trendier. hipper. pretentious-er. rantier. unfocused-er. the new black.............ier.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008


what's the good word, people. i realize haven't blogged in over 10 months, but i vow to not let you-die-now, well die. but not a lot has happened. i didn't move overseas. i didn't move back. i didn't have teeth yanked, reel in real swedish fish, switch jobs, write the soundtrack to a film, starfuck with the guy from west wing and billy madison, or visit the olympic village in vancouver. and i definitely didn't sell a gay childless couple some babies off the black market. it's been the same old shit.

so, in the spirit of my inactivity, i've decided to come up with a complete list of the most unimportant things ever:

  • kid rock - he rhymes the word 'things' with... 'things.' several times. irredeemable behavior at best. oh, and even though it's a logical option, try not to kill yourself while listening to that shitty song.
  • sarah palin groupies - behold their collective stupidity.
  • service oriented web enterprise portal technology

    oh and my band didn't record a new album, so don't check us out on saturday, october 18 at jammin' java at 6pm...

    [...if you care, right at this instant i hear within temptation the silent force...]

Tuesday, September 18, 2007


in my triumphant return to blogdom, i'm going to depart from the expected vitriol driven by my subversive rejection to the soulless chasm of inefficiency and creative banality, also known as...any guesses? any?? it's...

...wait for it...

ding ding ding! corporate blah-ness!! trust me, i'm still good for a whole host of crm team noodle-scratchery, but i'll try to refrain.

what's even more psychotic is my alternative topic of the hour is
almost as dubious as writing about corporate automatons whining about not getting their daily fill of starbucks and iphones. this phenomenally righteous, yet shameless dusting-off strays close to the planet-decimating expanding sun of blogosphere: the 'non-blog baby blog.' these textless picture-dumps simply register as nauseating peddlings of pious overparental haberdashery. overzealous parents brag about how their progeny is better than everybody else's, and do so silently. c'mon - gimme some insight into why i should care about your life. mundane activities like crotch cradling with daddy-kins become profound descriptionless monoliths for generations to come, like a statue of saddam hussein, or better yet, chernobyl. for christ - please just use picasa or flickr or something if you have no intention of writing a real blog so you don't show up in my search queries. just rid me of profundities such as, 'baby's first dunk.' so to kobe: dear lord i hate your honky parents. and your name too, unless you somehow grow up to be a 6'6'' black man that can shoot from 15 feet and play d. or a giant slab of flank steak. whatever, crackers.

but fuck it. this is my platform, and i'm about to get really sappy. deal with it. i write most of this from 35,000 feet above the atlantic, nestled firmly between a hippopotamus of a woman and a rhinoceros of a man. stray flakes of airborne peach cobbler that have all the flavor of manila folders, fall neatly into my lap from both ogreish directions. lamentably, i'm headed away from european valhalla and toward the ol' business jerk store, where plenty of bad idea production will surely take place. i have but 8 and a half hours to think. 8 and a half hours to sigh. 8 and and a half hours to be bored, so 8 and a half hours to write to my niece:

dear shiva-bean,
by the time you read this, you'll have no recollection of how your incriminating sideways glances towards me at the ripe age of 3 weeks only signify a hell of a successful poop. you'll have forgotten all about the way you'd cringe at me, almost with judicious contempt, just to be appeased by a pacifier in the form of my friend's dangling stuffed cow. no memory of waking me up on a saturday morning by peeing all over my (albeit ratty) shirt. and you wont remember falling asleep, so calmly and peacefully, in my lap and in my arms after one of your 83 daily meals.

no, you won't remember any of these things. but by that same token, i'll never forget them. i'll also never forget how ecstatic i was when your mother announced that she was having you. i'll never forget how you calmed down as your pops played you a cd made and given to him by the greatest force on the planet. and i'll never forget how you totally had me at hello the instant you first traced my day-old beard using the entirety of your chubby little face.

but i got to witness some other stuff during days 22, 23, 24, and 25 of your debut to the universe. for all the time that i've known her, your mom has been, well, uh...yeah,
nuts. but this time, i saw a side in her i've never seen before; a side that convinces me that she'll be an excellent mother. you'll get all the attention, love, and spankings that you richly deserve. you'll also have all the love and attention from your entire world of uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins...everyone who'll stop at nothing to make sure you have the best. we'll be fighting to be the first ones in line to spoil you with that ez bake oven when your mom denies you of one. or maybe not. make that barbies. ok, what the hell. alright, it looks like i'll just have to bribe you with that awesome new toy, 'super safe soft sponge-like object with extra cushioning,' i think it's called.

