CustardStyle

A Hearty Thank You

Written by  on August 13, 2003

Dear Mr. Hacker,

I just wanted to say thank for kindly distributing your software to the people of the world free of charge. In today’s world you can’t get much for free, but that is not the case with you fine piece of programming.

I would also like to commend you for your remarkable efficiency. In one swift act, you were able to accomplish so much. Not least of which, having successfully alerted thousands of people that their computers were susceptible to attack. If there were not people like you around, who would protect us from people like you?

Indeed, you were also able convey your feelings toward so many people using your programming prowess. I am sure that nothing says “I love you” like a computer virus. Almost certainly, San would not have liked flowers or some other kind gesture. I am equally sure that Bill Gates is now writhing in pain over having been made such a fool. Your dastardly dagger most definitely struck him more deeply than any multimillion dollar anti-trust lawsuit ever could.

Mr. Hacker, you truly do “fight the good fight,” even if it is morally bankrupt, illegal and steeped in hypocrisy.

Sincerely,

Custardstyle

Most Peculiar

Written by  on August 8, 2003

Today I saw one of the most peculiar things I think I have ever seen, and that’s definitely saying something. I was driving back to work from lunch and saw a dump truck which I assumed was carrying dirt because on the side a sign read (713) HIS-SOIL and between the area code and the “number” was a picture of Jesus on the cross. At first I thought that the funny tasting tea at Whataburger must have been laced with acid, but after I did a double take and rubbed my eyes, I found that I had seen correctly.

I tried to understand why somebody would try to sell dirt by using the image of Christ. The only people I can think of that are in the market for both would be dead people, but then again they would never see the truck, so that didn’t make sense. Then, as if Jesus had shown himself to me (which he had), another solution came to me. As with most traditional depictions of J.C. on the cross, he had wrappings around his waist, which especially in this instance, looked like a diaper. So I thought, what if “His soil” meant “His bodily waste,” and this company dealt in fertilizer.

While that still didn’t make much sense (as stupid things, such as this truck, rarely do), it got me thinking about something I have never really pondered, as I doubt many of you have either. The Bible never talks about Jesus dropping off some Cosby kids at the pool every now and then. Although there were many opportunities to do so, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John never covered the subject. I imagine after the Last Supper, Jesus probably ducked out for some alone time. Of course, then the shortest verse in the Bible would be, “Jesus shat.”

So what happened when Jesus made his daily deposit? Would it just sit on top of the water, not sinking? That would be a problem. When he flushed, it would just “walk” around in circle on the water, an un-flushable. What about other major religious figures? Buddha probably just sat around contemplating the meaning of shit, but never did. Allah, most likely, had explosive diarrhea all the time. Moses, of course would experience the opposite of Jesus, as his excrement exodus would just part the water on the way down.

I hope I have given you something to think about next time you sit down for nice long rectal release. Remember, wipe good. After all, cleanliness is next to godliness.

Dave and the Stupids

Written by  on July 20, 2003

I woke up Saturday morning around 9:30 eager to begin what was surely to be a great day. As One o’clock rolled around, so did my sister, Laure and we began our trek toward the Musical Mecca that is Selma, Texas to attend the Dave Matthews Concert. I decided to look the part and wear khakis and sandals (no socks) to the concert.

We arrived three hours later in the nearby, sleepy hollow of New Braunfels, whose economy is based primarily on the teeming mass of people that come to float down, bathe in, and deposit all kinds of a bodily fluids in the Guadalupe River, Ganges River style. After picking up Laure’s friend, Michael, we headed on to the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater for some Dave Matthews Bliss. In the parking lot we met up with PennyLane, ReginaFalangie and Daniel, who could be PennyLane’s brother (mainly due to the red hair). After being accosted at the front gate by the security guy, I quickly made my way to the restroom urged on by 60 ounces of water, a double Latte, and the bush . . . er . . . Busch that I slammed on the way from Daniel’s car to the front gate. Now, if urine were a desired commodity this restroom would be best described as a “urine sweatshop”. It had to be about 120 degrees inside, the air and ground both were very damp and I am pretty sure that neither was saturated with water. After making my way out of the urine fog, we found an acceptable piece of grass on which to set up base camp. A short time later we were basking in the warm, glowing, warming glow that is The Dave Matthews Band.

I will refrain from trying to describe the concert, as any effort on my part to do so would probably end up akin to a Muslim describing the Hajj as “that box.” Some highlights include: the guy near us that got busted during the concert for smoking pot, the Tori Amos look-alike that I met in the beer line, Dave’s dancing, and the spectacular 20 minute encore.

