I hate doing superfluous, ridiculous stuff just to make people in authority happy. I'm talking about jumping through mindless hoops, filling things out in triplicate, and casting/cutting red tape. Guess who's doing that shit right now...
That's fucking right. I'm stuck in a 2.5 hour class learning how to type. Kill you Pitt!
I have to submit my thesis following some kind of template, and apparently Pitt thinks that someone in the advanced stages of graduate research is incapable of using Microsoft Word. If you've ever followed directions to build Legos or put together a DVD tower from Walmart, you should be able to handle this.
To make matters worse, the dude running to class talks about as fast as Cleveland from Family Guy. While he's taking his time being retarded, I'm just going to write to you, my millions and millions of fans.
Oooh, we just learned how to add a caption to a figure...
I need a beer; this is retardiculous. The Teacher, did you have to go through this?
Dammit! There are so many computers pumping out heat in here that I'm getting the germit. This is the worst thing ever. See, this is why America is falling behind the rest of the world.
Jesus tap dancing Christ, people are actually asking questions. Seriously, what kind of mongoloids am I dealing with here. Have they never used a computer? I just had a brain aneurysm.
Some of you may have received invites to www.moola.com from me recently. I basically didn't explain anything about it though, so let me remedy that situation.
Moola.com is a place to waste time. When you sign up, they give you a penny, and you can bet that penny against someone else in one of their 3 games of chance. Their big thing is that if you double your penny by winning and then double it 29 more times, you'll end up with over $10 million. The math is sound, but they don't mention that it would take something like a billion players on Moola to actually make this happen. To date, the biggest payoff is somewhere between $5,000 and $6,000.
Regardless, if you're an unlucky lump of human retardation like me, you're not going to win 30 times in a row. I think my hot streak was one win followed by a tie. What I do is just go to their site and do a Google search a couple of times a day. When you do that, you spin a Wheel of Fortune-type wheel and get bonus money. After 2 days, I'm slightly over $2. You can also get cash back for online shopping and crap like that. It's a slow way to get free money, but it's an extra $300 at the end of the year.
Anyway, they don't send me emails, I haven't gotten any extra spam, and I think I just figured out a good betting scheme for the Gold Rush game. Give it a look if you've got nothing better to do.
By now, I'm sure many of you have heard that the government will be giving $600 or more to every tax payer in America this summer as part of a bid to stimulate our shitty economy. I don't think it's going to work.
I think the only way to stimulate the economy is to combine ideas from the Sciencette's father and angry comedian Lewis Black. What I'm talking about is spending the $150 billion on a public works project, mostly involving infrastructure. Think about it - the money could be used to hire the unemployed to build/repair roads, we'd get to drive on those nice roads, and none of the work can be outsourced. All the benefits stay right here in the good old U.S. of A. If they really wanted to be serious about it, they'd give preference to bids put in by contractors that use local supplies and buy American products.
Beardo disagrees with me. He thinks that the only way to Viagra-up the economy is to have a war. Not the retarded nice-guy, humanitarian crap we're doing in Iraq/Afghanistan where the troops hand out soccer balls, but a good old fashioned kill-fest. Hey, it worked before. WWII essentially got us out of the Great Depression and turned us into a world superpower.
Why not combine both though? I think we should declare war on our infrastructure. Let's bomb the shit out of our roads. That way, we'd pay for the troops, pay the factories to make bombs and planes to drop them out of, and then we could rebuild the roads. It would be a cost-effective war too; no one would have to be shipped overseas.
I don't know about you, but I'd be all over this like a bad rash. The Teacher, Hairy Parry, and I used to enjoy a feast of bacon and garlic bread back in the day; this would be the perfect drink to serve with it. The Sciencette might even like it in her Bloody Marys.
The Scientist hates politics, but the Scientist loves Chuck Norris.*
Normally, this wouldn't be an issue, but Chuck has taken it upon himself to campaign for Republican Mike Huckabee. This is the same guy that's always on the Colbert Report and seems to have a decent sense of humor. I hate that he's a politician, but I do enjoy his friends.
Chuck backflipped onto Huckabee's campaign wagon a while back and publicly endorsed him over people like John McCain because Chuck thinks they're too old. He likes the chances of a young buck like Huckabee surviving a full 4 year term.
According to the Yeti and NPR, Chuck is a big draw at political rallies too. His presence has been coaxing young men from all over the country to the Huckabee camp. And when things get too rowdy, Huckabee actually tells people not to make him "send Chuck back there" to break it up. I can see this relationship resulting in the first vice president capable of roundhouse kicking a donkey into outer space.
