Get Thee to a Hospital

So today I was trying to cross the street. And when I cross the street, I do it with the New York flavor. This means I don't stop at the curb, but instead wander three or four paces into the street itself, inching ahead enough so that I'm just short of being clipped in the sprouts by the rear-view mirror of a passing car.

I do this because I am impatient and want to be in the best position to spring forward the instant there is a break in traffic. Green lights, red lights, walk signals -- those are all suggestions, much like those "skillet-ready" frozen meals that claim to serve 2 people. Yeah, right.

So there I am, and I see a break, but I kind of have to hoof it, because I can see all these trucks just raring to go. In fact, I have to jog, which is terribly undignified, but to get hit by a truck would be even more undignified. That and I was wearing a nice suit, and if I get hit by a car, the paramedics are taking their scissors to my suit, and the thought of them cutting up into little shreds of cotton was too much to bear.

So I'm jogging and of course I'm going to make it, and just as I hop onto the opposite curb, I hear the screeching of tires and the honking of horns. And it bugs me. It really, truly does. I am an expert street crosser -- I can say that in 99 percent of occasions, I've always timed my crossing into traffic exactly right. So for some asshole driver to indulge his inner worry wart and honk at me because I got away with just inches to spare is infuriating.

So I turn around, taking my hand out of my coat pocket to flip this driver the bird -- in fact, I'm even considering giving him the two-hand salute on this one -- when I freeze, just stop dead in my tracks.

Because the man was not honking at me. No, he was honking at a gaggle of nuns, about six in total, all frail, all elderly, who had been at the other end of the crossing behind me and impetuously decided to follow me into traffic.

Normally, when a woman follows me across the street, I chalk it up to my rugged handsomeness and overwhelming charisma. But these were nuns, women of the cloth. Even I have my limits.

No, it seems they thought they could cross the street at a pace equal to mine, which seems to me a grievous miscalculation. We only had but a few seconds, and it took every ounce of grace and speed in my 200-pound bulk to make that crossing without incident. What hope do nuns have?

Perhaps I could have been a gentleman and helped them cross, or even merely herded them along. But I was crossing against a green light, and in order to have come to the nuns' aid, I would have had to wait for the walk signal. And I'm afraid I must confess that sacrificing those 30 extra seconds was just something I was not prepared to do.

This is not the first time this has happened. Anyone who has ever been at a crosswalk knows that the herding instinct is strong, and that many people won't cross until one daring, enterprising soul does so first. The "sheep" don't even look at the traffic -- they look at the person and go, if he can make it, I can make it.

Since I am usually that reckless person, I have found myself leading dozens of people into oncoming traffic. There has never been an incident, thank God. But this one with the nuns was too close to call. I mean, can you imagine the hell reserved for the asshole who led nuns to a horrible death by city bus? It must be even more boring and awkward than last night's Oscars.

So I hereby promise to try to wait for the green light. I imagine I will fail at this, so I will make the additional promise that, when I do cross, I will turn around and loudly but politely warn the assembled crowd behind me that what I am about to do should only be done by professionals. And I should probably collect waivers from those who do attempt the crossing, but I feel like my recklessness as a person should extend to recklessness as a lawyer.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cross the train tracks.

Off With Their Poofs

The internet really is like a rabbit hole sometimes, mostly because you can dive in and occasionally find something called Snooki in Wonderland. It is exactly what it sounds like.

It appears that someone has taken our favorite fictional characters and transported them to a place that is eve less bizarre than Seaside Heights.

As intriguing as Season 4 in Italy will be, I would personally prefer to see the gang in Wonderland, if only to see what Tweedledee and Tweedledee do when Snooki tries to smush them. Although we would have to find a way to mollify the Mad Hatter and the March Hare, who would certainly be justified in believing that Sitch and Pauly D would try to steal their insanity thunder.

And why stop in Wonderland? Imagine the crew in Springfield. Wouldn't you love to see a conversation between Lisa and Ronnie? Or if they all got accepted into Hogwarts, where they can introduce Grenade Dodging to the Defense Against the Dark Arts syllabus? Or if they got stranded on the Island from Lost? Five words: Snooks vs. The Smoke Monster.

Alas, we must content ourselves with the fact that the crew can only visit places that actually exist.

No word yet on whether Alice has offered Ronnie advice on what to do if you cry so much that you almost drown in your tears.

Random Video of the Day LXXXIV

I've often said that drunk people are like babies. Which is why I am 10,000 years away from being ready to have children. I mean, can you imagine having to take care of a drunk who will not sober up for 18 years?