After the concert, we hung around the merchandise booth while t-shirts, stickers, and flip-flops were purchased. This was a good chance to make a last trip the Urine Factory, a chance that I passed up. I soon regretted this decision as my bladder felt like it was about to burst as we slowly exited the parking lot. Luckily, Laure pulled into somebody’s nearby driveway and I proceeded to water their plants for them as other concert-goers drove by giving me assorted thumbs-up, “Wooo-Hooos,” and one “If you gotta go, you gotta go!” Making our way to Michael’s house where we would be spending the night, we stopped by a Taco Cabana drive-thru for some grub. The following conversation took place:

Stupid Cashier: “Hold on a minute.”

Laure: “Ok.” (Turns to Custardstyle and Michael) “What do you guys want?”

Custardstyle: (Thinking of Whataburger taquitos) “Breakfast taco combo with a water”

Michael: (Apparently thinking of four crispy tacos) “Four crispy tacos.”

Stupid Cashier: (Several minutes later) “Go ahead.”

Laure: (Shouting into the receiver as she always does) “I need a breakfast taco combo with a wat-“

Stupid Cashier: (Rudely) “I can’t hear you.”

Laure: (Leaning out window a foot from the receiver, again shouting) “I need a Breakfast Taco Combo with a water, four crispy tacos, two soft tacos, and a bean burrito.”

Stupid Cashier: (Stupidly) “What kind of breakfast tacos would you like?”

Custardstyle: (Perplexed by this question since no options were offered on the menu and again thinking of Whataburger taquitos) “Bacon? I guess.”

Laure: (to Stupid Cashier) “Bacon”

Stupid Cashier: (Obviously only able to concentrate on one thing at time and using all available brain power to form the previous question) “What came after the combo?”

Custardstyle: (Yelling) “Fuck!”

Laure: (Screaming) “Should we pull up to the window so we can actually order?”

Stupid Cashier: (No Answer, obviously confused by such a notion)

Laure: (Throwing up hands in disgust repeats the order)

Stupid Cashier: (Verifies the order leaving off the two soft tacos)

Laure: “And two soft tacos”

Stupid Cashier: (After several minutes spent typing order and comprehending the number up on the screen) “$9.41”

We pulled around to the window and examined the contents of the bag closely because we knew we were about to get fucked. Sure enough, the two soft tacos and burrito were missing. Laure waves at guy inside to attract his attention; this goes on for about a minute. He finally sees her and slides the window back with excessive force.

Laure: “We’re missing two soft tacos and a bean burrito. And can we get some hot sauce?”

Stupid Cashier: (Looking stupid, glares back at Laure then slams window shut, returns later with one small tub of hot sauce)

Laure: (Shifts into bitch mode, and rightly so) “We’re going to need more than that!”

Stupid Cashier: (Slams window again, returns minutes later with rest of order and one more tub of hot sauce) “Here”

Laure: (Sarcastically) “Thank you.”

We then proceeded to Michael’s to eat; I anxiously await my breakfast burritos. After we arrived we sat down and began to eat. As I opened my breakfast tacos I quickly noticed that these were nothing like Whataburger taquitos. When you order bacon breakfast tacos at Taco Cabana this apparently means that you want a few pieces of undercooked pig meat wrapped in a flour tortilla. Since I was starving and sufficiently drunk on $6.75 beers, it didn’t really matter. However, if any employees of late night fast food joints are reading this: If the word “breakfast” is in the name of any of your products, it damn well better have some scrambled chicken period in it.

I Can’t Believe They Invented That!

Written by  on May 8, 2003

Every now and then an invention comes along that makes you step back and marvel at the genius of mankind. Today was not one of those days. Unfortunately, there are also those days when you see a new invention and wonder what kind of idiot dreamed it up, and what kind of retard would waste money on it. Today was definitely one of those days.

Thirty minutes before my lunch break, pressing matters (of the non-fecal kind) arose and I was forced to take an abbreviated lunch. As our typical lunch is only 45 minutes, this made for a shitty (again, non-fecal) situation. So I decide to visit the local (read: ghetto) Sonic, as it is close and I wouldn’t have to get out of my car. While partaking of my semi-delicious, breaded (read: fried or unhealthy) chicken sandwich, wavy lines began to shoot out of my head. You might think this is abnormal, but I quickly recognized it as my whitey-sense. I turn and spot a black truck with 20 inch rims and tinted windows rolling in. With super-human quickness, several stereotypes are formulated in my head; whitey-sense never fails.