and your pappy ain't too shabby either. oddly, watching him parade you around in no more than a speedo and bathrobe (it *is* amsterdam, after all) during early morning changings screams nothing but devotion. in fact, he's clearly the better diaper outfitter out of the two. that may not sound like much, but when you emerge from diaperland to check into trouserville with nary a scratch, you'll know who to thank. but keeping in mind that he might be staring at starcraft replays during some of your adolescent years, i'll make sure that you're not stuck listening to lame dutch abominations, lame british abominations, and bizarreries. and although no amount of browbeating can leave your life devoid of aging irish foolishness, you'll definitely be privy to your generation's classics.

by the time you lay the full teenage angst-laden rebellion down on mama and papa, when the likes of rihanna and the white stripes replace louis armstrong and led zeppelin in the lexicon of the contemporary classics, when the tag team of richard branson and mark cuban actually figure out how to clone and sell human souls,
and when your uncle has more than just a peppering of grey in his wig, people are going to start wondering if you'll end up at harvard, cambridge, or even better - the university of maryland at college park. although at this rate, i'm sure by then it'll be better known as 'pepsi presents, a joint reebok/hyundai project: maryland university by michael bay - buy me buy me buy...'

at that point, i'll leave it up to you to locate the milky way's last remaining blu-ray disc player so that your crazy uncle can relax with his own collection of the classics. you can do this from the internet 2.0 etherplug-i-tron terminex in your corner office, or from the break room at the hospital, or from behind your drumset while on tour with the rolling stones (some things never change). ok sure, you'll have to wade through an endless deluge of suri cruise, mary-kate olsen jr., and zahara jolie-pitt thornton bale-depp-paltrow buscemi-knoxville fansites, but i promise you that it'll be worth the effort. and know in the back of your mind that during your stewart copeland-esque drum solo during the 8th encore, all the while you're being uber-loved and uber-cherished by your proud parents and relatives who are wondering why they are still paying your hovercar insurance and holodeck utility bills.

but for now, just keep pooping it up. and stay friends with the monkey.

with love, always -
~proud unckey suvo

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear abba gold...]

Thursday, February 22, 2007


certain things have no place in certain habitats.

bull sharks have no place in petting zoos, jane's addiction has no place in music, and it would be unwise to unleash this walking, talking abomination anywhere in public.

so when i glanced over my shoulder at what two of my slovenly unathletic, mouth-breathing coworkers just did, i've ruled that something must forever be banished from the workplace, punishable by having all their batbelt-worn priceless necessities of life be immediately confiscated and destroyed. that, and maybe a thorough eye gouge, ironically administered by this.

(but that's just a clever photoshopped hoax, right? they don't actually make those, do they? there's no way a sane person would buy that kinda shit. holy fucking fuck. the next thing you're gonna tell me is that they invented a keyboard so that the beautifully sculpted, herculean tech support staff won't ever have to dangerously overexert themselves by frantically moving their hooves by extra fractions of an inch to type up trouble tickets. oh...umm, dear god.)

let me back up a little before i start making less sense than i already am.
there are generally three distinct orders of species whose daily cohabitation in any sea of cubicles, laptops, and baseless arrogance lead to many an excited yet illogical violation of their own personal dignity:
a) people who take themselves too seriously (ie. overachieving incompetent crm team lead and his ilk),
b) people who don't give a shit (everyone else minus two people), and
c) people who don't give a shit whilst violently mocking the entire immediate populace (me and this one seriously jaded douchebag in software testing).
the oversimplified rule of thumb is that nobody more than one order apart from another can engage in effective communication together. ideally, you always want a-orders to hang out with other a-orders, b's with b's, and so on. this holds true, mainly due to that in part and parcel, a-orders love the smell and taste of their own excrement. but it's when their ass-pounding desire to share their feces with everyone takes over that makes for seriously dubious interaction. take for example a conversation typical to those i have every day:
crm team lead: did you get my value-add recommendations to the latest and greatest deck on the vendor core competancy metrics? the pivot dashboard? i don't think i have to remind you that this is a mission critical living document.
me: dude, huh?
crm team lead: and when you get done with that, let's assemble the tiger team for a configuration breakthrough session. or would you prefer a lunch n' learn?
me: i'll kill you, i swear.
crm team lead: what was that? i didn't hear you - i was listening to the sound of my own voice on a continuous loop in this hot bluetooth earpiece i got from the nextel outlet. and now i have to go, (reaches out) high-five, my brother!
clearly the lines of communication here are an afterthought - especially on that last part. crm team lead is making a dreadful attempt to connect with someone way out of his order. which puts me in an unenviable position. do i turn my back and roll out, leaving him there looking like a complete dingus? or do i oblige, and we both end up looking like complete dinguses? since the degrees of said mouth-breathery increase as you approach the alphabetical top of the list, you need to maintain your always fragile image as you upgrade toward c-order status. but poorly producing b-order employees certainly have their purpose.

