defectivejunk

Despite my misgivings, I'm going to attempt to learn Python. I bought Learning Python. I'm already tired of the pointless Monty Python refs.

I was in a strange world, a world I didn't understand. A world where bees buzz, and birds sing, and people vote republican. There was a shuffleboard nailed to the wall, and free lemonade refills for everyone who purchased a lemonade. I was in a small town in the latter half of Ohio. The waitress came over to me. I was halfway through my chicken sandwich. She was a drink of water of medium height who was young enough to be working to pay for college, but old enough that maybe this was her career. She could make better money as a stripper. I would patronize that establishment too, if she'd give me a business card. Yes I would like more iced tea, Angela. My food is just fine, Angela. How about you come back to my messy apartment on the opposite coast and take that fake dress shirt off, Angela.

"I'm just going to go ahead and leave you this, sir, but you take your time." She was dropping the check on my table. I had a mouthful of my sandwich and I was trying to keep from staring at her chest, so I said "mmhank youffmm". She left and I took another bite, and burned my mouth on the buffalo sauce. Then I looked out the window into the parking lot of the bland chain restaurant I was eating in. My waitress was lighting up a cigarette and putting on her sunglasses in her Dodge Aries as the wind blew her hair through the broken windows of that robin's egg blue colored masterpiece of American engineering. She started it up, and after three tries, she roared out of the parking lot like an heiress going for a line in the bathroom of a club. It was the last time I ever saw her alive.

I could explain how I felt that day, but if you've never eaten a buffalo chicken sandwich in a chain restaurant in Ohio, you can't really understand. The grill cook came and sat in the dining room for his break. They called him Chicken Charlie. Not because he cooked good chicken, but because he got out of going to Vietnam. You see, Chicken Charlie was born without a pinky finger on his left hand, and that got him a 4F. He wanted to go, but they wouldn't let him. Might drop his rifle and get himself killed, they said. So everybody said he was a chicken for not going to war. Then everybody turned against the war, but they kept calling him Chicken.

I don't really know this. It's not true, I made it up. But it sounds neat. All I know is there's an old white guy with curly salt and pepper hair, a face full of pockmarks, and grease and nasty crap all over him, and he's sitting across the room from me while I'm trying to eat. And he only has nine fingers. He's a tall drink of water that no one would ever compare to dihydrogen monoxide. Maybe to rancid vinegar, or the leavings of a rabid opossum. But despite all of that, he looks like he could be a Charlie, and he's about the right age for a guy that would have received a letter saying something like "you're drafted, sucker." I wish he was wearing one of those old school cooks hats, the kind they have in movies set in the 50s. Hell I don't know. He could have lost the finger in the war for all I know. Or he could have cut it off one day while trying to cut up some tomatoes for his kids. I bet those kids are horribly traumatized. Think of how awful it would have been for them to see that. Their dad, cutting off his own finger. Blood on their sandwiches, blood on their faces. Blood everywhere. And the screaming, oh good god the screaming. I bet they never eat tomatoes. Or human flesh. Or maybe they got a taste for both.

This is how I think. I sit in a restaurant alone, and I concoct these horrible stories in my head, because I've seen that life really is this terrible, and so reality is probably just as bad as what I come up with - but usually it's worse. In fact, reality is a lot more creative that I am. The old saying is "truth is stranger than fiction", and this is true because reality is a lot more sadistic than the average person. If reality were a person it would be in federal supermax prison for what it does to everyone. Maybe it is, and heat death of the universe is just going to be when the universe gets time off for good behavior. After all, good behavior is all relative, just like the passage of time, or a wedding in Appalachia.

They always say that a good judge of character is to see how someone treats a waitress. I say the reverse is true too. A good judge of character of a waitress is how well she'll treat you when you're by yourself compared to how she'll treat a group of three or four people. More people equals more tips. One guy on his own won't make them much money. So some of them will take your order, bring your food and the check at the same time, and they're gone. Sometimes they won't even bring the check. Then the cashier will treat you like you're trying to dine and dash when you tell her you didn't get your check yet.

That's why I leave big tips when I eat out by myself. They remember. They're like rats that way. They remember the prizes, the cheese at the end of the maze. And on the offchance that I eat there again, and I get sat in her (or his) section, maybe they'll treat me a little better. Even if they don't, it makes me feel a little better. Because maybe they'll treat the next person that comes in alone and just wants a good meal a little better. Maybe that's why I was born. To inspire others to treat the losers and the nerds and the pathetic well. Or just well enough that life isn't as hard as it usually is.

Speaking of hard, I saw your mom last night. She told me this morning to tell you hi.

An old, fat, grey haired monstrosity came roaring out of the kitchen, hitching up her bra and pointing her finger like a drill sergeant on angel dust. "Charlie, you good for nothing shithead, it's not time for your break. GET BACK TO WORK!" There weren't any customers in the whole restaurant but me. And I was pretty sure I didn't want dessert. Or if I did, I'm sure somebody else could open the pudding can. No one was treating Charlie very well. Even in my imagination. I felt bad. And so then I realized that I've still got a lot more work to do.

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

It's going to be a great day when it's 8:05 and I already want to kill someone.

The following query will emulate a

SELECT emp_id,lname,fname FROM employee LIMIT 20,10

That says, give me 10 records starting at record 21. So what will be returned are rows 21-30. This is used heavily in web-based apps so you can do recordset paging.

No no no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!

This is NOT HOW RELATIONAL DATABASES WORK. There is NO guarantee AT ALL that you will get the rows back that you're expecting. Unless stupid ass MySQL actually does this, in which case it's even a worse, shittier database system than I realized. (and honestly, any db that doesn't support stored procs is already pretty low in my book.)

Things not looking quite right?

We noticed you are using a rare browser. While you are welcome to use any browser to enjoy Yahoo!, you will have the most consistent, powerful and usable experience using a recommended browser.

YEAH THANKS YAHOO. I'M USING YOUR RECOMMENDED FUCKING BROWSER, FUCK WITS. FIX YOUR STUPID ASS PIECE OF SHIT FUCKING USER AGENT DETECTION. FUCKHEADS. IT'S NOT LIKE YOU DO ANYTHING ELSE WITH YOUR TIME.

You're supposedly one of the biggest companies on the internet. Why are you telling me what browser to use like you're on geocities circa 1997. JUST BECAUSE YOU OWN GEOCITIES DOESN'T MEAN YOU NEED TO ACT LIKE IT.

So in summary, fuck you.