lobsterchick's Diaryland Diary

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Chicken Babies

There was terror in the Heartland tonight, as Maureen and Sandy Olive pulled into their neighborhood and saw the cable truck. Would there be no TV? No Internet access?

But the Angel of Technological Death passed over them, and they heaved a sigh of relief. They, along with their friends and neighbors, are part of an elite group known as... The Chicken Babies.

It's a name a coworker and I came up with today, when people returning from lunch announced gas prices of $2.99. I immediately went into Fret Mode, calling Jamie and my mom and telling them we weren't going to the YMCA Book Fair, then calling them back and saying yes, we were, then calling them back and calling it off again. "How can it be this hard to give up something so nonessential?" I moaned, my hands over my face. "If I were in London in World War II, I would be dead, because hiding in the basement during air raids would have been cold and uncomfortable, and I'd have come upstairs and been destroyed by a buzz bomb."

"We're all like that. We're all spoiled."

"I wish we weren't such babies."

"We're chickens, too."

"We're chicken babies."

"That's exactly what we are. That's kind of cute."

"I thought it was gross. Like embryos inside of eggs."

"Ew."

"I'm sayin'."

I finally decided to go on to the Book Fair, because, as Jamie put it, "It's your favorite time of the year. More than Christmas, even." And it's true; $6 for a box of books? It's worth $3 for a gallon of gas, even though many things aren't.

PLACES THAT ARE NOT WORTH PAYING $3/GAL FOR GAS TO GET TO:
  • Work. I've stopped going. I live seven miles from work, and I get about 21 miles to a gallon. You do the math; it's just not worth it.
  • The cemetery. Come on, it's not like they know you're there anyway.
  • Kimmswick. It's Hell, and their website is just the first circle.
  • Disneyland. It may be the Happiest Place on Earth, but it would cost me $300 just to drive there. And with not working and all, I don't know where I would come up with that kind of money.
  • The Academy Awards. Again. They just keep asking me. This has less to do with gas prices and more to do with my distaste of Renee Zellweger.
  • The gas station. Because that's like drinking water on your way to the bathroom.
  • Walgreens. Deodorant? Don't need it. Shampoo? Optional. Antidepressants? Since I don't go to work, I'm not around anyone anyway.
  • The doctor. That lump is probably nothing.

So far, I've calculated that I've saved $42.75 in gas not going anywhere. I'm sure you agree it's worth it.

8:01 PM - 31 August 2005

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Suh-Suh-Suh-Suth-Samantha Fox!

WARNING! THIS ENTRY CONTAINS A BRITISH PERSON, NUDITY, AND A CARNIVAL BARKER'S HAT. IF YOUR I.T. DEPARTMENT IS LIKELY TO TAKE ISSUE WITH ANY OF THESE THINGS (and oh, Jesus, how many times have I gotten the "Company Policy on Carnival Barker Hats in Electronic Transmissions" memo?), I SUGGEST YOU LEAVE THE VIEWING OF THIS PAGE UNTIL YOU ARE IN THE PRIVACY OF YOUR OWN HOME, WHERE ONLY THE GOVERNMENT CAN CHIDE YOUR FOR YOUR WEBPAGE-VIEWING HABITS.

That said, let's get to the entry, shall we?

Like many of you, I often wonder what happened to the stars of yesteryear. Jeremy Licht, of TV's "The Hogan Family"? Investment consultant. "Blossom"'s Mayim Bialik? Brain surgeon. No, really! I know!

But one face (and body!) from the past remains elusive. That of one Samantha Fox. You remember her. Trashy, nudie-magazine type of model, who, when she tried to break into pop music, she stayed true to her roots, with songs like "I Wanna Have Some Fun" and "Naughty Girls Need Love, Too." But after the applause faded, where did our Miss Fox go? I, with the help of Google Image Search, endeavoured to find out.


Ah, it appears that Samantha, like many celebrities, headed for the hills once her heyday was over. She enjoyed waking up at dawn, feeding the chickens, and, as this picture shows, peeling apples. Topless.


