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Tresckow - Adel- Roode
-Ren-


Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Pandora's Pizza Box: Pizza Massacre of '09

By Adel

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me in three dimensional reality that I am not “domesticated” in any way, shape, or form. If being a mother required more than getting knocked up and taking amazing drugs during labor, I would have just bought a kid. Or a dog. I probably would have bought a dog. You can lock those guys in the house or in the back yard all day and child services won’t get all bent out of shape about it.

My original plans for daycare.

One thing I found out relatively early on was that a kid has to be fed daily. Sometimes up to three times a bloody day. Apparently society frowns on just tossing food in a bowl with your child’s name embossed on the outside. Society insists that your child be feed regularly and from human serving ware. When did this get so buggery complicated? Don’t get me started on the whole diaper thing. Letting your child crawl around your back yard and encouraging him to drop his eye watering baby scat wherever he happens to be is a touchy subject.


Fine. I can adjust. I’ll deal. I made an agreement with my son as soon as he was able to consume solids; Mommy doesn’t cook. Mommy can re-heat, warm up, microwave, and order out. Cooking from scratch is completely unrealistic for someone with my skill set. I can research, I can write, I can teach, I cannot cook. It’s something passed down throughout the generations of women in my family. Some genetic traits relate to being good with electronics, public speaking, or artistic capability. Not my family. The complete inability to cook, along with aesthetic perfection, is the dominant genetic trait in our womenfolk.

When you’re this hot, you don’t need to cook.

That having been said, I still decided to go against the very structure of my DNA and give it a go, anyway. My son, my wonderful, understanding, and oh so forgiving son was just about to have a birthday. He’s a toddler and is relatively easy to please. My boy is also far more realistic and practical than his mother. But, damn it, I wanted to pretend to be one of those mothers for his birthday. The kind to make a meal with actual ingredients instead of just piercing holes in the microwavable package and pressing “start.” This was my son’s birthday, damn it! I will do this! Failure is not a bloody option!

Sort of a culinary kamikaze mission.

I began to plan. The palettes of most children make for easy meals. The odds that a child will fancy gently seared tilapia with a white wine sauce and a hint of a truffle reduction are pretty remote. More often than not, the kid will want something that can be found on any children’s menu. My son has an affinity for pizza, as most children do. This will lay the foundation for his college years when his low rent apartment is littered with empty pizza boxes and mostly empty cans of Old Milwaukee. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

What mother wouldn’t be proud of this?

Pizza was a good idea. How hard could it be? When you get down to it, a pizza is just a large cracker with tomato sauce and cheese, right? After everything is thrown together, toss it into the oven and program it for bake, or something. I had a plan. This must be how those cheeky women on the Food Network feel on their shows. That’s right, Sandra Lee, I understand now. I’ve learned the importance of correct preparation and following directions. Sort of. To tell the truth, I’ve only really started watching “Semi Homemade with Sandra Lee", because I have a thing for well built blonds. Sue me.

Has my full attention.

Why else would I watch Kendra ? The subtext or riveting character development?
At least I'm honest.


I searched Google to find the best pizza recipe on the interwebs. When I say “best” I mean easy. When I say “easy” I mean basically bakes itself. Going to market for one of those frozen pizza deals was not an option. I didn’t want to cheat. I’m a mother, sod it! Every mother should make a homemade meal for her child at least once in her life. Then, afterward, never do so ever again.

I had a list of ingredients to purchase. I was even going to make the dough from scratch. You heard me. 100% of this birthday pizza was going to be authentic. In one fell swoop, I can outshine all my female ancestors by actually preparing an edible meal. The problem, I found, was the complete and utter lack of confidence my impending meal creation inspired.

One by one, those I care about shook their heads as if I told them I wanted to build my own nuclear power plant out of toothpicks, cupcakes, and a tampon machine. They all cited historic cooking attempts that may or may not have resulted in fiery anger. One smart ass pillock (that’s a British insult, in case you were wondering) gave me a fire extinguisher as a gift. Ha, bloody, ha.

Hilarious.

