Visiting Nerds of Silicon Valley – Certified IT/Healthcare Professionals

A nurse working in a nursing home.

The only computer/healthcare agency equipped to handle victims of hard drive head trauma


Dear Visiting Nerds,

After Uncle Ned, a retired Citrus Fruit Dyer, hit his head on the hard drive of his computer and passed out, I immediately got round the clock home healthcare assistance. Unfortunately, the accident rendered Uncle Ned verbally incontinent. He began to talk incessantly about computer hardware – Intel Core Processors, Motherboards, and the best utility software programs, discussing them in exhaustive detail. Uncle Ned was no longer able to speak about his favorite television shows or carry on small talk about the weather.

We took Uncle Ned to a neurologist, who diagnosed him with Gigaspeak Boreosis, an incurable condition that typically manifests itself after a hard drive head trauma. The neurologist explained that people suffering from Gigaspeak Boreosis believe they are IT specialists and will ramble on about computer tech issues they have no knowledge of, without stopping to take a breath. This inevitably causes them to pass out.

Because of Uncle Ned’s condition, he was constantly lecturing the home care nurses on the negative and positive affects of upgrading a computer’s operating system. The nurses kept falling asleep on the job, while Uncle Ned kept passing out. Not even excessive amounts of coffee and No-Doze could keep them awake. That’s when I picked up the phone and called Visiting Nerds of Silicon Valley.

Visiting Nerds is a national network of caring IT specialists equipped to handle people suffering from Gigaspeak Boreosis. The Visiting Nerd specialist caring for Uncle Ned was not only able to listen to his incessant chatter with interest but did so without ever dozing off.

The Visiting Nerd technician worked side-by-side with the home care nurse, spouting off interesting facts about computers to entertain Uncle Ned while the nurse forced him to take an occasional breath before he passed out.

In addition to being well versed in computer minutiae, a Visiting Nerd specialist has the experience to resolve any computer related issues that Uncle Ned was unable to fix. They handled the problems with such care and deft that Uncle Ned believed that he was the one who actually resolved the glitch.

Visiting Nerds are available for home bound care 24/7 and can be found on the web at, or call them anytime day or night at 1-800-get-nerd.

Thank you Visiting Nerds.

Yours sincerely,

Dee Lou Janal


Enhanced by Zemanta

If Only There Was a Lost and Found for Brains

A Computer Generated photo of what the Earth w...

For My Brain

I once had a brain but it went MIA above the yondering blue where the space ships cruise in weightlessness. That’s where my brain is—somewhere in space—the final frontier—floating in a vacuum of nothingness.

In space, there is no air or reason to put on airs. Everyone looks the same hermetically sealed inside a suit, if one is lucky enough to afford a suit and fasten their brain into the helmet before it drifts away. You know the one that got away. That’s my brain orbiting over Japan, Qatar then Afghanistan.

Some starched white shirts below may think my brain is a UFO. It’s happened before. We all know about Roswell, but that didn’t end well for the extraterrestrial, a.k.a. weather balloon. They’re easy to confuse when blinded by the light of a desert moon.

Luckily, my brain is stuck in orbit circumventing the earth. Still on course. Not a chance it will plummet through the atmosphere—an ambiance of sorts without mahogany wood decor and the scent of brandy wafting from bore to bore.

Out here in space, a glorious scent is benched for a view of the first string team of shooting stars, whooshing by at the speed of light through deepest dark, except for an occasional gaseous substance, a.k.a. the sun spinning on its axis. My brain has no axis to grind, soaring above the third planet from the sun, mistaking particles below for empty souls.

If I could only see, but the fog and red tinted clouds obscure breathtaking views. I find myself pondering what I could have seen lurking beneath the convoluted atmosphere—some good, some bad, some particularly scenic overlooks off the highway.

Perhaps rocks, and grass, fragments of automobiles and shattered glass scattered across the shoulder. I can only imagine what happened to those inside—bones and more bones vibrating against flesh, as the car smashed through a barrier and tumbled around amid shrieks and prayers and what might have beens. It’s sad really. But I don’t have the luxury of pain. My brain says it best. Keep the signals pulsating from one synapses to the next, and I will continue drifting through space, orbiting above the distant place below also known as home.

 – Have you ever lost your brain?  Inquiring minds want to know.
Enhanced by Zemanta

Dry Humor Minus the Perrier

How nomads got their name
Who would have thought that a nomad wandering the desert would have such a wonderful dry sense of humor?Historians were just as surprised. According to an ancient scroll recently discovered in the Sinai Peninsula, as soon as the sun finished baking a nomad’s brain rendering him delusional, the funny bone, the only remaining fully functional body part, would gain control of his mind.

A nomad would have an ironic moment while catatonically stumbling with the tumbleweeds. During such a catatonic episode, the nomad would often mistake a cactus for a water pump, attempt to turn the pump, and instead get a fistful of needles. Upon focusing on his newfangled pincushion, the realization of his error rippled through the sensory area of his brain with both glee and pain. A smile curled his lips just before he fell to the ground simultaneously writhing in pain and laughing at his ridiculous faux pas.

