Seized by a fit of self-aggrandizement, gentle reader, I dove into my site logs with a hunger this evening. True, a part of me wanted to find a would-be hacker to lambaste and to lambaste happily, but another part of me wanted to get a rough idea of how many different visitors stumble into my lobby each day. Suffice to say that I won’t be checking my logs again in the near future. You see, dear reader, unlike the logs that my own POS server generated, the logs provided by my new host are simply undecipherable. I sat in front of my diamond-coated, CEO edition monitor for about five minutes before developing a headache and giving up.
This means, then, that the million or so clients who have that special refresh script set up for Secondhand Rants–you know, the special script that checks to see if a new post appears every second or so–have nothing to fear at all. You may scan my site for up-to-the-minute investment pointers and bleeding-edge stock tips every minute on the minute, if you so desired, without my knowing. Secondhand Rants has never employed an actual tracker and will never do so.
Investors will be pleased to know, however, that the one piece of info I did glean from the logs was this: strangers from far and wide happen upon our lobby after searching for “middle finger emoticon” through Google. Quickly, someone contact the Nobel Committee! Our company has contributed mightily to the public square, and your compassionate CEO may die a happy man now.
Heart in throat, my eye gleaming with inspiration, I proceeded to Google my beloved company. And lo! While I found nothing grotesque, I did find sterling praise from The Gus Bus. You may be sure, CEO Carl, that even more diseased, pockmarked strangers shall be referred to your bus from now on.
So filled with 31 flavors of delusions and idiocy, I wish you good night, gentle reader, along with a heaping helping of
_!_ _!_ _!_ _!_
Here’s a sobering post for you, gentle reader. Secondhand Rants should, as a service to collegiate and post-collegiate demographics, start a Trauma Center for readers who’ve fallen out of the White Ivory Tower. No, I’m not talking about trauma due to a lack of school, but trauma because of school.
I woke up today having dreamt one of the most graphic dreams I’ve dreamt in a while. You’ll be able to empathize with me, this much I’m certain of, because you’ve doubtless had the same dream–perhaps even multiple iterations of the same dream–in the past.
2 PM, a rainy afternoon, and I’m standing in the departmental office. I suddenly remember that although my paper on Siberian monks is due at 5 PM, the damn thing is nonexistent. Cripes above! What to do, what to do? I decide to play the ol’ absence game (and damn it if I can cook up an original excuse via e-mail), thereby purchasing me another day or so to craft the paper, but lo and behold, there’s my professor in the office! And what is she doing? Why, she’s collecting papers from the stinkers who actually work in a timely fashion!
She waves to me, sees that I’m obviously hale and hearty, but I’m already gone. I curse the Fates silently while I book it to the library, concocting a trenchant thesis along the way (before reading any source material, natch) and calculating how long research will take. And Lexis-Nexis and EXAC, so help me–even these two search engines made an appearance in my nightmare.
Oh, the humanity! Having recounted all of this to you, I can only say that if I were a smoker, I’d be reaching for my noose right now.
Real World Problem of the Week: I pay almost seven hundred clams for my auto insurance (that’s for the year, just to clarify for my driving ability’s sake), gentle reader, yet AAA insists that I haven’t paid. What’s that, AAA? I sent you my credit card number two weeks ago, authorized you to bill me, but you don’t want my money? FINE!
Just follow the row of cheddar pieces leading out of your front lobby tomorrow morning, okay? Translation: I’m going to call them tomorrow morning and work out the misunderstanding in a civilized manner. If only Secondhand Rants could go hostile takeover on AAA’s ass! If only Secondhand Rants actually existed. I probably should wish for those two things in reverse order.