Goodbye, Frank.

For 13 years, you were the biggest pain in the butt, yet I miss you and I'm sad that you're gone. If we meet again, I hope you'll be wiser than I was.

Jk.

Fantasy Conversations With Thomas Jefferson

Me: So, that Sally Hemmings must have been a great lay, huh?

Thomas Jefferson: No comment.

M: I mean, it's one thing to hire a whore, but it must be entirely different to OWN the mother of your children.

TJ: The French Revolution embodies the seeds of true freedom and liberty...

M: We can debate the French revolution later over a glass of madeira. For now, let's stick to the point... I guess that would have been awkward for a slaveowner like yourself. It's hard to imagine actually owning the mother of your child, but it probably has its advantages... That means you actually owned your children, too, then?

TJ: No comment.

Me: Well, whatever. We have the DNA evidence. I know you did it many times, but I guess I can't blame you. If I were a slave owner, I'd probably do it, too. But still, you appear to be a hypocrite in the highest order. Do you agree?

TJ: Alexander Hamilton is evil.

Me: I think you're an egotistical jerk.

I will be the best harmonica player in Denver

To hell with everything else.

Ettore
Viktor
Hugo
Hugh
Hector
Julienne
Sean
Monica
Heidi
Theodore (Teodoro, Fedor, Feodor)
Piper
Pilar

These are the Tortured Hallucinations of the Swine Flu Fever

WHO Director General Margaret Chan strikes a confident tone as she spits this incredible line of crap into the news-osphere:

"It really is all of humanity that is under threat during a pandemic. We do not have all the answers right now but we will get them."

Great! We all look forward to your next trenchant thought on the matter. For days, the World Health Organization has been saying the same thing (allow me to paraphrase): "We don't know what the hell is going on and we're really really scared, so BY GOD YOU SHOULD ALL BE SCARED, TOO!"

We're gonna die! The streets are slick with the vomit from the infected mouths of our diseased neighbors. Start the bonfires now so they're good and hot once the bodies arrive!

Grab your face masks, everybody. Hurry before all the good ones are gone and we're forced steal them off the corpses of hapless Swine Flu victims!

Are you an IT professional like me?

In case you haven't figured it out yet, information technology is a lot like plumbing. How's that sound?

I've met IT pros who didn't like it one bit, but unfortunately for them (and me), it's true. Let's take a look. IT pros and plumbers are alike because:

1. People just want their toilet to work. They don't care how it works, or that its functionality involves generations of technological advancements like foundational developments in quantum theory, mathematical logic and microprocessor construction.

2. People just want their toilet to work NOW, regardless of the obvious technical, financial and logistic hurdles required to repair a broken toilet.

3. Many people don't really want to know their plumber's name. They just want "the plumber" to fix their desktop icons so that they "can just click on stuff and it works..."

In contrast,

4. Plumbers are often union members. Information Technoligists are rarely union members and therefore rarely gain the benefits of unionship.

5. Plumbers require extensive training and documented experience before they're allowed to call themselves true "plumbers." Many Information Technology experts simply Google all the training and experience they need to call themselves "IT experts."

6. Plumbers rarely wear suits. Chief Information Officers often wear suits.

I've come to Andalucia to learn flamenco

I was an accomplished American guitarist at the time I first heard Vicente Amigo nearly fifteen years ago. When he attacked the strings with his explosive "Spanish strum" I thought to myself, "where the hell have I been all this time? How could it be that I've never heard this before?"

I'd heard the Gypsy Kings, but I've since learned that they suck like disco flamenco.

So I immediately determined I MUST KNOW THIS MUSIC! I packed my bags and hopped the first freight liner to Cadiz. I lie many wave-tossed nights with my headphones lodged in my ears, listening, cataloging, organizing, learning this music... down to the last detail.

"Did you know flamenco master clappers can clap in different notes? Did you know they can perform a three-octave melody with nothing but their hands?

WTF?

"It's true."


Such was my Atlantic crossing. I dreamt of nothing but the guitar. Little did I know of the disappointments and struggle that lie ahead.

In Cadiz, being a good guitarist is nothing. Being a great guitarist remarkable only in the sense that you're better than half the people you meet during any given siesta. Being a virtuoso gains you an opportunity to apply for apprenticeship.

I still don't know why they accepted me. I was always afraid to ask.

But they put me in a class with a bunch of bookish teenagers. I had proven my technical skills, but my new judges found my heart severely deficient in vitamin "F". Nobody in Cadiz had the slightest hope or care that I pass the final exam. To them, I was just the next Ry Cooder, Carlos Santana, or George Harrison: They, too, thought they were good enough to cross the culture barrier.

I had such a long way to go.

Three-step process of restoring a crashed Microsoft Exchange 2007 server

Step 1.

Pray that some higher power gives a rat's ass about your puny mortal technical problems. Pray with all your might that the backups you haven't checked in months actually ran. Pray that the backup files are not just a jumble of meaningless, corrupt ones and zeroes, but actually coherent restorable data. Pray that the last successful backup was, in fact, last night and not some random date in 2002.

Step 2.

Prepare your resume, because if you fail to restore every last piss-ant message on that server, you're fired.

Step 3.

Help yourself to any stimulant you can find. Make a desperate call to somebody in New Delhi. Those New Delhi techs are your last hope and you should thank Vishnu that they're on the job. When they've repaired everything for you, drive to the nearest ranch a kiss a cow on the lips.

Do these shoes make my dick look small?

I bought some new shoes online. They shipped out of the Seattle store. The one on Pine Street.

They're white and brown (actually, ivory and olive) and have old-fashioned wing-tip leatherwork on them. Orange thread binds panels of better-than-average leather embellished with an unusual cross hatch pattern. They're vintage, or maybe just classic. But they're actually neither. In fact, they're very modern because almost nobody in their right mind would ever wear them.

And yet you buy them anyway?

Yes.

Why?

Because nobody around here will have them. I'll be the only one.

You'll be the only one what?

The only idiot stupid enough to wear these goddamn ugly shoes! Fuck, I don't know. What do you want me to say? Is it bad that I like eclectic shoes? Am I a faggot because I care what other people think about me? That I want them to judge me like I judge them?

And do you like the shoes?

I don't know... How will I know if people think I'm cool when I wear them?

That's a question only you can answer.

Yeah, well... People can comment, you know. They can make remarks to others. They can draw positive opinions about themselves in relation to you... that they dress better than you. Or that they have more money than you. Or that you should be lucky to be included in the group at all.

What do I look like to the neighbors? Fuck that, what do they think about me? That's what I want to know!

I hope they think I'm a pretty smart guy who is also athletic, creative, ecelectic and on-the-ball, but emotional with a slight leftward-leaning tilt toward the dark side.

But, the neighbors could just as likely believe to their bones that I'm a pathetic idiot who's annoyingly smart and dresses like it's the 1890's: "Which pants today? Pinstripes? Good God, why? Where does he find those horrible things? His outfits are so un-put-together."


But I tell you this: regardless of whether they think I'm cool or not, I will never wear tennis shoes in public unless I'm working out, doing laundry, painting the fence or stopping a line drive to left field. Never.

Why's this thing so slow?

Do I have a porn server I didn't know about running on my computer?

Come a little closer so I can slap you in the face with this keyboard

You know what?
You're right.
We suck.

I wonder if you would have been better off hiring IBM or maybe NASA to configure your desktop icons instead of worrying yourself sick with our little piss-ant, backwoods, shit-for-brains consulting company.

It's not that I'm frustrated by your employees' endless pathetic technical problems and deadlines -- it's that I really, really hate your company and most of all, I hate you. I don't normally say this to customers because it's considered rude, but I just can't help myself anymore.

You are an idiot's cunt.

Awww...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnHBE9PFgoM&NR=1

It's exactly like that.

World of Warcraft vs. Neopets

My baby's mamma's friend "Wanda" came over last night while I was preparing for an all-night session with my WOW hunter, Zhutza.

She claimed an interest in WOW, and so I invited her to watch.

"This is the Auction House," I said, "and this is where I stable my pet."

At which point she showed me her Neopets, which were fucking ADORABLE! I loved them. We played games and checked the neo-stock-market and changed her little pet's clothes and read Neopet poetry!

Shucks, it was fun!

I'm serious. I loved it and I'm gonna keep it up.

In my kitchen, I introduced Wanda to Leroy Jenkins. She and I watched a couple WOW rave videos. She fell head-over-heels for the game. But I think it scared her.

Lakes are froze

Apologies to my regular readers, but I've been busy fishing every last late fall day this year. But its over now. Last weekend, Pine Grove lake was 100 percent frozen. Only last week I fished there and caught three skillet-sized rainbows. Not so this weekend.

Regular amounts of cold, wind, snow and ice cometh. All my fishing hopes for the next few months rely on my neighbor, who owns a Vexilar, sled and all the other stuff, including warm overalls I can wear.

In some ways, ice fishing is a bore. In other ways, it's not so boring. The largest fish I ever caught at Antero reservoir last New Year's Day. It was thirty degrees below zero. Thank God it wasn't windy.

Except for the few exciting moments reeling in that lunker, I spent the entire day staring into an eight-inch hole, pausing occasionally to glance at the blinking lights on the Vexilar machine and to swig from a bottle of hard liquor.

Kinda like my job.

But it only takes one fish to make it a good day, and so I look forward to giving it another try this year.

Another word on fishing, like we haven't heard enough on the subject already

What a glorious fall day!

My brother and I hiked to a glacial lake near the Continental Divide, an hour or more up a steep gulch... must have been thousands of feet in altitude change. The lake was miles deep, scary blue deep, and surrounded by enormous piles of rocks tossed around by the rugged Rocky Mountains.

We rigged up, I with what I thought was an attractive fish-looking lure, and my brother with some kind of tiny fly. We fished for two and half hours without even the slightest hint that fish even lived in this freezing lake. I cast every lure in my arsenal w/ nothing, not a bump, jump, or flash of life.

And then, in the last fifteen minutes, when we were so tired and hungry, I caught five large cutthroat, one was amoung the largest fish I've every caught. Whew!

The day was looking like a skunk, but at the very end, I pulled it off. One fish is all it takes to make a bad day good. FIVE large cutthroat is all it takes to turn a rough expedition into a glorious fall day in the Colorado Rockies. People pay for this kind of thing, and here I have it for free.

What a liar I am!

Boat's not floating.

I've marked my words right here and, by God, my words have lied! Sheesh.

However, I must say that the boat is done. It's as done as it will ever be. I overcame many an obstacle to get this far, not the least of which was an old gas engine that never, ever, worked. The damn thing is 25 years old, for crying out loud! What could I expect?

Plus I lost a million parts over the years, some of which were very important.

In fact, I was forced to hand solder a shaft support out of little brass pieces to replace the original, which went missing God knows when. The contraption works, too.


Despite the non-functioning engine, the boat is done. Painted, put back together, and ready to float. Just very slowly... the slowest race boat EVER!

But it will float, so there. I'm done. On to the next project.

The afterlife is the life for me!

