17:38:00.000-04:00

It's been a long time. I shouldn't have left you. But maybe stop being so damn greedy, friend, because it's not like you've just been languishing along, alone and afraid all this time without a dope beat to step to or anything. Seriously.

There's a reason I'm back, though, even if our magical time together is only fleeting. I got a call this morning. Yeah, I'm bragging. Did you get one? Anyway, in the call, the person on the other end - the Caller if you will - was working up some pretty impressive sniveling about the besieging of his body by what I can only assume is the rotovirus that will end humanity. Then there was some discussion about meetings or cubicles or colleagues with chin pubes or I don't know - I was in Target and also awake so I was having a hard time keeping up with all of these trials and tribulations that honest to God wage-earners go through during their day to day. But then Caller was all, "Hey, guess what? It's JT's birthday." And I was all, "Remember the dark days in between when sexy used to be here and the time that it was not yet back and we just kind of plodded through, like, dead-eyed raising the roof or whatever, just totally unaware of all the sexy that was yet to knock us on our asses with its inevitable, glorious return? I like to call it the Resexyrection and --" and then Caller totally rudely interrupted and was like, "I'm not talking about Justin Timberlake, I'm talking about Trainor and were you just putting sexy into the word resurrection because I feel like there's some blasphemy going down if so, but..." and he kept talking but I was still in Target so it's not like I was listening anymore.

But. Then Caller was like, "so, maybe you could send Trainor a happy birthday text or whatever and it could be funny if you'd like make fun of me, or whatever, because that's funny." Ear perk. Is it? IS IT? Tell me more, my little green friend. So how should it start? How about the classic "So a rabbi, a priest, and a computer programmer walk into a bar holding a rental purchase agreement..."? We've all heard that one 1,000 times, though, am I right? Or, like, do I throw in birthday wishes in the middle of my jab about how some people are so stupid they don't even know all the details about the New Jersey tax implications (and don't even get me started about the California rent-to-own tax implications. Only a real moron wouldn't understand those - you know what I'm sayin'? And, by the way, Oooweee!, them's a lotta candles on that cake). It's just not seamless, you know? And, in a text? P'shaw. You might as well just ask me to send my trite HBD hopes and dreams to old John -- on the anniversary of that first day he soared head-first (assumedly) out of his mother's warm uteral hug and into this cold, hard earth -- via Facebook. Shudder. I'm not a complete asshole.

So, that brings me here.

Instead of being another HBD Facebook asshole, I'm gonna be an Eggs a Lady asshole and discuss some of John's brethren and sistren (it's sexist that sistren isn't a word. The Establishment should be ashamed. ASHAMED!) with whom John shares a birthday on the luckiest of all days, June 23.

First, obviously: Clarence Thomas. Besides (frankly, uncannily similar) dashing good looks and likewise poetic ways to beautifully mold and twist a phrase in the English language, both CT and JT hold command of a floor like no other. They make decisions like their jobs depend on it or something. While one's an associate, the other is an actual Chief - a Chief of Information, mind you (hat tip, by the way, to the creator of that job title), so I guess they both know a thing or two about working it like a boss. But, wait. Chiefs are obviously better than associates, so suck it, Clarence Thomas. John is superior.

Next, it is important, nay crucial, to note that June 23 is also the date of birth of the best American Idol judge besides Simon Cowell or one-time guest judge Mary J. Blige that Fox TV has ever seen. Mr. Randy Jackson. During this paragraph, I would like to use the word dawg a minimum of 4 total times, dawg. Here are four musicians Randy Jackson has worked with that I'm going to go ahead and assume John has in his iTunes repertoire, dawg: Blue Oyster Cult, Richard Marx, the incomparable Celine Dion, and Stryper. Once I had a dream that Randy Jackson and I were eating at an Outback Steakhouse and we both reached for the same bite of bloomin onion and lightning shot through my veins just as I am sure it is presently shooting through yours during this electrifying retelling. Dawg, Randy's pure animal magnetism during my REM state screams June 23. It screams Mr. Trainor. But, nope. People tell me when he walks through the halls of the old business-place, old JT is making ladies and gents alike swoon like it's nobody's business. Nobody. Oh, crap. That's obsolete. Old JT is making ladies and gents alike swoon 'cuz he's Owning it. Keep on owning it, John. Own it harder than Randy Jackson. Own it harder than Tito Jackson. Just Own It, boss. Own It.

There are so many other June 23 Spirit Animal People (People Animals? Spirit People? Dope Ass Shit Gemini-Cancer Cuspers?) who John is similar to but also better than. People like LaDainian Tomlinson who once said, "Absolutely. You're going to definitely think about the games that got away, what you could have done different." Do I think John thinks about games that got away, stores that missed sales quotas, the pre-approval process as it relates to man's search for meaning in an often dark and meaningless, mysterious world? Obviously I think that. Do I hate it that LaDainian Tomlinson assumes I am going to think about those things? Yes I do. Does it make me want to punch someone in the vas deferens everytime someone doesn't add an l and a y to make the word different an adverb instead of an adjective when modifying a verb? You bet your sweet ass it does. But this is about John, not me. So instead of betting your sweet ass, let's just think of John's sweet birthday ass, instead.

There are others. So many others. Jason Mraz of the whitebread, neither here nor there voice that makes me want to study logorithms and drink a Slush Puppie just because. Johnannes Gutenberg, whose whole being was kinda shaped on a career that by its very definition John kinda spits into the face of each and every day with that whole "Screw You, Paper; I'm an Officer of Information" title. There's Bob Fosse (JAZZHANDS!) and June Carter Cash and even Joss-my-name-rhymes-with-Boss-but-I'll-Never-Be-as-Boss-as-Trainor Whedon, as well, dawg (I missed saying it. Sue me.). But it's clear that John rules supreme, I mean rules chief, above all the rest.

So, I'd like to raise a blog post to the original JT, on the anniversary that our land was graced with his presence. So, whatever, Texts. Screw you, Facebook Happy Birthdays. This here is my here here (hear hear?) to Mr. T. Happy Birthday, Chief. Happy Freaking Birthday.

Getting to Know You

2010-08-19T21:26:00.000-04:00

Long time no talk, eh? Well, you were so busy with that thing at work, and I've been taking all of those meetings with the Dutch lately, so, you know. People drift apart. Let's not let it happen to us, okay? We're not like everybody else. How about this: How about we get a little closer today? You know how I struggle with commitment, but today I'm going to let you in just a little bit, just to prove how much you mean to me.

Today, I'm going to divulge some secrets. Not about me, but about my husband. That should count as something. Today I'm going to share and subsequently debunk

10 Names My Husband Has At Some Point Claimed He Was Called in College (But He Really Wasn't).

1) The Holepunch - No he wasn't. Of any office supply, he's characteristically so much more similar to White Out, I think. So, if you know him, feel free to latch on to that one, 'cuz The Holepunch, he is not.

2) Papa Smurf - Um, no. Maybe that one time that one guy said that thing about giving handies to your mom and that other guy was like, "Yeah. We should call him Handy Smurf" and my husband had had too many Southpaws or whatever shitty keg beer was in the backyard and he decided he'd latch on to that but change it a little and try to be Big Papa Smurf, but, no. He wasn't.

3) The Alabama Slamma - I don't even know what the hell this is supposed to mean. Is it because I'm from Alabama? Don't let him try to tell you he was the Slamma. Not even for one day was he eva tha Slamma. P'shaw.

4) Senor Smoke - This one is really ironic, actually, because people did call him Juan Berenguer back in the day. Man, life is really funny.

5) Soul Train - Nope.

6) Beastmaster 6000 - WTF? Really? Not. Possibly for eight months - maybe nine - he was Beastmaster 6001, but Beastmaster 6000? Hardly.

7) DJ Minute Rice, What? - What? Like the "What" is supposed to be part of the DJ name? Huh? Is it Minute Rice because he's white? Does he think he was a real life deejay, too? Does being on the cutting edge of downloading literally every Terence Trent D'arby track including the deeper cuts via Napster count as being a real life deejay? Cool name, big guy. People never called you that. Never will, what?

8) George Peppard - Oh? Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith? Yeah. That happened. Mmmhmmm.

9) I Toed Her Wet Sprocket - Ick. Gross. He didn't. Nobody ever said he did.

10) The Swiffer - He wishes.

Confessions. They really do strengthen the bonds that can't be broken, don't they?

To Infinity and Beyond

2010-08-11T23:02:00.001-04:00

If I know you (and I think I do), then you used to wake up early on Saturday morning, run downstairs, grab a heaping bowl of Cookie Crisp and roll your eyes at your sister's choice of chocolate-free-therefore-obviously-healthy cereal choice of Sugar Smacks. You'd then pull your Underoos out of your butt and settle in to a hour or four of some combination that - depending on that year's tv lineup - included (but was not limited to) the Smurfs, Shirt Tales, Alvin and the Chipmunks, Dungeons and Dragons, The Muppet Babies, Hulk Hogan's Rock-n-Wrestling!, The Littles, Pee Wee's Playhouse (and the list goes on and on) followed by a decently enjoyable ABC Weekend Special.

Anyways, a common motif in a typical Saturday morning show plotline was a genie or a magic alien or some grand poobah flying in and POOF! granting three wishes to our program's protagonist. We've already established that I think you're like me. So, I think that the two of us can agree that each and every time the plot rolled around to that played-out three wishes storyline, before our main character even thought about what his first wish would be, you and I were precursively (10-4. I know. Not a word. Should be.) yelling at the screen, "ASK FOR MORE WISHES! WISH FOR MORE!" You had probably discovered if not quite understood the definition of "infinity," so you likely yelled something like this: "INFINITY MORE WISHES! YOU WANT INFINITY MORE, DUMMY!"

Well, just this morning I found myself wishing for a couple of things in my head, and then I began greedily wishing for more, and then I decided I should probably compile these so I can be prepared when my own Great Gazoo flies in to ask me what I want. Infinity wishes are only worth something if you have something to wish for. So, here goes. The beginning of my list:

1) I wish instead of having ten fingers, humans came equipped with eleven, except that the eleventh finger is a spoon. This would be so handy. You'd never have to pull a spoon out of the silverware drawer to eat your pudding again. I would prefer that the spoon digit be another thumb-type deal, but, hey, I'm not going to be a diva about this whole thing. Oh, I'm sorry. Did I just catch you rolling your eyes? What are you, Sarah Palin? (that, um, wasn't political commentary, mmkay.) You think our spoon finger is gonna get in the way of things? I thought of that. It's retractable. Yeah. It'll fold back into our wrist. Or something. Anyway, it'll be awesome. You're welcome in advance for the betterment in your anatomical ability.

