Below are the 3 most recent journal entries recorded in Angry Blogger's LiveJournal:

Sunday, January 11th, 2004
10:52 am	Monster Nature and the Pipesickle of Doom. Today's nutkick is devoted to Mother Nature. It's been bitter cold across the East Coast for quite a few days now, and by "bitter cold" I mean "cold that makes me bitter." Yesterday I had to wander out into the arctic wintry frigid cold, and I'd use more adjectives to describe it, except that any adjectives left out of this blog entry have been frozen, and I can't unstick them. I own 3 pair of gloves, accumulated over the years. Two pair are leather, and one is a pair of soft, black cashmere wool. Any of the three pairs would have been acceptable for use yesterday, if only I could have found them. But I couldn't. Of my six gloves, only one was visible to the naked eye. That's right. After several minutes of frantic scurrying about and frenetic overturning of messes, I found one of my cashmere gloves, and chirped with such joy as can be chirped by an Angry Blogger until I realized that I could not find her mate. (I say "her", because cashmere gloves are obviously feminine, even when worn by a blogger as manly as myself.) She was, like most garments owned by most manly bloggers, happily nestled in a bed of socks, inches from the foot of the bed of Angry Blogger. And this, I suspect, is why I could not find her mate. (Cashmere socks, by the way, being feminine, and having equally feminine mates, are clearly lesbians. Which is why so few men seem to get to have them. I, being manlier than the average bear, do.) I suspect that my cashmere glovely's mate was mistaken for a sock, and therefore got eaten by the monster under the bed. That's what they eat, after all, which is why you can never find socks if you leave your clothes lying around. That thing about laundry machines eating your socks is a myth, probably perpetuated by The Manster to cover up the sock-eating conspiracy. Well, actually, there is the occasional automated sockfilcher that filches socks out of gas driers and sucks them into the under-the-bed snack-vending machine. That's actually how "gas" drying machines work. They create a vacuum through which soggy socks are sucked, along with a good bit of moisture from indigestible clothing like anything white that you mixed with too many colored items, and that serves the triple purposes (not to be confused with dolphins) of 1) drying out most of your clothes until they are merely damp, 2) reducing the overall number of clothes in your dryer until you are forced to wear whatever clothing you accidentally "tie-dyed through your manly laundering technique", and 3) they keep the socks that make it into the monster's under-the-bed-snack vending machine soggy like the monsters like them. This is also, by the way, why electricity bills are so high when you do laundry too often. It takes a lot of energy to keep socks soggy like under-the-bed monsters like them, and a lot of energy to suck those socks all the way from your basement to the space beneath your bed. And that's why gas dryers are, ultimately, not a very good way of reducing your power bill. (Under-the-bed monsters don't suck socks out of electric dryers, as they are terribly afraid of electric shocks, ever since seeing that scene in Frankenstein, where the monster comes to life in a lightning storm and looks decidedly unfuzzy. That, by the way, is also why you'll never see an under-the-bed monster changing a lightbulb.) Now I'm all for the care and feeding of under-the-bed monsters, but now I miss my glove. And I'd very much like to kick the under-the-bed monster who ate it in the nuts. But I'm wearing smartwool socks right now, because it's cold out and smartwool socks are deliciously comfortable, and I really don't want the under-the-bed monster to know that I have smartwool socks, lest he decide that my deliciously comfortable socks are also, for him, delicious. So, to keep my favorite socks safe, I'm afraid today's nutkick may not be administered to the under-the-bed monster. At least not my under-the-bed monster. You should feel free to kick your own under-the-bed monster in the nuts. And ask him to pass it on until a kicking chain of under-the-bed monsters (like a giant fuzzy chorus line, but different, except for the claws) unleashes such a fury of monster nut-kicking that Murray, my under-the-bed monster, coughs up Tara, my lost left-handed lesbian cashmere