Personal Grooming 2: Rise of the Neckbeards

We've all seen them before. They're there lurking at the fringes of the video rental store, or occasionally peeking over the shelves at the bookstore. Most often, they're found in their lairs (either the parent's basement or the local gaming store), obsessing over the latest user-input distraction (read video game), their personal pr0n boxes (read PC), or crafting their very own fantasy worlds where they're god-kings with young, attractive, nubile members of the opposite sex falling all over themselves to join up with this paragon of testosterone.
I'm talking of course, about those social rejects often referred to as nerds.
Nerds have enjoyed a huge surge of popularity over the past decade or so, simply due to the fact that we have gone (as a society) from industry based mouth breathers to technology based rescue inhaler breathers. Allegedly, there is something incredibly sexy about pasty white skin, sunken chests, social retardation, and a crippling inability to carry on any sort of meaningful relationship with a REAL WOMAN that aforementioned women find irresistible.
So what is a member of the nerdcore to do when he is suddenly confronted with real life boobs?
Originally, they would panic, break out into sweat, stutter uncontrollably, and quickly run away, only to find some dark corner of their room to mentally review the boobage while having a meaningful relationship with themselves.
For many years, nerds relied on ill-fitting, outdated clothes rescued from their parents closets. When that stopped chasing women off, nerds went on the offensive, and taking a cue from the war in Vietnam, developed Body Odor. Now, normal body odor can cause a nose to wrinkle, but in the hands of a true nerd, the odor takes on a whole new dimension - one that has been carefully cultivated with a steady diet of fast food, dark places, pr0n and growth beds based solely on the same clothes being worn for weeks at a time. By the time a nerd has cultivated their own unique funk, this new Body Odor (notice the capitals) has the ability to not only singe the hairs in your nose, but can also peel the paint off of a new car. Combined with Proto-Offensive Halitosis, the modern nerd is indeed a formidable force for self-bleaching of the gene pool.
Today's nerds however, have developed an insidious new tool to chase off even the most ardent suitors. Through genetic manipulation, many nerds have actually managed to survive puberty, and have managed to develop hair where normally it wouldn't grow. Specifically, the neck.
Lo! The neckbeard! The most disgusting growth of fur on the male body. Granted the beard has long been a staple of nerddom, but many nerds had the foresight to grab a razor and trim the beast back into shape. However, a new crop of ubernerds has discovered that by cultivating the neckbeard, not only do they keep their adam's apple warm, but they also manage to reduce their sex appeal to negative nill. For example:




This is actually a cross between a neckbeard and a chinstrap. So, double chances of getting women to love on him.

Do me a favor, If you see the neckbeard, grab a razor, charge the wearer, and scream at the top of your lungs "I HAVE TO SHAVE THAT PARASITE OFF OF YOUR NECK!" while swinging the razor.
Believe me, after he recovers, he will thank you vigorously for giving him his sex life back.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go shave.

