Wednesday, September 1, 2004

One of the more imaginative epithets I’ve received at work, gentle reader, is “Ben the Lunchtime Terrorist.” Before you jump to any conclusions and envision gory panoramas of destruction, let me assure you this doesn’t involve violence or incendiary devices. We’ve got enough of those things to go around and then some. The reason I’m called the Lunchtime Terrorist, quite simply, is because I sometimes hijack lunch plans.

A few people will decide on a place of ingestion, what some might call a restaurant, but these decisions prove very malleable. Why walk blindly to Chili’s when the true foodgeist of the office calls for sandwiches? Why trot to a pizza joint when everyone–unbeknownst to themselves–actually desires burritos? See, that’s my function: I divine what people really want to eat, and I don’t have to hold a goddamn séance to reach my conclusions.

As I mentioned yesterday, though, my powers of divination have waned lately. I mean, can you honestly think of anyone, living or dead, who would truly desire foot after foot of Subway goodness in a single week? For the love of Benjy, the store is named after a rancid underground labyrinth of urine and rusty tracks! That’s why I’ve handed my autonomy to the Lunch-o-Matic, a simple but useful piece of JavaScript made by my co-worker. It contains a full list of all the restaurants in the area. You hit the button, it spits out a random eatery. Hit it again and–guess what?–out comes another name.

The system isn’t perfect, of course, as it tends to select restaurants that fly in the face of the foodgeist, so that’s why we pick five names and choose from those. Ah, the wonders of automation and robotics! I’m considering purchasing a robot to clean and organize my gun collection. He will have knives for hands, which will allow him to cook for me. I will also program him to guard over me while I sleep soundly each night. See? Absolutely wondrous.

Tuesday, August 31, 2004

I haven’t been feeling hale and hearty during the past few days, gentle reader, so I’ve tried to pinpoint the source of my ailments like a good licensed physician. I think I earned an MD a few years back, maybe three MDs, but that might be my amnesia speaking. This much I know, though: just as there are some things I’ve actively done to put myself under the weather, other factors beyond my control have conspired to send me to the sickhouse.

Take Psycho Ed, for instance. He’s the fellow who lives directly above me. In weeks past I’ve discussed his proclivities to fly off the handle, and to his credit these episodes are few and far between. Hey, I’m cool with that. He enjoys banging on cupboards and walls. Some people just dig that kind of thing. I used to collect stamps myself. Lately, however, he’s adhered to a strict regimen of going bonkers at around 7 AM, effectively beating my alarm clock by a full hour.

So I stumble groggily to work with mildly impaired judgment, and when lunchtime comes around I’m still impaired. Maybe that’s why I’ve gone to Subway not once but twice this week, both times ingesting the aborted offspring of the sandwich world. Since I’m clearly incapable of making sound culinary choices, it’s time to delegate all decision-making to the Lunch-o-Matic, a monstrosity of an invention made by my officemate. Will I miss my lunchtime autonomy? Who controls the Lunch-o-Matic? Why is the sky blue? Where do babies come from? Find out in our next installment!

Monday, August 30, 2004

This clip promises to circulate the Internet like a mutant hotcake, gentle reader, so I figured I’d help it along. You shouldn’t laugh at human suffering, says the time-honored axiom, but what if a proud Bruce Lee-esque grimace precedes the suffering? That makes all the difference in the world.

The clip is not without redeeming qualities, however, as it illustrates the triumph of dogged persistence. Wait, no it doesn’t.