In the scroll, there are only several recorded instances of a nomad’s use of his dry sense of humor. One notable reference occurs in the year 1446 BC and involved Moses. After ousted from Egypt, Moses and his people met a nomad while schlepping across the desert.

Moses wrote: I saw a man of dusty visage and ragged cloth approach staggering. Upon seeing me, the man dropped to his knees and started digging in the sand with blistered hands.

“Why do you do this, my son?” I asked.

The man responded, “To plant a tree in gratitude.”

“But sir,” said Moses. “The river does not run through this arid valley.”

The man became indignant. “You are wrong. Water is plentiful here. It rushes from the limbs of a prolific growing desert plant and then trickles from my eyes.”

“Are you a God?”

“No,” replied the man. “Just a humble traveler,” and began to sob uncontrollably.

“Sir, why do you weep?”

“Because the plant that holds water is filled with needles,” at which point the man stood revealing arms and hands covered with needles and sores.

“Sir, needles protrude from every pore of your arms and hands.”

The man smiled then began to laugh raucously. “I know.”

“Why do you laugh at your pain?”

“Because sir,” he took a breath. “The water from my eyes has saved me from certain death.”

“But your arms and hands are covered with sores that seep with puss and disease that will surely kill you. How can you find humor in such dread?”

The man chuckled, caught his breath, and said, “Because it’s ironic,” then roared with laughter.

“No, it’s mad,” said Moses.

“It’s hilarious,” shrieked the man.

“No, mad.” Moses replied angrily.”

The man continued laughing until the moon rose high in the sky and he lay down and died.

Afterward Moses decreed, “Let it be written that from this day forward, any man wandering the desert wrought with fever and delusion will be known as mad.”

Over the years, storytellers retold the anecdote of Moses’ anger toward the wandering desert man’s laughter when Moses said, “No, mad,” which evolved into the condensed version known today as nomad.

Enhanced by Zemanta

Stay tuned for this thoughtful thought – Zen of FreeCell Revisited


Image via Wikipedia

For every action, there is a reaction

Whenever I’m stressed and need to refocus, I start a game of FreeCell. The repetitive play and focus on strategizing the next card placement calms my brain and muffles the extraneous mind chatter.

I continue to play game-after-game, replaying the same game if I lose, until I reach the point where my head is clear, and I can start working out a problem while also continuing to play. The game soon becomes secondary to the thought process, and the emphasis changes from FreeCell/stress-reliever to problem-solver/FreeCell.




Reach —
the Zen of FreeCell

We now return to our regular programming . . .

Enhanced by Zemanta

Cyber Surfing Hound Got You Down?



The IPooch Can Help

Does a scene like this give you pause?

Does your dog run to check his e-mail as soon as you leave the room?

Now both of you can enjoy online time together. With the new IPooch from Apple, your dog can stay in touch with his canine chums and surf the web for that chew toy he’s been itching for. No more paperback snacks or hunting and bagging of lame duck shoes.

The IPooch is great to take on walks in the neighborhood. Google Earth can pinpoint the exact place your pup pooped if you’re not prepared. You can return later for the doo, so your neighbor doesn’t find it first with his shoe.

Take the IPooch with you for runs at the dog park. The convenient paw pad makes it easy to add that bitch he just sniffed to his address book. Need a French Poodle translation? There’s an app for that.

The IPooch comes with a monogrammed pooch pouch that hangs from the collar. For those unexpected river romps, there’s a waterproof pooch pouch, too.

Don’t be a bonehead. Get the IPooch from Apple and keep your dog on your lap instead of your laptop on your dog.

Nightmare on Main Street – Never Released Sequel to Nightmare on Elm Street

Finger binary

Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia

Dare to dream . . . 

You’ll likely be screwed!


Suburban office of floundering Magazine Publisher of Poop Nation, Waiting for ToGo, and Stool Time.


LINDA LINKSY: A middle-aged woman, who is a perpetual dreamer in an obsessive, compulsive sort of way; a busy social secretary (never at her desk) and self-appointed clock-watcher.

JANE PLAIN: Twenty-something woman, who is a junior editor and known Germaphobe.

SKIP TOOMALOO: Twenty-something stepson of boss, twice removed from the home forcefully for running an illegal poker game, with fireplace utensils, from his second floor bedroom.

RITA MEETAMAID: A middle-aged, self-serving lunch lady, who likes to dish out the latest company gossip au fresco.


LINDA has a disturbing dream that she is being stalked through a dark, never-ending staircase by a shadowy figure wearing a bloodied Armani suit; a long thin metallic index finger, resembling a letter opener, extends from his right hand. He bangs it against the stairs as he walks, making a clicking sound.

He soon catches up to her and yells, “Letter!” while thrusting an envelope into her hands, then cuts her arm with his rather sharp index finger. He wears familiar cologne she remembers seeing on the shelf of her neighborhood pharmacy but can’t place the name.

