That year is coming to an end, and it’s about time we looked back over all we’ve accomplished.

On average this year, we’ve had six page-views per day. Six, dear friends. Six people each day were exposed to our grand site.

Granted, they were mostly all lumped into one day (I’m looking at you, Arby’s Value Chart), but that’s not the point. The point is, six people each day are exposed to our work (my work).  And while they don’t really ever return, they came. In that sense, our site is much like the Grand Canyon. Worth visiting once for sure. If you’re into that kind of thing.

Sure, we’ve had ups and downs. Mantennae Man slunk back into the dreary night without ever being seen, Stevan the Barbarian brought in some solid page-views (at least a dozen), and, of course, who can forget Old lady in checkout at Walmart. That’s right, she’s on her way to the grave, hahaha… good memories, my friends…

And certainly, dear friends, through it all, it has been a year. Let us only hope that next year is also… a year.

Scant light entered the damp dungeon where he lay, and none announced the arrival of morning, but Stevan knew. His keen barbarian instincts roused him as easily as the bright shine of the sun in the overworld, and he quickly climbed to his feet, looking down to check on the pretty young prize he had taken. She slumbered still.

He crept quietly into the open, eyes rapidly scanning in every direction.

Two days had Stevan traversed the tunnels of the underworld, harassed at every turn by the mighty machines that screeched through the passages, apparently searching for him. The darkness and the many shadowy inlets and crevasses came to his aid, preventing the mighty rail-riding monoliths from discovering or destroying him.

A sudden scurrying caught the barbarian’s attention. As a flash, he was back within the hidey-hole, evoking a yelp from his battle prize.

“Let me go! What’s wrong with you! Help! Someone help! Can ahmmph!” Stevan’s mighty hand muffled the shrill voice while his other simultaneously hoisted the feminine frame over his shoulder.

“Hush! While you slept, I have watched for the machines that chase us, and you will not lead them to us now that you are awake,” he said before freeing her mouth.

“They’re trains,” she sobbed. “They’re run by the city.”

“I care not if it they were sent by the god of war himself,” he replied. “They are after our blood, and they shall not have it.”

She breathed a deep sigh and resigned herself to be carried.

The two trekked through the shadowy depths, surrounded only by the dark, reverberating walls and the occasional shriek of rats as Stevan plodded on. After hours of travel, a bright light slowly made visible to the woman what Stevan’s superior barbarian senses had perceived all along. She craned her neck towards the light to see a lone figure casting his shadow into the tunnels.

Stevan’s rippling muscles tensed as they approached the figure peering into the darkness. With the ferocity of a tiger and the gentleness of a kitten, the barbarian quickly placed the woman on her feet and rushed at the figure, letting out a bellowing roar.

“Why don’t you use that money to buy new shoes instead of a lottery ticket?” you ask.

His long, ratty hair slaps you in the face as he whips around. He looks you up and down quizzically before smiling slightly, turning back to the gas station attendant and exploding in laughter.

Taken aback a bit, you stare blankly at the back of his head until he turns it around again. This time, a sly smile creeps over his face. He gives you a wink while placing his dirty homeless hand across your shoulder.

He begins to talk, using over-exaggerated gestures and taking every opportunity to show off his two teeth. “I guess you’re not a very number-smart kind of person,” he says. “Or else you’d know that it makes much more sense to play the lottery than to buy shoes.”

He pauses, watching for your reaction while licking his lips as though searching them for more dirt to devour.

“You see, every ticket I buy is worth more than I’m paying for it.” He pauses again, this time for dramatic effect. “It’s all about… pot odds.”

Seeing that you’re enthralled with his explanation (or petrified that he might stab you), he goes on. “Anytime you make an investment, you have to look at what you’re paying versus what you’ll gain from that payment. With some things, that’s easy. If I paid you 50 cents for one dollar, I’d make 50 cents in profit each time we made the transaction.”

One of his teeth tries to wiggle out of his mouth, interrupting the explanation. He catches it and continues. “But sometimes, you don’t know what you’ll get for your investment each time. That’s where pot odds comes in. It’s a way of figuring out how much you can expect to profit or lose on average over a long time period if you were to repeatedly make the same investment.” His voice lowers to a whisper as he moves his mouth to your ear. “That’s pot odds,” he hisses.

He pauses once again and nibbles on your ear briefly. Snapping back into reality, he scans the area for police and carries on with his explanation. “To figure your pot odds, you see, you calculate how much you’ll invest versus how much you’ll make if you win and then compare that to your odds that you’ll win.”

He eyes your ear for another nibble but thinks better of it. “Take this lottery ticket for example. I pay $3 for a ticket and a chance to win $500 million. The odds that I’ll win are 1:150,000,000. Now we multiply the probability that I’ll win by the payout if I do. That comes out to 3 1/3.  That means that for every $3 ticket I buy, I’m earning $3.33, an 11% gain on my investment!” He beams with pride beneath his filthy exterior.