Did you know that Huckabee's bumper stickers don't have glue? They stick to cars because Chuck told them to.
I'm still never going to vote (unless there's a massive reformatting of the American political system), but at least now I have some hope for the nation.
Parking in Oakland sucks. Open spots are damn near nonexistent unless you want to move your car every few hours and/or pay a lot of money. As such, when the Sciencette and I drive to work, we park a few minute's walk away in the rare free parking spots on the street. Still, you need to get here before sunrise to secure one of the free ones.
Regardless, as we were walking down to our labs this cold and dark morning, we heard a noise...a bad noise from above. It sounded like the papery wings of a legion of vampire bats rustling together. I looked on the ground; I looked on the nearby cars.
They were all caked in bird shit.
I mean they were covered in the stuff. That's when we looked up to find a seething mass of crows flying above us and thousands more coating the barren branches of all of the trees at end of the street. It was a scene straight from your worst nightmare (or Hitchcock's best wet dream). I wanted to run so as not to be shat upon, but I also didn't want to spook the feathery beasts. When we finally made it to the intersection, I'm not sure we even looked before crossing the street. The Sciencette and I wanted to get out of there!
Neither one of us was befouled with the crows' cloacal juices, but I still wanted to strip off my clothes and shower. If I never have to live through something like that again, I'll be happy.
Oh, and when I finally got into my lab this morning, I found that I'd almost burnt the place down overnight. Apparently, transferring protein from an SDS-PAGE gel onto nitrocellulose at 2000 Volts for 12.5 hours is dangerous and total gaylord.
At this time last year, the Yeti had a 4 day weekend. He's got one again now thanks to the Civil War and civil rights. I, on the other had, came to work on MLK day because I'm trying to get my PhD in a timely fashion, and I'm not going to plagiarize my thesis like MLK did.
I'm glad to see that the Yeti put his free time to good use and finally deemed us worthy enough of a blog post though. Does anyone else think that the bowling balls look like marbles in his massive Sasquatchian paws? The chances are good that he crushed them to dust moments after the picture was taken and then roared like a T-rex.
In other news, I got a phone call at 2:36 AM Saturday morning. I didn't want to look at the caller ID because I knew it was a drunk, but the Sciencette insisted that I check in case it was an emergency. This was one of the rare instances when I was right; it was The Drunk, Mr. Darren Moser. He didn't leave a message, but he promptly called the Yeti to ramble into his voice mail.
well, it's been a long time since i posted to the ol' blog. i wish i had a good excuse, but i don't. what's been going on in my life? not a whole lot. the picture below pretty much sums up my life in the past couple of months.
"Searching for Bobby Fischer" is a totally badass movie. It's about a little kid that's a chess genius beating another little kid that's a douche. Aside from the kid, it also stars Joe Mantegna and Ben Kinglsey, who could have been the ultimate Batman and Robin in another time and place. I think I speak for the Yeti and myself when I say that you should buy the DVD and watch it immediately. It's no "Vision Quest," but it's a quality flick.
With that in mind, today is a day of mourning because Bobby Fischer was found dead in Iceland. He was the chessiest chess genius ever, but also totally crazy. He was half Jewish but antisemitic. He hated Communists and eventually hated normal chess. He invented his own game where the chess pieces were all scrambled up, and the chances are good that he could beat anyone at that game too (even a Terminator).
Also, he did at least as much as Rocky Balboa to end the Cold War.
The staff here at Dr. Yeti would like to doff our caps in remembrance of this crazy SOB. We'd also like to get some DNA testing done to see if Bobby Fischer is related to Dane "Hoss" Fischer. I smell a possible book deal and movie in the works if we can make the connection.
Have you ever seen a vehicle with testicles? If not, watch bumpers in your area for a while, I'm sure you'll see them. You see, someone recently thought it was a good idea to market plastic nads for cars. Wow. Search for "Truck Nutz" and this is what you'll find (plus various other colors and sizes).
I saw my first car-sack on a Corvette in New York state this summer. Since then, I've seen them often on trucks and even on mini-vans. As I was telling the Yeti earlier, the mini-van ones perturb me. Only soccer moms and whipped dads drive mini-vans, and neither set of people actually owns a set of nads, so it's false advertising to put them on your van.