And while we're speaking phalangically...

2) I wish I could figure out Chinese handcuffs and not tear each and every freaking pair I ever owned.

3) I wish I could still find Grandma's Fudge Chocolate Chip cookies somewhere on God's Earth. Not my Grandma - Frito Lay's Grandma (but, holy Applebees!, both my Grandma and my Nena respectively could and can make some kickass cookies, natch). So, maybe my wish includes, like, and endless supply of them in my pantry. Or even and endless supply of them in my local CVS. I'll pay any dollar amount, even after the ginormous price increase these cookies from heaven have undergone in my day. I live and breathe for these cookies. (Oh. In case you remember my non-chewing plight of aught eight, I'll update you: I'm half a chewer now. I still can't feel the left side o'me mouth, so my right set of teeth do all the work while the lefties sit over there, tongue numbly slapping against them willynilly, as those left teeth wax poetic about the good ole days when they got some play in my mouth. And the softness of those incredibly palatable Grandma's Fudgies melt in my orifice so pleasantly they really provide little to no choking risk. There ya go. Consider yourself caught up on my oral history.)

4) I wish a certain delicious news anchor stud about whom I am legally not permitted to speak but whose name may or may not rhyme with Molf Schlitzer was not so damn well versed in the legal intricacies of the restraining order.

5) I wish the following commercial still graced my television and graced it hardcore. Quite simply, it is the single-greatest advertisement that has ever aired in the history of the world. I love it. I'd court it for an extended period of time then hardcore romance it then marry it in a beautiful but subtle beachside ceremony attended by just our closest friends and family then create six gorgeous kids who never pushed chairs on top of their brothers with it if only I could. I guess I can't, though. But, I wish it still aired regularly on my tv:

6) I wish people would stop being so damn prejudiced. I have no patience for people who are all judgey judgey stereotypey assholey my blah is better than your blah. Everywhere you turn there is so much racismsexismhomophobicelitismclassismsblowitoutyourassism. I wish the world didn't contain ridiculous prejudices and stereotypes and assholes that hate blah because they think they're the blah. Anyway, I'm not completely naive enough to believe that if I wished it would all go away the world wouldn't just implode, the end. So, I'm not gonna use a wish to wish all prejudice away since I don't want to be responsible for ending the world. But, I am going to ask to eliminate one completely and totally ridiculous prejudice: Red Lobster snottism. It's such total crap. Red Lobster is freaking awesome. Find me one a-hole, one papface with the ability to ingest food who does not freaking love a Red Lobster cheddar biscuit and love it hard. And you know what? The lovely waitstaff at Red Lobster give you a whole friggin complimentary basket of 'em - along with a smile. Dude? It's Crabfest right now. Garlic crab and shrimp pasta? Obviously. I'll take mine with a Lobsterita, please. Like you wouldn't. Right. So, you know what? Stop being an asshole and pretending Red Lobster isn't amazing. I wish your ignorant stuck up Red Lobster prejudice would disappear.

7) I wish I could remember a little more about that one night in 1998 with Philip Michael Thomas.

8) I wish someone could tell me what the hell happened to the McDonald's gang. Are they in McDonald's heaven? Was there some mass cult suicide that I was never informed of in order to spare my feelings and keep my childhood memories pure as the most boring American Idol in the history of A.I. - Jordan Look at Me I'm a Virgin La La La Sparks? What in God's name happened to the McDonaldland playland where Ronald sat comfortably greeting you from his bench with a glimmer in his eye and a rubbery red smile? What the hell happened to the Mayor McCheese Roundabout and the Fry Guys Bouncers and the Chief Big Mac Climber, where kids like me sat on a cheeseburger seat, devoured a McNuggets happy meal, fries and a coke, and then freaking played? And, my God - what I wouldn't give to attend just one more birthday party at McDonalds. My friends, what happened to Birdie the Early Bird and Grimace and the Fry Guys and the Mayor of all things pure and all our other best friends from the Son of Donald? I wish I knew. I wish I knew.

9) I wish someone in my family remembered to change the water filter in my refrigerator even one time in the last six years.

10) I wish for infinity more wishes. You really thought I'd forget, didn't you? Hardly.

SPTs Get (a LittleTime) Off

2010-08-11T22:52:00.000-04:00

Sexy Programmer Thursday ain't here this Thursday, yo. We're all up in the calendar shoot. More details to come...

My Gift to You.

2010-08-09T11:42:00.000-04:00

There are moments in life when we tend to feel somber:
Your boo's period's late, or you're the unibomber.
Sometimes in our lives we all could use some friends.
Like that time your wife found that new wart on her gens.
Often, life gives us lemons; it drops a grenade-
A herpal grenade you caught from some skanktown named Jade.
But in times of need, you're never alone
I'm here to support you and thrown you a bone.
A cheaply made present is what you will get;
I'm too poor for Photoshop, so it's cheap paint.net.
But it's Woolery, nonetheless, swathed in dogs' licks
Turn that frown upside down, dude: this is your fix.
If you know someone out there who is down on his luck
Give him something to believe in: send him Dogs Licking Chuck

Because I love you, I will give you the ultimate gift. My gift to you: Dogs Lick Chuck.

Sexy Programmer Thursday: Soooo Big Version 19.0

2010-08-05T00:03:00.000-04:00

Happy Sexy Programmer Thursday, Purveyors of Passion. Thursdays are always orgasmic around here, but today marks an especially sexy occasion. You see, today is the nineteenth lustacious version of SPT, and you know what 19.0 is in binary translation: that's right, it's the sexiest number of all - 10011. To mark the red hot anniversary, I'm going to share the sexiest conversation to which I have ever been privy. It's a sexy progammer manmeat comparison festivale. Maybe it's sexist. I don't care, because it's sexy. So, eat your heart out, friends, and check out what some Sexy Programmer All Stars are packing.

Holy Paps! I think that's free software programmer Miguel de Icaza, best known for starting the GNOME and Mono projects. Hey Miguel de Icaza: How big is Miguel?

Sooo big.

Really, de Icaza? Because I, Guido van Rossum, king of Python

(both literally and literally. huh huh.), have seen your junk.

Dude. You're this big.

What's that, Miguel? Can't hear you.

Come on,van Rossum, man. I'm like this. They call me the Mexican Johnny Cash based upon my habit of simultaneously wearing black sweaters with equally black slacks, and also because I have a gigantic phallus as I understand Johnny Cash also possessed.

What? Still unable to hear ya, little buddy. Oh, hey. There's Bill Atkinson! He was part of the Apple Macintosh development team and also was the creator of the groundbreaking Mac Paint application, among others, so he knows a thing or two about judging programming junk size. Didn't he see you in the locker room that one time? Hey, Atkinson? How big is de Icaza's junk over here?

Miguel's junk, Guido? About like this.

You guys are so full of crap. I'm so peeved off right now I could take off my black sweater.

Yeah. I'm losing the black sweater.

That's so much better. But, my rod is seriously like this. Oh, good to see you, inventor of the Logo programming language Seymour Papert. How's things?

Get a load of you, de Icaza. You say your junk is like this? A ha ha. Aaaaah ha ha. Hahahahahahaha! Hey, Brendan Eich, creator of JavaScript, Miguel de Icaza thinks his member is like this!

Really, buddy? I think it's more like this. Hahahaha. Hahahahaha. God. You crack me up, de Icaza. Yeah. You're legendary. Isn't he legendary, pioneer of virtual reality, Jaron Lanier?

I hear it's more like this!

No, wait. I'm remembering wrong. It was more like this.

Ha ha ha! Ha ha. Ahahahaha! Good one, Lanier!

And while we're at it, I'm hung like an IBM System/370 Model 145. Hahaha. Ahahahaha. Hahahahahahaha!

Whatever, guys. I'm out of here.

Aaaaand, so are we. Happy Sexy Programmer Thursday Version 10011. You deserve it.

The Humdrum Phenomenon of a Kevin: A Study in Mediocrity

2010-08-04T12:24:00.000-04:00

Do you sometimes think that day in and day out, you are just slogging through the motions, absently wiping shredded wheat off your chin while staring at your computer in a daze, effortlessly waiting to be spoon fed your entertainment by the happenings on your screen? Yeah. I sometimes think you are, too.

Well, pal, today, instead of presenting a soliloquy about the infinite wisdom that can be found staring into Sherri Shepherd's heaving bosom or engaging in yet another debate regarding whether Swiss Cake Roll theft constitutes attempted manslaughter, I think that you should partake in some serious sociological analysis. Today, you will be ruminating upon a fascinating global circumstance. Today, we shall analyze the world's silent understanding that is The Blah of Kevin.

It's been an unspoken epidemic. Until now. Hey, friend: having a kid? Congratulations. That's really swell. Hey, amigo: wanna make sure your spawn thrives in a life of substantial blandness and a case of general non-offensive averageness? Okay, great. Name him Kevin. It's true, yo. Kevins could not be any more blase, any more just plain fine if they tried. Let's go to the (proverbial) tape:

Hi. I'm Kevin Jonas, the middle member of the Jonas Trifecta. I'm not bothering you, am I? Good. You probably couldn't have picked me out of a lineup, am I right? I look like every other guy that was in your Intro to Econ class. I'm two parts uninteresting appearance, three spoonfuls of forgettable singing voice, and a dash of non-ironic virginity until my unnoticed marriage to a pleasant looking girl. Do you like my plaid shirt?

It's me, Kevin Arnold from the Wonder Years. I sure am affable, aren't I?

Kevin Bacon here. I've had full frontal in one hundred sixteen and a half films. Do you remember what my dong looks like? Yeah. Me neither. I'm sure it's fine.

I'm medium amounts of funny in a nice, tall, lackluster package known as Kevin Nealon. Thanks for tuning into to my annual funniest commercials of the year special last year until your wife changed the channel to Bravo. That was great. Hey. Have a good afternoon.

