Standard Deviant

7:35:06 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: like, if somebody gets a mean 1000 hits to a website per week with a standard deviation of 200 hits, it's only 25% likely that they'll get 1400 hits in a week

7:35:45 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: but another person with 1000 hits a week and a standard deviation of 600 hits is 50% likely to see 1400 hits in a week

7:36:36 PM SGrDDyPiMP: how do you determine standard deviation?

7:37:23 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: get the number of hits for x weeks, find the average, subtract the mean from each week's count, square the counts, add the results, divide by the number of values, sqrt the result

7:37:36 PM Teleolurian Kordyne: simple math

7:38:13 PM SGrDDyPiMP: that makes my brain hurt - which must mean you're touching yourself

Vegas Wins Subprime

Congratulations, fellow gamblerholics and people who moved to Vegas to get started on your career in the adult movies: we win subprime. According to all the news numbers, Las Vegas stands at the top of the US market of housing price drops.

I remember wandering around in Phoenix's totally awesome Copper Square, which is kind of like urban shopping, except more sexlike. I walked into a pawn shop that was closing its doors and holding a huge liquidation sale. As I browsed musical instruments and shotguns, the clerk made small talk with me. And by small talk, I mean I elicited his confession that Las Vegas was totally growing faster than Phoenix. I forced him to say, "We're number two". Which made me giggle in the store, because I thought he was talking about poop.

If you drive down some random streets on the south side of Las Vegas, you'll find millions of crackerbox McMansion communities, each development of which has about two residents. All the rest of the houses are totally and completely empty, because nobody actually wants to live in Las Vegas except for meth junkies, alcoholics, and aspiring transgendereds who are also prostitutes. After the subprime crisis hit, all the construction companies went "oh noes!" and watched as their gigantic housing projects did not form Voltron, as well as not getting any residents ever.

Personally, I think the solution is simple. Every single one of those houses should be turned into one of the three things we can't seem to get enough of in the valley: convenience stores with slot machines, music venues with slot machines, and casinos with cigarette girls (slot machines optional). If there's one thing Vegas has an awful lot of, it's old people who live their entire lives in front of the spinny flashy money eaters; why not open more venues to cater to them? Just like real estate, you can never have too many places to put video poker.

Jimmy Makes My Brain Part Hurt

After hanging out with some "hardcore metal guys" he says he knows, my complete and total idiot around-the-corner kind-of neighbor Jimmy Albright now believes that his soul is some sort of fungible intangible. Meaning, he's thinking of selling it. I'm completely confused as to how he thinks he will be able to remove his quintessential self from his body without, you know, dying, but he assures me that this is totally possible because of some rambling, boring story he heard while listening to Shadows Fall. I would bet you anything they sat in Jimmy's garage, smoking pot, which Jimmy calls "Gramma's Breath", while Jimmy's mother good-naturedly gave them all the sodas they could drink. Which was as many as there were.

I'm pretty sure that Metal Guy will do some darkass meaningless babble in one of those deep, gravelly, still-pretty-gay voices that everybody knows how to do from listening to Killswitch Engage and Dethklok and whatever shitass nonmusic the idiot kids listen to nowadays while thinking about how many piercings to get in their disease-encrusted man junk. They'll howl, or bark, or maybe sniff each others' butts, and then they'll tell Jimmy he is down one soul and give him an IOU for $5 scrawled on the cover of Lucifuge 10K or whatever.

As soon as he gets home, I'm gonna be all like, "Dude, Jimmy, they removed your soul all wrong. You still have some on you."

I mean, after all, if he doesn't give away his WHOLE INTERNAL BODY SPIRIT SOMA ESSENCE to the smelly dreadlock guys, I'm pretty sure I can convince him that the Better Business Bureau will totally come to his door and throw him in federal, pound-you-in-the-ass prison.

Then I will give him some chloral hydrate and deposit his sleeping ass somewhere out past Pahrump.

Stupid Horrible Sunlight

Last week, the President sent me my tax return, so my fiance and I decided to go be good consumers. You know, for America. So we went out to the new Town Square shopping center by Fry's Electronics, at the south end of the Strip. Mostly so I could pick up an Airport Extreme; I need that 802.11n love, and fast.

I also made sure to stimulate the entire American economy, using trickle-down powers granted to me by the ghost of Reagan, by buying a PSP. Wow. I didn't know handheld gaming systems had such great graphics. In fact, the graphics were so hypnotic and gorgeous - as if though I were watching CGI porn made of lasers - that I completely didn't post at all yesterday, because I was swimming through a beautiful sea of joy. With a mermaid made of chocolate, who cried syrup tears of pride as I beat all PSP games ever, all at once.

