Tag Archives: funny

Bumper Stickers

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*Ok so this first part has nothing to do with bumper stickers.

I haven’t posted in a while, but it’s been for a good reason.

I’ve been in training for my new job and it’s been pretty intense. Despite having no medical background, I now am somehow advising physicians on cardiology products and procedures.

Scary right?

Anyway, I’ve been studying really hard to make sure I don’t have a hand in accidentally killing your Nana.

At this point, I’d like to note that my restoration magic skill isn’t very high.

Destruction magic is more my forte’. You can see how I don’t want this scenario playing out to its conclusion.

Back to our regularly scheduled program.

*Alright, this is the part where I talk about bumper stickers.

For those that don’t know, I’ve spent the past three years living in Germany. Now, I’m back in the US and I’m trying to get used to our crazy little culture all over again.

One thing that I’ve forgotten about Americans is that we’re under the impression that other people really want to know what we think… all the time.

I often find myself surrounded by the unsolicited opinions of others.

I think this tendency to share is best expressed in the bumper sticker concept.

Think about it. When someone attaches a bumper sticker to their car they’re saying, “Everyone who is blown by the winds of fate and winds up stuck behind my car NEEDS to see this. This makes me happy.”

Bumper stickers are seldom seen outside of the US, so I’ve decided to put together a handy sampling of bumper sticker translations for my fellow countrymen & women.

Here’s what your bumper stickers are really saying, enjoy.

THE END.

P.S. Bumper stickers are now available in the Underwhelmer Store.

P.P.S. If you clicked the link above, then you found that there were no bumper stickers in the store, only sadness… lonely, infinite sadness.

Video Games Keep Proving that I’m an Awful Person

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For those of you that don’t know, the powers that be have made a Walking Dead video game. Interestingly enough, this game doesn’t focus on killing hordes of zombies, instead the focus is on difficult decision making. The game is spread out over five episodes and your character, Lee, has to call some tough shots that will affect various aspects of the game and the other characters therein.

 

 

Interactive storytelling is a great area for games like this, but it does have a way of pointing out how awful of a person I am.

 

Here’s what happened last night while playing Walking Dead Episode II: Starved for Help.

 

*Minor spoilers ahead.

 

After a brief scuffle with some non-undead enemies, our five-person group finds itself locked in a cold storage unit.

 

Kenny, the casually racist commercial fisherman from Florida, and I are talking about how to get out. Lilly, the ex-Air Force de-facto leader of the group, is trying to calm down her dad, Larry, who is banging on the door and screaming obscenities at our captors. Clementine, the seven year old girl that I saved in episode one, is covering her ears trying to block out all the grown up words spewing out of Larry’s mouth.

 

 

As I wander around trying to find a way out of this refrigerated steel box, Larry, unsurprisingly, gives himself a heart attack.

 

 

Serves the fat prick right. That hatchet-faced douche tried to kill me in the last episode and now it’s coming full circle.

 

I grin and cross my arms as Lilly rushes to help her dad.

 

Lilly starts with CPR and I go to help. I’m glad Larry’s dying, but I can at least try to salvage the relationship with Lilly, right?

 

Kenny, with an uncharacteristic flicker of situational awareness, says this:

 

 

 

Now helping Lilly would’ve been a no-brainer, but earlier in the episode we discovered that the recently dead (regardless if they’re bitten or not) will always reanimate as walkers. This is bad; my grin fades as I realize that Larry is a 6’4” 300lb ticking time bomb.

 

 

Kenny uncovers the same line of thinking as me and continues with this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was presented with a choice; help Lilly save Larry or help Kenny smash Larry’s head in.

 

Larry was a danger to me about 75% of the time while he was alive. Now, he was about to become a 100% undead danger. We had no weapons other than a few 40lb blocks of salt lick.

 

I made the decision to help mutilate Larry’s still warm corpse in about .02 seconds.

 

I pull Lilly, kicking and screaming, off of her dad and Kenny finishes the deed by smashing in Larry’s skull with a salt lick block.

 

Lilly rushes back to her mostly headless dad and begins sobbing uncontrollably.

 

I think Clementine is sobbing in the corner too, but I’m not really sure though; I tend to lose track of her a lot.

