The spelling Nazi had a typo on the logo of his own blog.

I discovered the misspelling of "Achievers" on my logo this morning. I'd seen the word on a poster in an office that said something about "Striving to Achieve" or some shit like that. I thought that "achieve" was misspelled, much to my joy. I then came home and grew suspicious of my own spelling of "achievers" on my site: Big pile of smelly fail. Immediately opened Photoshop and fixed the problem.

I think it'd been up there forever. Me, the sultan of spelling. The Shah of semantics. The purveyor of paragraphs. The leader in literary, um literarynous. Bringing you subjects and predicates for 10 years. I was sixth place spelling champion in the City of Portland in 1986 for chrissakes.

I mean, I'll excuse typos in posts because these witticisms are machine gunned so fast that I have to type damned quickly to keep up. Sometimes I slip up and I, keeping with my anti self-disciplinary tendencies, will let that slide. You know, sometimes I type faster than I think. I've actually forgotten what website I was about to go to and yet I'll have typed out the correct URL. I've even meant to type one word but then another, better one appeared. It's odd.

If these updates seem infrequent for you, remember the tweets on the right. I'm also going to do more audio because I actually pay monthly for that service. I was going to do a phone post from bed this morning but couldn't even remember the name of the service to which I should call.

Peace.

Gooch

Gooch in the Air

Disciples:

One of my friends drew that jester and I had to absorb it into this site because that original picture was a goofy outtake and quite frankly should have stayed that way.

Somehow I lost an hour already today. I have to be somewhere in half an hour and I'm barbecuing breakfast and lunch at the moment. Nothing accelerates barbecue; it finishes when it finishes.

I put in a new toilet seat last night. Made me want to finish my bathroom. I'm having a glory hole put in this weekend. I've got the same contractor that installed my tissue and lotion dispensing headboard doing it.

Weekends mean nothing to me. I work/don't work in a fashion that's spread evenly throughout the week. I'm as likely to put on a Netflix on a Saturday as I am to drink too much on a Wednesday. It's the way of my people.

I'm going to follow this Al Gore Happy Ending story to closely. I love this shit. Two Clinton administration sexual scandals based in Portland? Come on! You cant beat that! Or, like Gore's cock, you're not supposed to if you're an LMT.

Shit. Have to get to work. Salaam, bitches.

out.

Nothing to Say

Slouches:

I've accomplished a little bit during the course of the last couple of weeks. A broken rib has robbed me of my precious sleep and with that the energy to stay out late and be a fucking degenerate. Liquor sales are down, strippers are having to go back to parking lot handjobs to make up for the dollah bill deficit my strip club absence has caused.

Who has benefited from my sidelininess? Fast food vendors, Netflix, any place that sells hand lotion and tissues within a close proximity of each other (I don't like to shop), and my cat.

For some reason, the place where I work the most has the bitchiest little fucking web content filter.  I can read my blog, but I can't post new content. The only way to change this is to ask the head A.I.C. (Arab in Charge) to change things (not happening). This of course means I can't post the slutty pictures of whoever I decided to Google when I posted whatever I decided to post. I've bypassed this by remembering my old email-to-post email address. That's how you're reading this.

Oh, I refuse to let that Katy Perry (picture may show up, probably won't) and her awful, awful, "California Girls" song be my "Summer Theme Song." I love pop music as much as the next hetero, but this is truly a manufactured piece of crap. Snoop Dogg couldn't save this. Perry's going to have to wear even tighter rubber dresses to sell this piece of shit.

Of course, I thought "Boom Boom Pow" was atrocious as well. God, I hate the music industry. I wish that large groups of people could exchange music in such a large movement that it hurt the music industry financially.

Shouts out to LJP, RH, and RW.

Mahalo, fuckers.

goochout

Email Test - SUBJECT

Email Test - BODY

Ah... Home.

I fucking hate Russel Brand for this. Not fair.

My broken rib and self imposed house arrest to aid in the healing ideally yielding less missed days at work have placed me smack dab in front of the computer. As a responsible adult, my drinking has only occured when accompanied by prescription pain killers. That's right: Responsifuckingbility. Pass it on.

