This photo slayz me.

Check out this example row:

Look at cells 1 and 8. Both of those have 4 and 5 as possibilities but cell 8 also has 9. We know a row has to have both a 4 and a 5, and since those cells are the only two places 4 and 5 can go then that eliminates 9 as a possibility in cell 8.

This trick can also be used for a column or square.

Japanese Ahabs capture, kill giant squid. From the article:

“We believe this is the first time anyone has successfully filmed a giant squid that was alive,” said Kubodera, a researcher with Japan’s National Science Museum. “Now that we know where to find them, we think we can be more successful at fetishizing them and eventually driving them to extinction.”

2008 is going to be an exciting year. Good friend, regular reader and enthusiastic moron Joey came out with his website 2008 Camaros because he is really, really excited about that car. This was cool because Joey doesn’t have much save his love of futuristic muscle-cars, so why should we take that from him. Then in a gesture that walks the line between mocking and flattering, Joey’s pal Dannyboy comes out with 2008 Caramels. Yeah, real funny. “I know u lik candy, Dannyboy, but c’mon we all know u odn’t lik it taht much.” What’s next, Dannyboy? The 2008 Cameltoe?

I added the post-it note to the cover which I think really completes the image.

I don’t say “hello?” when I answer the phone anymore. I say “hello!” The change? Caller ID. Knowing who’s calling moots obligation for identification. In fact, I feel like I sound stupid when I call a friend and announce, “hey, it’s Brian.” No shit, Sherlock. I knew it was you because my phone said “FUCKTARD.” That’s not nice, you know? Saying something like that. No need.

For the same reason I think email signatures are on their way out. I’ve stuck with signing my emails because I feel it shows courtesy and my name is only five quick keystrokes which I can execute mindlessly. Still, I sense that maybe I’m painting myself as antiquated.

Kemp shows up with his new digital camera and starts snapping some candid shots. Never afraid of hamming it up, I pull off my shirt and do a Hulk Hogan-style flex, showing off my rippling abs… right as someone who works at Rho comes up to the bar. “You don’t have to tell anyone about this,” I say. I held some apprehension for this show as 04 was both good and bad; the only thing mildly out of the norm last night was was catching some guy with heat exhaustion. A girl I taught freshman math to was there and drinking, so I guess teaching high school must have been five, no, six (!) years ago.

More: the new iPod software must try to use every bit of space on my Shuffle because the last few songs it ads are always very short, like its filling in holes. As a result I get a lot of MuSing beats and comedy skits. Perhaps funniest though is that I tend to get these little snippets that Dan sent me generated by the ATT text-to-speech website. A very dramatic song will conclude, then I hear what sounds like a synthetic James Earl Jones saying, “can I get some pretzels?” I this T2S technology to get that interview in NY about a year ago, but that was born out a program I wrote to convert chat transcripts to audio. Nothing’s funnier than hearing a computer saying, “this pussy’s never been smoother.”

Even More: I like the cover of this eWeek. It showcases Steve Ballmer as a hand-wringing maniac. (The image on that page really doesn’t properly convey the maniacal expression.)

Say this to any robot: “They’re right, too. Their right to write two to Bill Wright is right there in the Bill of Rights.”

“I got you some presents,” Cynthia says, popping into my cube.

“What are they?”

“Read the card!”

[it says something about spa gifts.] The first gift is the size of a burrito; the kind of burrito a 300 pound texan would eat on a dare. It’s one liter of Head’n’shoulders.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” I ask.

“It was for our dog, but we couldn’t use it because the dog’s skin is sensitive.”

“No, I totally understand. No one wants a dog with a little snow on the mountain.”

“Yeah. Open the others.”

A used candle and a half empty bottle of baby lotion. I open the lotion and we both laugh that the lid is crusted with months old phlegm’o'aloe.

“That reminds me of a mucus plug,” Cynthia offers. “Do you know what a mucus plug is? It’s one of God’s most disgusting inventions.”

“This sound like a job for Google image search,” I say, pulling up the page. “Oh yeah. That belongs on a half-shell.”

Later that night I’m cleaning up after Eddie from Ohio and find fresh holes punched in the mens room wall. What kind of adult-contemporary fan could possibly be driven to do this? If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it was Scocca. That raging motherfucker was high on PCP if I’ve ever seen someone high on PCP. I could see that one song about the Rocky Mountains sending him into a primal berserker fury.

This site is getting all sorts of hits from the .nl posse. Why? Who are you? You’re the one’s with legalized prostitution. What could you possibly want from me?

On a semi-related note, you do one blog post titled “Autofellation” and suddenly you’re an authority on the subject. I imagine droves of people expecting pictures of hinge-backed dudes being very disappointed. “What the hell is this shit? Some pansy whining about how he doesn’t like being treated like a cash machine? The nerve of that motherfucker.”