 

 

 

I really wanted to feel sorry for Lilly, but it was at this point that I remembered that Lilly had been a colossal bitch to me the entire game; shouting, pointing guns at me, etc.

 

No more pretending to tolerate this person.

 

It was time to pour salt (get it? IT’S A PUN!) in the wound.

 

Instead of continuing to try to find a way out, I click on Lilly and initiate conversation.

 

 

There were four dialogue options to respond to this.

 

  1. I’m so sorry, we had no choice.
  2. Remain silent.
  3. He was a good man.
  4. Larry would have wanted it this way.

 

Without hesitation, I chose option four. It seemed to be the most psychologically devastating option as it implied that Larry would have wanted his skull obliterated by an 18 kilo block of sodium chloride. It was the perfect thing to say to Lilly mere seconds after what we just did.

 

It had the intended effect that I was looking for:

 

 

 

Kenny had to restrain her and I’m glad that the game didn’t require that I go through a button pressing sequence to help restrain Lilly because I had dropped the controller due to my fits of laughter.

 

I then saved the game and quit for the evening; mission accomplished.

 

THE END.

 

P.S. I played a little bit more this morning. I found that, in order to escape, I had to use a coin to unscrew the AC unit in the cold storage room.

 

P.P.S. I think I remember Larry saying that he kept some change in his pocket. Maybe I should ask Lilly if it’s in bad taste if I loot her dad’s corpse before it cools off?

 

What Twilight, Dating and Wife’s Job Search Have in Common.

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Wife has been looking for a job for the past few months. Watching her efforts and looking back at my own job hunt, I’ve decided that looking for a job is a lot like dating when you’re over 40; everybody’s really desperate, but they’ve been burned too many times in the past to commit. As an added bonus, all parties come with their own emotional baggage.

There’s also the added difficulty of looking for a job in the Northeast. Looking for a good job in New Jersey is like finding a viable mate at Comic Con.

Should have gotten the number of that guy in the Spider Man costume.

Wife has gotten a few offers from a few different potential employers that she’s had to turn down. The jobs just weren’t good enough for her. They would have been the dating equivalent of a hobo.

This has been highly frustrating for us so far. It hasn’t been without a few laughs though. By far, the funniest job offer has been the insurance sales company that has been inviting her to seminars and informational briefings.

Extending the dating metaphor, this company’s displayed interest in people is a lot like the plot from Twilight; a powerful immortal being that is inexplicably and exclusively infatuated with a Mary Sue (I can’t even remember her name she was so uninteresting). It’s all entirely too good to be true.

Wife went to one of these seminars and they brought in their multimillion dollar winning insurances sales force and explained how all of the fifteen random attendees were the perfect ones for the job.

Kudos to Wife because she figured out the whole situation and discovered the vampire parallel very quickly.

So Wife wisely told Edward that it wasn’t going to work out.

She’s still looking, but, being the swell guy that I am, I’ve put together my top three choices to help direct her.

#1. Time Traveling Vampire Hunter.

#2. Naughty Nurse Assassin.

#3. Certified Public Accountant.

The last one is a compromise. That’s a word all you single guys should learn if you want to be a great husband like me.

THE END

P.S. Wife got a job this weekend!

P.P.S. No, it doesn’t involve skimpy outfits and monster slaying; that happens after her six month evaluation period.

Which Video Game Protagonist are You?

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Hi everybody. I’d like to announce tmso as our Other Half of the Idiom contest winner! Here’s tmso’s winning idiom.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush except when that bird pecks out your eye, then you only end up with one; one eye that is.

Thanks for the laugh tmso. Your reward consists of these two priceless works of art that I’ve applied to your idiom plus the undying adoration of the sixteen people who read this blog… you’re welcome.

*Now back to our regularly scheduled program*

Have you ever asked yourself, “Gee, I wonder what character I’d be if I were in a video game?” Well, you’re in luck because I made a thingy that tells you just that so read ahead and BE AMAZED!!!

*click to enlarge.

*that’s supposed to be the ocarina of time in the top right, but MS Paint only allows me to do so much.

THE END

P.S. Don’t feel bad if you got Link.

P.P.S. On second thought, you probably should. That poor guy has been through a lot of crap for one girl over the years.

