Proposal for Contract For New Website Owners, herein to be referred to as "You Must Be This Tall To Ride This Ride" or "Hey Idiot" for short.Whereas, the population of coder-type folk have noticed an alarming increase in personal websites, and

Whereas, given that the population of the planet is only allowed a fixed amount of intelligence spread across all personal websites and,

Whereas, the likelihood of security failures increase as the number of personal sites (running on scripts beyond their maintainers' technical expertise) grows, and

Well, after a thoroughly harrowing and frustrating day, I believe I am now prepared to offer some silly and thoroughly obvious conclusions about my day:

1. My finger is not broken.
2. Kitties on tranquilizers are funny.
3. I still hate eye exams.
4. Bifocal lenses are spendy.

So, let's skip all the boring stuff and go right to what you want to hear about. You know it, baby—more about the "I got up to get some ice cream and all I got was this jammed finger" story.

You know what's really bizarre? My left middle finger has swollen up enough so that it's actually larger around than my thumb. It's fascinating, in a bizarrely morbid sort of way. It's bruising around the joint a bit, and I have about 25% of normal range-of-motion. But you know what the weirdest thing of all is?

(Of course you don't; that's why you read domesticat. That, and because reading my words makes you feel so utterly normal.)

Yes, ladies and gentlemen! You might be surprised to learn that, while you're standing there, yapping loudly into your cell phone while filling up your gas tank, the person sitting in the next car can hear what you're saying…

Before we go any further, let me tell you something, you wanna-be darlings of the fashion world: unless your name is Audrey Hepburn, you do not look good in capri pants. I do not care what you look like, who did your plastic surgery, or what company your grandfather founded. Unless you are Audrey Hepburn, yes, you look terrible in capri pants. On principle.

In fact, let me amend that statement. Even if you are Audrey Hepburn, you do not look good in capri pants, because you are dead and have been so for quite some time now, and this whole hopping-out-of-the-grave-and-dancing-around bit really needs to be kept to the better Buffy episodes, mmmmkay?

I can already tell that this particular entry is probably going to get me in trouble. So, let me sit down with a cup of hot chocolate and my comfortable Friday-night-slobbing-around-the-house clothing and just tell you like it is. You know, the kind of talks your mother used to have with you when you were too young and too stupid to understand that just because Aunt Bertha was really really fat didn't mean that you were allowed to come right up to her in front of her and her thirteen grandchildren to tell her that she was fat. On her birthday, no less.

We agreed to go test-drive a couple of vehicles today. We know that we're going to buy a new car sometime this year, and my preference is for a Jetta. However, we didn't know how the different engines compared to each other, so we decided to go drive one of each today.

The first car, the four-cylinder, was acceptable, certainly—the engine fired up faster than the four unionized hamsters that run my current car. But it whined a bit when I pushed it to highway speed, and it was working harder than either of us would have liked. We turned around and brought it back.

I thought I had a handle on things; I had an idea of how touchy the brake and accelerator were, and felt fairly confident when I got behind the wheel of the six-cylinder version. Since the car was almost out of gas, the salesguy had to ride along with us to the gas station.

Over the past couple of years, I've really begun to hate commercial radio. Here's why. In honor of my spouse's engineering trade, let's do some numbers.