Dear Waitstaff and Bartenders of Chicago: A Letter on the Subject of My Poverty

Dear waitstaff and bartenders of Chicago,

You are the reason I cry at night. Please stop giving me dirty looks when I only order one cheap beer and nothing else. I used to be a server myself, and your piercing stares inject gooey guilt right inside my soul, leaving me a veritable Cadbury Egg of shame. My friends want to go to bars, and I want to be social, but I simply cannot put down the kind of money you want me to.
Here is how the math of my life breaks down right now:
My internship pays me $7.50 an hour.
After taxes are removed, I get a paycheck for $500 every other week.
So, I make $1000 per month. Wow.

$1000
-$550 rent
-$80 CTA
-$35 internet and cable
-$20 electricity
-$20 gas
---------------------
$295

Now, divide that by 30, and I have less than $10/day to feed myself (this is assuming impossibly good fortune: that I have no health issues, nothing I own ever breaks, nobody has a birthday, and I do not need any toiletries, toilet paper, cleaning products, hair cuts, or clothes). This also means that if I buy a single movie, play, or concert ticket, pay one cover charge, or buy one DVD or book, I pretty much have to eat ramen and drink water for the next two days.

In conclusion, dear servers, I am not a bitch. The economy may be kicking your ass pretty hard, but it is probably kicking mine harder. I can either buy one shitty beer and tip you >20%, or I can buy two beers or a real drink and—like millions of jackasses across America—tip you nothing. Either way, I have $3 to feed myself for the rest of the day. SO STOP FRICKING GLARING AT ME!

Yours,
Anneliese

Two Things: Why the Last Two Days Were Awesome

Two things you probably already know if you are one of the people I irritate with nonsense text messages all the time:


Thing 1) Last night I ate a whole brick of cheese. It was LEGEN… wait for it… wait for it… DAIRY!


Thing 2) This afternoon, I walked into the lunchroom at work. Masked by a draped paper towel that simply read, “FREE” in blue Sharpie, an unidentifiable object sat in the middle of the counter. The room was full of people, and yet nobody seemed the least bit interested in this object.

“But it’s free!” I thought, “It’s a free thing just sitting there, asking to be taken. Who doesn’t want a free thing? What is WRONG with these people?”

I walked over and lifted the paper towel. The free thing was a VHS copy of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves with Kevin Costner. It is mine now.

Obama Babies: My Freaky Preggers Envy

I do not want children right now—maybe ever. And yet, I have this weird envy of all the people who are going to have Obama babies. It's this extreme form of celebration—just as permanent as getting a tattoo—in which I simply cannot participate. I could have run home from the rally with some random dude and had protected, celebratory, election night sex with some and then gone out Wednesday and adopted cat... but it wouldn't have been quite the same. Besides, cats die in, like, twelve years, and I want the world to know that I was on the winning side of this bitch FOREVER.

Dear Mr. Greenfield: My First E-mail to the RedEye

I promise to stop talking about the election soon. I am fairly certain that—once upon a time—I used to think about other things. But, as long as the world keeps talking about the election, that is all I have to respond to.

For example: this morning’s RedEye starts off with a little, anecdotal article by Jimmy Greenfield about election night. The piece is called “My historic night—sitting on a couch”. Jimmy talks about how he regrets not having gone downtown for the election night rally, citing several reasons for his home-bodied-ness. One of his reasons was an assumption/fear that, were he to go downtown, he would miss the CNN coverage of the event, and his Blitzer/Gergen/Borger/Toobin addiction would eat him alive. For some reason, I found the prospect of soundly and callously bursting his bubble to be so enticing, that I had to write my first ever RedEye response e-mail. It was entitled “My historic night—watching CNN in Grant Park” and went as follows:

Dear Mr. Greenfield,

I just read your article this morning, and I have something I should probably tell you. Oh Jimmy, I don't know how to say this; it seems cruel every way I put it, but it must be done: I was in Grant Park on election night, and I was watching CNN.

Every jumbo-tron in Grant Park—assuming you were close enough to see them—was displaying CNN right up to the moment the election was called. For hours, I watched Wolf Blitzer speak to me in an image stunningly clear and twenty feet tall. Two days before every Super Bowl, I dream that— suddenly and without warning—I win a raffle for the biggest, most beautiful TV I could possibly imagine. Tuesday, I saw that television... and it was playing CNN. I may never recover from the mammoth majesty of Will.I.Am's colossally radiant hologram or Anderson Cooper's titanically magnificent hair.