This mortal coil is for the birds. Rock and roll is dead. Working for a living blows. Things gotta be different in the Everlasting Kingdom of God, right? Creme sodas everyday for lunch, perfectly mixed cocktails every night. All the ladies are probably naked and beautiful, and I'd look like James Bond, but wouldn't have to kill all the time. Every day would be like an afternoon beach party with roast pork and hand-crafted beer.

Decree: Duece Fuego's Ark shall sail!

How long does it take to build a gas-powered scale model Pay-n-Pak jet boat?

Is twenty-six years enough time?

Cuz I've been working on my model Pay-n-Pak jet boat for twenty six years, and I'm still not done.

I started the project in junior high, and can understand that it might have been a little beyond the abilities of a first-time R/C boat builder such as I was back then. Mistakes were made, setbacks occurred, bad advice given. And on top it all the self-discipline required to complete a complex project had yet to develop in my youthful brain. Which could explain the first couple of years.

It does not explain the next twenty. I've taken this damned boat with me all over the country, declaring to all who set eyes upon her, "I fully intend to finish this boat, mark my words!"

I don't know exactly how many times I've said that. I can only guess that over the course of twenty years I repeated it many, many times. It became a kind of a joke for those aware of the boat's existence: "Oh, you'll get around to it... you mean like the boat?" I've promised to finish it so many times the promise eventually sounded like a joke to me, too.

In a sense, it means that I've consistently made the decision to NOT FINISH the boat many, many times over two decades. Or maybe it slipped my mind for two decades. Well can you blame me? I didn't know decades were so short...


It comes to an end this year. The goddamned boat will float this summer.

You mark my words.

Gotta polish these bloody ramparts. The woman don't like bloody ramparts. She also wants me to get her swords sharpened -- like I don't have important things to do.

"Sure, sweetie... I'll take your weapons the smith on the way to this morning's JOUST. No problem, I've got plenty of time to travel 20 minutes out of my way while the squire prepares my armor and horse -- Oh that's RIGHT! My squire quit the other day. Well, I guess I'll just fight for your honor in my pajamas today."

Love you, sweetie!

When a man's gotta have it...

Say, lady...

Why don't you take a break from the bitchin' and whinin' and take a seat next to me on this couch?

We could say nothing for a while, then start groping each other, then maybe have a little sex, then maybe I could finally get some sleep.

What do you think? A little Peace and Harmony... doesn't that sound nice?

Message to my 7th grade AP math teacher:

Ms. Harvey:

Would you please put some damn clothes on so I can study these quadratic equations? For god's sakes, this class is hard enough as it is without you prancing around in your tight-fitting preppy purple Izod shirt and your MASSIVE bosoms poking out every which way but Sunday.

I can't keep my mind on these fucking VARIABLES... I've never seen nipples so strong... look like they're gonna spear right through the knit. Come on, boy! All you gotta do is solve for x and you can write your own ticket with this lady!

Will somebody out there waterboard me?

I think having water forced into my lungs would really help straighten out my priorities.

Spaceman! Slam the thruster down and get us the hell out of here!

Bounce, bounce, bounce off the atmosphere of my heart, you sweet thing!
I'm taking you home with me.
We're gonna get married, you and I.
But we gotta fly, cuz the authorities are on the hunt for your missing person.

I'm gonna be your loverbeing.
I'm gonna show you the way to the center of the sun
I'm gonna get you high
I'm GONNA MAKE YOU SAY GOODBYE...
to that fool you call your man.

He's such a stupid man-boy human with hairy arms and an unclean mouth.
He won't stand a chance when I vaporize his brain.
Not a chance in hell when I'm done with him.
He's a dead man... a dead, stupid man-boy human with hairy arms, an unclean mouth and a soggy brain steaming in his skull.

That's how much I love thee, my sweet earthling.
You make me perform difficult tasks,
tasks that creatures beneath us might consider unpleasant.

The restraining straps aren't too tight, are they?
Now hold on, Sugarpie... we gotta go.

Strange encounters with a first-time dad

“Don't look at Daddy's dick, sweetie.”

My 9-month-old daughter sat on the tile floor and watched me as I brushed my teeth. I did it just the way I had done for years – naked at the sink... and her gaze started to bother me. If that weren't bad enough, she climbed to a standing position, supported herself against my leg, and reached skyward for my cock!

Now, I had done nothing to provoke this – a guy's gotta brush his teeth. None-the-less my baby's searching hand had forced me past some terrible, unspoken line that prompted a full body spasm of defense far out of proportion to the threat.

I imagined a parade fathers: my dad, my grandpa, Governor Bill Ritter, the neighbor down the street, the social worker – all of them advancing on me, spurning, reproachful, disgusted, shaking their fists in a violent revulsion:

“YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH! NEVER LET THE BABY NEAR YOUR SHAME!”

No, no... of course not. The baby will be punished severely.

But wait a minute... That's not right.

I couldn't be the first guy to have blundered into his daughter's innocent curiosity about her daddy's massive cock. How had other fathers dealt with this? How did my dad do it?

To answer my own question: he didn't have to. My brother and I didn't pose the same kind of threat. Of course we weren't allowed to go grabbing and pinching his dick, but neither of us ever wanted to (Well, I guess I shouldn't speak for my bro.)

No, I mustn't be brutal about this. I mustn't be harsh, but what do I do? Think, man!

I told her, “Don't grab Daddy's junk, sweetie.”

That made her mother laugh, so I rolled with it and it grew into a running gag. But it didn't end there. Daddies have to change diapers, you see? And in case you didn't know, baby girls have tiny little clits that are impossible to avoid when wiping up all the shit that seems to ooze out of their butts every 30 minutes.

I'm just doing my job, see? There's crap everywhere and I've read that women must be careful when wiping their asses so they don't get that nasty shit stuck in their junk, see?

So I do my best to clean my sweetie's junk – get the bits of blueberry and applesauce crap out of there so she doesn't get an infection or the clap or some kind of unpleasant yeast infection (I'm a little unclear about these maladies).

And I can't help but notice she's gazing up at me in a relaxed way. Staring right into my eyes. So I wonder if maybe she isn't enjoying this, which on the one hand is A-1, top-shelf, royally fucked up... but on the other hand, who wouldn't like to have someone else hand-wash their privates?

Where do I sign up...? Just keep my Dad the hell away from me.

Apparently, incest hadn't entered my baby's mind at all -- probably because she has no shame. Nor should she. She's perfect in every way. Innocent on all counts.

I'm the one who must bear the burden of shame for her. I'm the one who thinks this could get weird. I'm the one who has to remind himself that it's okay for a father to clean up his daughter after she's crapped all over the place. It's more than OK – it's required.

So maybe I've got a few hangups. Nothing serious, I hope. I don't think I'm the only one.

Rap machine: test number one.

My lyrics don't rhyme
They never did and never will.
Poetry hates me
'Cuz I possess disdain
for quatrain and refrain
for hexameter and hyperbole
for simile
for meter.

My lyrics haven't the time to rhyme like fine wine between thine... hind... legs?
Senseless and fence-less, what-a-mess I've made of my pencils... and my papers.

My lyrics can't rhyme cuz they're slime and haven't a dime.

They're street, baby.

Lyric in progress

Seems I've lost my touch with you
I forget to do the things I used to

chorus
the things that made you think

you could never stand to be alone again

Lyric in progress

Hey, ma'am,
what do you say...
You and me come together
touch each other?
feel each other?
fuck each other?

Until the sun comes up again.

Hey, ma'am,
what do you say
we deflower each other
like two napalm sluts in Eden
like an Irish couple on any given Sunday afternoon.

I'd by lying if said
i could take my eyes off your slammin' shape
in those high heels
in that tee shirt
that tiny skirt

Hey, ma'am
what do you say
we come together
and fuck each other
until we can no longer stand?

General?

Yes, dear?

Are you coming to bed?

No, dear. I'm too busy fighting this god-damned global war.

Will you be up late?

I don't know, dear. Go to sleep.

Fall cometh, and I'm falling in love with French Onion Soup

Wicked-hot cheese on top, scalding-hot soup underneath.

Romertopf: German for bone-dry pork loin.

Bought a Romertopf at a yard sale a few weeks back thinking it would be a perfectly eclectic addition to the family kitchen. You know -- delicious roasts on a bed of hearty vegetables... that kind of thing.

Well, I've learnt a lesson, and learnt it well:

You can't have delicious roasts on a bed of hearty vegetable just because you buy a two-dollar clay pot at a yard sale. No, sir. You still gotta know a thing or two about cooking.

Don't believe those Romertopf recipes that say you can't overcook meat in a clay pot. Trust me, you can.

It was so sad, too. It's a tragedy when pork is treated so badly.

This might seem rude, but your boobs look great in that sweater.

I'm not supposed to think like this -- like a sex-starved lumberjack at Woodstock -- but I can't take my eyes off your dreamy tits. Your cleavage looks like the perfect landing spot for a long, thick, rod-shaped object (like my ax handle, maybe.)

And I love your tan. I'm not being a dick -- I really love it. Your heavy makeup: don't get me started. Your face looks GREAT, and I want to FUCK YOUR BRAINS OUT!

I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.

I WANT TO FUCK YOUR MOUTH OUT!

Wait, that totally crossed the line, didn't it?

But what the hell, it's true. I can't help staring at that short skirt, hoping against hope that a sudden gust of wind will grant me a short, sweet glimpse of your naked, stylishly-pruned shrubbery.

You know what's NOT TRUE, though? That I'd panic and run away if for some reason a total stranger like you displayed even the slightest sexual interest in me. That simply wouldn't happen, because I'm turbo in the sack -- much like Isaac Hayes.

I'm not going to lie: For the next couple of weeks, I'll be dreaming of you performing whorish acts on my lap, whispering whorish phrases into my ear. I'll be dreaming while I drive, dreaming while I work, dreaming while I dream tonight.

You're a dirty whore, but I still want you.

Wait... that all came out wrong. Let me start over...

Close Encounters with Gene Page

The man drifted into my mind, uninvited, on the luscious wings of Barry White.

Mmmh... aaah...

Finders Keepers.


Bump, bump, bump, bump...

How to make the perfect sex omelet (a.k.a the French Omelet, or Liberty Omelet)

1. Warm your eggs.
Warm them either in a bowl of hot water or between the thighs of the nearest and sexiest 22-year-old pre-med student you can find.

2. Stir, don't shake your eggs.
Again, enlist the aid of your pre-med student. Hand her (or him) the warm eggs, a bowl and a fork, and teach, teach, teach: "Don't beat the eggs, my sugar-honey, you must stir them." Remind your student that we don't want bubbles in our eggs, and ensure that she (or he, if that's what you like) licks your fingers clean (use radiated eggs to avoid salmonella)

3. Heat that skillet.
Ask your darling to remove her uncomfortable underclothes and step aside while the master does his thing. In a hot 12-inch skillet (Twelve inches, baby... ain't it BIG?), melt a mess o' butter. Drop the eggs that yo' pre-med student warmed and stirred into that hot, hot skillet. Tilt that skillet 'round and 'round so that your eggs spread evenly over the surface. Now, fast as you can -- 'cuz you ain't got much time -- sprinkle a little salt on those eggs. Do not let them eggs dry out! The Liberty Omelet must not be dry. It would not be premature if this omelet is finished in a mere 45 seconds.