The Other Half of the Idiom

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I have this incredibly distracting habit where, in my own head, I automatically edit other people’s sentences. I don’t actually say anything or interrupt people; that’s just rude, but as a huge nerd and card-carrying smart ass, I mentally add things that are completely ridiculous and/or hilarious.

Here’s an example:

When someone asks, “Did you know that Abraham Lincoln was 6′ 4″ tall?”

I only hear, “Did you know that Abraham Lincoln…”

This is the point where the crazy part of my brain takes over and fills in the rest. My mind reassembles the sentence into something this:

“Did you know that Abraham Lincoln was 600 meters tall and could breathe fire?”

This, of course, leads to awkward pauses during conversation along with a lot of inappropriate grinning on my part.

I do this all the time and I can’t turn it off. The whole process reminds me of these “math machines” that I had to assemble in the second grade.

My second grade teacher made us construct math machines to teach us simple arithmetic. The math machines were these little boxes with two slots connected by a chute. You’d put a card in that would say 4×4 = ? on the front and on the back it would say 16. All this stupid box did was flip your card over, but to a 2nd grader it was just short of witnessing magic in action.

I think this is similar to what the crazy part of my brain does with incoming sentences.

This whole automatic process happens more quickly with idioms. I think it’s because I’ve heard them more often than regular everyday sentences so my crazy, crazy brain has had more practice.

Anyway, I’ve decided to share some of these idiom alterations with you. I call it, “The Second Half of the Idiom” enjoy… oh, and they’ve got pictures too.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth because they spit acid.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, except for zombie outbreaks. They tend to spread.

Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and feed him for life.

Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Crossbreed fish and man and create an army of fish-monsters.

No time like the present.

No time like the present, well except in that cowboy themed parallel universe; it’s on pretty much the same timeline as ours, but with cowboys.

Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.

Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. You could have a multi-chicken.

You can’t judge a book by its cover.

You can’t judge a book by its cover; except the Necronomicon. It’s bound in human skin so that’s a pretty good indicator of what’s inside.

THE END.

P.S. If you’ve got a second half of the idiom that you’d like to share, send it to cluegiver@gmail.com and I’ll pick a winner to showcase on next week’s post.

P.P.S Although pictures aren’t required, they’ll help your chances. 😉

Why I am no Longer Preparing for the Apocalypse.

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Today I’ve decided that I will no longer be preparing for the apocalypse, be it nuclear, zombie or some combination thereof. I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve come up with a better idea instead.

While everybody else is out running around hording supplies, creating bug-out bags and planning escape routes, I’ll be mentally preparing myself to become a raider.

Think about it. With all the different types of apocalypse looming over the horizon, one can’t successfully prepare for all potential outcomes.

One needs a plan that encompasses all possible post-apocalyptic scenarios.

My plan is effective because it is simple. The raider plan, or Plan R for short, counts on three things happening.

  1. You survive the initial onset of the apocalypse.
  2. Others survive it as well.
  3. Your callous attitude toward other humans is much greater than those around you.

When the world ends, the lives of normal people will get a lot more complicated.

This is not the case with Plan R.

How many times have you watched a zombie movie where a good survival plan goes to hell in a hand-basket all because somebody tries to have morals and compassion?

My way is much less risky; you don’t have to go back for Johnny… not now, not ever.

In fact, you don’t have to do much of anything that you don’t want to. These are probably the most complicated decisions you’ll have to make:

See somebody with a nicer gun than yours?

It’s yours now.

Somebody has a better food stash than you?

Not anymore.

Want to break into a liquor store and turn it into your alcoholic fortress?

Go ahead, you’re a raider war-chief now… it’s OK.

All of this is made possible because you would amass followers by this point; bloody, power-hungry followers. Like attracts like and if you go across the wasteland as a violent lunatic, you’ll attract quite a few more violent lunatics under your banner… sounds like a safe place to be to me. Just remember, you have to keep your followers more afraid of you than mutants, zombies or whatever else you’re fighting. Otherwise, they’ll mutiny. Remember, violent people only respect violence so you might have to randomly kill potential usurpers from time to time.

Just think about how much fun the bad guys have. Any fan of the Mad Max series will know that your wardrobe options will increase dramatically.

Raiders do it with flair and panache.