When it came down to it, not even my own flesh and blood held much hope for this endeavor. I proudly told my son that I was going to make him his favourite meal in the world for his birthday. His eyes got big upon hearing the news. I fully expected praise to be lavished upon mother by son. Instead my son and his inhumane sense of practicality hit me with a perfect storm of guilt and inadequacy. “Oh, Mommy, no.” he said in a tone more serious than most children his age would have used after just being informed of birthday surprise of this caliber. He reached out and touched my arm as if to say

Woman, my mother. Please do not undertake this challenge. We all know of your limits. Putting pan to burner is beyond them. Spare yourself the eventual feeling of ultimate failure and us from the inevitable wrath that will flow forth from you like spewing lava from an awakened volcano.”

Right, then. The world was against this. It was just me and my master plan. Everyone told Orville Wright he was crazy before he went out and invented his brother, Wilbur. They said the sound barrier could never be broken. It was. I will floor the naysayers by achieving my end goal, flawlessly. It’s no longer just a homemade pizza. It’s a symbol of second chances for shitty cooks everywhere. All that egotistical bollocks aside, ultimately, I want to do this for my son, whether he thought it was a good idea or not. I’m an awesome mother like that.


Think of this as my personal "Great Leap Forward."

I collected the necessary ingredients from the shop with relative ease. There was some confusion over the dough, however. Did you know that there is a plethora of different dough out there? I had no idea. Is there a difference? Where is the dough section? I figured it would be in the baking isle, but was sorely mistaken. Just cookies, brownies, and other shit that had nothing to do with what I was looking for.


I went to the bakery section in hopes that I could find dough there. Dough is bread, right? Well, it will be. It’s sort of like bread fetus, isn’t it? It’s not quite bread, but rather the stage before it becomes something you toast. Does that mean there is such a thing as bread abortion? Breadbortioin? What if someone decides they don’t want a loaf of bread after they have already kneaded the dough? That lump of dough would have been someone’s loaf of bread or bagel. Are there “right to risers” out there that fervently believe once a lump of dough is kneaded, it has the right to rise and become whatever pastry or strawberry jam vehicle it was intended to be. Where the bloody hell was I going with this?

May have never been.

After roughly twenty minutes of going from aisle to aisle at the store, I became visibly annoyed. Being a regular at this establishment (knowing I’m destructive if left to my own devices) an associate came over and straightened me out. Apparently, dough is in the freezer section. Who knew? I expressed my fear that there would be multiple steps involved with said dough. I was assured that it was completely ready for whatever I planned on throwing at it. I want to make my kid a pizza, but I’m not mad enough to make the dough from scratch. Not any more. I came to my senses.

Next thing I knew, I was setting my instruments of destruction up. One knife to cut the pepperoni? Check. Bags of shredded cheese? Check. Dough? You bet your ass, check. I unfolded the recipe and went headlong into it. Lord, there are a lot of directions here, aren’t there? Okay, knead and flatten dough. I have that covered. It’s rather fun beating the tar out of something that can’t fight back. I imagine this is how Joe Jackson felt, without all that mess down the road. I can beat the holy hell out of this dough and not have to worry about it posing for Playboy, exposing its misshapen breast during the Superbowl, or being accused of freely handing out “Jesus Juice” to kids in its bedroom.

Product of an abusive childhood.

My dogs and cat watched me from the doorway. They knew something was going down, but just weren’t sure what it was, yet. When it happened, they wanted to have front row seats. It’s like the extra sense animals have when a tornado is on the horizon. I guess, in this case, I was the tornado. Bloody animals.

"We know you're going to lose it, lady. It's just a matter of time."

Toss the dough? Really? I re-read the directions to make sure I wasn’t going daft. Yes, it says to toss the dough. Alright, I will. I’ve seen it done. You just throw it in the air and catch it, right? How hard can that possibly be?

Following the suggested method, I tossed the dough; over my head and straight into the kitchen sink. Shit! I debated whether or not I should just take the heap of sticky, mistreated dough out the sink and just dust it off. On second thought, I hear botulism is rather nasty. One probably shouldn’t pass along a foodborne illness to her child.

This was a test run. That’s what I told myself when I pitched the vexing lump of dough out the window. Unfortunately, I had forgotten I parked my car underneath. As if it had a mind of its own, the chunk of aborted pizza dough crash landed onto the windshield. Bloody bastard.

This will not help.