4. In a kindly tone, explain to your pre-med student that the Liberty Omelet isn't "runny".
Tell her it's CREAMY. If she's been to France, she'll understand. Be warned, however, that if your eye candy has yet to go Continental; you might have to enjoy your fine omelet alone. But that's OK -- it wouldn't be the first time you've pleased yourself, would it?

Chef Hugo wishes you luck.

Brain for Rent!

Hmm. Ten minutes of staring at the screen and I've got nothing. Must be some desperately important subconscious thought blocking my creativity. That happens sometimes. When it does, I must resort to copying other people's song lyrics:

[Rocking, cool and creepy music]

I'm walking down the the street
watch the first signs of rain hit concrete
I look to the distance and focus my eyes
on lightning and the thunder, o'er the horizon

I can feel the clouds gather in sky
I look above and I think I could fly
but I see myself grounded
turning around
look at all the places they keep that sound

standing in the back of the room
thinking something good must be happening soon
I step out of my body and I look at my face
and I find myself
in another state of mind...


http://www.myspace.com/ltfmusic

Hermione Granger to me: "Accio cock!"

She'll make someone a very happy wizard...

You're such a beautiful Retro-Tech vintage stereo: I'm the only one who loves you.

Just look at her. She's gorgeous, ain't she? Can't stop gawking at her HUGE KNOBS, can you?

Neither can I.

Born 1978-1980, I remember the day she came to the house. She was unpacked with care, and BAM! -- just like that, the family was finally cool.

At least in my eyes.

Felt the same as buying an iPod three years after all your friends bought theirs. It was like: "Cool stereo, man! Yeah, thanks. We like it because of the quality."

When the parentals got divorced, we kept her in our house. My dad bought an identical model for his house -- only newer, and also a kick-ass dual tape deck. By that time, she had grown old and tired. No longer a novelty, but just a device to make sound.

They just don't make 'em like that no more. Can't believe I'm saying that, but what the fuck, it's true. Circuit City's like Houston and Las Vegas getting hitched at an outdoor wedding in a trailer park -- gawdy graphic displays and thousands of tiny buttons.

I'm not trying to launch the Space Shuttle, here. I just wanna rock a little. Click, click... BANG! Know what I mean?

Anyway, I had break out the lighter fluid and contact cleaner, dissassemble her piece-by-piece and clean out the 30 years of dust inside. She works like new. I think I'll call her Beulla.

Ma'am, I'm an official boob inspector...

... and I'm afraid I'm gonna have to take a look at your tits.



No, I'm serious. Here's my badge... it was issued by the Department of Homeland Defense. Terrorists are everywhere. In fact, they could be planning to use those luscious torpedoes to attack the homeland -- not that I'd mind, of course.

Listen lady, I'm not kidding. The pillows must be fluffed. Freedom's not free, you know. We're a nation at war, and every sweet mamma must do her part. Come on, release the sweater puppets, drop the melons, empty the jugs, unstrap those over-the-shoulder boulder holders and empty the fun bags...

Please, ma'am. Don't make me go on like this. It's embarrassing for both of us.

Celebrity rumors that could be true

Rumor: Jon Stewart is gay.

Fact: No, he's probably not. Or at least he's doing a great job of faking it. I'd be lying if I said I didn't think he was an attractive man with that funny brain, those sharp business suits and his snappy salt-and-pepper hair cuts. Whether you know it or not, that's heavy evidence -- I'm only attracted to good-looking, funny straight men.

Rumor: Shaq kicked Brad Pitt in the balls during a petty argument in front of a hot dog stand at Coors Field.

Fact: Now this is quite likely true. Of course, I didn't see it nor did anyone I know. And I'm sure a lot of other people didn't see it either, but that's hardly enough evidence to discredit such an incredible story. If only one person witnessed this humiliating brawl, that's good enough for me. Please leave your account of the fight here, including vivid descriptions of the sounds Brad Pitt made as he fell to the concrete, clutching his nuts in pain. And send pictures if you have them.

Rumor: Hermione Granger and a nameless Asian girl were caught in the middle of an obscene act in the bathroom of a neighborhood bar in Brooklyn.

Fact: I pray to God this is true.

Drunk behind the control stick

"I'm telling you, that fucking planet came out of nowhere! I was just cruising along, you know, lookin' at the stars, and WHAM! Just like that -- I was, like, "SHIT! Did I just hit a planet?!"


Spaceman peered at the trooper's prowler stationed outside his cockpit, but he couldn't see the officer inside. They had been communicating over TicketNet, the official communication platform used by traffic officers in this sector of the galaxy. It was new technology, and it was quite effective at insulating officers from the influence of a traffic violator's emotional appeals. Spaceman was unable to catch even a glance from the cop. In this case, Spaceman felt he needed every advantage he could find. He knew he was stoned to the bone.

"I mean, there was NOTHING I COULD DO. It just happened so fast," he added.

The officer's voice was laden with static in the speaker: [How fast were you traveling?]

"Oh, not fast... The speed limit, you know... Maybe a little faster," Spaceman stammered.

[How much have you had to drink?]

"What? Nothing. Totally. Well, a couple of beers, like, maybe an hour ago..."

[A couple of beers, sir?]

"If that."

[Would you move your face closer to the cockpit window so I can scan you with the Booze-a-tron?"

"Now officer, I really don't think any of this is necessa..."

[I'm not going to ask again. My lasers are trained on your cockpit. Should you refuse to cooperate, I will be within my rights according to the Millikin Sector Charter to open fire!]

"Wait, wait, wait, wait! It's not like I did this ON PURPOSE! It's like I said, it couldn't be helped! Nobody could have avoided this."


[You hit a planet, sir. You've caused considerable damage on the surface. Many people down there are upset. Now please, move your face to the cockpit window. I need to scan you for intoxicants.]

Spaceman slowly moved his right hand to the thruster control by his thigh. The cop's prowler seemed small to him, possibly only a local bird. It was possible he could get a big enough jump on him to reach the sector boundary before they called in reinforcements. His thumb hovered over the thruster release.

[If you attempt to flee, sir. You will be killed. Reinforcements are already dispatched. You won't make it.]

Spaceman slumped in his seat. How the hell did this guy know?

[I've also engaged my Imbecilitron. The device reads minds of thugs and idiots like yourself. No offense, sir -- I personally don't think you're an imbecile. However, the device only functions in the presence of certain brainwaves found predominently in beings of low intellect. It's so effective, in fact, that we were alerted when you entered the sector. We knew you were going to do this long before you did. All we had to do is wait.]

"Well why didn't you try to stop me before this happened."

[That's against the law, sir. The Charter specifically forbids pre-arrest. Now please, place your face on the cockpit window. Smash it up there nice and big.]

An ode to Botas Rodeo: America's Garage Band

Never a lead repeated, never the same beat twice
Never a ballad sung softly, as our tube-amplified strings scream so loudly!

when our fingers fumble o'er the frets and sticks of our quality instruments,
We sometimes stumble, mumble, and produce a clever lick.

Listen!
You might detect a hint of brilliance,
buried beneath all that lack of practice.

Hey...
They don't call it "garage sound" for nothing.
And besides, we're not trying to re-invent the wheel.

We just want to rock...
most Thursday nights,
from about 7 p.m. to midnight.

And if you're anything like us,
you'll be fucking amazed
that four married white guys could sound as good as we do...

Where'd you learn how to drive, jerk?

"Ahhh, come on!!!"







[Traffic's a bitch during Friday rush hour]

"...that piece of crap can't even go inter-galactic! Who the hell he think he is, cutting me off like some kind of retard Han Solo?"

"That S.O.B. ain't gonna be laughing after I pop my burners into his cockpit! This Space Camero can blow that butthead out of the heavens."

"Yup... he's a deadman."

[Spaceman furiously clicks switches, pushes buttons, pulls levers. Turbines and gyros scream. Outside the cockpit, starlights stretch, jerk and shake as Spaceman yanks on the control stick.]

"He's just lucky my space blasters are broke..."

Let's make a new list, for lack of anything better to do...

An exercise in thee, thine and thou:

1) How I lust for thee.

2) Methinks thine loins burn for me...

3) Wouldst thou slather thine loins with Cool Whip (registered trade mark) and permitest me to enjoy thine delights?

4) Art not thou horny?

5) Wouldst thou accept my deepest apologies, then?

An uplifting, positive list: Horrible things that never happened.

So, I was walking down the street today when the thought struck me like a 15-pound, spiral-cut, smoked ham lobbed into my face from a passing car:

"I didn't get killed by a terrorist today."

So I continued with that groundbreaking thought:

"Say! I don't think I've EVER been killed by a terrorist, nor do I know anybody who was."

What a lucky man I must be.

I have been spared from the obvious, imminent threat of terrorism for all these frightening years. Not one suicide bombing, not one hijacking, not one hint of jihad. I've also never been car-jacked. Hell, I've never been jacked in any way.

I've never been shot by a teenager wielding a legally purchased firearm, nor have I had the need to kill a drug-crazed child-molestor in self defense. My baby, who has yet to be molested, has never come close to strangling herself in a large plastic bag. She hasn't drown in a swimming pool, either. And I'm certain she's never been abducted and held hostage by a strange family of scary foreigners.

But wait, there's more:

- None of my friends have been killed by drunk drivers.
- I haven't gotten divorced
- I don't live on the street, feeding my wife and baby from restaurant dumpsters.
- I haven't been forced into a life of gay prostitution.
- My family hasn't been kidnapped by desperate escaped convicts, forced to be the unwilling passengers in their stolen Chyrsler Newport as they flee from an angry convoy of police officers.
- I haven't contracted cancer, AIDS or herpes.
- I have never -- even in childhood -- been offered a candy apple with a razor blade hidden inside.
- I've never drown from intense cramps caused by swimming immediately after eating.
- High taxes have never forced me into bankrupcy.

It goes on and on like that. Terrible things that scare the crap out of me -- not one of them has ever happened.

I'm beginning to wonder if they ever will.

Pushin' buttons all day long... pullin' levers all night!

"That's the way we do it around here, Deuce Fuego. We work hard for our reward."

"But the big dance is tonight, Mister Foxtrot! Jane Hamilton is waiting for me! I got to go!"

"Just because you like to dance all day and night don't mean there ain't work to be done around here. Understand what I'm sayin' Mr. Wiggly Hips? Mr. Kevin Bacon?
If I were you, I'd dance myself over to the chicken shredder and get to work! Them chicken's ain't gonna shred themselves."

"Man, this sucks. After I get done shreddin' these chickens, I'm going straight to the ballfield, where I'm gonna shoot myself in the face with my uncle's sling shot!"

"Sounds like a fine way to wrap up an honest day's work, Deuce."

Geosynchronous orbit is a lousy place to pressure your date for sex

I've taken this girl about as far as she will go. She sits there in the passenger seat, tiny tee and short skirt, legs crossed and hands clasped tightly on her lap. We're 22,000 miles high in geosynchronous orbit over her parents' house, and nudity doesn't appear to be an option.