Farming Games

What is it about these programs on social network sites that require you to put on your digital dungarees and muck around on a farm that in real life you would probably go no where near?
The two biggest offenders are "Farmville" and "Farm Town" - both require tilling the land you have, planting seeds, going to your "neighbor's farms" and doing something that helps out another farm. After several hours (or days) you reap your plants and get money and experience to spend on more stuff for your farm. In order to unlock certain new items, you either have to spend real money for fake in-game money or pester the hell out of your friends to join the game and become your neighbor. Now, this repetitive action is nothing new. In fact, it's not even exclusive to farm simulations. The "official" term for this is grinding.
According to Dictionary.Com; the term "Grinding" means to work or study laboriously; while the Urban Dictionary defines grinding as A repetitive task usually involved in a Massively Multiplayer Online Role playing game (MMORPG) where a character's skill's are based entirely on killing monsters to gain strengths or levels. In most MMORPGs, there is no skill from the player involved, so anyone who plays 20 hours a day of grinding will be stronger than a player who does not. MMORPGs become a game genre filled with those who are too slow to play First-Person Shooters (FPS) or too dumb to play Real Time Strategy (RTS)
Many people have the patience and fortitude to constantly churn out these repetitive actions over and over again, reveling in the fact that they have unlocked the latest addition, or they've reached some new level that is just ungodly impossible to reach under normal means. This type of dedication is commendable, and if used in the proper context, much could be accomplished.
If you think about it, this type of dedication is not new either - this type of single-minded dedication can be traced back to the mid-1980's when an entirely new type of electronic entertainment debuted in America. Of course, I'm talking about the original Nintendo Entertainment System. The original opiate of prepubescent boys everywhere, the NES taught entire generations that a single minded dedication, combined with a total lack of actual real life interaction can get you to levels of a game that has no real life application to speak of, baring the fact that the player has managed to waste time that could have been better put to learning a new language, or finishing projects, or even doing naughty stuff.
Obviously, with all of this intense focus on attaining ever higher levels, the aforementioned naughty stuff is really non existent. Partially due to the fact that 1) naughty stuff requires real life interactions, and 2) personal hygiene has a bad habit of disappearing due to the inconvenience of having to step away from the computer long enough to dispose of gamer funk - that odd, strangely repellent odor of old caffeine, body odor, stale junk food, and despair.
Now other people have no interest in these types of games - They're either too busy working on stuff they don't want to, or they figure they're too cool to geek out about these games. Instead of posting updates on their levels on these games, they will often post multitudes of pictures of their dogs, kids, wall stains, or religious figures appearing on various foodstuffs on their page. This is secretly due to the fact that these people feel like they have to keep up with the proverbial Jones' updates.
I suppose the long and short of the entire thing is that regardless if you play or not, the true issue lays in the fact that Facebook is the problem. Apparently, the simple fact of posting your status updates is much more important that real life face to face interactions.

Oh, and before anyone starts getting pissy about those two groups, I've been in both. In fact, I spent close to 20 years in the first group...
so, I speak from first hand experience.

The Strange Device in the Basement.

My grandmothers basement is filled with jewels of novels that I've never read, so one night after my weekly visit, I strolled down into the dark and seldom visited basement, past the old boxes and forgotten memories to retrieve one such book that might hold my imagination.
While reaching for a book that looked particularly mysterious and gruesome, I saw something that caught my eye, nearly hidden in a dark corner. An old guitar case that belonged to Uncle Jeff. Mere curiosity forced me to gather the case but the weight of the case took me by surprise. It was much heavier than I would have suspected... From what I could remember about Jeff, he always played acoustic guitars, but this was way too heavy for an acoustic guitar.
As the nearest light was a good fifteen feet away, I lugged the case over to the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Under the glare of the bare bulb, I examined the case. The faux leather case had definitely seen much better days, and a few of the stickers were faded into obscurity, wile others were torn or scratched beyond recognition.
The clasps on the case were showing signs of rust, and a look at the hinges revealed much the same with the hinges on the opposite side. For some reason, there was a tightness in my chest that made it difficult to breathe - at the time, I didn't know if it was from fear, excitement or something else. Reaching out, my hands trembled as I touched the clasp, trying to open it.
I didn't know what to expect - perhaps a heavenly chorus, or shafts of light shooting forth from the case. In some part of my mind, I wouldn't have been surprised if a ton of flesh eating beetles had surged forth and picked my bones clean in thirty seconds.
What I wasn't expecting was the clasp to be stuck.
Exhaling sharply, my head swam while I contemplated the fact that nothing had happened. Trying the clasp again, the metal still refused to move.
Anticipation quickly devolved into frustration as I tried to pry the clasp apart with my fingers, and then with my keys. Unable to budge the rusted metal, I stood up, feeling my legs protest with the sudden strain on them.
Casting about the room, I caught a glimpse of a screwdriver on top of a stack of magazines. Stepping over some unidentified trash on the floor, I grabbed the flashlight, and crouched back down to work on the clasp again.
After several minutes of cussing and scrabbling at the lock, I managed to get the metal apart. With my breath catching in my throat, I slowly lifted the lid, visions of souls whipping out and melting my face, much like a Nazi glimpsing the ark of the covenant.
The only thing that wafted out was a stale, dusty smell that set me off on a vicious sneezing fit. After getting myself under control, I looked at the inside of the case, finally getting a look at the prize inside the case.
Inside was the most bizarre looking musical instrument I had ever seen. It looked like equal parts guitar and bagpipes with some possible dulcimer and kazoo influences. Now normally, I would have just started laughing, but something told me that this device was serious business. For some reason, I felt the need to say something, and in the emptiness of the basement, I uttered "And between you and me, something amazing happened... and now I can talk to animals! It's really cool, but totally secret. And you know what? Life's never been the same."

Creepy Steve's Creepy Resume

"Creepy Steve" Creepington
123 Sleezeball Lane
Squicky Feeling Falls, WI


Purpose: To achieve gainful employment in staring, stalking, and or lurking in an effort to creep out total strangers.

Prior Experience: Successful lurking outside of supermarket for 15 years without being arrested once. Stalked several tv personalities for several years.

Special techniques: standing half-hidden in shadows; wearing trench coats; dull, vacuous stare; heavy breathing; bug-eyed; misshapen face; lack of social skills

Favorite Hobbies: staring at attractive young women until they leave; following famous celebrities; digging through trash; dead animal delivery; practicing my 1000 yard stare.

Most worthwhile achievements: singlehandedly giving a "squicky" feeling to twenty people at the same time at a TGIFridays.

Biggest disappointment: Inability to forge meaningful relationships with anybody

Best way to contact: Look around, I'm probably watching you already.

The most unusual things that have happened in current or previous jobs

I'm sure that most people have horror stories from work experiences in their past that they'll trot out when work discusses. Well, now it's my turn. Please sit back, relax, and feel free to cringe, wince, laugh, or groan as I regale you with some of my more horrifying tales...


*warning* contains animal violence

Colorado Springs, 1995

I was working for a national pizza outfit that was test marketing delivery (I know, shocking... pizza without delivery), and I happened to be one of the guinea pigs. I had been living in Colorado springs for approximately 8 - 9 months at this time, and was still not that familiar with the city.
It was late night, I was the only driver, and I had a delivery that took me out towards the far end of town.
Somehow, I got lost.
Now, when I say "lost", I don't mean "Oh crap, I missed it by three streets", I mean "Oh my holy hell, I'm looking at Denver" sort of lost.
I'll let that sink in for a minute....
Now, that was just the apex of this debacle.... The events on either side of the lights of Denver are just as bad. For starters, I hit a cat. The worst thing that ever happened to me, I hit a freakin' cat - with my tires. The minute I realized what happened, I hit the brakes and started skidding - with my tires. I was absolutely beside myself. I was crying... no I was bawling like a little kid who was just told that Santa Clause wasn't real and he had just murdered Mr. Rodgers.
I couldn't see because I has so much moisture coming out of my eyes, and when you start crying like that, it gets into your nose and it gets really messy. So there I am (finally stopped) tears and snot just streaming down my face, practically hyperventilating, and the odor of burnt rubber and fur permeating the inside of the car.
Finally, I get myself composed, and continue on my way - obviously I'm completely rattled by this point in time (which partially explains why I ended up where I did) and eventually I stopped and saw... The lights of Denver. Finally it sinks in... I'm lost. (Insert your well duh comments now)
I turn around, start back on my way back to Colorado Springs (now, you've got to remember this was before cell phones were ubiquitous, hell beepers will still hot shit) and go shooting through some small town at close to 80 billion miles an hour.
That's when I see the headlights come on.
I was pulled over, with my license, insurance and proof of registration out before the cop could even get turned around. I honestly don't even remember pulling over. I knew I was screwed (at this point in time I had a bench warrant out for my arrest due to failure to appear).
All I wanted was for the cop to take me into custody, call my roommates and spend the night in jail.
As if I was so lucky....
Sheriff comes walking up, screaming and yelling the entire way (I didn't help that I had a 'Bad Cop No Donut' bumper sticker on the back of the car" ). Taking my info, he continued to scream and holler at me, then he walked back to his car. Sighing deeply, I knew that it was just a matter of time before he asked me to step out of the car and put my hands behind my back.
Ten to fifteen minutes later, he comes back up, writes me a ticket, and tells me that the bench warrant only extends to the edge of the county (which is approximately two miles away from my current location). Thanking the cop profusely, I continued on my way, thinking I got off easy.
Wrong again.
Twenty minutes later, I had passed through Franktown and ran out of gas. (Still, no cell phones)
Fortunately, I had a gas can, so I trudged back into Franktown to the only thing that was open - a bar. After trying to get several people to take me to a gas station, or failing that, to my car, I trudged back to my car in the rain.
By now, I knew I was probably fired, so as I got into my car, I dug around for some blankets or something to cover myself with and settled in for the night, figuring I could walk back into town in the morning to get gas.
As I dosed off, I had visions of my boss killing me in increasingly violent and gory ways, I heard a knock on my window. Jerking awake, I looked straight into the light of a flashlight. Blinking furiously, I rolled my window down....
"Are you Nathan?" The cop asked.
Rubbing my eyes, I affirmed that I was.
"Your roommates have been very worried about you." He explained. Over the next couple of minutes, he radioed back to his station explaining what all was going on. "I've let dispatch know that you're safe, and from the sounds of things, someone should be out to get you soon." With that, the cop got back into his car and drove off.
Within half an hour, my roommate showed up, called his triple A contact, who sent out a wrecker with a gas can. We managed to get enough gas in the car that I could make it to a gas station where I was able to fill the tank.
Sure enough, the next day, I got reamed by my boss, and was forced to stay in the store.
The worst part?
That little fiasco seized my engine. I not only lost a good paying job, but my main means of transportation, and a huge amount of pride.

Attack of the flying monkeys

"It all happened back at the beginning of the century, and I was deployed in France at the time." The old timer said.
My brothers and I had stopped off at a gas station to stretch our legs, fuel up, and get some snacks on our trip to see mom and dad. Mark had gone in to pay to fill the tank, and Patrick had gone off in search of a bathroom.
Since I didn't have much going on, I spent my time wandering around the station, if you could call it that. It was a ramshackle rundown house that had been converted into a business too many years ago, with a couple of above ground holding tanks behind the building. The pump was one of those old jobs that from the era before credit card readers, and there wasn't even a canopy over the pump to keep the elements off of it.
What ever icons or brandings on the pump had long since bleached out to a pale, faded rusty white and half of the numbers on the rotary dial were faded out. I grunted slightly at the fact that the pump wasn't even digital, and that's when I saw the old man.
He had been sitting at the corner of the patio, just rocking back and forth in an old rocking chair that just screamed cliche. A feeling deep in my gut screamed at me that under no circumstance was I to talk to that man, but at the same time, I just had to, otherwise I would go crazy trying to convince myself I was not in a bad horror movie parody.
Walking over to the old man, I introduced myself.
He looked me over, slowly rocking back and forth in his chair, not saying a word. Right when I was getting ready to give up and walk away, he spoke in that creepy, old timer voice that always signified something horrible would eventually befall us.
"It all happened back at the beginning of the century, and I was deployed in France at the time." He said, looking me in the eye.
I found a chair, pulled it over, and sat down on it. "What happened?"
"The most amazing, yet horrifying attack I have ever seen" was his cryptic reply.
I rolled my eyes.
"There I was, with a cute little French honey on my arm... we were on the Eiffel Tower taking in the sights when they attacked. At first, we couldn't tell what it was that was coming at us, but as they got closer, we couldn't believe our eyes. My girl thought we had had a little too much wine, but for some reason, I knew what I was seeing was true, no matter how impossible it was. As we stood there staring at these things, the guy next to us was attacked! Before we could get out of there, the damn things had chewed his face off!" The old man was starting to get worked up.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked around. Mark and Patrick had shown up. "We're all gassed up and ready to go" Mark said, jerking his thumb back towards the car. I glanced back at the old man, then back to Mark, gesturing him to move closer.
"Listen" I whispered, "this guy is rambling about some crazy thing back when he was stationed in France. I figure we can humor him and then get the hell outta here." Patrick had found a couple of chairs and both he and Mark now sat down to listen to the old man.
"So, what was it that had attacked you?" I asked the old man, trying to get him to finish.
"We'll, I had the young lady run back into the stairwell to try and escape. I was right behind her. those things were at my back, screeching, clawing, throwing feces..." he trailed off, his face turning white.
"Feces?" Patrick asked, incredulously. "What the hell were they? Monkeys?"
The old man whipped around, his eyes wild. "Were you there?" Panic gripped his voice. Patrick jerked back in his chair, knocking off balance, and tipping over backwards.
"What?" Mark and I yelled at the same time. "Are you serious?" Mark cried. "Monkeys? You really are out of your mind!" I reached over and put my hand on Mark's arm to quiet him.
"Listen, he's an old man, he's a bit of a loon, just humor him" I whispered. "Humor him? He's off his nut!" Mark replied. "C'mon Jack, we've got to get outta here."
"Yeah" Patrick added as his stood up. "Mom's gonna kill us if we make her wait longer - it's been months since she's seen us."
I held up a hand quieting them. Looking at the old man, I prompted him to continue. "So what happened?"
"Those monkeys started attacking all sorts of people, often swarming them, knocking them to the ground, eating them... it was awful. They got my girl - finally, we managed to beat back the rush of monkeys - it took everything we had, but we did it, and we also managed to keep it out of the press."
I was completely flabbergasted by now, and decided enough was enough. I shook his hand. "Listen old timer, thanks for the story, but we need to get going now."
Several hours later, I was sleeping in the car as Mark drove. In my dreams we were being pursued by flying monkeys who were trying to eat us - finally, one of the monkeys had crashed through the windshield and was getting ready to eat me when I jerked awake.
"Oh good, you're awake" Mark said, glancing over. "Listen, a big, flying, carnivorous monkey appeared in front of the car. Patrick was freaked out, so I ran it over. Sounded like a bag of wet laundry going under."
Feeling weird, I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