“And now you know why it makes more sense to buy a lottery ticket than a pair of shoes,” he concludes after licking the side of your face.

You stroke your chin, considering all that the dirty homeless man has said. “Aren’t the odds actually a bit lower due to taxes and the chance that you may end up splitting the jackpot with another winner?” you ask.

The homeless man sneers at you for a brief moment. He stops mid-sneer, switching his expression from distaste to curiosity. From curiosity, it slowly changes to horror as he realizes you’re right.

From horror, he proceeds to disgust.

“I guess I’ve never been very good with numbers,” he spits out before glaring at you and muttering something about wishing he had a knife handy.

I’m back! It’s been months since my last post and you’re no doubt wondering where I’ve been.

It’s not important. Suffice it to say that a traffic accident may have occurred near the Mexican border while I was fleeing the IRS and drawing up new identities on my Etch-a-Sketch.

What is important is that I’m finally back and we can get back to business as usual. In fact, I hope we can get on to business better than usual.

Stay tuned eager readers.

It comes in very handy, but now that I don’t have to hold the phone, I’m finding it difficult to figure out what to do with my hands.

You set cruise control and the car basically drives itself, so all that’s left to do is text and talk on your phone. What’s left for these poor hands to do without a phone? That’s why I’ve resolved to start bringing an etch-a-sketch with me wherever I go.

This way I can get the most out of my driving experience.

Which brings me to the point of this post: bad drivers. The roads are crawling with them. Like insects drawn to bright lights, they buzz into our streets and aimlessly zip around until they run into someone. And don’t get me started on pedestrians. One second you’re trying to angle your rear-view mirror for a good self etch-a-portrait, and the next: BAM! Someone’s grandma is a hood ornament.

It’s almost enough to make one opt to stay at home all the time.

But this would be the wrong course of action. The bad drivers might come to think they’ve won.  No. Like with bullies, the right way to handle the situation is to fight back.

They think they’re bad drivers, huh? Be twice as bad! It’s very much like a wolf pack. You need to show the bad drivers who the alpha driver is.

Only by beating them at their own game can we really solve the problem. If traffic is already moving at a snail’s pace, then why would old people bother leaving their bingo and shuffleboard games? If traffic accidents already fill our city streets, then the bad drivers will lose their sense of purpose.

And then, once we’ve finally bested them at their own game, we’ll be free to set the cruise, chat on our bluetooths and sketch our etches without fear of bad drivers.

I don’t really know how taxes work, but they don’t seem that bad. Here I thought taxes were all about paying the government. Instead, they’re paying me! Yay taxes!

In all likelihood, I’m being paid for the mental exertion of filing.

The wonders of modern technology have helped reduce this brain-strain substantially, though. Used to be you had to get all your tax papers from the previous year together and pay a qualified tax person to take care of the problem. Now you pay a computer. This is better because you don’t have to get out of your jammies.

And that’s what we pay taxes for in the first place, isn’t it? The right of every god-fearing American to lounge around the house in his pajamas watching day-time television, while occasionally peering out the window to watch the outside world walk its dogs. It’s the American dream.

You know what’s not the American dream? Work! Work’s a hassle; not like taxes! (Yay taxes! It’s free money!)

Problem is, everywhere you go someone wants you to work. Your parents say you can do whatever you want with your life one day, and the next they say “you can’t sit around eating cheese puffs your whole life, why don’t you get a job.”

You know who doesn’t have to work though? Besides hamsters? That’s right: rich people. That’s why I’ve decided to be rich.

Now that I’ve figured out how easy it is to get money from taxes, it shouldn’t take me any time at all. I figure if I do my taxes once a week, this should put me well on my way to fast wealth.

Looks like I’m gonna need a few more pairs of jammies.

“Dang-it Jeanine! We can’t watch the big game!”

“Well what do you want me to do about it Ted? It’s those rabbit-ears. Try wiggling them some more… Wait, there it is! … was.”

“If we had cable, this wouldn’t be a problem Jeanine. But, noo, ‘Cable’s to expensive,’ but I’ll tell you-”

A gust of cool air and mist from the rain shot into the room through a now-open doorway.

“What the… just one more thing around here that doesn’t work.” Utilizing the opportunity while the door was open, Ted strode out the exit and spat into the night. “What a night. That door had better stay locked this-”

“He runs to the twenty! To the ten! Touchdown!”

“T-t-ted… You better get  back in here!”

Ted rushed through the doorway, propelled twice as fast by the sound of the game as by his wife’s plea. He stopped on the threshold and stared, but not at the television.

