Is this a term?

Can one be "brain-fucked?" That's what I feel like staring at all of these cells of the spreadsheets that I compare/edit/contrast. For background on the subject, see this. The data is frying me brain. The cells are cooking the cells. I'm stepping outside now. God, I wish I still smoked. I need a different pollutant.

Curious. As I was writing this, one of the other temp workers here in the basement just had a meltdown with another worker. A meltdown over the terminology of "belt couplers." Either the spreadsheets are tainted with evil, or the company is pumping mind-altering drugs into our corner of the basement where this data project slowly strips all of our cerebral cells. Either way, fresh air will have to substitute for my comfort pollutant.

Quickie link

Here's another one of my favorite Strong Bad emails. I'm debating whether to buy a t-shirt or something from their store to support the website. It's been around for years and was just basically a few people screwing around with Flash Player and their voices. No advertising, no real means of financial backing for a long time. Now it looks as if the site will pay for itself. Strong Bad emails are usually hit or miss. But when they hit, they're really good comedy. The link above is one of those hits for me.

Pulp Friday's next (PF 7)

Yes, I know it's not Friday. I'm just maintaining the title for consistency of text, not consistency of time. I'm hoping to finalize the first installment of this series in ten entries (or so) here as a basis for something bigger. Again, useful comments are encouraged and appreciated from the three confirmed people I know who have seen this blog. Anybody new, you're also welcome to comment. Thanks.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6

Knowing full well my dumb act won’t work, I ask, “What do you mean, what I did in Maui?”

“Please, dear,” High-Pitch Smirk says. He snaps his fingers and Trench Coats #2 and #3 withdraw manila envelopes from their coat interiors. They both whip the envelopes at me like Frisbees. They come sailing at me over the tennis court net so fast I barely have time to put my hands in front of my face. There’s a loud whack as both envelopes hit my hands and slap to the ground. I look at my hands, expecting to see puncture wounds.

“Pick those up and you’ll see everything you need. Be thankful the boys were tossing envelopes and not cinder blocks this time.”

At least now I know who to bill once my landlord Chung discovers the wreckage of his building’s front door.

I bend down to retrieve the envelopes, feeling very awkward. I stand back up and attempt to convey non-chalance.

“Fine, so you know everything about Maui. Why should I care?”

I try to rip open one of the envelopes and give myself a paper cut. My wince draws grins from the other side of the net.

“Honey, Maui was quite a mess. You’ve been getting away with murder since you got married.”

“Oh please,” I say, “If you really know everything about Maui, you know that I haven’t killed anybody.”

Smirkface keeps smiling.

”Fine, keep smiling,” I tone. “I’m no nun, but I haven’t committed murder.”

“You can keep that up as long as you want, but we know better. See for yourself. Hope your little finger doesn’t bleed on the evidence too much.”

I scowl and withdraw the contents of the first manila folder. Sure enough, they’ve got plenty of pictures. They’ve got pictures of me taking the cash out of safe deposit boxes, signing checks, and handing over credit cards for purchases. These pictures aren’t of concern until I get deeper into the folder’s contents. There are photocopies of bounced checks with my name and signature, rejected credit card notices (also from me), and copies of checks with questionable signatures. A long line of my payment and credit wreckage. The last page is a bank statement of a Mr. George Dean, showing a long list of fraudulent charges from Kihei (“Key-hay?” my neighbor Brian would say), Hawaii.

I stop sifting through the contents. “Good for you,“I say, still trying to affect aplomb. “You’ve documented my bad credit. I won’t charge any purchases to you.”

”You missed the last page, sweetie.”

I thumb back through the stack and discover what I skipped: a missing person’s report from Maui on a Mr. George Dean, filed three days after Jenny and I started our honeymoon there.

”Interesting coincidence that Mr. Dean disappears right around the time you started having money problems on your honeymoon. Even more interesting that you and Mr. Dean had a meeting the night before he disappeared and incredibly interesting considering you started using Mr. Dean’s checkbook and credit cards after he went missing.”

”That’s quite a stretch you’ve made there,” I say with no assurance.

“Open the second envelope, dear.”

I tear open the second folder without making myself look any sillier. Sure enough, the pictures in this folder show me and a man having an animated conversation; I’m gesticulating like a crazed Woody Allen character and the man has his arms folded.

High-Pitch Smirk sounds very smug. ”If Mr. Dean had known he’d have less than 24 hours to live, I doubt he would’ve been the calm one.”

I continue to flip through the pictures that H.P. Smirk and his Trench Coats have given me. They’ve been oily enough to include pictures of Jenny and me, happy and smiling on the beaches and patios of Maui, clinking glasses, gazing into each other’s eyes, Jenny jumping on my back and biting my ear, both of us sharing kisses with hands on each other’s faces, the surf wind blowing her hair through my fingers. Other photos paint a less happy picture: Jenny and I sitting far apart, worried looks on our faces, or Jenny and I engaging in angry conversation. The contrast between the honeymoon’s early-week and later-week photos.

”Looks like there was trouble in more than one place. Did Jenny know how bad your credit was? Did she ever find out how you solved your little money issues?”

They’ve got everything neatly arranged. I decide I’d better play along.

”What do you want?”

H.P. Smirk affects surprise. “Don’t you want to ask me about the photo that brought you here?”

”It’s a fake.”

”Actually, sweetie, it’s not. You should know that. We know you’ve been getting away with more than one murder. I just gave you the documentation of your first, and rest assured, we have plenty of documentation on the second.”

I take a few seconds to ponder this. “So what’s next?”

H.P. Smirk casually folds his hands together, demonstrating his own practiced aplomb. “I’m here to make sure your mess doesn’t get any worse.”

This will continue…

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 8
PF 9