Joint Session Not As Fun As It Sounds

The President didn’t give an official “State of the Union” address last night, which is just as well. Strunk and White urges us to omit needless words, and assuming Obama stuck with that advice, nobody would be interested in broadcasting a speech that starts with “We’re” and ends with “boned”.

After all, Fox canceled the last guy who used that phrase as a hook, and if Rupert Murdock heard it again on his network, it would probably drive him  apeshit with hate. Rumor has it Rupert’s been trying to calm his election-shattered nerves with his new pet Bushmaster python and a tank full of feeder mice all named “Obama”; broadcasting a phrase he thought he killed in 2003 might snap the poor bastard completely. Next thing you know, he’s bought a dingo named “Cheney” and turned him loose on E. D. Hill’s eight kids while he shows her the Outback version of a “terrorist fist jab”.

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Reciprocity

Mid-February in Boston is a fickle, unforgiving bitch. One day it’s 55 degrees and sunny enough to put the convertible top down, by sundown a front moves in with 729 mile-per-hour winds making the windchill measurable only in degrees Kelvin, and by morning your pipes have frozen and there’s an inch and a half of sleet on the street. It’s like the sky is screaming, “She’s my daughter and my sister!”, but instead of letting you slap sense into it, it’s slashing your nose open with a switchblade. And possibly drugging and assaulting your thirteen-year-old daughter. Similes are fun. But I digress.

Only insane people and smokers spend time outside this time of year, and after three straight months of this kind of weather, people begin to develop predictible symptoms of cabin fever: children fight and drool on each other. Teenagers grope, dry-hump and swap spit. Then they all go home and shriek either joyful Hannah Montana or recriminating My Chemical Romance lyrics in their parents’ faces, who then haul their carcasses into the office to gossip about their favorite American Idol at the common water cooler… resulting in a daisy chain of viral infection so perfect it would fill gonzo porn directors with jealous rage.

Scientists say that people are the most evolved life form, but people infect you by locking you in a conference room for two hours to discuss dental benefits; monkeys have the common decency to throw feces at you and give you an honest chance to at least duck.

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Spontaneous Utterances

Editor’s Note: Having failed miserably in my great experiment to watch all the Oscar-nominated movies before the awards ceremony, I tuned in for the same reason as everyone else who isn’t living in Hollywood, obsessed with fashion and vintage jewelry, or gay: to see if someone would go completely off the rails during a live broadcast.

Our best chance was Mickey Rourke, who had he won might have begun distractedly yammering about his dead dog, or perhaps the glory days of his acting career and Kim Basinger’s bazooms. But having been shafted by Sean Penn, this year’s Oscars was just as plain vanilla as every other year Angelina Jolie doesn’t get to wave around a gold phallus and intimate about fucking her brother.

Sadly, it occurs to me that, even when a borderline personality gets the spotlight, we never get any really interesting screeching at the Oscars. Even the weirdos stick to the Thank You Agent / Director / Acting Coach / Jesus script, which just makes the whole thing boring. So in a retroactive attempt to spice the mess up, here’s a list of things you will never hear spontaneously uttered at the Academy Awards:

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Barn Door

I haven’t written anything lately other than drunken and nonsensical Twitter posts because I have spent almost every free second since Monday dealing with the aftermath of The Great American Jerk Hack of 2009. And sadly, I am the only American for whom dealing with the aftermath of a “jerk hack” involves hours of computer work rather than seconds with a squeegee and/or a kleenex or sock.

Whoever invaded the site did a real fucking number on it. The most obvious thing they accomplished was to set the permission levels of every file and folder so that anyone with a modem and the ability to spell “HTTP” could modify or delete anything that they wanted to anywhere. I was one giggling twelve-year-old with a Web browser at least as advanced as Mosaic and too much free time away from being the proud editor of The American Goatse: The Internet Tubgirl Magazine.

Fixing the permissions of every file and folder took about four carpal-tunnel inducing hours on the FTP client, typing and retyping the Unix command “CHMOD” to the point where my fingers still almost want to move to type those letters spontaneously, making masturbation alternate between a scream-inducing frustrating horror and a confusingly pleasant and exhilarating new experience.

Less obvious was that the hacker tried to hide little program files that would re-propagate his or her control over the site all over the place. I was able to burn off the most obvious and vile parts of the infection when I upgraded the software that runs the Web site… but there were ugly little roots that had been sunk all over the place, any of which could cause the whole mess to come back worse than ever… making me the first person to refer to black hat hacking in a genital wart metaphor. Which is more actually flattering than it might seem, since anyone with enough free time to Pwnz0r my crappy little site is unlikely to come into contact with a genital wart in any other more conventional way.

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No More Bugs Beneath My Skin…

UPDATE: The upgrade is complete and all passwords related to the Web site have been changed and hardened, which looks like not only a functional success,  but outside tools are confirming that the “infection” has been eliminated. Following The American Jerk’s RSS links in your favorite aggregator should be safe once again. If only herpes was so easy to kill.

Thanks again to Timmy Mac for looking out for me… unlike that time he poured cheap bourbon down my throat and convinced me that the chick in the “All Sex Is Rape” t-shirt was totally checking me out.

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Many thanks to my buddy Timmy Mac who advised me that it looked like The American Jerk has been hacked to redirect RSS Subscription links to wretched spammer sites, despite my protestations that he was the drunken idiot who probably clicked on Bonsai Buddy or some such nonsense.

I’ve cleaned up the internal, womanly plumbing as best I can, but I’ll be spending the next several hours cursing and wailing my way through a WordPress upgrade to try to alleviate future problems.

If the site goes down, or if you flat-out don’t want to risk being redirected if the problem returns, you can follow The American Jerk’s Twitter Feed for both updates on the upgrade, and as a half-assed subscription source to find out when new posts are up.

Please bear with me as I turn a perfectly good humor magazine into the computer equivilant of a Superfund Site.

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