thwartedefforts

What’s the deal with Dr. Pepper and Mr. Pibb? How can they even compete with each other? I mean, Mr. Pibb, obviously just a man, leaves to the imagination his education. Dr. Pepper, on the other hand, is open and upfront about his qualifications. But does he just have a PhD, or is he an MD? What can he diagnose? “The results are back from the lab. You’re a Pepper.” Can he diagnose Mr. Pibb as being a Pepper, and if he did, wouldn’t that put them both on equal ground; wouldn’t Dr. Pepper want to maintain his postion over Mr. Pibb, assuming he had one? Perhaps it is the mystery that surrounds Mr. Pibb that keeps people interested. Mr. Pibb is just a regular guy, he can relate to you and me and Billy Joe Bob. Dr. Pepper has a reputation to protect. Mr. Pibb is more anonymous, more everyman. They’ll both attend the opera, but only Mr. Pibb would goto a monster truck show: I’m sure Dr. Pepper wouldn’t be caught dead at one. Is Dr. Pepper on call? Has Dr. Pepper ever been sued for malpractice? These are problems you won’t have with Mr. Pibb.

What’s with all the formality? Are “Doctor” and “Mister” the only allowed designations? What about a name that strikes militaristic fear into its drinkers, like “General”, “Admiral”, or “Sarge”? I suspose there could be a “President” if President’s Choice ever came out with their own competing flavor. Why is Mr. Pibb so formal about the whole thing. Does this guy have a first name? How many years do you have to drink Mr. Pibb before you can get on a first name basis with him? At least we know what Mr. Pibb’s gender is. Dr. Pepper could be a woman. Would you want a woman telling you to turn your head and cough? Where’s Mrs. Pibb?

(Aftering being accused of “playing” sysadmin)

I remember back when I was younger, there was this empty lot in the neighborhood with a bunch of old computers in it that had just been tossed aside. Big iron. With a lot of vaccuum tubes. Punch card readers, drum disks, etc. All us neighborhood kids used to get together and play ball games in that lot. Sometimes neighborhood girls would want to play too, and somehow, us boys got suckered into playing house, doctor or sysadmin with the girls. Us boys would much rather have played house or doctor, given the choice. Playing sysadmin was the worst. The girls would make us sit in meetings where we would fall asleep. Sometimes, we could hear our mothers calling us to dinner, but we had to stay because “a server just crashed”. We’d have to do upgrades, clean up after a virus attack, and do backups. One summer, I got cooties from working to closely to a girl on a new project rollout to production. Which we promptly had to remove because the boy playing QA didn’t get the correct requirements from the girl playing PM, and his test environment crashed because it was setup incorrectly by the group in support. After turning 13, I got bumped to Level 3 support, and spent most of my time making out with this other girl waiting for serious requests to come in.

You’d be surprised how much data kids can pretend to process.

So you’re sitting around blowing some lines on the coffee table with your buddy Ed. You’re using Monopoly money, as usual, because Ed thinks it’s a riot. It’s one of his “things.” There are thousand-dollar stacks of monopoly money all over his luxury hi-rise apartment in Cambridge.

You take a nice snort out of an orange 500, then look down nine storeys across the Charles river to Boston on the other side. There’s a red line train chugging across the MIT bridge, and a few sailboats drifting around. It’s not quite winter, but you wore your long black overcoat on the trip over to Ed’s place because it’s so fucking cold already. Maybe it’s late October or so. It doesn’t really matter a whole hell of a lot.

What matters is the knock at the door–never a good thing when you’re surrounded by bags of cocaine and stacks of monopoly money. You panic. Ed, well, Ed never panics. He sighs and opens the door–without even asking who it is or how the hell they got in the door and up nine flights without being stopped by the ex-marine concierge/security professional Bruce–and standing outside in head-to-toe black long underwear is Schitzo Fred.

He is some kind of Eddie Bauer catalog ninja in this brand-new black outfit and clean-shaven–a huge suprise. When he walks through the door you smell faint incense or something. Schitzo Fred says “hi” and you take a deep breath to prepare to say “hi” yourself, and inhale air that is pure marijuana. This wouldn’t be that unusual, but the bong is empty. It’s been a one-drug sort of day.

Schitzo Fred reaches into the crotch of his thermals, pulls out a brick of hashish. Unwrapped.

Ed smirks. “You wearin’ briefs under that, Freddy?”

“Nah. One layer, underwear. Enough.”

The only thing that’s mandatory in life is death. The rest of it is just a game where people theoretically compete to out-procrastinate their own demise.

My computer was fashioned by the Amish and I’m quite proud of the handiwork. It’s a beef tallow system that has been rated to the lamplight of TWO Amish communities (counting the barns). The water powered processor is nearly 3000 candlepower so I can play “Horse and Buggy Traffic Blocker” and heat my home without having to light my fireplace. I was nearly shunned when I put the family bible on a CD ROM that I carved from the finest oak and stained with berries. But now the elders understand and allow me the vice of logging onto the sinful Internet. Oh the vicarious thrill I get when I see the daguerrotypes of “Woman Showing her Ankle” and “Anna Forgot Her Bonnet”. Almost makes my thick, luxuriant beard quiver with excitement. If only I could compile a program that would chastize me for such sinful thoughts because my Confessional v3.4 doesn’t work on AmiX.

Such is my life.

We finally pulled into a rest stop just inside the Massachusetts border, and I galloped to the men’s room. The bank of urinals was as crowded as the turnpike itself; just one free in the long expanse of porcelain.