I'm Kevin Something. Remember when I was on American Idol? I didn't think so.

I'm Kevin Nash, one of the least interesting characters to come out of wrestling since Jake the Snake Roberts. What's new with me? Hmmm. I got a staph infection in 1999. I don't know. I've been thinking about taking a cruise in a few months.

You see what I mean. What's that? Why are nine of you shouting, like, "What about Kevin Garnett?" and, "What the crap, you rectal fissure; K-Fed is the bomb, and you suck!" Look. The Kevin thing is a rule. Do rules sometimes have exceptions? Yeah. Sometimes they do. Sometimes your skanky little sister was allowed to stay out past curfew while her boyfriend Kurt felt her up in the back of his RX-7 while you were left with the crummy Gilbert Gottfried version of USA Up All Night followed by an hour of squintvision. That's life.

Anyways, all I'm saying is, it's the fair to middling Kevins of the world that keep life just fine for all of us. So next time you see a Kevin, why don't you thank him with a medium-grasped handshake and a pat on the back? He'll probably be pleasantly pleased without being overly excited that you did.

I'm Gonna Put This Dream in Motion

2010-08-03T01:42:00.000-04:00

Are you sitting down? I hope you are sitting down, because you and I are about to make some history, my friend. I've known you for a while, and I've seen that little glimmer in your eye; you're ready for a revolution.

Do you feel something electric in the air today? My God, I know I do. If you're anything like me (Who are we kidding here? You and I are like Funyuns and chocolate sauce - two intertwined lovers who shall never part ways), then you bounced out of bed, delightfully energized, because August 3 just feels completely different. I agree. It is.

Today, if you'll join me, I propose that we, together, glorify quite possibly the most poontastic living legend you and I have seen in all our living, breathing, sweating, panting, crying, itching for indeterminate reasons days. How in the hell anyone has yet to give our magnificent hero his own (unofficial) holiday, I will never, ever know. But they haven't. And we will. Please, friends, won't you join me in creating and celebrating that day that God selflessly granted us the greatest Ocean anyone has ever stared longingly into while casually yet hastily removing each and every layer of our cumbersome undergarments?

Please join with me in proclaiming August 3, 2010 the very first Billy Ocean Day. Why today? Why the hell not? You and I both have volumes of Billy Ocean fan fiction tucked away in our bedside tables. Why in God's name shouldn't we make our hero worship official?

Since we're just kicking off our celebration of a holiday that will obviously live on and on forever and ever until infinity, I'm open to any and all suggestions regarding how we proceed with the festivities. Clearly, you should ask your boss for the day off. Hell, I'd be surprised if he's still sitting his happy behind in front of his old personal computer right now and not in some bar sharing the same dream with his own Caribbean Queen.

I'd love your ideas on how to proceed. Until I hear from you, I'll leave you with a few haikus dedicated to our sweet Ocean on this most hallowed day.

Ocean fantasy
Fondling giant Pick Up Sticks
Now I'll die happy.

Goatee, jean jacket
Turtleneck ribbed for pleasure
Jheri curls of love

Get out of my dreams
Scarlet leisure suit o'sex
Get into my car.

Holy shit, Billy!
A diploma for hotness?
I saw it coming.

Anyway, pals. Happy Freaking Billy Ocean Day '10. Now our love of the Ocean has a place to convene. No more love on the run. No. No more love on the run.

Sexy Programmer Thursday: Hot For Teacher Version 18.0

2010-07-29T11:58:00.002-04:00

I know you. You woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning, ready for action. For, it is that glorious day, that most wonderful day of the week when all of your most private desires materialize before your very eyes. Hooray! It is Sexy Programmer Thursday! It's a very special week here at SPT. Very soon - if my financial aid and scholarship packages come through that is (criss cross applesauce, now I've got my fingers crossed, please please help, Sexy Programming gods, I appeal to you and your magnificent rods) - I'll be on the road to my very own, in person, real life, actual living, breathing fantasy come true. You see, I've found the Sexy Programming Teacher who out-sexies all other teachers in the land. It's Babealicious Billy Hollis, and he's this week's amazingly sexy programmer.

What was I babbling about with all that about praying to the SP gods and the ruckus about the scholarships? Well, friends, you may need to sit down for this. Our living dream, Microsoft MVP, trainer of all the developers on the .NET tour (imagine the barometric pressure of hotness on that tour bus!), author of over ten books including the first book ever published on Visual Basic .NET, Billy Hall of Fame Hollis is personally training anyone (ME!ME!ME!) willing to learn, and also write a check, on Microsoft Silverlight, the sultriest, smoothest development platform this side (or any other side) of the Mississippi. I swear, my access protocol is in absolute overdrive! Obviously, I'm saving each and every nickel to be personally molded by the hands of the Hollis. Truthfully, I'm a beginner, and this Beginner can't wait to experience that All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code all up on my framework! Yowza!

I have to admit, this is not my first square dance with the lord of the code. Bringin'It Billy's sidekick, Rocky Lhotka, was a former Sexy Programmer himself back in the '08. Ever since Rockin Lhotka graced the hallowed halls of SPT, I just haven't been able to get his yummy partner out of my mind. His very scope encapsulates all that is the sex in a sexy programmer. But, my exhaustive search for Billy's favorite Slow Jamz and also his underwear size have been completely in vain. I've found virtually nothing on my dream man. I know that he lives in naughty Nashville (only approximately 243.8 miles from my house! Let the drive-by stalking commence!)

Until I meet him in person and probe him about his favorite jello flavor (here's hoping it's lemon lime!) and whether he's allergic to any medications, we have the words from his Silverlight Synopsis to keep us warm at night. Let's sample some of the sexy sweet-nothings he's suavely streaming:

"You’ve never made a transition like the one you are about to make." - Oh my God. Are your thighs quivering, too?
"But getting access to [this sexy programmer's] power requires overcoming a double-barreled challenge." - I'd like to overcome his double-barrel for access to that power, if you know what I mean!
Also, included on the class syllabus, this little Billy double entendre': "Brief overview of additional capabilities (time permitting)" - I can't wait to view those additional capabilities right over me. Oh, yeah. Time will be permitting, I can assure you that.

Since real life Wild Billy Hollis has provided mere teasers into his soul, it's time, once again, for my fantasy Billy to come to life.

"Just look at the legions of panty-droppers over there trying to catch a glimpse of this denim on denim combo. Do you think this tan backdrop brings out the so-called proverbial 'butt-cut' in my bangs? By the way, if you thing my bangs are curly..."

"'cause I've got one hand in my pocket, and the other one is covering my chin zit!"

"Fortune and glory, kid. Fortune and glory. It kinda looks like I am inexplicably checking my email, sitting in a Hoveround dressed in my full Indiana Jones regalia while adjacent to the Supreme Court building in the middle of a clear Tuesday evening. I am. And I'm still a mother-load of sexy, pal."

"Woh oh woh. I'm a galaxy defender..."

All right. Once again, I'm overheating. Time to call if a day and go visit the old savings and loan to appeal for fundage for Silverlight Sexyfest '10. Save your pennies, and maybe you can join me. Until then, we'll always have Ballin' Billy Hollis, Sexy Programmer 18.0.

Guest column: An Open Letter to Disney from Your Has-been, Mulan

2010-07-27T15:01:00.000-04:00

Dear Disney,
How are you? I am fine. I've been keeping really busy lately with a lot of new interests like my embroidery and my scrap...oh, who am I trying to kid? I'm not fine. Frankly, I have been pretty down in the dumps lately - not that I'd expect you to notice. I guess I'm writing because there are some things I really need to get off my chest, and I feel like you owe it to me to listen.

Disney, you've become so distant lately. We used to spend so much time together. You used to call me your exotic Eastern arm candy, and you paraded me around with you everywhere you went. I starred in my very own Happy Meals (the cardboard box kind, too, not the completely chintzy lame paper bag version). I was a supporting cast-member of the immensely popular Milton Bradley board game Monopoly Junior. I was an adorable luggage set recalled by the United States Consumer Product Safety Commission for containing dangerously high levels of lead. I was a Pez, for God's sake. A Pez, Disney. Oh my God. Seeing the words in print just makes me feel so cheap.

But, then my world changed. It's like I just disappeared from your life. You traipse around with your harem of beautiful princesses all over God's green earth, yet I am nowhere to be found. Whenever I walk into the Dollar Tree to pick up my nonabrasive powdered cleanser (just $1! That's an amazing deal!), there's Aurora peering around from the novelty item aisle, staring down her pointy little lilywhite nose at me. Do you have any idea how that feels? And when I go to Wal Mart to get my Rollback on, all I can see is catty little Snow White and her snotty homegirl Belle acting like they don't even know who I am. And don't even get me started on your fresh-faced new little superstar, Tiana. Oh, no. Everywhere I turn, she's there. You don't think that hurts?

And then, the other day I'm all, "What am I going to be for Halloween this year?" and then I'm like, "I know what I'll be! I'll be ME!" so I clicky clicky online to halloweenexpress.com (and to, like, fourteen other costume websites, BTW) to find the perfect Mulan costume, and who should I find? Well, I'll tell you. I find Ariel and Jasmine and Tiana and Belle and Alice, dammit, and Tinkerbell and Aurora and Snow White and Cinderella - do you see where I'm going with this? Yeah. Guess who I couldn't find? That's right. No Mulan for the taking. And, that's on you, Disney.

But you know what stings the most? It's when I walk into my former safe haven - the place that always smelled like mom's home cooking mixed with the world's most cuddly hug - the Disney Store (yeah. A store can smell like a hug. I guess you take that for granted, though.) Where in the hell am I to be found in the Disney store? I'll tell you where: nowhere, unless - Oh God - I'm standing there behind, like, Pocohantas on...oh God... on clearance.

Do you even remember who I am, Disney? Dammit, Disney! I'm only the single-most heroic female character that has ever emerged from Disney animation. Back in '98, I was the shiz, Diz. You tried to build me up, lumping me into the "princess" category (you just knew that would play directly to my fragile id, didn't you?) even though I wasn't officially born into royalty. No, unlike your little minions Cinderella and Ariel, I earned my status as a royal. Yeah. I only saved my entire homeland from THE MOTHERFREAKING HUNS while single-handedly rescuing THE EMPEROR OF CHINA! Maybe you've heard of my homeland - located in Asia, Earth's largest and most populous continent, China is home to nearly one and a half billion people. Perhaps you thought there weren't enough ~~Asians~~ kids on the planet in need of a completely empowering role model capable of washing off her makeup, duct-taping down her boobs, and kicking some ass? Yeah. I can see that.