419 Scams Hit Prosper

Check it out while it's still running! There's a total 419 scam going on on Prosper, as someone who apparently works in the clergy claims to be bringing gold, diamonds, atom bombs, lions, tigers, and prostitutes from South Africa to the USA! Okay, just gold and diamonds. But still.

Besides the fact that the price of gold is totally fixed and there is no way this could happen, ever, that doesn't change the fact that somebody obviously thinks it can happen, and will probably privately message this upstanding church member to find out how to trade in their worthless American paper money for eternally rewarding gold. Which they will then probably craft into idols representing J-Lo.

Anyways, it's one more loan on Prosper that won't see any of my money. Even though I am going to go around the corner right now and show it to Jimmy. He'll think it's the awesomest idea ever.

Small Things

The roommates have FINALLY removed their filthy stoner marijuana weed plant from my upstairs window, where it had an uptime of 2d 22h 4m 10s. In addition, after three months without ATV love, my tagged linkdump at xplor.in is back, online, where it will outlast the human race. Because I know you missed it so much. Liars.

At least Tweetcret loves me, because they're gonna use xplor.in for... something. Perhaps. I dunno. I was just pimping their site cuz they asked so nice-like.

Roommates and Buddy's Totally Awesome Window Adventure

Do you see this? It's a totally awesome pot plant my ghetto roommates put RIGHT UP IN THE WINDOW WHERE EVERYBODY CAN SEE. I told them to take it out of the window yesterday, when we first found it, but it's still there. Because it's totally awesome, and therefore it has more right to be in the house than me, a completely legal immigrant from Seattle.

Why does the pot plant mock me? It's probably because, unlike all other drugs, I really hate pot. It smells disgusting and it gives me headaches. If I were Godzilla, I would lay waste to marijuana plantations with my mighty radioactive dinosaur urine, which probably kills pot.

Sweet mother of chlamydia, it's STILL THERE! I live in a nice neighborhood. Why must my roommates torture me by not moving their disgusting fishtank full of sweet reefer? Maybe nobody heard me when I complained about there being a TOTALLY FUCKING ILLEGAL PLANT sitting out in street view from the second story of my newly ghettofied, tricked-out, two story house, which is now kind of like a trailer that has a foundation!

I'm pretty sure that the Dutch invented marijuana, way back in prehistoric times, when people were just chilling out in caves and smoking whatever they found on the ground. I think it's the Dutch because the Dutch are totally fucking chill. My roommates aren't Dutch. I think they may be botanists though.

Stay tuned for more news about THE POT PLANT THAT WOULD NOT GET REMOVED, EVEN THOUGH I AM GOING TO KILL MY ROOMMATES WITH A GUN THAT SHOOTS GODZILLAS.

Recent iTunes Loves

The Delgados - Witness

I seriously love the Delgados. This isn't the absolute best of their songs (Woke From Dreaming), but it is one that I just recently found in my collection, and I'm enjoying it a lot. And if you don't like Woke From Dreaming, whoever you are, you're a total cockrobber and should just turn in your headphones, now, to me. Because I keep breaking mine.

Cranes - Shining Road

Yeah, I had an annoying indie rock friend who kept talking about how superhumanly great the Cranes are. My analysis? Meh. Alison sounds like she's twelve. Seriously. But this song is good.

Denali - You File

Aww, Denali, how come you had to cease existing before I heard this song? Maybe it's because most of your other songs are just okay, or because you were eaten by vampire zombie sushi or something. Whatever. I set the CD player in my car to start on this song when I get in, so I can roll down the windows and everybody can hear what tremendously good taste in music I have.

The New Pornographers - Letter From An Occupant

You know I can't do a music post without mentioning Neko Case and her fantastic hot singing powers, which she uses to save tiny children from monsters. Neko Neko Neko. Apparently everyone in the world besides me has already heard this song, but damn it, I have a really really big music collection. I'll get through it, eventually.

Harsh Dose Of Reality

teleolurian:i heard she rode a horse, and then it exploded

[08:53am]MUUUUUUHFORD:and her butt is sore and thats why she is angry?

[08:53am]Kerplunk_secret_location:what?

