Operation Superchicken: An Epilogue

Around 10:00 AM, my cohort and I ran a check to see if Superchicken had been discovered by the mark or if it had gone unnoticed. Glancing out a window, we saw that the Superchicken was still attached to the car antenna. I started to think that I should have brought my camera again; I could write a daily post with a picture for each day that Superchicken stayed on her car. It was just as well, after lunch we were confronted by the mark about the antenna topper. Most of her glares of accusation during the interrogation were aimed at my accomplice; this is not unexpected since he was the one who had asked her what car she drove the previous day. While she asked who did it, the other guys laughed at her and asked stuff like, “Someone put a chicken on your car? Was it still alive?” She didn't focus too much on me, which was a good thing. It took all my willpower to not fall into a fit of laughter. Besides, I'm a terrible liar and would've given it away completely.

She then threatened to view the security tapes of the parking lot for the last 30 days to figure out who did it. After we left the interrogation, I immediately scolded my partner-in-crime for not agreeing to wear the ninja masks like I wanted to. When we got back to our desks, I sent the mark an email with a link to the article. About an hour later, I received a call from her, which I answered. She thought the article and joke were hilarious (see her comments, she's The Victim). In the ensuing conversation, I was still laughing and I think I agreed to help with a podcast that bashes celebrities. Her reaction was better than anything we could have hoped for. Well worth the $5 I spent at Whataburger. Now, I have five more Superchickens ready for deployment, but I'm pretty sure the most of the office knows about it. We'll have to let this die down for a few months before we perform another Operation Superchicken.

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Operation Superchicken

If a visitor comes into the building where I work they are required to be escorted by an employee who trails them everywhere and makes sure that they are not stealing anything. Babysitting visitors is a boring thankless job that everybody hates doing; a job that I had no idea even existed until a few weeks ago when I was sitting in my cubicle doing productive work and the receptionist gave me a call. She told me that there is a technician who I needed to escort to the server room. She said that usually this job is performed by one of the guys that actually works in the server room, but since none of them were in the office, I was the person she called. I went up to the front of the building and I walked the visitor back into the server room and asked him, “Is this all that I have to do?”

“Yeah, they usually leave me alone in here,” said the technician as he began typing away at one of the laptops.

Figuring that my job was done, I went back to my cubicle and continued my work. There I sat, feeling uneasy, debating with myself and wondering if I did the right thing. After a few minutes of listening to that stupid little voice pester me about leaving a visitor alone in the server room I decided to call my boss and ask him if what I did was okay. He told me that I needed to be in there with the technician until someone else gets there. I went back to the cold noisy server room and for over an hour had absolutely nothing to do but sit and stare. Each second slowly ticked away as if it lasted a lifetime. If I was being tortured like this, I would have confessed anything after about five minutes. I'm weak. I admit it.

After the agony of sitting in the server room finally ended, I made an oath to myself to never again answer the phone when the receptionist calls. It only took a few days for me to break this oath. I get phone calls so seldom that I can't help but be curious about why someone would call. I made a point of it, however, to reveal to her that I had planned to never answer the phone again when she called and that I had just broken that very pledge. I figured she would appreciate the gesture; that even after anguish I suffered in that server room, I was still willing to answer her phone calls.

The actual result was quite the opposite of what I had anticipated. I seem to have encouraged, rather than discouraged this sinister sort of behavior. Last week we had a demonstration of the spiffy new conference room gizmos. Before the conference started, the receptionist walked up to me with a big smile and asked if I can do her a favor. You should never agree to do a favor when someone asks if you can do them a favor. You must wait until the actual favor is revealed, or else you will surely pay. I, unfortunately, broke this rule of life and agreed to do the favor during the favor set-up.

After I agreed, she told me the favor, which was to babysit the guys giving the demonstration afterwards and then escort them out of the building. I had been had, hoodwinked, bamboozled. The receptionist walked out of the room a person unreservedly proud of herself, taking each step with a cadence of victory.