glove. (I have no idea, by the way, who ate my two pairs of leather gloves. Perhaps my in-the-closet monster has a fetish. Which, come to think of it, would explain the whip and the handcuffs. I mean, it's not like I would put stuff like that in my closet. The coffee table's much more accessible.) But some of you, like me, may be wearing nice socks or slippers, and are therefore reluctant to kick your under-the-bed monster in the nuts. Or your bed may be close to an electrical outlet, in which case you might not have an under-the-bed monster, for the reasons discussed above. And so you, like me, should go dropkick Mother Nature in the nuts right now. It's far too cold out, and it's her fault. And those damn environmentalists trying to protect her. Seems like you see these whiny tree huggers all over the web trying to save the ozone layer and stave off global warming. Stave off global warming? Are you fucking kidding me?! FUCK THE OZONE LAYER! FUCK IT RIGHT UP THE BOMBADIL! (You'll note, by the way, that Bombadil's nowhere to be found in the Lord of the Rings movies, so thank you, Peter Jackson, for doing your part to fend off these crazy environmentalist bastards who have brought this new Ice Age upon us.) I call upon nutkickers around the world to release us from this smothering ozone layer and let the warm radiation of the sun penetrate our planet, that we might finally be rid of this damnably cold weather. Go buy the most environmentally destructive hair spray you can find. In the biggest spray container you can find. Like, a spray can the size of Rush Limbaugh's humongous ass. And then spray that bigass mofo until your hair looks like a Flock of Seagulls and the ozone layer has simply "ran, ran so far away." And then we can finally be warm again. To speed things along, you can use a match or lighter or other open flame while spraying, just, you know, don't spray at your head unless you have a video camera rolling. I mean, I wouldn't want to miss that. And also, like the shirt says, Kill A Tree, Vote Bush. I thank, in advance, those of you who are doing your part to kick Mother Nature in the nuts, but I know that some among you are bad people, hell bent on protecting nature and, worse yet, helping her wreak her havoc upon us. And you know exactly who you are. You're plumbers. I think of plumbers right now because, the day before last, one of my pipes finally succumbed to the weather, said "Fuck you, Angry Blogger," and froze. This happened to me once before, about a year ago, and it was a bad, bad thing. As painful as a Pauly Shore movie, and as destructive as a really fucked up dating tactic. Actually, at the time, it was referred to as a "burst pipe." You see, a "burst pipe" is not necessarily a "frozen pipe", which insurance would cover, but possibly merely a "burst pipe," which insurance calls "maintenance" so they can refrain from paying anything. Ah, insurance companies. If they had nuts, we would kick them. So, I came home one night and discover that there was no power in my home. "Darn, power failure," I think, until I look around the street and realize it's just me. So I fumble my way upstairs to where I vaguely recall having left a flashlight, wander back down to see what's up, and notice that the door to my basement is ajar. So I grab a knife, wander down, flip on the power, which had mysteriously (at the time) been shut off, and wander back upstairs, now very freaked out. But, right as I'm about to call the police, I discover to my bewilderment that nothing has been stolen. Or even kidnapped. Not even my treasured "Kick Ass Award" from the employer that had laid me off a couple months before. "Perhaps I have a stalker," I think. "Am I cool enough to have a stalker? I am kinda pudgy." So I wander over to my neighbors, ask them "Um, did you guys happen to notice anything strange going on at my place earlier today?" and discover that someone in the neighborhood (not sure who) had seen water pouring out of the second floor of my house and called the fire department. Thank God for snooping neighbors who might otherwise deserve to be kicked in the nuts for snooping. The fire department, in turn, had broken in through the upstairs window to get in, and then gone down to the basement to shut off my water and (to avoid an electrical fire) my power. Then, having shut off the power--and I only realized this a day or so later--they broke out through my garage door. All without