I then decided that cheating, without anyone knowing, isn't really cheating. I ran back to the market looking for answers. The same associate made a bee line towards me. It was almost as he expected me to come back, aggravated and defeated. He lead me straight away to a pre-made pizza crust. It was sort of like one of those pre-made pie crusts you buy when all you really want to do is pour filling into a shell. I bought three.

It's brilliant! You just take it out the bag and whop it onto the table.

I wasn't home for five minutes when I realized an important ingredient for pizza is tomato sauce. This time, I went to another grocer. I just couldn't bear to go back to the same one and reveal just how much of a culinary retard I truly am.

Finally. I have all the ingredients AND a pre-made pizza crust. I winged it, doing what I saw on television. Put the sauce on, cheese, peperoni. Thank Jesus. I stood there and looked upon my hard earned, fully prepared, pizza. The instructions told me to set the oven for 350 (or something like that) and throw it in. So I did.


Funny thing about baking; the oven actually needs to be pre-heated. So, essentially, for the amount of time allotted for a successful pizza to be properly baked, one should really make sure the oven is ready to go. Not, I. I had no idea what that little red light was. It said "pre-heat." Logically, I assumed that meant the oven was sufficiently heated. No. It apparently doesn't work that way.

Shit.

It was stone cold. I opened the oven door at exactly the halfway point to check it. The bloody cheese was just starting to melt. What the bloody blue hell? I re-read the instructions. Pre-heat? Yeah, the light was on. It was pre-heated. Right? Ah, fuck!

How the hell was I supposed to know the oven wasn't the proper temperature until the pre-heat light went OFF? That's ridiculous. I don't need a bloody light to tell me something is happening. I need it when that something is DONE. My fuel light isn't constantly on to tell me I have enough petrol. It blinks on when I need to fill the tank. An action is needed and a light flashes to alert me. Tosser.

I only want to see a light when the shit hits the fan- NOT when everything is hunky dory.

By this time my significant other and son came home. the boyfriend came into the kitchen just as I was about to throw the mutinous pizza out the window (completely forgetting about the consequences of doing something similar a few hours before). He quickly explained the logic behind the pre-heat light and talked me down from the proverbial ledge. The boy came in to give me a cheerful "Hello." I had to fake it. I couldn't let on that his mother was incapable of making one pizza in five hours. I know for sure it would come up in one of his future therapy sessions.

"I guess it all started when my mother tried to make me a pizza..."

This time I waited for the bloody pre-heat light to go OFF. Fucker. The kitchen looked like the aftermath of the Battle of Pusan Perimeter. Open plastic packages and remnants of dough were everywhere. Then, the most beautiful sound in the world echoed in the air. The little oven ding telling me that it was over. It was finished. The battle had ceased. Despite friendly suggestions like "Sweet Jesus! It's time to order Domino's" I triumphed. I proved I was better than a circular piece of dough with tomato sauce and cheese.

You smug bastard.

My son didn't get ill and actually liked the hard won pizza creation. I gave him a birthday hug and told him that, next year, he was getting cash.


That's right. One of these every year if I never have to make anything again.







Tuesday, July 21, 2009

4 Pieces of Tech That Mean Nothing to Gen Y

Every now and then (that is to say, never) the FWTC will have a guest writer to contribute "witty" commentary. This isn't one of those times. Basically, Roode and I have had the shit bugged out of us by Adel to give a this little bratty upstart an audition. Roode immediately gave her the finger and said "We don't need any more testicle-less columnists. One is enough." I was of like mind, until Adel bribed me with a commemorative Billy Mays shirt. So, without further ado, we yield the floor to Ren and her article about tampons or some shit.
-Tresckow

*********
By, Ren

I've never been good at figuring out who is what generation and why. Society gives these cute nicknames for each successive social generation that follows the old, out of date one. Specifically, I'm referring to Generation X and Generation Y. I'm a member of the latter and enjoy making fun of our predecessors. You Gen Xers get so irritated with us for "not having it as rough" as you had it as kids. Or, "taking the cushy techno lifestyle that "you" built for granted. What does that even mean? Did you have to walk to school, in the snow, uphill, both ways? Um, no. It means the internet was still a plot point on Next Gen and "LOL" didn't mean shit.

