Posts Tagged ‘Hacks’


A Day in the Life of a Blogger

January 19, 2010
Ted's license plate indicated that he liked to be punched in the face repeatedly.

Ted's license plate indicated that he liked to be punched in the face repeatedly.

AFK temporarily. Here’s a blast from the past. (Originally published May 8, 2009.)

8:07 am – Shortly after arriving at work, a co-worker says something particularly inane. You say to yourself, (or so you think) “That’s going in the blog, douche.”

Your co-worker asks, “What did you say?” You cover quickly, “I said I have a lot of work. To do. Over where…I do my work. Douche.”

Good save! Publish.

9:19 am – You decide to play chicken with the economy by writing a long diatribe on the inept management at your thinly disguised company.

I work for a large and evil software corporation whose products are nearly as omnipresent as Windows on houses.

Sneaky! Publish.

10:01 am – First break. The local food jobber’s circular contains some extraneous quotation marks. You mercilessly point this out.

Burn! Publish.

11:13 am – While theoretically working, you stumble across a Jesse McCartney fan site curated by a 12-year old girl. You rip the site creator to shreds in the comments, questioning their intelligence, correcting their grammar and suggesting her parents needed a better brand of birth control.

You then head to your blog to add a post ripping the site creator to shreds, questioning their intelligence and speculating on her family tree. You add a link to your post connecting you back to your original incisive comments.

Self-fulfilling! Publish.

12:31 pm – You read an article in the local newspaper about a horrific case of child abuse. You figure if anyone can find the “funny” in this story, you can. Too soon?

Never! Publish.

1:45 pm– You run across a great article on HuffPo. You add a couple of sentences and drop in a few F-bombs.

Original! Publish.

2:30 pm – You duck out of work early and head to the mall. You score a new hat.

Bonus! Publish.

3:12 pm – Some junk mail arrives with your name misspelled.

Idiots! Publish.

3:16 pm – Your electric bill has gone up for the second straight month! You rant about the electric company, their founders, the current political climate, the “man” in general and question the sexual orientation of all involved.

Outrage! Publish.

3:56 pm– You give an online phisher some key bank account information with the hopes that this will turn into a long series of investigative posts and prepare to go all Internet Batman on their asses.

Stay tuned! Publish.

4:41 pm– Even though a million bloggers have written a million words on the RIAA’s rampant jackassery, you see no reason it shouldn’t be 1,000,927.

Skewer! Publish.

5:17 pm – During your court-ordered stint with the Boys and Girls Club, some teenagers make some cutting remarks about your archaic slang and mock your love of 90’s alternative rock. Now you know what’s wrong with today’s youth. Everything!

Fuck me gently with a chainsaw! Publish.

6:11 pm – You make a particularly cutting remark to your (soon to be ex) girlfriend about her choice of outerwear. Her reaction is priceless.

Zing! Publish.

7:01 pm– Your evening plans of whiskey and XBox are interrupted by a bicycle-riding door-to-door religion salesman. After a scintillating conversation, wherein you agree to disagree, you barricade the door and blog about the many problems with organized religion.

Your post? Praying to solve a problem is only slightly less useless than blogging about it.

Goddamned! Publish.

8:03 pm– In a shameless effort to grab page views, you begin randomly tagging your posts with these selections: fake boobs, real boobs, fuck you, octomom, personal lubrication, Susan Boyle, mp3, Paris Hilton, Perez Hilton, free money, Nickelback sucks, conficker, swine flu, naked photos and Humor.

Your posts, of course, contain none of these things.

Zeitgeisted! Publish.

9:29 pm – While cutting through the park on the way to your weed dealer, you come across three dogs going at it in a way that would embarrass German porn stars. After three or four bong hits, you find a way to connect it to an otherwise uneventful day at work.

Dog eat dog eat dog! Publish.

10:17 pm– After drinking alone for several hours, you consider drunk-dialing your estranged girlfriend. Instead you decide to go all Charles Bukowski and rant semi-poetically about what bullshit relationships are. Chicks only dig assholes.

Fuck spellcheck! Publish.

11:30 pm – Buzzed up and hungry, you head to the local convenience store for some snacks. Your bank card is turned down and the clerk seems distracted by muffled yells originating from the stockroom. You return home empty-stomached and angry.

The bank will hear about this in the morning, but the Internet will hear about it tonight!

Bullshit! Publish.

