Suicide, it turned out, tasted not like the cold barrel of a gun but instead like an artificially sweetened malt liquor.
I lost my mind before I even walked through the gated arches of the police station. The psychological effect of the drugs was strong and my will to live free was gone. I told the dispatcher I was there to confess to crimes - I was dying from the drug and it was time to confess my wrongdoings before the final judgment.
Contrary to the popular perception of dying it was a uniformed police officer, and not St. Peter, that was taking my final deposition as I sat there facing the consequences of my choices. For nearly fifteen minutes, the officer listened as I rambled on about various perceived wrongs I’d committed, which were primarily focused on poor choices often related to my drug and alcohol abuse. It was clear that the policeman was getting very frustrated that he’d had to deal with me at all. His attitude was that I was wasting his time. He said he needed to address something else and asked that I return to the waiting area in the lobby.
At the moment I slumped down into the chair and started to hang my head low, another police officer arrived inside, walking through the same gated arches with a black bear cub escorted in his custody. That officer turned the bear over to a booking officer and walked back out through a set of sliding glass doors that let in a glorious amount of sunlight. The soft glow of the sun, and the slow saunter back to sobriety started to elevate my mood. The gentle rays from the sun beaming down on me energized me. I realized life was worth living.
At the same moment, the booking officer took the handcuffs off the black bear cub, and instantaneously, the black bear cub let out a deafening roar and threw the booking officer to the ground with a single sweeping push. Next it circled the waiting room while loudly expelling its horrible screaming sounds from its voice box. I was fascinated and couldn’t help but stare at the bear. It soon noticed this and became aggressive towards me.
Looking right into my eyes, it roared again, and I was tharned by the gravity of the situation. The bear acted quickly and decisively to lunge towards me. I was knocked aside, but the bear managed to bite into my arm with a surprisingly weak chomping force. It didn’t even feel like it broke the skin. I was able to shake the bear off.
But the experience of defeat seemed to only galvanize the bear. Now it was distraught and seeking revenge. The bear managed to find a long rifle and picked it up between its teeth. The bear pointed the weapon at all the people in the waiting room in a threatening manner, like it was about to execute every last one of us.
But with a thunderous boom, an officer outside blasted a 12-gauge slug shot through the sliding glass doors and into the bear’s torso. The single shot was devastating to the cub, now laying there with the rifle beside it, surrounded by a pool of its own blood.
During the ensuing confusion, I simply walked out of the station and never returned. The entire experience was so hard to deal with, it started me drinking again.
Sen. Clinton, I voted for you when you ran against John Spencer in 2006. Shortly after, I wrote you a heartfelt letter expressing some of my concerns as a voter, but neither you nor your staff felt it necessary to send even so much as an acknowledgement. But I’m writing to acknowledge you for your commitment to the ongoing presidential race. Specifically, I wanted to thank you for running Google ads. Knowing that I would never vote for you again, let alone donate, I felt compelled to click the ad, at your expense, and write to thank you. Your ad is the kind of ad that I could enjoy clicking, at your expense, again and again. Thanks and regards.
When we posted Giulani’s mayoral ad, we didn’t think it would be such a hit. James left a comment pointing us to this gem, all about Mr. 911 himself, Rudolph “Rudy” Giuliani. Please don’t vote for this toolbag.
So, I log in to one of my “Gmail for Domains” accounts today, one which I rarely ever log into. What do I see? 233 new messages in my Inbox. This basically just exists as a drop for administrative emails (in other words, spam). Of these 233 messages, about 10 were legitimate. I was still pretty shocked to see that of the 223 or so spam messages that made it through, that it was only but a fraction of the number of mails received — I received nearly 93,000 spam emails in the last 30 days (remember, they delete spam automatically after 30 days). That works out to about one email every 30 seconds.
(click to enlarge)
All the emails were addressed to some random address at my domain (.com). In this case, there probably isn’t much I could have done to stop these mails. Another domain that I leave dormant that I checked today after seeing this monstrosity had about 3444 spam messages, of which about 20 were not caught by Gmail’s spam filter. But the one thing that made these mails different than the ones I received in the other account were that messages to this domain were all returned mails. In other words, spammers were sending forged messages, using a non-existent address at my domain (.com). This can be cut down, although apparently not completely eliminated, by using DNS SPF records. The only drawback is that not every remote mail server supports SPF. As such, some of these emails will still get through to those servers. Google provides some guidance on setting DNS SPF records (if you can) that can help cut down this number, although it still will not eliminate spam entirely.
Ever received more spam than this in your Gmail or Gmail for domain account? Post a link to a screen shot or post your story below!
I thought I hit gold this morning when I found a video of “Hillary Fart[ing] During Debate“. But literally the first person I messaged smacked me down by showing me a far funnier video. File this one under “Music” anyway.
Liquid LSD has produced shitty techno since discovering sound recorder in Windows 98, when he produced “The Telephone Song”, an amateurish mashup of telephone system messages and electronic beats. Later, he discovered Rebirth and produced “Marijuana” within the 15 minute trial period of the demo program. Dubbing himself Nitrous Oxide, he downloaded Fruityloops 3 and produced a series of unremarkable works. The release of FL Studio 6 and 7 improved his songs dramatically. The one thing in his way was his name: Nitrous Oxide. Realizing that not only would he not be able to buy “nitrousoxide.com”, he would be buried under tons of search results for legitimate nitrous oxide suppliers. Figuring LSD was going to continue to be banned in the U.S. for some time to come, he selected his new moniker: Liquid LSD, named partly in homage to Liquid Todd, the 92.3 K-rock DJ that spurred his interest in electronic music.
Liquid LSD is a one man show and does not do live performances. If you like the music, great, rock out with your cock out. If you don’t, move on and find something you like. For Liquid LSD, the music is purely expressive. He likes high-energy dope beats and hopes you do too.
My neighbors really need to start obeying zoning laws. I’m driving by, and what do I see? A flatbed tow truck parked right on their roof. And next to the tow truck is a guy standing on the roof, building another house right on top of the roof of the other house. I’m wondering how this two-story, wooden house can support all this weight. I reach a stop sign at the corner where this house is, and as I make a left turn onto the intersecting street, I see the wooden ramp he’s built to drive the cars onto his roof. It turned out the tow truck wasn’t the only vehicle on the roof. There were also three passenger cars with yellow light bars, parked at the frighteningly steep incline of the roof. I think I might write a letter when I wake up.
