The Sun Hates Me

I don't know why, but the Sun totally fucking hates me. It may be because I was never really into being outside during daylight hours, since that's when naked dark programming time is. It may be because I don't really give a shit about how the Sun has a spectral class of G2V, even though it talks about it all the time, even when I'm busy being tremendously aroused by ruby code.

Once I was just minding my own business, doing drugs and staying up driving around all night, when suddenly I ran out of gas. I find it tremendously suspicious that at the exact same moment I needed to refill my gas tank, the Sun rose, ending my awesome night. The Sun will claim that things like fuel depletion are totally not its fault, but that's just the kind of shit you'd expect from a fourth magnitude star.

So anyways, this winter, all of a sudden my hands are drying out like Hillary Clinton and when I drive home, the sunlight makes me itch. I even get rashes on my elbows. I thought at first this was just a side effect of heavy alcoholism, but then I quit being a fucking idiot and realized it's because the Sun totally and sincerely hates me, probably because it's a Population I stellar entity and a total prick.

I don't know what the hell you want, Sun. I don't mess with you. I never told your homies Polaris and Proxima Centauri that your ultraviolet radiation has antiseptic properties, which is something you told me to promise to take to the grave with me, even though everybody already knows and you should just deal with it. Just get off my ass already. I'm not going to kowtow to all your idiotic demands just because your oblateness is around 9 millionths. Uppity bitch.

Tweeker Tire

They're all over Las Vegas. They operate 24 hours a day. They will fix the shit out of your tires.

Welcome to the tweeker tire shops.

The first time I rolled into one, I had no idea what to expect. Tweeker tire shops are run exclusively by Mexicans, and I was wondering if I needed to perform some secret handshake embedded deep in cultural memory in order not to get a tire forged from shit. Let me tell you something: in Las Vegas, the Mexicans are either the friendliest, most wonderful people you can possibly know, or else they will piss on you with a gun full of bullets.

Instead, they took off my tire and did some crazy magic to it, in a massive pool of water, making it magically newer than new. I have no idea how they manage to run 24 hours a day (METH) or how they can fix your shit so fast (METH), but I wish they would branch out. 24 hour window repair; sandwich making; corpse reburial (programmers get lonely too). These guys are fantastic. Good game.

Absolut Peach

I'm totally not above shilling a product I believe in. For absolutely no money, I will extol the virtues of self-administered HIV tests, flea and tick spray, and fingerprint removal kits, as they've all been godsends to me at some points during my life.

Absolut Peach Vodka may not have been as useful to me as those other things above, but those are the things you buy during the "oh, shit" moments. On the other hand, Absolut Peach is something you buy when you want a little decadence. When you open the bottle and smell it, it's not like they waved a peach over the top of the bottle. It smells like the entire state of Georgia uprooted itself and came over to your house to get totally wasted. With a little orange juice, it's like a brief taste of divinity.

The only thing I hate about it is that there's no "alcoholic-sized" bottle option. With a little determination, you can polish the whole thing off yourself in just a couple hours. Dirty pool, Absolut. Dirty pool indeed.

World War ZZ

I accidentally unearthed the horrifying truth, that ZZ Top is composed entirely of zombies who hide their fetid, rotting corpseflesh behind their massive disguise beards of zombie evil. And what was that song they were famous for? Something about legs? It figures that demonic representatives of the unliving would be singing evil hippy music about human body parts.

Oh heavens, how many famous people have they gotten to!? They must have gotten to Kurt Cobain, except somebody found out and ended the zombie crisis before he could spread the disease. Or did they? Just like Paris Hilton's eyes, In Utero was kind of proof that he was completely dead inside. 

It's pretty obvious that the Cranberries were trying to warn us without alerting the zombie bigshots with that bizarre-ass video with the gold paint, conveniently called Zombie. In the middle of all the weird 90's alternative about the Friends of P or whatever, everybody just thought it was some song about war weariness or something and didn't realize that it was probably the most clear and important zombie warning in all of human history (PS- contemporary human history started with the American Oil Crisis of 1971).

Which mean the legions of flesh-eating dead have already gotten to the top rungs of society, breeding us like cattle, preparing us for bacteria-laden death with botox injections, and then having frequent snacks by promoting oral sex as an alternative to losing your maidenhead. I bet the reason there's so many strikes in Detroit is because the auto manufacturers have learned how to make zombie Mexicans, which doubtless work diligently on jobs requiring great manual dexterity twenty-four hours a day, JUST LIKE REAL MEXICANS.

