Invasion Report 11/23-11/29

Please indulge me a metaphor as I give a report for the attempted invasion on the computer systems of myself and my roommate:

Our scouts first noticed something odd last week on 11/23 at approximately 00:27 hours.  There was a raid of my defensive fleet that caused alarms to be rung in my small, coastal fort.  ’Tis an old Japanese fort called Vaio, but well built and well armed.  I heard the call raised, “(Ding-Ding!)  Avast!  Thar be a vicious man-o-war off the starboard bow!”  A written message was delivered to me, reading, “Hostile URL repelled”.  I immediately fell back from that position, figuring it was too dangerous to tarry  there.

Then, at approximately 23:31 hours on 11/24, I made the mistake of trying to reach the island-city of Facebook.  I had scarcely moored my ship and not even signed my name to the log when I saw the flares from across the strait.  I then heard the sounds of the ship’s bells ringing, and men shouting.  I thought momentarily that it was just a change of the watch with much unnecessary hullabaloo.  However, it occurred to me that I had already received a message letting me know who all was on watch now.

With a sense of alarm, I went to the watchmen on my ships for a full report, and found the entire watch crew lying wounded and bloody on the ground with not a single comprehensible word between them.  One of them had tried to write it in the log, but all the words flowed together and were incomprehensible.

I immediately had the wounded removed and called a fresh crew to order as we returned to our base.  I then had an experienced regiment scour our fort, docks, and vessels for anyone hostile.  They soon found the problem: enemies in the camp poisoning the Java.  It seems that when your grog gets even slightly too old, it becomes much more difficult to discern toxins within it, and these enemies knew that.  The watchmen had found them first and fought them until the rest of us could get there, but most of the dogs escaped.  The camp was immediately fortified and sealed from outsiders; I had the fresh regiment dispose of the poisoned Java, and the few captured enemy troops executed.  But it was only the beginning.

The next day, I sailed forth to get a messenger through for reinforcements from the Pirate King, as many of my forces were wokou mercenaries, and they performed well out on the Sea of ’Nets.  The foe attacked us wherever we went, and we returned gun fire.  Finally, the message got through, and my force had reached a fairly safe port in the town of Gmail, where the reply message had been sent.  All that old fool told me was to do exactly what I had done.  We returned to Fort Vaio without reinforcements, but thankfully having only taken minimal casualties.  The place was sealed against outsiders again, and I went to bed.

We stayed ashore for the next few days.  But in the evening of 11/27, my allied outpost from down the coast commanded by a good, Christian officer was attacked.  I only know this because of the signals and the shouts of his cannon from down the way.  It seemed his fortification had been cut off from seaward communication, and I found with some trepidation that so had mine.  All messengers were being intercepted and killed, and the enemy had completely cut us off by sea.  It also appeared that they had taken our ships from the troops holding the docks and left with them.  I could even see our vessels out there being run by prize crews firing on all friendly ships bringing us replacements and supplies.  There was only one thing for us to do.  He and I decided that we would rather see the small navy under lease to us from the Charter Trading Company at the bottom of the sea than in the hands of those vicious raiders.  So we aimed our large, coastal guns at the enemy’s prizes, and sank them.

Unfortunately, our allied forces had stopped sending supplies to us, as it was too dangerous.  So on 11/28 I took choice men along the land route to the trading towns of Wal-Mart and Best Buy to see what they had in the way of defensive navy.  They have both always had some of the best imports, but sometimes make decent things themselves.  I gathered as much information as I could from the shipwrights in those towns and went back to the coast.

There I waited until my fellow commander returned from labour duties elsewhere (from which I had been excused that Monday).  That night, we set out with our best sailors and soldiers to the town of Wal-Mart where I had found better prices for the same goods.  We decided on what the merchant (I think his name was Motorola) called the “Surfboard” design, but they looked like frigates to me.  They were bigger and more heavily armed than the galleys we had been leasing anyway.  We made our purchase and returned with our new navy.  All we had to do then was set up our crews to run the new vessels, and arrange for the switch of equipment with the Charter Trading Company.

The ’Net Seas are ours once more!

Pizza

It may seem trivial so some; while to others it is a matter of utmost importance.  We bachelors have been surviving on pizza since…  Uh…  However long we’ve had pizza.

Anyway, when I got home from church Sunday, I decided I wanted a pizza.  So I went to the freezer, moved the frozen waffles and empty ice cube trays aside (I should really fill those sometime), and retrieved a pizza.  Red Baron is the brand I like, primarily because they’re 3 for $10 at Woodman’s Market.

In my bachelor pad, there are no pizza pans.  This is because my brother/roommate’s pizza pans had become too rusted to use safely (there was very little actual metal on them).  It really isn’t that big of an issue, as it’s entirely workable to place the pizza directly on the oven rack, and it yeilds a more crispy crust.  However, removal becomes an issue in these cases.  Fortunately I have a rather large knife which can serve for this purpose with a minor feat of balancing.

