My rage burns with the fire of a million suns.

Sometimes it just burns with the fire of the cheese on a slice of leftover pizza you microwaved for too long, and you hurt the roof of your mouth. Either way, my rage burns at one time or another. (That pizza thing is pretty darned hot, too, if you haven’t done it before.)

It burns for a different reason every day. I stew in my anger, letting my half-digested lunch bubble in my bowels of hate. I compile a list of every sin against all that is good and holy in my life, and I gnash my teeth and reread the list every night, reminding myself of why I foster all of this anger. It’d suck if I forget why I’m angry, after all.

To the so-called coworkers (a.k.a. brain-dead monkeys) who forgot to tell me it was Friday.
In fact, this applies to every twit out there who didn’t tell me it was Friday. I want to know that it’s Friday, for multiple reasons. I get free beer at work on Friday afternoons, but if I sneak out of work early, I don’t get the free beer, now, do I? Noooooooooo. This is everyone’s fault but mine. All of my coworkers (er, brain-dead monkeys) know that I am placated by employer-provided free beer. Do they stop me from taking a late lunch and not returning to my desk? NO! They’re secretly trying to hoard the free beer for themselves. They can all rot in hell.

To all of the lying, boggling, caviling, dodging, equivocating, hedging, quibbling, shifting, and sidestepping goons of the world who told me that I could MAKE MONEY FAST stuffing envelopes at home.
… the less said, the better.

To Papa Murphy’s, and your take-and-bake pizza.
You’re worse than a Colombian drug lord, or a vacant-faced dope pusher with his ‘the first one’s free’ schtick. No, no, much worse. You’ve got your little ‘buy twelve get one free’ deal. You have a little business card that you stamp each time I buy a pizza. And as part of your vile conspiracy, you make GOOD pizzas. Chris Carter and the X-Files have NOTHING on you. You’ve planned this. You’ve got me coming back there twice a week, if not more, and getting your large combination pizza for $8.99, and making me live off of it for two days. You heartless, cruel, vindictive, evil bastards. You go to hell, too. I hope that Satan’s blazing pits of fire overcook your pizzas and burn your crusts.

To Caroline Walker Bynum.
Yeah, you too. You succubus. Temptress. Seductress. There is no justification for you. You instilled a love for medieval history in me, and I ended up going to college, getting a degree, and winding up in ten years of student loan debt. If it weren’t for you, I would be a night manager at Burger King. I wouldn’t have any student loan debt. I’d be brainless and uneducated and wondering why my hand hurts when I reach into the deep-fat fryer. God damn you to hell. And Maeglin, by extension, since he had a chance to end your horrific reign of terror at Columbia, but decided instead to become your feared lieutenant at the SDMB.

To Mike, the guy who restocks the Wheel of Death at work.
You. I’m calling you out, Mike. You, with your bagels, ramen noodles, banana breads, Hot Pockets, microwaveable burritos, and twinkies. You, with a vast assortment of goodies priced from $.80 to $2.00. You, who keep the rotating vending machine known as the Wheel of Death filled with the addictive goodies. If it weren’t for you, I’d save money. I’d eat a good breakfast, and a healthy lunch. Do you care? No. Are you sympathetic? No. Your diabolic plan is reaching fruition by preventing me from reaching nutrition. The steak-n-cheese Hot Pocket, only $1.25 – cheaper than I’d pay at the grocery store! And six other kinds, if I don’t feel like steak-n-cheese. This iniquity will not go unpunished, oh, no. From now on, whenever I succumb to my weakness and purchase breakfast or lunch from the Wheel of Death, I’ll repay you. I’m putting a little packet of non-dairy creamer into the vacant spot left. If you want to continue your abhorrent practice, you’ll need to remove the packet first. It may not stop you, but it will slow you down. This is the modern equivalent of French resistance fighters in the second World War. Soon, I’ll have to start buying everything with nickels, just to fill up the change box, so you’ll have a hassle emptying it. Vengeance is mine, I shall repay.

To Best Buy and Western Digital.
You couldn’t be satisfied, could you. You couldn’t just stop at providing a great selection of electronics, and couldn’t just stop at selling good hard drives, could you. No, you had to conspire against me. You had to offer a 40G hard drive, and 128M of ram, for only $150 after rebate. You KNEW I wouldn’t be able to pass that by. You KNEW that I’d even take advantage of it twice. You, with your coupons and flyers and special bargains. You did that just to get me in the door so I’d then look at the 72" high definition projection TV, and convince myself that no money down, no interest, no payments for six months is a good deal. But I’m too smart for you, indeed, I am. Your maleficence and conniving ways have no effect on me. No, I merely racked up $500 of computer components I don’t really need, and you get to keep $200 of that until you send me the rebates in six to eight weeks. No, I’m too canny for you.

