This article on The Smoking Gun contains complaints about specific vanity liscense plates, it’s pretty fucking funny, from the classic LUV2HAZE and 2HOT2DOU to the more obscure but even more clever 3M WOJ8

Kinda makes you happy that we still live in a world where the little guy can win, even if just for a couple days/weeks/months until some soccermom in her minvan idling behind some said smartass and ruin everything.

Probably the finest plate in this category would have to be the GOTMILF which it’s owner claimed, before it was sadly taken away, stood for “Got Manual Inline Lift Fluctuator?” haha, glorious

I just finished a little project that I had been working on for a while, scanning in a friends art-works and making some fancy-pants web gallery.

This project is notable because the amount of work I did was pretty much neglible compared to the amount of work it tool to create any of these bad boys & sweet-sweet pbase.com did most of the fancy thumbnail making and such. Even though my involement was slim, I think it is still pretty fucking cool.

So, against my better judgement, I bought a wee little notebook to record my random inspirations when I’m out and about on the town. Also, sometimes when I’m on the T I see random hipsters and crazy people feverishly writing in little notebooks, and often I am to wonder “What are they writing about?” Not that I have my little book, I realize the whole point is to just look like you are writing all types of interesting stuff.

Whenever I pause to write sometype of bullshit into my notebook, I make sure my brow is extra-furrowed and my expression is doubly pained, as if I have to cut the words from my flesh onto the page. I think that’s pretty fucking cool

What a troubled soul he most be? What is he writing about? It must be something terribly powerful, emotionally draining and extremely entertaining?

Woe unto the poor commuter that actually glances towards the pages onto which I endlessly scrawl, for it is complete crap, hahaha

I fucking hate that feeling you get when you are working on some big project and you come to this abrupt realization that you did something wrong, “Fuckit!”the really really shitty counterpart to the happy inspiring “Eureka!”

Now, in my age and wisdom, I rarely make catastrophic mistakes, usually it’s something much more subtle, much sneakier. When I have one of the afermentioned episodes, it’s usually that part of my brain has discovered perhaps a slight objection, a little itch that begs to be scratched and passes it on to my attention. At this point I am probably kind of stressed out, trying to keep everything chill, nothing to see her ma’am.

But, then I start feeling really guilty, what if I really did make a mistake? What if this affects my friends/coworkers/etc.? I’d have to be some kind of really lazy asshole to ignore it, right? Am I really that fucking, lazy and mean-spirited?
So I usually at this point, poke around a little and try to figure out what’s going on, get a vague sense of the potential damage done.

The worst feeling is when you figure out a (usually simple) way to test and see if there really is a situation. Lots of my foibles involve this fucking dork-fest database I use at work. I dorkilishy taught myself how to use it pretty well, I even have figured out some (relatively) cool tricks and such. The beauty of a potential fuck-up using this terrible creature is that I can just go back and retrace my steps, recraft some dweebish queries and compare the results. The bad thing is that because this is so easy to do, so easy to quickly see if I’m right or wrong, it scares the shit out of me. A cold yes or no, not pretty.

Today, when I finally sucked it up to see what the damage was, it turned out to neglible and within prescribed boundaries, it was only a Class 2 Fuck-Up. Still, something like that still rips through you, whew doggies!