You could have had it all.

I am so very sorry,

Anneliese Toft

Berliner Zeitung: The Reason I am INTERNATIONALLY INFAMOUS

God, I am AWESOME!

I found the article in Berliner Zeitung in which I am mentioned. First, she accredits Annie Kerkian's jumping up and down and screaming to me, then she misspells my name. Thanks, Olivia Schoeller! No--seriously--thanks. Anneliese Koft is in an online article for a German newspaper acting like Anne Kerkian, and for that Anneliese Toft could not be more grateful. Obviously, I can never travel in the EU again. The constant recognition will be just unbearable.

http://www.berlinonline.de/berliner-zeitung/spezial/dossiers/uswahl/113610/index.php


Here is the Babel Fish translation of my paragraph:

The first sign for Obamas victory comes on this day already on the early morning from the otherwise republican village Dixville Notch into New Hampshire. Fifteen of the twenty-in voters in the place, which traditionally always selects as one first, are correct for Obama. A good omen, but correctly seriously becomes it only against 19 o'clock. The news stations announce the first important victories for Obama: New jersey, Illinois and Connecticut fall to the democrat, in the Grant park are with restraint jubilant. McCain wins South Carolina, Oklahoma and Tennessee. That the population-strong State of Pennsylvania goes at Obama, hop, dance and cry fans become only to be familiar like the 23-jährige Anneliese Koft. " Yes, Yes, Yes! " the student of the Indiana university calls, again and again. With its friend Anneliese Koft for the election campaign team worked, undecided voters convinced and never hope lost. The end the election campaign is for it the beginning of a new time calculation. At the arm it carries a Obama clock with wrong diamonds in the Grant park proudly: " If someone asks me for the time, say I, it am time for a Wandel."

Hahaha. Oh Babel Fish. You be not of the great with understanding to the grammar. The accuracy of you is being leaving something for desired.

Dear World: Letters Inspired by Election Night

Dear History,

How are your annals? From what I could see, they got pretty thoroughly pounded the other day. As far as American racial milestones go, you have been virtually annally celibate for what now, fifty years? Jesus. You really were in need of a good pounding, weren't you? Well, congratulations.


Heart,
Anneliese





Dear Other People In Grant Park,

Thank you. Thank you for being the nicest people I have ever met. You were all friendly and helpful and considerate—even when waiting in what was essentially the world’s longest and most claustrophobic airport security line.

Also, thank you for smelling like hope. I knew that compacting hundreds of thousands of people together for this historic evening would fill the air with the stench of hope, but—not having smelled it for almost a decade—I thought hope would reek of B.O.and head grease. It turns out, concentrated hope smells like flowers and freshness. Who knew?

Finally, thank you for not shooting or burning anything. That would have been embarrassing for Chicago.

Love,
Anneliese





Dear Lady Who Sung the National Anthem in Grant Park,

Please learn the words to the National Anthem. That was embarrassing for Chicago.

Smooches,
Anneliese





Dear Everybody Who Wasn’t in Grant Park,

I was fewer than fifty yards from Barack Obama when he made his acceptance speech. If you are wondering if this makes my life better than yours, the answer is, "YES!"

Yes. It does.

Suck it,
Anneliese





Dear CNN,

You are liars. Will.I.Am was not a REAL hologram. I know this because the RedEye told me so… in an actual article that someone actually took the time to write after actually researching it by interviewing actual physics professors.

Sorry,
Anneliese





Dear RedEye,

Are you kidding me? Seriously?

Haaaahaha. You. Are. Dumb.

I don’t even know,
Anneliese





Dear Arkansas, Arizona, Florida, and most of all California,

I am soooooo not talking to you right now.

Wait. Time out on Silent Treatment.

In this blog, try to avoid cussing to such a gratuitous degree that it overwhelms the sentence and distracts from the actual meaning of my words. That said, fuck you. You are a bunch of fucking douchebag, back-asswards motherfuckers. I hope that one day, someone tells you that your love isn’t real, that God hates you, and that you can’t raise a child because you would fuck it up just by being who you are.

Ok. Now I am REALLY not talking to you.

Fuck you,
Anneliese

P.S. Time in on Silent Treatment.

A Front Row to History: A Political Raffle???

