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March 18, 1997
De Agony of De First

OK, since this is the first column, the primary concern around here is getting the "hit counter" up. For the uninitiated, "hit counter" refers to a random number that many web pages generate to appeal to the people who like to guess what the random number will be the next time they view the page. Here is an example of a hit counter:


The best way to get that number up is to get listed on a "search engine" so that people can find your page. Of course, the most popular pages are ones that feature adult material. I don't feel I have to stoop to the level of providing pictures of naked women just to get a wider audience. Regardless of my personal feelings about XXX-rated hot action being publicly available, the truth is that sweaty teen porn free pictures sex has no place on the page on which I've chosen to publish this column. Anyone who's come here looking for anal gay lesbian dripping nude naked horny sex slut cum free GIF JPG pictures should look elsewhere.

After reading my column, of course.

At any rate, once the hit counter really gets going, I can spend lots of time coming up with clever, "hip" ways of presenting it. For instance, take the example above. Nobody's going to bother guessing that random number. We've got to "spice it up."

You are the 3 person to go here.

Alright, now we're talking.

But that still won't impress the power users. Successful webpages need flashy graphics to signify their incredible importance, and the incredible amount of free time possessed by their basement-dwelling authors. So after a little work, we finally end up with a hit counter to be proud of:

You are the person to go here.

Now we are equipped to handle the veritable tidal wave of new person who will be spurting- nay, gushing in to read the column in the next few days. XXX naked sex teen babe ass.

Just for the record, by the way, this column will be updated every tuesday. I've chosen tuesday for two important reasons. First, no other page on the entire internet is updated on tuesday. Tuesday is the rotting sewer from hell for websurfers who count on their morning scan of their favorite pages to waste enough time so they don't have to do any work before lunch. I felt I needed to do this as a public service. Not for selfish reasons, not so you'll send me lots of appreciative email and $50 bills. Just because I care, dammit. The second reason is because it just happens to be tuesday, and this way I have a whole week to come up with something else to write about.

Which is not to say that the $50 bills wouldn't be greatly appreciated.

So anyway, my lovely companion and I spent the entire weekend moving. I think I speak for everyone who's familiar with the enchanting experience of moving when I say, "shit." We moved from a large one bedroom apartment to a small two bedroom apartment. There's actually no extra space, but there's a big wall in the way now. We love the wall. For hours last night, we stood on opposite sides of the wall and hollered back and forth...

"I can't see you!"
"I can't see you either!"
"I can't see anything over there!"
"I don't even know which way you're facing!"
"I can barely hear you, too!"

Obviously, all the heartache and backache was worth it. Of course, it was more difficult than I had anticipated. I'm used to just getting a few guys together, and working hard for a few hours until it was done. In south Florida, though, it's necessary to sign up at least six or seven guys initially, because, on average, at least half of them will collapse and die as soon as they step foot outdoors, usually while carrying a box of breakable stuff. You can see the problems this causes. We had to buy a new set of dishes.

Motivation is the key. I made a little pep talk before we all got started. I said, "Don't think of it as moving. Think of it as going on a road trip, and taking a lot of stuff along!" They responded in the spirit of camaraderie and confidence that I was hoping to inspire. They threw our TV out the window.

I knew then, it was going to be a good day. Hopefully, they'd throw everything else out the window, and we wouldn't have to carry anything.

Alas, most of our belongings stayed intact, which caused us all a great deal of misery and discomfort. Fortunately, we were just moving a small distance, literally just down the street. This spared us the hassle of having to get a truck in which we could put everything at one time and move it all in one trip. We used the much simpler method of hauling things over one at a time while getting angrier and angrier. We were able to accomplish this by using a device called a "hand-truck". It's also sometimes called a "dolly", but I prefer the term "hand-truck" because it sounds more powerful. I don't like to use any tools named after country singers. For those of you who have managed to avoid manual labor, a hand-truck is just like a regular truck except there are only two tires, there is no motor, no rear view mirror, no AM radio, no glove compartment, and whereas in a truck you can carry the entire contents of a two-story home, on a hand-truck, you can carry: a box.

Which reminds me, it's time for the:

Handy Moving Tip Of The Day

Nobody likes to move, so most of the people involved spend most of their time looking for ways to avoid doing the difficult stuff, like figuring out how to fit the couch down the stairs. Which in turn reminds me to say this: When you're trying to give directions to the other person on how you want them to move the couch that you've both been carrying so long that your fingertips are so purple they'd make Barney blush, don't say "Bring it back a little." You might as well just say, "Hey, move your end in a random direction, and when I scream real loud, we'll head off to the emergency room." Just as "top" and "bottom" have no meaning in outer space, "back" has no meaning in furniture relocation.

