Friday, September 17, 2010

In which Our Hero makes an exception for a righteous cause.

Now normally I'm not one for posting fancy-pants images and videos but I've come across something so absolutely delicious that simply feel the need to spread it everywhere, like an enormous pair of vaginal lips but without the fishy smell.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the incomparable Cee Lo Green.  You'll thank me later.

There's also a music video which is just as good in a different way, which you can find on YouTube.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

In which startling developments are revealed while Our Hero waits for the Other Shoe to finish dropping.

Startling developments are startling!
Once again time and life have gotten away with me, which has prevented me from posting with any kind of respectable regularity.  Somehow I'm sure the blogosphere has not ceased to exist without my acidic bile spew for the past 11 days.

So many things, both good and bad (for once thankfully mostly good) have happened that it would be exhaustive to go over them all.  Additionally good news isn't nearly as interesting as bad or bizarre, so I'll just gloss over the big good fun things: my parents came to visit the weekend after Third Party's vile, wretched sire and screeching banshee beldam "graced" us with their presence.  The visit was the proverbial night-and-day deal, was an absolutely pleasant experience, and went a long way in repairing the psychic mauling TP's parents gave the both of us.  It doesn't hurt that we went out to dinner at Red Robin.  Jesus in a sidecar wearing a lobster bib, but those are some tasty burgers.

Following that, we receive word that two very dear people offered to sell me a spare car for incredibly cheap.  A 2000 Hyundai Elantra is worth about 2 to 3 times what they're asking for it, it comes from a good pedigree since they have mechanics in their family, and all it needs is an inspection and a new left front turn indicator light and it's good to go.  Furthermore, they're letting me put half down now and giving me time to pay the rest off at my leisure.

 I eyed them suspiciously when they told me the deal, expecting there to be some caveat somewhere that would involve me getting raped to sleep by dickwolves nightly for the next 12 months, but apparently there actually are good people out there in the world.  The car, in fact, is being brought over this evening for perusal and I'm looking forward to seeing if they are as actually forthright as I suspect they might be.

In a final recitation of what can be called "good news," I've decided to take my UK client up on the offer of more work.  Hopefully this will lead to me being able to phase out the transcription proofreading assholes, as they have become somewhat tarnished in my opinion of them of late; indeed, to refer to them as the most vile of used, dripping douche nozzles would seem an insult to the relative sterility of such a feminine hygiene product.  I'm tired of them either going days without sending me anything or trying to foist off on me poorly-translated files that take ridiculously long to proofread.  Not for $10 an hour, anyway.  The people who assign me work like that deserve the Special Hell, as Shepherd Book would say.

Finally on to the Fucking Weird section of our evening:  in a recent trip to the local Taco Hole, whereupon discovering they had once again gotten my regular order of 3 Meef Chewbaccas with a side order of Chili Chimps completely and totally wrong, necessitating a trip inside to the front counter.  While I waited for the fine young MTV viewers behind the counter to correct my order, I glance over to the bulletin board on my left where I find the most absolute bizarre business card ever:

D McGinty                                                                Birthdays * Funerals * Weddings
The "D" stands for "Awesome"                            Professional * Vindictive * Fnord 
Pentanthera Paracommunications                                                                                 610-906-2490 

So what in the holy hand grenade is up with this guy?  I'm including the phone number and email address here because, well, fuck 'im, he put his god damned business card up at Taco Hole.  If he doesn't want the free advertising he can leave me an email or a comment and tell me just what the shit he actually does.  Besides immanentizing the Eschaton.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

In which Our Hero realizes yet again that he's actually glad that can't afford a smart phone.

It's not paranoia if they are out to get you.
As I've mentioned before in previous work-related rants, I'm a freelance editor (also known as corporate whore) that picks up regular work for an audio transcription company proofreading transcripts for them.  Today I received a packet of work that, after doing some curiosity-fueled research, completely scared the ever loving shit out of me.

The file itself is similar to what I did a couple weeks ago where I slaved over 30 hours of retarded requests for penis jokes from that text message answering service.  I thought it was the same thing, but I was getting different style messages - less instances of "suck my big black cock" and more along the lines of email and text messages spoken aloud.  What I did keep hearing over and over again was the word "Vlingo," so I conducted an exhaustive bit of research (I fucking Googled it okay?  Get off my dick.  Jesus fuck.) and it turns out there's some company with a new smart phone app that has some pretty good text-to-speech recognition, judging from the raw file that I've got here in front of me.

Of course at that point I started thinking, "Holy shit, these are people's personal emails and texts!  Why do I have access to them?"  And then I figured out that this Vlingo company is obviously recording all the instances of people using the app on their BlackBerrys or their Droids or iPhones or whatever, saving whatever the person says and obviously storing it somewhere.

My Tinfoil Hat Senses started tingling, and I went and checked out the Vlingo website, where after some exhaustive digging I uncovered their Privacy Policy (I finally scrolled down to the bottom of the page and found it, like a god damned retard).