“Anneliese --

I want you to be there with me on Election Night when the results come in.

We're planning a big event that will include tens of thousands of supporters in Grant Park in downtown Chicago.

We're saving some of the best seats in the house for 5 people who have given to the campaign before -- and who decide to make a donation one last time before Sunday at midnight.

If you're selected, you can bring a guest, and we'll fly you in and put you up in a hotel for the night. You'll go backstage at the big event and -- no matter what happens -- you'll have a front row seat to history as we celebrate the supporters who got us over the finish line.

Any donation counts -- whatever you can afford. Show your support at this crucial time with a donation of $25 or more, and you could join me on Election Night:

https://donate.barackobama.com/frontrow

This movement for change has been a testament to the power of ordinary Americans coming together to achieve extraordinary things.

I look forward to having you there on Election Night.

Thank you,

Barack”

Two things, Barack.

Thing 1: I just gave you $25. Like, on Tuesday. I make $7.50 an hour. Can’t I get retroactive entry into your raffle? How about you pretend that every time I have volunteered for your campaign, I have been giving you my time’s worth of donation? Even at minimum wage, I should still get a free raffle ticket. Damn it, Senator! I am broke!

Thing 2: Isn’t this a little tacky? You are raffling off the opportunity to get physically closer to you? You are just asking for some creepy, fangirl nonsense on this one. If you are already going to use your celebrity and the fact that a Grant Park Plus One is currently going for more than a ticket to see the Beatles (complete with time machine), then why don’t you just commit to the tastelessness and go all out!

“Help us out with $75 or more, and you could be one of the lucky three picked to be sung to sleep on election night by the Obama children! You pick the lullaby!

A $100 donation buys you a .00001% chance that Michelle Obama will
make out with you!

And for only a $150 donation, you will receive entry into a 1/50,000
chance that the candidate... himself... will teabag your mom!"



Ew.

A Boy Called Byron: The Story of Ju Gao

For the last few days, I have been collecting e-mails for an academic title e-campaign. This involves google searching faculty directories, then copying and pasting data into a spreadsheet. Often, I have to outwit spambot filters to get e-mail addresses.
Key examples of my brilliant problem solving:

1) I copy and paste everything into notebook. Notebook is too stupid for formatting. This strips all the hidden programming, links, and font and sizing nonsense off of the text so it doesn't eff up my pretty spreadsheet.

2) Sometimes, the tech gurus at the universities will spell out dots and @s to thwart e-mail stealers. Once I have the data in notebook, I simply use my highly-lauded search and replace genius. (in this search and replace a “_” indicates a space)

professor AT cs DOT BSU DOT edu

Find: _AT_
Replace with: @

Find: _DOT_
Replace with: .

Now, you have - professor@cs.bsu.edu

I win.

Yes, this is as boring and tedious as it sounds. You are probably even bored reading about it.

Here is the only even remotely interesting discovery of my day:
Assistant Professor Ju (Byron) Gao

When looking for computer science professors—or through my prep-school yearbook—it is not uncommon to see someone with an Asian (usually tonal, like Korean or Chinese) name and an American name. That isn't odd to me. What is odd to me is Bryon.

Here is how I imagine the naming-our-baby conversation to have gone between dear Byron's parents:

Mrs. Gao - Dear! Look at our new baby!
Mr. Gao - Yes! Finally, he has arrived! What a handsome boy.
Mrs. Gao - Really? I think he has your mother's nose.
Mr. Gao - You are always cracking wise about my mother's nose!
Mrs. Gao - Well, have you seen it?!? It looks like an unpeeled lychee fruit!
Mr. Gao - Haha! Yes. What an incredibly humorous and ethnically appropriate joke to make! Her nose IS both round and red! Hahahaha! Do not worry; our son will grow into his nose.
Mrs. Gao - ...perhaps.
Mr. Gao - Let us hope.
Mrs. Gao - Yes.
(long pause)
Mrs. Gao - Let us name our son Ju!
Mr. Gao - After your fat uncle?
(another long pause)
Mr. Gao - Fine. But we must give him an American name also. One that his American friends will be familiar with.
Mrs. Gao - Yes. Yes. So that he does not get the plum sauce kicked out of him at school.
Mr. Gao - Yes! Hahaha! What another wonderful, Asian joke you have made, my dear. Let us call him Byron.
Mrs. Gao - Perfect! What a delightfully American name! Surely now, he will grow up to play football.
Mr. Gao - Yes. He will play football and get constant sex from loose, American girls.
Mrs. Gao - We can only hope!
Mr. and Mrs. Gao - (lovingly and with pride) Byyyyron!