But that wasn't the

Handy Moving Tip Of The Day

I learned this from my cats, who perfected it last weekend. The trick is, go hide in the bathroom. Nobody will notice for quite some time, as they're all busy carrying couches and shouting "bring it back a little" to each other. Then when they finally notice you're not around, they'll eventually spot the light on in the bathroom (the light is important) and knock on the door. It's now time to invoke the mantra of bathroom hiders everywhere: "Hey, I'm in here."

In the entire history of humankind, nobody has ever been able to craft an appropriate response to this. It's as if you called "time" in a universal game of tag. You are now Untouchable.

Just make sure you flush before you come out.

Anyway, we finally got all fourteen of our couches over to the new place and settled in. It was then time for The Free Pizza. The reason everyone showed up in the first place. The reason we decided to even move in the first place, which doesn't even make sense, because the only reason it's The Free Pizza is because we had to Pay For It.

The Free Pizza has always been a wonder of nature to me. Just as in a movie theater, where you'd think the last type of snack food you'd want to promote would be something that crackles and crunches and pops and smacks and comes in a paper bag that crinkles and crumples, there's nothing more appropriate after moving into a brand new apartment than getting a bunch of dirty, smelly guys in there spilling beer and tomato sauce all over everything.

But it does give the new tenants an opportunity to stand back, watch their assistants relax and enjoy themselves, bask in the glory of their new home, and say to each other those four little words...

"Why'd we do this?"

The final step in the moving process, and some would say the second most important, behind only figuring out which box has the deodorant in it, is waiting for cable to be installed. This is the one part I love about moving, and not just because it's a good excuse to take off a couple hours from work. It's because I like the theatrics of it all.

First you hear a knock on your door, and your heart starts pounding with excitement, and the anticipation of being able to watch infomercials about the Prune Pitter 2000 ("Seals In All That Pruney Goodness") at 1:30 in the morning. You open the door and are doubly pleased to see that the man who has come to install your cable is a well-dressed, well-groomed, friendly man with a remote in his left hand and confident handshake waiting in the other (right) hand. Obviously, a highly-trained professional. Oh yes, you can almost feel the couch fibers weaving their way into your buttcheeks already. Everything goes well for about five minutes. The TV's on, Bob Barker is slurring out the names of the prizes that the 90-year-old lady just lost because she guessed that a car, a boat, and fifteen thousand dollars in cash would cost "about nine thousand, Bob." The man says, "Here is your channel guide and some information about the company," which you are grateful for, because watching cable without understanding the vast corporate structure behind it is unfulfilling at best and emotionally debilitating at worst. Life is good.

And then, there's another knock at the door. Enter...

...The Other Guy.

The Other Guy is an enigma. His appearance instills fear and revulsion. His hair is unkempt. His pants are torn, and one can see fractions of tattoos peeking out from behind every gap. And yet, he has a quiet power about him. The first guy, who you had come to respect and admire, shatters your delusions as he pitifully acquiesces to The Other Guy, begging for approval, or at least mercy.

The way I figure it, The Other Guy is there in case the cable installation turns ugly, like Mr. Wolf in Pulp Fiction, except without the tuxedo. Or maybe it's a "good cop, bad cop" kinda thing. The first guy tells you how great it will be to have cable, what a wonderful invention television is, how it can transport you to far away lands where you can lie in the sun with half naked celebrity spokespeople with fake lips, and then The Other Guy comes in and lays down the law, shoves a stack of paperwork in your face, and intimidates you to the point where you just start shoving hundred dollar bills in his shirt pocket begging for him not to hurt you.

Then they leave, and you discover that the "4" on remote control doesn't work, and channel 44 is the Playboy Channel.

I guess what I'm saying is that as soon as the nice men from the cable company show up, take a high-powered rifle and kill them before they even reach the welcome mat.

We're all settled in now, busily memorizing the movement patterns of the people above us, and generally having a good old time. We've even had our first guests, who were kind enough not to embarrass us by showering us with all sorts of lovely housewarming gifts, you cheap bastards.

Well, that's the end of the first column. Please come back next tuesday, when I'll be discussing nude hardcore X-rated girl sex naked hustler blowjob babes who are nude. And have no clothes on, either.

This page and the contents therein are copyright (C) 1997, by Ben Parrish. Don't mess with it. Or I'll throw food at you.