“Hey, what’s that smell? And why’s smoke coming out of the kitch—oh, no! My pies!”

8-8-06

This website is no longer going to be updated. That's because I've moved eKarjala over here: htttp://www.ekarj.com. Hurray!

8-2-06

Last night I made the mistake of lying on my arm, which cut off blood flow to the area and caused my arm to "fall asleep." Countless lies have been told about one’s extremities "falling asleep," as if they’re just taking a little nap. “Aww. Well would you look at this. Looks like Mr. Arm needs a little shuteye. Shh, shh, don’t wake him. Poor guy’s had a big day.” Yeah, not quite—try the fact that every single pain receptor in that part of my body is being activated at once and I’ve lost the use of half my body. But I guess I deserve that for being in REM sleep and unconsciously turning onto my side, which I had no control of whatsoever. I’ll be sure to never do that again.

7-27-06

A couple of weeks ago I moved into a townhouse. I like the place, but my roommate has four cats, which is ludicrous. When you open a cupboard, often a cat will bound out from it onto your head. I am constantly waking up in the middle of the night to find that my pillow isn’t a pillow at all, but yet another cat. I’d swear there were about eleven or twelve cats, but I know for a fact that there’re only four because I made a list:

Reuben
This is the token “fatty” of the group. He’s also batshit crazy. He sits there meowing at the wall for no reason while flipping his head around in a circle. One time he was sitting in the bathroom sink when I needed to brush my teeth and I couldn’t get him to leave, so I turned on the water in an attempt to flood him out. He just sat there in the sink with the scalding hot water coming down on him, purring like a complete moron.   

Pete
When you crinkle up a piece of paper, Pete will come running toward you from any room in the townhouse. If you throw the paper, he will dart after it and carry it around in his mouth as if he’d caught a mouse. Then he will actually bring it back to you and drop it, awaiting your next throw. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a fetching cat. In my opinion this is the only cat of the four that should be fed every day.

Charlie
I can’t stand this cat Charlie. The other cats hate him, too—whenever they see Charlie they tackle the shit out of him, causing him to scamper away. They don’t have any idea why they hate Charlie, and neither do I. All I know is that for some reason every time I see him, the thing I want most in the world is to punt him like a football.

Bitty
Until recently this cat and I got along very well. He mostly minded his own business and that was fine by me. I had been warned he had a habit of humping a particular stuffed bear, but I figured that what he did in his private life was his own business. Then a few days ago I was in my bedroom reading a book when I casually glanced toward my left. To my horror, there was Bitty, going to town on his bear. He had actually dragged the ratty thing into the only room that was being occupied by a person, as if he was proud of his behavior and wanted an audience. I know Bitty’s just a cat, but that is sick, unconscionable behavior. Since this incident it's been awkward just being in the same room as Bitty, and if I ever find his little girlfriend in my bedroom again I swear to Christ I'm moving out.

7-24-06

People are wont to give away all sorts of awards. I recently read in a catalogue about a stapler that was purported to have an “award-winning” design. Sounds pretty prestigious until you consider the fact that there’s no such thing as an award for office supplies. I know there isn’t because if there was, everyone would buy tickets to this marvelous gala event. But you mustn’t just give away awards willy-nilly—if you do the whole concept becomes meaningless.

The fact is, if you have ever been given any awards you may as well throw them in the dumpster, because very few awards really matter. Your so-called “gold” and “silver” medallions are not actually made of gold and silver. I can’t say what they’re actually made of since I’ve never won any awards, but I’m imagining a cheap chalky type of plastic. Trophies are the same—those fit little golden men and women in their fancy athletic poses. They’re concentrating extremely hard on their little sport, and you can tell they’re probably really good at it, but come on. You needn’t put these creepy little men on your mantel. All you’re doing is making me feel bad that the only trophies I have are a swimming trophy from the ninth grade and a miniature golf trophy from Putt-Putt. I’m not particularly good at miniature golf, and I can’t say why my local Putt-Putt even bothered awarding trophies, but I honestly do have this trophy in my possession. I would never throw him in the dumpster. He is a little golden man carefully lining up his little golden putter and he’s just about the greatest thing I’ve ever won in my entire life.