So I preheated the oven to 400°, inserted the pizza, and set the timer for 20 minutes.  Then I waited…  I deleted some old emails, checked a new message on facebook which turned out to be something stupid anyway, played a few quick games of solitaire…

The timer beeped, and I went for the kitchen, grabbed my big knife while opening the oven, slid the blade carefully under the pizza, and began extraction.  I have done this over a dozen times since I moved in to my apartment (at which time we discovered the rusted pans), and was taking extreme care.  To the bachelor, this operation must be handled more delicately than brain surgery, as the cost of a mistake is equally deadly.

Carefully I moved it, inch by grueling inch, toward the waiting box lying open on the counter nearby.  The edges seemed to sag more than they should have.  Then came the most difficult part: the horizontal movement.  As I got closer, the tension built; one small mistake could spell disaster.

And then, disaster.  The pizza began to slide.

My first instinct was to move faster toward the countertop, but I knew this would only accelerate the sliding.  So I continued movement at the same rate, while gravitation began to pull move heavily upon the edge that was sliding.

Just inches away from my objective, the 400° pizza slipped from my large knife.  It flipped once in the air as it fell.  I reached for it with my free hand, ignoring the small part of my brain screaming, “IT’S HOT!!!!”

This was no time for pansies.

As it began a second vertical rotation, I managed to grab some of the toppings from the centre, but the rest of it continued its horrible plummet.  I watched helplessly as the most wonderful of all bachelor foodstuffs landed unceremoniously on the floor, upside down.

…………………………………………………………………………………

For a moment I stood, flabbergasted at what had just transpired, until the second degree burns on my hand brought back my senses.  I dropped the few toppings I’d saved from certain doom onto the plate waiting patiently next to the box for the pizza slices it would never receive, and ran cold water over my hand.  As the burns cooled, I looked sadly at the pitiful remains of my $3.34 pizza, lying there on the cold, unfeeling kitchenette floor.  Dead.

Why?

…  WHY…?

As I cleaned up my tragic loss, my brother’s phone rang, and it was our dad asking if we were coming over for dinner like our mom had expected.  So it wasn’t as terrible any more, since I was able instead to eat a real home-cooked meal.  But I shall always carry the scars of that fateful event: the sauce stain on my shirt sleeve from when I made my grab, and the sticky spot on the floor that I should probably mop.

Guy Shopping

I don’t know abut you, but I hate shopping.  I hate walking around looking at shelves upon shelves of stuff, most of it over-priced, and sometimes looking like it had been run over by the truck that delivered it (no really, why did someone think to put that on the shelf?).

Perhaps I’m just in the minority here.  A lot of women I know absolutely love to shop.  But that’s just it: I’m a guy.

The typical woman has a list of five or six things she wants to get.  So she enters the store and immediately goes to the opposite side from where the items in question are located.  On the way there, she passes through as many shoe and clothing areas as she can, especially baby clothes.  Even if she has no children, or her children are too big for baby clothes, she looks through them.  If you're unfortunate enough to be a man accompanying her on this excursion, it is your duty to see that she purchases none of the items that are “Soooooo cute!”.  And you know she will if left to herself in that aisle.  If you try to tell her that she doesn’t have kids (or at least none that can wear those), she typically gets defensive, and/or insists that one of her friends who does have children of the appropriate age would love them.  It could be some pathological need to nurture found in women that makes them sappy like that.  Of course, they could just be insane, but I digress.

After about two or three hours, she will have made it over to the other side of the store.  During this time, she will have also lost the initial list of five or six “things to get” under the cart-load of shoes and baby clothes.  So she goes ahead and gets whatever.  Finally… you go to the checkout lanes, make the purchase, and leave the store.  Then she turns to you and says, “Ooo!  There’s a 20% off sale at JC Penny’s!”  All you can do is sigh heavily.

This is what my sister would do when we were younger.  She’d drag us (my brother and I) around to different stores, searching, hunting as it were, for that “great deal”.  If the number of items she purchased on this hunt was any indication, I should think the “great deal” is about as elusive as an unwashed body at an Occupy rally.

I kid, I kid… she didn’t buy THAT much crap.

To contrast, I give you Guy Shopping:

He thinks up two or three things he wants.  As he enters the store, he steers directly toward these items, while simultaneously taking note of which aisles are more congested than others.  This is because guys slowly lose their souls while spending time inside a store, and thus like to make an exit strategy so as to limit that time.  He notices where the old people are blocking aisles, and where women are talking about that adorable outfit, and the special going on when she bought it.  He takes note of the guys with these women standing with heads lowered and hands in pockets, trying to be unobtrusive so as to not be dragged into the conversation and have their souls sucked out even more by their excessive time spent in the store.  He feels their pain, but it’s not his problem; after all, he’s Guy Shopping.

He locates and acquires the items he intended to find, and immediately makes his way down the path he planned on the way in.  He pauses only briefly to take one last look on his fallen comrades who have now been successfully included as a conversational topic, meaning they could no longer politely ignore it.  With a final swelling feeling of “sucks to be you”, he gets to the least crowded checkout lane, purchases his items, and heads directly to the car.  Once there, he checks the time and comments to nobody in particular, “Forty seconds.  Not bad, not bad.”