"The force is strong in you. Why don't you join me on the dark side?"

Her head shakes no.

"We could do wonderful things together."

No, again.

"I'll let you fly."

No.

"You know, I flew a thousand astronomical units to get here tonight. I'd have thought you might show some appreciation, but I guess I was wrong. It tears me up inside. I'm tempted to kill the engines right now. If I do, we'll both plummet to Earth in a fiery ball of sad, sorry death, but least we'd be together forever. Is that what you want?"

It's late. Past her curfew. She just wants to go home.

"Fine, then. I'll take you home. But don't wait around for me to come calling. This extraterrestrial don't phone home no more."

This baby will whup yo' ass...

... if you don't step off now.

I want to be cool

I try very hard. Sometimes, I think I'm cool. Other times, I know I'm cool. And yet other times, I know I am NOT cool.

Today, I'm not.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

A couple of points

1) Although I'm still sexy, my vision is no longer perfect.

2) I am now 37.

Conversations that don't include money or work

Reading this, I thought to myself, "How many times, do you think, have you asked a complete stranger -- for lack of anything better to say -- what he did for work?"

I suspect more times than I could count.

So, here we go, a list of conversation starters that don't involve money or work:

1) The time I snapped a wet towel at my brother so hard it drew blood.

2) The time I skied into a drift fence and smashed it to pieces in front of my friends and about 30 ski lift passengers.

3) The time I crapped my pants at work.

4) The time my martial arts instructor choked me so hard I blacked out (and the other time that happened, with a different instructor. What fun.)

5) The many times I've been kicked in the balls.

6) The greatest animated movies I've ever seen, which include but aren't limited to: Princess Mononoke and Heavy Metal.

7) The thrill of sport, and the agony of defeat.

8) The world's greatest electric guitar tones, including Hendrix, Van Halen, Zappa and Nugent.

9) The allure of the female breast.

10) Why rare meat is better than well-done.

Mattie

Early girl, backwards girl
floppy, skinny little girl
blue skin, brown hair and the prettiest little lips

She never was hard to look at
even when filthy and foul
she extracts her father's smile almost every time.

Light year dream

Beautiful points of light
expand into vacant space
infinite lengths of time

this is the road ahead
a lonely light-year dream

I've come so far
who could have known
soft lips and warm hands
could make going home so hard?

Never be the same again
since the day I let her in
since the day I beamed her up
since the day I inhaled her breath
in geosynchronous orbit above her parents' house.

Best photos of aliens on the net

Studly.










Gross.










Moldy pubic hair -- eww!










Awwww.... Isn't she precious?











Sexy flirt!

Tainted pornographic thoughts grip my brain

My friend described in great detail a frenzied, spur-of-the-moment sexual encounter he recently had the fortune to experience, and I can't get the image out of my mind.

It's stimulating and revolting at the same time because while I enjoy pornographic imagery, this particular porno scene is heavily infused with the image of my friend's face contorted with unholy pleasure. In fact, I have no idea what the chick looks like since I've never met her. So all I have a faceless 20-something chick performing countless unsaintly acts, and my friend -- tongue clenched between his teeth, eyes crossed, panting like a dog -- enjoying every one of them.

I don't like it, but these were very dirty acts -- too valuable to forget.

10 things I can't say for certain I'd never try

1) Crash a car on purpose
2) Jump from a tall building
3) Crap my pants
4) Shoot a gun into the dark
5) Loot a store during a massive riot
6) Jump a car over another car
7) Revolt
8) Use a sling shot to fling a dead rat at someone's body
9) Light a building on fire
10) Fish with dynamite.

Ten things I won't do

1) I'll never fuck a rat.
2) I'll never shove a baseball up my ass.
3) I'll never eat human feces (on purpose).
4) Never take a golden shower.
5) Never get a blow job from two hookers at once.
6) Never stick a rusty fork in my eye.
7) Never shove a ho off a skyscraper
8) Won't slap a bitch
9) Won't hunt the "ultimate prey"
10) Won't buy a Ford.

Tonight, I complete 117,355 situps

Over the course of my entire life.

Flabs of steel-wool.

I'll be huffing and slobbering around the Englewood rec center track, in case you want to watch.

You couldn't ask for a nicer day to stand on a street corner and beg for change.
The weather was hot, but not too hot -- at least not so hot that I'd be uncomfortable wearing my tattered blue down coat.

Extremely hot days will force a guy to hang his coat on a dirty guard rail or hide it in the shrubbery along the Platte River. I hated doing that because someone could steal it, or worse, I could simply forget where I stashed it.

The coat's important. At night, a guy needs a coat, even in the summer. The coat is a bed, a blanket, a dresser, a bathroom, all in one. For a city camper, it's your whole life rolled into one garment. You live in a coat that long and it absorbs your essence at every moment of your existence. All of your memories are draped over your shoulders, exposed for all to see and smell. One moment, your sitting on a beach-side bench, the next you might find yourself standing, frozen, alongside an interstate on a mountain pass during a three-day blizzard, begging God to spare your life just one last time.

The coat was everything I owned. I had tried pushing around a grocery cart, but it was just a futile attempt at petty ownership. In the end, the cart became a load of burdensome junk. I rolled the whole contraption into the Platte River. Let the fish have it, let it float downstream to the homeless in Nebraska -- they probably needed it more than I did.

Traffic was generous that day. Middle-class commuters, not too many ladies. Ladies are scared, they don't like to look at dirty people. Guys are scared, too -- especially well-dressed ones. They're like mannequins driving shiny cars. The high-class set always look like they've just called the police. Calm, but nervous. I generally didn't bother with them unless I was in a belligerent mood.

But some guys -- and some ladies, too -- they just want to help a guy out. I live to see their pretty faces, wide-open eyes, outstretched hands clutching a bill or fistful of change. I loved those people always tried to show my appreciation as best I could despite my disability.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am! You have yourself a sweet day and may I add you should be proud of that horribly pretty little girl you have in the back seat with you. She'll grow up sexy for sure!"

Halitosis and mild schizophrenia. A one-two combination punch. Ruined my life.

But that day was good. I had made a killing. That evening, I bought myself a shower and razor and cleaned myself up. Staring at my face in the gas station's bathroom mirror, I suddenly remembered that I was once a handsome man. True, I had aged, but so what? I looked like wisdom, like grace.

In the flickering fluorescent glimmer, I stared deep into my own eyes, deeper than ever before, deep into the dark pupil until I was surrounded by blackness and the green bathroom light disappeared behind me. I stayed in that warm, dark place for hours. I could barely hear a thing except my own breathing and the muffled sounds of distant traffic. And then I felt it: A feather brush softly sliding down the back of my neck, down my arms, along the back of my legs.

Again.

Rustle.

Again.

It was respect. The feathery, distant, black wing of respect waking from a decade of hibernation. Respect is beauty. Respect is a predator. Respect has talons that won't let go. Respect killed the streetwalker, eviscerated the dirty man with blunt predatory innocence, threw his entrails against the walls of the bathroom... smeared blood on the floors... stopped up the plumbing with waterlogged flesh.

I stepped from the bathroom purged, scrubbed, scoured, clean. It was the beginning of an endless mission of purpose that I harnessed into a series of jobs that built into bigger and better things: Parking attendant, drug counselor, flooring salesman, arms dealer, regional branch manager for a national chain of convenience stores, assassin, franchise owner of 42 video game retailers in the Southwest, Patron Saint of Merchants, Whores and Drifters, Lord God of Time, Space and Creation.

It's been a wild ride. I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. But I do miss my blue down coat.

The coat's important.

Desperately seeking independent news reports

Man, I gotta say it: The news media is a broken record, stuck on the government's message. The reasons we receive to justify our current catalog of wars have become so one-sided, it's no wonder Americans constantly feel under attack.


You can't read an article about Hezbollah that doesn't also include Syria and Iran. I mean come on... Even a cursory check into who is doing the talking should raise at least a few tiny red flags. The people who provide us with evidence supporting military action are the very same people who want to fight.

It's common knowledge that you just don't ask a car salesman for advice on the best place to buy a car.

"Well, buddy... I like you, and because I like you, I'm gonna be absolutely, perfectly, completely honest -- this car right here is the the single best deal you will find in the entire city. Believe me, I would know."

Exempli gratia:

-- msnbc.
The Associated Press says Iran and Syria are behind Hezbollah. The article draws on statements from this unbelievably narrow group of informants: President Bush, Michigan Republican Rep. Mike Rogers, "U.S. officials speaking on the condition of anonymity because of the subject's sensitivity", and Anthony Cordesman, a "Middle East expert" based out of Washington D.C.

First, I don't believe any of this crap from high-level officials speaking on the condition of anonymity. Who the fuck are these guys -- traitors willing to risk their careers and their nation's security by divulging "inside information?" Not likely. What's more likely? They've been authorized to talk to the press under the guise of "deep background" because government types have figured out that people think information obtained that way contains less spin and is more reliable. Hell, the officials in this article could be anyone -- Dick Cheney, his wife, Bush's most-trusted general, or Bush's general's most-trusted lieutenant colonel...

Second, Why do reporters even ask President Bush or any of his Republican cronies anything anymore? Do they like hearing the same thing again and again and again? Bush doesn't even change the words. He just repeats himself, verbatim. Robot at the wheel.

Everybody seems to think Iran, Syria and Hezbollah are linked, and they certainly could be. But if it's that obvious, then why can't American journalists confirm U.S. sentiment with a source that's not the president, or one of his subordinates? How about someone who's not even American? Why don't journalists take a vacation and let the government do all the work? Looks like they're doing that already.

-- nytimes.com
Nobody in Washington has even spoken to the Syrian ambassador. Not even once. Not even a voice mail. Not even to present an appearance of a quest for sustainable peace.

Poor guy... Loneliest diplomat in D.C.

-- Voice of America
Tee hee. I've added this as a joke. The Voice of America is the voice of the U.S. government. It's funny how seriously they take themselves.

-- The Los Angeles Times
Well, the LA Times at least says the Iran-Syria-Hezbollah link is well-documented and rarely in dispute. They also say some people aren't so sure.

But the government is sure -- so sure, in fact, that they don't even have to justify themselves: "U.S. officials declined to offer specific evidence of Iranian or Syrian involvement in Wednesday's raid... But the Bush administration, in a statement afterward, said the two nations 'bear responsibility' based on their longtime ties and support."

Is this starting to sound familiar? Didn't we do this "repeat a statement until everybody believes it" routine with the Saddam-has-weapons-of-mass-destruction thing -- weapons which now appear to exist everywhere EXCEPT in Iraq? What a freakin' misfire that was...

Come on, Marge, give the monkey a shotgun. It'll be funny.

Hugo Strange Winterhalter, Esquire -- civilian, not-for-profit spy

Civilian observer, Hugo Strange Winterhalter, reporting his observances during a short walk today. These records come only from this observer's memory:

1) A woman, smoking a cigarette, driving a white Cadillac with a military entrance sticker affixed to the windshield.

2) An Arab-looking guy, driving a Metro taxi.