I know a lot of you naysayers are out there asking, “but underwhelmer, doesn’t the bad guy always get it real bad in the end?”

You are correct. The bad guys do get it really bad in the end, but so do the good guys.

How a bad guy dies in a post-apocalyptic scenario:

How a good guy dies in a post-apocalyptic scenario:

Giant radioactive scorpions don’t care about your moral standings in a non-existent society. All the giant radioactive scorpion wants to do is bury its stinger into your face and eat your delicious sweetmeats.

So if the giant mutant scorpion doesn’t care about your morals, why should you?

Feel free to use Plan R for yourself. It really makes things simpler… now I just have to figure out what to do with all of this stockpiled food, water and ammo I’ve got sitting around.

THE END.

P.S. If we happen to cross in the wastelands, don’t expect to receive mercy just because you’ve read this… just kidding.

P.P.S Not really.

The Great Migration Part IV: The Finale

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With all of the medical poking and prodding done, the hop across the pond behind me, and with a job picked out, it was now time to move across the country and start my new career.

I had landed a job in New Jersey and it was now time to pack up and move from my base of operations in Florida.

Wife and I were apprehensive at first. I had spent the majority of my life in the Southeastern United States. In fact, I had never been farther north than Tennessee. As a kid, I was always told that people from the Northeast were rude, spoke too fast and should be feared because they were smarter than us.

I fully expected to arrive in New Jersey and be intimidated by their hyper-advanced culture.

I didn’t have time to worry about this though because Wife and I were busy preparing for the nineteen hour drive ahead of us.

We had packed the car with enough provisions to feed a caravan full of 18th century pioneers. The car looked ridiculous, but we really wanted to avoid a situation like this…

Thank you Oregon Trail for teaching me the values of preparation, packing and giving me a healthy fear of amoebic dysentery.

The trip to New Jersey went well for the most part. Wife and I, being control freaks and planning gurus, left very little to chance. What we didn’t count on though, was Other Cat. Other Cat had not been taking the whole, “let’s move to another continent and start a new life” thing very well.

Being a six pound creature, Other Cat is ultimately driven by the singular desire to hide and not be eaten. So Other Cat lives in a constant state of idling fear and paranoia that is accented with occasional spikes of abject terror.

Wife and I had spent the past several years reassuring Other Cat that we are loving and caring human overlords. We had actually gotten to the point where we could pet Other Cat without her trying to run away in terror.

All of this was shattered when the movers came and systematically removed all of the furniture. Without any hiding spots, Other Cat began to head toward psychological meltdown.

Every time we moved to a new location, Other Cat would slip into psychosis and meow all day and night.

I awoke several times in a crappy motel room with Other Cat meowing at full volume inches from my face, imploring that I use my magical human/god powers to fix the situation.

The only good thing through all of this was that Other Cat found each move so traumatic that she forgot the previous move.

So on and on the cycle went, from one motel room to another as we made our way to New Jersey. Other Cat’s mental collapse had come to a crescendo when we finally moved into our apartment.

Unlike all the motel rooms, this apartment was completely unfurnished. Our furniture was still being shipped across the country. Other Cat’s hiding places had been reduced to a card table and an inflatable mattress.

Her sleepless meowing session lasted for four days.

Other Cat eventually relented before I had to revoke my PETA membership. I think she eventually passed out from exhaustion and slept for a few days straight. By then, the furniture had arrived and she had plenty of places to hide and feel safe.

Once I was a fully rested and functioning member of society again, I began to explore my environs. New Jersey was certainly not the land of the future I had thought it to be, but the people are surprisingly nice and friendly.

All of my preconceived notions were dispelled, until I got on the highway. The personality transformation in the other motorists was instant. The moment they got behind the wheel, these New Jersey drivers turned into these awful creatures of hatred and insanity.

Before

After

People drove like they were trolling internet forums; mean, petty and obnoxious. The average spacing between cars was roughly 7 feet, the speed limit was just a suggestion and the merge lane became another opportunity to pass.

It felt like everybody in New Jersey was racing on the road to some finish line and winner’s circle that I was somehow unaware of.

