Orange Juice, Why Do You Hurt So Good?

Who decided that every single container of orange juice should contain exactly 8.2 glasses of juice?

That last little bit is the most horrible, wretched thing a man can find in his refrigerator - the four-year-old salsa leaking all over the back of the refrigerator can't even begin to think about pondering the idea of holding a candle to the last ounce of orange juice. It's not like you can just throw it away - when you've just finished the last full glass of orange juice, you're pretty much done with orange juice for the rest of your life, so those last fifty milliliters look like they could overhydrate a cactus. But the next morning, you wake up and all you want is a big ol' glass of OJ. So you walk over to the fridge - orange juice comes before you brush your teeth, it's bloody awful the other way 'round - and you reach for that big, rectangular font of vitamin C. The cold condensation on that waxy cardboard feels like morning dew in a forest in Maine and you're six years old in an adirondack chair drinking frigid iced tea out of a plastic cup in late July.

And then you pick up the carton with waaay too much force, because the fucking smudge of pale yellow on the bottom of that awful box isn't manly enough to counteract the might of your lift. Sensing danger, you give the box a little shake. Oh God, no. Suddenly the adirondack's arm is cracked, the slats in the back all become unscrewed, and you fall backwards, pouring your tea all over yourself, as the Devil himself stands on your crotch and laaauuughs. In a last-ditch effort to salvage your otherwise wonderful morning, you unscrew the easy-open plastic screw cap and flip the carton upside down over the glass - FUCK. You tilt the carton back and forth, hoping against hope that the triangley bit above the screw cap holds just a little bit more orangey goodness, but it never fucking does. It never fucking does. Never. You hurl the box into the recycle pile and assault your refrigerator, scouring the back of the shelves for some long-forgotten carton, but no matter how many cartons of orange juice you bought last week, that one you just finished was the last one.

Defeated, you turn back to your eighth-full glass. Weighing the options, deciding whether or not to drink that last bit, or to dump it down the sink. Some people drink it, some people don't. Let me tell you something: DON'T DRINK THE LAST BIT. It's not the same as those first eight glasses of smooth, citrusy goodness. It's not even in the same class. That fucking shadow of a glass of orange juice contains all the evil in the world, concentrated into one cubic inch of festering, putrid, evil liquid, and it's just awful.

So you gag a bit, rinse the cup, fill it with water from the freezer spout, and go on with your day, slightly worse for your ordeal. Fuck you, Tropicana.

RAGE AND FURY

I've got a list of things that make me RAAAAAAAAAAAAGE:

Things That Make Me Rage
1. Web forms without a submit button
2. The use of two periods ("..") instead of ellipses ("...").
3. People who come up with unfunny jokes for every situation
4. Improperly set MIME types
5. Ending sentences with commas in real speech: "There's this place downtown, they have sandwiches, "
6. Capitalizing Every Word Of Normal Sentences
7. Videos that play as soon as you load the page.
8. Big O notation: 100nlog(n) and nlog(n) are different, retards

I keep it in a text file on my desktop called rage.txt. Rage.txt was created only two weeks ago, after I stumbled upon a site which had a form with no submit button; you had to press enter to submit the form.
Furiously, I grabbed my laptop and leaped out of the window of my bedroom into the open window of my Escalade. I floored the accelerator, headed for the nearest marina. There, I commandeered a speedboat and sped off toward a nearby Naval fleet. I climbed halfway up the side of an aircraft carrier and punched a hole through the wall, hurled the laptop inside, then dove in after it. From my position in the lower decks, I was able to access the ship's wifi network, and connected to an onboard PBX which allowed outgoing calls via radio. This website had to die, and it had to die now. I looked up a geolocation of the site's IP address, patched my laptop's microphone into the ship's phone system, and ordered the site nuked from orbit. It was the only way to be sure.

Sorry, I get carried away. Far, far, away. To a magical land, where sentences travel for miles, never encountering the unmerciful chasm of a question mark, only occasional rolling over gently swaying commas, unhindered by the forceful nature of the exclamation point, occasionally making their way over semicolons and/or conjunctions; alas, all good things must come to an end, and for these sentences, that end is the period at the edge of their domain.

I'm hanging up now.

Interesting Phone Numbers

I'm collecting interesting phone numbers to confuse my friends when they look at my cell phone contact list. So far I've got three:

Dale, Norway: +47 90 369389
This connects to a wind-powered telemegaphone on a 7-meter high pole overlooking the town of Dale, Norway. It's not always up, as the wind isn't always blowing.

Dial-a-song: 718-387-6962
This was the They Might Be Giants Dial-a-Song number; it's not there anymore.

Directions: 347-328-4667 (DIR-ECT-IONS)
You tell it where you are and where you want to go, and it will text you directions.

Anybody know some good numbers?