Author: Sharkey

Ohhhhhh God no.

I had always heard that the bigger changes in life have a habit of blindsiding you. Never before has this been illustrated for me than right this moment, watching late-night television. Lindsay Wagner came on the ol’ TV to hock some of those fancy foamy mattresses, and after a few seconds I started to realize that I had no fucking clue what show Lindsay Wagner was on from my childhood. I know her face, I know her name, but the only other fact I know for certain is that her only purpose on the tube over the last fifteen years has been to shove shit that I don’t give a shitting shit about down my throat. ….which I hope was enough double-negatives to keep my tonsils clean.

It must really chap her ass that she gets most of her airtime at the hour where I actually get too tired to search for skinemax porn, yet Paris Hilton gets a spot on Larry King to discuss her non-visit to non-jail.

BTW, If there was some non-lesbian sex going on behind those bars, you have full permission to wake me up. Please address any smarty-pants retorts about Lindsay Wagner’s legacy towards the nearest brick wall.

I couldn’t let a Peaches’ post remain at the top of this site for much longer. Especially one where she gripes about ordering a TV online. I mean cmon, I’d buy them tits online long before I let those greasy Amazon fucks touch my television. Especially not after I ordered Tiger Woods for the Wii from them, and they sent me the DS version. That wouldn’t be so bad, if they hadn’t broken down their “product shipping process” to me. I had asked why, if my order clearly said “Wii”, that the shipping department would be able to mistakenly throw in a DS cart, as they’ve clearly seen the difference while working there. The customer service rep replied “oh I wouldn’t think so, they just walk up to whatever drum has that name on it, yank out your item and then throw it in a box.” This procedure definitely turned me off from buying any of the higher ticket items.

This new Simpsons trailer can now enrich the top spot.

I don’t really have anything to say in closing here, so why don’t you just remember something funny I might’ve said like four years ago, and pretend that I said it right now. Make it really a really funny one though, if you would. I’ve been feeling a bit self conscious lately, and could use the kudos.

I’m sorry to say, but Mr. Wizard passed away. Though he hasn’t taught me a lesson in nearly two decades, I still remember many of them fondly. For instance, that one where he tied the bowling ball to a swingset, held it up to the kid’s chin, and let go. That simple demonstration of gravity helped me dupe dozens… dozens of other kids on the playground as a child.

Young Acquaintance: “I dunno about this…”
Young Sharkey: “It’s ok, just hold Billy’s feet up to your face, let go, and when he swings back they’ll just barely miss your mouth. It’ll be so radical!”
Young Acquaintance: “OK, here goes!”
Young Sharkey: *swiftly pushes acquaintance forward*

Watch and remember.

So in case you were wondering why the main page has gone from zero posts to every fucking post since the year 1969, which I can only assume is made possible by way of a time machine sometime in the near future. We can only hope that my knowledge of this post does not create a Timecop-style meltdown, and merely results in a Bill & Ted’s-esque comedic loop.

I was, dear reader, crippled by numerous factors when it came to resuscitating this bitch. For the sake of brevity, let’s try an unordered list:

• I’m incredibly lazy.
• For some reason, the software on the server broke and wouldn’t publish a damned thing.
• After a reinstall, it decided to publish every single post on the main page, and not listen to my demands to cease such shenanigans.
• Laziness, coupled with season finales of damned near everything I’ve been suckered into watching.
• More “don’t exist” messages delivered by the cosmos in the form of the BAMF server no longer allowing me direct access to any files. Apparently BAMF has decided that it likes existing as a gigantic 3Megabyte behemoth HTML file, chronicling thoughts derived as a result of my pathetic existence over the last… oh sweet Jesus… 8 or 9 years.
• I uh… I’m incredibly fucking busy. No joke, not like the last 8 or 9 years of “I say I’m busy but I’m just exceptional at appearing busy.” You’ll most likely benefit from the eventual emotional breakdown that I will suffer from the increasing tide of responsibility. With no new episodes of “Heroes” to geek out over, or “Lost” to sarcastically-yet-lovingly mock, I’ll be sobbing through an episode of “The Bachelor” by Wednesday. Not because I’d ever watch such a show (outside of clips on “The Soup”) but I’m going to need some sort of suspense and release.
• My new place is grand (oh I moved a couple of weeks ago) yet I lost the television in the divorce from my cousin/roommate. He gave me a check for $1100, which was very generous. I now have a 32″ tv in a room that is a foot deeper than the last place. Regaining that additional 30 inches of screen real estate is pretty much my brain’s full time job. You understand.

You know what’s funny? I was actually hired as a consultant recently for my expertise (no guff) with the software running this site, and yet there was a minute there where I actually considered that the tag broke the site. I’ve finally figured out a way to stop the insanity without uploading or editing any files. You can see the most recent post on the main page (for now) and any additional posts will be in the archive for May 2007. I pray to God that I’m not so lazy that we need to repost the link in June.

Today I sold the car that I began a quest for on one of my first posts on BAMF back in 1999. After the smashing it received in my accident last year, I resold the once pristine joy in my life for a paltry $500. A lot of big changes have been happening lately, it almost felt like I was selling the life I once had for $500, figuring that the cash would make for good food money in the coming weeks of my new life.

I sat in a board room today, filled with suit-clad VPs listening intently to my plan for safeguarding their new massive blog initiative from seperate simultaneous exposures to the digg effect. If you showed the future I’m in to the Sharkey of 1999, he’d be as clueless as Hiro when he meets Future Hiro. It’s like telling me that I teleport around in the future and stab motherfuckers with my kitana. Just all seems right but not at all what i thought.

/Wonder Years Monologue

It’s a God damn motherfucking Woot-off!

During my vacation from BAMF, I took up a consulting gig with a magazine company. Mostly telecommute, but during a few crunch situations I’ve been known to hit up the office. Take today, for example. I pulled into the parking lot and was apathetically listening to the Stern wrap-up show, when I noticed a flash to the right and turned my head to look out the back right window. There was the head of an Indian fellow swiftly approaching my window, and even more alarmingly so, he was still in his car. He’d somehow pulled into the parking space next to me diagonally. Mind you, I was the only car around in a very large parking lot. It’s almost as if he didn’t remember that he was supposed to pull into a space and stop his Corolla until he saw me, yelled “CARRRR!” and gunned it towards me.

Once he extracted himself, it was a six-point turn into the mildly mismatched parking space.

I just thought they smelled bad. I had no idea that they couldn’t drive either.

Alright, alright, I’m back. Hiatus ending, just be a little patient here.

Fucking talking ads? I leave for a week and you guys let this place go all to shit.

Man Dials Random Number, Gets Wife

Waking up one morning five years ago, David Brown found a mystery mobile phone number running through his mind.

When it refused to go away, he decided to call it.

It turned out to belong to Michelle Kitson, at the time a 17-year-old student living with her parents more than 60 miles away.

Even the most die-hard romantic would have forgiven her for ignoring a message from a strange man she had never met or heard of before.

But she decided to respond and after a string of text messages, a phone call and a letter the couple met and fell in love.

…

What are the chances that two fat dateless losers found each other by some sort of clairvoyant drunk dialing, as opposed to say… oh, gee i dunno… calling fucking 1-900-DIAL-A-DATE? Reporters can be so fucking stupid sometimes.