Thankfully, a friend stayed with me afterwards and alleviated the certain boredom that would have ensued. But the damage was done. A man can only take so much abuse before vengeance must take place. I gave her a warning shot across the bow and said, “You will pay for this day.” She scoffed and pretended to not hear me from the other side of the bulletproof glass—which is oddly surrounded by walls that are very unbulletproof. Hence, I give you Operation Superchicken.

The primary objective of Operation Superchicken was to place a Superchicken antenna topper on the mark's car antenna; the mark in this case being the receptionist. Just for clarification, Superchicken is actually Whataguy, the mascot for Whataburger. I had actually planned this operation to occur last week, but it was temporarily delayed since my cohort and I had already conducted an Operation Superchicken the day before the infamous conference room incident. In the previous operation we had put Superchicken on our boss' car. I was going to grab it off his car the next morning, but by that time he had already discovered the caped poultry and liked it so much that he took it prisoner. My boss now holds it captive on his dashboard. As a result, the initial objective of Operation Superchicken was to, in fact, secure another Superchicken antenna topper.

I have never eaten at a Whataburger before. I barely know what in the hell one is, much less where I can find one. After a few days of lackluster searching, I had given up hope and began to devise other ways to avenge the conference room incident. That was until my wife and I made our way up to Gainesville last weekend. We were driving along Newberry Road and passed a Whataburger when I saw him: The Superchicken.

Superchicken takes out a speed limit sign and nearly destroys a passing minivan

There he was in all his glory, waving to passersby, flexing his wings, pummeling speed limit signs, and looking rather bored the rest of the time. There was also a bright orange tent outside the fast-food joint so some promotional event must be occurring. My wife said that if I ever wanted to find another Superchicken, now is the time. After pondering the absurdity of this statement and wondering what my life had become, I decided that she was of course correct and went back to the Whataburger.

Superchicken is now bored with his lot in life

I went into the orange tent and asked the man where I could get an antenna topper. After filling out a contest entry for God knows what, and spinning some wheel in which I won a free hamburger, the man finally revealed to me that all I had to do was go in and ask. They would be happy to give me all the antenna toppers I wanted. Like a complete fool, I went inside ready to ask for my prized Superchicken antenna topper. I felt guilty about going in and not ordering so I placed an order for chicken strips and a soda even though I had just gorged myself on Chipotle guacamole not 30 minutes beforehand.

After I placed the order, I asked if I could have an antenna topper. The cashier looked at me as if I was the dumbest primate to ever walk upright in the history of the planet. She had no freakin' clue what I was talking about. Sensing that my mission was about to result in complete failure and that I had wasted $5 on chicken strips I had no intention of eating, I tried to explain to her exactly what the much sought after Superchicken actually was. I truly believe she was frightened of me, a grown man, giddily asking for a little plastic Whatachick'n that I'm sure she assumed was destined to top the antenna of my own car. She quickly raced back to find a manager to deal with me. I'm not entirely sure, but I could have sworn I saw her mouth the words, “Don't make eye contact. He's crazy.” The manager asked me what I was looking for. I again described the Superchicken antenna topper and the manager realized that they had actually had a bucket full of them and they were trying to get rid of them. With a nervous laugh, she said to take all that I want. So, I took six and went on my merry way.

The loot

This morning I gleefully revealed my haul from Whataburger to my fellow programmers. Now that we had secured more Superchickens, our next objective was to figure what which car belonged to the receptionist. For this objective, I employed a friend who specializes in surveillance, reconnaissance, and intelligence gathering operations—he's a good eavesdropper. He volunteered to strike up a conversation about one of the cars in the parking lot with the guy who sits next to the receptionist and segue into a discussion with the receptionist about her car. The conversation did not work out as planned, so my friend just flat out asked her what kind of car she had. Sloppy, leaves a trail back to us, but the objective was achieved nonetheless. We decided to head outside and deploy the Superchicken on her antenna around 1400 hours.