At first I was taken aback, but I thought of my years driving on the autobahn. I asked myself, “what would a German driver do in this situation?” The answer; turn up the techno, stomp on the gas and show everyone how well an Audi can handle at 240kph. I reached down deep and harnessed my inner German and began practicing precision aggressive driving; I haven’t looked back since. I have, however, factored in speeding tickets into my monthly budget. Hurray for multiculturalism.

I guess since I’ve been such a world traveler over the years that my move to Jersey has not required much adjusting. I’m still trying to figure out what a turnpike is… I’m pretty sure it’s when you take a normal road, put it in New Jersey and then make it all retarded. Wife and I are doing well. I like my new job and now I’m finally starting to get the time I need to devote to the blog.

THE END.

P.S. Have a Happy Mother’s Day!

P.P.S. Stay tuned for more amazing brain funnies from the underwhelmer.

No, I won’t Play Farmville with You.

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Dear Readers,

With the new job in full swing, it’s been hard to get behind the laptop and put my funnies into your brain. Don’t worry. Things are starting to level off and I’ll be back up to my old schedule in no time. For now, I’ve put together a little something to show you my feelings on Farmville… enjoy.

-underwhelmer

********************************************************************************

I F&CKING HATE FARMVILLE, CASTLEVILLE OR ANY OTHER TYPE OF VILLE THAT’S ON FACEBOOK; STOP ASKING ME TO PLAY WITH YOU!!!

That’s right. I hate this game and I’d sooner gnaw my own arm off than play 15 minutes of it.

When I get one of these on Facebook,

I’m all like this…

and then I hit the delete button on the request.

I know you think your four hundred requests that you’ve sent to my Facebook page over the past year seem innocuous,

but in reality, it comes across like this…

*It is a really cute chicken though…

Do yourself and everyone else a favor; close down Facebook and pick up a copy of Skyrim.

The game of Skyrim a beautiful work of art with an enthralling story and engrossing atmosphere. It’s not some Adobe Flash, browser-based abomination; plus, Skyrim has chickens too, so the transition should be a little easier for you.

THE END.

P.S. We can still be friends, just don’t ask me to play Farmville with you anymore.

P.P.S I’ve thought about it and the only way I’d play Farmville is if they added a Mongolian Horde DLC Pack, wherein I get to make a cute little Genghis Khan avatar, amass a raiding party and then put your farm to the sword.

*If you have somebody that won’t stop sending you Farmville invites, why not pass this blog post along to them? You’re welcome.

Happy Easter!

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Wife and I were talking about parenting techniques last night. I concluded that my ideas are sometimes a bit more radical than hers. We don’t have any kids, but today I was thinking about how I’d teach them about Easter and I imagine that it would go something like this… enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*I don’t know why I’m blonde in these cartoons, but I am for some reason or another.

 

THE END.

 

P.S. I’m pretty sure this makes me a bad person… or an awesome one. I’m not really sure. Somewhere along the course of my life, I’ve lost the ability to tell the difference.

 

P.P.S. Have a Happy Easter and be sure to find all the eggs… or else.

The Great Migration Part III: The Career Search

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With the medical exams and the move across the pond out of the way, I was ready to start looking for a job.

 

Wife didn’t approve of my original plan to be a career hobo, so I had to get a real job instead.

 

 

It would have been a great fit; I already had the beard and everything.

 

The first step in landing a job was to go to Texas for a weekend career conference that was chock-full of companies and interviewees. The whole thing was set up as a giant round-robin of interviewing. I guess the best way to visualize it is to picture interview speed-dating; I interviewed with thirteen separate companies in two short days.

 

I’m really good at interviewing, but I’m a huge smart ass and I have this very powerful, ingrained desire to sabotage my own interview for the sake of comedy.

 

When somebody asks me this in an interview,

 

 

I say this,

 

 

but I have a really strong impulse to do this instead,

 

 

 

 

I think I do this because one of my life goals is to make enough money so I don’t have to work anymore. Part two of that same goal is deliberately and habitually bombing interviews and quitting low-level jobs in a spectacularly explosive fashion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, maybe not that spectacularly explosive or violent, but you get the idea.

 

Getting back to the story, I was really proud of myself because I only sabotaged two out of the thirteen interviews; an all-time record high for me. The first interview that I sabotaged was well worth it though.