Come ON, Disney. Wake up! I was this close to calling HR about this situation, but I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. Are you going to surprise me by announcing that we're going into production of Mulan 3, thus introducing our worldwide media-blitz the likes of which your elite "Big Three" princesses have never seen before? Just tell me, Disney: When will I be on a Pull-Up? I want my chance at being doused in both numbers one and two by little girls worldwide. I'm begging to be soaked in piss here. You've humbled me, alright?

Let me give you a little perspective. Do you know how many Facebook friends I have? I'll tell you. As of this second: 110,707. And your darling Snow White? 63,281. What about skanky little Aurora (as Sleeping Beauty)? A piddly 60,348 friends. Embarrassing.

Anyway, Disney. I just needed to unload. I'll be waiting anxiously for your response (and also my reappearance into society on panties, pencil cases, and parasols). Hit up ~~your Asian star~~ - no, I'm so much more than an ethnic label (though clearly an ethnicity your corporation is sadly and obviously by and large ignoring completely) - hit up your Everywoman (who happens to literally kick ass) with an explanation. I can't wait to read it.

Regards,

A Special Request.

2010-07-26T02:23:00.000-04:00

Once a man read the Eggsalady blog.

But he said his mind becomes a fog!

"Your posts are too long!"

"Not at all like your schlong,"

I retorted, then petted my dog.

+ editor's note - In the professional blogging system, criticism based offenses are considered especially heinous. In TBIE, the dedicated blogger who painstakingly writes these posts is (not) a member of an elite squad, known as the GFY Unit. These are my stories.

++ editor's second note - If you were that reader alluded to in above limerick (or anyone who shares his opinion), don't read the previous post on this blog entitled something something blah Little Golden Books blah.

+++ editor's final note - Alas, in the previous post, I actually did try to add a jumpcut. It didn't work. So, it's super long. The opposite of that aforementioned (um, fictitious) schlong. Adieu.

Little Golden Books Can Teach Us So Much.

2010-07-26T02:14:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time, in a wondrous and magical land

lived a lovely mommy and a handsome daddy.

They were so wonderfully, joyously happy that everyone called them

The mommy and daddy loved each other so very much that one day

their magical love made an angelic little baby girl named Lindsay.

And, my goodness, was that little Lindsay ever precocious!

Why, she could be a star! So Mommy had a wonderful idea!

the family hitched their

to their little shining star?

So they did.

And, they moved to a faraway land, but - boy howdy -

Mommy and Daddy did not know that they were moving their family to the

And, holy tomatoes, if the whole lot of them didn't get lost in that crazy new land!

And our Lindsay began to get
for her little britches.
And everyone thought that our gal really ought to mind her

Jeepers! Did she ever act out! Sometimes all we saw was a

Oh, my!
But, our friend Lindsay would just say

Gulp!
Boy, oh boy, was she ever acting like a
And, soon, our little

Uh oh!

And,
sweet Lindsay wanted to
too.

Soon, she had a

in every city. The poor dear was a mess!

What a

At the same time, our friend decided she no longer wanted a

Oh!

For, she had decided to be a happy

(not that there's anything wrong with that!)

Well, our girl's behavior was getting her into a jam, because she wasn't acting like a

And, one night, she got in a really big pickle. Instead of finding

she played

and got in a really big mess!

What a sad tale! But, that sweet family

and every night I say my

that that sweet family will live happily together again.

The End.

Sexy Programmer Thursday: Delicious Domain Version 17.0

2010-07-22T16:28:00.004-04:00

I had a dream last night. I'm wandering along, cold (both metaphorically and literally) and alone. Scared. Confused. Other synonyms similar yet slightly different from the previous adjectives, as well. And then, as though a beacon from above: a light in the darkness, a warm embrace in the chill. A discovery. A sexy programmer.

Next came a realization. For, my friends, - nei - minun ystävyys - this was not a dream. This was a real life, honest to God, heaven on earth, Nordic Coding Lovemachine. He took my hand in the darkness and made me sing amazing things about peripheral component interconnect all the way back into the light. My Mr. Sandman is not just any sexy programmer. He is the sexy programmer that outsexies maybe like probably pretty much virtually every other programmer that has ever programmed, and it's as though he doesn't even grasp the overwhelming power of his own sexy. From the kernel of his being, he is aloof and aware all at once. He is humble yet boastful at the same time. He is our Thorlike god who sculpted Linux with his own two hands. He is Sexy Programmer Thursday 17.0: Lusty Linus Torvalds.

Though Brian Adams became famous for that laryngitis-ish-raspy-singy-whisper-type thing he does about the Summer of '69, something far more important was going down in the winter of '69, December 28, to be exact. That's when wee Linus Torvards was authenticated, issuing forth from the buffer cache of his mother in a gui - er, gooey - blaze of glory.

Torrid Torvalds is so many things, quite honestly, too many hunkalicious things to list in this short forum. But, I'll give you a lusty little snack:

1) Just as I methodically pore over my luscious Linus scrapbook each and every night, my tawdry Torvalds is an avid reader, too: "you simply cannot distract me while I'm reading. Try to talk to me, and I won't hear a word." That's why part nine of my twenty eight point Operation I Wanna Keylog all of Torvalds' Strokes plan involves no words, only interpretative dancing to the Finnish classic Maame (and one of my authentic Number Six dresses from the BSG Ultimate wardrobe auction of '09; hey, it couldn't hurt).

2) Ladykiller Linus is a gazillionaire. Does he act like it? Why no, he does not. You'd think a programmer this fly would shop exclusively at the Hottery Barn, but he's actually a deliciously thrifty shopper. Case in point: he's a man who knows the 'co. The Costco: "So I was in Costco waiting for a car tire rotation and check yesterday. Wasting time, I blew three bucks on a slice of pizza and a sundae." Now, I don't know how you interpret this, but in my head, he is so talented (and so filled with coin) that he is able to literally blow three Washingtons onto his slice o' pepperoni . Whatever he meant, yowza. Sexy.

3) There is nothing I like more than a good sexy programmer wrestling match. Obviously, it's the stuff that fantasies are made of. And never in the history of catfights has there been a more delicious rivalry than between LT and another Sexy Programmer alumnus, Racy Richard Stallman. It's like, they both come packing so much hot that all that heat was bound to explode in an open source hotbed of lust and power and total domination of the supercoder variety (sidenote: I'm willing to be the open source for either man. Name the domain. I'll be there, any time, anywhere.). The trash talking has been explosive. I'll give you a sip of the wine, just a taste, for it is far too early on a Thursday for you to be drunk at your motherboard. But here is your (extremely abbreviated) appetizer:

Torvalds: " So I'm pretty well-known for not exactly being a huge fan of...Richard Stallman."

Stallman: "If you want freedom, don't follow Linus Torvalds."

Who else is quivering right now? I know I am!

And, now. By popular request (wow! I never imagined I'd have thousands! of requests for this feature!), I'm gonna let Fantasy Torvalds speak the words I so long to hear.

"Wait, wait. Don't worry; you didn't die. I only appear to have emerged from heaven, a radiant, ethereal vision from the clouds. I didn't know your lipstick would be this dark on my knowing smirk. Thanks for letting me borrow your hairspray and your v-neck sweater this morning before the photo shoot. You know what I always say: You scratch my back, I take you back to Helsinki with me and dance the experimental dance for which my homeland is known. And, yes, by Helsinki, I do mean my bed."

"Hey. You were right. The grass in your back yard is so soft that it doesn't feel at all weird to lay here in your v-neck sweater without any pants. Oh gosh. That tickles!"

"Look at all of 'em back there like sheep. They all want me. Look at short green and medium sized green back there, just staring at my ass. Yeah. I'll give 'em what they want. From my sexy mock turtleneck to my smokin' socks and loafers combo. I bring the thunder. Yeah. The Torvalds knows where it's at. Right here, baby. Right here."

"This is just cruel. My opaque thighs of lust are just torturing everyone now.
Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha. Hahahahahahahahaha."

"I'm even hotter than 92.6% of the free world when I'm a woman.
Hahahahahahahahaha."

"If you think this is funny, you should see what I have covering my junk."

Again, I gotta step away. Thank you, Lovemachine Linus Torvalds, for rocking Sexy Programmer Thursday. We'd eat a piece of that kernel anytime.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle: A Motherfreaking Twitter Lover Novella

2010-07-20T22:09:00.020-04:00

Here are some things my husband finds hilarious:

fish-hooking.

dutch ovens.

Not that kind.

the other kind.

drinking supersized malt beverages with incapacitated hands

while simultaneously surrounded by two big weiners.

paul rudd.

Anyway. Following you will find something my husband does not find hilarious. I know this, because I am presenting to you today for your approval some recycled material that I wrote in conjunction with a failed career of mine from just a few short months ago. You see, I built a matchmaking enterprise from the ground up, and with just a few condescending head shakes and one too many, "eh"s, - POOF! - the enterprise crumbled, and with it, my dreams of pairing up sweet, needy Tweeters crying out for love. My fate of fulfilling dreams all the world over was annihilated.

I want to introduce you to my alabatross - my Edsel -no, my Crystal Pepsi - because I feel you and I are tight like that. It's been weighing me down, and I'm gonna get the damn thing off my chest. The enterprise was called "These Twits Should Twuck," and it's dead. My husband said it was just a'ight. Translation: a colossally botched attempt at a brand new endeavor. Well, you know what? When I abandoned the forelorn Twitterers of the planet, I also abandoned some of my soul. I truly feel compelled to share the hurt and pain of my lost path as a liaison of love. I gotta get it off my chest.

So, my catharsis:

My maiden matchmaking voyage set sail with a pair so potentially blazing, so en fuego, if you will, that I couldn't possibly put a price on their burning, burning love. Oh. Except, maybe I could: Seven dollars.