leaving a note. So, on the one hand, I was grateful, but, on the other hand, I couldn't help but think "Boy, those guys need to carry pens." and "What? Was it 'Break one entry, disassemble another free' night?" So Roto-Rooter, the only plumber able to schedule an appointment by the following morning, charged my pudgily unemployed at-the-time ass $413.60 for replacing about 3 inches of pipe in a closet upstairs. Roto-Rooter! You'd think they'd be more like, $213.50. Meanwhile, a heavily advertised group of plumbers and carpenters and electricians (and bears, oh my!) called the Robert L. Pann Company, whom you'd expect to charge $413.60, and who advertised "Service in hours, not days", suggested I call back in 34 hours to try to schedule an appointment, so, looking back, I'm not sure how I feel about their motto. I believe they ultimately filed for bankruptcy, but they're still around. (They gouged the hell out of me last summer for fixing a shower faucet. Never again.) In any event, at $137.87 an inch, that new pipe had better be as solid and burst-free as a porn star right now, because I'm going to be nutkicking mad if it bursts this week. Except that I'd rather not kick a porn star in the nuts. I mean, not without steel-toed boots. Those guys have nuts of mithril. Also, for any of you plumbers out there who aren't complete evil gouging sons of bitches, you really ought to consider giving a discount for the plumbing needs of the unemployed. I mean, inasmuch as we can afford to eat, we too must poo. I wound up paying for my plumbing with a 0% APR credit card, and managed to find re-employment before the debt came due. But if I hadn't, I probably would have had to investigate fleeing the country to evade my debts. Maybe Namibia. Ah, Namibia, where the pipes don't freeze. Still, I wonder if pipes "burst" there. In any event, as far as I'm concerned, plumbers provide an incredibly valuable service, and they deserve to be kicked in the plunger if they charge more than a fair rate. Only men without pipes, by which I mean lawyers, should bill over a hundred bucks an hour. Also, if you happen to wander by my place, be a dear and break into my garage so you can kick the frozen pipe in the ceiling in the nuts. Then fix my garage door on your way out. Current Mood: cold Current Music: Life in a Northern Town (Comment on this)
Monday, January 5th, 2004
8:52 pm	Amazon.com. A jungle of unsegregated cluelessness. Today's nutkick is dedicated to Amazon.com. Ah, Amazon. How I love your virtual jungle of producty goodness. Say it with me now, Amazon. Amazon.com. Amazon.cahhhhhm. Amazon's one of those amazing sites that really showcases both the greatness and the raw, unbridled crapness of the web. On the greatness side, they have an incredible selection of producty goodness, they ship to just about anywhere on the planet, and they let you review any of their products from just about anywhere else. If you want to buy Saddam Hussein's book on "Social and foreign affairs in Iraq" or a French version of his "Some-Poor-Bastard-I-Killed and the King", you can get it at Amazon.com. (But buy now, because they're almost out of stock. Except in Hell.) If you were some poor Iraqi trapped in a bombed-to-fucking-Jesus zone (pretty much the only zone in Iraq where Jesus might have been allowed), then you could have reviewed Saddam's lame-ass opuses (not to be confused with the penguin) anonymously on Amazon.com. You know, if you could find a working modem in the bombed-to-fucking-Jesus zone. And in these respects, Amazon has become one of the most democratizing commercial ventures in history. No matter where you live, you can get a copy of pretty much any text, or get just about any other product, from a robotic vacuum cleaner to a really hardcore frying pan. And, you know, I'll bet there are folks all over the Ozarks who'd just love to smack Paris Hilton upside the head with a really hardcore frying pan, if only the local Wal-mart stocked it, and who, struggling in vain to find that one true Hilton-head-worthy frying pan through conventional means, finally turned to their computers, surfed their way across Amazon's field of frying pans, and finding our favorite one cried out "Dang! That's really pricey!" But, if they could have afforded to shell out a hundred and fifty bucks for a frying pan, Amazon.com would have been pretty darn democratizing at that moment. Of course, our Ozarkian cousins could, without