An outright mystery to the 1980's. Is it a code? A message?
The name of a new Buck Rodgers character?

Look, Gen X, we can't help that you only had the primordial ooze of what exists today. We grew up with Windows, cruise control in every car, power windows, digital everything, and air conditioning as far as the eye can see. The very idea that Gen Y has little knowledge of or respect for the technological "innovations" that set the stage for the information age seems to piss many of you off. When it comes down to it, the 80's might as well be the Dark Ages to us. We really don't give a shit about....

1. Audio Cassettes
I found one, once. It was dusty and warped. It was sort of like finding an arrowhead. Sure, it's completely useless compared to today's technology, but it was the best you could do waaaay back then.

I don't get it. What's the brownish stuff in that little window thingy?

I know this was a great the great leap forward in audio technology. God knows you spent enough time and money advertising these things as the second coming of audio Jesus.


All this for a mini reel to reel player?

It was crap. You know it and I know it. Come on, the previous piece of audio genius was the 8 Track. I don't even know what the hell that was. Sure, I've see vinyl albums being tossed around as collectors' items. But, I'm not really noticing a lot of 8 Tracks, let alone twenty year old Maxell cassettes flying off the shelves at antique stores the world over. Why would that be? Oh, that's right; for the same reasons we don't cherish used diapers and heavily stained jock straps.

Not being stocked in an antique store near you.
Festive on the outside, chocolate brown and lemonade yellow in the inside.


My brother had a Walkman. He loved that thing; it went with him everywhere he went. But, it was the devil's box. Tapes jammed, the controls were cumbersome, and the contraption was roughly the size of semi thick Sodoku book. Except much bulkier. We had to have an intervention for him a few years back. Tears were shed. Harsh words spat at each other. My brother was killing himself with a destructive addiction. He was hopelessly hooked on searching for, then purchasing new Walkmen; which were getting harder and harder to find. Whenever a new ablum came out, he would spend hours and sometimes days to find the cassette version of it. This was two years ago.

I'm sorry, Tom. Cassettes are only useful if you're making cheap table lamps.

Why it matters to Gen X:
They were portable, easy to come by, and you could record random songs from your favorite top 40's station. Let's not forget the sentimental value finding your old PM Dawn tape brings.

Why Gen Y couldn't care less:
MP3s, IPods, and other digital technology that don't require an occasional re-spooling with an eraser from a #2 pencil. We even use CDs as coasters now.

2. Nintendo Entertainment System

The original NES was like the discovery of fire to Gen x. Until that point there was Pong. It must have been awesome to have more than two lines and a square "ball" on the screen. Finally, you could play a game in color with "realistic" sounds. Beep, boop, and whup whup whup are realistic sounds, right?


It's catchy. I'll give you that.


This gray box of joy was on the gift list of every child. From what I hear, you might as well have hanged yourself if you didn't find this thing under your Christmas tree or um, Hanukkah bush. I guess the amazing duo of Super Mario Brothers and Duck Hunt were the equivalent of having a double orgasm.

Got a cigarette?

I've seen this plastic paperweight on ebay. The price varies, depending on how desperate the buyer is to relive his childhood. Some sell for as low as .99. Others, at the more ridiculous cost of $300+. For that amount you could buy a brand new WII and have enough money left over for a DVD of cable rated porn.

Not strong on plot, but excellent visual effects.

Why it matters to Gen X:
This brings back the proverbial "shit load" of childhood memories. This was history in the making. It was about time primitive gamers could vicariously live through a short, fat, mustachioed Italian stereotype. This was "real" gaming. There was no online competition (primarily because the www was considered a stutter, then). Who cares if Linx's key looks like a yellow penis? It was all about the game. It was about SKILL! Well, that's until Game Genie came out and every mouth breather was a gaming superstar.

Pictured: The downfall of skill.

Why Gen Y couldn't care less:
WII, XBox, online FPS, and so on and so on.... Don't wax all philosophical about the carefree days of Super Mario Brothers. We can play it on WII and it still sucks. Even Mario has abandoned Super Mario Brothers. He spends his time racing his fellow multicolored goons for money and blood. Mario Kart is a little like Death Proof, only not.

God, I wish. I really, really wish.