12:08 am– Having exhausted any good ideas, you bang out a hyperbolic rundown of the day’s events and shove it into the blogosphere. After hitting F5 on the Dashboard a few times, you head to bed.

Pointless! Publish.

Tip of the cap to the many blogs that keep me entertained on a daily basis:
Sick Days
Stop Annoying Me
Fundamental Jelly
Prison Diary…
The Problem with Young People Today Is…
Your Religion Is False



Fancy Plans… Book of the Month Club: Clive Cussler’s Sparta

June 19, 2009
Actual cover art TK, but should only involve changing the title and adding 8% to the cyan

Actual cover art TK, but should only involve changing the title and adding 8% to the cyan

Clive Cussler, author of over 800 novels, returns with another gripping tale of adventure on the high seas. In the latest installment of the neverending Dirk Pitt saga, Dirk finds himself on the maiden voyage of the Sparta, an experimental submarine handcrafted by eccentric billionaire, Roll Fizzlebeef.

Sparta features the steady co-writing of Paul Kemprecos, the show horse of the Cussler novel farm, which means he gets his own word processor, desk, corner office, and, should the book sell over 2.5 million copies, his choice of Cussler’s many virgin daughters. If you look carefully at the dust jacket, you can almost make out his name below the 240-point type announcing that CLIVE FUCKING CUSSLER has agreed to take credit for someone else’s work.

Here’s an excerpt:

They were sinking too fast. The intercom crackled, summoning Pitt to the bowels of the submarine.
   Pitt hustled to the engine room. Fizzlebeef and his crew were bathed in the eerie red light of the control console. Dirk inhaled the heady scent of seamen and engine oil.
   “The engine’s running too hard,” the crew chief informed him. “There’s too much pressure. The nuts are about to blow.” Dirk’s fingers traced the nuts pensively, feeling them strain from the pressure, swelling as if to meet his touch.
   “It’ll seize up completely if we don’t lubricate it.” The voice of Roll came from behind Dirk. He turned to face the captain. Fizzlebeef was a monster of a man, hard as a rock, his shirtless chest glistening with sweat.
   “Grab that lube,” he ordered, “We’ve got to get the driveshaft moving again.” Dirk handed the tube to the captain. Roll bent over the engine and shot a massive load onto the shaft. Swiftly, he began rubbing the massive shaft with both hands.
   “It’s too hot!” he declared. “I’m not sure if this will help relieve the pressure or not.” Dirk quickly knelt down and assisted Fizzlebeef, massaging oil into the underside of the exposed shaft.
   The motor began to shake. A piercing noise filled the engine room. The keening noise reached a climax. The motor shuddered heavily before exploding, showering the men with its hot, steaming load.
   The lights went out. Above them a catwalk collapsed, raining men onto the floor below.
   Dirk heard a cry from the crew chief. “Sweet Jesus. It’s so deep inside me.” Part of the shaft had come loose and penetrated the young man. He gasped loudly as Dirk gently inserted two fingers into the hole. Dirk continued to push in deeper until he reached the end of the shaft.
   Another loud gasp came from the chief. His heart had stopped.
  Quickly, Dirk located the now-limp organ and began rubbing and squeezing it. He worked slowly at first, feeling for any sign of life. As it began to pulse and stiffen, Dirk began massaging it more vigorously. The organ filled with blood and began to throb and push against Pitt’s hand. Dirk turned his attention to the other limp and prone crew members.
   He began to clear a path to the backup generator. He groped around in the dark, gathering fallen seamen with both hands and pushing them into any opening he could find. He flipped on the breaker and heard the backup engines roar to life. The craft began to rise steadily, urged on by the long strokes of the pumping pistons.
   Pitt’s relief was short-lived. The backup engines ground to a halt and the lights flickered out. Dirk felt the crushing despair and helplessness of a prisoner whose furlough has just been revoked. One instant: an escape from a death sentence aboard a watery prison. The next: being pushed to his knees by the invisible sweaty, tattooed hands of fate.
   Dirk looked at the crew and saw his fears reflected in their eyes.
   They had no choice.
   They were going down.

Wow! Intense and gripping! I’m willing to bet Cussler and his lifetime companion Kemprecos will gain an entirely new audience with this tour de force. The give-and-take between the authors is exhilarating, watching them try new angles and positions tirelessly, constantly trying to do each other one better. Until next time…


Quick addendum: Check out this fine website for more fun with Cussler.
The Thriller in a Manila