[08:53am]teleolurian:it reminded her of when her grandfather was in the korean war

[08:54am]MUUUUUUHFORD:lol, drink some coffee plunk

[08:54am]teleolurian:and he threw his body on a grenade to save his squad

[08:54am]teleolurian:and it turned into a horse

[08:54am]Kerplunk_secret_location:i wanna rockstar

[08:54am]teleolurian:and then didn't explode

[08:54am]MUUUUUUHFORD:hahaha

[08:54am]MUUUUUUHFORD:was he humiliated?

[08:54am]teleolurian:no, but he was on a horse

[08:54am]teleolurian:which is pretty scary

[08:54am]teleolurian:because horses are scary

[08:54am]MUUUUUUHFORD:negative

[08:55am]MUUUUUUHFORD:horses are fucking awesome

[08:55am]teleolurian:i once pet a horse and it picked me up and swung me around and threw me thirty miles

[08:55am]teleolurian:then it wrote me one love letter a day for ten years

[08:55am]teleolurian:...then it died of a lung attack, which is like a heart attack but worse

[08:56am]teleolurian:oh my gosh, how can you people stand listening to me

Salmon Eggs Are Disgusting

I loves me some sushi. The same drive that leads men to consume rare steak and bloody veal insists, nay, forces me to put raw fish in my mouth. This is ten percent because I am biologically more complex and therefore superior to fish. It is also one hundred percent because raw fish is delicious, much more delicious than ordinary cooked fish. If there were some way to uncook a fish and thereby invent a process which made fish more raw, the person who invented that technology would be rich forever, because they would have unlocked the secret flavor of rainbows.

That having been said, I do not like salmon roe. At a recent get-together where there were probably a million people sitting at a table of ten, I put one salmon egg in my mouth and bit into it, hoping for the lack of taste I get from smaller roes. I did not get this lack of taste.

Instead, I got the taste of a sweaty fish orgasm in my mouth. It was horrid. It was like I'd been physically abused by some distant fish I would never be able to find and murder for the horrible thing it had done to me. It was like cheap, salmon-flavored, convenience-store wine, steeped in salt and fish kool-aid. Somewhere, there's a fish out there who owes me ten dollars. And to all the ladies: I'm sorry, baby. I didn't know.

I'm going to buy as much salmon as I can this weekend. I am going to cook it in various ways, and I am going to get twenty million percent of my US RDA of omega-7 magic acids. And I hope that somewhere in all that fish is the one that destroyed my soul. Even if I never know, it will be better for the balance of the universe if this one time I can get revenge, forever.

The Dictatorship Of Wang

teleolurian:somebody's got ego problems

[2:32pm]teleolurian:and only i'm allowed to have those

[2:33pm]d:it's all about the wang here

[2:33pm]teleolurian:she has to reset up irc

[2:34pm]teleolurian:i suppose we'd better clean up before the girls get here

[2:34pm] You changed the topic to "boobs".

[2:34pm]teleolurian:there we are

[2:34pm] Topic changed to "huge boobs" by d.

[2:34pm] Kerplunk joined the chat room.

[2:34pm]teleolurian:congrabulations

[2:34pm]d:good timing

[2:34pm]Kerplunk:WOOOOO

[2:34pm] Kerplunk was promoted to operator by you.

[2:35pm]Kerplunk:thank you thank you

Taco Bell Submits To My Dastardly Whims

Merely months after McDonalds brought back the McRib temporarily, somebody at Taco Bell corporate finally got hit by my orbital mind control lasers, because they have brought back the holy grail of taste with the Club Chalupa. But what's this? They've changed it up somewhat to appeal to discerning restauranteurs. By calling it the Bacon Chalupa. And making it out of more bacon. I'm pretty sure they're setting a trap for me, where they will lay down a trail of Chalupas in the desert in order to lure me back to their cheap condo.

Oh, I'll put up some resistance at first. I'm not the kind of girl that you can just bring home with promises of deliciousness and expect to get past fifth base. But eventually, Taco Bell will brush my hair away from my ears, and whisper to me seductively, and tell me I'm pretty. Maybe the morning after I'll feel that bitter little twang, the sickening symphony of rationality telling me it was just the heat of the moment. But then I'll be full of bacon. I'll take the top down on the way home, and the chilly morning air will follow me the whole ride.

Move Over Joe Camel

I don't have a problem with sharing cigarettes, especially with friends, because friends are awesome and cigarettes were meant to be used in groups, much like needles, condoms, and lasers. Apparently, however, I am so disgustingly popular that now random people come to my desk to ask for cancer, even people who don't smoke and people who I have never seen before. I'm not actually sure all of them work at my job.