I've pirated the fuck out of software lately. I've got a mission control set up here. Haphazard proxy servers, virtual machines, a fat fucking Intel processor. I just sit here and do shit. Download, modify, watch, listen, learn. I'm pretty sure this technology discovery was what killed my last good relationship and will kill any future relationships. [starts to cry, downloads porn, feels better].

I've lost the drowsiness that Vicodin brings. Now it's just the stupidness. That's fine. I haven't needed to be smart lately anyways.

Lieberman proposed a bill that gave the Executive Branch (Obama) full control to kill the internet. Yeah, that story even deserved to  be posted. Think about it. How much of the economy is fueled by the internet. I'll give you an idea: um... a fucking shit ton! Maybe on the last day of his presidency, before he goes to retire in the non-US territory from which he resides, he'll pull the switch on the interweb. Honestly, I'm pretty sure the Department of Defense owns most of the internet infrastructure and could be shut off by the government anyways. Not sure. I'm going off of what I learned 10 years ago in college. You know, the 13-19th grade.

I'm going to pass out. Hug a loved one tonight. Unless you're in bed with someone else's spouse/significant other. Then hug someone else's loved one. If you can't be with the one you love, you better believe someone else will take your place. Sleep soundly kids.

gooch out.

Hola, me llamo es Gooch.

My mobility [asterisk] following my Wednesday evening soccer mishap which resulted in a broken rib has given away to the post injury muscle aches and some sort of weird depression. It's as if there's an accupuncture point in my lung that fuels depression. I've resigned to the fact that I won't play soccer this session, marking the first time in three years that has happened. That's a bummer.

As I've just recently adopted Windows 7 at home and almost immediately had a working virtual environment on that system so that I could learn Mac OSX and Linux. Going from using Windows to Mac is like going from speaking Spanish to Mexican (or vice versa. whatever). There's only so many ways for a graphical user interface to allow a human to use a computer. Seeing the ways in which Apple and Windows have borrowed from each other over the years is interesting.

I've fumbled my way through Linux, which I find a great way to resurrect older computers on their way to be recycled. There's many more applications for Linux, the venerable and long standing open source operating system, but I haven't thought to delve into that yet. I know a lot of people use Linux as their sole operating system environment and, well, good for them.

On other geeky fronts, I've been watching episodes of Battlestar Galactica 1980 on Netflix. It's an Earth-set spinoff of the original Battlestar Galactica. Some of the most bizarre casting and horrible acting, yet I'm drawn to seeing a real Centurian cylon lumbering through an earthling Halloween party in an effort to extort radio air control from real life disc jockey Wolfman Jack to send a signal to the Cylon Imperious Leader. Yes, that's a two part episode.

 I have no idea.

Vicodin kicking in. Nap time.

oug

Holy Shit.

Yeah, I know. Gratuitous and I'm a tasteless low life. I've got the corporate content filters telling me the same fucking thing. Save it.

I think I cracked and/or broke a rib. I thought a had a good shot on goal, but forgot that nearly everyone on the field is faster than me. As a result, the goal keeper snatched the ball from in front of me and I, quickly approaching the opposing goal from the right side, stopped my momentum by inadvertently diving head/shoulder first into the wall of our indoor soccer field.

I thought maybe I'd knocked something out of place: a vertebra, a rib, a vital organ. I played a little of the second half and then my normally cheerful disposition was altered by the sometimes blinding pain that occurred only when I breathed. God forbid I should cough or sneeze; I sneezed a little bit ago and almost passed out.

So I've taken a couple of percocet and started working on another geeky project here in my lab. The project? Forty Five minutes of Gooch-rigging followed by two hours of task bar watching while I writhe in pain. The tears streaming down my face? Their the task bars... of my soul.

I take no responsibility for any typos on this post.

P.S.: Have you ever come across an old stash of porn and wondered how you ever jerked off to something so tame? No? Oh, me neither.

Out.