On one side of the globe, our hero hails from that old, familiar hotbed of lust - yeah; you know where I'm talking about: Waterbury, Vermont. His name is Nicholas Erwin - that's nerwin in the land where Twitter dreams come true - and though his face is obscured by a rather large lens, he is clearly peering out from behind his large lens into a mirror reflecting his aforementioned large lens back upon himself, and so on, and so on, until we are looking into an infinite sea of stars and dreams. It's like a mind bender of sexiness. And, quite obviously, our hero Nick (if I may) Erwin is searching for the siren who will tame his wild soul. Nerwin is a man - nay - a prince in pauper's clothing, but he's got something. He's got seven dollars.

And our heroine? She doesn't provide her exact locale, probably because she primarily resides as of yet undiscovered in the confines of nerwin's heart. Her real name is Jannae-with-an-accent-symbol- between-the-latter-a-and-the-e Pack, but we know her by her twitter moniker PACKthatshit. Clearly it's code. You know who's probably PACKINGthatshit? nerwin. clearly. But back to our gal. She doesn't ask for much. Not much at all. But what she asks for, nerwin can provide. In spades.

PACKthatshit describes herself as "a jewish vampire who wants to fly away via umbrella." You know what's beautiful this time of year by way of umbrella, Pts? Waterbury, Vermont.

Hey, PACKthatshit: Why don't you bite off a piece of the nerwin ("Blogger, Photographer, Musician & Computer Geek") action? You two crazy kids don't need a lot. nerwin's got a cat and enjoys chicken noodle soup. Obviously that goes perfectly with PACKthatshit's affection for lemonade flavored booze and her bff SpankkyJohnson.

These Twits Should Twuck can only find the lovers and inform. It's up to them and fate to do the rest. So, come on, nerwin. Give a PACK a seven spot. I have a feeling you won't regret it.

I can't even afford the cable which is like 40-50 dollars and I only have 7 dollars. about 4 hours ago via TweetDeck

Retweet

nerwin

Nicholas Erwin

If you wanna read on, read on. If you don't, you should seriously do a google image search for "dogs wearing wigs." There is some REALLY funny stuff on there! Anyhiz: Another day, another love match. This go round, we're setting up a pair of adorably adorable, cleverly clever, lovers of the fish. Specifically the fish sandwich - I think - but, then again, these two crazy kids each seem to be masters of the double entendre. Who even knows if these wisesters are referring to an actual, you know, sandwich, when they talk about a fish sandwich.

Anyway, today's gentleman seems to have shot out of his mom's legs with such fanfare that she had the foresight to read all of our tea leaves, naming her spawn "Your Idol." Even more appropriate than Your's given name is his Twitter nom de plume which, of course, is sexforbreakfast. sexforbreakfast is both handsome and understated (see his mini-autobiography: "Probably the most awesome dude you'll ever meet. Ever. And for the record, I don't like sex for breakfast.") Well, I know one thing he does like, and when he wants it, he wants it bad:

You know what I'd like to know? What the hell did he do? Where the hell did sexforbreakfast go? Seriously.

Somewhere out there, in a kitchen rife with piscatorial dreams, a beautiful maiden was cooking her heart out. Was she feeling a subconscious desire to fulfill the passions of our own sexforbreakfast? Probably. All I know is that Felicia Stanikmas - otherwise known as FeliciaOnFire - had a pang in her four chambers to make a damn sandwich. Get ready for this, everyone: It was a FISH SANDWICH.

How did she know? I don't know. These Twits Should Twuck isn't God. We're just here to help nudge our lovers closer to their destiny.

You wanna see how cute these kids look together? Same here. I'm going to try to shove their photos as close together as possible, so we can see what their engagement photo is gonna look like.

When I look into FeliciaOnFire's highly reflective sunglasses, I like to imagine she is reading some of sexfor...'s instantly classic tweets. And just look how the delightfully muted colors of sexforbreakfast's pillow/bedspread combo match FeliciaOnFire's skintone perfectly. If that doesn't scream fate, I don't know what the hell does.

As though either of these crazy kids need further evidence that they should make contact immediately, I'm going to present that aforementioned double entendre these two so skillfully spit for you.

Really, FOF? Ever have them for breakfast?

Oh. I see what you did there, sfb. How very naughty of our friend.

Oh my.

Okay, mind reader. You inherited that trait from your mom, I guess.

These two offer so much more (so much more!), but this love story is for Mr. breakfast and Ms. OnFire to consummate, not for us lookyloos to rubberneck. So, go on, FeliciaOnFire: All he wants is a little fish sandwich. And, you, sexforbreasfast: take a chance on an unknown gal who brings a little homemade sandwich to the yard. And don't forget to invite us to the wedding.

Okay. World's longest therapy session. But, I can now move on with my life, even if those poor Tweeting lost souls cannot. Eh.

All I Really Need to Know I Learned From ALF

2010-07-19T21:50:00.015-04:00

There is a place in my heart that you cannot touch. No -- shhhh; no! No one can touch that place in my heart. No one...but Gordon Shumway.

For, Gordon Shumway - that lovable, fuzzy, sardonic, cat-eating, Gilligan's Island obsessed, pro-green-movement-even-before-your-mom-wrote-Facebook-posts-about-how-hot-her-carbon-footprint-is-right-now, gambling addict, Alien Life Form covered in little brown curlies - taught me so much about life and truth and all that is, you know, real in this cold, cold world, that since he abandoned me, leaving me frigid and alone, my life has never been the same. (feel free to let your spawn borrow that Little Runon That Could for his thirty second dramatic monologue for his middle school's big Spring production of Jesus Christ, Superstar tryout. It'll kill, I tell you. Kill!)

Well, before he left me frigid and alone, ALF left me with a lot of lessons about life, and now, on National Lollipop Day 2010, I will share some of those lessons with you. Other lessons - not now. Not yet. But some lessons, from me to you, are as follows.

1) First and foremost: You can walk around with a distractingly wanglike phallus snout and never even get called out on it if you come equipped with biting sarcasm and a winning smile. Before ALF came along, proboscis-donged Gonzo, the Snorks (well, more phallus-headed, but phallied, nonetheless), and old Schlongy McSchnozerson Q-Bert just walked along, morning wood, afternoon wood, and evening wood on their countenances like it was nobody's (or everybody's) business. And, boy howdy, if that isn't all you could see looking into those animated faces: johnsons akimbo. Well, besides being glaringly rod-faced, what else do we really know about Gonzo, the Snorks, and Q to the Bert? Nada. Maybe if they coulda brought it Shumway style, we woulda looked past their little chubby -um - cheeks. But, no. They couldn't, and we didn't. But ALF? Barely noticed the oldsniffer, phallically speaking.

2) Speaking of all things phallic, apparently the patriarch of the Tanner family (appropriately named) Willie was a total peen in real life. Supposedly Max Wright was completely jealous (duh) of ALF being the hilarious stud of the sitcom (obviously). My BFF Wikipedia tells me that after the final take of the beloved classic sitcom: "there was one take and Max walked off the set, went to his dressing room, got his bags, went to his car and disappeared. [...] There were no goodbyes." Sweet. But what lesson did I learn from this, you ask? Well, I thought this was abundantly clear, but, if I need to spell it out for you: sometimes, a wonderful, loving and patently uninteresting in appearance sitcom dad who always has either an appropriately stern glance or a fittingly warm hug on the ready is actually a real life a-hole. Apparently sometimes books with really boring covers do actually suck in real life. Lesson learned.

3) Lesson Numero Tres: Throw in some Jim J. Bullock to the equation, hilarity ensues. Which brings me to my next point: Where in the hell is Jim J. Bullock? I only throw it out there because I realize it's the elephant in the room that you've been wondering about all these years, too. As Monroe Ficus in Too Close For Comfort, he was the glue that held the show together. When Jim J. joined the ALF cast in Season 4 as Big Willie's lonely brother Neal, the comic chemistry between Bullock and Shumway was instant classic television. So where in God's name is Jim J. Bullock? Just curious.

4) Today's fourth and final lesson still stings. I practically know why the caged bird sings. For, through ALF, I came to realize that there are no happy endings. Case in point? The series finale. Yeah. When last we saw ALF in 1990's Season 4, Episode 24, Consider Me Gone, ALF was on his way to a glorious, long-awaited reunion with his fellow Melmacians ready to pick him up and take him to Alien Life Form Utopia on a new planet. Well, not so fast, my friends, for, in an allegorical life lesson that still spreads chillbumps over every inch of my epidermis, ALF is captured by the United States military's Alien Task Force. Will they expose him to the world? We are left to believe that they will. Will ALF ever join his friends and loved ones who also managed to escape the nuclear explosion that destroyed his home planet, Melmac? We are left to believe that he will not. This was supposed to be a season cliffhanger. Instead, ALF was cancelled. Millions of hearts wept, dreams shattered. Sure, ALF made a few appearances on Hollywood Squares years later, and yes, he had a seven episode hosting gig opposite Ed McMahon on the channel formerly known as Nick at Nite. And, okay, in 1996 NBC tried to kiss my ass with some Whatever Happened to ALF very special special. (Didn't watch it. Too little, too late, Warren Littlefield!) But, I'll never forget that when I was eleven, I was left to think that poor ALF's body was being alien-autopsied by our government, just so he could end up in one of those creepy Time Life Mysteries of the Unknown commercials that kept me up all night. (Oh my Good God - do you remember these?) I shed many a tear for our Gordon Shumway. Many a tear, indeed.

These lessons have at times helped me through some serious rough patches in life and at other times shat all over my bitter soul. That is both here and there. I hope that you can take these lessons and use them as you may. From me and (I like to presume) from Gordon Shumway: Namaste.

Sexy Programmer Thursday: Passion Explosion Version 16.0

2010-07-15T00:24:00.011-04:00

If you present the sexy, they will come.

It's an adage as old as the spoken word. Indeed, never in the history of oral utterances have truer words been said. My friends, it is my greatest pleasure to present to you the best welcome back gift in the history of welcome back gifts (by the way, thanks again to all of you for the outpouring of warm wishes in the form of flowers, Pixie Stix, and dolla dolla bills, y'all. What wonderful and completely unexpected surprises!). It's time, yet again, for me to present the sexy. It's up to you to fulfill the latter half of ye olde proverb.