I'll have a lot more on this subject at a later date. But for now, please enjoy visual evidence that there really is no difference between babies and drunks.

Say, Can I Get You Drunk

I'm never one to back off from a good challenge. Statements like "You can't jump that far," and "You cannot possibly finish that" awaken my inner Stinson and induce me to yell out, "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED."

Why, even last week, after I mentioned how [great] Gwyneth looked in her Grammys catsuit, someone told me she was out of my league. So now I must have her. And it'd be going great if she'd only return my calls.

But even with my breathtaking recklessness, I recognize that there are impossible feats in this world. Challenges beyond our powers of achievement. Tests that cannot be bested.

And chief among them is trying to pick up a girl at a bar when you can't drink.

Others have given their two cents on the matter and have come to a similar conclusion. The reasons for this are manifold: it's tougher to break the ice, the gap between drunk people and sober people is at least as wide as the Grand Canyon, etc.

And, honestly, it's this last one that provides the Sisyphean task. For let's say you're not drinking but you're out at a bar and are chatting up this girl and all of a sudden you're at that point where you should offer to buy her a drink. So you do that and you order one drink for her but not one for yourself.

She'll ask you why you're not drinking. And what can you say? You can tell her you're sick and on medicine, but that'll turn her off. You can tell her you're not drinking tonight, but that's lame and will turn her off. Almost any excuse you give her will inevitably turn her off.

(By the way, never tell a girl you're trying to lose weight because this will invariably remind her that she is trying to lose weight, even when she clearly does not need to. Because of this, she will temper her drinking. This, of course, will not only re-raise her standards to their usual, unattainable levels, but it will also clear her mind and lead to prudent decisions and responsible choices. Nobody wants this.)

But I digress. Maybe, just maybe, you're clever enough to come up with some bogus but acceptable reason on the spot. Like, say, "I'd love to have a scotch, but I'm on painkillers because I threw out my back putting up house frames for Habitat for Humanity."

Oh high five? You think that was perfect? You probably think you just turned all of this around, don't you? Now she must want to take care of you, you wonderful, charitable, selfless bastard you.

But but but. There's still that elephant in the room. Because she's drinking and you're not.

So the whole dynamic changes. Maybe one drink is fine, but if you start buying her more, she might think you're trying to get her drunk. Or maybe she does get drunk and then you don't want to take advantage of a drunk girl. Or she becomes self-conscious because she's the only one here drinking and now it's all awkward up in here.

The point is, no matter how cool you try to play it, all these forces conspire against you. Drunks v. sober people is as testy a relationship as the parents v. non-parents, business travelers v. families, and everyone v. teenagers conflicts. It's not insurmountable, but good luck.

And yes, you never turn away from a challenge. But sometimes there's just too much lava coming down the aggro-crag.

Thou Shalt Not Pass

I will fully admit that, on occasion, I have a rage problem (In my defense, rage is really the best of the seven deadly sins, with apologies to lust and gluttony). Many people make my vision run red, including, but not limited to: hipsters, hippies, nerds, children, teenagers, old people, and basically everyone who is not a man or woman in his or her mid-to-late-twenties who lives in the Northeast.

But you know who really takes the aggravation cake?

Slow-walkers.

Collectively known as "the worst people in the world," slow-walkers are those bastards who seem to have forgotten that the cardinal rule of city living is "Don't be in the way."

So they dilly. They dally. They linger. They weave. They shuffle. They waddle. They hesitate. They stop abruptly. They look around dreamily, as if seeing foot traffic for the first time. Those without the ability to walk and talk at the same time try to walk and text at the same time.

And that's just the individuals.

See, slow-walkers like to travel in packs. They form these impassable clumps of obliviousness that take up the entire width of a sidewalk, walking three or four abreast so that no man shall get by them. They are the unaware bouncers of the road, an awful symphony of slowness.

I am glad to see that I am not alone amongst the rage-aholics in wanting to wring Tim and Trudy Tourist by the neck. Researchers have identified something called "Sidewalk Rage," which is exactly what it sounds like.

Ragers tend to have a strong sense of how other people should behave. Their code: Slower people keep to the right. Step aside to take a picture. And the left side of an escalator should be, of course, kept free for anyone wanting to walk up.

But those make sense, right? If you're in a car and just have to take a picture, you'd pull over, right? While I know that pedestrians are not commanding a 2,000 pound killing machine, it's the same principle, right?

Apparently not.

"A lot of us have 'shoulds' in our head," says Dr. Deffenbacher. Ragers tend to think people should do things their way, and get angry because the slow walkers are breaking the rules of civility. It's unclear exactly why some people harbor such beliefs, Dr. Deffenbacher says. Such ways of thinking are generally learned from family, friends or the media, he adds.