Since I like poison and hate people, I think I've got a solution to the massive financial drain of being the sole cancer provider for an entire company: I need to get sponsored by Altria. After all, they're the company who discovered that you can basically tell people to fuck off and die, over and over, and that they will pay you for it.

Basically, I think it should work like this: Altria can send me a trendy jacket, emblazoned with their logo, and fill the pockets with packs of cigarettes as well as Toblerones (the toblerones should also contain nicotine). Throughout the course of the day, I will give cigarettes to other people. I will give them cigarettes when they ask. I will give them cigarettes when I want them to shut up. Sometimes, I will give cigarettes to people as an answer to a question, and then I will contemplate the proffered cylinder as if though it holds the zenlike answer to the universe. I will also give cigarettes to children, because I believe that the children are our future and by getting all the kids addicted to cigarettes means that even after I'm dead, I will have killed them.

Up Is Down! Nothing Makes Sense!

Kerplunk:you always post totally random crap

[09:40am]teleolurian:but it's pure comedy gold

[09:40am]teleolurian:the magic leprechaun who borrowed my creativity said so

[09:40am]teleolurian:then he showed me his tiny leprechaun penis.

[09:40am]Missy:you only took 2 out of 3 pills yesterday

[09:41am]teleolurian:therefore i'm completely insane today

[09:41am]teleolurian:try and keep up

[09:41am]Missy:it is prolly true

[09:41am]Kerplunk:i wouldnt doubt it

[09:41am]teleolurian:i feel like i can race the wind while simultaneously seducing everyone, ever, with a combination of sonnets and yogurt

[09:42am]Missy:then yup

[09:42am]Missy:you are insane today

[09:42am]Missy:due to lack of enough brain meds

[09:42am]teleolurian:it's okay, i don't have any yogurt

[09:42am]Missy:well that is good

[09:42am]Missy:everyone in the office is safe then

[09:42am]teleolurian:not even FROgurt

[09:42am]teleolurian:which i hear is made of black people

Can You Hear Me Now?

I am retardedly obsessed with the possibility that people can hear me thinking, even though any actual telepaths would scream and die as soon as they tried to touch the hammered-together thought processes that race like Special Olympics superstars through my brain. In fact, in the case that any of the golden age sci-fi authors were right and eventually we'll be put to war against homo superior, mankind's best weapons against the magical future psychics would be me and tubgirl.

No matter how much I tell myself that spontaneously evolving thought-rape powers is completely impossible in this modern era of the increasingly polluted human genepool, I practice nursery rhyme thought screening with the best of them. I could probably teach a college class in evading psychics. And then there would be a loser in the class who would in the end be the best student in any class ever, after a bunch of crazy adventures including a midnight panty raid gone horribly wrong. And in the end, when the credits roll, I'd feel pretty sorry about standing up and laughing at him for no reason one day, triggering his pants to fall down embarrassingly in class while he cries and runs out of the room. I'd probably buy him an ice cream. And then scratch him behind the ears, gently, until he learns to trust my filthy human smell.

Trickle Down

Each day

We receive an alloted amount of creativity.

I probably get more than you.

In fact, I probably get more

Than you and your circle of friends

Put together.

This is because Fate loves me.

Probably because I'm asian.

As each hour ticks by

Witty retorts

Brilliant pieces of code

And drug seeking behaviour

Reduce the amount of creativity remaining.

Kind of like a gas tank

Full of methamphetamine.

I have a pretty big side project.

It's hard.

Like, calculus hard.

Difficult projects excite me.

So now I'm all over it

Like Rain Man.

Every day the sun goes down.

And most people go to sleep

And have the dreams

That fill up their tanks

Like a coke mule receiving his parcel.

Except of course

That dreams don't always hurt.

But I can't work forever.

I will be back

Very, very soon.

It's Also A Tax Write Off Because It's For Work

Amazon has a totally sweet 8-pack of icepicks. Unfortunately, there's over twenty people working at my company, so I'll have to buy three packs. It's a recession, y'know? The basic necessities of life are getting more and more expensive. I should probably borrow J0olie's husband's camp shovel too. So I don't have to buy one. See? Frugal thinking.

AOL's Wonderful SMTP Response

A little background info: mail servers are very polite to each other. You say "HELO", they say "250 Ok". It's all some very seemly, gentlemanly conduct. Look at this spammy response from AOL: