The SBM and I are getting ready to move to a new apartment and, after slogging through nine pages of legalese in the lease contract they sent us, I would like to propose a new shorter, simpler form that every rental properties could use to save everyone some time. Because having read several leases in my time, and this one proving to be no exception, they all seem to say the exact same thing. So here is my suggested easy-to-read, easy-to-understand standard lease agreement for apartment complexes:

1. We are the rental property. We are more powerful than all your gods.
2. Nothing is ever our fault.
3. Even if it clearly was our fault.
4. Like, say we barge unannounced into your apartment while you’re entertaining guests, and we randomly open fire with high-caliber automatic weapons and destroy all your belongings and put holes in the walls and puncture all the pipes causing water damage and injure your guests, including your boss who you were trying to impress in hopes of getting that big promotion. That’s still your fault.
5. You have no rights beyond those which we grant you.
6. We grant you no rights.
7. You owe us money for everything, including rent, water, sewage, trash, keys, cards, keycards, parking spaces, package pickup, pet ownership, repairs for damages you didn’t actually cause, cleaning that we never actually do, that little hole in the door you look through to see who’s knocking, oxygen, and sunshine. If you’re late with your payment, we can—and will—kill you.
8. You have no legal recourse.
9. So shut up.
10. Sign here.

See? Short, snappy, easy to understand. It says exactly what the actual lease agreement said but didn’t take me over half-hour to get through it.

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Sounds like David “I’m Not Mulder, Dammit!” Duchovny has checked himself into rehab to combat sex addiction. Wow, a guy who’s addicted to sex. I think I personally know at least eighty-five guys who would fit that definition.

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I went to an air show over the weekend and, man, was it disappointing. Just a mix of nitrogen and oxygen, little argon, some carbon dioxide, few other trace gasses, all swirling aimlessly around. Wasn’t really much of a show, to be honest.

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“Pepcid stops heartburn before it starts.” “Let’s stop teen drinking before it starts.” “With proper diet, you can stop high blood pressure before it starts.” I utterly loathe this phrase, this idea of “stop X before it starts.” Call me nitpicky if you want, but it’s a pointless, mean-nothing phrase that is inherently impossible. You simply cannot physically stop something that hasn’t already started. Can’t do it. Stopping implies an arrest in motion, so if there’s no motion, there’s no stopping.

Think of it this way: Your car’s out in the driveway right now, right? Stop it before it starts. Go on. It’s not running, not moving, but go stop it. See? Short of yanking out the alternator, I don’t know what you could do. And even that isn’t stopping it before it starts, it’s preventing it from happening, which is what all these other “stop it before it starts” people actually mean.

So, please, just stop it.

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The Digital Bits is reporting there’s a new batch of Star Wars DVDs—prequels and originals—on the horizon, slated for release just in time for holiday shopping. I kind of perked up when I read that. Could this at long last be the original non-SE trilogy, fully remastered on DVD the way it should be? Have they found some new behind-the-scenes footage or deleted scenes? Or could it be… The entire saga on Blu-ray? Star Wars in high definition?!

Nope. What it is is a shameless cash grab by Lucas to try and milk a few more bucks out of his rapidly tiring franchise from unwary shoppers. These discs, according to the Bits, are the EXACT SAME discs that were released previously, just in different packaging. That’s it. No new content. No new transfers. No new extras. But if they make them look different, people might just buy them, thinking there’s something new.

So, George, if you’re reading, do me a favor. Step away from the computer, go to the nearest mirror, look yourself deep in the eyes, and repeat this phrase: “I have enough money.” Keep doing that until you believe it and you stop asking fans to keep re-buying the same stuff over and over.

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So I’m pouring myself a glass of milk for breakfast this morning and notice there’s a sticker on the side of the milk jug advertising General Mills cereals. I take a look, wondering what’s so damned important about their cereals that they just have to tell me about it before I’ve even had a shower. The ad shows several boxes of cereal and, screaming in large, bold type, the message: “Whole Grains GUARANTEED!”

So?

I figure there’s got to be more to it than that, so I read the fine print and, no, there isn’t. They simply guarantee that every serving of their cereal will contain at least a certain percentage of whole grains. Well, gee. Whoopee. I find it hard to get all excited that your product, made entirely from grain to begin with, is going to contain a certain amount of grain that’s whole. That’s kind of like bottled water hyping that it “Contains Over 50% Hydrogen!”