Oh, so we harbor those beliefs because we learned them from family, friends, and the media. And you know what we've also learned from those things? EVERYTHING ELSE.

Ragers' thoughts tend to be overly negative, over-generalized and blown out of proportion, leaving them fuming about how they can't stand the situation, how late they are going to be, and how this always comes up, Dr. Deffenbacher says.

Fine. That's fair. I don't need to start throwing shoulders in order to get past Wally the Waddler. In fact, I could probably use a deep breath. But what's the alternative?

In contrast, someone blissfully free of sidewalk rage may still be frustrated, but thinks more accepting thoughts such as, "this is the way life is sometimes" or, "I wish that slow person wasn't in front of me," he says.

"I wish that slow person wasn't in front of me?" Are you kidding? Do people actually react this way? They go, aw shucks, I wish this aggravating thing wasn't happening? What an Eeyore way to go through life. What is this, Canada?

(Grumbles)

Look. I fully understand that it's unwise to develop rage blackouts because of mundane things like tourists, packs of teenagers, or young families who seem to be schlepping every single one of the baby's possession as if they're looking to make a base camp around the stroller's 3,400 square foot gravitational field.

So next time I'm out there, trying to get from A to B, I'm going to suppress the part of my brain screaming at me to slap the slow-walker upside the head. I'm not going to let their plodding, torpid pace bother me. I'm going to smile and I'm going to give them a friendly clap on the shoulder and I'm going to ask, "Say, pard, can I help you today?"

And I'll swallow my rage and direct it inwards, where it belongs.

Of Nukes and Dates

A few months ago, I met a girl for drinks. And twenty minutes into the conversation, out of nowhere, she asks me the following question:

"What's your favorite type of cat?"

I was reminded of that awful, mind-boggling moment when I came across this article that has been roaming around the internet for a few days. It's about the best questions to ask on a first date, but the premise is misleading. Instead of telling you which questions would open up your date and make her comfortable, it tells you which questions to ask if you want to find out if your date is up for getting it in that very same night without having to resort to the always awkward and usually futile strategy of flat out asking her.

So yes, if you look at it that way, those are the best questions to ask.

According to this thing, there is a strong correlation between people who like the taste of beer and people who are willing to dance the horizontal mambo on the first date. So what do you do? You ask her if she likes beer. If she says yes, SCORE! If she says no, well, you better change that drink order.

As the article says, "sadly, this is the only meaningful correlation for women." So no other questions we can ask them will imply that she might entertain the thought.

But what about men? Apparently, there are questions you can ask men that have an even stronger correlation with "willing to bone tonight" than "do you like the taste of beer?" And these are:

In a certain light, wouldn't nuclear war be exciting?

Assuming you were in the position to do so, would you launch nuclear weapons under any circumstances?

Could you imagine yourself killing someone?

There you have it, ladies! Nuclear war is the ultimate aphrodisiac, especially when we get to take the football and nuke the world three times over! Michelle Obama, you are one lucky lady.

But that's where this survey lost me. Because it implies that there are men out there who would say no to having sex on a first date. And that's the biggest load of horse manure since the Augean Stables.

OF COURSE we want to have sex on the first date. Why on earth wouldn't we? Yes, dates are good for getting to know someone and having a conversation and seeing if there might be something there and maybe starting that meaningful walk down Relationship Lane.

But let's tell truths here. When you take someone out, a big factor is that maybe, just maybe, she lets you see her naked. It's not the only factor -- we're way past the frat boy stage now. But it is what it is. Which, I guess, is what frat boys says. You know what I mean.

I'll admit there are times when a guy takes a girl out and he doesn't want to sleep with her. Maybe he's not attracted or maybe when he went back to her apartment she lived with five cats. These are perfectly legitimate reasons to pack up your balls and go home.

But if a guy tells you, "You know, not tonight. Maybe we should wait until the third date," there's something going on. Either he's lying or he's setting you up for something -- God knows what. My strategic foresight cannot fathom such a plan. But as your attorney, I would advise you to run.

On the other hand, that sounds like an entertaining long con. You forgo instant gratification for the possibility of better returns in the future. Interesting. And it would drive her crazy.

Hmmm.

(Stares out window and takes a sip of Scotch).

Random Video of the Day LXXXIII

It's been, what, two weeks since I've mentioned zombies?

Well, that streak is over. Don't act like you did not miss this.

I bring up zombies only as an introduction to this outstanding video game trailer. Yes, it's a trailer for a video game. Yes, I too was unaware these existed. I don't play video games.

But despite the fact that this is for a video game, this is one of the most harrowing, saddest, most awesome clips I've ever seen. Fair warning, there's a lot of blood and, um, dismemberment. And people being set on fire or mauled by other people. BUT. But if that doesn't bother you, then prepare to say, WOW.



Who said video games can't look like friggin' awesome films? Isn't the piano score just outstanding? If this was a movie, I'd totally be jumping up and down in my chair going, ohboyohboyohboy.

Crap. My chair just broke.

Cabs Are Here!

Congratulations, Boston! You have made the top of a list!

Of course, that list is the one titled, "Most Expensive Cabs in America," but still. Yay for winning!

Oddsmakers had favored New York City -- home of the $7.50 Bud Light bottle -- in the early going. Experience proved invaluable to debunk this, as the unforeseen occasional necessities to take cabs back into Manhattan early on Sunday morning from Whoknowswhere in Brooklyn or Wheretheballsarewe in New Jersey proved surprisingly reasonable indeed.

That said, this should come as no surprise to anyone who has ever had the pleasure of a Boston cab ride. Here, each mile traveled will cost the patron the borderline unconscionable sum of $2.80.

This wouldn't be horrible, considering that metro Boston is one of the smallest cities in America. However, the streets in Boston were designed 400 years ago by a blind drunk who just looooved walking in circles. As a result, city streets are a navigator's nightmare, looping endlessly, going southwest one moment and northeast the next, so there's no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going. So the danger must be growing and so forth.

Oh, and all the streets are one way.

The consequence of this is that, what should be a relatively simple trip turns into a months-long odyssey of missed turns, dead ends, and jaunts an astronaut could not weather. Sure, it may only be three miles from Harvard to Kenmore, but the meter says you owe the guy $17.80. Surprise!

And we haven't even gotten to the airport yet. A ten minute ride will somehow cost upwards of $30, owing mostly to the ridiculous per mile charge, but also to the completely unreasonable $8.00 surcharge for picking you up from the airport and paying tribute to its ruling tribes.

Perhaps the saddest thing of all is that this is not even the cabbies' fault. This report does a very good job of explaining how cabbies are getting even more screwed than we are, thanks to an oppressive medallion system that was instituted and capped back in 1931, when people still rode horses and airports were not really a thing yet.

So the cabbies are getting screwed by both the banks who hold title to the medallions and the municipalities who monopolize the street hailing trade. And we in turn get screwed by the cabbies.

And, as usual, there's no one for us to screw.

Oh. Wait a minute.

Cabs are here!

My Mind Is Going

Who knew Alex Trebek would be the one to preside over the robot apocalypse?

In case you missed it, last night featured what essentially looked like the prologue of a movie about the end of the world. This is how all dystopian movies start: An innocuous presentation of an exciting and experimental new technology somehow goes awry. Before you know it, things escalate, HAL 9000 is a reality, and Terminators roam our streets unchecked.

In this case, the end begins with Watson, a supercomputer that has the wherewithal to actually "understand" and answer questions that have different layers of meaning, such as the ones presented on Jeopardy. This is an unprecedented level of computer technology, and although Watson can arguably claim the smartest computer in the world title, I have put "understand" in quotation marks because Watson is not an artificially intelligent machine that understands things the way humans do. Instead, it ... well, let's let someone who knows what he's talking about explain it.

When Watson is given the clue via electronic text, it is run through a series of complex algorithms which pick apart keywords, the relation of those keywords to each other, and the structure in which those words were used. From there it begins an association process where it generates and eliminates possible answers based on those keywords. It will also take into consideration previous clues and responses from the same category.

So, as I understand it, Watson is making educated guesses based on the probability that the inferences it makes about the key words is the right one. From my admittedly imperfect understanding, the nerds are completely warranted in being besides themselves at this display of computer "reasoning."

And of course the way to test this was to go on jeopardy, where the questions are, in the words of a 75 year-old English professor, "somewhat glib yet refreshingly playful." Plus, it gets to be condescended to by Alex Trebek.

Watson, as you might imagine, did very well. In fact, the first few minutes of the game were absolutely horrifying, as Watson methodically worked its way down through the board, outbuzzing the game's greatest champions with all the charm and wit of an electronic alarm clock. The calm, monotonous robotic voice was terrifying. Maybe the IBM engineers could have made it not sound like HAL 90000.

And then Watson began to falter, unable to answer those questions where words have more than two meanings. While these failings may be a source of consternation to scientists, I could hear the collective sigh of relief from humans worldwide as they realized that the machine was not invincible.

