Monty and Morgion 045: Ghost in the Appliance

09May03 (Monthenor): Morgion organized a cool little KFC party Wednesday to celebrate the season finale of Angel (and the appearance of Borg on Enterprise). Afterwards, while cleaning up, it was discovered that our dishwasher was once again kaput. It made sad little sick motor noises and steamed a lot, but no actual dishwashing was done. To put this in perspective, the dishwasher was also broken when we first moved in, at which point the apartment maintenance people "fixed" it. Since last June it has been used a maximum of three times.

We were not amused by the dishwasher problem. But as things so often do during the nightly Voyager episode, humor saved us from dwelling on it. Poor Gus, we hardly knew ye.

10May03 (Monthenor): Andre Champagne Cellars of Modesto, CA would like to remind everybody not to point a massive cock at their head while consuming their (Andre's) spumante.

F3@r my Pr4ktica1 Ph0t05hop 5ki11z
05.10.03 (Morgion)

I've updated Monty's "massive cock" image; it is now at least 50% less ass-tastic than the original, and features Unsharp Mask!

Someone really needs to implement more stringent quality control measures on this site. The whole thing could really use a face lift, maybe a dynamic, integrated blog system, something a web designer could… oh frell. Um, forget I said that. *sheepish grin*

The Longed-For Death of a Pushy Magazine Subscription Salesman
05.10.03 (Morgion)

Act I
A knock on our door. Suspicion mounts; no one buzzed to be let into the building, yet someone wishes to enter our abode… My curiosity overpowers my paranoid suspicions of a black-ops team of mutant hunters, and I open the door. Lo! it is merely a college kid.

He gushes something about coming over for dinner early, and I warily inform him he has the wrong apartment. His demeanor shifts; a smile ripples across his face, washing away the preceding seriousness… he reveals his statement as a charming ruse, no doubt to set me at ease! His true reason for being here is far more nefarious…

Act II
"I was wondering if you'd vote for me as President for the Organization for the Promotion of Self-Serving Attempts at Charity for the Primary Benefit of Corporate America and This Kid Who Wants to Go on a Trip"—at least I think that's what the name was. I was startled, standing in my dark kitchen, previously pondering the effect operational neglect could have on the internal components of a dishwasher. Now, I'm caught in his web of deception.

My mouth opens, my tongue wags, all as my brain views the scene in slow-motion, screaming like the famed Admiral Ackbar himself—"It's a trap!" Unfortunately, unlike him, no one's coming to save me. I utter the fateful words, "I'm not familiar with that."

Snap, crunch! The trap is sprung, and I'm caught in the jaws of this prep school reject. "Oh, well I'll explain could I use your table here's a list of subscriptions the last guy got the Maxim package now, what was your name again?" Between glances that contain a reservoir of patience that the Grim Reaper himself must envy, his arsenal of anecdotes begins to chip away at my startled, frozen psyche.

"Do you know a lot of your neighbors?" My gaze fixed upon his benign exterior, waiting for the demon within to be unveiled, I slowly shake my head. Dimly, some still-functioning part of my mind knows I mirror the ubiquitous, helpless monster-bait to whom Monthenor and I have barked armchair advice duringcountless confrontations with the Big Bad. "Yeah, nobody in this building does… that can be a good thing. The last place I was at, I mentioned I had just visited Shelby, and the guys said, 'That bitch!'" However, all this compelling and disarming camaraderie does not touch me…

I'm in a used car lot, trying to weave through a gauntlet of oily salesmen; no, wait—I must escape the hallucination my mind has constructed to shield me! As I regain a sense of my surroundings, I hear him explain how he can receive 4,000 or 6,000 points if I give a subscription as a gift or to a recipient on the list of pre-approved hospitals, charities, and right-wing crazies. My eyes narrow; there has been no mention of "voting" or "President" in the last dozen of his mouth-flaps. He has chipped through to the frigid core of my being, and he will feel its chill…

Act IV
I interrupt his mantra; "So, the only way you can get points is if I buy a subscription." My concise assertion of his rambling causes him only the briefest pause; ooh, he's good. "Yup, that's right."

I hand back the brochure. "Then, I'm sorry, but I can't help you." That does end his blathering. He turns his full attention to me, preparing to bend my will to his—"Really? Well, what's stopping you?" His training is impressive; he asks not what he must do, but what deficiency prevents me from being a nice, pliable victim. Yet I will not be so easily swayed; "Nothing… I'm just a cold bastard." The young pup of a salesman blinks, and his resolve falters. Almost imperceptibly softer now, less certain: "What's stopping you?" With that repetition, I know the battle is over and victory is mine. After the silence of the cease-fire, he leaves, covering his tracks with half-hearted quips ("It's not your fault you can't afford to help me out.") as I make the obligatory and insincere apologies.

I close the door and lock it, glaring at the spot where a peep hole should rightly be. Turning towards Monthenor's room, a satisfied smirk playing over my lips, he queries, "What was that?" I respond with a puzzled look and Gallic shrug. Then, a question I did not expect, but one which did not come completely as a surprise: "How'd he get in the building?" Narrowed eyes, furrowed brow, and dripping sarcasm are unleashed upon Monthenor for his insolence. Gee, I wonder how…

"Controlled access" is a charming euphemism for "it won't feel like your neighbors… or roommate… are letting homicidal maniacs, Great Old Ones, or self-serving charity pimps into the building to rip out your heart, soul, or the charming facade of your enlightened egoism, respectively—but they are, so suck it up, and don't whimper so much in your sleep… ya big wuss." But that's too long to stick in an ad, so property managers compromise.

You Are an Unspecified Appliance Puppeteer!
05.11.03 (Morgion)

Of course, the dishwasher puppeteer is an homage (I think a GM reference qualifies as such) to the refrigerator puppeteer in Requiem for a Dream. Thank you sir, you gave us much-needed comic relief after one of the greatest mind fucks of all time.

While looking for a suitable explanation of the joy that is Admiral Ackbar, I came across the Which FARK Cliché are You quiz. If you're unfamiliar with FARK, their forums frequently feature Photoshoping fun. In every thread, you find some classic gags (1) in a fresh and entertaining incarnation or (2) as an uninspired bludgeoning of recycled jokes.

Look through the bounty that FARK has to offer, then take the quiz. You could be The Squirrel, Domo Kun, The Guy from Memento, Cliche Kitty, or Mustard Guy.

It's been a while since I've taken a what-are-you quiz (which some friends that once sent me email… read "spam"… apparently thought was the only thing of use of the Internet), so I went a little berserk; Dane's Carlson's list of Which * are you? quizzes should keep you occupied.

Some of my recent favorites include the following: