I had a conversation with a colleague, and that reminded me of the disclaimer that I used to have in the footer of my blog (yes, blogging used to be a thing. I thought that was lost to history, but then I remembered the Internet Archive Wayback Machine. After a quick search, I was able to recover that text. Here’s that disclaimer for your perusal.

Ye Olde Disclaimer from my olde site:

All logos and trademarks in this site are property of their respective owner. The comments are property of their posters, all the rest is Copyright © 2002 by Michael Peacock. I disavow all knowledge of and will not be held responsible for any damages, discomfort, or other less than positive consequences caused whole or in part by content or comments submitted by myself, other users of this site, or any other inaccuracies, omissions, hints, accusations, your overweening sense of self importance, white underarm crust, halitosis induced epileptic seizure, your unusually-developed or misshapen genitalia or complete penislessness, magnetic or gravitational anomolies, electrical or any other sort of discharge, why your mom locked you in a closet for all those years, anything to do with hair, phlegm, scrod, sphincti, spittle, assholery on the part government officials including, but not limited to the President, Vice President, members of both Houses of Congress, the Supreme Court, employees of all federal, state, and local agencies, popup porn windows (yeah, right – you don’t know what I mean), spooky coincidences involving birthdays and anniversaries, the sense that Big Brother is both watching you and touching you inappropriately, your crappy scores on the SAT, MAT, ACT, GRE, LSAT, MCAT, or YATZEE, buggery in all situations except complete and total nuclear annihilation and that’s your only option, your ineptitude at Unreal Tournament, CounterStrike, Halo, Tribes, or other FPS in which I reliably frag you, low brow comments from the peanut gallery, mistaken sense of entitlement or unwarranted victimhood, why you smell weird, look funny, or evoke a feeble fashion sense that demonstrates an obvious absence of color vision or depth perception, and all other things not mentioned above. Visiting this site implies that you have read and agree to be held legally responsible for upholding the this statement, and that failing to do so, you agree to provide me with a minimum of 60% of you take home salary for a duration not to exceed thirty millenia. All sales are final. Batteries are not included. Things in the mirror are closer than they appear. No refunds of any sort will be granted without first performing a complete Chinese opera, on camera, in full regalia, without cue cards, in a single take. You mileage will most certainly vary, especially if you’re stupid, have some sort of apoplexy of the nerves, or are given to tantrums involving falsetto curses that piss off all dogs and dolphins within a 1000 klick radius. Read all instructions prior to use. Not intended for internal consumption. This site is probably not intended for you if you’ve gotten this far into the disclaimer and have a sneaking suspicion that I’m writing about you specifically. This site is also probably best avoided by anyone that thinks thinking is too much work, is boring, or will lead to an eternity of pain and anguish in a lake of fire. I reserve the right to alter these terms and conditions of usage without pior notice and at my sole discretion and you hereby agree to pay me handsomly for it. Ignore the man behind the curtain. Everything Kirk says is a lie, except the part about the blue babe from Aldeberaan. Keep an open mind about everything, but take these words on faith: you are less cool than you think you are, and you will fart before this day is out. Gerry Garcia was a great trumpet player. Mmm .. donut. Now get the hell back to work, you slacker.