Monthly Archives: November 2011

An Afterlife? WTF!

     It just occurred to me that The Godless such as myself will be treated  to an Interesting Surprise at least, if Life-after-Death turns out to be in fact a real feature of this vale of tears.
While folks who lived their entire lives merely assuming and anticipating the Eternal Un-moveable Feast will, by contrast, only be able to cluck, “Well of course. Whoever doubted it?”
And then I suppose the only relevant follow-up question is: ‘What ambient temperature awaits us infidels?’
For if we too are escorted briskly into the Main Dining Hall whose plastic-slip-cover-ed folding tables over-flow with potato salad and chicken casserole, under the loving out-stretched Arms of the King of Kings, and maybe his Mom, we shall have, not only the prospect of a warm meal after our final dwindling years on Social Security pasta or hospital IV nutrition to smile about, but also the oddly-gratifying perk of having bet on the Wrong Horse and still doubling our money.

     Of course some from the deodorized  Safe-bet crowd were dearly hoping we’d pay for our Sins-of-Unbelief in vats of super-heated oil for Time Im-memoriam. This will make for some uncomfortable seating arrangements:
“So, what church did you go to?”
“Um.. I didn’t. Could you pass the salt please.”
*looks around the Room*

On the other hand, the scene amid the Flames of Hell may be equally conflicted, as those such as I scream:
“F*ck this, man. I never even stepped on an ant! Why me?”, and the church-going philanderers, wife-beaters, and serial tax-cheaters search frantically and in vain, again, for

‘Blaze’ Pascal wagered roughly:
1)  “If I bet on ‘This earthly life is all she wrote’, and I’m right, I win, factually, but I won’t be around anymore to spend the bucks when I die. No fun there…”

2)   “But if I bet on an Eternal Life awaiting me, there’s two(2) possible outcomes:

2a)  Either I was wrong; I get dead, the lights go out, and I’ll never know about it, or:

2b)  I was right! dammit, there was an Afterlife! In which I’ll either:

2ba  ….play my out-of-tune harp forever and ever, amen… Or:

2bb)  ….watch my gonads saute in lard for eons. Not the perfect career-choice, but at least I’ll be able to gloat to the other deep-fries: “Told ya so!”

Whew. Based on all that, Pascal advised Men to go with the Hunting Grounds, happy or not.

I think someone found a fatal flaw in the ointment of his reasoning, but I’ll have to Google it.
….while there’s still Time.

I Blame Sweden

     I am, as we speak, suffering through another of my week-long Xanga blackouts. Every site in the world comes up except for Xanga. (Yes, Outer Mongolian yak-prices dot com? No problem: 138 milliseconds to page-load, and I decide to wait until Dec 1 to sell my herd. So at least there’s that…
But Xanga? It’s a total mystery, and the Forums (Forae?) have only helped me to rule out just
about everything. Except Alien Conspiracy. Here are the details:

1) The handy {trace-route} utility in Windows Ms-Dos reveals that, (as is the case every time
this happens), my Request-to-Connect makes it to
one specific Swedish server and dies, timed-out. by {} (URL of the Beast?)
2) And so there’s really not much to be discovered by checking my computer’s ‘Hosts’ file in
Windows/System32/drivers/etc. Clean; the only hand-entered entry is for Meebo. Same ‘no-help’ for flushing the DNS Cache; it’s clean as a Dubai toilet-bowl also.

3) I can access Xanga through a Free Web-Proxy site somewhere in Texas, although it mysteriously (so far) refuses to let me invoke the Reply-to-Comment function. So telling Roadkill Spats that ‘TIMID’ is an -id word we somehow overlooked is impossible by regular channels. Oh, and I can’t post Entries through a proxy either.

4) Ok, I checked ‘Search my site’, for any derogatory mention of Sweden. Bingo, in a comment years ago I ‘did’ hint that “Norway’s got everything Sweden’s got… except a good neighbor.” A little Norse humour. Get over it; the damn Quislings are probably just jealous.

5) So, seriously, what could cause this un-explainable crib-death-on-15th-hop internet-connectivity quirk? If Xanga were black-listed by an irate WIFI neighbor, my Request shouldn’t make it past their own router, and if it’s the State of Israel’s doing, ditto, or at least at the gateway-server in Haifa.