which is why to help me educate my new mandate (and my original point) from a formal perspective, i've employed the services of a fictional but prominent b-order denizen of the cubicles to serve as my conduit to everyone else. her name is beth ann, a systems integration specialist.

at the time of this post, beth ann legally changed her name to 'angyl-magdylyne' as a result of her massive transformation through suffering a series of identity crises. look at her; she was constantly ridiculed through her formative years keeping her sub-par in every facet of life. c's on report cards. 3rd string soccer midfielder. boyfriends that steal from her.

how did she get this way? was it a lack of human interaction? was it that her focus was on getting that used '88 camaro instead of on her personal hygiene? was it her oblivious but encouraging mother, then in the midst of her third marriage? in any event, her burgeoning desire to become a fashion school student, thereby gaining the crass individuality that she would give her ovaries for, was ultimately quelled due to her lack of talent. naturally, she did what anyone would do in her shoes - learn powerpoint and settle into a role in office management for years on end, forgotten by the world, but not by a host of eating disorders. every office has a beth an--er, angyl. yeah, angyl. gotta love feminazis.

so everyone listen up as angyl-magdylyne says, 'thou shalt never high-five, chest bump, fist pound, or anything else popularized by our favorite jive-talking cycloptic waste of life in the office.' you're gonna look like idiots. it's that simple.

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear arcturus's sideshow symphonies...]

Monday, February 12, 2007


it should be painfully clear by now that i spend my free hours moonlighting as a sentinel of world culture. admittedly, my presence is oft uninvited, but i have taken upon myself to make the biggest of sacrifices to provide you with only the most biased and caustic commentary imaginable (wait, that doesn't even make any sense). but even all my vigilant watchdoggery can't keep up with one commonly overlooked bit of idiosyncrasy: band logos. the pop music world is filled with cool ones, not so cool ones, and ones that somehow attack all your senses rendering you worse off than helen keller (ooh, slap my taint and call me 'sassy'!). but let's get our collective head out of our collective ass for two moments. pop logos tend to mirror the quality of the bands themselves - bland and derivative; boring and shitty; just plain gay (who are these dorks anyway?)

incidentally, a lot of talented bands elect to keep it real and go with ordinary and non-threatening logos. they shouldn't be confused with the aforementioned 'boring and shitty' category. no; they're simply too cool for school. it's kinda like brad pitt thinking, 'i know i'm rich, good looking with hair more tussle-able than yours, can get any creature this side of the equatorial guinea to fuck me, but i'm going to let my overly unselfish and subdued, nay, non-pretentious behavior speak on my behalf.' (here's where tyler durden pauses to think about his fifteen extra guestrooms filled with sacks of yen.) 'oh dearest womb raider, don't make me choose. can't we just adopt them all?'

back on the ranch and keeping with how the craftsmanship of logos can somehow resemble the hallmarks of the bands they represent, there are the logos that are half-assed rip offs of the other, much better ones.

anyways, in the pantheon of band logos, only a scant few have withstood the rigors of time. which ultimately brings me to my point; my calling. yes, i've decided to turn over a new leaf and give up being a satirical pain in the ass to focus on being the gandhi-esque philanthropist i truly am.

so, odin's court - question for you. as a band that's ever so eager to please, not nearly cool enough to have a plain logo, and yet overly devoid of any real talent, how can you avoid contracting the dreadfully shameful kelly bundy syndrome and steer clear of being hammered in ass by father time? ladies, your answer - start a black metal band. (to be continued...)

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear the jackie brown soundtrack ..]

Thursday, February 08, 2007


so it's 1216 on a tuesday afternoon, i'm chilling with crazy old pretentious crm team lead, and i've never been as suicidally bored as i am right now.

ok, once before.

and maybe it's been several months since i last posted, but it takes awhile to get over an former icon of sexual promiscuity getting tittyraped, repeatedly, by father time. oh christina, your blatent refusal to cheat the ravages of age like so many of your celebrated and esteemed brethren, is beyond mysterious.

in any event, i leave you with the most important contingent international law has ever contractually honored:

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear muse's black holes and revelations...]

Tuesday, October 17, 2006


(new shit soon, i swear - once i figure out this human cloning thing. i'm close though, really. for now, i'm off to the eddie bauer outlet for my new tech jacket, jong il edition.)

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear borknagar's quintessence...]

Friday, August 25, 2006


my sincerest of apologies for the lack of postings this week. but as you know, the cogs of corporation must spin vigilantly. awesome new posts next week, but until then, enjoy this innuendo-esque pic which subliminally (but completely) recaps my week. watch how crm team lead, hogan, demands certain things out of his plebes, his warriors, his me.

[...if you care, right at this instant i hear within temptation's the dance...]