In any event, what got this ball rolling was the Yeti's report that a Virginia legislator wants to ban them in the state because he doesn't want his granddaughter to see them "dangling." Screw you government asshole! If idiots want scrotes on the back of their cars, let them dangle away! Chances are good that this douche's granddaughter has seen some testes before anyway, so who cares? What if I wanted my relatives to see these things? Could my opinion be just as valuable and time-wasting in the legislature as his?
I want to buy enough nards to cover my entire Ford and then take a driving tour of Virginny.
The Yeti suggested that I get my dad a set for his Corvette (ooh, rhymey). But if I'd do that, then all of his buddies would want them too. Pretty soon you'd see a hardy set of nodules hanging from trucks, motorcycles, and lawnmowers all over the neighborhood; each one bigger than the last!
My dad's buddy could even make leather pouches for them. Then they'd have old leathery balls and be like Crooked Jim. It could be the next big trend for old men. Father's Day is coming up...
This link (stolen from www.gorillamask.net) goes to the top 100 greatest quotes from Christian fundamentalist chat rooms.
And by the greatest, I mean the most retarded stuff you'll ever read. I'm surprised some of these people can string words together into sentences. If they believe in God so much, why didn't he see fit to give these people a full complement of chromosomes?
Some of my favorites (paraphrased):
All atheists are actually Muslims.
Satan loves homosexuals (South Park actually proved this one).
Evolution is racist.
Atheists are not "persons."
Gay wild animals should be shot, disinfected, and fed to the poor.
Seriously, I can't even make this stuff up. Yeti, Dr. Snail, Medlin...is this what the south is like?
I got to thinking the other day, which isn't a usual occurrence as I spend most of my time in a vegetative state. Anyway, I started to wonder what it would be like if one of my toes was actually another small foot with toes of its own.
How crazy would it be if you saw a foot like that!?! And just imagine, the tiny toe-foot could have a toe-foot of its own, and so on. We could be dealing with microscopic toe-feet.
Having a foot with a foot for a toe would be a total shenanigan, I know, but it wouldn't be a raucous shenanigan. No, we'd be dealing with a quiet shenanigan, a shh-nanigan if you will, because you could just keep your freak foot in a shoe.
Come back soon to learn about my weekend adventures with dog shit.
At most of my family gatherings (Thanksgiving and the like), the conversation invariably turns to religion and/or sex. I'm angered and disgusted by each topic in like measure. Seriously, I can taste a little throw up in my throat right now.
Anyway, we've tackled faith and religion here at Dr. Yeti before, so I think it's time to talk about sex.
Wikipedia defines sexual intercourse as "the union of the sex organs of two sexually reproducing animals." I define it as boning. Either way, it's two (or more) people bumping uglies, getting it on, anti-whacking it in their tool sheds...you know, "making love."
Now, it's a well known fact that the goal of every yoga practitioner is autofellatio, or the licking of one's own genitals. Remember that time Will Ferrel did it on Saturday Night Live? Oh man, that was great. Some years back, rumors were rampant that Marilyn Manson had a set or two of ribs removed so he could do the same thing, but there were also rumors that he was Paul from the Wonder Years. Incidentally, Winney Cooper is now a math genius.
But back to the autofellatio. I learned last night that all these yoga hippies need to do is kill themselves and hope to be reincarnated as a cat.
That's right, the Sciencette's cat Boris was giving himself a blow job. There I was, just sitting on the couch minding my own business when I look down and see Boris with his head buried in his crotch. At first, I though he was just grooming himself (a little feline manscaping if you will), but then he pulled back, and I saw the red rocket. The lipstick was out; he was shooting pinky.
And then he dove back in for Round 2.
Legend has it that chronic masturbators suffer from hairy palms, blindness, chafing, and extreme Yetiism. One can only imagine that chronic autofellators might suffer similar fates. Well, Boris was just at the vet, and it turns out that his teeth and gums are rotting. I'm not saying I definitely deserve a Nobel Prize, but I think discovering this link between crotch-rot and dental problems warrants some sort of recognition.
The question is, if you could, would you do it too?
After much deliberation, and many failed attempts, I've once again decided to write a book. Instead of tackling my usual fare (shenanigans, food, fantasy fiction, and assholery), I'm going to go with a history book of sorts. Basically, I stole the Sciencette's grandfather's idea, and I'm writing my family history. You know, genealogy, anecdotes, pictures...crap like that.
I'm a chapter or so into it, and I'm collecting material as fast as i can, but I just realized that I don't have a title. That's where you, Dr. Yeti's millions and millions of fans, come in. I want you to vote for one of these titles:
The nut doesn't fall far from the tree.