cost, write a review of the frying pan, perhaps even declaiming its counter-proletarian price, and that'd be pretty democratizing. Perhaps that's really where the review claiming to be from Menlo Park came from ("Yep, this is a big pan. But when you need something this big, nothing is better that we've tried."). Or they could add it to their Amazon Wishlists, with a fervent plea to arm them for the upside-the-head-smacking of Paris, Lady of Blights, and that would have been democratizing too. But we've already gone a few paragraphs without kicking Amazon.com in the nuts, so it's time to discuss its downsides. I could say that Amazon.com is a shining exemplar of the overhyping of Internet stocks. But it's not really that shiny. Amazon soared, crashed, and has now been soaring again on the rebound (unlike Britney Spears) for quite a while. Did Amazon's stock price really deserve to triple between January and October 2003? Of course not. But that's why mutual fund managers deserve to be kicked repeatedly in the nuts until even Martha Stewart no longer seems attractive to them. (Yes, I know that that "even" is wrong on a good many levels, but so's your average mutual fund manager. Suck my Blodget.) But that's not what's pissing me off right now. I could also say that Amazon's lack of a phone number for customer service is absurd. Like, a couple months ago, I ordered the Extended Edition of the Two Towers, and it arrived scratched and skippy, like a peanut butter without the smooth. So there I am, riveted at the walls of Helm's Deep, and the elves have just arrived, and the orcs are just about to unleash all of Saruman's whoopass, and tension's at its peak, and the fucking movie pauses. And I'm like "Fucking bastard sonuvabitch!" And then it starts up again and Gimli goes "You could've picked a better spot." And I'm like "Yeah! Like when Galadriel goes nuclear and shit in Fellowship! You could have paused th-- Hey! What the fuck?! It's skipping again?! It's skipping again?!" And then it skips and stutters through a shitload of scenes, until Treebeard howls out in despair and rage and says "There is no curse in Entish, Elvish, or the Tongues of Men to describe this treachery." and with that, my DVD player emitted an unhappy wheeze and ejected the disc. And I'm like "AMAZON! A DOTCOM SHOULD KNOW BETTER! You goblin-ramming hobbit-fuckers!" And I lept from the couch and sprinted upstairs to go online--like Aragorn when he sees that the beacons are lit and Gondor calls for aid--and find Amazon's customer service number and utter a great string of unholy epithets upon them. But there was no frigging phone number, so I had to put that in writing instead. And it took them like a day and a half to respond. By shipping me a new disc. Via UPS. You know, "UPS. When it absolutely, positively has to get there tomorrow. But you kinda don't give a fuck." Also known as "Brown. Because other colors connote a quality other than ass." So, it was UPS 2nd day air, which actually means "UPS 2nd business day air, so, you know, we don't count holidays, weekends, or days on which we don't really feel like being busy." It shipped out on a Tuesday. And arrived the following Monday. At someone else's door. But that's not what's pissing me off right now. That's what was pissing me off last month. No, what's pissing me off right now is, ironically, one of the things that I usually find admirable about Amazon.com. And that's that they let pretty much any fucker with web access review any product, regardless of race, gender, socio-economic status, or clue. It's that last bit that bothers me. For better or worse, I am a clue bigot. I'm not saying I want clue-only schools or anything. I mean, somebody has to create the bottom of the curve. But I would like clue-only reviews. Now there's an extent to which Amazon does segregate its reviews by clue, in that you can say whether or not a review is helpful to you or not, and then sort reviews in order of inverse helplessness. And that sort of works, inasmuch as raters of helpfulness are not, themselves, devoid of clue. But there are a couple ways in which this rating system breaks down even when our fellow helpfulness meta-raters aren't witless putzes, and they're both Amazon's fault. The first, and this came up with that Extended Edition DVD, is that Amazon allows people to review products before they actually exist. Like, I don't know how many hundreds of reviews were available