Con Text

Robert discovered a new toy today. Naturally, rather than subject photographs of himself to the machine's dark will, he tossed my visage into its invisible crunching gears, and the results were this:




At least he used a picture of me that I actually rather like.

Things have been racing along in regard to correspondence with my mother's family. So much so that I'll be going meet some of them next weekend. And so much so that pictures have been exchanged.

I provided my mother with three pictures of which she could send her favorite. My sister then decided to pick one she had of me on her computer -- as she was helping my mother do the attachments for the e-mail -- and for some reason no one has been able to tell me what picture it was, nor can anyone find the sent e-mail or send me a copy.

I wish I knew which photo was provided, and I cannot deny that I'm fairly annoyed that I had no say in the decision of what one photo to send of me to the family I've never met. It wouldn't bother me so much if I didn't know for a fact that my sister genuinely thought I looked my best when I was two hundred and ten pounds.

This creates the hilarious potential that I will meet people for the first time and have them react as though I've just been announced as the winner of "The Biggest Loser."

From Russia, With Love

When the tides turned in Diplomacy, Russia was quick to send messages to me that implied a certain... fascination. Thereafter, he began asking me for advice on how to fend of the very allies he knew I united against him. If that wasn't strange enough, he started another game wherein he decided to play as France, and began asking me for advice on moves in that game. But his latest message really takes the cake; there is nothing quite like being compared to a Nazi general:

"Are you like a Jedi master or something, more like a Montgomery or a Rommel I suppose?"

Mind you, I had just taken Norway and Denmark from him. Nonetheless, it seems as though this message came from Russia, with love, actually.

Diplomacy

The following is a choice excerpt from a conversation with my ex about an online game of Diplomacy in which we're running a Franco-Italian alliance. This is, essentially, a suicide pact, but so far we're holding our own in the face of the Juggernaut (a firm Russia-Turkey alliance).

Me: But we have one huge benefit right now
Me: And that's naval power
Him: Togetherness?
Him: Oh.

They should call it... DipLOLmacy.

Other-Wise

I'm probably slaughtering the quote, but I believe it was Ben Franklin who said that "some people are weather-wise, but most folks are otherwise."

Because I am completely unabashed about embracing my inner dork, yesterday I attended a get-together of members from a message board about the fucking weather.

It was about twenty straight guys, mostly thirty or older, and me. It's essentially a bizarre fraternity with no pledge process by which to filter the absolute train wrecks, so, needless to say, it's a very, very motley crew. Regardless of my status anomalies as the lone early-twenties man-fucker of the bunch, I didn't end up paying for any of my drinks.

They flirted openly with the waitress, who, ironically enough, was interested in me.

On more than one occasion, the bartender asked us to move to another section of the bar as we -- a bunch of weather enthusiasts and meteorologists rattling off conjecture -- had become too rowdy in the immediate vicinity of the quieter dinner-hour crowd.

This is actually not that surprising, though; the annual conferences are famous for debauchery and excessive partying. The last time I attended, yours truly was kicked out of the hotel pool in my underwear in Philadelphia at four in the morning, feigning immigrant ignorance with a horrid drunken attempt at a Russian accent that wasn't exactly fooling the police.

At some point during the evening, a small gaggle of mid-forties gays wandered into the bar, one of whom, apparently, decided to bark deliberately up the wrong tree for laughs, ambling over and asking questions about the weather as though actually interested in the responses offered by my comrades.

I spent the rest of the evening serving as a sexuality Wikipedia for the rabble,

Oh well.

We couldn't have picked a better night to banter about weather, seeing as there's a massive storm on the way this evening. I'm anticipating that my office will be closed tomorrow, leaving me "free" to get blitzed and indulge my other nerdy vice, Star Wars Battlefront II.

Rancors Away

I experience mild discomfort when it becomes apparent that my AIM-using mother has viewed one of my more sexually-charged or vulgar status messages, leaving a loving "Hi bebe, hope you are having a relaxing weekend" to an auto-reply of "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hung like me?!"