The second paragraph seems innocuous enough:
Vlingo never stores or keeps personally identifiable information on any user and never shares any user information outside of Vlingo for any reason. We do collect personal information to improve the service...
 Jesus Mary and Slowbro.  At least they admit it, even if they're not recording any personal information.

Then, I find another gem:
We collect and store the location of your handset only when you speak (which you can opt out of at any time through the Options screen of the Vlingo mobile client application). We do not associate the handset's location with your personal information. We do not know who you are when you use the location-awareness component of our service. We use this location information for research and development purposes and to improve your experience with the service.
 Great, now they're tracking my location too.  So they're pinpointing where and when I'm using their service, and what I'm saying.  At least you can opt out of it.  And what the hell are "research and development purposes?"  It's bad enough mobile phones have GPS trackers built into them already, but at least that has some survival use if you're lost in the middle of nowhere.  Then again, you probably have shit for signal anyway out there in Bumfuck, Minnesota or wherever it is you've gotten dumped after some crazed coyotes removed your liver and wrote "CALL THE AMBULANCE" on your chest in lipstick.

Do I really want some god damned company knowing where I am when I send filthy text messages to some fat bloated disgusting fursuit-wearing diaper fetishist I met on Craigslist last night looking to exchange "yiffing" for some free salvia?  Furthermore, is what I'm currently going through considered "user information?"  If so, why is it something I'm allowed to look at?  I ain't employed by Vlingo; as an independent contractor, I'm actually not employed by the transcription company either, technically.

Should I even care?  I mean it's just a job.  I should be working on it right now and earning some money that I can put towards buying some shitbox car so I won't be trapped here with two poo-eating dogs and their lovely owners all the god damned time.  At the same time I feel like I should be warning people about this Vlingo bullshit and how they're installing radio transmitters in my teeth so the Russian canine astronauts can communicate with me in the middle of the night, or whatever crazy paranoid people talk about.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

In which Our Hero is rick rolled in the god damned bathroom.

Now that my bubbling ire has subsided in regards to a giant vat of cherry-flavored Rita's Ices currently languishing in the freezer downstairs (like toilet-clogging bowel movement, it was simply taking up too much space in my little mini-fridge), it's time to relate the horror show that was my weekend.

As I mentioned, Third Party's parents were here for an overnight, plaguing us with their nasty presences.  They left New York on Saturday morning, promptly sat in traffic for about 6 hours, and finally got here sometime in the late afternoon, nice and extra surly.  This is a remarkable feat, considering that TP's mother has the temperament (and the shrill Noo Yawk accent) of Fran Drescher high on motherfucking Angel Dust.

I got a free lunch and dinner out of the deal, which was nice but a rather high price to pay, considering how I had the distinct pleasure of tagging along while TP's meat head father completely ignores his shiny new GPS and gets us terribly lost on our way to their hotel to drop off their bags.  We got to take the fucking longest shortcut ever, through the wilds of former Pennsylvania railroad towns that have since degenerated into places even "the nigras" wouldn't be caught dead in.

We finally pull up to the goddamn Best Western in Limerick and, to my absolute horror, this is what fills my view:
Yeah, that's right.  There's a god damned nuclear power plant in the fucking hotel's back yard.  It just then that I suddenly remember that Three Mile Island is in Pennsylvania.

Well, weekend couldn't get any worse, right?  What could possibly be worse than spending the entire weekend with some shrill harpy and her devoted, balding, metrosexual manchild of a husband?

Well, after they'd gotten checked in, they decide to take Third Party shopping at the nearby outlet stores (again, with the fucking Pillars of Death in full view beyond the parking lot), where finally I'd had enough from ducking into overcrowded stores stuffed with overpriced crap and excuse myself in order to go to the bathroom.

Finally, peace and quiet.  I can get a few moments to myself, I think, maybe take a seat, read some graffiti, leave some of my own perhaps.  I choose the handicapped stall; I like the roominess.  It feels comfortable - it may very well be bigger than the room I'm renting upstairs at Chucklehead Estate - and I settle in for a nice 5 to 10 minute break.  I light some candles, put down a throw rug, hang my favorite picture of David Hasslehoff on the wall.  Of course, as soon as I really start feeling comfortable is when the boring, inoffensive pussy music being piped in over the speakers ends and something else comes on.

We're no strangers to love....

I blink, disbelieving, as the first bars of a new song shoot through my ears and bypass the cognitive centers of my brain and light up the part that handles incensed rage like a fireworks show.  

You know the rules, and so do I....

Even in the fucking bathroom, the one place I have that is completely and utterly mine even if it's just for a few minutes, even here, my god damned Fortress of Solitude, the Universe decides to troll me.  Hard.

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down.... 

Fucking Rick Astley on the god damned loudspeaker.  Fuck my life.