With drops of rain still gliding past him into the house, Ted watched speechlessly as a dark, caped figure stood perfectly still next to the TV set; one shadowy arm extended into the air while the other held onto the television. An anguished grimace extended across the shadow’s exposed lower face while his muscles shook with tension.

The shadow pushed the words out of his mouth, continuing to channel the powerful radio waves through force of will only: “Watch… the… game…”

Entirely forgetting to shut the door, Ted slowly walked to his recliner and quietly sat down near his wife. The cold wind and dampening floor went unnoticed by the couple for the full game, eyes glued to the television screen. Over time, they even began to not notice the mysterious man standing by their TV.

And when the game was finished, when the man dropped his arms with a heavy sigh, when he crept out the front door, they only watched in silence. He stopped in the doorway, turned around, maintaining a visage of strength despite the great exertion he had endured.

“The game is finished… but my work will never be. For when your radio gains static… when your television grows fuzzy… I’ll be there. Because you can always depend on… Mantenna… Man.”

With that, and as suddenly as he’d appeared, the mysterious figure was gone. And the television returned to it’s previous state.

Stevan wasted no time. Snorf’s face, now contorted with fear,  became locked in the vice-like grip of the barbarian’s might hand. His feet levitated off the ground momentarily. When they landed, they were quickly followed by a crumpled body.

Immediately the barbarian scoured his felled opponent for the treasures he knew must be near, glancing briefly at the slip of paper before tossing it out of his way. Within one of Snorf’s pockets, Stevan discovered the object Snorf had spoken into earlier. Upon close inspection, he determined that it too was worthless.

Peering into the blackness of the safe with his uncanny wilderness senses, he was dismayed to discover a complete lack of worthwhile treasure. Apparently this box had only served to contain the paper that Snorf had wasted his life trying to retrieve. Stevan crouched near the fallen thief to more closely inspect the parchment.

A sudden buzzing launched the mighty figure back on his feet, club at the ready. A noticeable light emitted from the box that had come from Snorf’s pocket. Stevan picked up the small device, trying to interpret its words. With the accidental press of a button, he suddenly found the words much easier to understand.

“Mr. Snorf, have you retrieved the contract? Your reward is still waiting, as are we… Mr. Snorf? … Quiet Hubert! I am well aware of reception problems with cellular devices!

“… Mr. Snorf, if you can hear me, we will be waiting in the designated area: beneath the palm tree next to Lorman’s. You will receive your payment when we receive the paper.”

Stevan was familiar with the palm tree next to Lorman’s. He had often passed it during his nightly travels around the mall. He did not hesitate before picking up the paper and setting out for his reward; formerly Mr. Snorf’s reward.

Quiet as a panther, Stevan stole close to the tree, watching to perceive any potential threats. Noticing nothing en route to the tree, he proceeded to a hiding spot among the hall’s many shadows.

Before the sound of voices reached the shadowed savage he was aware of the approaching men. His keen senses seeing and hearing their every movement.

Arriving under the palm branches, a trio of men paced and peered into the darkness, watching and waiting.

“He should be here by now,” hissed a violent and bitter voice.

“What if something’s happened?” quivered a second.

“Quiet you fools! He will arrive just as planned… Ah! Here he comes now.”

Aware that his sight far surpassed these “civilized” men in the surrounding blackness, Stevan did not correct Snorf’s employers.

“Have you brought the contract, Mr. Snorf?”

“I  have. Tell me, what payment did we discuss?”

“Why, the usual fee of course. Are you quite alright Mr. Snorf?”

“I am. Here is the contract.”

“Ah, excellent… and here is the–aha!  Grab him!”

Wrongly counting on the superiority of his own physique, the trio’s leader grabbed Stevan by the wrist while reaching for the contract. It was his final mistake, as soon evidenced by the divot Stevan’s mighty club formed in his skull.

A powerful blast cracked through the air as Stevan saw a flash of light emitting from one of the remaining men and felt a fierce burning across the side of his chest. With a second stroke of his powerful weapon, the barbarian leaped towards the shooter and smashed the club into his chest. The man’s ribs cracked as his breast sunk inward and he fell to the floor.

With evident and burning rage in his eyes, Stevan turned towards the third man, quivering in a pool of tears under the hanging palm branches.

“Where is my reward?” spake Stevan.

The sniveling body choked back it’s sobs. “Don’t kill me, Mr. Snorf! The money is in the briefcase!”

The barbarian checked and, finding this to be a true statement, grunted, kicked the slip of paper Mr. Snorf had recovered towards the pitiful creature and walked away.

If you’re like me, you love Arby’s tender, juicy roast beef sandwiches. Since I’m the only person who reads my blog, I’ll just assume that you are, in fact, very much like me.