LINDA awakens to find a deep gash on her left arm; the scent of Brut cologne is in the air. “That’s it!” she exclaims, as she notices an envelope lying by her side. It says, “You’ve got mail!” She opens the letter. The words, “You’ve been terminated,” blaze across the page in red bold type.

The room begins to shake. LINDA screams, as her fake fingernails that she left on top the dresser, become dangerous projectiles, hurtling toward her, piercing her face, throat, and heart. She dies grasping the termination letter.


JANE, SKIP, RITA, and coworkers, hold a candle light vigil in the lobby of the office building. They drink martinis; eat cheese fondue, while paying their respects. The air becomes heavy with Brut Cologne, making it difficult to breathe. One by one, JANE, SKIP, RITA and the coworkers pass out onto an extremely over-sized area rug and all have the same dream: They are being chased through a dark, never ending staircase by a shadowy figure wearing a bloodied Armani suit. He blasts fire at them from his index finger that resembles a flame-thrower, while yelling “Fondue.” JANE, SKIP, RITA, and the others awaken inside a giant fondue dish filled with hot Gruyere cheese, burning them alive. The flame beneath the fondue dish rages out of control, igniting the area rug, the lobby, then the entire building catches fire.

A cheese fondue

Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia


A man in an Armani suit emerges from the building unscathed. He brushes an ash from his shoulder then tapes a flame retardant sign to the window: It says, “Out of Business – Chapter 11. Now Hiring. Minimum wage applicants need only apply.”


Enhanced by Zemanta

As the Crow Flies Non Stop to Tahiti

Raven Clip Art
Caws and Effect

A crow swooped down and grabbed a bone my dog had left on the front yard. Away the crow flew, weighed down by its hand-me-down, bare-boned kill. No meat. Nada. Nothing to chew on. Perhaps the crow wanted to dress up its nest with a piece of modern art, though nests aren’t known to be spacious in design. They are more like a studio apartment with a half a fridge and a Murphy bed.

Maybe the crow lives in a duplex nest in an upscale teak wood tree. In that case, the crow would have plenty of room and could use the bone as a paperweight. Crows are often overwhelmed by paperwork, as they are known scavengers by trade — garbage divers, carcass eaters, a connoisseur of roadkill, always looking for that highly sought after leftover du jour.

Contrary to the intellect of other lowbrow birds, the crow is smart enough to hire an accountant. Yes, crows are the most intelligent birds, able to solve simple math equations like 1 + 1 = 3. You do the math. Since an accountant can be pricey, the crow would have to charge it on his Red Carnage Card, based on roadkill fill per month. Dipping into that account would be a lot like dumpster diving on Saint Kitts amid discarded lobster shells and empty bottles of CRISTAL BRUT 1990, the champagne of crows.

Crows need vacations as people do. I say that our bird should splurge. Pay the accountant and go dumpster diving on Tahiti or Bali, or Martinique but pack sensibly, leave the bone at home, as only one carry on is allowed per bird.

Hooded Crow searching for food from a puncture...

Image via Wikipedia

Enhanced by Zemanta

Workplace Weasel – Genus: Inertus Dimwitus

Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia

Migratory Habits 
and Behavior

(based upon the post on workingwith weasels)

Workplace Habitat

Although Weasels live in underground areas and in places they cannot be found, every morning they migrate to office buildings in suburban and urban areas where they inhabit cubicles and/or tiny offices that are often mistaken for utility closets. A Workplace Weasel typically hibernates during the day, only venturing from his cubicle when detecting the scent of takeout food or an opportunity to forage for supplies or data in a colleague’s unattended workspace.

Identifying a Weasel

Long-tailed WeaselImage via Wikipedia

Spotting a Weasel in the workplace is not difficult, as he usually wears ill-fitting clothing that is either wrinkled or stained, and sports a slicked back hair do, i.e., the origin of the nickname “Slick,” which is often associated with a Weasel. Like the Skunk, another member of the Weasel family, A Weasel produces a pungent odor from his sweat glands, when angered or frightened, that can be detected from a distance and usually occurs when a Weasel is caught snoozing at his desk or sneaking out the building before 5 p.m.  

Interacting with a Weasel

After a coworker calmly issues instructions for a project, a Weasel will likely respond by barking, whining, or stamping his foot, while gesturing wildly with his hands. He will then stare at his coworker with a vapid look in his eyes; wrinkle his forehead in confusion, as his mouth remains wide-open.

Though a Weasel’s feeding habits vary from day-to-day (He never orders from the same takeout place twice since he usually stiffs the delivery boy.), his questioning habits are quite redundant. A Weasel is known to ask the same question repeatedly, using different phraseology at times; until he tires or becomes so befuddled, he retreats to his cubicle to resume hibernation. Also contrary to a Weasel’s erratic feeding habits, his internal clock is remarkably consistent, awakening the Weasel from his hibernation punctually at 4:55 p.m. each day just before dismissal.

For more information on the Workplace Weasel visit: Life sure is a snoozefest! -a renowned expert in the field of Weaselology.

Enhanced by Zemanta