To celebrate the return of the most glorious day of the week, Sexy Programmer Thursday is robbing the cradle of love with a libidinous lad. Today's titillating technophile is none other than the foxy (co)founder of Firefox, Blake "Makes your loins quake" Ross. Yeah. You heard me - only the founder of the sexiest internet browser in the history of internet browsing. Naturally, I use Firefox; legend has it its name comes from the fires down below that rumble inside you each and every time you use the heat-seeking browser. But, in the spirit of full disclosure, I feel like I should be completely honest. Here's the thing: when I use Firefox, my computer crashes. Like all the time. But, today I had a realization: I now understand that each Firefox crash is really just an enormous metaphor. I can recognize blatant symbolism when I see it. Obviously the gods are revealing that my own Firefox, Blake Ross, is meant to crash into me. Repeatedly.

Anyway, I digress. I would like to formally introduce you to our love machine. Our Sweet Blakiepoo is actually a bit of an enigma. When he emerged as the poster boy for open-sourced Firefox, he was, by many accounts, a hesitant spokesmodel. But, when you come bringing the goods like our boy Blake, obviously you're going to have to deal with the travails of being an amazingly lusty piece of meat. After exhaustive internet research, we still don't know much about Blake, but we know we love him. And that may be all we need to know. Hang on there, reader; your saliva is dripping all over me, so I'll let you taste some of the juicy morsels we do know about the wondrous wunderkind:

1) He currently works at Facebook, and his title is Director of Product, aka, Director of Turning On Everyone in the Free World.

2) As an employee of Facebook, he officially gets his paycheck signed by supersplooge Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg. (editor's note: what a giant wank with a teenypeeny complex and obvious B.Ross envy, eh?) He is now known to some as the amazingly smokin piece of manmeat who killed that Summer of '10 twistyturny roller coaster ride that was the "Icing" trend. Long story short, analgland Zuckerberg cleverly hid a Smirnoff Ice in Ross Ross Baby's birthday cake and Blake RossissofreakinBoss got down and chugged on one knee. It was clearly a case of menstrual flow Icing bro (I am so sorry; I couldn't think of anything else lame enough to match Mark Zuckerberg that still rhymed with "bro"), and everybody knows, once an analgland like Zuckerberg grabs a trend by the horns, the party's over. If you have some time to be alone and in a safe place today, you can watch the video here as the angels sing and all is right with the world:

2) Giant stick? Check.

3) He's the world's sexiest author who has written the world's sexiest book, Firefox for Dummies. This book is so incredibly hot. So hot. Incidentally, the amazon.com reviews were all raves (except for one jealous hater - you're dead to me J. McNutt.), and one of the raves just happens to be my favorite Amazon review of all time. It doesn't have much to do with Beautiful Blake, but I'll give you a hotness break to read it:

If your eyes can't see those itty bitty little words, Allen C. Windelspecht from the Catskills philosophizes (in his four star review entitled "Book does what you think it should.") : "How do you review a book??? It does what it says it does...." Indeed, Allen. How do you review a book? Indeed.

Anyway, I'm afraid I'm becoming longwinded (I could go on and on and on and on and on and on about his hotness for days and days and days and days and days), and you are growing weary of all words and not enough beefcake. Alright. Just so I can feel like I am doing my duty as informer, I'll go to the highlight reel of Red Hot Ross' favorite things. Here are a few, chosen randomly, in collage form:
He really is the Everyman. The Everysexyman.

And now. The main event. I'll let Blake Ross speak to us, just like he does in my dreams.
"Yeah. I'm wearing my t-shirt in the pool just like your eleven year old fat cousin Ralphie does. I'm doing it because I can. You still want me. Shit yeah you do."
"Yeah, I'm sitting by some bikes. Sometimes I get tired of everyone always saying they want to ride me. This is my performance art, bitches. I call it, "Not everyone wants to be ridden all the time. Hear? Make sure your mom gets the message, too, alright?"
"Yeah, I'm lounging seductively on maroon polyurethane. My knees are clamped, but my paper lamp is on. I'm Blake. I'm full of mixed signals. Come over and I'll show you. Or will I?"
"Uncle Miles, Aunt Gina, Grandpa Tim, my sister Wendy; pretty much everyone up on that luxurious wood paneling behind me changed my diapers and bore witness to the magic. At Ross family reunions they call it the Golden Schlong. Sit on that a while, howsabout it."

I can't handle the heat anymore. I need to get out of this kitchen and just end this post here. Thanks, Bumpin Blake Ross for showing us what dreams are made of. You make one hell of a Sexy Programmer.

Is it time to update the literary canon?

2010-07-11T22:23:00.018-04:00

Illiteracy is a global epidemic; am I right? Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but I pretty much always think globally while acting locally. It's called social responsibility, yo. Naturally, I am forced to look where illiteracy hits closest to home for me, and that is in my own actual, local home. I'll be blunt, friends: 50% of the humans residing in my house cannot read. I'm no mathematician, but statistics don't usually lie, and based on my numbers, over two fifths but less than five sevenths of the residers getting their reside on all up in my residence are just sitting there, staring at the pictures on the pages. I hope I don't need to remind you that we are in a recession here, and you know what? The books in my house have words. And you know what 50% of the folks in my house are doing with those words? They're wasting them.

I put out a call a little over two years ago back when only one third of the people in my house was a little non-reading freeloader. I placed all the tools she needed in the teeny palms of her drool-soaked hands. But, alas, apparently she had other designs. Nonetheless, as of a year ago, there is a new little freeloader in the house, and that little freeloader is about to celebrate a year of living on the earth, not reading his little heart out. In the grand tradition of leading my kids to water in hopes they'll open a successful seafood restaurant because their dad and I are really into seafood (and that's not an innuendo. He really enjoys scallops and I'll slurp up a plate of oysters so fast your pappy'll blush), we're handing the little guy his own ten works of classic literature ordered from the mecca of the literate, Amazon.com. I'll share our finds with you. (Locally. Globally. Responsibility. You're welcome.)

1) The Skunk and His Junk. Now this is gonna be a good one. It's a skunk, sailing the high seas, showing off his junk. And you know that's gonna be some smelly junk. Is his junk supposed to be in that trunk? If indeed it's his junk in that trunk, how did his junk come to be in that trunk? Why has the skunk released the junk-holding-trunk? I'm on the edge of my seat.

2) The Golden Ass of Lucius Apuleius
Wha? Lucius has a golden ass? Now, I'm not usually an ass(wo)man, but this text is fascinating to me, 'cause that's a nice ass.

Our daughter is really into Dora the Explorer. She can sit there and stare at Dora pictures while putting forth little to no effort half- listening to her parents do all the work reading about the adventures of our gal Dora and her talking monkey friend Boots. So, we thought our son would like a tale about Dora, too:

3) Dora's Box - I'm intrigued.

4) Teddybears eat out - First off, both the spelling and the capitalization in the title of this book are atrocious, but, WHOA! THEY DO? What in God's name is going on behind that menu? Why are they eating out at a restaurant in which the servers provide one menu per two teddybears (sp)? Have you ever eaten at a restaurant in which the front of the menu actually said "MENU" as though you would stare questioningly at the food items, pictures, titles, and prices, unaware as to what exactly this thing you were handed as you were seated at your table was? This teddybears (sp) book is like a mystery which I cannot wait to unravel!

5) Blow Me Down! - Does this seem a little bossy to you? I don't want to provide any negative lessons to the kids. But, I think what drew me to this one was the adorable little scamp on Blow Me...'s cover. Just look at the size of his nose! Imagine what it would be like to blow that honker! I bet that'll soak a tissue, am I right?

6) No More Melons for Gilda the Giraffe - I'm a firm believer in not sugarcoating the harder lessons in life for today's youth. It's important to introduce literary tragedy to our kids, too. What happened to Gilda's melons? Was she born with melons that were later removed from her person (er - removed from her giraffe?)? Did the loan her husband took out for her new melons fall through? Look at the tear welling up in Gilda's eye. That's a giraffe worthy of melons. But, as the title tells us, there will be no more melons for our heroine. No. More. Melons.

7) Your Pet Beaver - He's a snuggly looking little guy, isn't he?

8) The Dong with a Luminous Nose - This one came free when I bought that Blow Me Down! book. Not clear why. I don't really know anything about it except it's a dong and it has a luminous nose. Uh?

9) A Rocket in My Pocket - I cannot wait to get my hands on this one. Just get a load of how patriotic that kid is. He's blasting off like a shot!

And, finally, last but quite obviously not least:

10) The Story of Big Bone Lick - Well, I don't like to speak for you, but I'd venture to bet that your whistle is just as whet as mine is after reading that title!

I hope our little guy gets some education from this library and has an unforgettable first birthday. And remember, pals: If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. So how's about you give our youth a kick in the pants to start reading for themselves for once. I know I will. It certainly does take a village. Yes, indeed.

It's been a bloody long time.

2010-07-09T23:26:00.016-04:00

I hope this isn't awkward. I feel like you're my ex boyfriend and I'm bumping into you at Kroger and you have, like, a big cold sore on your lip - no, I have the cold sore - no, I think it should be you. Anyway, and I'm bumping into you in Kroger right by the puddings (the non-refrigerated ones; not the cold ones near the yogurts and cottage cheese, thank God for small favors), and the kids are getting all antsy in my cart and you didn't even know I had one kid, much less two. Oh, and maybe my bab(ies)daddy, like, had a fight with you one night behind the Ruby Tuesday or something, and now you and me are pretending it isn't weird and it kind of is, but we don't want to spend a long time talking about where we've been the last few years and everything. That's kind of how this is.

I'll just cut to the chase. We both know I've spent the last couple years on tour with the Tampon Family Players. Naturally, that's one of the only things that's been on my brain since we've last spoken. As such, I thought instead of just jumping right back into our relationship as though no time has passed, I'll just let the TFP's do the talking.
Judy: Holy applesauce, gals. Don't look now, but I think our superhunk of a quarterback just looked over here. Why, he's really the cat's pajamas!

Sharon: Stop flapping your lips, Judy. He's probably just wondering why he has the same haircut as you and Midge and also how come you both keep walking around the halls with menstruation blood all over your skirts.

Midge: Take your man-hand off the gear stick a second, Sharon. These are very hep hairstyles. And, we don't menstruate on our clothing anymore ever since we discovered new Kotex napkins.

Judy: Yeah. Now we're "free as a breeze."