But not me. In fact, the terror only grew. For these weren't just "wrong" answers in the way a human's answer would be wrong. In other words, the source of these mistakes wasn't an ignorance of the facts or a misapprehension of the premises.

No, these answers were "wrong" in the way crazy answers are wrong, totally divorced from the context of the situation. These are the wrong answers that an insane person would provide, completely divorced from reality and subject only to the misfiring synapses of faulty wiring.

And the fact that this is an intrinsic feature of the world's smartest computer is, quite frankly, the scariest thing I have ever heard.

So forgive me. It seems the little panic monster inside my head has awakened from its slumber. It is now running in circles, screaming at the skies and tearing its hair in handfuls.

If you never hear from this blog again, it will be because the panic monster's manic ravings have finally overwhelmed my mind and compelled me to take my baseball bat destroy this laptop before its gleaming silver screen finally eats me.

May God help us all.

What a Game, Old Sport

Just when I thought I'd spend Valentine's Day sobbing without the embrace of true love, the internets go and bring us this:

The Great Gatsby: The Video Game.

Yes, really. Someone once made a video game for this for the old NES. And if awesomeness was currency, this game would be Warren Buffet.

My favorite things, in no particular order:

a. In the very first level, you, playing as Nick Carraway, must travel through Gatsby's West Egg mansion and kill ornery caterers and drunk party guests doing the mashed potato on the fountains. You accomplish this by throwing what I believe is your hat at them.

b. It gets better. In the second level, you find yourself on top of a LIRR train, fighting escaped convicts.

c. And it keeps going. The boss of that level is (wait for it) THE EYES OF DR T.J. ECKLEBURG! And they shoot lasers at you! I know!

d. To power-up, you must drink martinis. Also, every once in a while you find a golden hat, and when you grab that, you turn into a Gold Suit wearing pimp who oozes swag.

e. The random pixelated cut scenes where Gatsby stretches out his arm for the green light at the end of the pier and promptly is abducted by what I imagine are aliens. Also, you get to see Daisy weeping over the shirts, if you're into that kind of thing.

f. When you find Gatsby, he tells you, "Good job, Old Sport." And his teeth gleam.

g. At some point you have to fight Meyer Wolfsheim, who does not throw those cufflinks made out of teeth at you. No, instead he -- and this is the best thing ever -- brings out the entire roster of the 1919 Black Sox to kill you with their bats. (!) (!!!!!) (!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

h. Other enemies include sewer alligators, dancing hobos, crabs, and the ghosts of German soldiers. Perhaps shockingly, you never fight Tom Buchanan.

I suppose that, solely for the mob connections, making a video game out of The Great Gatsby is not so far-fetched. If anything, it's a safer play than, say, Lolita, or Waiting for Godot.

It's safe to say, though, that this is the best video game adapted from an F. Scott Fitzgerald book ever.

Random Video of the Day LXXXI

In honor of the now incomprehensible Bob Dylan performing at the Grammys, I'd like to share a clip that is funny because it's true.



I'll still take guys playing their instruments and just singing a song over translucent eggs and ninja drumlines any way of the week. Which is why Mumford and Avett: Brothers and Sons was awesome. Also, Arcade Fire winning Album of the Year is f#$%ing outstanding news and more than makes up for the awful Lady Antebellum song winning everything else.

Brownie Points

I have just returned from an expedition to Commonwealth Avenue and find myself compelled to warn you to stay indoors. My only hope is that this missive reaches you in time. Once you set foot outside, all is lost.

Perhaps you've heard the rumors. If so, I'm afraid I must confirm them.

It's Girl Scout Cookie season.

As we speak, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of girl scouts are roaming the streets of our city, hawing their wares to a captive public. Once they lock upon a victim -- they like to call them "customers" -- there is no escape. You must buy those cookies.

It is one of life's greatest truths -- perhaps only behind "The only three people a man can trust are his barber, his tailor, and his bookie -- that if a girl scout wants to sell you cookies, you are compelled to buy them. They are unrefusable.

They are easily recognizable by their war cry. In a high, melodic tone, the girl scouts will say, "Hi, Mister!" before they approach. As we know, no man alive can resist a child when they call him "Mister." Much like the Smoke Monster's clicking, once you hear it, you're a goner.

And then, of course, you must buy their cookies. For what other alternative is there? You either buy their cookies or you become that heartless crank who stared into the eyes of total innocence only to refuse it. No? What do you mean "no?" Would you also refuse to pet a dog?