6) So I’m left with only suspicions; some blonde anti-semite in the IT-Dep’t at this lonely
frost-bitten Scandinavian server farm is personally tossing my packets into the bit-bucket?

7) What to do? Well, IKEA of course comes to mind. And yeah, I do have the usual ton of screws left over from all my friends who’ve begged me over the years to ‘Put the damn thing together for me!” Maybe if I send ’em back to Sweden? Along with a nice apology for the Count Bernadotte hit from the ’40s. Hey Shamir done it, not me. My people begged him to think twice.
Damn. Shamir shot my Xanga!

Wu: So, how the hell did you just post this?
Me: Ha, as soon as I sent MelFamy the text and my password, Xanga came back mysteriously. I was gonna ask  him to post it for me. Wait, maybe he did… and I’m secretly him? We do have a bunch of good stuff in common. Cue the Twilight Zone Theme Music.

I’d say this is ‘id’ speaking

     Dead drunk on the brutal concrete floor. Not thinking, as is typical of the species, “Why’d she say that, the rabid dog?”
No, me a lingualist to the last dying synapse, I’m mano-a-mano with the elusive English category: Words what end in ‘id, all the better to make her feel really, really bad.
I do prefer the ‘ending-in’ searches, them-there being less vulnerable to crude dictionary attacks. Which at this point I need  like a retro-virus.
And ‘Rabid’ is too good for her. Implies that even germs find her attractive. So what does that make me?
No, ‘vapid’ is more like it. Something to do with a vacuum, I think. Yeah, I’ll go with that.

 Cuz the chick sucks as a friend. One day hot, the next day, frigid. If I felt like joking, I’d say that on average she was ‘tepid’.
But I don’t. No, I jus wanna die here, nostrils smashed into the solid cement.
I do want to know what makes this horrid woman tick, though. Call it ‘morbid’ curiosity, I care?
I wuz stupid to fall for this Cupid in sheep’s clothes. Pulled the wool over my eyes. She prolly sez the same about me.
“Your coming un-rapid!” she screams, knoweth-ing not what she’s sayeth-ing.
“Am not!” I counter. I will not be called ‘un-lucid’ by by this putrid little arachnid.

    I roll over on the dismal floor-without-pity, seeking my ‘flat’ side, teeth biting into the aggregate. Oh well. It’s been years since I had a million-dollar smile. Nice even teeth I got: 1,3,5,7, and 9 are missing. I lose a cuspid about once a year, and a bi-cuspid ‘bi-annually‘. I
don’t even know what that word means. I’m losing it, is all I know. Pallid, I lie on this insipid floor, in this fetid vocab-id swamp, where even words fail me; sinking forever into the languid, liquid depths.
Yes, I guess it’s over, Friends. I’m defeatid.  (no, your ‘defeated‘(!) -ed)

Got Yer CV’s ‘G & I Redner-Rendering Svc.’ job history right here. Just Copy & Paste