Harriet: Yea Team!

Sandra: Oh, you are positively bonkers, Gary! How many far-out jokes about hot dogs can one guy think up?

Gary: It's easy to laugh with you, Sandra. You're just so hassle free.

Sandra: It's my new Natural Tip Kotax tampon. There are no hassles with tubes, no hassles with hard, blunt ends. Just like when you tried to insert your penis into my vagina that one time and we discovered you really are a homosexual. These tampons are soft and natural. Just like you.

Rachael: One day I'm going to get my mouth around a long, smooth flute, too, just like Rita and Pam. Look at 'em: so confident, their fingers just gliding along those pulsating instruments like pros, as if they don't even notice dreamy Travis back there, plucking away. I know what it is, too. They have the internal protection of Tampax tampons. I can't wait until I start using them, too. Until then, I'm gonna sit here and cover my flourishing pubic hair with my thigh and dream of the day I'm wearing my Tampax, blowing into a flute of my very own. I just have to tell myself: that'll be you one day, Rachael. Because my life is what I make it.

Well, I need to head over to the frozen foods section. Say hi to your family for me. Maybe I'll see you around sometime.

I'll Be Over in Ten Minutes, Wolf.

2008-06-26T00:00:00.002-04:00

Well hello, old friend. I feel like it's been ages. Do you have a second? There's something I need to talk to you about, and I feel like I can come to you with anything. Remember when you were nine, and it would be summer on, say, a Wednesday night, eight o'clock or so, and during your big neighborhood cul-de-sac kickball game (but before you began Ghosts in the Graveyard later in the night), your friend Jimmy would make a really funny joke about Jackie from the end of the street's burgeoning breasts, and he'd still have the Rocket Pop stain on his Big Dogs t-shirt from when the ice cream truck came by five hours earlier, and you'd be scratching at your mosquito bites and tugging at the bandaids on your knees from your Slip-n-Slide wounds from yesterday, and someone would suggest you quit kickball and pickup a game of TV Tag and everyone else would throw something at that kid for such a lame idea, and then that kid would go, "sike! I was just kidding!" and then you'd talk about how freaking awesome The Mental Misadventures of Ed Grimley was last week? Well, those times were pretty much awesome. They were pretty freaking eggsalady.

That's just how I feel this blog is eggsalady felt back in the day. There were days when I couldn't wait to write to Valerie Bertinelli or the Easter Bunny, or discuss why Rachel on Friends always had her brights on in every single scene (seriously, Friends writers - maybe the pay at Central Perk couldn't afford the lass a bra with a little more substantial padding, but I refuse to believe that her lucrative Ralph Lauren career replete with an assistant named Tag couldn't have afforded a little bit of pull in the intimate apparel department). Anyways.

These past few months we've had some really great times. I loved running to you with confessions of my lust for the Marlboro Man and not Crockett (ick) but rather jherilovin Tubbs. You sat with me at the Zaxby's Discriminates Against Nonchewers Sit In of '08 (and made great strides, I believe, paving the way so that one day some kid with a hacked lingual nerve and a dream can be as good a spokesmodel as Lorenzo Lamas ever was on his worst day)!

You know what I love to do? Write you a limerick or three. Haikus? They're for your eyes and only your eyes. Oh, and maybe for ubertrashwad Six from Blossom's eyes. And those of Amy Fisher's cooking fetus. And maybe also for the author of Little Treasury of Snatch. And The Tampon Family Players (now touring with Constantine Maroulis. You go, TPFs!). But mainly for you. Oh, frick. Who am I kidding? It was all for Mr. Sex Machine Wolf Blitzer himself all along. (WB: Call me!)

And, mygod, Sexy Programmer Thursday. Oh, how Sexy Programmer Thursday was like those hot summer nights when all was good with the world and you watched your neighbor's big sister get felt up by the zitty 11th grade saxophone player in the back of his Firebird and then you'd all run and dare Bloody Mary to show up in Jimmy's mom's mirror and then flail out of the bathroom in the middle of your third request. It's almost like all that heat and all that passion of SPTs fulfilled my wildest dreams for this lifetime and my next six. Those Sexy Programming pieces of manmeat were my own personal game of Seven Minutes in Heaven over and over and over again.

What I guess I'm trying to spit out here is that all the enthusiasm, all the vigor, well, I just don't think I can keep it up like I feel like I should. I don't want to give any less of eggsalady than I originally intended, and I don't want to fall back on lame cousin Oliver moving in for an easy plot device. There's no way I'm gonna sit back and be that guy who only writes every other week or so to tell you about the baby I may or may not be having with Jessica Simpson's better nose(jobbe)d sister. I wish I had the time to devote this summer to the fast paced world of the eggsalad, but I just don't have the time I want to give it my all. You deserve more. I've had a lot of fun and eaten a lot of Easy Mac.

But, for now, this blog is eggsalady is going to go on hiatus. It really is me, and not even a little you (well, maybe a little of you, Wolf). But, I think I'll be back around some day. There's still so much we need to talk about. I mean, come on. There's still so many orifices of Tila Tequila we have yet to discover. When Ali Lohan's album FINALLY drops, I'll need you to sing along with.

To whom will I confess my inappropriate dreams about Judge Joe Brown and Judge Mathis coming to blows over the ownership of my affections?

And there are so many people I'm going to miss during this hiatus. I am going to visit some of you often (whereever you may be) - and I'm specifically talking to several of you - and you know who you are, Alice, Bee, Damon, Elastic, Malcolm, Meg and many, many more (really. If I didn't list you, that doesn't mean I don't actually want to become you!). But, FREDDY, my friend, I'm going to miss you most of all. Could everyone please go visit Retail Hell Underground and say hello to one really awesome blog? You won't regret it.

In the meantime, I'm (cliche' inbound. You've been warned) finishing my screenplay and am entertaining offers for a couple nifty little writing gigs in the works. You will see me again, and not in a Richard Hatch way. I thank you for the journey.

always,

"what's a donzer" (What kind of asshole stupid name is THAT!)

Sexy Programmer Thursday: A Very Special Sexy Interactive Episode Version 15.0

2008-06-19T00:00:00.000-04:00

Oooh, lalala my samplers of sultralicious. It's sweeps week here at this blog is eggsalady, and you lucky lovelies are the reapers of the bangin benefits. Congratulations, kids. It's a very special edition of our very special favorite weekly feature Sexy Programmer Thursday. This week's shebang is an extraspecial interactive wafflecone full of arousal. Today, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to buckle up and sidle in to play the hottest game sweeping our sweet planet: Mmmhmm.

Strap on your sexy thinking caps. It's time to play Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician? Are you ready? You were born ready!

And, we're off.

I see that our first contestant has built up quite the biceps, hmmm? How does one accomplish such a lookatme, I'm so hot set of 'ceps? Could it be...monstercoding? Maybe some...world leading? I'm thinking...waving a paddle in the air like you just don't care? So, what is it, my friends? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

If you said Politician, you'd be right. That soulful guitar slinger is sexy enough to be a programmer, but he's Maryland's governor Martin O'Malley, instead. I can see how there would be some confusion.

Let's try again, kay?

Oh, yes. Coming at us with a comehither look. Help me out, friends. Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

I mean, he's wearing a supersexy badge, forcryingoutloud! Was there ever any question he's a Delicious Deputy of Programming? That 'stache. That stare. Aaah, open source advocate Eric Raymond: I think I love you.

Onward we march.

Oh, hands on hips, my love? You've GQed that ass all over my motherboard. How are we feeling? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

Yeah, I was ready to go programmer, too. But, this pinstriped poseur doesn't have the sexiness chops to be called commander of code. Instead, our friend David Salcberg is an Aussie Ping-Ponging Olympian. The paddle's almost as cool as the program. Almost.

Ready? Okay!

Why, that's a genial smile. What strokes your keyboard, pal? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

I know what you mean. But, no. This hotness isn't supporting any systems, he's supporting Oregon as a studly Congressman, David Wu. Woowoo!

Let's go again.

Oh, how I'd like to brush those bangs flirting with this fine contestant's forehead aside with a sigh and a smile. So - Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

That's right. Could it be clearer? This kind of sex appeal could only come from the co-inventor of the RSA algorithm. He coined the term "computer virus", and then he coined the phrase, "My name is Leonard Adleman, and I'm a big piece of coding sex."

Next candidate!

Oh, you hot specimen you. Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

I refuse to believe that this sexy slab of beef has never developed some codelove in his day. But, now, Mayor McCheese sits back with the other politicos and rules over the FryGuys in town.

Alrighty. Next.

Well, hello. You seem quite at home in front of that monitor, Herr Hotness! Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

Well, that fineness is noneother than Eric Owen, one of the best ping-pongers in the free world. Score!

Next up, grab a bite of this. Mmmm!

Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

That pizza sucking seduction is a classic move of part romance, part pure, steamy heat. That brand of heat spells one thing: Programmer. Toru Iwatani invented Pac Man and chomped his way into our hearts. Game on!

Oh, those smoldering eyes. Are they examining some binary bliss, or are they preparing for the Smash? Will the lead others, or pwn others? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

Oh, Very Young Version of Governor Bill Richardson: People must have thought you were a techie all the time, when all the while you only had aspirations to run a country. I guess if you weren't born with the coding gene, being the likely Democratic VP national candidate is almost as good.

Do you have time for a couple more? Sweet. Give this stud a whirl.

A smoldering stare and a collared sweater? Be still my heart. Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

While reader after reader plays pocket pool, our man Steve Dainton, plays table tennis. He's the the director for the International Table Tennis Federation’s Asia Pacific Office in Beijing, and he's hot to trot. Aren't we all!

And, last but not least. You get one final stab at our favorite game.

Rosy cheeks? A peeking pony? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

That sexy black tee peeking from the sensible v-neck leisurewear can only spell one thing. This leading member of the open source movement is clearly one of the leading sexies in the land. I have so many buttons Brandon Behlendorf could push. And, how!

Who doesn't love gameday? I sure do, and today's Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician version of Sexy Programmer Thursday was no exception. Thanks for playing with me. I look forward to next time.