So there they sit, two boxes, smiling smugly at me on top of my kitchen counter. These are especially dangerous for someone who lives alone. With no one else to assist me in consuming them, the chore falls entirely to me. Yes, they're delicious. But for those of us straining to stay in their weight class, they're utter danger -- the nuclear option of cookie choices.

So I pray that you receive this in time. It's too late for me, but perhaps you can save yourself.

(Knocking on door)

Now who could that be?

Bless Me, iPhone, For I Have Sinned

As an occasionally religious person who periodically dabbles in vices that the church frowns upon, I often cast my eyes skyward, scanning the clouds for a glimpse of the thunderbolt for which I'm sure I'm fated.

Not because I think I can outrun it, but because I want my last words to be something awesome like "I regret nothing" or "Avenge me."

And this hubris, of course, is part of the problem. And perhaps I would be a little more repentant about my failings if I got yelled at by a terrified priest.

(Cut to Anthony Hopkins screaming, "I cast you out!" as he chases me with a crucifix).

The problem is, I haven't been to confession in 26 years. Which, if you're keeping count, is almost when I was born. I was a very naughty baby.

But now, thank God, there is finally an app for that.

The Catholic Church has officially sanctioned and endorsed an iPhone app that will walk you through the ten commandments and help you figure out which ones you've broken. Then, presumably, you take the list to shocked priest, who will then refer you to a superior who tells you gravely that for some people, there is just no hope.

Perfect, right? So I was going to download this app, but then I saw that it cost $1.99. Since I am unaware that there is a toll on the road to heaven, I had not been planning for this.

Briefly, I contemplated my options. If I am going to pay for an app, I better get some use out of it. So I decided to kill someone and steal their iPhone in order to use this app for free. That would give me two whole commandments to play with, and they're the big ones. I'll be damned -- quite literally -- if I pay for an app and am stuck on the pretty unexciting "Don't take the Lord's Name in vain" level.

Ultimately, I decided against getting the app at all. Refusing to know which sins I've committed, I figured, would be much like refusing to go to the doctor. Frankly, there are some things I'd rather not know. To be blissfully ignorant is to be truly content.

Plus, I know I'd just start playing Angry Birds somewhere around the second "Hail Mary."

...

Does it smell a little like sulfur or is it just me?

Trolo-lol

In a dispatch via Twitter today, Jimmy Kimmel implies that people who "LOL" usually are not actually laughing out loud, as they are saying, and instead are lying. To correct this misapprehension, he proposes that we change LOL to LQ, or "Laughing Quietly."

At first blush, it seems a reasonable proposal.

Go back and look at your chat transcripts. Then, if you're a stalker, look at someone else's chat transcripts. Notice anything?

You're right, there's a lot of LOLing going around. And, quite frankly, nobody is that funny. As much as it pains me to say it, not even me.

In fact, if you act out these transcripts and laugh out loud every time you happen across a LOL, the jokes and laughter will start to feel forced, almost like a first date between two thirty-somethings who haven't gotten laid in over a year.

The reason for this phenomenon is simple. People online are simply having a conversation and use LOL as polite shorthand to indicate that what the other person says is amusing. They may not actually be chuckling, but they're being entertained. And when they say LOL, it's almost like a smile and a nod. It signals to the other person that their conversational efforts are appreciated, and that they should, by all means, keep going so that both parties may continue to enjoy themselves.

Why do I know this? Because I, and every other person with whom I've had an online conversation, do occasionally laugh out loud. But when we do that, we don't just write down a meager "LOL." That would be insufficient. Instead, we write something like "I'm actually laughing out loud" or "literally laughing out loud" or some other such construct that tacitly acknowledges that when you merely "Laugh Out Loud," you're not really laughing at all.

So it's imperative that we get on the same page here. Not everybody subscribes to this philosophy and we are left with horrible misunderstandings and occasionally fights.

For example, I remember when I still did work in the library and I was sitting across from this girl. And I was chatting with her and she said something and I wrote down "haha." Which would have been fine, except she could see my face. And I was not laughing. Maybe I was smiling. And she called me out on it. And, in retrospect, she was obviously flirting, but since I'm an idiot, I went and gave her a complete explanation of how people laugh online, not unlike what I just outlined above. And then I wonder why I'm single.

So, in order to help out oblivious idiots like myself, I have devised a fairly simple shorthand for my humorous reactions. I should warn you that I don't LOL, because internet abbreviations are not manly and I have better things to do, like felling trees. Instead, I use variations of "haha" (Or "jaja," when chatting with folks back home) because, essentially, it's the same thing. To wit:

Haha = LOL. Again, not actually laughing, but indicating pleasant amusement and general enjoyment of the conversation.