    Stick this in your Resume, folks. Yeah, it’s probably what got me my new job, you know; seeing that awesome firm‘s name there, and my experience working for the outfit. So feel free to tack it onto your curriculm vitae‘. Lucky me; I won’t be needing it anymore.
Lots of readers probably think ‘rendering’ has something to do with web pages. Hah, it’s just a stolen use of the term by clueless modern cyborgs who never took a dead cow apart in their life.
But still, I was ready when the Human Services Rep asked me what I’d done there. I tried to explain:
“Well, you know there’s the Head, and the Body, and then of course the Foot?” I said, starting out on the right hoof. I could tell right off that he was buying it. Body language and all that. So I added, “…hey, somebody’s got to make sure they all appear in the right places.”
“And that somebody was you?” he asked.
I tried to look modest: “Well maybe not the first month.”
The fellow was pretty spiffilly-dressed, compared to the folks I’d worked with; not a spot of  blood or guts on his shirt. Maybe this new outfit can afford free-loaders in the Front Office? I thought, but kept it to myself. He opened a Word-file(?)  on his ‘laptop’ (that’s what they call it?) and started with some questions. I think I handled them ok:
“So how’re you with Java?”
“No Problem. I did that for the guys, every morning, till I farmed it out to another new-hire.”
“And CSS?”
I had to think for a second, not wanting to lie or anything. CSS? Yeah, he probably means the ‘Cadaver Selection Specialist’ title they gave me, half in jest, at the New Year’s party.
“‘CSS‘? That’s kinda my ‘middle name‘, Steve.” I told him, relaxing into the naugahyde.
“Cut and Paste?” he continued down the list, as my confidence only increased.
“Ha, if there’s a critter I ain’t cut, I’d like to meet him.”, then added: “‘Paste‘ now? Yeah,
been there, done that, but the smell, you know?”
Steve looked a tad puzzled, but kept going with the script:
“Drag ‘n Drop?”
I thought for a second, not wanting to risk another wrinkled brow, but then:
“Well, I’ve dragged some fillies from the damndest places. Then dropped ’em smack in the ‘new location’, bingo.”
“‘Files‘, you mean?”
“Yeah, Stevie boy. A horse by any other name, you know.”
This guy was making me a little nervous, but so far so good. It’s just that nobody ever called a
cow a ‘browser’, that I remembered. A ‘grazer’, maybe. They’re technically ‘ruminants’. Got four stomachs, to deal with digesting roughage. You wear a gas mask starting with #2. Still got mine, in the attic somewhere. But finally, I answered:
“Browsers? No prob. Yeah, I know my way around the guts of a browser. Got any hard questions, guy?” I replied, going on the offense.
Steve scrolled down, I guess they call it. Must’ve bumped the bottom of the TV-thingie’s screen. He looked away for a second, as if searching for more bullets.
“Hide?” was all he found on that little trip.
“Well, we didn’t do hides in-house.”, I confessed, “Old George always said ‘Hides, that’s an outside job’.” I laughed, hoping Steve would be similarly amused. He wasn’t, but hey, can’t win ’em all. Steve picked up my curriculum vitae, scanning it hurridly:
“So how long’s Redner been in business?” he asked.
“Nineteen oh-seven; that makes a hundred years an’ change, right?” I beamed proudly. Steve gaped at me like a man whose butt just fell off:
“A hundred years? That’s like, before I was born!?”
“Righto, puppy. And me too.” I consoled him. But it was too late.
“So what were they doing for the first 80 years, in web-development?” Steve demanded to know. I felt the blood drain into my socks, thought about how much I needed a real gig, you know, and not as some hack chopping up rotting animal carcasses for the Recycling Bin. And somehow, I got my second wind:
“Listen, Stevie, Redner pioneered Broom Solutions to Web Development.” I gushed, on a new roll. “Plus, they’ve always been the greenest of the green. I mean, the grid goes down, your UPS times-out, whadaya do, boss? Righto, You light a f*ckin candle, is what. And where do candles come from?”
“Redner? was all Steve could limply offer.
“Right on, bro. Tallow. Google it sometime.”
And with that wax-job, Steve, either by my sheer personal magnetism or through brow-beating seemed to fold his cards:
“Well, Mr Solberg, I guess we might as well have a quick tour, to show you what your new job entails.”
For some reason, I heard ‘entrails’.

MEEBO’s Revenge

Ok, do check the previous post for how to easily murder that awful Meebo chat-bar, etc on your site. But I do need to post a small WARNING here. Do it at your own risk!
See nowadays everybody’s linked to everybody. I get an email from MelFamy mentioning Buckminster Fuller and my g-mail is suddenly alive with links for  Fuller Brush Company, plus an outfit who’ll set me up with ‘fuller breasts’, for a price. So no wonder Meebo found out about my treason.

    I knew it right away when I got a strange SMS from my buddy Andy at Tel Aviv University. He’s 3rd year Bio, specialty Entomology. And something wild must’ve happened in the lab. Hard to tell exactly what though, because MEEBO CRIPPLED HIS PHONE’S KEYBOARD! (-ADD: So I thought-) Yeah, it took a while to figure out, almost like forensics, but the evidence is right there in the first exchange:


This was Andy’s SMS, and the first hint something wasn’t right. Luckily, I’d visited there not too long ago, toured their setup, with the screened cages, the cameras, and the heaters. Yeah, need to keep those tropical ants warm enough to procreate. So duh, looks like ‘Stan’, a partially un-wrapped dude from Eilat in the South, got tired of his love for the lovely Natasha-of-the-Ukraine being un-requited, and went over the edge. Turned the heater on her brood-chamber up to ‘Awesome’! (I’m pretty sharp at guessing the plots in affairs of the heart.)