To Penguin Mints.
You, you, you. There are no words for the depths of your depravity, and your outrageous mendacity. You, with your innocent website. You, with your caffeinated mints, and your caffeinated cinnamon mints, and your decaffeinated peppermints. You, with your bulk discount for ordering dozens of tins. You’re in league with Papa Murphy. You’re in cahoots with Mike. You’re part of the Bynum conspiracy. It seems so innocent, doesn’t it. Peppermints to freshen my breath, and caffeine to wake me up. Seventy-five mints per tin. If you were really so innocent, and these mints were really only what you said they were, how come I’ve gone through over forty tins in three months, huh? Huh? You’re deliberately trying to coat my arteries with sorbitol, gum arabic, corn starch, and natural peppermint extract. But I’m too smart for you, yes, I am. My tinfoil hat will keep me safe.

To the Tampa Bay Buccanneers.
You picked up Ryan Leaf? You think you have a quarterback problem with Shaun King, and you think you can fix it with Ryan Leaf? Nothing more needs to be said.

And finally, to Jerry Lewis, and Jerry Lee Lewis.
You two both deserve to rot in the umpteeth circle of hell. Not because you directly affected my life in any way, but because * for the love of God I lived twenty-four years without knowing you were two separate people.* I went through life thinking that “Goodness gracious great balls of HEY LAAAAAAADY!” came from the same person. I thought that the performer whom the French strangely love was the same performer who married his underage cousin in Kentucky. You have no RIGHT to do this to me. You have no IDEA how aghast I was when this was explained to me. No, this was not explained to me in the privacy of my own home. No, this was not explained to me in the company of a few close friends, who would snicker momentarily and then forget about this. No, this was not even explained to me while giving a presentation to a board of directors. YOU TWO KEPT UP THIS CHARADE UNTIL MY GIRLFRIEND WONDERED WHAT THE HELL I WAS TALKING ABOUT. She’ll never let me forget about this. She now has the nuclear weapon of relationships. She can merely whisper “Jerry Lewis!” into my ear and I’ll curl into a mortified fetal position. She can win any argument, no matter how many cites I provide, or how many links to authoritative sources.

Jerry Lewis, you go to hell. Jerry Lee Lewis, you lead the way.

Is the “T” silent in ROFTLMAO?

Bravo. Bravissimo.

Dude, the Bucs picked up Ryan Leaf? Shit, I figured Jerry Jones was all over that guy. Oh well, I’m sure he’ll find some other talentless head case to blow the salary cap on.

Um, at the risk of making your rage burn even more ragingly (is that a word??), could you please give us the details on this?:

That just sounds like a moment I gotta hear about. I’m beggin ya.


----:D/ x o x o x

What the fuck?

Jerry Lewis and Jerry Lee Lewis are two different people?


So what’s the deal with Tommy Lee Jones and Pamela Anderson?

They are also two different people. Jerry Lewis <–> Jerry Lee Lewis I can understand, but if you get Pamela Anderson Lee mixed up with Tommy Lee Jones, you really need new glasses. Although, if they were the same person, Al Gore would have been the luckiest Harvard freshman ever.

Either that, or Tommy Lee was in for quite a surprise on his wedding night.

I just think it’s too bad that that nice young actor had to go and crash his car before he perfected the breakfast sausage.

(hee hee hee)

Rub it in, whydontcha… now where’s the smartass who’ll say “Isn’t it surprising that after eight years out of politics, George Bush was re-elected to the White House?”

Now, now LNO, tell us whats really buggin’ you.

Could it be you went to HOOTERS with your PECKERS restraunt idea, and they didn’t buy it?:slight_smile:

Or not.

Hmmm… one hundred thousand suns MAXIMUM.

Hehe that Papa Murphys is some good stuff have some once a week when I head out to my Dad’s house on Sunday… Are they everywhere now, or are they just in Minnesota? Yeah, what do they put a pound of cheese on those buggers or what?

I been looking at this thread a couple days now.
And jsut now read it.

Who the fuck are you and can I be your friend?

I’m just a quiet guy who made the mistake tonight of thinking that White Castle hamburgers weren’t a mistake. That’s fodder for another thread, though.