3) Followed by two black guys, one of them a kid with his head out the window, riding in a tan SUV.

4) A man or woman -- couldn't tell -- driving a silver car with a handicap tag hanging from the rear-view mirror.

5) A woman, whose face I couldn't see, driving a tan van with dark-tinted windows.

6) A woman, driving a yellow convertible.

7) Another woman -- this one dark-skinned, perhaps asian, kind of cute -- driving a tan car with the window rolled down.

8) A person with a dark-skinned arm -- couldn't see the face -- driving a turquoise-colored car -- maybe a Ford Tempo or something like that.

9) An old man with a red baseball cap, eyeglasses and a gray beard, driving a powder blue 70s or 80s- model American car -- maybe a Ford or Mercury.

11) Two Mexicans trimming branches from a tree at the entrance of a cemetery maintenance facility. One was thin, older, with a mustache, short hair. He looked like a Mexican movie star from the '20s. Very handsome.

12) On the highline trail: While studying a model of a sailing ship that was displayed in a high window of a condo (on either side were situated models of lighthouses) a man in a yellow shirt and red baseball cap rode by on his bicycle. He wore shorts of unknown color, green socks and brown shoes.

13) A woman on a bike, wearing a red and white helmet. She sported blue, opaque sun glasses and gray-blonde hair.

14) Two more Mexicans, tending to the lawn of a condominium complex. One was wearing a white, sleeveless shirt and brown pants. His overshirt (teal-blue) hung on a fence nearby. He operated a rake. The other wore a similar teal-blue short-sleeved shirt and denim, long shorts. He was raking leaves as well.

15) A woman who spoke to squirrels. She chattered and clicked into the trees. She was holding a bag of bread crumbs.

16) A gathering of old ladies, perhaps as many as five. A few of them had white poodles. They sat on benches, laughing and joking with each other.

17) A man in a white baseball cap, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and rather large sunglasses, riding his bike toward me. I believe he wore a fanny pack.

18) A older man, bald, but not totally bald, messing around with his car, closing the door, locking it. He wore a sleeveless, white shirt, sweat pants, and sandals. He spotted me, but I don't think he paid me any attention.

19) A woman with a large black dog -- Rotteweiller mix, maybe -- wearing a red skirt, and a shirt with horizontal stripes (red and white). She also wore a straw hat, sunglasses, and flat-footed slip-on shoes -- gray or tan in color -- possibly suede. She appeared afraid, which could explain the large dog.

20) A couple, holding hands and walking away from me. They walked a small, white dog -- goofy looking, the kind with a squished face. The man was tall, wore a blue T-shirt, tucked smartly into his jeans, which were lashed to his frame with a no-nonsense brown leather belt. Unfortunately, he also wore white tennis shoes, which in this observer's opinion is a fashion error -- tennis shoes are for tennis and tennis only. He held in his right hand the left hand of his lover, a woman in a large white T-shirt and blue, long shorts. She had a fat ass, but that's certainly not her fault. She had long blond hair and wore Birkenstock-style sandals. They turned off the trail into the parking lot of a condominium complex.

21) Where, TWO MORE Mexicans were tending to the lawns. One wore a red T-shirt, the other a brown or tan one. Both wore orange ear plugs. They quickly disappeared behind a garage.

22) Down the way a few more paces, another Mexican rode a mower. He wore a light-green, long-sleeved shirt, a straw hat and sunglasses. Also, he wore ear plugs. This observer spotted a forth Mexican around the corner of the building, using either a push mower or perhaps a weed-whacker. This forth Mexican was partially obstructed by foliage, but he appeard to be wearing a dark T-shirt, jeans and a baseball cap.

23) On Dayton, a black man was spotted riding golf cart through the parking lot of another condominium complex. He wore a baseball cap. Strapped to the back of the cart was a short, stubby ladder. This observer could not keep up.

24) At the corner of Dayton and Mississippi, a large tractor of some sort was being parked by the driver -- couldn't see the driver.

25) In the intersection of Dayton and Mississippi, a blond woman with a long ponytail, dressed in an orange safety vest, was writing on a clip board. She wore a yellow T-shirt and jeans. She also wore boots. Were she not a tall, big-boned woman, she might have looked out of place. As it was, she fit right in.

26) A tall, thin, very dark-skinned black guy, wearing black pants and a black T-shirt, stood beneath the shade of a tree near a bus stop. He wore a baseball cap. Accompanying the man was a little girl, wearing a football jersey (Denver Broncos, number 24 -- Champ Bailey, defensive back with the Broncos since 2004, with Washington Redskins since his rookie year in 1999). The little girl was very cute, with two puffy pig tails on either side of her head. She was a little black girl.

[The man asked this observer if this observer knew if the busses were still running on this route. This observer said he didn't know, but that probably, yes, they were still running. This observer then thought maybe that was a stupid thing to suggest, since this observer actually did not know a damn thing about the bus routes in this area. This observer will not make that mistake again.]

27) A man in a large white T-shirt and green shorts, either unloading or loading his SUV in the parking lot of the Breakers condos. The man carried a laptop on his shoulder and at his feet was a traveling garment back. Both items were black. He was white.

28) On Mississippi, this observer noted the following westbound cars: A dark Ford SUV, A dark pickup truck with an Oakland Raiders sticker affixed to the lower right corner of the rear window, followed by another dark Ford SUV.

29) There were many other observances, but this observer has run out of time to describe them...

Consider this report FILED!

Unsure if you're gay or straight? Take this simple test.

It's easy! (come on, you know you're not 100 percent certain which way you really swing. Don't pretend like you've never even thought about it... jeez).

Just watch the following clips, and note which one makes you squirm. It's that simple. These come from Beautiful Agony, a strangely erotic site that lacks tits, cock and ass. Nada one. Not even a cuss word.

[Ed. note: You still probably won't want to take this test at work (unless you work with a bunch of weirdos like I do), because someone might see you and tag you with an unflattering label, like "pervert" or "fag".]



play windows media

play quicktime

beautifulagony.com

play windows media

play quicktime

beautifulagony.com

My worth, stated as the product of my weight and the price of gold

At current gold prices, my value is $1,355,768.70.

Nothing but love

Drunkard: "If I could get away with it, I'd shove a firearm up your asshole and repeatedly pull the trigger until I heard nothing but the muffled clicks of my firing pin -- rap, rap, rapping at my empty chamber.

Barstool mate: "My god, man! You're drunk."

Drunkard: "Buddy, if I could get away with it, I'd shove my cock up your asshole and repeatedly pull the trigger until..."

Bar mate: (interrupting): "Shut up, man! I'm fucking serious. I don't like this kind of talk at all. You're out of line."

Drunkard (slurring): "Okay. Fine. If I could get away with it, I'd shove my asshole onto your firearm and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until I filled your empty chamber with the waste generated by my life."

(A scuffle on barstools ensues, punctuated by the sounds of beer mugs falling to the floor. Grunts and slaps. Swearing. It's a fist-fight, one which both men seem to be losing. The drunkard stumbles, weaves and fall out of harm's way. The sober man is drunk with rage and hostility. He's broken a knuckle. The bouncer arrives and sends the drunkard out the door.)

Bar mate (red-faced, bruised, and shaken. Speaking to the bartender): "What an asshole. Did you see that fag? I'll kill him if I ever see him again."

Bartender (pouring the man a new drink): "He's the best customer we've ever had."

The Dukes of High Orbit

(Dixie theme song, sounded from a trucker's airhorn)

Yeeeeeeeeee Hawwwwwwww!

A Frank Confession of a Fallen IT director

Dear Sirs:

I am so sorry.

I know I promised "I'd take care of everything," and I might have made some exaggerated statements implying that your company's failed e-mail system was
"probably just a user error" or some "simple, bone-headed misconfiguration" that had idled the workforce for days, but I was clearly wrong.

I've worked for 42 straight hours repairing your broken e-mail systems, and I'll be Goddamned why the errors just won't go away. Every command I typed generated another horrifying beep of failure from the poor machine's tiny little speakers! I still hear it -- the terrible digital reproach amid the endless hiss of all those whirring cooling fans:

"Beep!" WRONG!

"Beep, beep!" WRONG, AGAIN!

"Beep, beep, beep!" YOU ARE A LOSER AND YOU ARE
KILLING ME!

I have failed...

There, I said it.

I'm a technical idiot.

I'm the one who is broken. I'm weak and impotent and I apologize for all the frustration and heartache I've caused your workforce. It's clear to me now that all
of the computer glitches, data corruption and unannounced network outages that you fine people have endured during my tenure as your IT Director were a DIRECT RESULT of my foolish, impetuous actions in the data center. I shouldn't be allowed near a typewriter, let alone a glorious network like the one yours used to be before I laid my clumsy hands on it.

It has been a shock to realize that I've always found a way to blame you beautiful people for all of the untraceable technical problems I had created. There was always a mysterious "human anomaly" and you were all "stupid users" to me. I just couldn't understand why computer concepts were so hard for you to grasp ("It's very simple -- you have to import the data tables FIRST, AND THEN convert them into comma-delimited format before uploading the file to the server using the PROPER commands... SHEESH!")

And I was so sensitive to criticism. You barely knew how to turn a computer off, and yet you dared offer your "hypothesis" on why your icons have all disappeared?

I feel sick. I was so self-centered.

I'm embarrassed running away like this, in the middle of the night, leaving you with nothing but a massive spaghetti-tangle of cables, two smoking file servers and a hand-scribbled note Scotch-taped to your front door. You deserve better from your network engineer.

You're all fine workers who have been rendered useless for who knows how many days because of my ignorance, my ego and my technical hubris.

You never doubted for a second that I would repair your failed e-mail system because I never gave you the chance. The truthis, the only thing I have mastered in
my career is a large vocabulary of obfuscating acronyms like TCP/IP, SMTP and LDAP. You had no idea what I was talking about, and neither did I.

As for your company's missing confidential accounting data -- it's just gone. I don't know what else to say. My tape backup solution was nothing more than a stack
of cards and wishful thinking. It's like the data never even existed.

What am I saying? For all practical purposes, it's like the ENTIRE COMPANY never existed!

What a foolish ass I am!

(teardrop stains smear the ink)

So I'm leaving now, never to return. Please forgive me -- or better yet, forget we ever met.

(teardrop)

I wish I was never born.

Shamefully,

Wilson Dortmunder,
MCSE, CCNA and B.S. in Computer Science, Metropolitan
State Community College.

Wow...

This I didn't know:

More Christians were persecuted by the Roman Government after the conversion of Constantine, than before. The difference is that's it's a Christian government who's persecuting the other Christians.

-- Frontline website (probably written by devil worshipers)

If I don't find some inner peace out here, you're a dead man

Fishing is a horrible way to pass the time.

I went fishing yesterday after the ol' nine-to-five. Spent the majority of my time tying flies to my leader and untangling my flies from trees, rocks and even from my own rod.

The evening basically went like this: Tie fly to leader, untangle, cast, untangle fly from weeds, cast, cast, untangle fly from weeds on opposite bank, cast, untangle, untangle, untangle, tie new fly on leader to replace lost fly, cast, untangle, etc.