Now, for a little background, I think 20 inch rims are pretty stupid as they make any vehicle look like a chuckwagon. I usually wonder if the drivers of these cars long for the days of the mid 1800’s, I also wonder if they even have an 80 Gallon air compressor in their cars, when “driver” meant “that large white guy over there with the whip”. The driver of this particular wagon made their rims even crappier (again, non-fecal). The hub caps that had an extra rim outside the actual rim that spun independent of the wheel. I pondered the point of this. Was it so that the car looked like it was moving even when it was stopped? Or perhaps to make it look like it was going faster down the road when it is actually creeping along at 40 mph in the fast lane. Or maybe some type of evolution, like the male peacock’s tail, so it can more easily attract the opposite sex. “Hey baby, my wheels turn even when the car is off, now lets go get a bigger welfare check.”

After deciding that trying to understand stupid people is a futile undertaking, I finished my meal and returned to work where I took care of the aforementioned pressing matters (again, non-fecal) then took care of some pressing matters of my own (very fecal).

Open Your Eyes

Written by  on April 14, 2003

Last Monday I started to lose my voice and was having coughing fits like a forty year smoker. One thing you should know is that I have this complex where I am always thinking that I suffer from hypochondria. So I log onto to WebMD and try a little self diagnosis. The first thing that I think is that I have a bit of the ol’ SARS, so I look at the symptoms: scratchy throat, loss of voice, hacking cough, 104 fever. Hmmm, three of four ain’t good. I decide I am being paranoid after looking in the mirror and realizing that I am not Chinese.

I knew I wouldn’t be doing much this weekend on account of my illness, so after work on Friday I stopped by Best Buy to pick a DVD or two to watch. As I am checking out I listen to a lady behind me talk to somebody on her cell phone. First of all I hate it when people talk loudly on their phones in public. Second of all, this lady isn’t bad looking and dressed like she wants to be looked at. She proceeds to (loudly) give the person on the phone and everybody in the store directions to her house. I decide she’s either an idiot or has some kind of fetish where she likes to be raped and left for dead in a dumpster. I start to look around to see if anybody else is coming to this same conclusion. I realize that the three middle aged men in front of me and the guy behind me are buying the new Harry Potter movie. I begin to mock them quietly to myself with jokes that Rifleman would approve of. Then I look down at the movie in my hand, Harry Potter, damn! I justified my decision to myself, as I also had “Abre los Ojos” in my hand. After watching Amenabar’s masterpiece, I have to say that I lost some respect for Cameron Crowe. He basically added an English dub, a better soundtrack and Tom Cruise shouting, “Tech Support!” to make “Vanilla Sky.”

“Abre los Ojos” also had great acting, something severely lacking from “Harry Potter.” Daniel Radcliff isn’t all that bad, but the pubescent voice of Rupert Grint makes me want to bludgeon myself and Emma Watson is probably the reason why Richard Harris is dead. You’d think Kenneth Branagh would have taught them something while on the set. He’s a first class actor, have you seen his Hamlet?

Today was the happiest day of my life.

Written by  on April 1, 2003

I woke this morning and turned on Sportcenter (I watch the 6:00 am Sportcenter) to catch up on the latest goings-on in the lives of grossly overpaid thugs (Yes, NBA I’m talking to you). I went to the kitchen to procure some breakfast, which on this particular morning turned out to be a bowl of Grape Nuts cereal, which is second only to Cap’n Crunch on the “Most Annoying Breakfast Cereal” list. First of all, “Grape Nuts” is a big misnomer but, by far the worst part is the fact that after you eat a bowl you can spend forever digging half the bowl out of your teeth. Then when you brush your teeth you find the other half. It’s no wonder why that cereal is so damn healthy. Cap’n Crunch wins first prize due to the fact that it’s the equivalent of eating fiberglass insulation.

As I sat down I heard the voice of a spokesman eternally captured in one of my favorite childhood commercials, The Art Instruction Schools. I am not sure why this is a favorite commercial of mine, I think it’s the nostalgia factor. They have had the same commercial since at least 1984. Every time I see it, I am reminded of my younger and more vulnerable years, watching The Great Spacecoaster, Gigglesnort Hotel, and Pinwheel. Then, when I hear the line, “Take your free art exam today,” I am reminded of the hours spent contemplating how you test somebody on their art.