Sexy Programmer Thursday: The Return of the Mac(k), Version 14.0

2008-06-12T00:00:00.003-04:00

Holy Smack, my friends. We've been away oh so long, but we didn't forget about you, and we've brought you back some smoldering souvenirs to titillate your techie tingles. I hear you've had a mean jones for some programming playa. Well, look no further, because we're back once again to feed your compucravings. That's right, get ready to warm up the old hard drive, because it's time for some codestroking. Yes, sir; Happy Sexy Programmer Thursday, one and all! It's gonna be a hot one!

Today's MacNugget is as juicy as they come. He's one of the original members of the Macintosh Powerhouse Team (and, the sexiest!), and most people call him the creative machine of the bunch. Well, we call him the love machine of the bunch, but that's neither here nor there. Actually, it's both here and there - Schwing! - but we digress. Our tender morsel of moist machismo is responsible for creating the most important creative programs in the history of that sexy beast, the CPU. That's right, I'm talking about QuickDraw, MacPaint and HyperCard, and, of course I'm referring to Beautiful Bill Atkinson.

Bill brings the Sexy, and then Some, and we could talk for days and days (and days) and then two weeks more all about him, but we'd rather just treat ourselves to a visual feast of Bill on a platter. Alas, I guess we should reveal a few SPINETINGLING SIPS of Atkinson lovin, so we can get all good and revved up for the Bill Potion we're about to swallow. I'm gonna keep it brief, though, so we can get straight to the sweetstuff.

1) How's This For Irony? Just when you were imagining the dirtiest of the dirty Billy related deeds, guess who happens to hold the one and only patent for the "pull down menu"? That's right - Adorable Atkinson, himself! Just how many flavors of pulldown can I order from that menu, Mr. A? I'll take all of them, and make it a double!

2) He's Got a Digital Passion. I know - you're passionate about your digits all over Bill. That's not what I said. He has a passion for digital photography, and, in fact, he is one of the most well known, well respected, freaking sexiest digital photographers in the frickin free world. Bill went full on photography pro in 1996, and you can check out some of his nature photos at his hot and sexy site, Bill Atkinson Photography. My mind reels thinking about Bill, the naturally beautiful specimen, photographing other naturally beautiful specimens that surround him. It's like a monster delicious riddle that my libido is trying to solve.

3) Thank You, Wired.com, for Providing Our Infinite Fantasy Fodder. Thank you. Somehow, this Steven Levy guy was granted an immense gift from God and he was allowed to interview our Babe Bill. Well, Steven Levy isn't afraid to gloat about it, either. Have a look at what he said about our creative genius: Bill Atkinson "is an intense communicant. Bill is an eye-contact person, giving you total attention, really wanting to know how you are doing, how you are feeling. He hugs." Oh, Steven Levy. I don't know how much Satan paid to purchase that soul of yours, but you should be personally responsible for sponging up the drool and tears that resulted in your description of Bill's attention. His hugs. My (fantasy) hugs.

And now, back by popular demand: A Gallery of the Sexy. An Anthology of Arousal. A Ministry of MadCodingHotarificProgrammingLove. All for you. Because I love you. Because I care. I give you Wild Bill Atkinson, at his finest: The Atkinson Senior Picture Collection.

The Money Shot. Obviously. There's nothing that says Sexy like a toothy grin, and this grin is the toothiest. Coupled with a faded denim buttondown, that winning equation smells seduction in my book. Hey, Bill? Did you know that your eyes match your shirt exactly? Well, they also happen to match the color of my sheets exactly. Come over and I'll show you.

Oh, Billy Boy! The Classic Cheek Stroke? For realz? Atkinson, what are you doing to me? In this pose, you are far less toothy, but far more well-lit. In this light, I can see three new purple buttons that I hadn't even imagined living on your shirt before. You tease. That's three more buttons that need to be unbuttoned, you scamp! This pose says mature. It says thoughtful. It says that gale force winds aren't soon to knock you off that crushed velvet laden table. Or out of my dreams.

And the piece de' resistance. The ethereal Bill. The unafraid to bust out the cheek smoosh Bill. The freaking light of the heavens shining down on Bill just as they did in the perimeter of my eighth grade prom picture. Different day, same shirt, but this time gray. Still sexy. It's as though you are staring out of the pages of my Senior yearbook into the corners of my soul. I see your sideways grin, you stud. You know what time that Timex of yours says? It says it's time to call me.

Oh, Bodacious Bill Atkinson, you are the Mack Daddy of all Mac Daddies. You are one truly amazingly sexy programmer. Thanks for heating up the return of Sexy Programmer Thursday.

Even Sexy Programmers Deserve Vacations

2008-06-04T23:06:00.004-04:00

Oh, m'lords and m'ladies: It makes me feel so tingly inside to see you here. I regret to inform you that Sexy Programmer Thursday is sipping daquiris and tanning its special coding regions this week, but next week all sultry tanlines will be revealed to you and things will be hotter than ever. Why don't you lust after this for a week or so in the meantime?

See you tomorrow, mefriends.

p.s. - I've never been one to point out packages (HA!), but get a load of Wild Bill's package. I know I'd like to! YOWZA!

I wonder if Nicole Ritchie has caught wind of this brilliance.

2008-06-04T00:00:00.001-04:00

I'm not trying to brag, but I don't brag very often. I think, though, that I may have just created the world's most flawless diet, and, as such, I think I deserve a little Bragtown block party all up in here. If I were you, I'd probably assume that I am obsessed with food seeing as how I talk about it all the fracking time. But, you know that old adage about assuming, don't you? Don't ever assume, because you'll end up with a pantsload of gonorrhea.

Anyway, no, I'm not obsessed with food, but I do like it a lot. No, I'm not fat, but I do think I should probably stop running the IV drip of cheese dip through my veins or I'm going to end up gaining a couple of pounds. Anyway, tonight I just happened to stumble upon some information that I think might be the new, way less lame version of the South Beach Diet for the Summer of '08. Three words: Pixy motherfreaking Stix.

You know them. You love them. Our Stix of love and desire, sweet and pleasurable and able to not be chewed by the nonchewers of our world, are probably nature's perfect food. Indeed, can you think of a more enjoyable food? I mean, come on! You pour the delectable fruit flavored substance of love directly onto your tongue and the magic happens.

But the real magic, my friends? The magic upon which I stumbled just sixty or so short minutes ago? Just the fact that one singular Stix is a mere 8.5714 calories! Do you realize what this means, ladies and gentlemen? Let's just say you have decided to limit yourself to, hmm, 1275 calories a day (and, I'm no nutritionist or anything, but this number seems kind of low. I don't want to have to stage an intervention or anything here). Anyway (for argument's sake), you're going for 1275: that means that you can eat approximately 149 Pixy Stix in a day! If you are getting the recommended eight hours of sleep a night (I like to follow healthy guidelines), then that means you could eat nine Pixy Stix in each and every one of your waking hours! To me, this is a no-brainer.

All I can do now is sit back, tear open some Stix, and wait for this diet to take the world by storm. Imagine the possibilities. We could do Pixies on celery. We could add Pixies to our vodka. PBand Pix sandwiches, if you please. It's brilliance. Brilliance, I tell you.

Now go enjoy! Make haste!

Feliz cumpleaños, Anderson Cooper!

2008-06-03T00:23:00.004-04:00

Yep, A-Coop turns the big four one today. If I were allowed anywhere near CNN Studios (still playing hard to get are we, Wolf Blitzer? Touche'.), then I'd hand deliver a heaping slice of red velvet cake to the birthday boy, and I'd buy him a Coke. Instead, I'll raise my glass to the Silver Fox during 360 tonight and fondly remember A-Dog's days hosting The Mole. Aaah, weren't we all both younger and purer back in those simpler times!

I also came across the following photo tonight, and I thought you might like to see it. This lady has some pretty gangsta Anderson Cooper ink, don't you think? He's perched right atop her cherry (wishful thinking, indeed!) and is apparently being fondled by her butterfly. That's what I call A New Tattitude!

So a Happy Birthday to you, Anderson Cooper, you big hunk! And here's to many, many more....

Do I need millions of strangers to tell me I appear intoxicated? Probably.

2008-06-02T00:00:00.001-04:00

I like to pretend that I am ahead of the curve on all the flyest shiznittles that the hepsters are doing these days, but, let's face it: who am I kidding? I just got an iPod. Eight years later. For Mother's Day. While I was wearing a fanny pack. Haha. I wasn't actually wearing the fanny pack. I was loading it with supplies. Also not true, but, being a bit of a trendacular oracle, I will tell you this: Mark my words. All the freshest g's are gonna be sporting the pack again in the very near future, and you'll wish you hadn't tossed yours aside with your wobegone Rick Astley tapes. The Ast is coming back, and so is the assluggage.

Anyway, so tonight I caught wind of the dopest trend to hit the pervitudinous Web of the World since droves of sixteen year old Lolitas with a dream began flashing their lacy purple pushup bras on their sparkly-slash-emo-bedecked-myspace pages while perfecting the perfect amount of kissyfaced angst meets coy comehither glance for their pimply bio labpartners and also all the boys in Cellblock M. It's called Facestat, and it's marketed as "Market research for the individual." What that means is, you go there, and you can upload a picture of yourself for all the gawkers of the world to judge your attractiveness level, your weight, your sexual orientation, your trustworthiness, your level of intoxication, and much, much more. It's intriguing, really, in an ohmygod, am I really looking at this mess kind of way.

Have a looksee at this lady (I like to call her Patty):

Lemme give you a closeup so you can see what the world thinks of Patty, whose picture is on the opening freaking page of this website.

The world has proclaimed that she isn't gay, she's "definitely gay," and, by the way, not to be trusted. Why? Because her big old 40 year old smile and "hate it" haircut scream to us that she is a "serious stockbroker." Er, what?

Need more? Here's more.

Now here's an unfunny middle aged, middle class chunk of a honky who we'd definitely trust with our leftwing conspiracy theories, but who will not be returning home to the boudoir with us for an old romp between the sheets, no sir!

I don't know. I'm feeling a little skeeved by this entire facestat.com phenomenon (by the way - do NOT accidentally type facesat. Oops. Different idea entirely).

Would you do me a really big favor, though, and add your picture up there and, like, eight people who you hate, too, and let me know how it turns out? I just don't know if my balls are big enough right now to find out that a zillion people think I am a skanky yet trustworthy drunk with bad hair. I wanna know how you fare before I do it. I dare you.