No man is an island, and we find here that Samantha's solitude eventually wore on her, manifesting itself in such bizarre behavior as covering her (topless) self with cooked spaghetti. There's a reason they call it Hollyweird!


Though away from the city lights, Samantha still enjoyed the luxury of her own pool. She submitted this photo to her favorite publication, Nudist's Quarterly, where it won a prize in a photo contest for "Best Use of Clothing While Still Remaining Technically Nude, Amateur."


Relishing her time off and longing to see the world, Samantha embarked on an African safari.


Still just a regular girl, Samantha returned to "the States" longing for a good old-fashioned hamburger. But how to get around the "No shoes, no shirt, no service" policy at McDonald's? Samantha's no slouch in the brains department, either!


With sales of her albums dwindling, Samantha decided that it was time to take a day job as an admin at a paper company, where she was the office favorite.


The performance bug never did leave Samantha's system, and here is a still from her audition tape for the Pepperpot Playhouse's production of State Fair.


But for all her efforts to the contrary, Samantha Fox ended up the way most former topless models do, bloated and standing next to two guys in a Krakow karaoke bar.

So now you know what happened to Samantha Fox. Next time we put the Google image search to good use, we'll revisit that little red-headed girl who played Harriet on "Small Wonder." (Psst! I hear the words "porn star" being bandied about!)

2:38 AM - 28 August 2005

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Stepping Up and Thinking Outside the Box

Last Friday, my work computer was, once more, ailing with any number of mysterious maladies: Fucked-up network card? Check! Unusable keyboard? Got it! One-quarter the memory I need to carry out regular everyday procedures? Not a new development, but yes! I guess the IS department was looking ahead to Monday when my boss was to come back from her four-week broken-arm-related hiatus and the shit fit she would be sure to throw if I couldn't work because all they had done for me is given me a hammer, chisel, and stone tablet. For the IS guys, in their infinite wisdom, finally decided to taken my tower... Downstairs.

Downstairs is a big deal for the computers where I work. They go there to either get well or die, or (more likely) to be brought up to the bare minimum needed to go on, yet still marinate in their own incompetence. It's an exciting time for everyone, except for our IS guys, because they're the only ones who know that they're just going to sit down there, staring at the tower and discussing Episode III plot points as a means of fixing the ailing machine.

I wish I was kidding about that, but when I went in search of my promised new keyboard (which, as anyone who works in an office will tell you, is essential, though clearly not as vital as a long-winded sci-fi discussion) I walked in on "... yeah, but when Anakin lost his legs... Oh."

Our three IS guys stood, frozen in terror, staring at me. I slowly moved toward their leader, careful not to make eye contact, gingerly removed the new keyboard from his grasp and backed away, remembering that the rangers at Yellowstone said that in a situation such as this, you should stand tall and make yourself appear as big as possible. Also? Don't leave your backpack behind.

So, while my computer was being "looked at," I was temporarily relocated to the desk of Marge, who was on vacation. Marge not only has one of those ridiculous ergonomic keyboards that requires you to do a backbend and hit every key with your big toe as you do high kicks (way way better for your hands and back than a standard keyboard), but her desk is also on the corner of an intersection of two oft-traveled walkways.

This second distinction puts the temporary user at the hilaaarious risk of passers-by walking past (as passers-by are wont to do) and doing a double take, then saying....

Wait for it....

"Marge! You've grown your hair out!"

Boom! That, friends, is an office joke on par with "Workin' hard or hardly workin'?" and "You have to be crazy to work here!"

After I picked myself up off the floor (where I had fallen due to the debilitating nature of my full-body laughing fit) and assaulted the perpetrator with the ridiculous keyboard, I replied, "Yes, my name is Marge, and I've grown my hair out. I've also gained fifty pounds. Now get out of here, and let that keyboard embedded in your skull be a warning to the others."

11:49 PM - 24 August 2005

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