Meanwhile, happy little fish splish-splashed to and fro, upstream and down, free of fear that I had even an idiot's chance of catching them.

Finally I snapped.

This is embarasssing to admit, but I threw a wild tantrum.

I threw my rod into the creek, and then picked it up and threw it into a tree, where it got stuck. I climbed up a steep embankment and retrieved my rod, and commenced whacking the crap out of every tree and rock I could reach. Then I beat the crap out of the river until I broke my rod and damaged the reel.

And the fish swam, to and fro, upstream and down, free of fear or harm.

I wish I could say that I feel better now, but I don't.

Lists of likes

1. Fishing (the act of fishing, whether I catch a thing or not.)
2. Mountains
3. This little baby that the lady and I are cooking up.
4. Chicken on a grill -- the whole chicken, butterfly cut, rubbed w/ delicious seasoning.
5. Playing the organ, pathetic as I am at it.
6. Playing the guitar.
7. Having a job.
8. Owning a car.
9. Owning a house.
10. Paying the bills (weird, I know)
11. Dweeby weekend afternoons when the lady mucks around in the yard. I'll occasionally pull a weed or dig a hole, but mostly I'll just follow her around and talk.
12. The first beer of the week -- damn, that's good!
13. Movies that feature exposed boobs.

So many memories

I once wrote for money... what a handsome words.

And what a handsome young man, too.

Friday's a great day for suprises

The setup question:
Why would a guy who grew up in Anytown U.S.A. with an ordinary, Anytown U.S.A. identity change his name to something strange and foreign that ends in Ben-Avraham? [Ed. note: modified at this dude's request.]

Hypothesis first:
The guy has experienced a major transformation, has divorced himself from his youth, and now lives by entirely new social, philosophical and spiritual canon --daily guidelines from which he rarely -- but still occasionally -- deviates.

Hypothesis second:
The guy is hiding from powerful enemies.

Hypothesis third:
The guy has assumed a stage name for the benefit of his career and to enhance his fans' enjoyment during his thrice-daily Las Vegas shows.

Hypothesis forth:
There is no hypothesis forth. I have no idea why this has happened.

Followup question:
Is this a Yiddish or Hebrew name?

Response to followup:
I've e-mailed Phillip, our local Yiddish/Hebrew expert in the office. He has yet to respond. If anyone would know why my second cousin, whom I haven't seen or heard from in decades, would change his name so, Phillip would.

Observation number one:

By the way, this second-cousin e-mailed me today. Quelle suprise! The new name is certainly intriguing. -- more so than if he had e-mailed me out of the blue spouting something like, "Hey, Hugo! It's Joe. It sure has been a long time. What have you been up to? As for me, nothing much. Me and Julie got new jobs at the Co-op hauling grain. Took a trip abroad last year for our anniversary -- Canada is beautiful, but the culture is so strange. We couldn't wait to get home."

No, he didn't provoke a yawn; but he is lucky I didn't immediately delete his message, as it came off very much like the Nigerian Scam e-mails we've all seen so many times.

Does have a certain Je ne sais quoi, however...

to make a guy wonder

just what the hell is going on

Well played.

So it's the ZODIAC crappin' up my week!

The planets and stars tell me I'm a freakin' TIME BOMB over the next few days! And you know what? They're right! You'd all be well-advised to "zip it" and keep it chill. I can't be held responsible for my actions should you choose to screw with me:

"Keep a very close watch on your blood pressure this week, especially toward the busy weekend. (Could this be causing the high BP?) Unexpected changes and situations could make you highly nervous and irritable this week. You need to keep busy doing something creative to offset the bad effect. This is a time when you can be extremely inventive."
-- http://www.rrtearoom.com/horoscope/Pisces.htm

What do you mean it's FATHER'S DAY?

Okay, these are the facts:

1. I'm having a kid in August, and therefore I'm going to be a father.
2. I have a dad.
3. Father's Day approacheth, and fuck if I have the time for it this year (because, for Christ Sakes, I'M PRETTY DAMNED BUSY FREAKING OUT about becoming a dad this summer!!!)
4. Mother's Day was last month.
5. The lady is going to be a mother, as many were happy to remind her that day.
6. Okay everybody, just give us a little time to sort this all out...
7. Lots of expectations flying around out there, so let's all remember: The baby will love you all, regardless of whether you're out of town for the baby shower.
8. The baby will be hot, as he will be born in August. Ergo, we might need to remove the tiny little baby clothes from the registry. Who wants to wear a full body suit in such hot weather?
9. Our door is OPEN, unless we're not home. Feel free to stop in anytime (unless we're not home.)
10. The months won't stop spinning away, and now there are fifty things to be done every day, and fifty more chances to screw everything up, and fifty more people who want to say hi, and fifty more ways to make them all cry.

And here comes baby, ready or not.

Hope she's got

the things it takes

to set it all straight.

Esta una historia Cinderalla en Alemania 2006!

Team Archucatelectl victorious in first match! [STOP] Exceeds all expectations! [STOP] Proceeds to next round. [STOP]


GOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL...

...OOOAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!


Latin American futol champ Rojelio Galban, in Germany:

"It waz very exciting, this match!"

"We ran at our opponents very fast..."

"...we made very hard kicks..."

"... and our balls flew into their goals many, many times!"

Team Archucaltelectl: 4, Team Germany: 1

I stroke my organ almost every day...

I touch it, and "tickle" it with my fingers. I tap it and POKE IT WITH MY FOOT. This gets me hot and sweaty, because I do it in my garage, where there's no air conditioning.

I stroke my organ every chance I get.

My organ has wood...

My organ is large...

My organ is old...

And have a look at my artful use of this digital camera

What we have here is the backside of my 1968 Lowry electric organ, with the cover removed. Cool, yes?

It HAS been a while, hasn't it?

I'm busy working at the moment, but I think Latin American superstar futbol champ Rojilio Galban has something to say:

"Keeds, drugs y alcohol might seem fun and exciting, but I can say from personal experience that they're not. And while it's true that drugs can open our minds to fantastic new experiences that not even U.S. astronauts on the moon can comprehend, that's no reason to risk wasting your money or ruining your life. Also, you might hear from commie pinko leftist Democrats that drugs are not as dangerous as we've been led to believe -- do not fall for that mierda. Dios mio no!"

"So, keeds, please follow my advice: focus on one game at a time, concentrate on your defense, and just try to put la pelota through the goal."

It's time, I suppose, for babytalk...

Several times in the past weeks, the lady has wondered aloud why I have thus far failed to mention in these ethereal pages the growing bundle of joy she carries in her gut these days.

Well, here it is, the worldwide photo debut of our child:



This is the baby, displaying the razor-sharp sense of humor it likely inherited from its dad. It's also an athletic little turk, and day by day, the creature grows stronger. Someday soon it could very possibly punch its way out of the lady's womb --rather than exit in the regular way. But the lady's a tough specimen. I'm sure she'll be fine.

Neither she nor I know whether this kid will be little "Matilda" or little "Jude." The two of us have decided to remain ignorant, even in the face of so much modern technology. That doesn't stop the lady from refering to the baby as "he" instead of using a more appropriate, gender-neutral term like "the creature," "the alien," or "that [expletive] thing that relentlessly punches my lungs and lower intestines."

She probably calls the baby "he" just to save time.

Gooooooaaaaaaaaaaal!

What an upset! Let's talk to Team Archucualtelectl Goalkeeper Rojilio Galban:

"Yes, this was an upset win for some people, but it really was a team effort...

... We knew that we had to... to focus on putting the ball through the goal...

...defense was solid...

and our... our offense came up with some key plays...

...one game at a time..."

Turbo Tax is trying to screw me over

Dear Sirs at the Internal Revenue Service:

I swear to God I didn't mean to request such a huge tax return this year. I tried my damnedest not to claim anything, but Turbo Tax wouldn't have any of it.

Turbo Tax website copy: "Your tax return amounts to a no-interest loan from you to the government! Find out how you can keep that money to yourself."

See what I'm saying? If it were up to me, you guys could keep it all -- hell, I'd probably fork over another $650 if you just asked. Of course I wouldn't like it, but I'd eventually crumble beneath The Man's withering glare. I'm sure you already know that.

I just thank you in advance for not asking, and also for turning a blind eye to my pitiful tax return this year. You and I both know that $17,000 in gross income is hardly worth fighting over. God knows how I came to own a house on that income, but it goes without saying that I really appreciated the several-thousand dollar deduction for mortgage interest. Now, I acknowledge that you're returning $420 this year, but come on -- that's nothing compared to the $6,000 bill you sent me a few tax seasons yon. Remember those days? Boy, I sure do.

Anyhow, it's good we can get together like this. Tax day is such a nice time of year to crunch my numbers and relive the financial missteps I made during the past 12 months. The weather is always so nice for this type of grueling indoor arithmetic: flowers blooming, trees budding, and winter's dust giving way to warm Chinook and endless sunshine. Long, long days filled with kittens, warmth and the laughter of children in the streets -- such a nice time to sit quietly indoors at a computer, sifting through long-forgotten receipts:

This one represents a business meeting during which I got drunk. That one is a failed business trip that cost more money than it made. These others I can't remember exactly, but they certainly had some critical business purpose and likely led to the demise of my business and the financial ruin that followed. We'll just chalk them all up to "entertainment meals."

Aw, shucks -- we win some, we lose some. That's the way I see it, and I hope that's the way you see it, too. Can't wait until next year.

Your friend, taxpayer and faithful American,

Hugo Strange Winterhalter.

Wal Mart wants your money -- and your money's money

This country's capacity to sell itself out is amazing.

Lifted straight from the Colorado Pols website:

U.S. Rep. Bob Beauprez, who is running for governor of the beautiful state of Colorado, says he has earned a bachelor of science in education from the University of Colorado, but it's only a B.S. in Physical Education.

Who knew the stately University of Colorado offers a Bachelor of Science in physical education?

I mean really! Who would spend $30,000 and four years studying dodge ball and step aerobics?

Beauprez Still Claiming BS…in Education

(Yawn) A day in the life... (yawn)... of a raptor

Wow. Tough job.









This Colorado Horned Owl hasn't done a damn thing in the past 24 hours except sleep and stare off into the distance.

See if it's doing anything now, and while your there, check out the exciting lives of other raptors who have made their homes among the smoke stacks of power plants.

Now, the Peregrine Falcon on the other hand -- that's a busy bird.
Just look: He's immersed in his carnivorous schemes.

A moment-by-moment account of a dude with little to do on a Wednesday night

Thoughts on thought:

1 To describe a thought, first consult an online thesaurus for suitable synonyms for the word "thought".

1.1 Upon finding only two, acknowledge that the digital realm lacks everything except zero and one.

2 Locate a printed thesaurus.

2.2 Revel in the possibilities: Faculty of reason, pondering, meditation, deliberation, cogitation, rumination, musing, mulling, reflection, introspection, contemplation, consideration, cerebration, idea, notion, theory, opinion, intention, plan, design, purpose, aim, judgement, conclusion, appraisal, assessment, estimation, opinion, point of view, position, stance, feeling, sentiment, belief, conviction.