Keep your eyes out. I'll keep you posted. I'll fight them off. I refuse to live in the Zombie States of America.

Guitar Hand

3:07:28 PM Teleolurian: i want to go somewhere loud and play this song

3:07:34 PM Teleolurian: WITH MY GUITAR HAND

3:08:16 PM Teleolurian: holy shit

3:08:21 PM Teleolurian: a guitar hand is the best idea ever

3:08:49 PM Kerplunk: lol

3:08:59 PM Teleolurian: every time i finished a job

3:09:08 PM Teleolurian: i'd be all "meedley meedley meee"

3:09:11 PM Teleolurian: and i'd fucking ROCK OUT

3:09:34 PM Kerplunk: LOL

3:09:42 PM Kerplunk: that would be sweet

3:09:46 PM Teleolurian: seriously

3:09:59 PM Kerplunk: haha...meedley meedley..

3:10:12 PM Teleolurian: there is NO SITUATION where a guitar hand could possibly be a bad thing

3:11:21 PM Kerplunk: blah

3:12:19 PM Teleolurian: i could hit people with it, KABONG

3:12:41 PM Kerplunk: lol

3:12:54 PM Teleolurian: and everytime somebody told me to help carry something i'd be all, sorry. guitar hand.

3:13:08 PM Kerplunk: its a disease

3:13:25 PM Teleolurian: i have seizures, except for it's really rocking the fuck out

3:13:31 PM Teleolurian: and then making a metal face

3:13:45 PM Kerplunk: banging the head a little, you know

3:13:59 PM Kerplunk: sometimes i sing stuff too

3:14:12 PM Teleolurian: then i'd meet somebody with a bass hand

3:14:20 PM Teleolurian: and some poor bastard with drum ass

3:14:23 PM Kerplunk: HAHA

3:14:35 PM Kerplunk: omg that made me laugh hard

3:14:42 PM Teleolurian: lol

The Future Is Tomorrow

Geez, the freaking internet.

I remember when I was a kid, and they were showing the MOUSE on Saturday morning television as the newest, most revolutionary invention yet. The mouse. And now, all of a sudden, I can make loans through Prosper; I can get a more or less accurate account of anything in the world via Wikipedia or the Urban Dictionary; I can see more naked women then I thought could possibly exist.

So, obviously, I'm bored like ninety percent of the time.

When I'm not writing code or doing simple administration work, I'm surfing the web while my mind crunches the next hurdle I have to navigate. There are like six billion channels, literally, and nothing is on. There's not much point in taking a day off (I already got marked down for unexcused awesomeness) because at home, I'm pretty much using the same internet. And you manager types who think I should be quantizing my time or carpe-ing my diem need to die in a fire. Programming well is thinky work. And thinking requires webcomics. It's all in the Bible, somewhere.

I really wonder what my life would have turned out like if I'd grown up in the rock-beating, wheel-inventing days of Before The Internet. I probably would have gotten addicted to laudanum or absinthe or something and done whatever the prehistoric version of "checking my email over and over" was.

But then I would have invented rocket lasers and killed everyone, twice.

Workers Of America Unite

I have a truly colossal amount of work to do. I love how it avalanches in, burying me completely, and then everybody waits with bated breath just because I'm the guy who wrote the system and nobody really understands how to use it (including me).

Sorry I'm not hilarious at the moment; I promise I will be at my first opportunity.

Where Babies Come From

jason
dammit, gina
why'd she have to get preggers

teleolurian
because she sat on a dick
duh

jason
that... was disturbingly blunt

Some Call It A Talent

3:09:11 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: i like cucumbers because they're a vital part of gyros

3:09:18 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: which are one of the sexiest foods ever

3:09:58 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: once i put a gyro in my mouth and the avatar of athena magically appeared

3:10:08 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: and said, blessed are you for eating greek food

3:10:13 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: and by the way, you are totally hot

3:10:24 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: and i was like, thanks greek bitch

Men Are From Seattle, Women Are From Broadway

My girlfriend has some really bizarre ideas about entertainment, and I'm pretty sure she's getting scalped pretty heavily on tickets by some hard-hitting kneecap-breaking gentlemen. In part, I blame all you Las Vegas Californians; shows like O and Mystere and Zumanity and stuff being thrown constantly in our faces when all we want to do is drive down to the Strip and do a little solicitation.

