End

Tonight I was moved to take a look through this blog after several years of neglect - not in its entirety, but an overview.  Spam comments just keep on coming.  If nothing else, when they land in my email inbox they act as a reminder that while some things end, anything you post on the web remains.  Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair; also, buy more Viagra.  (As a sidenote, I find it disturbing how many of the spam comments I deleted were links to incest porn.)

I realized I never posted a final post here.  I'm going to take a leaf from my colleague Tifanie's book (the link to her previous blog, and its last post, is in the blogroll to the left), and say that this blog represents a period that's now over.  This blog represents a life that I lived, and a job that I had, and friends that I thankfully still have, in great measure and with some few unfortunate exceptions.

I fed them to the zombies, of course.

The Editor still lives, however, and can be found pursuing an appropriate Editorial destiny writing about books at indiscriminatereader.blogspot.com.  I still maintain a zombie lab, relocated to Texas at great cost in financial resources and human life, and a remarkably unproductive custom spork factory.

End.

Fun Album Cover Game

This is very silly, and I'm really just posting it so that a friend can see the results of a game - similar to that in which you generate a porn name - that he posted on his blog.

You can participate here.

And my results, which will make no sense unless you've read the rules:


I believe this is the attempted 90s adult-contemporary comeback album of an 80s band with one hit, a single made popular through being on the soundtrack of a John Hughes movie.

Maybe Only Half a Sign

As the title of this post indicates, I'm not sure if this quite qualifies as a full sign of the coming Apocalypse:


This woman really looks like she's looking forward to flushing this piece of pizza from her already grotesquely overstuffed colon, n'est-ce pas?

Half a sign of the Apocalypse, folks. Half a sign. For a full one, she'd have to be doing the flushing in the photo, not building up the need for it.

My Mommy Is Ugly and Needs a Boob Job

A few posts ago, I found one potential sign that the Apocalypse is truly on its way - NASCAR themed Harlequin romances. (Just a quick note on that topic - a young lady friend of the Editor's saw one of these abominations on a used bookstore shelf, picked it up out of morbid curiosity, and reported to me that yes, it is just as classy as one might expect.)

And now, yea, I have seen the second sign, Hallelujah.

Some freak plastic surgeon decided that the big problem with cosmetic surgery in the United States is not the fact that it's dangerous, expensive, overused, and generally similar to Medieval torture except that you pay a lot for it (the Inquisition did it for free, at least). No, the issue really is that children are confused by the fact that their mommies go in to the doctor's office just fine and looking like they always do, and come out groggy, covered in bandages, and then - looking completely different.

FYI, Dr. Michael Salzhauer doesn't think that the best solution to this problem is, I don't know, getting less plastic surgery? No. The solution is to write a picture book explaining how Mommy's just fine, and once the bandages come off - she'll be pretty!

I shit you not. Of course, aside from the profit Dr. Wackjob is making from his wonderful book, he is doubtless hoping for a new generation of business from children who have been convinced along the way that no one is really pretty until they've had their nose broken, shaved, and molded. You can read an excerpt of the book here.

Time to Form a Cave

Inspired by my friend over at the Back of the Cereal Box, I've decided that it's time to share some of the stranger ways that internet users have found this site. The funny thing is that absolutely none of the keywords used to reach Notes From Overground have involved zombies - I guess I've succeeded in keeping the lab low-profile.

Regular readers may remember a post titled "The Love Poem of a Creepy Old Man" - that page has generated the most searches and the most hits, because apparently, despite the recipient of that poem having been both shocked and horrified by the experience, many people actually want to be written creepy poems. Is it that hard to get a poetic stalker? My friends' experiences would suggest no, but apparently it is for the type of people who end up on this site. They have searched for:

creepy love poems
creepy love poem
a poem of death and creepy
creepy poetry
love poem creepy
love poem+older man
love poems creepy
poem loose women
poem too old love
poems about creepy dream
poetry creepy

The first, "creepy love poems," generated 14 separate hits. That, I believe, is because this is the first site on the list for that search. Congratulations to me: I have become the internet's number one source for creepy love poems about/written by creepy old men. Cross that goal off the list!

Other noteworthy searches which lead to this site, and for which this is the first hit:

time to form a cave
astral kiss
joop necktie
your light forever trapped in the time and space

The very best search, however, is:

desperate christadelphians

This does NOT lead directly to Notes From Overground - in fact, this site is on the fourth page of a Google search. Which suggests, perhaps, that the searcher was truly desperate to find a desperate Christadelphian, for some sinister reason of their own.

Jungle Sex, Anyone?

Tonight's TV Guide feature: Alabama Jones and the Busty Crusade.

The description: "Three beautiful explorers enter a jungle to search for an idol that turns women into sexual slaves."

As the zombie lab isn't profitable enough to allow me to subscribe to Cinemax, I may never know whether or not Alabama Jones and her intrepid (and busty!) companions retrieve the mysterious idol. But my bet is that at least one of them turns into a sexual slave by the end of the film . . . any takers?

Best . . . Restaurant Review . . . EVER

I'm not sure who wrote this review of the Nordstrom Cafe . . . it might have been Lerx in disguise as the sinister "jessica ann simon".

BAD COSTUMER SERVICE
Reviewer: jessica ann simon from (town deleted), ca
YOU HURT MY FEELINGS WHEN YOU GUYS DID NOT LET MY TEACHER SANJA HUNT BRING HER DOG PEANUT TO THE OUT SIDE TABLES YOU GUYS WERE VERY RUDE AND INCONSIDERATE OF MY TEACHER WANTING TO BRING HER DOG TO OUR LUNCH DESTINATION YOU GUYS WRE NOT POLIET i FEEL THIS WAY BECAUSE MY TEACHER loves her dog peanut. and her dog is a small dog she is a toy dog and it will nice if you can under stand that a small toy dog needs to be with her owner

I wonder if the staff would have been more "POLIET" had they known in advance that the dog's name was Peanut. jessica ann simon apparently thinks so.

Why I Hate Academia: Part I of Approximately MMM

While searching for some (probably equally ungodly) article titled "Notes on Deconstructing the Popular," I chanced upon this: "Organ Transplantation as a Transformative Experience: Anthropological Insights into the Restructuring of the Self."

Which, I think, means that the author has made the great discovery that having one's organs transplanted is somewhat traumatic.