7-10-06

Everybody knows that corporate websites have absolutely no value. Upon visiting them, you'll first be confronted with a seven-minute flash animation that will eventually ask you to select your preferred language. Not content with this, they'll also want to know exactly which country you're visiting from, and since they are for some reason unable to interpret your IP address, you'll need to go ahead and click one of a dozen flags that are being juggled by the silhouette of a bear on a unicycle. Next you'll be treated to another needlessly elaborate animation from which eventually emerges a menu that is more difficult to navigate than the Bermuda triangle. If you are resilient to motion sickness and very patient, congratulations--you may now enter the serial number you've found on the back of your bottle cap for your chance to instantly win a shitty baseball cap.

It's all just one big circus to these people, isn't it? Well the internet wasn't always that way--ten years ago it was even more ridiculous. Please join me for a very special episode of eKarjala: Internet '96.

6-22-06

Back in the fourth grade, my elementary school friend Robbie and I discovered what I now acknowledge to be the funniest book I’ve ever read. It was an illustrated book about deserts whose text consisted of a series of insipid facts relating to their patterns of precipitation, the plants and animals who thrive there, etc. However, when we began reading the book one of us inadvertently read “desert” as “dessert,” which resulted in a sentence that had us in hysterics for a well over twenty minutes. I don’t remember what the book was called, so I can’t provide an exact quote, but by looking up deserts on Wikipedia I can provide an accurate approximation: “Desserts usually have an extreme temperature range. Most desserts have a low temperature at night. This is because the air is very dry (contains little moisture) and therefore holds little heat so as soon as the sun sets, the dessert cools quickly.”

If that sentence isn’t funny to you, perhaps you’re not actually imagining a dessert, as in a some kind of pastry or cake served after dinner. As far as Robbie and I were concerned, this was a miracle of comedy. Applying the same formula to the rest of the book, we had the rare privilege of reading such sentences as: “About one-fifth of Earth’s land surface is dessert” and, “Because desserts are dry, they are ideal places for human artifacts and fossils to be preserved.” By the time we’d completed our book about desserts with ludicrous properties, our laughter had become maniacal and we probably had to be escorted out of the classroom.

The next day we tried applying similar alterations to other books, but quickly realized that the effect couldn’t be forced, and that nothing would ever compare to the magical afternoon Robbie and I learned about the harsh, unforgiving landscape known as a "dessert."

1-11-06

There’s nothing creepier than when somebody winks at me. Why are you winking at me? Perhaps you are trying to convey that you are having an amusing little joke and want me to play along, but all I hear you saying is: “Sometimes I enjoy molesting children.” You are trying to make me complicit in your strange little joke, but your winking is only making me feel uncomfortable. If you’re kidding around, that’s OK, but tell me that in words, not through winking. Never wink at me again you invasive freak.

12-19-05

Whenever I’m really trying to achieve something, I always exert an 100% effort. That’s my policy and I think it’s pretty fair, considering 100% is by definition a maximum. But 100% isn’t good enough for some people. It is frustrating to lose a game of one-on-one basketball because the moron I'm playing against gives it 110%, or lose out on a job because the other applicants are willing to put in 110%. How is exerting an 110% effort not considered cheating? I’m suspicious that it is even mathematically possible unless these people are doping.

You can’t say you’ll perform beyond what is humanly possible, because then numbers start to become meaningless. That’s why it’s no longer uncommon for a person to proclaim, “Hmm! On a scale of 1 to 10, these cupcakes rate a 12!” Sir, by the very scale you yourself provided that is not feasible. Stop living in a fantasy world and allow your appraisals of cupcakes to conform to the criteria by which their being measured. Until you understand how to do that you don’t even deserve a cupcake.