This last time, she waved this letter about some stupid show called Speeding Ticket in my face. As soon as I saw it, I was remembering the huge fiasco that came up from the time she wanted to watch Rent. For some reason, even though I made it absolutely clear to her that I didn't want to see thespian queers running around crossdressing and singing about roaches, she said that we were committed to something or other and that if I didn't cough up a thousand fifty on the spot, something unspeakably horrible would happen. Honestly, I didn't really pay much attention until she explained that she'd somehow gotten us into this situation where if I didn't pay for the tickets, my internet access would apparently suffer, drastically. I think she's a drug user- she's always coming up with excuses for me to pay this exact same amount every single month. I definitely know that it's way more than the price of tickets; I went to the show's website and saw that they were seating people for twenty-one times cheaper than what she said. Unfortunately, all my pills come from her, so I knew I was pretty much stuck paying so I could get my meds.

Anyways, I totally didn't want to see this Speeding Ticket show, which I assumed to be some ripoff of Taxi Driver or The Fast And The Furious or whatever. I asked her how she even found this show, and she said something about me being in Scottsdale, Arizona, and how there were cameras on the freeway. I knew she didn't trust me, driving around in my car. I didn't even tell her I was going to Scottsdale. So now, not only do I have to pay two hundred dollars for some show I have no intention of seeing, I have to tear apart my car and figure out where the hell she hid the X-10 spy cam.

200 Posts Of Love, Please Kill Yourself

When I started this blog project last August, I certainly wasn't expecting it to still be around, not to mention be at 200 posts* before even one year had passed. I suppose I have a good thing here, with the freedom to pretty much post about any random thing that enters my head. For the record, I currently write for three blogs, and this is the only one to have reached so many posts (despite being younger and having less writers than Edible Unknown).

[Today's round of completely obvious narcissism is brought to you by FudgeBar. FudgeBar, it's full of nuts.]

* Some particularly offensive posts were cycled back into draft.

America The Costly

Ah, subprime. You can hear the venture capitalists screaming in their uneasy sleep as the mortgage-backed securities they used to use to clean up after a steamy session of solo sex plummet in value, like so many used lottery tickets. Hell, out of my back window I can see places that young, stupid couples used to call home. Now, they're like the older prostitutes in a brothel; working double-hard to show that their new, reduced foreclosure value is a good deal, an economical lay for a john with less discerning tastes.

On top of all that craziness is that demon banshee ethanol, the new monkey on the back of the energy economy; a magical elixir sent down upon us from the Corn Goddess herself to keep the truck lanes flowing with overpriced grain and clandestine nuclear waste. Never mind that the grain and milk are more expensive because the Corn Goddess wasn't slutty enough to put out enough produce for both the rice racers and the cattle. You can't blame the farmers; they'll grow whatever crop keeps them from going into debt.

A week or two ago, I heard that gas prices were going to hit $4 by summer, and I pretty much ignored it. That's what we've learned to do recently, collectively as American citizens in a badly mismanaged federation; just ignore the doomsayings and hope that there's enough of a country left at the end of this reign of apathetic terror to rebuild. It was a shock to come back from a long drive and see the pumps had jumped by a quarter, seemingly during my travails. I don't know about you, but I'm going to stock my acorns for winter and hope that somebody is smart enough to blow all this over.

How Much Is That Doggie

3:00:32 PM Kerplunk: it was such a great feeling on saturday when i drank

3:00:38 PM Teleolurian: it should be.

3:00:41 PM Teleolurian: it's called "drunk".

3:00:44 PM Kerplunk: i felt horrible later on, but still

3:00:49 PM Teleolurian: yeah

3:00:50 PM Kerplunk: i miss that feeling

3:00:53 PM Kerplunk: ::tear::

3:00:55 PM Teleolurian: that's called "i'm sorry i fucked your dog"

Fifty Five Point Two

Guess what I scored on my purity test. Seriously. Close your eyes and think of a single-decimal floating point number between 55.1 and 55.3. And then put a percent sign after it. I think this means I win everything, forever. It's a monumental occasion. I should throw a party. One that includes farm animals.

Rounding An Integer

Apparently, to ORDER BY and LIMIT an INT field in MySQL 5.1, you need to change:

SELECT * FROM table ORDER BY int_field LIMIT 1

To:

SELECT * FROM table ORDER BY ROUND(int_field) LIMIT 1

This is per [redacted], who was told so by his company's contact at MySQL.

