Position: 31 degrees, 13 minutes N x 117 degrees, 56 minutes W

As I was wrapping up the Tales of The Beefy Enchilada series this week (expect Part IV by mid-February; or maybe it's Part VI...whatever), I decided to kick the supplemental madness up a final notch and headed down to the Muscle Max store in Long Beach.

See, I want veins. Big, massive, nasty veins. Veins all over. I want a road map on my forearms. I want a spider web across my chest. I want veins bulging out of places that you pencil-necked shmoes never imagined were vein-compatable. Like veins in my nipples. And in my teeth.

I want my veins to be so sick and massive that it looks like somebody wrapped me up in blue tapeworms.

And I want bitches lined up around the block, patiently waiting for their turn to lick 'em.

I told all of this to the guy at the counter - a humongus, slabby Samoan with a high-pitched Mike Tyson voice - and he directed me towards the nitric oxide section.

"This stuff will move you up to the next level," he told me in his faggy girl voice, "it'll really increase your pump."



I tried not to laugh, because like Mr. Tyson, this guy was fuckin' huge and could easily crush me without a second thought.

Back on the ship, I dosed myself with the recommended serving - two teaspoonfuls of a pearly-white concoction that looks waaay too much like jism. I made an effort not to let it dribble down my chin while making satisfied "aggglhaaagh"-ish cooing sounds.

Unfortunately, the best I could manage was to not get any in my eyes.

Several incline press sets later, my chest was so pumped up that I had difficulty clapping my fucking hands. And there were veins sprouting up everywhere. Jesus Christ Jehovah, the giant at Muscle Max wasn't kidding.



The morning after, I got up to go to work and was elated to discover that even with one dose, I had bulked up to the point that my t-shirt didn't fit anymore. And then I remembered that I'd done laundry the night before and my t-shirt probably DID shrink.

Whatever. I still have the groundwork laid out for my obscene veins-to-be.

Nitric Oxide fucking rocks.

On a completely unrelated note...




Back in Honduras, Stamps has earned himself the nickname "El Cheapo."

"Dese guys, dey sit around de bar all God damn day long playing de domino, and dey wait for people wit de money to come by and buy dem drink. So I don't go to de bar no more, because if dey wanna drink, dey can get demselfs a job and buy dey own God damn drink!"

"Now when I go to town and dey see me, dey go 'Pfah! Dere go El Cheapo!'"

"Even de girls call me 'El Cheapo'. Because I don't wanna pay fitty dollar for de pussy. I ask de girl 'how much' and she tell me 'fitty dollar!' WHAT?!?"

"How much for de pussy? Fitty dollar? For pussy? I don' wanna to be carryin' it 'round wit me all de time, now - I jus' wanna be borrowin' it for a little while."



"She says 'de guys in de Cayman pay dat much' and I tell her 'What! You tink I from de Cayman? I ain't from no Cayman, I'm from here in Honduras!"

"Fifty dollars is a rather exorbitant rate for third-world pussy," I agreed with him.

"Dat's what I'm sayin! I remember back when pussy only cost twelve cent! And now dey want fitty dollar! God damn!"

Damn. Twelve cents.

*sigh*

Speaking of Stamps...




They changed Stamps name on the dry erase board we keep on the bridge.

And I suppose that deserves more explanation.

There's a dry erase board up on the bridge, which lists the crew's names and phone numbers on it. It's a handy reference we use when it's time to make the morning wake-up calls.

Anyway, my watch partner and I were mulling it over one day, and we decided we were jealous of Stamps and Tiger (yeah, there's a guy on the ship named Tiger), because they had such cool names.

Stamps and Tiger really stand out on a phone number list, when juxtaposed by a bunch of normal, mediocre, real-people names.

So we got out the dry-erase marker and with a simple modification, my watch partner became "Maverick," and I became "The Iceman."

(The merits of the film Top Gun had been our previous topic of conversation that day.)

The Iceman. Cool. That's easily as cool as Stamps.

Several days passed, and nobody said anything about our new monikers, so in a moment of abject boredom, we changed everyone else's names on the board as well.

To Top Gun call signs, of course.

The 8x12 quartermaster became Hollywood (because he's black), the 4x8 deck officer became Slider (because he slides down your throat), and the guy everybody hated and wished would die by the time we got to the shipyard became Goose (because, well, Goose dies at the end).

Everyone got a call sign, except for Tiger and Stamps, who already had cool names.

This was all fine and good. Top Gun call signs are fine and good.

Until Goose decided that he wanted in on the dry-erase action, and changed his name to Thor.

There was no Thor in Top Gun.

More importantly, if anyone on this ship is the god of thunder, it's motherfuckin' ME.



And then - THEN he committed the cardinal sin: he changed "Stamps" to "Mailman." Now, although "Mailman" is a proper Top Gun call sign - and although it's a nice take on "Stamps" - it defeats the whole purpose of us giving ourselves bitchin' names. Because "Stamps" is already a good name.

Gnnnghrah...

...it just makes me wanna gouge out Goose's fucking eyes with my fucking thumbs, bite them off at the fucking optic nerve, and then make fun of him for being fucking blind.

*deep breath*

Which I suppose brings us to...




Team FTW's Sven once went to the trouble of quantifying the negative effects of seafaring upon Jb's mood. Sven came up with the "Surl," which is now the official unit of measure for Jb's overall level of irritability, misanthropy, and general all-around punch-you-in-the-face-ness.

Surls tend to accumulate slowly over the course of a shipping tour, and then exponentially increase towards the end of the voyage as Jb grows progressively saltier and less prone to use proper English in favor of pure profanity. When maximum Surls are attained, Jb tends to speak nothing but cuss words, thinks real world Looney Tunes violence is funny, and is not allowed to mingle with the general population.

The only known remedy is a bathrobe, booze, and time spent in DeCon.

As you can see here, Jb's Surls are rising, but are not quite in the red zone yet. Expect a sharp increase in 'tude as his projected "Finished With Engines" date (Feb. 10th) approaches.

Hide your pipe wrenches.

And your white wimminz.

-Jb
CEO FTW, Inc.
02.02.06









With all the recent talk of comics going on here in G.D.H., I got to feeling nostalgic and went ashore to pick up the old Heavy Metal movie on DVD. It's been years since I last watched it,



For the record, I'm going to write this as though you have never seen the Heavy Metal movie. Which is highly unlikely.

The flick, to put it mildly, has quite a few strikes against it from the get-go. The 1981 American animation is (crap) shoddy at best, the soundtrack features songs by (crap) Journey and Stevie (crap) Nicks. There's a (crap) vignette based on a piece by Richard (crap) Corben. And too much of the voice acting is done by Eugene Levy (crap), Joe (crap) Flaherty, Harold (the doubly crap) Ramis, and their Second (crap) City ilk.

Thank the Christ that Martin Short wasn't involved.

And this begs the question: Why am I digging a movie that has so much suck in it?



It must have something to do with the Loc-Nar. My personal Lord and Savior, the Loc-Nar, the sum total of all evil in the universe, glowing green with evil, that comes in a convenient, easily grasped ball shape.

And it's not all bad. The bits by Bernie Wrightson, Dan O'Bannon and Angus McKie are fun to watch, and some of the concept design was done by the legendary Howard Chaykin. And there's some Black Sabbath on the soundtrack. Plus Blue Oyster Cult. Plus a piece by Donald Fagen.



And, you know, there's the Loc-Nar.

Do you really think that you can hold a candle to - much less disrespect - the sum total of all evil in the universe?

I submit that you can not.