Figuring that some foreign entity had ‘limited’ Andy’s Alphabet, I msg-ed back in kind:

Really more to sound out Andy’s loyalties in the fracas. He is splitting a flat  with Stan this semester. And sure enough, I get this ‘counsel for the defence’:


Well shit happens, especially when you get over-amorous with an IDF veteran-girl who hasn’t forgotten her basic training. But I decided to push Andy into his own corner as the advocate for his room-mate. (oh, and stay within my Meebo letters):

Andy’s reply surprised me:
Ok then, I thought to myself, and replied:
-HA!-   …then quickly searched for Stan’s cell#. Great, got it. Sent him a fairly long query; (I’m not big on the old ‘WHASSUP’ even on texting). He responded with a puzzled -??-.
That’s when I realized, mebbe ‘it’s not them it’s me
It’s ‘MY’ phone’s alphabet that Meebo’s dicking with? What to do? I got straight to the point:
-STAN,  Y?-

-SHE NEEDS A HAT- he replied within seconds. ‘A hat’?? I thought, and so I sent him:
-A HAT??-
No reply… and sadly, that’s the last info I have on this formicide investigation. He probably means ‘a tin-foil hat’, but go try to spell that out with a ‘SHATN-DY’ keyboard. My only question is: ‘If I capitulate and put the god-damn Meebo-virus back on my Xanga page, do I get to use the whole alphabet?  Only Meebo knoweth, and they ain’t talking…
Like I said folks, consequences. Karma. Step on a crack/ break yer Momma’s back.’
. And you won’t even have the letters to say you’re sorry.

OMG I did it!! Killed the evil Meebo!

    Just Wow! Nothing else I did today can compare to the thrill of seeing Xanga back loading in a split-second, and not having that useless and annoying bar and its balloon blow-buddy filthing up my page. It’s also disappeared from my view at least, of  other victims’ sites.
Now all I want is like, $30 an hour for the probably days I wasted of my life staring at “waiting for rd.meebo.con” in the task-bar (bottom of browser)
The screen-capture here, (courtesy of explains three ways to defeat the Beast. I used the third method and simply added the pest-site’s name to my Hosts file. The browser still tries to call the site (it’s in the page’s source-code after all), but is re-directed harmlessly to, which is the web address of my own asshole, or something similar.

“Get thee behind me, Satan!” Oh, and taste leaden death...

‘I am a God’; goes without saying. So nobody says it lately…

     Another rain-day, and time for sober reflection. Even gods screw up at times, turns out. I spent last night on the phone with one; he’d created what he thought was a perfectly charming Universe, but had dumbly set it up with four (4) space dimensions. Turned out his life-forms couldn’t even use their cell-phones. Something with signal-strength declining according to the inverse CUBE of distance. Duh! ‘A simple phone call coulda saved your newbie ass, buddy?’
I bought his basket-case World for a nickle on the dollar and parked it out in the Oort Cloud till I get time to dick with it, and let him crash in my now-vacant chicken house, now that my fowl are free to range.