Deputy Cattle Guard

(Imagine for a minute the Mayor is played by Fred Gwynne (Herman Munster) and Farmer Brown is played by Cletus T. Judd.)

Minutes from the regular session of City Management for Podunk USA.


Mayor: ...And finally tonight, we have a request from a Mr. Farmer Brown. >looks around< Is there a Mr. Brown here?

Farmer Brown: >hand shoots up< Yessir, I'm right here, sir >stands up awkwardly, arm still in air<

Mayor: Alright Mr. Brown, please approach the podium >waves hand in front of himself< and tell us your request.

Brown: >finally puts arm down< I appreciate this opportunity yer honor >steps up to podium< I... uh... my.... that is.... >clears throat<... uh...

Mayor: >scowls slightly< What's your first name son?

Brown: It's Farmer, sir.

Mayor: Son, you had better not be playing games with me.

Brown: No Sir! My parents wanted to make sure I knew what I was going to be when I grew up, so they decided to call me Farmer, just t' make it easy on everyone.

Mayor: >looking incredulous< So.. your parents... named you Farmer Brown?

Brown: Well, Farmer is actually my middle name.

Mayor: so what's your first name?

Brown: Old Man.

Mayor: >muttering< oh for heaven's sake.... >to Brown< so, your full name is "Old Man Farmer Brown"?

Brown: yessir. You see why I go by my middle name?

Mayor: Well, let's just get to what you want to address the town council for.

Brown: >clears throat< yessir. >pulls papers out of breast pocket and smooths them out< uh... As you all know, we have many cattle guards out here in the parts, and while they have served their purpose, I think that they're not being taken seriously anymore. >looks up quickly< What I am saying is that cows are no longer abiding by the cattle guards, often they just go right over them, without any regard for what the guard is trying to do - which is keep the cows in one spot. What I am proposing is deputizing these cattle guards - giving them badges and guns so they can better police the cows.

Mayor: son, let me stop you there for a minute. >takes glasses off and rubs his eyes< You want to deputize cattle guards to prevent cows from walking over them?

Brown: that is correct sir. I know for a fact that my ol' Bessie really doesn't give a damn about no cattle guards no more. In fact, I know she and a couple of her friends are planning on staging a walk over just to prove they can.

Mayor: Son, are you delusional?

Brown: uh... I'm not really sure what that means, so I'll have to say no.

Mayor: So you want us to purchase badges and working revolvers for stationary cattle guards to prevent cows from maliciously walking over them?

Brown: yeah, all of that, except for the maliciously part... they ain't got no taste.

Mayor: >throws hands up in the air< alright, what the hell... we'll go for it.

End Transcript

Clipping from Podunk USA Weekly:

LOCAL CATTLE GUARDS DEPUTIZED