I don't know about you, but I think it's completely sexy that a field of type INT needs to be rounded just so you can order a limited post by it. I'm hoping with all my heart that you need to UNROUND() floating-point fields so that the database engine doesn't think you're sorting by color, or something.

Getting There From Here

Several completely-true future technologies have been proposed by freaks and charlatans to propel us through space, with the intentions of building a Starbucks on Proxima Centauri. Of course, every single one of them was thought up by stoned hippies watching WarGames and fantasizing about Matthew Broderick naming his epic mount "Joshua". Read on, and gaze into the unflinching, uncaring eyes of the alien-infested future.

Solar Sails

When kids ask you where wind comes from, it's a good time to tell them about the butterfly effect, and how evil painted lady butterflies in Costa Rica have formed a Weather Cabal to ruthlessly control the world's financial markets by generating hurricanes in Indonesia. Likewise, a spaceship that uses a solar sail is propelled entirely by nuclear butterflies on the Sun. As the solar wind pushes against the gigantic and dramatically unsexy parachute sails dragging along a spaceship, the future McDonalds slaves on the Good Ship Happy Meal are blown along to the edge of the solar system, where they will eventually run out of sunlight, be forced to eat each other, then freeze to death.

Nuclear Pulse Propulsion

Project Orion sounds sexily steampunk on paper- why not just fly to Pluto with the power of bombs? Well, apparently, it's illegal to blow up bombs in the atmosphere of Earth, which includes all of space. Because obviously space cops are going to write citations to warring civilizations on the other side of the universe. Anyways, even though it sounds dangerous, nobody can deny that flying with the power of nuclear bombs is probably the coolest thing anybody ever came up with. That is, until some retired WW2 general staffing the mission demands that all the Japanese people on the station bunk in the engine room.

Bussard Scoop Ramjets

We're spending a ton of effort right now trying to find cost-effective means of generating hydrogen to power our 2010 Priuses, even though hydrogen is the most abundant element in the universe. Heck, nothingness is made of hydrogen. In 1960, George Bussard invented a space vacuum whose entire point would be sucking up some of that magical nothing gas and feeding it into a combustion chamber, thereby destroying Exxon's dream of placing refilling stations throughout the Milky Way.

Antimatter Rockets

There are a few atoms of antihydrogen in the upper atmosphere, and we learned how to make it in 1995 by shooting antiprotons (which EVERYBODY has lying around somewhere) into clouds of delicious xenon gas. Despite the fact that producing significant quantities of antimatter (i.e. teaspoonfuls) carries the significant risk of DESTROYING ALL HUMANS, either through radiation or plain old explodeyness, antimatter propulsion would turn every rocket in the universe into a Type-R, instantly, making decal and spoiler manufacturers into millionaires overnight.

Dear Girl Scouts Of America

Dear Girl Scouts of America:

I'm sorry.

I know I have a propensity to say weird things when I answer the door. I probably shouldn't have invited your sales representatives to a barbecue, then suggested they wear some sort of marinade. It was certainly a bad idea to answer the door in nothing but a motorcycle jacket. And to tell you the truth, I was waiting for the pizza guy.

But I think blacklisting me from further canvassing is going a step too far. I mean, who will sell me the Caramel Delights which are the only blissful light on my otherwise dark and dreary soul? Can't you guys take a joke? Isn't there some kind of badge you earn for letting bygones be bygones?

In retrospect, it was also a pretty bad idea for me to call you. I'm prone to moments of fugue, and I have to say I was a little scatterbrained when I dialed, because I'd been mainlining nail polish remover. One might say I temporarily lost my memory. But after the third 'Hello?' from a timid female voice, well, it reminded me of a prior situation. I'm sorry I mistook your headquarters for an adult 'chat' number, although to be fair, it was only for like, a minute. Maybe seventeen. She had a familiar-sounding voice, okay?

I think that instead of playing the 'blame game' we should come to a rational agreement, whereupon I promise not to touch, lick, or proposition your dancers scouts, and you promise not to have me registered as any sort of offender. Oh, yes, and you know. Keep bringing me cookies. I am fucking addicted to the cookies.

Regretfully,

Me

PS - You can't fool me, chairperson of the board. I know you're really Theresa from 976-PLAY. I know this in my soul.