But seriously, folks, I am not blind. I compare my writing here, in criteria such as witty, clever, wise, elegant, original, and tactful, to the Top Blog fare on the sad Front-Page Menu,
and yeah, no question, the Kid’s got the Right Stuff.
Used to be, readers told me that to my face, or at least to my backside, like Moses and that other God, once popular but misunderstood.
But it’s frustrating, (if I can admit to a human emotion), to keep writing killer material (or at least, ‘sickening’) and then to see that the parking lot for bow-down-and-worship-ers is barely half full, While lightweights with their cheap plastic toy-blogs gresham’s-law my ouevre into a forgotten corner.
Silly humans. I forgive them; they ‘know not what they (fail to) do’. I mean, how many times can a busy reader comment “Solberg, you tower above the competing beasts like a giraffe in a circus parade.”
Jeezuz, I may be forced to act ‘mature’. To continue to post, but without any delusions of
xanga-grandeur, granduer, whateveah. Serves me right, in a way. I built this World using a beta
‘String-Theory’ model, in a pinch, even though my Dad told me a thousand times “Ya cain’t push on a string.” The Old Guy’s probably laughing all he way to Alpha Centauri as we speak, watching me try to net “-47 Comments- 29 E-props-” here in my failed project. “If I write it, they will come.” I’d gushed at the time. He looked down at me like Reagan’s famous ‘There you go again’.
Oh well, at least I plowed a nice Field of Dreams. So what if some of the potatoes didn’t sprout.

‘Oh-wow-ing’ the FLA-X-catchers

     Like millions of other similarly obsessed English speakers, this morning over breakfast (Kool-aid and Bar-B-Q chips) I gave the FLA- sound the old acid test and was electrified to discover how much flax I found. Let’s go at once to the handy list I made, for anyone who needs living proof.

FLAA:  A verb for when aardvarks and/or guys named Aaron go to meetings every night, so I’ve heard
FLAB:  No chance of that fat for this kid, you know, on my vegetarian diet
FLAC:  ‘C’ here takes an ‘S’ sound. The word’s got a standing chance to be tomorrow’s slang for ‘flaccid’. Not that I’d ever need to use it.
FLAD:  Describes a shirt which is both Flannel and Plaid.
FLAE:  A small insect pest which mainly infests dyslexics
FLAF:  A verb for ‘undeserved derision’. ex-“I wrote a killer post on letters, and half of Xanga flaffed at me.”
FLAG:  Long may it wave. Both Hello and Goodbye
FLAH:  Similar to ‘blah’ but with a more active falling-down aspect.
FLAI:  Something to do with Jai Alai, a sport I only know the name of
FLAJ:  The ‘J’ as a ‘G’, since ‘Flag’ is already taken. Sperms ‘flaj’ around for up to 36 hours. Only fair; I worked that long for the chance to put ’em there.
FLAK:  Some kind of fabric. They make jackets out of it, is all I know
FLAL Waving your arms and legs about when you don’t even have ‘I’ contact
FLAM:  Hangs out with ‘Flim’, and together they con suckers, one every 60 seconds, roughly
FLAN:  One of the constituents of ‘Flann-el’ shirts, the other being ‘-El’
FLAO:  Obviously of Portugese origin. Probably a shirt made out of cork
FLAP:  A sealable opening in a shirt; also the brouhaha resulting when she leaves it open
FLAQ:  Think it’s something that builds up on your teeth, but easier to remove than plaque.
FLAR:  The attractive head of a plant. Also ‘what you make bread out of’. Alternate spelling in either case
FLAS:  verb for cleaning the teeth of a dog with a piece of string. First-use was on the TV show ‘Lassie’, Or ‘I love Lucy’. Can’t remember. Oh damn, I just dropped the bottle of Koolaid.
FLAS:  A ‘flask’ after it fell on the floor. Applies to the largest piece you can find.
FLAT:  Happens to tires and beer if you’re not careful
FLAU:  an unsightly defect in a piece of jewelry, but only if it’s gold.
FLAV:  More slang. Talking Kool-aid here, with all its plusses and… OMG, my fingers are melting… I gotta get outa here…

Three days later:
Sorry, reader. Looks like I have a problem. But cheerio and all that rot. Back up on the horse:
FLAW:  Often fatal. At times the law is called in for this one.
FLAX:  Yeah, another way to build a shirt. A great replacement garment, especially if you have no skin
FLAY:  Taking the skin off a guy; so he’ll buy a flax shirt
FLAZ:  No idea. Feel free to help me out here

Wu: You can’t go home, again?
Me: Yeah, cops on the lawn, wolfes on the roof. Damn
Wu: well, at least you got me, babe
Me: Why don’t that make my heart sing?

‘Xanga-Pro-active’… or just ‘Drunk & Disorderly’?