on Amazon.com for the Extended Edition of the Two Towers before it came out, but I kinda wanted to look up those reviewers' wishlists, buy them something really cheap, use UPS tracking to figure out where they lived, and send them a lifetime supply of whale feces. Or at least one of these postcards. That might seem harsh, and it is, but there's a reason why this blog is called kickeminthenuts. Several reasons, actually. And among them are the many clueless fucks who felt the need to review The Two Towers a year before it was even released to theaters. Yes, that's right, Amazon has a review of The Two Towers theatrical release by William-Charles Wenham of Oshkosh, Wisconsin, dated January 13, 2002. Basically, he loved Fellowship even though he hadn't read any of the books (Bad Oshkosh-dweller! No B'gosh!), so he had decided not to read any of the books because he didn't want to ruin the experience of seeing the second movie. That's his fucking review of The Two Towers. Fellowship rocked, so I'm not reading the books. Siskel is truly dead, but this counter-clueletarian fuckwit's review probably flipped him in his grave like a disrespected pancake. If you're reading this right now, and you're within nut-kicking distance of Oshkosh, Wisconsin, go find Billy-Chuck Wenham and kick him in the nuts until he updates his fucking review. Then get him to put Clue on his fucking wishlist so somebody can buy him one. Same for "Erik" of Boston, whose review "The trailer was amazing!" has not been updated since March 31, 2002. And, while we're at it, if you happen to bump into Jeff Bezos on your way to Oshkosh or Boston (in which case you're probably quite lost unless you're coming from Asia or decided to take the long way 'round the planet from Europe) feel free to kick him in the nuts, too. Is it that fucking hard to disable the "click here to review this item" link until the item actually fucking exists? I mean, we're talking about a company that can ship millions of copies of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix so that they arrive all over the planet on the same fucking day. You can't hide one measly fucking link? Save your testicles and hire a programmer, you over-touted monstersucker. But that's not exactly what's pissing me off right now. It's also a bit upsetting that 14 people declared Billy-Chuck's review "helpful", making him the 48,571st most revered reviewer on Amazon.com, which might sound pitiful until you realize that the fucking brilliant review over here was written by a guy ranked #124,232. (The world is not completely insane, however. In fairness, Billy-Chuck's other reviews aren't completely devoid of clue. More importantly, our trailer-loving laddie of Boston is ranked #308,437. Fuckwit. (Not to be confused with Figwit.)) But that's still not quite what's pissing me off right now either. (Although if you happen to bump into Jeff Bezos, do feel free to kick him in the nuts for it.) No, what's really pissing me off at this precise moment is that Amazon insists on showing you reviews of "alternate" versions or options for whatever it is you're looking for. Now, maybe that makes sense if you're thinking of buying a paperback and there are only reviews of the hardcover release. But does Amazon really think that Billy-Chuck's review of the theatrical release of The Two Towers (Fellowship rocked. I'm afraid to read the books.) is going to help me figure out whether the Extended Version is worth buying? Even if Billy-Chuck's review had had any clue at all, if I want to decide between Version A or Version B, why put the Version A reviews on the Version B page? Why? Why, dammit, why? Why do you taunt my browser so? Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "You stupid fuck. You should buy both versions of The Two Towers because they rock." And I did. And if you didn't, you should kick yourself in the nuts and then go buy the damn DVD's. But things begin to get a little bit more complicated when we're not talking about Peter Jackson movies. For example, consider the Farberware Classic Series 2-Quart Saucepan with Double Boiler Insert and Lid, or try to, you poor review-pelted bastard. There you are, trying to figure out whether this is the One True Double Boiler for which your chocolate has ever been destined, when you read this incredible recommendation: "When nothing less than 4 gallons of gumbo will do...". It's also apparently good for "Four gallons