What the Hell Happened to Everyone?

I take one bloody vacation and this place goes to pot. The last post was the 18th? What happened?

My own circumstances were a trip to the in-laws and an insufferably slow Internet connection. My father-in-law needs Broadband like The U.S. World Cup team needed Ronaldinho this week, which is to say, desperately. His current ISP should rename their company to "Treacle" or "Only vaguely associated with a real Internet Service Provider." The connection comes in a a measley 44.2 KBps and even then, you can see the little packet-carrying hamsters scurrying down the modem connection.

All right, it's time to whip things back into shape around here. Stew needs to get his own ISP house in order. His current ISP is the US Postal Service, to give you some idea of his situation. If he wasn't hooked up to a massive intravenous tube system at the new Starbucks in his neighborhood (more on that in an upcoming post) he'd only be near the Internet when drove past the local Best Buy.

I did see Stew and Chico y Jose this week at the links, where they both trounced me into the ground, the lousy birdie-making, massive-drive smashing, putt-draining, green-hitting bastards. Stew hit one drive that was so powerful, I later heard that NASA briefly tracked it over the Sea of Japan, where it scared the hell out of Kim-Dong-Ill or whatever the lousy crapsack dictator is named there. (The news reports say that he is referred to as the "Beloved Leader" but what they don't mention is that the words "Beloved Leader" in English mean "Pustulent Offal in a Nasty Jumpsuit.") It wound up a mere 315 yards from the teebox, but I'm fairly certain that it landed there after coming back around from the orbit he put it into. He has a whole demo club system that is keeping his driving average around 290 yds. and making me generally feel like a Keebler elf on the golf course.

And, yes, I am completely grumpy and bitter about the U.S. being knocked out of the World Cup in the first round and I'll have a hell of a lot to write about that. I promise to delete almost all of the expletives. At least England is still alive. Rule Britannia!!!

Back to work!!! (Cracks WWWhip!)

Five Times the Mark Northover

Okay, I've been dancing around this issue for a while now, and it's time I deal with it head on. The issue is none other than Mark Northover. Yes, Mark Northover! His name keeps coming up in my posts because he shines like a beacon of light in the midst of a sea of idiots. I am currently writing a screenplay which I hope Mark Northover will be graceful enough to read, followed by a willingness to star in the movie based on said screenplay.

"But wait, WAIT," you scream, "just who exactly is Mark Northover?" Is he your mom? He might be. I can't prove otherwise. Other than potentially being your mom, he is also an actor...no, not just an actor. That word couldn't possibly begin describe Mark Northover. He is a genius! No, not even genius is enough. Mark Northover is five times the actor and five times the genius of any man who has ever lived. I will have to invent a word to describe him.

From five times we'll take the "fiv." From genius we'll take the "ius." From actor we'll take the "tor." Put them together and we get the only word which can possibly describe Mark Northover: Torfivius! TORFIVIUS! That is what he is! He is the most torfivius man I've ever know, heard about, contemplated or scraped mildew off a wall while muttering the name thereof.

Anyway, this torfivius Mark Northover will hopefully read my screenplay as soon as I finish it. Here is what I have already written.

The Adventures of Jakob Tamponmanufacturer in the Wild West

by

Nuffy Noe

INT. SALOON -- DAY

Jakob Tamponmanufacturer tosses back a fifth of Jack Daniels and smashes the shot glass violently upon the bar. Evil-Face McParkingmeter turns to him with a fiendish sneer.

Evil Face -- Have you come to stop me in my wasteful schemes, Goody One Shoes?

Jakob -- I have come to take back the gold you stole from the orphanage's treasure vault, if that's what you mean.

Evil Face -- I don't see how you'll do that with a silly last name like Tamponmanufacturer.

Jakob -- By using my specially designed silver Colt .43!

Jakob draws him gun and shoots the mud right out of Evil-Face McParkingmeter's left-most lung.

Evil Face -- Argh, good triumphs once again! The gold is hidden in the old haunted, abandoned Gunthentooty Mine! The number to the safe is 0123456789.

Evil Face dies.

Jakob -- I never really wanted the gold. I just wanted to shoot the mud out of your left-most lung, your scurvy alley-creeping meat piece.

Jakob tosses back a seventh of Jack Feniel's Sour Mash Kentucky Dry-Roast Whiskey. The World Explodes.

Anyway, that's all I've written thus far, but it's a work in progress, and our torfivious friend, Mark Northover, is bound to love it, yes, to love it the way a rhinoceros loves a fried carrot.