Mrs. Garrett, Meet Mr. Milosevic

I’ve been meaning to post something about this for a while, but I keep forgetting. The one thing I don’t seem to forget is 1980s sitcoms. So this game I’m about to tell you about was perfect for me.

It came to my attention thanks to buddy Jamie Agin, who is also the Sports Guy’s intern and does some Daily Links. The game, you can find here. Be warned, it will consume you (unless you were the loyal blog reader who was kind enough to give me shelter Friday night – you, I’m afraid, will know none of it. Sorry!).

Imagine that: this thing will guess the Dictator or Sitcom Character you are thinking of. How’s this crazy internet site supposed to know if I’m thinking of Pol Pot or Potsie from “Happy Days”? I found it’s claims of omniscience to be dubious at best.

Until I did it. Repeatedly. And then more repeatedly. Until I was obsessed.

My friend Tyson and I tried a myriad of characters (but no dictators – I mean how many obscure dictators are there, really, that we could trick the computer with?). It knew them all. Except Sandy Duncan, who I might have messed up on, because I don’t remember what she did for a living on “The Hogan Family.” I do know she has a glass eye, for whatever that’s worth.

Anyway, this thing asks you questions and then guesses who you are. The game became not to stump it so much as to pick a character almost no one else had made it guess. Tyson won that little game, becoming only the seventh person ever to try to stump this thing with Grandpa from “Silver Spoons.”

OK, I didn’t even know there was a Grandpa from Silver Spoons – and those of you who know me, know that I know every sitcom character there is to know. The other night, I was watching some commercial and said, very matter-of-factly, “Hey, that’s Khrystyne Haje. She played Simone on ‘Head of the Class.’” I even knew her name started with a K and had two Ys in it. I'm a freak.

This induced some or other noise of disbelief from Fitt on the other couch. He'll get over it. Wait, why haven’t I tried her yet? OK, gotta go….

When "ize" Gets In Your Soap

After another semi-long hiatus, I was finally moved to write an entry here thanks to something I saw while covering a basketball game at Clemson.

Now, the first problem is that if the world had an actual butthole, it would be located at exit 19B of I-85. Sure, you could argue that the town of Anderson is also off that exit and I shouldn’t necessarily lump it in with Clemson. But I could argue that my fingers are in my ears and I can’t hear you (la, la, la, la…).

So anyway, back to the point of the story, I’m in the bathroom, and what do I see but a soap dispenser labeled “Lotionized Hand Soap.”

Two thoughts immediately occurred to me:

1. Who sees the container of liquid hand soap and then, like a lab rat going for a reward pellet, presses away furiously waiting for a bar of soap to drop out?

The answer? No one.

2. There’s just no way that “Lotionized” is a word.

Turns out, I was right on this one. Unless of course I meant “lot ionized” or “lionized.”

Which clearly I didn’t. Although it would be nice to have some soap to look up to.

Tony Flags

So the movie Desperado is on TV tonight, and my roommate, the venerable Aaron Fitt has not seen it. In one of the early scenes, when Antonio Banderas first walks into the Cheech-tended bar and gets into a gunfight, Fitt and I have the following conversation.

Fitt: It’s weird seeing Tony Flags as a bad ass.
Me: I’m sorry, did you just call Antonio Banderas Tony Flags?
Fitt: I like to Anglicize stuff.

And I started to wonder….are there other names we can do this to? And can we do it in reverse? Can we turn Josh Hartnett into Jose Red de Corazon? Okay, okay, that’s a stretch, I’ll admit it.

But seriously, someone give me something here. There have to be more of these, and my brain hurts.

Smokeless in Seattle (OK, not in Seattle)

Happy New Year, all! So, it’s been a little while, as I have been on some sort of unofficial holiday hiatus (read: drinking binge). But now I’m back, and everything is back to normal again.

Oh, except that I’m not smoking. That’s right. Not smoking. It’s like smoking, but the complete opposite.

Here we are on day three of the little experiment called Project Stop Blackening My Lungs and Slowly Killing Myself. Or PSBMLSKM for short. (Note how I didn’t use the “and” in my acronym, as if one more letter would have made it any more unwieldy than it already was … especially a sweet, sweet vowel.)

So anyway, PSBMLSKM is going pretty well so far, with my homicidal urges coming at several-hour intervals. I figure they’re like contractions for a pregnant woman: until I start getting them every few minutes, there is no need to seek medical attention.

I’m chewing gum, toothpicks, straws – anything I can get my hands on. If my leg was stuck in a bear trap, I think I’d gnaw through it not to free myself, but just to satisfy my oral fixation. Luckily, I don’t keep any bear traps in my living room. Anymore.

When I’m not chewing on stuff, I simply try not to think about smoking and how deliciously wonderful and delicious it is. I mean was. Like, I’ll think about this line from some show (I can’t remember which one), that goes something like: “Cigarettes killed my father…(dramatic pause)…and raped my mother.” That usually gives me a good chuckle, which helps suppress those pesky homicidal urges for another few minutes.

And as long as I can dodge all those troublesome spots in which I’d want a cigarette (i.e. – drinking coffee, drinking alcohol, after meals, walking, driving, sitting, thinking, daytime, nighttime), it should be no trouble.

Of course, I just finished breakfast, and I’m drinking a cup of coffee. But I think I can hang in there….Now, what did I do with that list of people to kill?