2.3 Praise yourself for your adventurous spirit.


Thoughts on reggae:

1 Most "educated" white folks love the stuff, while the uninitiated couldn't care less.

1.1 If you're a white person with a casual appreciation for reggae, all you'll ever need can be found on the Toots and the Maytals anthology. Burn your Bob Marley.

2 If you're an uninitiated white person who could care less about reggae, you should still listen to the Toots and the Maytals anthology, as you'll probably understand what all the fuss is about. If you're already a fan of reggae, you probably have this already, or better yet, you have all the original vinyl albums (lucky you!)

Thoughts on cleanliness:

1 When your keyboard is so dirty that you mistake the "I" key for the "L" key, it's time to do something about it.

Thoughts on analog:

1 Records are pretty freaking cool, but c'mon... As the proprietor of a local independent music store recently told me, "You really have to question why you'd buy a vinyl album that was orignally recorded in digital." (That's a rough paraphrase, but accurate in the sense that it communicates the spirit of his opinion.)

2 Man, I sure wish all those "new" vinyl pressings didn't suck.

It's a worldwide web for two

This blog seems to have degenerated into a two-way conversation between me and the lady. She is the only one who cares, apparently. Thanks for the support, sweetie! Love you!

I for one am morbidly ecstatic to have such immediate and convenient access to the greatest of the world's networks -- the American Internet! Its has improved my life immeasurably. I just don't know what I'd do without it. The "other" networks are so poor, I wouldn't even waste my urine on them.

I want it all to myself. I claim it in the name of Hugo Winterhalter. I am revoking your permission to use it.

SO I ORDER ALL YOU FUCKS TO STAY OFF THE INTERNET!

It's mine and the lady's.

HSW.

It's time... to "Tally the Bullshucks!"

A short list of BS I've heard in the last few days, starting with this weekend's weather forecast:

1. Brrr! Twelve inches of snow coming! Batton down the hatches, Colorado!
Hell hath frozen over. When you awake, don't be surprised to find the roof of your house collapsed, your pets frozen to death, your car crushed, and every roadway littered with scores of weather-induced traffic casualties! You'll be lucky to survive, but stay tuned for minute-by-minute updates detailing yet again how freakin' pointless TV weather forcasters really are!

2. The past three years of the U.S. occupation of Iraq were a smashing success, and the next three years should be even better!
Here's a new tally:
2,313 U.S. soldiers killed in action.
7,912 U.S. soldiers wounded so severely they could not return to Iraq.
9,212 U.S. soldiers wounded in action, but only slightly.
33,000 to 37,000 Iraqis estimated to be killed during the U.S. occupation. (from 158 to 177 deaths per week

God knows how many Iraqis Saddam Hussein killed during his 24-year reign, but some estimates place the numbers in the 300,000 to 1 million range (which equals 240 to 801 per week.)

Well, the good news is we're not as bad as Saddam Hussein.

3. Beth Orton fans should arrive early to see her opening act, the accoustic and vocal stylings of Willie Mason! Of Mason, a London reviewer said this: "Clearly, decades ahead of his time, he mixes the blues, folk and country influences of Hooker, Williams and Cash with hard spoken words of hope, truth and wisdom in a style all of his own, yet kin to a youthful Bob Dylan."

None of that gibberish is true.

Thankfully, Beth Orton's voice is so powerful that she can -- with a single note -- wake the dead, revive limp lettuce, and stop fleeing audience members in their tracks, forcing them to turn around, forcing them to listen. It's as if Orton thanks the audience for its tolerance, begs her fans to stick around, promises them that they won't be disappointed.

And just like that, as her voice hammers off the walls, not a single person in the joint cares that 30 minutes earlier, Mason nearly bored them to death.

Announcing the latest CD release from Jim "Butterfingers" Kehl: Smooth Roads, Easy Times

It's been a long time coming for Jim Kehl's latest musical truimph, but according to light-rock afficionados, it was worth every minute!

Jim spent countless hours on location in Maui as well as in studios in both New York and Los Angeles to create this masterful opus, Smooth Roads, Easy Times.



During this album's production, Jim insisted on total artistic control. "I wanted to create a spontaneous, live sound that would really grab listeners and pull them into the EMOTION of the music," states Jim. "To do that, I needed to do much of the work far from the constrictions of the 'traditional' studio scene. At first I thought 'Nashville', but then it hit me! The key to this album's inspiration was to play this passionate music... on the beaches of Maui."

Jim's latest work showcases his fantastic command of his instrument of choice: the acoustic guitar. Using his reknown musical punctuality and his lyrical rigor, Jim gives us a peek into his thoughts and feelings and helps us understand how he came to be known by the nickname "Butterfingers."

Smooth Roads, Easy Times is a startling look into the mind of a drug-addled killer running loose on the broken-down streets of America's inner cities. Jim's mild fret work, coupled with studio technician Walter Finkle's copious re-engineering, truly yanks listeners from the comfort of their living rooms and propels them into a terrible waking nightmare that they hope never to experience again, but which they can never forget.

"I wanted to bring easy-rock listeners into my world," Jim states. "I worked hard in hopes that it would be my greatest work. I think I've achieved that."

Jim broke all boundaries when producing this album, employing revolutionary recording concepts that perfectly portray a drug addict's most intimate moments. During the gripping acoustic solo three minutes into the first track, "Needle Fuck," Jim musically describes the first time his fictional character, Diego The Druggie, injects crank into his bloodstream. And in the ballad, "Fuck a dude for drugs," we can almost hear the woeful voice of another fictional character, Phillip The Druggie, as he wanders the late-night city streets trading demon sex for money.

"It did take a long time to produce this album," Jim acknowledges. "For starters, we made many of the recordings on my back porch. I wanted the beach breezes and birdsong of the jungle to mingle with the notes from my guitar. Capturing the perfect ambient sounds took a lot of time. Of course, there were many distractions -- the great surfing and sunbathing, as well as the gluttonous young Polynesian whores."

Bah! A pox on thee! A fortnight of Fetid Breath!

For thine cruel misbehavances, poor performance and dishonorous utterances; I curse thee thusly:

1. Thine skins shalt chaffe, very near to the balls.
2. Thine hair shalt winde tightly into a large machine.
3. Thine bowels shalt leak in public.
4. Two score and a half sewer rats shalt besiege thine pantaloons.
5. Thine love dreams shalt feature naught but thee, thine mother and thine father.
6. Aye! The work of thine life shalt whither, and thou shalt earn thine wage as a Gong Farmer (emptyin' latrines barehanded), a Towne Whore (fellatin' the homosexual blue collar set) or a Street Idiot (pronouncin' your cerebral lackings to the Publick At Large.)
7. Thou shalt lust for hideous animals, and thou shalt abide that lust.
8. Thou perspirances shalt offend thee most of all.
9. During meals, thou shalt mistake thine tongue for a meatball at every bite.
10. Finally, thou shalt, night and day, until the end of your days, know the flavor of a hobo's anus on thine lips.

Good luck to you, cursed scab. May your wretched life be long and fruitless.

Woe... What is it good for?

Absolutely nuthin...

Say it again...

There are bad days, and then there are bad weeks. I'm living both simultaneously.

No details because they suck. Just know that I'm not in a good mood at the moment: approximately 7 p.m., March 6, 2006. If you were to see me now, ask me how I'm feeling, I'd say to you, "Not so good." I wouldn't elaborate, and then I'd wander away to be alone with my not-so-good thoughts.

If you were to follow me and pester me with questions like, "Is there anything I can do?" I'd probably say no.

I'd say no because if I did start talking about it, I'd go insane with anger, frustration, disappointment and other such sourpuss emotions. You'd probably leave at that point, feeling like your good-natured ways would better serve someone else -- like maybe a retard or a recent quadriplegic.

At times like these, everything sucks, and everyone sucks... Nothing personal.

Boo. Hoo.

Gunfire near the country home? Say it ain't so!

The Rocky Mountain News reports a man shot a neighbor six times during an argument over stolen keys. Six muther fuckin' times. And the victim didn't die, at least not yet. This happened one block from our lovely Country Estate.

A guy who was close to the scene at the time characterized the incident as "strange." This guy, who's clearly not prone to hyperbole, said the shooter was a nice man who always said hello to others.

That's the way we roll in Englewood. We smile and wave to the neighbors, and then shoot them.

President Bush bogarts local kind bud in Golden, Colorado

President Bush: "Man, that is good shit..."

National Bioenergy Center director Mike Pacheco (giggling): "Common, dude... Give me the bong..."

When animal husbandry goes terribly wrong

It's hard to say what PETA should do about this -- punish or praise?

This photo is so icky, I really didn't want to post it. But then what would such censorship say about my insatiable journalistic integrity? Besides, I don't have much else to write these days...


The worst part is I know the sexual deviant in this photo (that meaty hand belongs to a friend of mine. I've never met that slutty cat.) Find the details here. If you do seek them, just understand that you are a sick f*ck and should be imprisoned by angry Turks for your shameful curiosity.

And also remember this: it was an act of mercy.

Yuck.

If any of you stumble across one of these tucked away in, say, a closet or a garage:










Be sure to box it up and mail it to me. It's a Fisher 500-C hi-fi tube receiver, made in the '60s, AND IT IS WORTHLESS TO YOU! In fact, it could even kill you.

Just send it to me, I will gladly dispose of it in appropriate fashion. The Fisher 500-C has been proven dangerous to keep around the house, especially for children, the elderly and anyone between the ages of 15 and 75. I have been specially trained to handle this dangerous, dangerous device, so simply e-mail me for my address.

God sakes, stop putting your family at risk! I'll pay for shipping if you can't afford it.

Likewise, I urge you to do the same if you find a pair of these (they've been known to turn both men and women into pedophiles):

The Incident with a Cellphone in the Library...

'Twas a chilly day, the wind gusting off the Rocky Mountains like a frozen aluminum baseball bat swung forcefully into the genitals. But thick glass squelched the icy howling, the bitter chill a faint memory for those of us encamped in near-silent government documents section of the Denver Public Library (third floor, northwest corner.)

We poured over our books and weighty documents. You could taste the concentration.

And then he came, sat, and shuffled his personal items. Finally, he placed a call on his cellphone, using the phone's speaker function. He wore a fedora hat indoors...

[Hello? a tinny voice said.]

"Where are you?"

[Broadway and Alameda.]

We'll I'll be done soon, maybe you can pick me up at the library?

[Yeah, I'll pick you up at the library. Should we go to Wild Oats?"]

Yes, I think that would be best.

It went on like that, but not for long. It wasn't a loud conversation, nor was it particularly soft. The man with the fedora spoke calmly, as if he were sitting at his office desk, making a routine phone call to a colleague. Perfectly normal conversation.

One that provoked a dangerous amount of hostility.

The fedora man later gathered his items, stood, streched, and glanced over his surroundings -- only to meet my derisive glare, a glare as ICY AS THE MOUNTAIN WIND BLOWS!