I always think that the guy on those commercials must be dead by now or at least some geriatric drooling all over himself in some old folks home that reeks of mothballs, aspercream, and Joint-ritus. However, when I looked up I was amazed. This was not the same old Art Instruction Schools commercial. It was a brand new commercial and and same old spokesman. Much to my surprise, he looked exactly the same. I exclaimed outloud, “This guy really is immortal.” It was very disturbing, but at the same time oddly comforting. I realized that my childhood memories will survive as long as the immortal spokesman for The Art Instruction Schools is around, which I guess would be forever. Now I know how the people that watched American Bandstand feel.

Order your free art exam today.

Let’s All Disagree

Written by  on March 27, 2003

This week we got a mass emailing at work from our Human Resources department. This email included some great reading material, focusing on how to be PC and how to handle these stressful times. I have included some of the thoughts that went through my head as I read these.

The first pamphlet was titled “Agreeing to Disagree–Handling Potential Conflict in the Workplace” and contained some of the following tips:

“Try to understand the human dynamics at work. There is no ‘right or wrong’.”

This one is particularly interesting. I like the quotes implying that right and wrong are vague concepts. Hmm . . . supporting a regime that commits genocide or removing a regime that commits genocide; these are life’s tough decisions. I can see how one might get confused, there’s a lot of gray area there

“Discuss how retaliation can escalate, rather than end, conflict.”

Tell that to the Taliban, I am pretty sure our retaliation ended that conflict. Also, get back to the Baath party on that one in a few months.

The next pamphlet was titled “Military Parent- Helping Your Child Deal With Separation,” here are some of the tips:

“Explain what you will be doing and where you will be, using a globe.”

“Hey, Billy, daddy’s going to this God-forsaken desert over here in the armpit of civilization to kill some rotten towel-heads.” I must admit, it has a certain ring to it.

“Spend time individually with each child. Have pictures taken of you with each child.”

Umm . . . no comment.

These came from the pamphlet titled “Talking Politics at Work.” The first tip pretty much summed it all up, and is as follows:

“Don’t discuss your political views at work.”

I laughed as I read this because the guy in the office next door to me, who just happens to be the owner’s son, had just started a 30 minute tirade about how it was about time that we started taking out these bastards and what complete idiots Liberals are. I hope he doesn’t get fired.

Custardstyle’s Capitulation Manifesto, Part One-Half

Written by  on March 21, 2003

(In response to: The Minotaur’s Pretentious Manifesto, Part 1)

I am nowhere near as good as you are.

I too listen to great music, such as the Beatles, Radiohead and Rolling Stones. However, most assuredly you know more of the lyrics and listen to them with greater concentration than I. You probably also have a greater appreciation for the underlying themes presented in their music. I suck at that. I decide whether or not I like music based either on what other people think or if it “sounds cool” (like Peter Frampton’s “talking guitar”).

You are also better than me because if I where saying this aloud to you I would have done finger quotes around the words “sounds cool” and “talking guitar” (I would have done them there as well, which is really sad).

Only by the narrowest of margins is your DVD collection greater than mine. This is mainly due to the fact that I accidentally bought the full screen version of Attack of the Clones rather than the wide screen version. Also, some of my DVDs have acquired minor scratches, while not degrading the picture any, this definitely makes them inferior to your magnificent menagerie of fine films.

While my DVD collection pays reluctant homage to yours, your literary library makes mine bend over and take it in the brown balloon knot. A mentally retarded 80 year old with Alzheimer’s would retain more knowledge from a book than I would. My favorite books are the Harry Potter series. While some may argue that that’s not too bad, they are closely followed by the Clifford the Big Red Dog series, The Berenstain Bears, and pretty much any book with a golden spine on it.

I suck big nut at Trivial Pursuit as well, as evidenced by the fact that I routinely lose to Brady. Most of the time, I am lucky to get two pie pieces. Whenever I play, I try to sound smart by either giving answers with big words in them or by saying things like “I know that, I just can’t think of it right now.”

Your taste in fermented beverages is enormously more sophisticated than mine. This would be true even if you drank beers like Molson or Bud Ice. This is because I mostly drink beers from Messico. I try to look cool by putting lime in it, but this is really to mask the putrid stench and stomach wrenching taste of these brands of beer.

So I submit to you and exclaim that you are by far a better person than me.

(I might author more of these, but since my writing technique is comparable to Stephen Hawking’s speaking ability, I may not.)

Mr. Pibb: What The Fuck?

Written by  on March 14, 2003

I enjoy many aspects of my current place of employment, not least of which being the vending machines. They are the vending machines that time forgot, complete with oversized buttons and 50 cent drinks. You can’t find a bargain like that at just any vending machine. However, I do have one problem with the aforementioned mechanical carbonated beverage dispenser. It sells Mr. Pibb.