Seriously? What. The. Hell. Ju is a nice, simple, one-syllable name that most American kids—even the dumb ones—can pronounce. It's not like his Chinese name was Xiaohui or Xuerong. You know he didn’t pick his own American name, ‘cause no five-year-old picks Byron. If Ju had picked his own name, he would have been “Steve” or “John” or—at worst— Gannendorf, Superman, or Astronaut Von PowerPants. But Ju didn’t pick his own name; his parents gave him an American name, and out of all the American names in the world, they picked BYRON. Maybe they did it on purpose. Maybe they wanted their child to focus on his studies, so they gave him a name they knew was guaranteed to keep him from ever getting laid... ever. Ever.

Well, congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Gao, little Byron grew up to be a Computer Science professor. Looks like your plan worked.

My Giant Watch: Wrist Health vs. The Ability to Annoy

My comedically-oversized and absurdly diamonique-encrusted Obama watch is so girthy and stiff—yes, I chose those words on purpose—that it is effectively splinting my wrist. This makes me look like either British royalty or a three-year-old child every time I try to wave at someone. It also makes it difficult to type, lift things, or generally move. Yes, the watch is quickly ruining my life, but I suck it up so I may continue to experience the fun of constantly forcing people to ask me what time it is.

My response, "Aaaah, let me see. Oh that's right, it's TIME FO' CHANGE!!!"

(Dramatically points to watch.)

**BLING!**

Dear Religious Racists, You Are the Nerdiest of Nerds: An Argument in Two Parts

Part One: believing in the bible is like playing D&D all the time.

As a fundamentalist Christian, you take the Bible literally. You literally believe that Hell is literally a place that—if you literally break certain literal rules—you will literally go when you literally die. Sinners will literally be sent to another dimension. Where else is Hell located if not another dimension? You are no longer visible in the three dimensions we can see. Also, you supposedly go downwards to get to Hell which—in this dimension of this reality—just puts you in a bunch of molten iron. You believe in this “Hell” dimension knowing full well that more than half of the other people in the world don’t believe in it. You insist that everyone is the playing this “Hell” game—even those who have called “I’m not playing"—even the millions who have never even heard of the rules of the game. You believe that an omnipotent power (no more “benevolent” than Q from Start Trek: The Next Generation) is going to send millions of people to another dimension to suffer eternal misery for breaking rules they didn’t know existed to begin with. Your game is actually less well-thought-out and reasonable than the average RPG. You are living your life in a giant LARPing game of D&D, pretending everyone else is playing even when they aren’t, and taking your orders from the Salvation-master’s guide. Have a D20, you freak. Every game is different! Your DM may be your pastor, your priest, or even your favorite talk-radio host! Talk to him about Guide interpretation issues.

Part Two: using the bible to justify racism is like that extra-annoying kid who keeps making up his own rules


Now that you know you are playing a game, let’s talk about fair play. You can’t change the rules, and you can’t make up your own. The game book states the rules, your DM interprets the rules, and you play the game.


Here are two fun, topical examples of things addressed in the rules of your Dungeon Master’s Guide—the bible.


Example #1: John McCain – someone who DID violate the rules of the game.

John McCain has had two wives. 2! The first one was a divorcée and pretty swimsuit model… until she got in an accident and her legs were disfigured and she gained weight. Then, she sure as heck wasn’t a swimsuit model anymore. So, after having extra-marital affairs, John McCain divorced her to marry the 24-year-old daughter of James Willis "Jim" Hensley, the wealthy founder of Hensley & Co.

What rule of the Dungeon Master’s Guide did this person break? Well, goodness me, that would be Mathhews 5:32, “But I say to you that everyone who divorces his wife, except on the ground of sexual immorality, makes her commit adultery and whoever marries a divorced woman commits adultery.”

Also, whoever actually commits adultery commits adultery. Am I right? Right? Eh?

Depending on your DM, John McCain violated up to three rules of your game right there!


Example #2: Barack Obama/Barack Obama’s parents – people who DID NOT violate the rules of the game.

Barack Obama is bi-racial. His dad was African and his mom was white American.