of chili, mhm..." and "if you are not inclined as to boil live animals, this pot is great for stews, soups, and chili." Now, when I read this, I thought "Holy shit! FOUR FUCKING GALLONS OF MELTED CHOCOLATE!!!!!! I wonder how many live animals I could boil in that!" But I'm a sick and twisted son of a bitch. You, in contrast, are presumably normal, and are reading this blog solely to avoid being kicked in the nuts. And you, gentle, timid reader, asked a different question: "What kind of sick son of a bitch makes four gallons of gumbo?" But that question's just wrong, and you should be ashamed of yourself. The correct question, you Trebek-loving freak, was "How can those sick fucks boil four gallons of live animal gumbo in a 2-quart saucepan?" And the answer is, "By buying the fucking 16-quart stockpot they're actually reviewing, for their reviews were snatched from that item's page, a page where boiling live animal gumbo is just fine and dandy, and they were unjustly smacked down upon this innocent 2-quart double boiler page, where the boiling of live animals seems grossly gross and decidedly unchocolatey." Other "reviews" on the double boiler are actually about crappy knives, a 15-piece cooking set (which looks like a decent deal), and the lamented lack of the stainless steel frying pans once purchased in the reviewer's bygone youth. Of the 22 "reviews" on the double boiler's page, only five are actually about the double boiler. Of these, three are worth reading, one simply cries out "All I have to say, is TAMALES!!!! this is the pot that'll cook em... hehehehe." and the last starts out with the ever-endearing "Although I do not own the double boiler yet (it is on my wish list)" and then proceeds to review something else. So, in total, three or four out of 22 reviews were worth putting on the page, and eighteen could have been weeded out if Amazon simply asked the user whether they owned the fucking product, or (in 17 out of 18 cases anyway) just allowed the reader to screen out reviews of "alternate" options. By the way, on what planet, what fucking planet of diabolically balrog-heated cutlery, is a fucking utensil carousel an "alternate option" for a double boiler? When's the last time you melted chocolate with a fucking pair of scissors? Or did Farberware sneak in the fearsome Pasta Server of Morgoth with its otherwise unremarkable cutlery and carouselry? When, I ask you, did Amazon.com's cutlery selection go Salvador Dali, and, more importantly, is the acid they must be taking eligible for super saver shipping? In any event, at this point in my culinary shopping, I'm torn between two products: the Farberware Classic Series 2-Quart Saucepan with Double Boiler Insert and Lid that's just right for making four gallons of live animal gumbo and the Nordicware Double Boiler that makes fantastic blintzes but gets mixed reviews as a cooling rack. And for this confusion, I blame Jeff Bezos. So, if you happen to see Mr. Bezos, please kick him repeatedly in the nuts. Kick him in the nuts until he is as sterile as the operating room in which his testicles would be surgically reattached were they not destined for stewing in four gallons of live animal gumbo. Then make four gallons of Bezos-balls-and-Billy-Chuck gumbo in the 2-quart double boiler of your choice, and serve it to whatever Amazon.commie bastard thinks you can melt chocolate with a plastic revolving carousel and a spoon. Clearly, he's smoked enough pot to be pretty darn hungry by now. Current Mood: irritated (Comment on this)
Saturday, December 27th, 2003
4:44 pm	Eyewonder.com, the ear-piercing stream of crud. So, this is my blog devoted to people whom I would like to kick in the nuts. You know who I mean, the evildoers of today's society. Like spammers and Saddam and whoever thought Greta van Susteren should be put on TV. Eww. Today's nutkick is dedicated to the sons of bitches at Eyewonder.com. Now, you may not know who eyewonder.com is, but I'd bet that you already want to kick them in the nuts. Basically, they're the jerks who let advertisers hijack your instant messenger and play loud, disruptive ads on it. It's described pretty well here in the story titled "AOL Tries for Record Annoying Ad Format." Basically, there you are, innocently IM'ing your sweet l'il Aunt Dorothy over the web, when a trailer for The Last Samurai erupts over your computer's speakers. Now, I like a Tom Cruise movie as much as the next guy. As much as