And then I think, how would I even call them on this? They’re guaranteeing a certain percentage of whole grains; how do I know? What, am I supposed to pop into the lab on the way to work? Have them run a chemical spectroanalysis or however the hell you check for the presence of whole grain goodness? Five grand in lab fees so I can maybe get back my three bucks if they don’t live up to their claim?

You want to guarantee something useful? How about “Cereal box guaranteed to be at least nine-tenths full when you open it instead of having a full six inches of empty space on top”? I’d buy your cereal then, whole grains or not.

I guarantee it.

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I’ve told you about Josie, the crazy old woman who prowled the halls of my last job, ever watchful for someone doing something she felt they shouldn’t so she could lecture them about not doing it. The woman who had named herself guardian of the hallways and snack room. Keeper of the watering can. Master of the shredder. Defender of the coffee maker. Fear the Josie!

One day, one of my co-workers received a shipment from Amazon, some DVDs or games or something. We came back from lunch and he saw the box sitting at the front desk, since the receptionist hadn’t gotten around to delivering the afternoon packages yet. He said he’d just take it, save her a trip. Excited about his new toys, he opened the box and inspected his shipment. All was good and right with the world, and so we went back to our office. He tossed the empty Amazon box in one of the trash cans near the coffee area as we went past.

We sat down and started working. About an hour later, Josie walked into the door, holding a trash can in front of her. She walked over to my coworker, thrust the can under his nose and asked, “Is this yours?” He, of course, was a little perplexed.

“What? The trash can?”

“No, the box.”

He peered in and saw his name on the mailing label. “Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“What’s it doing in here?”

There was a brief moment while we all contemplated that question.

“It’s… trash,” he explained, reasonably enough.

“Well, it’s taking up the entire trash can. Now there’s no room for any other trash in here. There needs to be enough space for everyone to throw away trash and I can’t be constantly emptying the trash cans all day. I need to keep these hallways clean…”

Yes, she was actually lecturing him because he had stupidly thrown trash into the trash can. Understand, there was quite a bit of room left for someone to throw in some more if, as she feared, said employee was walking down the hall and was suddenly overcome with the urge to throw away a vast amount of garbage, right now, and simply couldn’t wait until they returned to their office. You know how that can be.

Finally her tirade wound down and my co-worker apologized for making the foolish mistake of putting trash into a receptacle designed for that exact purpose. Josie continued to stand there, the trash can held at arm’s length in front of her. My co-worker looked at her, wondering what else there was. She gave the can a little shake. He slowly reached into the can and pulled his empty Amazon box—the only thing in there—out of the trash can. That seemed to do the trick as she turned and waddled out without another word. The weirdness over, he tossed his empty box into his own trash can (which was the exact same size as the one whose honor Josie was trying to protect), where he comfortably managed to throw away large amounts of other refuse throughout the day.

As I was leaving that night, I peeked into the abused trash can on my way past the coffee area and saw a lone paper towel balled up at the bottom. Good thing she made him take the box out. That could have gotten ugly.

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I’m sure you’ve heard about this by now. The Norwegian government has knighted a penguin. This is utterly true. Had a full ceremony and everything, with honor guard (who had to feel supremely stupid doing this), some guy playing bagpipes, the little tap-you-on-the-shoulder-with-the-sword thing, the whole deal. So there’s a penguin waddling around Norway with the title of “Sir.”

And I can’t help but think, for the other folks who have attained the honor of knighthood for actually doing something, this has to tarnish that just a little.

“To you, Olaf Norwegianperson, for valorous service on the field of battle, defending your regiment armed only with a sharpened stick against a full battalion, I confer upon you the title of Knighthood.”
“Thank you, sir. It is an honor.”
“And to you, Niles Olav, for being a flightless aquatic bird—”
“Hold up, what?”

I hear next week they’re going to give a Dukedom to a capybara.

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As a child, I was terrified that going to school would actually land me in the Egyptian land of the dead, because I heard over the summer they’d gotten a new bus.

Get it? A-new-bus? Anubis? Get it?

You don’t get it.

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The winners of The 2008 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, which honors writers who can create the absolute worst opening lines to non-existent novels, have been posted over at the San Jose State University website and the results are truly astounding. These are people who can mangle the language like no other (well, maybe Tom Clancy), who can slaughter a simile, mutilate a metaphor, and do something truly unspeakable to a poor, defenseless descriptive passage.

Personally, I liked some of the runners-up and dishonorable mentions more than the actual winner (which was, admittedly, quite good… er, bad), but most of the entries are fine examples of prose gone horribly, horribly wrong. Enjoy! Or not. I’m not really sure.

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