What rule of the Dungeon Master’s Guide did these people break? NONE. Turns out, the bible doesn’t say anything about racial purity. It just doesn’t. Hebrews fuck Egyptians, Abraham begets with his slave girl, and all sorts of tribes intermarry. About the only anthropomorphic thing you can’t “know” is an angel. Sorry, but your game permits for the creation of as many Barack Obamas as you want.


Every board game—and certainly every D&D game—has “that kid.” He is the nerdiest of nerds.

“I get a super-hot girlfriend ‘cause my charisma points are so high, and she gets an extra roll for me, and if a troll tries to attack me, I can just feed it my hot girlfriend and get another.”

Don’t be that kid, racist fundamentalist. Don’t make up fake rules just ‘cause you don’t like the fact that you keep losing. Everyone hates that kid.

Closing Statement:

Believing in the bible is as geeky and ridiculous as LARPing D&D all day, every day
+ the bible is the Dungeon Master’s Guide in the D&D game of Christianity
+ using the bible to justify racism is making up rules that don't exist
+ the guy who makes up rules is “that kid”
+"that kid" is the nerdiest of nerds
=> a fundamentalist racist is nerdiest of nerds—so annoying that even the other D&D geeks hate him

Q.E.D.

Psuedo-Celebrities: A Meta-Blog Suckhole

I have discovered the world of pseudo-celebrity blogs.

Celebrity blogs are both harmless and boring. I have peeked at one or two and found that they could easily be—and probably are—written by a PA, publicist, or intern. They consist of updates of the celebrity’s professional goings on (aka free advertising) spiced up with a comment or two about how enthusiastic they are about the those goings on. Occasionally, the celebrity will feel a sudden, overwhelming obligation to use his or her fame for a cause and will throw in a blurb asking the fans to donate to a cancer charity or school supply drive. If you are especially lucky, you may find a five sentence lecture on the importance of voting.

Psuedo-celebrity blogs, on the other hand, are both dangerous and interesting. These entertainers have small, obsessive fan bases acquired from appearances in anything with a cult-like following. Been in an episode of Dr. Who, Battlestar Galactica, or anything by Joss Whedon or JJ Abrahams? Are you a former Kid in the Hall that was never put on a show on NBC? UCB that isn’t Amy Poehler? The State that was never part of a Comedy Central series? Have you ever voiced anything on Cartoon Network? Are you a standup comedian who has never been offered a pilot and has more YouTube hits per day than actual audience members? Do you know real famous people, work just enough to be cooler and more successful than your fans, and have a sense of humor about how you are not a real celebrity? Do you actually know things about politics? Are you a little bit of a fanboy/girl yourself? Then congratulations! You are the perfect pseudo-celebrity to start a blog. You can only benefit from nerds obsessing over an imagined internet connection with you. They will drop your name to show off the extent of their knowledge of the pseudo-obscure. They will talk with each other about how cool and down to earth you are. They will repeat your opinions to people as if they were their own. You will become their MySpace status and their Facebook favorite quote until one day—if you are lucky—references to you will sprout into a full grown meme… and not even the kind that drips with sarcasm and irony.

Yes, these blogs are tempting. Because these pseudo-celebrities actually have free time on their hands to search YouTube and look at the political blogs and check Twitter, these sites are amusing, educational, and frequently updated. You will be cooler and more interesting to your friends for knowing the information on these blogs.

But beware! Do not replace your real-world friends with doubly fake ones!

Way in which a pseudo-celebrity is not your real friend #1 -> the only contact you will have with them is online. No matter how many times you comment, she will never go out for a beer with you.

Way in which a psuedo-celebrity is not your real friend #2 -> he may respond to your posts from time to time, but your pseudo-celebrity blogger will not have any idea who you are, will probably never read your blog, and will certainly have no interest in you outside of your interest in him.

My current pseudo-celebrity blog interests are ones I have stolen from friends: John Hodgman and James Urbaniak. They are only the beginning. I will keep you informed of where I go from here.

Break Away Pants: A Lie

Ya know, “break away pants” is really a misnomer. They should be called “unsnap away pants” or “unvelcro away pants.” In fact, most pants are “break away pants” in that if you try to remove them by pulling them off, they will rip and be broken. But "break away pants" are specifically designed not to break. The pants we call “break away pants” are actually “non-break-when-they-away pants.” I should write a letter... but I just blogged about it, and that's pretty much, sort of, almost, close to, in the ballpark of just as good.