3. Cordless Phones
Now, why would I rail against something we still use today? Hell, I'm within walking distance of one right now. How is it possible that Gen Y couldn't give a coyote shit about something we still hold dear?

We understand that the advent of cordless phones was liberating. No longer were people tethered to their button studded oppressor.

Shackles of
communication
oppression







Society's telephone
Independence Day.


The first cordless phones, not unlike the first cell phones, were pretty big. Carrying one was like walking around with a field radio in Vietnam. In order to get shitty reception, you had to fully extend the antenna. For the best reception, you pretty much had to stand next to the primary antenna. So, really, the maximum distance most of the early cordless phones was roughly three feet from its base.

Illusion of freedom.

The technology got a lot better and, suddenly, everyone had a cordless phone. Those who had a telephone line capable of touch tone dialing, that is. Today, the cordless is as standard as a fridge with ice maker and an indoor toilet (does not apply to Utah).

Why it matters to Gen X:
It was that technological innovation that allowed teenagers all over the world to to have phone sex without the phone cord leading right to your hideout. It would take your parents longer to track you down, at least. Of course, due to the whole shitty reception thing, you still had to stay relatively close to the base. That could make for awkward dinner conversation if it was in the kitchen. Also, from what I hear, the telescoping antenna made for some pretty good fencing.

Why Gen Y couldn't care less:
As far as we're concerned, this shit has always been around. We've even taken it a step further and applied the same technology to cell phones. We can have phone sex ANYWHERE now! That, and with all the features modern cells bring (text, web, cameras you can use to take pics of someone on the toilet) house phones are pretty much for decoration now. Can a cordless house phone play a Miley Cyrus song or a homoerotic sound byte from "Twilight?' Didn't think so.

4: VCR's
Now this was the pinnacle of Gen X's technological achievements. Yes, I'm including the Apple IIe and DOS.

A paperweight? Door stop? Blunt instrument? WTF is this?


No longer was society a slave to the MAN's schedule. Is Night Court airing at 9? Damn it! You're going to be out shopping for the perfect tee shirt to wear underneath that nifty pastel suit and loafers you can wear without socks. Not to fear! VCR is here!

Superhero!

I'm not going to get into the Beta versus VHS debate. Quite frankly, if you backed the wrong horse on that one, it's your own fault. No, despite the type (for a while, at least) you could watch your favorite episodes of Falcon Crest on YOUR TERMS. As long as you knew how to program the damn thing. Why the hell is the clock still blinking 12:00? Shit, why did it record The People's Court? I programmed this thing for channel 8 at 10:00 PM, but it recorded channel 10 at 8:00 AM. Why is my menu in French? FUCK, I had it set to SLP instead of EP! You son of a bitch!

Program this, mother fucker!


Why it matters to Gen X:
Again, it was about freedom. If you were technologically savvy enough, you could record one channel while watching another. Well, it helped if you were some sort of computer programming expert. Don't want to see the commercials? You don't have to! You can fast forward past them at a slightly faster speed. You even had a remote control... that was tethered to the VCR by 10 feet of black cord. Society can finally tape an entire season of Small Wonder and save it for posterity.

Why Gen Y couldn't care less:
DVDs, DVDRs, DVRs, Ipods, the Internet. We can pretty much watch any episode of any show whenever we want to. Want an entire series? Go to Best Buy and buy it. Need to catch up on this season's JAG? Go to the website and watch it on the computer. Then again, if you watch JAG, you have other problems.

VCR's are still hanging around. For the paranoid, there are plenty of VCR DVD combos to buy, just in case you really want to watch those old Rip Tide tapes. Throw a VCR and a Dell in front of a Gen Y'er, I guarantee he will be able to rig the Dell to auto search porn and hack into the NSA database. However, they'll look at the VCR in the same way modern civilization looks at chamber pots; with pure, unadulterated disgust. Sure, it's what they had to do back then. But, there is absolutely no excuse for it now.

Just add urine.

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When not "writing" for the Fuse Was Too Cold, Ren... well, we really don't know what the hell Ren does. Don't get used to her. We may shit can her, yet.
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Wednesday, July 15, 2009

4 Bad First Impresions: Facebook Request Disasters

By Adel

More and more of us old farts are getting into social media these days. I denounced MySpace years ago, until I got bored and opened an account. It wasn't so bad, actually. Then the "war" between MySpace users and Facebook users heated up. I swore that one social media site was more than enough. Consequently, I was wrong and, soon, was assimilated by the Facebook collective.