I recently decided to investigate Arby’s meat value (cost per ounce) to determine the most cost-effective way to eat Arby’s. I am now sharing this information free of charge to you. Just pay separate processing and handling.

Here’s the scoop in chart format:

Get more value for your money

As you can see from the chart, the best value all around is the Buy 1 Get 1 Free sandwiches. With no extra meat, they cost $.66 per ounce, with 3 oz. extra meat $.50 per ounce and with 5 extra oz., $.44 per ounce. This is the absolute best bang for your buck when it comes to Arby’s juicy, delicious, succulent roast beef.

You probably expected that, but let me post the full results and then I’ll get into some things you may not have known. I know I didn’t. Know.

This chart, based on information gathered from Arby’s in Indiana and Illinois, shows the price of each sandwich as well as the cost per ounce of beef. Note that the Junior Roast Beef Sandwich cannot receive 5oz. of extra meat. That number is included on the chart purely for comparative purposes.

Also note that the last two prices listed for regular size require a specific coupon. These are easy to acquire and you’ve no doubt been getting them in the mail already, but if you don’t have one handy, then don’t rely on getting that deal.

So, what can this research teach us about buying Arby’s roast beef?

Some may argue that because the bun sizes vary with the sandwich sizes that these “best values” aren’t really the best values. They are stupid. Nobody goes to Arby’s to get a bun. If you did you’d just go to Wal-mart and get 8 of them for a dollar. People come to Arby’s for the Roast Beef. Now, when all else is equal, of course you want more bun than less bun, but this issue never arose during my investigation.

Deep in the dark bowels of a mystical labyrinth of shopping centers and department stores, a small group of suit-clad schemers plotted. Sheltered from the dark of the outside world by the locked gates to the shopping complex, the four figures weaved plans for the labyrinth’s destiny.

“Sales have been dropping,” spat out the first. “We must focus on more advertising.”

“Silence!” The second and largest of the four figures stood at the helm of their conversation, commanding the attention of the other three with even the slightest breath. “Advertising is not the solution to our problems. We all know what must be done, and there is but only to do it.”

The third, a timid creature with tie in disarray and eyes darting in constant panic, spoke up. “But manager, we have a signed contract with that store for a full year longer. They have a copy in their own possession, even.”

“Do you think I don’t know that, Hubert!” The evident leader barked in reply. “That is why Mr. Snorf is with us this evening.”

At the mention of his name, the fourth member of the small group, silent until now, made his presence known. “I see… Then, having already covered the topic of payment, I shall do what is needed.”

Mr. Snorf slipped out of the small, illuminated room and into the deep shadows of the mall.

***

Behind a curtain of clothes that hung upon a rack in a dark, warm department store, Stevan slept. Sprawled on a pile of clearance winter coats in his small lair, it was nearing the time when he should awake.

Having found shelter from the elements in this “Department Store,” Stevan had made a home for himself among the clothes racks, where he could remain concealed whilst asleep during the day and roam freely amongst the night whence he awoke. Like all of his homes, this was a temporary shelter for the restless nomadic barbarian.

A patch of light flickered across the carpeted flooring near Stevan’s hovel. His barbarian instincts fully activated and his eyes flashed open. Utilizing his extraordinary barbarian senses, he heard the light footsteps of an intruder. A short peak through the curtain of women’s dresses revealed a bright light leading a nimble and quick-footed man towards the back of the store.

Already completely awakened, Stevan chose to follow the mysterious individual. Crowned with a slim metal strip formerly purposed to hang clothes and wielding a fearsome club of the golf variety, the barbarian crept.

“After all,” thought Stevan, “if whatever this room holds appeals to this thief-in-the-night, it shall certainly appeal to me as well.”

The light led the shadowy figure who led the stealthy barbarian to the far end of the store, what Stevan knew to be “the offices.” Within these offices the two men continued to the locked door of a small room.

“This is Snorf,” the figure spoke into the night. “Did you de-activate the security system?”

Stevan clutched his weapon tightly, awaiting the appearance of another party.

“Good,” Snorf said. “I’ll be back shortly.” he placed a small object into his pocket and set to work picking the door’s lock.

With no more words, Snorf soon had the door open and entered a room barely large enough to contain the large metal box against the far wall. Snorf immediately set to turning a knob on the box whilst holding his ear to it.

“Excellent,” thought the nomadic creature of the night. “While he toils I shall wait. And once the prize is free  from it’s container, I will strike.”

An expert in his craft, Snorf soon had the box open and searched through to find what he was looking for.

Stevan watched from the doorway as the shadowy form turned around holding a single sheet of paper. The thin, self-satisfied smirk across Snorf’s face was immediately replaced by a look of horror as his light revealed the chiseled details of this barbaric giant blocking his path.