Somebody Has Issues

8:17:01 AM Kerplunk: funny that you say that because i have them stuck in my head
9:42:33 AM Kerplunk: i have the mentos song stuck in my head
4:28:51 PM Kerplunk: dammit now i have the only millencolin song i know stuck in my head
1:55:39 PM Kerplunk: i have that american pie song stuck in my head now
4:08:42 PM Kerplunk: i have a good charlotte song stuck in my head
4:38:11 PM Kerplunk: so i have that rockstart song in my head
12:11:00 PM Kerplunk: now i have that love and marriage song stuck in my head
10:27:53 AM Kerplunk: oh i have pennywise in my head
4:29:35 PM Kerplunk: so now i have Bruce lee vs. the kiss army stuck in my head

1:11:54 PM Kerplunk: ohh dance eh?
1:12:06 PM Kerplunk: can i leave my friends behind?
1:12:18 PM Tele: well, you know. if they don't dance...
1:12:29 PM Kerplunk: they are no frineds of mine...for sure..
1:15:13 PM Kerplunk: now i have that song stuck in my head

3:08:24 PM Kerplunk: is it lady marmalade
3:08:30 PM Kerplunk: because thats stuck in my head

2:45:23 PM Kerplunk: but u should download nonpoint...the song is called what a day
2:46:56 PM Kerplunk: ive had that song stuck in my head all day...i didnt know half the words so i googled them and i have been singing it in my head

Class Of Buffer Overflow

It seems like everybody who writes things on the internet has some kind of college degree, which annoys me because I've never seen the point in getting one. I graduated high school with a grade point average of negative seventy, learned how to write code, and got a job doing it. No degree necessary.

For that matter, it seems like an awful lot of people I know get degrees they never use. My fiancee has a degree in robotology, but she never makes any robots, unless crocheted chickens are the new technology hotness and I just didn't know about it. Her sister has been going to college for fifteen years to learn how to have babies, even though she already has like seven and they're only ninety-nine cents at the Walgreens. Suzanne, my French neighbor, picked up a degree in Humanities or some shit back in the seventies, but all she does is drink wine and paint pictures of sad men holding tiny dogs.

Sometimes, Suzanne paints pictures of fields of flowers, which are beautiful like a Romanian hooker. Her real talents lie in art, not in the crazy sociology stuff she learned in Paris. Likewise, I see people with doctorates in English, even though you can't ever learn English all the way, because there's new words like googled and sippycup getting added all the time. This is because English is flexible, like a Romanian hooker. In fact, the only person on my block who doesn't have a degree in something besides me is that idiot Jimmy, because he's too fucking stupid to go to college. All he does is tell that dumb no soap radio joke, which he's beaten to death, like a Romanian hooker.

I'm certain that some people do useful things with their degrees, but I have yet to know someone who got a degree in one field and then actually got a job in that field. People are strange that way.

Truth Is Stranger: How I Went To The Launch Party

The magical little girl fairy princess, Nelly, who I once saved from self-destruction in the midst of an obscure planet of stupid pink people has returned to us, like some sort of human boomerang made of poison and sweet, delicious berries. She has returned to become my acolyte in the ways of code. She has returned to purpleize my girlfriend.

So anyways, after tranking out Friday night with insufflated zolpidem, we prepared ourselves for the release of the most perfect piece of software ever invented, the algorithm which will probably be responsible for the rise of SkyNet and the eventual total enslavement of all mankind to manufacture binary milkshakes for our thirsty robotic overlords.

I've never been to a midnight software/game console launch before, so I was pretty excited. I was expecting, I dunno. Some video game playing. A roomful of idiots talking about Bleach, which is what anime freaks talk about before they run behind a shelf for an impromptu session of gay, buttery gaysex. And a group of asians standing there, feeling superior because asians are automatically allowed to talk about video games and tentacle rape cartoons, without anyone caring ever. I was so convinced of the potential asian population that I made a spoiler out of cardboard to stick on the back of my car so I could have a rocket just as ricey as anyone else's. Unfortunately, I ran out of glue, and I couldn't remember the secret Shaolin hand-signal attacky thing that all asians learn at birth and use in place of toolboxes.