Exactly like this, but without the constant surveys and fan pages.

Those of us born in the 70's were harder to turn to the dark side. We're naturally suspicious of computer technology (as 1984 and The Terminator taught us to be). Slowly, though, the ice melted and we began to dabble in the Facebook universe. Occasionally, we find old friends. More often than not, we end up "friending" people we speak to on a regular basis. Either way, I've learned that the friend request process is a very delicate one. Both the requester and requestee have to watch their steps. This is especially true if this person is someone you haven't spoken to in a decade. The first thing you type will immediately tell the person on the other side of that DSL line who you are today and what level of crazy you've reached.

It takes talent to type without using your hands.

1. Friend Request: Stalker
"Hey! I haven't seen you in a long time! How are things? Are you still single? Living alone? I heard you're living at the same house we all used to hang out in. That's two miles on the left from the Sunoco, right? Do you have an alarm system? See you soon!"

What this says about the person
Having given up his passive creepy staring at people from across the room, he's graduated to proactively peeping from the bushes with a pair of high powered binoculars. This just may be the time to up his game and start jimmying his long lost friend's back window with a crowbar and seeing for himself if the whole "Squeal like a pig" thing is true.

How funny running into you here! At your house. In your bathroom...

The Proper Response:
Erase your hard drive, move to Idaho, and live under the assumed name of Stanley Finklebottom. You might want to get in gear before he's outside your front door with a can of Cool Whip and Vaseline.
This wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

2. Friend Request Response: Suicidal
"Hey, thanks for the friend request. How are things with you? Things suck here. I've been married and divorced twice, out of work, and they're going to foreclose on my house pretty soon. To top it all off, my feet smell like cheese. The doctors don't know why. I use half a bottle of Goldbond in each shoe, but it doesn't help. I'm so happy you friended me. Just the other night I was sitting at my computer cleaning my loaded gun thinking, 'What is there left? Would anyone notice if I just painted the wall with my brains?" Then, BAM! I get your friend request! That is just awesome!"

Does this mean Barney Fife was trying to kill himself the whole time?

What this says about the person
You were just surfing the net at 2 in the morning, because you heard you should never go to bed drunk enough to choke on your own vomit. Hendrix died that way. In an effort to sober up you wandered around Facebook and found this guy you haven't seen since freshman year in college. What made him different than the six thousand other friends you have on Facebook and never actually speak to? Well, it seems that you've accidentally became this guy's only reason for living. You were just hoping to sober up and not blow chunks all over your keyboard. Your plan went awry. Enjoy getting dozens of daily wall messages from Suicidal Sammy and living in constant fear that if you neglect to respond to one he may cancel his account with a syringe full of Clorox.

Sucker

The Proper Response
Click the "like" button for every one of his posts like you've never clicked before. You better not forget to accept his gifts on Farmtown. Not joining his Facebook Mafia may end up in the police finding a week old decomposing corpse sitting at the computer, a mouse in one hand and gun shot residue on the other.

Why haven't you accepted my Farmtown cow yet?
WHY HAVEN'T YOU ACCEPTED MY FARMTOWN COW YET!!

3. Type- Friend Request: Obsessive breeder
"Wow, it's you! I haven't seen you in forever! I just had to friend you. Do you still see the old gang? I don't much, these days. My family keep me busy! We have four children with number five on the way! They are my life! I just don't have time to keep track of our old friends. It's just go go go with the kids. Timmy has soccer practice, Sally is our cheerleader, Ralph has hockey, and Billy always has some sort of performance. I don't know how I lived without them! Do you have kids? Will you? When? I hope it's soon so you'll be able to understand the joy and live a life of purpose and meaning! Keep in touch!"

I can't believe this bitch found me.

What this says about the person
Her life completely revolves around her kids. She was living a shallow, meaningless existence until 8 pound children started shooting out her vagina. Now, it's no crime to love your children but, when it becomes a religion on par with Scientology, there's a problem. She's trying to make up for getting knocked up in junior year by immersing herself and living vicariously through her unruly, belligerent brats. Following this path could potentially lead to another Dana Plato or Michael Jackson. Yes, they may be successful for a time, but it ends in tragedy. Compared to this pompous baby factory, being raised by the totally heterosexual guys from My Two Dads would yield better results.