I whipped it out between an older man on my left and a 20-something on my right. The geezer had a pretty damn impressive cock, so I gave him a pat on the back with my free hand. “Yo, old buddy that is one DAMN impressive garden hose!”

He was just finishing up, so waved his pecker free of the last drops and nodded. “Thanks man,” he said. “Not a bad unit you got there yourself.”

The young guy on my right nodded. “Your wife must be pretty pleased.”

I don’t have a wife, but I nodded anyway and checked his dick out. Pretty small, but nicely formed. “That’s a work of art you’ve got there.” I told him. “One sexy trouser snake.”

The pisser on the other side nodded. “Damn straight,” he added, “and that sucker has girth. That’s they key you know. Longitude don’t matter so much as the width.” He adjusted his John Deere cap, then attended to matters in hand.

It appeared as though the guy next to him was saying positive things as they both peered downwards. Nodding, smiling, having a great time. The whole men’s room was jubilant, guys grinning ear to ear. Someone let a loud fart rip in the stalls, and the lavatory erupted in cheers.

I remembered this same rest area about ten years ago, when things weren’t quite like so relaxed. Men came in meekly and stared at their reflections in top of the urinal, or eyeballed the white walls. I clearly remember gazing at some “Just Say No to Drugs” lettering at the bottom of the pisser before the turn of the century.

Now in the place of that long-outdated slogan it simply says: “Penis Pride!”

On the white-tiled wall, alternating with notices imploring employees to wash hands, are signs proclaiming: “Praise the Pecker!”

I washed up after reassuring a kid stationed at the last urinal. “It’ll grow kiddo, don’t worry!” He grinned ear to ear with the ease of youth.

Back in the bright sunlight and headed for the car, I realized I was humming “America the Beautiful” under my breath. Only natural (as pissing and shitting), I suppose. This country has come a long way–left a lot of hang-ups behind–and I’m proud to be a part of it!

> And lo, yonder, there was silence…..

What, you’d rather have two page posts like:

Someloser in 666 on **free against the wall over 1 billion served, Mon Jan 18 19:14:07 2038 PST:

> Blah blah.

Well, a blah does have the right to blah, but otherwise by the Blah theory (http://blah.blah.blah/~blah/blah.html) and on page blah of the blah Journal, ‘Blah blah’ is an oft-Blah’ed blah of the blah blah.

> And furthermore, la la la.

But what if La could not la la? or is it La la who is laing? And supposed a ‘yub yub yub’ gets in there, preceding a ‘ZOG ZOG ZOG’? Where are your SOURCES, man?

> And you suck!

And your mother too.

> Hitler!

Shatner!

I appreciate the effort that you have made in posting my ad here.

I was indeed looking for a ’special’ friend…and i found her about two months ago. Her warmth and understanding of my edges is unbounded. And my appreciation of her edges is equal.

We have been exploring eachothers bodies for this time…sharing our inner feelings in ways i would never have thought imaginable.

In fact as we share…our ability to feel grows.

Our relationship is ever growing as we push our edges even further…sometimes we push hard and with a patience. At other times we push a little too quickly.

But in the end we find that our openess has expanded…our ability to accept is that much greater.

Without her patience i would never have been able to share as inimately as i do know. There is great satisfaction when i feel her inside me. I am astounded at how much of her i am able to accept.

I never dreamed i would find a woman who could get her head around my situation…let alone into it.

In fact, as i write this….my ass high in the air…i feel her inside me.

Her sweet lips kissing the walls of my rectum. Fisting was only the beginning.

I can feel the pulse at her neck as my anus contracts…i must remain completely calm in order not to strangle her…and i can feel her distress when i laugh at posts on *humor.

I feel so close to her now…we are as one…what i eat, she eats.

My love for her is warm and nurturing and not too unlike a womb. I love surrounding her with my flesh. Perhaps this is how i feel the feminine qualities in myself.

Unfortunately we can only satisfy one of us at a time. I am unable to bend far enough to touch her in that way as she is touching me.

With this in mind we humbly search for more special friends across america. We hope to form a chain of likeminded people with the ability to feel.

My partner is posting too…her keyboard resting cooly on the small of my back. Her fingers poised gracefully over the keys. Perhaps in time, rather than a chain across america we will have a circle of connected partners each with their head in the right place.

Until we meet more…my lover and i will continue to push our edges to encompass as much of the world as we know it. Perhaps one day i can say that we are so close, so intimate that she fits me like a glove… thank you for your interest

Every programmer who can rightfully call themselves a programmer has seen Star Wars, at least once. I don’t think you can, by law, legally call yourself a programmer unless you have seen Star Wars, not even if you use Visual C++. Unfortunately, many programmers, or those who then call themselves programmers after seeing Star Wars, get brain washed by the entire Star Wars establishment, and the next thing you know you see them playing Tie Fighter or X-Wing, and they own the Star Wars sound track, and they think Dark Forces is the most advanced game evar

But enough about that. Star Wars kind of has a cult following among the non-brainwashed programmers, who, just like Dark Side of the Moon and The Wizard of Oz, like to sit back with video tapes of the Star Wars movies and play the Star Wars sound track, because, ironicly, the music on the soundtrack matches up with the happenings and music in the movie. Like, in Star Wars, just as the music on the sound track is getting dramatic and upbeat, SO IS THE MOVIE in the same point where that music is being played in the background! Coincedence? You decide!