Search and Replace 2: Cats into Gremlins

Time for another search and replace! This marketing copy was originally about the feline fancier’s dream book—Cats Among the Cedars:

Humorous and heartwarming, this moving narrative tells the tale of Olivia Meynell, a successful wife and career woman whose world is brightened and mind is enlightened by cats. Dismissing the predictions of an unsolicited tarot card reading as nonsense, Olivia is to recall them two years later, when the first of the prophesized procession of cats invades her life. Other changes follow — some of them traumatic — and in her mid-forties she gives up her highly paid job and her London mews house for a cottage in the idyllic setting of her native Lake District. This entertaining and affecting account is sure to strike a chord with all cat lovers.

Find: Olivia
Replace With: Billy

Find: Meynell
Replace with: Peltzer

Find: wife
Replace with: student

Find: career woman
Replace with: bank worker

Find: cat
Replace with: gremlins voiced by Howie Mandel

Find: an unsolicited tarot card reading
Replace with: Mr. Wing

Find: year
Replace with: week

Find: her mid-forties
Replace with: Gremlins 2: The New Batch

Find: highly paid
Replace with: bank

Find: London Mews
Replace with: Kingston Falls

Find: cottage
Replace with: Clamp Enterprises

Find: idyllic
Replace with: corporate

Find: native Lake District
Replace with: New York City

Find: he
Replace with: she

Find: her
Replace with: his



New and improved, this copy is now about Joe Dante’s 1990 horromedy classic—Gremlins 2:

Humorous and heartwarming, this moving narrative tells the tale of Billy Peltzer, a successful student and bank worker whose world is brightened and mind is enlightened by gremlins voiced by Howie Mandel. Dismissing the predictions of Mr. Wing as nonsense, Billy is to recall them two weeks later, when the first of the prophesized procession of gremlins voiced by Howie Mandel invades his life. Other changes follow — some of them traumatic — and in Gremlins 2: The New Batch he gives up his bank job and his Kingston Falls house for Clamp Enterprises in the corporate setting of New York City. This entertaining and affecting account is sure to strike a chord with all gremlins voiced by Howie Mandel lovers.

My RedEye Obituary: A Study of My Online Self

This morning’s RedEye articles about Jennifer Hudson’s nephew really did move me—especially the bit in 'A Family’s Horror' in which they discuss the elderly couple that called the police when the white SUV described on the news was identified by their yipping Chihuahua, L’il Man. Oh yeah, I was still with the article—feeling the pain, touched deeply—even as they described the heroics of a stupidly-named purse dog. I was almost in tears by the time they quoted the old lady who dialed 911 in the following passage:

“’The first thing I thought,’ she said, ‘was ‘Lord, don’t let the baby be in there.’’”
But he was.”

But he was. That got me. I was ready skip my stop, stay on my red line train, ride straight though downtown and continue south on a mission to go add to the—I am sure rain-drenched and soggy—pile of stuffed animals outside the Hudson home.

Then, this happened:

“Jilian King, who went by ‘Juicebox’ and ‘Dr. King’ comes across as an adored little boy, hamming it up, on the MySpace pages of his mother Julia Hudson.”

“On the MySpace page site of his famous aunt, Jennifer Hudson, the actress describes her mother and nephew as inseparable underneath one photo…”

“William Balfour… declared himself a ‘proud parent’ on MySpace and decorated his page with photos of a smiling Julian King. The boy also is mentioned in a seven-line autobiography Balfour wrote for the social networking site.”

All three of those quotes are from page seven of today’s RedEye and are Chicago Tribune articles. That’s right; all three of those quotes are FROM THE SAME PAGE and all involve MySpace. Now, what I am taking from my morning commute’s paper reading is not a message about responsibility to your fellow man or the prolificacy and pervasiveness of domestic violence.

What I am taking from my commute is, “Since when is MySpace a legitimate research tool for journalists?!?!?!?” Seriously? What. The. Hell. These people aren’t famous, and you need pictures and details about them ASAP. So, when interviews with friends and family don’t turn up enough blurbs, you fill it in with MySpace? And you admit it? I would at least find a way to disguise it, “Sources say that Balfour described himself publicly as a ‘proud parent.’”