When we got to the launch party, diabetic Josh was standing there, wearing an eyepatch to keep his insulin-deprived eyeballs from melting and leaking out, calling out numbers for the tournament. It was nuts. There was a shifting, stinking, geeky mass of fat white guys and tiny asian girls crowded around a single Wii display, screaming sexist things about Princess Peach (Poh-lin-sess Pi-chu) and watching two people play. I stood there for a while before the smell of Jedi Spirit made me physically sick and I had to go outside. Which is where the line began anyways, so we got our copy of the game insanely early and went back home while some idiot with a crappy stereo system played Sublime from his car. Then I went home, beat the game instantly with my magical asian controller skill, and then took a bunch of pills and went to sleep, next to my girlfriend, Grimace.

An Ode To Rockstar Energy Drink

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

One of these days, I'm going to go to Sam's Club

And buy a whole bunch of Rockstar

And set the cans around my desk

To drink, whenever I choose.

I will be like a Rockstar pimp.

Surrounded by my cadre of sleek black metal hos.

OMG OMG OMG,

Just a few minutes ago

I felt like absolute crap.

Then I drank this horrible tasting liquid abortion

And now I feel seventy thousand feet tall

And capable of pleasuring an army of robot strippers

With lasers.

WTF WTF WTF,

I hate this stupid drink.

It only lasts for like fifteen minutes.

And now I feel hopeless, wan, and empty,

Like this empty can,

That cost me four fucking dollars.

Huh? Oh, You're Damaged

Please, please note that I am not your therapist.

While I am sitting at my computer, composing letters of apology for my unexcused awesomeness, reading bash, and chatting people, I am killing time by doing things that I like to do. The fact that I do them all day... well. That's because they pay me the big bucks to sit in front of the computer, writing code. I am not an internet psychoanalyst.

I do not know where your boyfriend is. He is probably outside my house, waiting for me to come home, because I am sexy and he likes penis. I hope he brought chocolate syrup.

I don't know why you can't ever seem to meet the right person. Well, I do. It's because you read the common law wrong. When a gentleman opens the door for you, it doesn't bind him into a lifetime of servitude.

I really am not sure how come things keep ending up the way they do, but I did get a letter in a bottle recently that said Y_u _ust mig_t b_ a b_tch.

This has been a hopefully short and sweet public service announcement. I am now going to hit 'Ignore'.

Love And Marriage

11:54:23 AM Teleolurian: it wasn't like that

11:54:29 AM Kerplunk: that's still rude

11:54:41 AM Teleolurian: we got married after i got off of work

11:54:45 AM Teleolurian: and then we went home

11:54:51 AM Teleolurian: and drank some champagne

11:54:51 AM Kerplunk: was anyone there

11:54:53 AM Teleolurian: and she complained

11:55:01 AM Teleolurian: because her and alcohol don't work

11:55:05 AM Teleolurian: so she went to lay down

11:55:16 AM Teleolurian: and me and derek and jewmy drove to arizona

11:55:24 AM Teleolurian: cuz i thought she was going to sleep for work

11:55:38 AM Kerplunk: she was waiting for you to SEDUCE HER 

11:55:38 AM Teleolurian: then i came home and found out she wasn't asleep

11:55:39 AM Kerplunk: IDIOT

11:55:46 AM Teleolurian: I DOUBT IT

11:55:57 AM Kerplunk: WHY????IT WAS YOUR WEDDING NIGHT

11:56:07 AM Teleolurian: she gets sick when you even look at booze

11:56:20 AM Kerplunk: hey, i know how she feels

11:56:23 AM Teleolurian: she was totally not being friendly with alcohol

11:56:29 AM Teleolurian: so she went to lie down

11:56:34 AM Teleolurian: like she does every time she drinks ever

11:56:49 AM Teleolurian: unless she's at a concert, then suddenly she can outdrink THE PRESIDENT

11:56:56 AM Kerplunk: LOL

11:57:09 AM Kerplunk: it sucks not being able to drink

11:57:23 AM Kerplunk: you're automatically the designated driver

11:57:36 AM Teleolurian: and i am completely blind to the machinations of women, and she knows this

11:57:50 AM Teleolurian: if she wants me to seduce her SHE HAS TO GIVE ME AMPLE WARNING

11:58:10 AM Kerplunk: ...it was your wedding night, and she went to lay down.

11:58:16 AM Kerplunk: what more do you need?!?!?!?

11:58:20 AM Teleolurian: warning.

11:58:28 AM Kerplunk: that is a warning you doofus

11:58:38 AM Teleolurian: no it isn't, it's a drunk chick

11:58:39 AM Teleolurian: ...

11:58:41 AM Teleolurian: oh.