Alright, I know Gmail scans for keywords to appropriately (in theory, anyway) target the text ads at the top of the page. Considering that I can encrypt messages I’d prefer Gmail didn’t scan, I’m not terribly concerned with this. But lately the ads coming up on my page are disturbing.

I was mildly offended when it admonished me to visit a list of 10 reasons not to jump in the sack with a guy. I’ve been seeing this ad for days.

But today, Gmail upped its ante. First, it ambushed me with ads containing a news article about a teenager abandoning her baby on the bus, and trying to send me to some website discussing teenage pregnancy. And then for a truly horrific encore, it followed with an ad containing scary implications about what Gmail thinks of me based on my email. I couldn’t even bring myself to click on it—an ad entitled “Breastfeeding My Husband.”

How on earth do I convince Gmail that it has the wrong idea?!?

New trolley saddled with mocking name

Officially, it’s now the South Lake Union Streetcar. But the trolley name already has caught on, and in the old Cascade neighborhood in South Lake Union, they’re waiting for the SLUT.

At the Kapow! Coffee house on Harrison Street, they’re selling T-shirts that read “Ride the SLUT.”

“We’re welcoming the SLUT into the neighborhood,” said Jerry Johnson, 29, a part-time barista. Johnson said the T-shirts were done just for fun, but they seem to have tapped into something: The first 100 sold out in days and now orders for the next 100 are under way.

Rob over at To The People cracks me up. I appreciate a man who doesn’t mince words.

Try this on Google Maps:

1. Click on “Get Directions.”

2. Enter “New York, NY” to “Paris, France.”

3. Scroll down in the directions to step number 23.

GIS geek humor. Gotta love it.

From the creator of Money Talks by way of the Revised Devil’s Dictionary newsletter:

Sexual congress: A polite euphemism for screwing someone.

U.S. Congress: A not-so-polite euphemism for the same thing.

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

I’m wondering how many people at Verizon could actually calculate this. Hell, I have a degree in engineering, but I can’t remember how to do a summation like that anymore.

Dear Spider,

I apologize most profusely for my behavior yesterday morning. You see, when I got into the shower, I had no intention of killing anything. However, because you chose to make your appearance at a rather inopportune moment - and nudity, namely mine, was involved - I couldn’t help but end up flattening you with a pumice stone in a fit of uncharacteristically girly squealing.

See, it wasn’t just that I found you in the shower; although that probably would have caused your demise, it would have been relatively silent. No, dear spider, it’s because I found you On My Head. In my hair as I ran my hands through to rinse. And you weren’t particularly tiny, either.

I feel it was rather rude of you to make such an entrance, especially as my original skittishness regarding your ilk started with your kin sliding down into the bathtub of my childhood and popping out from under the bath mat. See the connection? I’m nude and vulnerable, and one of your relatives pops out. Though I will say not one of them were ever so churlish as to end up ON me.

I still have no knowledge of your original hiding place. My suspicion is that you took cover in the relative darkness of a folded washcloth, and landed on my head as I washed my face.

Please accept my sincerest apologies for my part in your untimely gory demise. I hope your relatives will soon commit to memory the concept that so long as they remain outside, we all can live in harmony.

From The Dilbert Blog:

But the best part of this story is the cleric’s defense that he was just quoting an “ancient scholar.” Apparently that strategy worked out pretty well for the Pope, so he thought he’d give it a go. People understand that sort of thing. Here’s an example of how you can use this method at home:

You: “Your mother smells of horse crap and sailors…”

Other Guy: “You take that back!”

You: “…said the ancient scholar.”

Other Guy: “Oh, sorry. I thought it was you saying it.”

I’m going to have to remember that one the next time my mother and I get into a round of name-calling. There MUST be an ancient scholar somewhere who once referred to his mother as a crap weasel. (Mom, you’ll just have to conveniently forget that I typed this - and by convenience, I mean mine.)

For anyone who enjoyed The Big Lebowski - The Fucking Short Version.

Some time ago, I purchased two feline harnesses and two leashes for my cats. I figure in some emergencies, cat carriers just won’t be feasible, and I’m NOT leaving my animals behind. Well, to put it delicately, one of my cats isn’t delicate enough to fit into a one-size-fits-all feline harness. He’s not even close to fitting into one, actually.

So this morning, making my run to Petsmart to stock up on cat food, I wandered over to the dog harnesses to see if I could find one that fits that I don’t think he’d be able to wriggle out of.

So which size harness did I end up taking home for a trial? A small, not an extra small. This is a harness for dogs with girth of 14-20 inches, and it’s a good thing I didn’t try for a the smaller one.

My parents had a book entitled “What Dr. Spock Didn’t Tell Us”. It described, with illustrations, humorous “afflictions” children often get, such as the unbridled impulse to show off and wiggle a loose tooth. One childhood condition it chronicled was known as “Spaghetti Leg”. This is a condition whereby a child becomes completely unable to stiffen his leg when an adult is attempting to put boots, socks, or any other foot or legware on him.

Putting a harness on my corpulent feline apparently induces what I’ll now call “Boneless Cat Syndrome”. He became physically incapable of standing, or sitting, or cooperating in any way. He didn’t try to run (hmmm, could that correlate to his size?), apparently deciding that the doom about to befall him, while inescapable, also didn’t deserve his assistance in the form of a single muscle contraction. It felt like I was manhandling a furry rag doll.

With some struggling and readjusting and rolling him over, I managed to get him into the harness and size it properly, and it fits much better than that horribly tight feline harness I have, so that’s one more thing off my preparedness list.

Long and short, if you want any hope of cooperation from your pets - get a dog.