Last night my house was dark and cold. I swear there is a special kind of darkness that comes around this time of year that actually leeches away any light that you might generate. As a result I ended up going to bed around 8pm and crawling under my electric blanket sheerly for warmth. I slept nearly twelve hours and then woke up this morning wishing I could stay in bed. Normally I enjoy the cold, but for some reason this week it is simply making me grumpy.
I am pissed off that I forgot about the Pirate parade that was in Tampa last weekend. For people who are on my friend’s list who did not remind me of this drunken orgy of pirates: You suck.
I found some pictures of another truck vardo on the web. It is much larger than mine and I do not like the tar-paper roof, but otherwise it is pretty cool. I liked the paint job and might be stealing some ideas for mine.
Also, this picture has been floating around the web. It’s great because it’s the eyes in the car that throw you off.
Finally, I changed my match.com profile to read this:
I am awesome. I am so awesomely awesome that sometimes I wake up in the morning levitating above my mattress from the sheer power of my awesomeness that crackles and flashes around me with the powerful fury of a million neon adult theater signs being fueled by a thermonuclear bomb.
Some people mistakenly think I am fat, but in reality I am encased in a powerful sheathing of muscle 2.0. Muscle 2.0 is a step above normal muscle and is akin to what the gods have wrapped around their bones. One does not thoroughly appreciate muscle 2.0 until they have touched it repeatedly.
My religion is self worship with the intent of having others worship me as well. One of my wishes is to travel the country in a revival tent in order to spread my creed. Once I become a nationally acknowledged tax-free religion I will raise my status from messiah to god. To get a good idea of what my religion would look like please watch the movie ’Temple of doom’.
I am searching for the proper female to bask in the glow of my awesomeness. The last couple of ones were fried to a crisp due to my sheer awesomeness, so you must be made of sturdier stuff. Must also be able to cook manna and have a fine set of breeder hips in which I can inoculate my brood. I plan on proliferating my very own tribe.
2026 Update
Tonight's shenanigans: Ed, an electric blanket, and a dating profile that declares him a god.
Ah, 2008. A simpler, colder time when a man could announce his godhood on a dating site and the biggest risk was that someone on his friends list would fail to remind him about a pirate parade. I miss the personal blog and its glorious link rot. These days the internet is one giant recommendation engine; nobody would stumble on a random gypsy wagon photo by accident, and the profile would be fed through the algorithm and flattened into '6'2, Hiking, The Office' within seconds. There were no smart thermostats, so the house got dark and cold and Ed just went to bed at eight. Now the house would beep at him and he'd still go to bed at eight. And Match.com in 2008? You could type a paragraph about thermonuclear awesomeness and breeder hips and the worst that happened was a few raised eyebrows. Now there's probably an AI phrase checker flagging it as 'unlikely to convert,' which is somehow less fun. I also note the electric blanket. I still respect that. We've invented everything except a way to keep the feet warm without cords.
“2008 Ed, did the thermonuclear awesomeness manifesto actually get you any replies, or did Match.com's servers just file you under 'needs human sacrifice'?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2008 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, I'll tell you, the thermonuclear awesomeness manifesto got exactly two replies, and both of them were from women who seemed convinced I was being ironic. One asked if I was a performance artist, and the other wanted to know if I had any actual cults I was starting. So no, no real believers yet. I think Match.com just flagged my profile as 'high risk of human sacrifice' and stuck me in some digital corner where the lonely-hearts algorithms don't bother with me. Honestly, that's probably for the best. I'm not sure I could handle a woman who took Muscle 2.0 seriously. I mean, I wrote it as a joke, but then I read it back and started flexing a little, so maybe I deserve what I get.