the next heterosexual guy, anyway. Which is to say that I own Jerry Maguire but could have done without that vampire flick with Brad Pitt. Not that there's anything wrong with that. (With homoerotic film, that is. There's plenty wrong with that piece of shit movie in particular.) But I don't want to hear about even the best of the best of the best of Tom Cruise movies while I'm in the middle of an IM. Not even if it features gratuitously continuous Nicole Kidman nakedness. (Well, maybe I'd want to see that, but I still wouldn't want to hear it while IM'ing my sweet l'il Aunt Dorothy.) I certainly don't want my entire fucking office to hear about it while I'm in the middle of a non-work-related IM at work. But there I am, innocently IM'ing my sweet Aunt Dorothy from my office cubicle, when suddenly the sounds of war break loose from my computer's speakers, scaring the crap out of me, the girl in the cubicle next to me, and the stuffy executive en route to the bathroom. I'm surprised he didn't soil himself right then and there. And it takes a few seconds, a few torturously loud and stressful seconds, to realize that the sound is coming from a little streaming video banner in the middle of my instant messenger toolbar. And it takes a few seconds more to figure out how to get the sound to stop. And then the evil little bastardvertisement has the nerve to pop up a frigging window! A window! A frigging spammy little pop-up window! And I'm like, FUCK YOU YOU MOTHER FUCKING SPAMMY PIECE OF SHIT! Only I can't say that out loud because I'm in a cubicle at the office. But I can say it now. FUCK YOU YOU MOTHER FUCKING SPAMMY PIECE OF SHIT! May a host of fighting uruk-hai ten thousand strong veer left on their way from Isengard to Helm's Deep and pause to kick you repeatedly in the nuts. May your nuts be kicked until the little that remains can be found only by squirrels. And may those squirrels be hungry and carnivorous. How, you ask, can this new great evil of our time be defeated? And by "new great evil" I mean not the host of nutkicking orcs, nor even the manhood-eating squirrels, but rather the unwanted trailer-trashing of our instant messengers by these profit-hungry spammerfucks. Well, dear reader, let me tell you. Preferably while you don your steel-toed shoes of balletic nutcracking. The company behind this new wave of eviltising is Eyewonder. Eyewonder does video streaming all over the web, and that's fine and dandy. But they've also teamed up with AOL to put these streaming commercials in your instant messenger--I like to think of it as putting the AOL back in your AIM--and they've made it impossible for you to lower the volume. And for that, well, they deserve to be kicked repeatedly in the nuts. Perhaps to protect their own privacy, Eyewonder doesn't make it easy to figure out the e-mail addresses of their executives. But you can submit complaints via form mail here. Also, their Director of Marketing is a fellow named Jason Scheidt, whose e-mail address is jscheidt@eyewonder.com. Pop him an e-mail and let him know how you feel. His phone number's 770-261-5079, at least in the office. His home phone number also appears to be listed if you're a psychotic bastard who wants to search the People Pages listings at Superpages.com, but, well, I want to kick these people in the nuts, not subject them to unsolicited direct marketing. Eyewonder's CFO/COO (always a great sign for a company when they make this one position) is David Raphael, whom you should feel free to sign up for rabid goat porn. His e-mail address is draphael@eyewonder.com, and his work phone is 770-261-5071. I'm going to make a guess and say that if Jason Scheidt's e-mail address is jscheidt@eyewonder.com, and David Raphael is draphael@eyewonder.com, then the e-mail address of their CEO, John Vincent, is going to be jvincent@eyewonder.com. Remember that whenever you see a streaming video pop-up and it pisses you off. You can send snail mail to them at Eyewonder, Inc., Overlook III, 2859 Paces Ferry Road, Suite 1200, Atlanta, Georgia 30339. I recommend using these postcards or greeting cards. Eyewonder, like Sauron, is not without dark servants. Their partner in spam appears to be xlontech.net, aka movenetworks.com, who help stream the trailer files. You can send them hate mail at info@movenetworks.com or sales@movenetworks.com. Also feel free to send pictures of jock straps to support@movenetworks.com. Several AOL executives