This is when I thought to myself, “Oh God! Please, please, please, please don’t let anyone shoot me in the head and leave me in an SUV.” Why did I think that? Well, here is my best estimate of how a Tribune article upon my death would read:

“Anneliese’s facebook page portrays her as childlike-in-mind and borderline mentally deficient. Obviously afflicted with severe learning disabilities, Anneliese had touchingly innocent interests. Her favorite book was I am a Manatee by John Lithgow, her favorite TV show the animated children’s program The Tick, and her favorite song the Teenage-Mutant-Ninja-Turtles-themed hip-hop epic, ‘Turtle Power’. Her pictures and quotes indicate that she loved Darkwing Duck, dinosaurs, snowmen, lobsters, and ball pits and was finally learning to count with help from Lex Luthor. According to MySpace, she had always dreamed of meeting an Oompa Loompa. Only a true monster could willfully target a creature so simple for such astoundingly gruesome violence.”

Mini Marshmallows: A Hot Chocolate Examination

In addition to delicious teas, my office offers packets of hot chocolate WITH marshmallows. I prefer mallows to no mallows. I think everyone does. I have yet to meet a person who is like, “Mallows?!?!?! In hot chocolate?!?!? You might as well put olives in your ice cream! You might as well put poo in your burrito!” I have but one complaint about mini-mallows: they dissolve in hot water! I mean, I enjoy sweet mallow foam floating atop my cocoa as much as the next person, but I prefer the taste of bitsy crunch-mallow. It’s like all the best parts of Lucky Charms without any of the stupid cereal part… aaaand it comes in chocolate!

I have three options:

1) Accept things the way they are and drink hot cocoa that may as well have come with NO MALLOWS AT ALL.
2) Microwave my water instead of using the insta-hot on the water cooler so the temperature does not rise to mallow melting levels.
3) Pick all the mallows out and save them in the packet until my hot chocolate cools down enough not to kill my mallow enjoyment.

I have no idea which of these options will make me the least grumpy. I will try them each one-by-one and pay close attention to shifts in my mood. You will have the results as soon as I do.

Awkward Urination: A Tea Drinker's Dillema

This morning, I have consumed upwards of three full cups of Twinnings. Thank you to my office for providing me with free tea.

Here is the problem with the gratis Earl Grey:
I am totally going to need to use the restroom within the next hour. I am absolutely sure of it.

Here is why that is a problem:
I already went in the bathroom for, like, half an hour this morning to take a classy floor nap. I was nodding off at my computer and didn’t want to get busted, so I chugged some caffeine (hence the tons o’ Twinnings) and using my scarf as a blanket, propped myself between the sink and the wall to sleep — surprisingly comfortably — until the caffeine kicked in.

If I go again, it’s going to be like this episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm that I watched the other day. It involved Tia Carrera, Larry’s bathroom habits, and awkwardness. Everyone in my office is now Tia Carrera, and they are all about to think I have a digestive disorder.

Awesome.

I’m gonna go the bathroom now.

The Final Countdown: Why I Am Better Than Other People

Every friday — just before 5pm — someone on my floor changes the classical music to The Final Countdown.

I don't know which is worse: that I only get 80's rock once a week, or that the person who does it probably thinks that they are incredibly clever and original.

My Filing Cabinet: The Origins of a War

Some lady from the second floor just came and looked in my filing cabinet. When she saw that I was only using it for personal effects, she took it to give to her assistant. Apparently, in the card game she made up called Office Bullshit, assistant trumps intern.

Little does she know, she has started an interdepartmental rumble. This will only end in tears… and dancing… probably both at the same time.

The Onion: A Place of Special Chocolate Magic

I forgot lunch today — for the first time, I might add — and went wandering for food. Just as I was walking past the Chicago office of The Onion, there was a breeze, and the air filled with the smell of chocolate. I have now declared that spot the best spot in the world. Somebody later told me that the smell is coming from a chocolate factory somewhere in the West Loop. I prefer to think of it as the result of special magic that happens when you stand in front of The Onion.