"Sucks to be you," and other things commonly heard by Matt Bochman's relatives.
Hey, you're a Kraut!
101 oblique ways that I'm related to Dr. Snail.
At least someone in the family was once successful.
Go back to China, Frenchie!
Don't like any of those? Well, leave your drops of brilliance in the comments section, and if I pick it, you'll get a mention somewhere in the book.
The Sciencette and I had to go out of town on family business this weekend, so I wasn't able to fill your free time with my usual shenanigans. Rest assured that as the week goes on, I will blow your mind with witty incites and criticisms.
Also, as we drove on I-90 through New York, I noticed that you can't spell "canal" without "anal." You're welcome.
As many of you know from reading the archives here at Dr. Yeti, I've diagnosed myself with A.S.S.-Burger Syndrome. Basically, it means that I have both Asperger's Syndrome and mad cow disease, and even basically-er, it means that I'm a meat-loving tard with OCD.
When a person has obsessive compulsive disorder, they get fixated on things, and it's usually a bad idea for others to feed into the obsession. The Sciencette disagrees.
For many months now, I've been obsessed with two mutually exclusive ideas: learning how to weld and surviving in the wild (like Les Stroud). Welding is total badass. What could be better than joining two pieces of metal together with a lot of energy? And being able to survive while lost in the wilderness has obvious advantages. What's not to love?
Well, for the Sciencette, several things. First, I'm Matt Bochman. Matt Bochmans and dangerous tools such as welders usually aren't good combinations. I can barely walk down the hall at work without injuring myself and everyone within a 20 ft radius of me. Naturally, me welding made the Sciencette nervous. Plus, she doesn't think I have anything to weld. What she doesn't realize is that once I learn how to weld, I'm going to weld everything whether it needs it or not. I was thinking of turning a 55 gallon steel drum and some scrap metal into a sweetass grill. I could cook an entire wild boar in it, and I can get the wild boar while I'm surviving in the wild.
It can't be that hard, right? All I have to do is build a shelter, find/trap non-poisonous food, and locate some drinking water. I guess fire would help too, and even if I don't have my magnesium-flint stick with me, I'm pretty sure I can rub two normal sticks together and create a blaze.
The Sciencette is pretty sure I'd die almost immediately though.
Despite her reservations, my constant barrage of welding and survival comments seems to have worn her down. For x-mas, she bought me The Essentials of Welding and the SAS Survival Handbook (her dad loved the welding book; he's been welding, brazing, and soldering for many years now). She's an enabler, and I'm about to become the world's greatest backwoods metalworker.
We're two days into 2008, and I firmly believe we've finally encountered the Year of the Sell Out.
First, it's a leap year. That's another whole day that the the Bush Administration gets to screw all of us over (Editor's note: Don't be confused. The Scientist likes G.W. Bush, but he hates the Administration. I think Bush would be fun to play Mario Party with). It's official, 2008 has sold us out people.
Kill you leap year!
Obviously, the staff here at Dr. Yeti saw this trend coming and decided to sell out our millions and millions of fans by not posting anything for weeks. We can't help it that we're so trendy, but we do apologize.
Who else has sold us out? Obviously, the Yeti. That furry mofo decided he was going to celebrate New Year's Eve in the deep south of Virginia instead of the glorious halls of Chateau d'Brown in Greencastle. It's not a party at Brownie's house without the Yeti there declaring shenanigans and drinking to excess. Amazingly, one of the Brothers Brown also sold us out at the party. KB had to leave both early and sober so he could get to work at Target the next morning at 6 AM. The only potential good that can come from this "work before bros" slight is if the Brothers Brown are going to use their influence to take down Target, Inc. from the inside.
My advice, sell your stock now.
I'm sure that plenty of my relatives sold me out this fine holiday season too, but I'd like to publicly castrate that one that I'll call Gordo. He was supposed to hook me up with some family tree information that he learned in Scotland. As an amateur genealogist, I was pretty excited. It didn't last long though; all of the info Gordo gave me was stuff that I already knew and had nothing to do with Scotland. He seems to be keeping the good stuff to himself. If he doesn't shape up, I'll have to head butt his branch squaw off the family tree.
What about you? Who sold you out in 2008? Who do you plan to sell out?
Hey everyone, I just wanted to let you know that I've been hired on as a freelance editor at American Journal Experts. Basically, what that means is that I edit scientific articles for AJE (a firm that performs English editing for researchers around the globe) in my spare time. If you need your work polished for publication, come check us out.