also deserve repeated nutkicking for integrating Eyewonder into AOL Instant Messenger. AIM is an important bit of software to a lot of people, and it was perhaps the only thing AOL had that didn't make most web surfers cringe. I mean, let's face it, AOL itself is pretty much crap. But for their acquisition of Time Warner, Instant Messenger would've been the only cool thing about them. And I think most people would agree that AOL has the right to bundle non-intrusive advertising into AIM so that people can enjoy it for free, and many may even agree that some of their advertising "bots" are fairly clever. But these trailers cross the line. Now, AOL has sullied Instant Messenger, and, by doing so to promote Time Warner films, they're sullying the whole damn company. So, if you happen to see an AOL executive wandering around Virginia, please kick them in the nuts. A lot. The chief AssOL behind the Eyewonder ads appears to be AOL's veep of interactive marketing, Ron Bernstein. Back when he was at Compuserve, his e-mail address was RonBernstein@cs.com, but I have no idea what it would be now. The press contact for AOL's interactive advertising is Ruth Sarfaty at 212-652-6360. The one for AOL messaging is Derek Mains at 650-937-4927. Give them both a call and ask them if Mr. Bernstein's deal with Eyewonder has made every other IM user in the media hate AOL as much as you do. And as for you, you Warner Brothers advertising fuckbags, I'm boycotting The Last Samurai. I'm not going to see it in the movie theaters unless I've already seen something else, something put out by Miramax or Universal or some other New Line competitor. And then maybe I'll sneak in without buying a ticket and then I'll tell everyone waiting in line that the movie sucked raw mule scrotum which is why you had to use instant messenger spam to promote it. But that's the extent of it. Other than that, I no longer have any interest in seeing the movie. Because you're audio-spamming fuckbags who deserve to be kicked in the nuts. As described above. If you happen to see the Warner Brothers executives responsible for these pop-up Last Samurai trailers in your instant messenger program, please kick them in the nuts. Or at least tell them to go fuck themselves. Or do it by e-mail if you don't live in their neighborhood. Pop a note to privacy@wb.com to complain about their intrusive advertising methods and ask them to stop using eyewonder advertisements. Or call them at (818) 977-0018. If you know anybody who writes movie reviews, encourage them to mention the Eyewonder trailers for Last Samurai in their reviews, disapprovingly. Send Tom Cruise a tearful "Why the fuck did you let them promote you this way? Now I don't want to support the movie even though I like your work." card at Tom Cruise, C/O Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Blvd, Beverly Hills, CA 90212. You know, New Line also used this audiospam to promote Return of the King, but I lack the will to boycott Return of the King. I suspect, really, that the use of audiospam to promote RotK was really being done in an effort to try to make the audiospam acceptable. I mean, it's not like anybody with an instant messenger program would really need to hear an ad about Return of the King to know it was coming out. And, if they did need an ad to know it was coming out, it's not like they'd be able to get tickets before they sold out. So, no, I think the RotK audiospam was really more of an unfortunate use of Peter Jackson's opus to score cheap points than an actual attempt at advertising. Sort of like those horrible Verizon ads, or those freakish amalgams of RotK scenes with basketball footage that TNT has been running. But I digress. To tell New Line not to use these intrusive methods to promote Return of the King, pop an e-mail to privacy@newline.com. Or videotape yourself fucking one of the marketing executives' wives and send a link to acquisitions@newline.com. Eyewonder proudly touts a bunch of big clients on their home page. Feel free to e-mail marketing people at those clients and tell them you're boycotting their clients until they stop using Eyewonder. In the long run, only forceful consumer backlash can stop products like Eyewonder. In the short run, there's some decent technological advice here. If you're angry enough to spend $25, the marvelous pop-up killer at admuncher.com does appear to eat eyewonder ads. Current Mood: enraged (Comment on this)