 

The interview was with a company called Friedrich & Snuggles (close to the real name) and it wasn’t going well. The primary reason I was approaching interview critical failure, was the fact that I was being interviewed by a man who, apparently, tried his hardest everyday to look like Lex Luthor. The secondary reason was his cohort, a double for Steve Carell. I would have had to stifle laughter throughout the interview, but Lex and Steve were pompous dicks who supplanted their collective sense of humor with a towering superiority complex instead. I still put all of this aside and tried to navigate through the interview.

 

I asked a general question about their company and it somehow led to fifteen minutes of Lex and Steve talking about how awesome their company was. They went on and on about how great they were while attacking other companies in their field; often cutting me off to continue their diatribe.

 

It was like watching a beautiful toucan preen itself on a branch for hours on end.

 

 

Which, of course, made me want to throw a rock at it.

 

 

As I was fantasizing about violence, Steve turned to me and said this,

 

Steve: I’m trying to think of a way to explain what our company does to someone like you.*

 

*translation: I’m having trouble explaining this because you’re too stupid.

 

Steve: Did you ever see that movie, Pulp Fiction?

 

Me: I’ve heard of it.*

 

*translation: I’ve memorized every line.

 

Steve: You know that part where Mr. Wolf shows up and cleans up everything?

 

Me: Yes.

 

Steve: That’s kind of what we do.

 

I had done a pretty good job holding it together to this point, but this was ridiculous. These two clowns represented a consulting firm and they were trying to make it sound cool and sexy, but it just came off as ludicrous. I kept thinking of Lex Luthor and Steve Carell showing up at Quentin Tarantino’s house to dispose of a headless body as Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta look on in quiet wonder. I lost all composure.

 

Me: HAHAHA!!! That’s a good one!

 

Steve: What’s so funny?

 

Lex: Yeah, what’s so funny?

 

Me: So you two * catches breath from laughter * you two dispose of dead bodies?

 

Steve: Well, we…

 

Me: (interrupting) We’re done here. Good luck finding somebody who buys into your fantasy.

 

I had ended that interview about thirty minutes ahead of schedule so I got a sandwich. Looking back, if I had the choice between changing my attitude and possibly getting that job or the sandwich, I still would have picked the sandwich. It had really good mustard and Italian bread.

 

 

My next interview was with Foreman Chicken (the company actually shares its name with another famous heavyweight boxer). This interview could have gone well, but my dad had worked for them for twenty years and hated the experience. He spoke of his time with Foreman Chicken like he was recounting his tours in Vietnam.

 

I discovered that he had worked for Foreman Chicken one Thanksgiving when I remarked on how well he had carved the turkey. It was so perfect, like a commercial. Now this was odd, considering the fact that my dad’s cooking ability has always been somewhere between burning water and sending TV dinners backwards in time via the microwave. I asked him where he learned to cut a bird so well. The answer, Foreman Chicken.

 

It took well over a year for me to tease the entire story out of him and it didn’t paint a pretty picture.

 

In his opinion, they were an evil corporation that hid behind the veneer of southern niceties so they could continue to conduct their Dr. Josef Mengele type experiments with poultry.

 

I didn’t know if any of this was true or not, but it didn’t put me in the right frame of mind going into the interview.

 

The Foreman Chicken interviewers seemed normal enough, but I felt that they would pull their masks off and attempt to devour my soul at any moment. I kept watching them for any signs of evil. I felt like Frodo in a room full of ringwraiths.

 

 

I eventually just couldn’t take it anymore and told them the truth about my dad and my reservations about working for them. Expecting them to nod slowly and then eviscerate me into delectable wing and drum sections, I winced in anticipation of their response.

 

They just told me that the situation was unfortunate and ended the interview.

 

Damn, so that was interview self-sabotage number two.

 

The rest of the interviews went really well and I met some great people and companies.

It all worked out in the end too. Despite my best efforts, I wound up picking a nice job that I like much more than my previous position; working for the shadowy puppet masters.

 

THE END.

 

P.S.  Thanks for reading.  I don’t advocate toucan violence.  I love birds.  Don’t send hate mail.

 

P.P.S. Next week, we’ll talk about my former shadowy puppet masters. It’s about time you guys and gals learned a little more about me. I think I’ll do a poll to see what you guys think I used to do for a living.