That's right, Mister Sweater Vest and Mister 80's Beard.
(Totally heterosexual)

If that wasn't bad enough, there's the end of message bitch slap. You cannot possibly know what fulfillment is, unless you have a few booger eaters. What's that? You don't have kids? Why not? Don't you feel useless? Shouldn't you throw yourself in front of a truck, then?

We do, so appreciate the subtle kick in the teeth.

The Proper Response
Tactfully remind her that you are completely aware that the father of her first kid was that functionally retarded guy from wood shop. Also, make sure to tell her that you can't wait to get together for a drink one night. Oh, wait, she has a litter of children. The closest she'll get to setting foot outside her house for a night on the town will be carting her brats to Chuck E Cheese's where their constant screaming will blend into the screaming of dozens of other whiny pizza eating bastards.

Pictured: fulfillment.

4. Type- Friend Request: Hopeless loser still clinging to high school
"Well look who it is. Mr. 'I'm too big to come to homecoming!" Just kidding. Man, you should come back! It's still crazy here. Nothing has changed. The old hangout is still nuts. Yea, I chill there most nights with the seniors. It's great. Just like old times! I'm still working at that 7-Eleven across the street. I'm so in with my buds, because I'll slip them cigarettes on the DL. Remember when we all hung out after that homecoming game in '94 when we all were like, whoa, and we totally stole that six pack of Meister Brau from Nate's dad? Shit, it doesn't get any better than that! Dude, I heard Nate got like a job being a doctor or something. Can you imagine? All that school stuff and no time to party? I hate it when guys lose their perspective like that. Gotta keep it real! You totally should visit! It'll be like old times. I'm pretty much free all week. Except for Saturdays. I have to take my mom to her electrolysis appointments then. Peace, bro! Seriously, dude, you can reach me anytime. I'm home right now if you want to call."

Before we get into the finer details, the office thought that it would be a good to present you with a simple, yet important mathematical equation. See if you can follow this.


This + That= Keep'in it real!


This + That= Complete sellout.
Or success, depending on you point of view.

What this says about the person
Saying this tosser peaked in high school is an understatement. There have been plenty of people who have done the same that, at least, managed to have families or hold down a job that doesn't require pumping gas or making change for a twenty. It's as if a space-time vortex opened over this guy and he is forever stuck in 1994. Only, he has a lot less hair and a lot more gut today. His class has moved on; even that functionally retarded guy that was in wood shop had a kid and works part time sweeping hair at Cost Cutters. Another issue is that a thirty- something guy probably shouldn't be hanging around 17 and 18 year old high school students. That's how one ends up running into that pesky Megan's Law.

Better study this map. It may be your only chance.

The Proper Response
Smile and nod. Who are you to judge, right? Sure, you work 50 hours a week, have a mortgage, and have friends over 18. Hell, you're even married to a real life woman. Maybe you aren't "keeping it real" like that poor Nate bastard that has been stricken with an MD and financial success. The sudden impact of your high school buddy's crash into the brick wall of progress surely left him somewhat brain damaged.

The truly tragic thing from the accident was that he is permanently stuck on 1994 colloquialisms, fashion, motivation, and events.

"Dude, what's the haps with the Lewinsky trial? Ehh, ehhh. Any more official late night presidential packages that need to be handled?"

*Sigh*

Throw the guy a bone and accept his friend request. Just make sure he doesn't get a hold of your email address or telephone number. You may want to keep your visits home under wraps, too. Be forewarned, sometimes this type of Facebook illness can be communicable. If you happen to run into him when you are in the area visiting your family, don't panic. Although, socializing with him for more than twenty minutes is a slippery slope. It starts out as a short catching up, but can easily turn to you hanging out at the gas station drawing penises on the Cosmopolitan magazines. Don't get too deep into this tar pit. Struggling only makes you sink faster.
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When not writing for The Fuse Was Too Cold, Adel enjoys slaving over research day in, day out to support her book. A book few will read. A book that may never be taken out of its original plastic.

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