I understand every kind of soda has its evil counterpart, the Decepticon to its Autobot: Coke has Pepsi; Sprite has Seven-Up; various fruit flavored Minute Maid drinks have various fruit flavored Fanta. All are viable competitors, but Dr. Pepper has Mr. Pibb. What the fuck is Mr. Pibb?

I’ll tell you what it is. Mr. Pibb is the uncle that shows up at family reunions that nobody talks to because everybody is pretty sure he’s a child molester. He sits in the corner and doesn’t say anything. After a while you kinda start to feel sorry for him, you think, “I’ll be the better person and go talk to him.” Then you remember the last time this happened and you regretted it the instant he opened his sharp, aluminum mouth. That is what Mr. Pibb is.

By comparison Dr. Pepper is the successful, fun-loving, med-school graduate uncle that everybody likes to be around. He may be from Waco, but we don’t hold that against him. After all, doctors are usually pretty good guys with a few exceptions: Dr. Kevorkian, Dr. Jekyl, and Dr. Mindbender, to name a few. At parties, you want to hang out with Dr. Pepper, because you never know who might show up, Garth Brooks, David Naughton, or maybe Run DMC and LL Cool J, but definitely not Jam Master Jay. Quite possibly, dozens of hot, scantily clad, Puerto Rican women will start dancing the salsa in the street.

When you run around with Mr. Pibb as your friend, you wind up with Mr. Roper, Garrett Gibb, and Michael Jackson hanging out at your house all the time asking where all the little ones are.

Recently, Mr. Pibb has tried to shed his shady past. He has moved into the neighborhood under the guise of Pibb Xtra, sporting new duds and trying to act inconspicuous. Do not be mistaken, this is the same old Mr. Pibb! All he wants to do is open up his can and put his shit in your mouth.

Future reports under consideration:

“Reparations, Affirmative Action and Big Red: Liberal Methods of Pandering to Black Voters”

“RC Cola, Texas Tech and other things nobody gives a shit about”

Takin’ It Back To The "Old School"

Written by  on March 7, 2003

So last night I went to go see “Old School” with some friends from A&M. It was hilarious but not even close to a Farrelly Brothers movie on the wrongness scale, which was disappointing. I did, however, enjoy the combination of spoofing “Fight Club” and “Animal House”. But I digress.

It got me thinking about the “good ol’ days” in school, but instead of college I think I’d revisit the years of first through fourth grade. Remember the days when:

“Trying to get some tang” meant that you had to run to the front of the lunch line to get your drink before they ran out.

The only test you really worried about was the lice test, when the school nurse would dig through scalp like a monkey trying to find lice, which, for obvious reasons, I imagined to look kinda like rice. I wondered how in the world you couldn’t tell for yourself if you had something that looked rice in your hair. And the only reason why you worried was because you didn’t want to be the one kid who tested positive. We always really made fun of that kid.

The cold war was going on, but you didn’t really care because to you that meant fighting with your mom about whether to buy a London Fog or a Members Only jacket.

The biggest bitch of the day was having to color in the white spaces with white crayon because your stupid-ass teacher would check it with her finger and make you go back and fill it in if you didn’t.

Your biggest thrill at school was trying to get a glimpse down the girl’s hallway at gym class when they went to go take off their jumpers. Only to be thwarted by your sexless man-woman gym teacher with a deeper voice than your dad, whom you never got within five feet of, partly because of the smell, but also because at any moment it could stampede like a herd of buffalo and squash you flat.

Your biggest worry was that your worst dream would come through and you would accidently show up naked and everybody would laugh at you, leaving you to wonder how your mom could let you go to school naked . . . that bitch.

Your second biggest worry was that your mom would find out you weren’t taking your vitamins but secretly distributing them to your best friend at school.

If you didn’t like a particular kid and he went and told the principal about you and your friends beating him up on the playground, you could simply lie and tell her that everyday on the bus he makes fun of you and your friend’s moms, she would buy it and you and your friends wouldn’t get in trouble.

The best part of the day was the bus ride home because you get sit in the back get bounced to the ceiling when the bus driver ran over a bump in the road.

The worst part of the day was actually getting on the bus because you had walk past said bus driver who smelled funny and was a messican. (I now realize how many people smelled funny back then)

Yes indeed, those were the days.

“And you try to tell that to the kids today, and they won’t believe you.”

-Four Yorkshire Men