After a recent stint wearing the togs of one of the lesser-played classes, I just wanted to throw a couple little tidbits of wisdom out there for the general TF2-playing public. You know, a few little “pro tips” that might add up to that little extra edge, something to sharpen your game.

Medics are some of the hardest-working members of your team. But it’s a two-way street. You gotta give a little to get something back. To wit:

• When you call for help from your friendly team Medic, stand fucking still for just a second, could you please? Especially if you’re jumping around in a roomful of other idiots. The “health hose” doesn’t automagically lock onto your sorry carcass just because you’re mashing the “call for medic” key.
• Don’t run and cower behind your Medic when an enemy Heavy or Pyro rounds the corner, then whine and bitch that you “could have taken him if the Medic had used his übercharge” after the Medic, thanks to your brilliant display of cowardice, turns into a collection of bloody chunks. You’re in front for a reason, dumbass.
• Don’t instantly become a petulant little twat and complain that your Medic “can’t keep up” or “should have stayed around” if the healing suddenly stops. There’s a good possibility your Medic got backstabbed, torched, or gunned down, and you were too dense to notice. Guess who’s next in line to be fragged, shithead? Look over your fucking shoulder every once in a while. Protect your Medic, and he’ll protect you.
• For fuck’s sake, don’t charge into that four-sentry crossfire unless you can see the übercharge is already at 100%. And when you stupidly do it anyway, ignoring the Medic’s pleas to wait, don’t start screeching about how much your Medic sucks. There’s only so much a Medic can do. Down to half your hit points? Gotcha covered. Are you a halfwit? Can’t help with that.

Bitte sehr.

We’ve got a credit account at Sears, opened long ago to get a discount on some forgotten appliance purchase. Since the account was opened, a series of Sears-branded MasterCards that came with it were unceremoniously cut up to avoid temptation and fraud exposure.

Last year, we had to buy a new refrigerator, and this year its warranty ran out. When Sears came calling to renew the warranty, I decided it sounded like a good deal, especially given the low price they offered. To make things easy, I just had the sales rep put the charge on the Sears account. All was well and good until the first bill came.

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According to the Gematriculator, which parses content and assesses it according to some Gematria-based rubric defined by Ivan Panin in the late 19th century, this site (as of this morning, before I posted this) has been calculated as being 69% evil.

That’s pretty impressive, considering I wasn’t even trying.

Christmas is always a joyous time of year. Not just because of the festivities and (sometimes elusive) Christmas cheer, or the sparkle in the eyes of children.

It’s because eggnog is here!

True, technically it starts making appearances around Thanksgiving, but people are generally more receptive to it at Christmastime. It is then that my heart swells with bliss at the prospect of bringing the One True Nog to those poor souls who have not yet tasted enlightenment. Thus far I have a 100% conversion rate. Such is the truth and beauty of the True Nog, that all who drink it are content, and turn their backs on the old, false nogs.

Amen.

Sometimes you get a bit of spam where you have no earthly idea what it was supposed to communicate. I got one of those today. No link, no pump n’ dump stock tip, not even a mention of my laughably small penis.

Maybe it was part of a harvest attack. It beats the hell out of me. It almost looks half-encrypted:

sup yall Jakami just out of curiousity, do you want a m ypd uyg uw e c trevi co hi rk wv MALLEWSKY

Wow, yeah, sure, I’d love one. What the hell is it? You fail at spamming. No mean feat, that.

The other day I was walking down Bioletti Way, returning to the office from a half-day’s dreary exile in Wellman Hall. On the way back, I walked past some random piece of who-knows-what lying in the middle of the road. As the wind moved over it, it ruffled, catching my eye. It looked feathered.

Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was feathered. It was the severed head of a crow. Or maybe a raven. Whatever. Something of the corvid variety, anyhow. Finding a severed head is weird enough on its own, but even stranger was the fact that there was no body in the immediate vicinity. Neither were there the scattered feathers that are always readily to hand when an avian has met an untimely and violent demise. No gore, no blood, no ichor. Nothing. It was just sitting there by itself, as if it had just fallen out of someone’s pocket.

Did some hapless grad student piss the Mafia off? Has Al Qaeda inserted a particularly weird/inept terrorist cell into Davis? Is someone missing December’s shipment from the Head of the Month club? Are local farmers “sending a message”?

I guess this is just one of those bizarre and unsolvable little mysteries that pop up from time to time.