Search and Replace 1: Jesus into Candyland

Below: a recent e-mail conversation

E-mail #1: Me to, like, 10 people

So, I am supposed to be writing the marketing copy for the book Simple Understanding. Here is the text I have been given on this book and am supposed to shape into something we can use:

This is a very personal study of the Christian faith. K.P Sookdeocalls on many of his own life experiences as he looks at the wayChristianity works in modern life. He also considers the variety ofways in which humanity is prone to being led astray from the path of God. The author covers a wide range of aspects of life, includinglove, wisdom, home life and the way we appear to others, the life of Jesus, Christmas, the behaviour of church leaders, and Heaven and Hell, among others. K.P. Sookdeo relates the issues that he discussesto the Bible, both as general references and specific biblical verses. He encourages further close study of the Bible as a means of truly understanding the word of God and the ways in which we should live outlives in keeping with the Christian faith. The author has words ofwarning, however, for those who reject this faith, or who claim to espouse it while living lives of sin.

Shaping that into marketing copy bores me. This book bores me. Jesus pretty much bores me. So, after copy and pasting that text into Wordso I can edit it, I decided to make it better. I like Candy Land. So, for me better = Candy Land.

To make the necissary improvements, I ran the following search and replace functions:

Find: Christ
Replace with: Candy Land

Find: Jesus
Replace with: Candy Land

Find: God
Replace with: Gramma Nut

Find: K.P. Sookdeo
Replace with: Queen Frostine

Find: bible
Replace with: HasbroGames

Find: Heaven
Replace with: Sugar

Find: Hell
Replace with: Spice

Find: church
Replace with: Gum Drop Mountain

Find: sin
Replace with: Gloppy the Molasses Monster

Find: faith
Replace with: Markov chain (which is the mathmatical term for the wayin which outcomes are determined in Candyland: future states arereached through a probabilistic process instead of a deterministic one)

Then, I changed some pronouns that didn't work and now...
this is the new book:

This is a very personal study of the Candy Landian Markov chain. Queen Frostine calls on many of her own life experiences as she looks at the way Candy Landianity works in modern life. She also considers the variety of ways in which humanity is prone to being led astray from the path of Gramma Nut. The author covers a wide range of aspects of life, including love, wisdom, home life and the way we appear to others, the life of Candy Land, Candy Landmas, the behavior of Gum Drop Mountain leaders, and Sugar and Spice, among others. Queen Frostine relates the issues that she discusses to HasbroGames, both as general references and specific HasbroGamesical verses. She encourages further close study of the HasbroGames as a means of truly understanding the word of Gramma Nut and the ways in which we should live out lives in keeping with the Candy Landian Markov chain. The author has words of warning, however, for those who reject this Markov chain, or who claim to espouse it while living lives with Gloppy the Molasses Monster .

I. WANT. THIS. BOOK.

The end.

E-mail #2: Tim to me

I think it's pretty safe to say you've outdone the book itself. Saving Gloppy the Molasses Monster for the end was a master stroke. He really underscores the slow quagmire of sin that it's so easy to get glopped up in. A didactic tale for all of us.

It bothers me that they changed Gloppy to a chocolate monster in the newer one. As a child I always thought his being an archaic candy was a large part of why he traps you in his swamps and keeps you there. Unmoving, unchanging, like his stubborn refusal to accept modern taste in candy. You just sit there, sticky, while the world passes you by. It's good that he gets company though, however transient.




E-mail #3: Me to Tim

I refuse to accept the new names. Queen Frostine rhymes. Princess Frostine doesn’t. Why did she get demoted? Why did they make her all hot and lithe and ice-skatey? Princess Frostine is a gussied-up little strumpett with a dinky little wand. Queen Frostine had a substantial staff and a parachute of a skirt and, most of all, some self respect! Why make her less powerful both physically and phonetically?

I also agree on Gloppy. I had never thought about the sadness of a monster based on an archaic candy. Now I am picturing the old lady on the street who puts hours into making molasses pops to distribute for Halloween and proudly displays them to trick or treaters only to find that, not only do the children not want and not recognize her confection, but the parents won’t let the kids take them because they aren’t pre-wrapped. That old lady had a patron saint in Gloppy that is now lost.

My main complaint was that a chocolate swamp doesn’t instill fear. Chocolate is not sticky and it does not hold you in one place. You can wade waist deep through Hershey’s syrup with no consequences beyond the stains. In fact, I kind of want to; it sounds fun and delicious. Fall into molasses, and you are fucked. You might even die. There is no surface tension, nothing to keep you up. You just disappear forever with a quiet, “ploop.” Molasses should replace quicksand in all movies. The only person who can’t handle a good chocolate dip is Augustus Gloop.