12-11-05

When people call in sick to work they’re always under the impression that they need to exaggerate the misery in their voice. Even if they’re genuinely sick, people instinctually like to play up their sickness so that nobody can be angry at them for skipping work. I’m telling you that this is not necessary. We’re adults and don’t need to prove to anybody that we’re really sick. Besides, nobody wants to hear how miserable you are. Whenever I call in sick, I try to be as upbeat as possible. “Hey! How’s it going, you guys? Haha, that’s great! So anyway, I’m feeling miserable! I think I’ll take the day off today. What’s that in the background, you ask? Oh, that’s just some loud music. Yeah, I’m just sitting here listening to some gangsta rap, too sick to really go to work. Well, anyway, I’ve got to run, I’m supposed to meet some people at the gym.”

Another audacious thing to do is to call in drunk. “Hey Mr. Johnson, just wanted to tell you that I can’t come in to work today. Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. I’m just absolutely obliterated. Thought I’d have a beer or two this morning, and the next thing I knew I’d gone through half a case. Trust me, you wouldn’t want me there today. I haven’t been this plastered in years. I’m probably just going to have to stay in bed all day and wait this thing out. Oh, by the way, you wife’s really hot.”

12-7-05

The one Christmas song I really can’t stand is that one called “Rocking around the Christmas Tree,” because it’s always talking about how they enjoy dancing merrily “in the new old-fashioned way.” Every year they’re going on and on about this “new old-fashioned way” of theirs and it makes me sick to my stomach. First of all, what exactly is a “new old-fashioned way”? It doesn’t make any sense. Second of all—and this dovetails quite nicely with my first objection—seriously, what in god's name is a “new old-fashioned way”? I don't know what you're talking about and I don’t want to hear your constant yammering on about it, so please just shut up because you’re ruining Christmas.

11-29-05

Shower faucets are truly the snowflakes of the bathroom world, because just when I think I’ve seen every possible permutation of nozzles and levers, I take a shower at a new location and am greeted by an arcane apparatus unlike any I’ve seen before. If it were up to shower nozzle designers, we would be living in a world in which each toilet necessitated a unique series of knobs and pulleys to flush, and only after weeks of practice could you hope to operate your idiosyncratic toaster. Couldn’t we please just adapt a universal shower nozzle system? Or do I have to feel like I’m trying to figure out how to pilot a submarine every time I stay at a hotel?

11-26-05

It is unacceptable when a street, upon coming to an intersection, takes a 90 degree turn, as if it were actually an automobile. This happens on Lake Lansing road in East Lansing: you reach a four-way intersection, and Lake Lansing goes ahead and makes a left-hand turn. Oh, no warning or anything. It's no big deal. It’s just kind of like, “Oh, were you trying to stay on Lake Lansing? Then you probably shouldn’t have gone straight, because I’m over here now. The street you’re driving on now is Eat Shit boulevard.”

The sole purpose of a street is to go in a continuous line in an obliging manner. That is why we name streets—to follow them, not to be dicked around. If you turn left at an intersection, congratulations, you are now on another street. I don’t really care what you call it, but it cannot be the same goddamned street you just came from.

City planning commissioners have no conception of logic or dignity. I’ve seen an intersection where a street is somehow intersecting with itself—if you look at the two perpendicular green street signs that form a cross with one another there, they both display the same name. How is this even possible let alone not retarded? There are also streets that stop suddenly, as if they had a quick errand to run, before mysteriously continuing on a few miles away. Why are these streets so mental? You can’t just have streets do whatever the hell you want them to, and I’m sick of this absurd nonsense. It is for this reason that I now refuse to travel any other way than via railroad train.

8-28-05

All this finger-pointing about who “stole” the cookie from the cookie jar—this song makes me so mad. Guys, it’s a cookie jar. Putting cookies in a cookie jar is a way of telling people, “Hey, guys, I just made a batch of cookies and put the extras in the cookie jar. You’re more than welcome to have some.” That’s why it’s a jar—so that people can reach in from the top and select a cookie at their convenience. But now all of a sudden this is “stealing.” That’s like saying, “Alright, who took some of my goddamned mints from my mint bowl! I placed this bowl of mints in an easily-accessible spot right on the table next to the couch, hoping to snack on them from time to time, yet you jackasses keep eating them!” I’ll stop stealing your precious cookies the minute you stop putting them in a fucking jar and giving them away.