Superchicken antenna topper at pre-deployment

The time for action had arrived and we walked outside only to be met by a monsoon. It would continue raining for another hour before we had another chance to head to the parking lot. We made our way to the parking lot and located her car. I went to set the Superchicken on her antenna only to realize that the antenna was about as thick as a marker. The hole in Superchicken was only big enough for thin car antennas. We went back inside the office defeated. We regaled our tale of woe to a co-worker who happens to carry a knife. He then volunteered to gut Superchicken with his blade to make the hole wider. We went back outside and finally deployed Superchicken on the car antenna.

A successful Operation Superchicken

A closer view

Now, we wait and see how long it takes the mark to realize what lies upon her car antenna. I'll follow this story with an epilogue detailing the reaction. Will she put the pieces of the puzzle together and curse us out (our reaction of choice) or will we have to hint a reaction out of her? Tune in next time.

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A quick update: I am working on the look of the site, which explains the parchment behind The Mostly Daily section. I don't know whether I like it or hate it. The graphic took me three hours to put together, so I feel somewhat invested. I'll probably kill it. Or keep it and add a drop shadow. I dunno.

There are a few more features that I want to add this week such as article ratings, more comments features, a search engine, and actual Articles and Dailies pages so I don't have to show everything that I have written on the main page. The homepage will only show the five most recent posts.

That's probably it for today. I am in the process of putting together an article about Super Chicken. So, that will probably be up sometime this week.

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Chipotle: Food of the Gods

Chipotle is, without a doubt, God's gift to all mankind. We are truly privileged to live in such exciting times, for we have been graced with the greatest invention the world has ever seen: The Chipotle burrito. The Chipotle burrito should be awarded a Nobel Prize; books must be written singing its praises; monuments need to be erected in its honor; TV stations must be created that do nothing more than glorify this triumph of modern technology.

The Chipotle across the street from the University of Florida

The Chipotle burrito is the perfect meal: Rice, beans, meat, salsa, cheese (if you like that sort of thing), sour cream, lettuce, and of course the guacamole. All cooked to perfection and wrapped in one tight, easy to eat—hard to finish, little bundle. Whether you prefer the Bol (no wrap), tacos, or salads, guacamole is the key to the superpowers contained within the Burrito of Tomorrow. If you pass on the $1.50 guacamole, you are missing out on the entire Chipotle experience.

A Burrito Bol loaded with guacamole goodness

A Chipotle burrito without guacamole is like Green Lantern without his ring, Thor without his hammer, Wonder Woman without her Lasso of Truth—Okay Wonder Woman is a bad example; even without the lasso she has super human powers and an invisible plane. A guacamole-filled meal at Chipotle is the sole reason that humans evolved from loosely knit hunter-gatherer tribes to modern agricultural societies. This is the pinnacle of our existence, folks—enjoy it.

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Sphincter Mouse of the Week

I have to admit that between work and playing Xbox 360, I am having a lot of problems thinking of subjects to write about. I really don't want to maintain a journal and write about my own life too much. Hell, that even bores me. So, I'll try to come up with a few topics that I can write a weekly column about. I hope that this will help me a bit in achieving my goal of writing something every day. If you can think of a good subject or theme to write a weekly on, let me know.

Fridays are when I award the Sphincter Mouse of the Week Award. This column will cover one person every week who I consider among the worst human beings on the face of the planet. Usually I will award it as a result of something they did that week or at something that at least happened recently.

According to UrbanDictionary.com, a sphincter mouse is “A mouse that digs away at the intestines of its host. Usually it materializes magically in ones ass.” The whole notion of a sphincter mouse is absolutely dreadful to me; the mere thought of it makes my stomach turn and toes curl. This is actually pretty similar to the reaction I have when the name of the Sphincter Mouse of the Week winner is mentioned. Calling this individual a measly jackass or shithead is an insult to all the jackasses and shitheads of the universe. I needed a title so appalling that it matches just how much this person nauseates me.

And now the inaugural Zenestex.com Sphincter Mouse of the Week award goes to none other than Atlanta Falcons “Quarterback” Michael Vick.