Hahaha = Chuckling. Actually laughing. Emitting real sounds of mirth. May include shaking of shoulders.

Hahahaha+ = Chortling. Guffaws. Loud laughter, probably necessitating covering mouth with hand. Back in school, this meant hiding your face so the professor wouldn't think you were laughing at the details of testamentary witnesses.

Hahahahahahahaha (enter) hahahahahahah (enter) hahahahahahahaha = What you just said was freaking priceless and deserves to be memorialized forever either as a status update on Facebook or as an away message on this chat program. Maybe even a tweet.

ROFL = Used when something is so not funny that it becomes the opposite of funny. Because nobody actually Rolls On the Floor Laughing, using this would break a sarcasm detector.

I say with no small degree of hyperbole that standardizing our online laughter is of the utmost importance and should take precedence over most legislative goals. So I call on you, Senator and avid Twitterer John McCain, to help me co-sponsor this bill.

What? Not even a LOL?

Super Sunday

I'd like to extend a belated congratulations to the Green Bay Packers for winning the Super Bowl and finally, perhaps, getting that enormous, insufferable monkey called Brett Favre off their backs.

Most rational Packer fans realized long, long ago how much better off they were with Aaron Rodgers, who yesterday firmly chiseled his face in the Mt. Rushmore of current QBs you would want in a Super Bowl, next to Brees, Brady, and Manning.

But every now and then you find the screaming lunatics who just can't let go of Captain No-Pants. They're like those family members who keep asking you, year after year, about how you should get back with the insane and preening drama queen you finally managed to dump long ago, even though you've been with a solid 9 for the past few years who 28 of your 31 friends would kill to trade up for.

Hopefully, crazy people, you have now quietly returned to your caves. May we never hear from you again.

In other news, last night's event also featured what has charitably been called "The Worst Half Time Show Ever." Prudence would dictate that I refrain from giving an opinion on the matter, since I refused to watch it and instead retired to the kitchen in an effort to preserve my tenuous fate in humanity.

But I could still occasionally listen to snippets of the Black Eyed Peas, and I can say with no trace of hyperbole that listening to mating hyenas on 11 would be more appealing. And I've caught glimpses of the space combat suits they wore for the spectacle and some things just cannnot be unseen.

So normally I'd call out the criminals who green lit this debacle and wish a highly elaborate death involving acid, sharks, and thousands of shards of red-hot bamboo on them. But I imagine that they saw the show, which is a worse fate than the most awful, blood-thirsty, inhuman punishment that Dr. Mengele could come up with if he had ever paired up with the Spanish Inquisition. Even God may not have mercy on their souls.

As for the commercials, I was afraid for a couple of hours there that all American Corporations got into a massive war and only Doritos, Bud Light and Pepsi Max were left standing. But then, eventually, commercials for other commodities made their appearance. And it was worth it. Big props to the outstanding Tiny Darth Vader ad, the effectively stirring Chrysler commercial, and --although I may be biased, the Bridgestone reply all commercial. After all, who hasn't accidentally sent off one of those and then wanted to run screaming from the room to destroy all email-receiving technology in the tri-state area.

Big props for the "Do Not Attempt" disclaimer.

Random Video of the Day LXXIX

I would totally watch a McBain movie. "Bye, Book."

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Attack of the Deranged Fun Killer Monster Snow Goons

Chaos on the arts quad yesterday, as Cornell police were summoned to break up a gun fight.

...

I'm sorry, that's not what happened. I'm getting word that it was not a gun fight.

Chaos on the arts quad yesterday, as Cornell police were summoned to break up a knife fight.

...

It was not a knife fight?

Chaos on the arts quad yesterday, as Cornell police were summoned to break up a rock fight.

...

I'm being told that it was also not a rock fight, and being yelled at for not waiting for my producer to finish his sentence before I blurt out speculative misinformation.

...

Wait, say that again?

...

Snowballs?

...

It was a snowball fight?

...

They brought in the police force to break up a goddamned snowball fight?

Chaos on the arts quad yesterday, as Cornell police were summoned to break up a snowball fight.

According to reports, "[t]he Cornell University Police Department shut down the second annual 'Epic Snowball Fight on the Arts Quad' Wednesday, apprehending a student, confiscating tin shields and knocking over a six-foot snow penis."

I, for one, would like to commend the authorities in Ithaca from shifting their focus from arresting those who throw awesome parties to breaking up snowball fights.

Overreaction does not even begin to cover this. These are people throwing frozen precipitation at each other.

