Dessert

Don't you just love cookies? I mean somebody gives you one of those and they can track every time you visit their site. They're all like, "Welcome back George." and you go, "Wait a minute, I'm not George." You panic a little, "Why do they think I'm George? What if George owes those people money? What if George goes to those sites where people shouldn't go?" You consider closing the site, maybe erasing your history or, if you're really nervous, pulling out all the stops and going for the hard boot. You begin to hate your wife a little for ever saying it was OK to get that first computer back in 1980. If she wouldn't have been so soft you wouldn't be here today. You grit your teeth, your brow furrows in concentration and you think maybe, when she isn't looking, you might just reach over and pinch her real hard. You know you won't, she would just tell and you'd have that to deal with, but you feel a little better for having thought it. You look back at your screen and could swear that the font on George got bigger. You're almost at your wits end. You start wishing you had never gotten that stupid computer, or that dog, or that haircut back in 8th grade. That magazine made it look soooo cool. You begin to fantasize about taking that magazine down. You could cyber-attack them and the cops would be looking for some dude named George. This could turn out OK. George could start e-mailing people and tell them what you really think. George could go to those sites people aren't supposed to.

Over time you become a little jealous of George. He can do anything he wants with no repercussions. He gets to live a life of fantasy and you have to clean up the dog poop in the living room. He's out there taking down magazines that feature stupid hair cuts while you rake your lawn. You detest George, that bastard has no idea how hard life really is. You wish he'd never been born. You would do anything to be rid of him...anything. The corner of your upper lip curls into a snarl as you plot his demise. What to do? What to do? All the air rushes from your chest, your shoulders fall and your head drops in despair. George is a formidable opponent. You're no match. You accept it and resolve to move on in George's shadow, gleaning whatever small pleasures your shambled life can provide.

'Welcome back George.' You read those words once more and a little hope glimmers from inside your heart. You let the corners of your mouth edge upward in a small smile. You catch your breath as you read the words following that introduction...'Not George?' You laugh out loud, cursing the hell that spawned that creature as your pointer descends onto the left click button of your mouse.

Don't you love pie? With pie you can measure the diameter of a circle, divide it by two, and find its circumference or area.

Driving tip: This one is mostly for the women. No chauvinism here, but women tend to start to fuel their car and then get back in. Men like to stand by the pump, hold the nozzle and look cool. I think it has to do with clothing fabric, humidity and a lot of scientific stuff but when you slide your butt on the seat you can build up a static electricity charge. When you exit the car carrying that invisible charge and grab the nozzle to remove it, you might get a spark. Especially on a hot day, when fuel vapors are more likely, your whole fueling experience gets incredibly dramatic. If you return to your car seat while fueling, touch something, any metal thing, on the car before you grab the nozzle. You may get a little zap but you won't blow up your car.
Boys, the same thing applies when filling up a lawnmower can. Set it on the ground before you fill it. Do not leave it in the bed of your awesome pickup. A spark will ruin your paint and, after you get out of the hospital, people will point at your rig, laugh and say, "That thing looks like it was in a fire."