According to Papa Murphy’s corporate profile, they have 628 stores in 21 states. All I know is one opened a quarter-mile from my house last fall. The only explanation for the raw evil that emanates from that store is that they’ve got a portal to hell in the back room.
[sub]And I always ask for raw evil on just half the pizza, but they always screw it up.[/sub]

The HOOTERS/PECKERS idea is another source of my burning rage. Along with White Castle, they’ll be called out in the next barrage.

To set the stage: we were snuggling warmly on my couch some Friday night, watching Jay Leno’s monologue with the intention of soon being too distracted by, um, other things to pay attention to his guests. For one reason or another, Jay Leno mentioned the annual telethon that Jerry Lewis runs. I commented, “You can only play Great Balls of Fire so many times before people stop donating, can’t you?”

Laura paused and looked at me quizzically. “Who are you talking about?”

“Jerry Lewis, the whole telethon thing.” I tickled her lightly. “You know, Leno just said something about it.”

“No, you said something about great balls of fire.”

“Right, that guy who says HEY LADY and stuff. And why do the French like Great Balls of Fire so much, anyway?”

She blinked, and tried to parse what I just said. “Wait, wait. Are you talking about Jerry Lewis or Jerry Lee Lewis?”

I raised one eyebrow in incomprehension. “Aren’t they the same person?”

Her face lost all expression. She sat up and stared at me. “You think that Jerry Lewis and Jerry Lee Lewis are the same person?”

At this point, I began to be a little hesitant. “Um … well, er, uh … [sub]yeah.[/sub]” I suddenly felt a lot less self-confident.

“You KNOW they aren’t the same person.”

“Well …” I avoided eye contact.

“You mean you DIDN’T know?!”

At this point, there’s no weaseling out. No matter how many games of Diplomacy I’ve played, that situation is a dead end. I gathered what remaining courage I had, took a deep breath, set my shoulders, and said, “No.”

I had to wait a while for her to respond. You know, for her to quit laughing hysterically, and to get off the floor, and to wipe the tears from her eyes. I tried to get her to stop of her own accord. I tried every weapon in my book:[ul][li]Pretending I was joking, and that I really knew the difference. She didn’t buy it.[]Laughing along with her, trying to pre-empt the rest of the laughter. No luck there, mostly because I couldn’t muster enough effort to really laugh at myself.[]Making vague but stern threats if she wouldn’t stop. I don’t think I appeared authoritative in the least, as she’d just keep pointing and shrieking with laughter.Even my previous nuclear weapon of relationships, my puppy-dog eyes, quivering lip, and a lone tear rolling down my cheek – useless. (That one is the last straw- much like a previous girlfriend who would say “But … don’t you love me anymore?” to get her way when nothing else worked.)[/ul]Soon enough, she had pity on me, and rejoined me on the couch. Unfortunately, though, the snuggling went no further that night, as she’d periodically say “Jerry Lewis!” and start snickering. I haven’t forgiven her for this. Much like Scylla and his tale of love and vomit and betrayal by his wife and daughter, revenge is mine. The linoleum waits for us all.[/li]
Or, in this case, the Jerry Lewis telethon waits for us all.

Well, Goodness Gracious!
Thanks for sharing- that cracked me right the hell up. I can just picture Jerry Lewis playing “Great Balls of Fire” at his annual Telethon…jumping up on the piano and such. Hilarious! :slight_smile: :slight_smile:


OK, I think I’ve got the Jerry and Jerry Lee part now, but Jerry Lewis and Shari Lewis: One’s just the other one in drag right?

It’s all so confusing!


I am now cleaning the Kung Pao Chicken off of my computer screen, and wiping the tears from my eyes. Why must you be so damn funny at lunchtime?

[Charleton Heston]Goddamn . . . Why God, Whyyyy?!?[/Charleton Heston]


Three words: French Bread Pizza.

Fuck man, you microwave it and can put in in the freezer for an hour to cool it down and the first bite still turns the roof of your mouth into shredded, oozing pustules.

Oh, and I like White Castle, incidentally…

Just for the record, White Castle kicks ass. You can’t get it out here in the southwest. Sure, they have the little frozen burgers at the grocery store, but those aint even the same fuckin’ thing. It’s like eating Jack Daniel’s wings at TGI Friday’s and then buying the grocery store version.
Not even close to the real thing.

So in any case, I hope you get over your rage at the world, LNO. Or actually, I don’t, because your rants are hilarious.

Further, I will ever be in your debt for creating cirucumstances that allowed for the creation of a mental image of Tripler with kung pao chicken spraying out of his nose. I’ll still be chuckling over that come tomorrow.