But, as expected, the fun police would have none of it. According to the CUPD, they received a complaint (presumably from Mr. Wilson or some other such miserable grouch) and decided to intervene, as the fight was “putting both people and property at the potential for injury and damage,” including maybe breaking the windows at Olin.

We have yet to hear from ballistics experts as to the destructive capacity of the weapons involved in the fracas, but a source close to the investigation tells us that, "it looks like they're pretty much just water."

And look. If a kid had bad enough aim to break a window, he's probably getting clobbered by everyone else. Is that not a sufficient punishment?

No word yet on what preparations the police are undertaking for next May's yearly water balloon fight.

No More Snow, No Mo'

If you are reading this, congratulations! You have survived Snowpocalypse III: Return of the Snowmaggedon.

While I fully accept that I complain about the snow more than most, I have grown rather tired of seeing the following Facebook message template:

[Expression of surprise at existence of snow in February]. [Lamentation and general whining]. [Insincere promise to migrate to warmer climates]. [Emoticon denoting grief].

But honestly, this last superstorm has too much meat to ignore.

Witness, if you will, the following map of the United States. That's an actual, science-given map. And hey, you know what kind of looks exactly like that? The mock-up used in the awful Day After Tomorrow movie! Half the continent has been canceled using nature's White-Out. Good thing people don't live anywhere near there, right?

Oh.

Yesterday, I was making fun of Caitlin because people in Chicago were permanently misplacing their composure over the threat of a mere two feet of snow, whereas here in Boston we were facing our 3,429th two-foot storm of the season and reacting with a tepid shrug.

Now, I take it all back. While two feet of snow may be a "been there, done that" amount, it sure is amplified when all of it comes down in the span of six or seven hours. Imagine the difference between sipping a 40 or having the whole contents of one dumped into a funnel. While the former is frankly inconvenient and best to be avoided, I guarantee you that the latter will bring the wrath of Uncle Ralph all over your now-ruined snowboots.

I mean, look at Brick Tamland, formerly known as a stead 25-year veteran of meteorology, completely spaz out on camera like a five year old who just saw Barney hug a Teletubby:

Loud Noises, indeed.

Or this other video. I don't know what's worse, the authorities looking for survivors amongst cars abandoned on Chicago's main road, or the random coyotes roaming around looking for carrion.

That's right. Coyotes descending on our nation's third biggest city like it's some abandoned outpost in some forgotten wild west ghost town.

So I apologize to you, Caitlin, and to all other residents of the Chicagoland area for underestimating your snowstorm. In the distant future, when the snow melts and brave explorers come upon all of you frozen in blocks of ice, I promise not to make too many Encino Man jokes.

In the meantime, I would like to be the first to welcome our new snowy overlords. You may have taken the White Stripes, and that is an extremely hard sacrifice to make. But perhaps now you will leave us alone.

(Looks at Saturday forecast)

Son of a bitch.

Hill-J-ell Date

We've all been to alumni events where the coordinators in charge of asking for gifts try to appeal to our generous spirit. They use many tricks strategies to get at our wallets. And these strategies are on a sliding scale of effectiveness, from its topmost setting of free top shelf drinks down to free beer down to free swag down to everything else.

But why nobody ever thought of handing out free dates is beyond me.

This year, the geniuses at Cornell Hillel have come up with a bold new project. You donate some money, and they'll hook you up.

Quite literally. They'll set you up with a fellow member of Hillel. Or, in their own words, "imagine the possibilities as you wait to be paired on a date." Although the lawyer part of me insists that all they promise you is a waiting period wherein you can fantasize about a potential future date, I'm sure they'll actually find someone to awkwardly introduce to you.

So fear not, affluent Jews from the tri-state area! If you have failed to find a match while you were at Cornell, or when you went to visit your friends at Penn, or even now that you have moved to Murray Hill, Hillel is here to find your better half for you.

It's a bold strategy. On the one hand, getting a date is probably better than getting yet another key chain. Or one of those (sic) "Lynah Fateful" pins. Maybe not better than a beer coozy -- those are useful indeed -- but it is nice to see an organization step up its swag.

On the other hand, putting the horrifying word "blind" together with the terrifying "date" creates a molecular globule of pure and utter petrifying ghastliness to make the blood run as cold as our current Worst Winter Ever.

I'm not saying a Blind Date is the worst thing in the world. But if Open and Bar are the two greatest words in the English language, then Blind and Date are the complete opposite of that.

That said, I have nothing to do this Thursday, an extra ten dollars, and JDate won't have me. Something about not being among The Chosen.

But not everyone knows this.

Hmm.