    I was just now on the Blogger site Google forced me into creating in order to comment on posts by a writer here who jumped overboard, abandoning this perfectly sea-worthy Xanga ship for the desolate horse-latitudes somewhere else. Seriously lonely anywhere but Xanga.

     Mixed feelings though. I have a good 200 Subscribers, but receive input here from barely 5 percent of them. What’s an agressive drunk to do?
Well god-dammit, I’ll show them who’s the boss! It’s currently raining like hell outside, so I’ve
got time to kill. I’ll go down the list and each and every stinking derelict who hasn’t found it
in his heart to have anything good or bad to say about my 1000 carefully-composed posts here will get a tactfully-worded (hah) private Message explaining his debt to Xanga-society. While I’m at it, I’ll check when’s the last time they seem to have even looked at their Page. Workers found innocently dead, through no fault of their own, will be respectfully removed from the premises. For those who simply fell asleep, a brief attempt shall be made to awaken them, after which, depending on the results, they may also be escorted to a nearby landfill.
But God be ye Merciful in Heaven, Amen, unto the Condemned who appear to be conducting an active ‘Life as Usual’, but have forgotten or ignored their signed-in-blood Oath to pay me attention. Plenty of rotting fruit in that Vintage where the Grapes of Wrath are stored, and I shall wickedly enjoy tossing it at their blithe heads.

Later, after sober reflection:
Sorry, everyone. I wuz drunk. I might have said stuff, you know, that I didn’t mean. Damn, wish there were a ‘Delete Message’ option. You-uns guys is just fine by me. I’m sure you got your reasons./ JS, Embarrassed in Tel Aviv

And of course none of this, past the first paragraph, really happened. I just whole-clothed it to see how it hung on my shoulders. “An interesting approach…”, I told the drunken tailor, “but it’s not, you know, ‘ME'”

Help: Do I got Hand-on-shoulder Disease?

      Approaching two guys on the sidewalk, I hear one of ’em tell the other: “Hide!”
I quickly scan the scene for anything threatening, and finding nada asked the one who hadn’t fled the area: “A cow’s outside?”
He kept his distance while he dryly answered: “Nah, who’s afraid of a cow? It’s you we gotta watch out for.” and kept walking.
Made me feel real shitty for a hundred yards or so. ‘What have I done? Oh, that?’ I remembered too late having met the fellow. He was working in some auto-parts store, and when his advice saved me mega-shekels fixing my Fiesta’s steering, I’d thanked him… and briefly put my hand on his shoulder, for emphasis. A total stranger. Is this normal?

“Am I normal?” I’ve been asking myself for a couple years now. I seem to be putting
hand-on-shoulder of just about anyone, of any age, gender, or status who’ll hold still long
enough lately. I don’t know, it always seems like the right thing to do. I do have rules, of
Women wearing wigs? No way.
Folks I despise? No chance.
Little barely pubescent girls with budding breasts just showing through their Scout uniform? Hardly.

That still leaves millions of shoulders in this naked city and I seem to be on a campaign to
collect ’em all.
A rule worth pointing out is that I only ever ‘do it’ (see, sounds gross, huh?) in connection
with a compliment of some sort. But admittedly, sometimes I search pretty hard for an accompanying nice thing to say. The hand wags the dog, so to speak.

“This probably involves yer Mom.” suggests the pre-occupied shrink.
“Yeah, probably…” I reply. and turn away. No hand for this guy.
But does he have a point? What kind of pathetic parenting during childhood could’ve created such a late-onset touchy-feely monster 50 years later?
Well, it turns out that the auto-parts guys was just being funny. Something about fearing me
motoring down the sidewalk, even on foot, with my front feet disconnected from the steering
wheel, which was the case when we’d briefly met.
But damn, I sure am paranoid. I truly wonder how many folks have silently wondered: “What’s this dude’s thing with contact?”
I can quit anytime I want, I tell myself. Keep my hands clasped behind my back, for example. But I’m sure then they’d talk about that.
‘So doctor, what’s a guy to do? And what are those handcuffs for?’

Wu: File under ‘Should? Shoulder? Shouldest?
Me: Yeah, now that you mention it. You a smart cookie, Wu
Wu: Thanks, just keep your hands in your pockets.