Today I have a clip from the Daily Show. In the clip, comedian Demetri Martin takes a look at social networking on the internet, AKA myspace.

This brings me to the second part of this posting - myspace, although it is childish, "gay," and for "retards," myspace, I have to admit is fun, in a waste of time type of way.

I signed up for myspace about a year ago, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. My account stood still for months, Tom was my only friend. Then something happened around Decemberish. My girlfriend got an account, her friends got accounts, my friends got accounts; I gave it another shot. Eh, it did nothing for me at first, I got some more friends, people left asinine comments. If I was going to be a internet nerd I was just going to stick with my message boards.

A few weeks ago something else happened, I don't know what it was, maybe I woke up on the other side of the bed, or maybe I leaned too hard on one cheek while dropping a duce, I don't know - BUT NOW, I AM ADDICTED!

I like leaving asinine comments and pictures and gifs. I enjoy posting and replying to bulletins. I find comfort in hunting down long lost aquaintinces, and then, making them my friends. I think it is totally bitchin' to have famous friends - where else other than myspace could I call Locke, Sawyer, and Mr. Eko of Lost, Pam and Kevin of The Office, and a handful of my favorite music groups, comedians, and random celebs, MY FRIENDS. Nowhere. I can't forget the #1 point of myspace - accumulating has many friggin friends as possible. Who cares if you don't know know them, as long as the thank you for the "add" it is all good in the hood.

So, if you are reading this and you are on myspace and you are feeling friendly, add me, please, *I need more friends!

My, myspace.

*Geoff is not as desperate and pathetic as he seems to be.


clip, again, incase your forgot.

Today I went to my tri-decade dentist appointment. I have no reason for not getting the recommended bi-yearly or yearly check ups. I have better things to do. A tooth was bothering me a bit, so I went for a check up. Check up, haha.

It's a funny thing, these dental check ups. When I go to my family doctor for a check up, aka a physical, for the most part these check ups are fairly pain free. He listens here, you breath there, he squeezes that. No big deal.

The dental check up on the other hand. . .The dentistry field, with the exception of novocaine, the field of dentistry operates as if it is still 1775. While cardiologist are performing intricate heart surgery with tiny cameras, microscopic tools, and laser beams - the dental assistant is still stabbing your mouth with a cornucopia of sharp, archaic, metal tools.

I realize this topic has been covered by numerous people, but god damn man, I do not like being stabbed anywhere, let alone in the soft gummy area of my mouth.

I fell in love with the procedure of finding cavities. With a sharp metal tool in hand, the dentist, with a swift stabbing motion - BAAAAAM - he stabs the cavity in the heart. If the patient says, "Jesus!", it's not a cavity. If the patient cries, it is a cavity.

I have two cavities, my mouth hurts a lot more now than it had prior to my check up.

The RIAA argues in a DMCA rule-making filing that copying for personal use (to an iPod) is not fair-use.

read more | digg story

This here, you see, is a interview with Michael Cera, the talented young man who plays George Michael Bluth.

It is a little old, from the beginning of the season, but it is good, and long.

"Do you think though that you need a certain amount of intelligence to understand the jokes on the show?

I guess. Here's the thing: they are just filthy jokes, but you have to have a certain amount of intelligence to decipher them and know that it's just a dirty penis joke. But when it gets right down to it, that's what it is."

The interview.

The Daily Show's coverage of the Cheney birdman shooting.

^^^ me wasting time at work.

I found this while looking through del.icio.us.

I live right outside of Philly. Over the weekend Philly and its surrounding areas (thats me) got hit with snow, like a fat 50 love fake. That makes no sense, and I hate that song.

Heading on with my bad-self.

Yesterday, Sunday, with over a foot of snow on the ground it was time to start digging our cars out. Digging, though, involves shovels and other instruments similar to shovels. But I'm a student of Cavemanity, and we Cavemananites use no such modern easy-makers. . .

Okay, we just didn't have shovels. God I needed a shovel. Instead, me, my girlfriend, and my brother, we got on our hands and knees and dug. We dug like humanoid dogs.

My car was first, it wasn't too bad. We cleared the snow out from around my back tires so I could back up. I jumped in the car and slammed that thang into reverse, vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrroooom, sqqqqqqqqqqeeeeeeeeal-my car starts spinning counter-clock wise, I didn't know it had that ability. Forward, reverse, forward, reverse, counter-clock wise. After a few minutes, I'm as cool as the rubber burned snow.

Next.

My brother's car. His car is old, an 89' skylark. It was passed down to him from my girlfriend, who had it passed down to her from her brother, who had it passed down to him from old dead lady.

We dig for a bit and we figure we could just take the same approach we did with my car - force it out of the snow with pure power. One thing, this car lacks said power. With my brother and myself pushing, and my girlfriend in the driver's seat, the wheels keep spinning me right round, like a roller coaster blah blah blah. Our efforts were futile.

We go in and warm up, we eat some pasta and meat-ta-balls.

Round two. Us, brain using humans vs. The soulless, inanimated snow.

We a ponder a bit.

We fill up the teapot and put it on high.

We are taking it back to medieval times.

We run outside with boiling teakettle in hand. The snow doesn't even see it coming. Of course it doesn't, I kicked out its eyes earlier.

splash-sizzle-sizzle, splash-sizzle-sizzle, splash-sizzle-sizzle, splash-sizzle-sizzle.

Sounds of terror and chaos fill the frozen night sky. The snow shrieks, but no one gives a damn. For, we are on the tundra - the tundra of the dead.

My brother jumps in the car. I'm holding the steaming teapot.

The car goes forward, backwards, forward, backwards, hover to the left, hover to the right - BANG! The car escapes its frozen snow tomb.

The car, out of pure joy, has too much momentum. He slides across the icy street almost into another snow grave. The War-worn skylark flexes its break muscles and stops inches. From. Sure. Death.

Meanwhile, I am rolling in the snow, with the teapot, crying my eyes in laughter from the sight of everything that just happened.