Michael Vick: He has herpes.

Mr. Mexico is one of the highest paid players in the NFL, a superstar athlete, a celebrity, and he was living my dream. That is until the douche bag decided that he likes watching dogs maul each other to death. The fact that he “quarterbacks” (usually NFL quarterbacks can, in fact, throw the ball) one of the Bucs' biggest rivals has nothing to do with the award; it's the fact that he threw away everything for something as despicable as torturing dogs.

This story is repulsive on multiple levels for me. For one, I love animals and can't stand watching any animal suffer. I even hate killing the caterpillars that chew my plants down to a nub—gives me nightmares. Anyone who tortures animals should be tied up, dipped in honey, thrown on a fucking ant pile, and left to die a slow miserable death.

This whole story also sickens out of pure jealousy. I love football. Growing up all I ever wanted to do was to play for the Gators and then the Bucs. I refused to even consider any career other than football, which is probably why I changed my major twelve or so times in college. Unfortunately for me I'm short, skinny, and slow; I couldn't even make the University of Florida scout team. It just infuriates me to see gifted athletes like Mike Vick throw away everything by acting like a complete prick. I would have given damn near anything to have even a fraction of his talent.

This is from me to you, Mr. Mexico: You are such an asshat that even Al—freakin'—Sharpton is calling you out. I truly hope you never play another down of football again in your life. You have no right to play a game for a living, much less live period. However, the odds are good that you'll simply buy your way out of this with some nice expensive lawyering. If that's the case, I can assure you that I will not buy anything that you endorse or watch any game you play in except against the Bucs. If you show up on ESPN Sportscenter wearing anything other than prison jumpers, I will change the channel and not flip back. If you ever walk into Raymond James Stadium again I, along with 60,000 of my closest friends, will boo you without mercy and curse you to hell for the entire three hours that your sorry ass is on that field. And I just dare you to flip me off like you did to your own fans.

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It only took me one day to break my promise of writing something every day. My apologies. I have an excuse, but I won't bore you with details. I am working on a post today. Here's a hint: It's something about sphincters.

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Beer, Wings, and Quirks

I am going to attempt to post something every day on this site so here goes nothing: I have a good buzz going right now after going to our monthly beer/wings night with my dad, grandpa, uncle, and Cap'n Mac. My alcohol tolerance is actually better than I admit. I usually tell people that I'm a 3 beer and out kind of guy. I had a bit more than that and was still able to make the 12 mile trek home with no problem. I'm just thankful that it's late and there was no one on the road for me to maim as I veered between lanes, sped through red lights, and shouted enraged curse word combos at imaginary cops. I'm just kidding; I would never drive in that condition and my family would never let me leave like that. The cursing out imaginary cops part is true, though.

I really have no fucking clue what to write, so I'll just dig up another post from my MySpace blog and throw it on here. I don't have too many more posts on there; my laziness is going to catch up to me pretty quickly and I'm gonna have to start thinking of new stuff to write. Anyhow, about a month ago my favorite site (www.x-entertainment.com-- Matt is the best writer around) had a topic where people posted five quirks about themselves. Here were mine:

  1. I absolutely hate cheese or anything with even a slightly cheesy taste–even cheesecake. However, my favorite food is pizza.
  2. I refuse to read any email or message that contains overuse and/or misuse of the ellipsis.
  3. Peanut butter and jelly is my morning staple. Not just any sandwich, though. It has to be Smucker's Natural Peanut Butter and Polaner All Fruit wrapped in a Flat-Out flatbread. I have eaten this every morning for over two years.
  4. I subconsciously rate every chick I see on a scale of 0 (has ebola) to 10 (I'd drink her bathwater). If a girl I know does something to annoy me, I exact my revenge by lowering her score.
  5. If someone is watching me brush my teeth, I feel compelled to act out a scene where the tootbrush is strangling me and I'm drowning in my own toothpaste-saliva froth.
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