He froze for a full sixty seconds when his eyes met my mine. This part is true -- a minute, maybe more. It was, to my recollection, the weirdest thing I'd ever done. To stare at a complete stranger for such a long time, the feat itself is unusual. Both of us were frozen in place and neither was willing to give even one inch. Sixty seconds, non merde! "What a strange thing I'm doing," I thought as I glared, frozen in my chair, like some paralyzed John Wayne wearing a stoic blue baseball cap emblazoned with the words "40-year-old Virgin."

Finally, the fedora man broke the trance.

"Read any good books lately?"

"I'm trying to," said I.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Your cell phone conversation disturbed me."

"It was a brief conversation," said he.

"There are plenty of places in this library where you could have made your call and not disturbed anyone. This is the quietest place in the library. You don't need to use your cell phone here."

(This classic Jedi mind trick failed to put the man into a hypnotic state, one that would have enabled me to make him jump from a balcony -- Ed.)

"People use their cell phones in this library all the time," he said. "I find it disturbing, which is why people come here, I guess."

"Yes, it is."

And then the fedora man disappeared amid the stacks. Lucky for him. I was a dangerous man at the moment. He could have been killed.

God help the next man who gets crosswise with me while wearing a fedora hat.

Osama bin Laden: a government PR tool?

Could it be true?

Al Jazeera doubts Osama bin Laden's latest audio tape is authentic, suggesting the only scientific analysis of the tapes comes from the CIA.

Well, so what if they're fake? And isn't Al Jazeera a terrorist-loving rag-head newspaper anyway?

Yes, it is. But it still raises an interesting point, because these audio tapes seem to whip up our fury for war-making and distract us from the real horrors that war creates.

Also, the tapes seem to give politicians opportunity to say things like, "We don't negotiate with terrorists... you have to destroy them. It's the only way to deal with them."

These jokers gotta be in heaven. Under normal circumstances, a public official could never get away with openly uttering such sentiments. Got to seize the moment when it comes, I suppose.

Wouldn't be the first time I suspected Osama bin Laden was a fake. Now, I'm not going to say it -- how this idea resembles a certain book in which certain agents openly modified certain media accounts to report things like we've always been at war with Oceana. We've never been at war with Eurasia.

But come on! Why, why, why does it seem so appropriate?

Don't laugh -- it could be true. Be honest, do any of you really know a thing about this bin Laden guy, anyway? I mean other than what the president or CIA told you? For all we know, he could have died during one of those missile strikes in the 1990s.

Well, I'll be damned

Learned a new word today -- had to look it up in ye ol' dick-tionary.

The word is bourse.

Know what it means? I'll give you a minute to think about it...

Okay, time's up. A bourse is an exchange, or specifically a European stock exchange.

Thank you, smarty-pants New York Times for using an obscure Middle French word rather than some other, common, less-sophisticated word that would make a lot more sense to us here in the dumb old U.S. of A. Like I have the time to research your erudite locutions in my wordbook, sirs. I'm a busy dude, man!

(Alright, fine. Before you get uppity with me, I'll just say it now: maybe I'm not as busy as I pretend to be.)

Shut down your local McDonald's with three simple steps

There are still places on this planet where the Golden Arches cannot thrive. If only this were true for Walmart, too.

Step one:
Develop a local cuisine cherished by residents and admired by travelers from all over the world. The Italian town of Altamura did just that. In 37 B.C., Horace coined Altamura's particular variety of course-grained bread "...the best bread to be had..."

Step two:
Convince a local merchant to set up shop next to the town's only McDonald's, so that he can quietly sell his delicious wares to McDonald's customers. Fourth-generation baker Luca DiGesu was that man.

Step three:
Wait two years, as the golden arches fall.

MMMMm.....











Ewwww...!

That's "Mister" Dad, to you...

Poor, dead rabbit.
In case you didn't know it: The lady is pregnant, and according to modern books and websites, that means I am too (but physically, I'm not even the slightest bit pregnant. I feel great.)

If you're reading this big news for the first time on this website, we're very sorry. It's not that we don't like you, we just like others more than you. And please don't think you aren't important -- we just haven't gotten around to you yet. There are simply too many really important people in our lives who demand our immediate attention -- ambassadors, diplomats, heads of state, wartime generals, retired admirals and the like.

And now, to the point: I've spent the past weeks searching for the perfect words to describe my feelings on the matter, but I've come to the conclusion I'm not ready to do that on the internet. Instead, I've compiled a list of terms to help me respectfully address the Lady during the many trying moments she's likely to experience in the coming months:

The Lady is a:

genetalian (that's a medical term for a pregnant woman) who is primagravida (pregnant with her first child).

She is still a nullagravida (woman who has never given birth) or gravida 0 (same thing), but not for long.

She will one day be a gravida 1 (medical term for a woman who has given birth to one child).

She is also still:
nulliparous (never had a child), or she is a nullipara or a para 0, but again, not for long.

She is also:

Great (archaic)
with child
Up the duff (UK slang)
up the spout (UK slang)
up the flue (UK slang)
up a pole (UK slang)
knocked up
banged up (aussie slang)
in a family way
gone (one month)
PG
preggars
cheggars (UK)
prenada (Spanish, not slang)
embarazada (Spanish, not slang)
en estado (Spanish, not slang)
esperando (Spanish, not slang)
about to find pups (this is just stupid)
in a fix
lady-in-waiting

She has:

a bun in the oven
"split the condom" (whatever)
"drunk from the well"

She is not:
A twat, twit, twirp or twerp (apparently technical terms for egg-laden goldfish)

While researching this, I stumbled into this enormous list of colorful phrases depicting menstruation (in various languages), and couldn't stop laughing. Euphemisms of note: Leak Week, Moonblood, A snatchbox decorated with red roses, and Takin' classes at 'Bama. That last is a reference to the Crimson Tide, of course.

But my favorite happens to be one of the dumbest: I'm on my pyramid -- a reference to the banks of the Nile overflowing and running red, I guess...

Lawyers you hope you'll never need

If this guy happens to be your attorney, you're in trouble.

He's Reid Weingarten, defender of America's executive thieves.

He just helped Enron chief accountant Richard Causey cut a sweet deal that entails ratting on his former collegues, spending seven years in jail and paying the government a $1.25 million fine. Hard to say how good a deal that is when you consider that the maximum penalty for securities fraud is 10 years in prison and a fine of $1 million followed by three years of probation. (And why is the government getting so freaking rich off this, I want to know?)

Weingarten's other big-name client, former WorldCom CEO Bernard Ebbers, must be as pleased as Causey: Weingarten's efforts landed him a 25-year prison sentence for orchestrating an $11 billion accounting fraud that toppled the telecommunications firm three years ago.

Sweet.

I can only hope these two guys were facing the guillotine or something before Weingarten stepped in, otherwise they didn't get their money's worth.

Keep up the good work, Reid.

W.T. Fuck?

Those Aussies really know how to party.

Are they beating the shit out of that guy with beer?

That's a party foul.

... Tried to contact my "Brudda from Anudda Hemisphere" to get the inside story, but he didn't respond. That makes me nervous. Being a foreigner himself, he's either dead from repeated beer bottle blows to the head, or -- just as likely since he's a white guy -- he's out there swinging his hockey stick into the unprotected flesh of some poor Syrian who decided to go surfing on the wrong fuckin' day...

... I suppose he could also be watching the T.V. in his underwear -- that's certainly possible, too.

And that prime minister John Howard really knows his damage control. I watched him last night, playin' like P. George Bush responding to the tough questions (shell shock!):

"Right! 'is 'er's whot Sydney's all about, right? Sheilas lyin' 'round ina sun wit' li'l clothes, see?"










Of course, he's rarely invited to parties that end with riot police and masterful baton play (ouch):

What a buzzkill... The cop's got the thousand-yard stare. Doesn't look like he's having fun.

... probably broke his night stick.

Pryor dies, and I shit you not: I subconsciously knew it was gonna happen!

Richard Pryor, 65, dies of a heart attack at 9 a.m. Mountain Standard Time -- just nine hours after me and the lady rent and watch the Richard Pryor: Live DVD! (The show was recorded in 1979).

Evidence supporting my conclusion that me and the lady can see into the future:

a) We never rent stand-up comedy.

b) As the brilliant comedian's body cooled to room temperature, me and the lady laughed like babies at his moving-and-speaking image, an image recorded 24 years earlier.

c) Not two months ago, me and the lady watched a documentary about Pryor.

d) During that viewing, we both said, "Is Richard Pryor still alive?" at the exact same instant! (or the at least me and the lady agree that it happened that way.)

e) Neither of us knew the answer.

The evidence speaks for itself; we can predict the deaths of comedians. I'm crappin' you negative...

-- The Editor, H. Strange Winterhalter

Apparently, every human is a suspected terrorist

What the hell's going on in this picture?

These are the passengers of American Airlines Flight 924. In this photo, the plane has just landed in Miami from Colombia. Moments earlier, a federal Air Marshall shot and killed a passenger who claimed to have a bomb in his suitcase. The man, who might be an American from the Orlando area, apparently was acting very strangely -- running down the aisle, running onto the jetway, reaching into his bag after authorities specifically ordered him not to do that.

Who knows where the passengers in this photo are from, or whether any of them had bombs in their suitcases, or whether they were acting weirdly, too; but they look pretty shady to me. See the way they're walking with their hands behind their heads?

Who walks like that? Criminal terrorists, that's who.

They were probably all in cahoots with the suitcase-bomb guy. Why aren't the Federal Air Marshalls opening fire?

You know you're keepin' it real when...

[Editor's note: This gets kinda heavy. If you're not in the mood, visit the Stile Project.]

You know you're keepin' it real when...

-- You're just happy to have a job, and you don't care what it is, as long as it's easy...

-- Your sweet girl is worried and depressed because the several hundred dollars she made at her latest crafts sale isn't enough to propel her hobby into a profession...

-- Your buddy -- the one who isn't married, who has no prospects of marriage, who has a kid, lives in a run-down apartment, has a crappy blue-collar job, doesn't have a college degree, drinks way too much, has regular non-commital sex with a stripper that's 20 years his junior, who can't seem to get his shit together in any way -- "loans" you a 30-year-old stereo receiver and turntable (but no speakers) and you're grateful...!

-- You decide that your "art" is more important than your "career"...

-- Your tiny house in the suburbs is just perfect...

-- You're waiting for your dog to die so you can re-apportion his food bill to various house projects... [This isn't necessarily true, it's just hyperbole -- Ed.]

-- You are convinced you can re-quit smoking anytime you want...

-- You begin to think your best days are behind you, but you're not sure. And you're OK with that...

-- You're not sure if you can top your parents' achievements, but you're convinced that's no longer important in this day and age...

-- You're older than 30, but you don't act like it...

-- You're a white guy with maybe two moments in your life when you might have come in contact with the Crip street gang, and you respect the Death Row resident, convicted killer and founder of said street gang, 'cuz he's real...

Jesus. Would you just make slaves of us all and get it over with?

My God, death row doth make a man grow large!

Does this look like a guy who should be put to death?

Hard to say.

It's Stanley Tookie Williams, convicted murderer and the co-founder of the Crips street gang. He was also nominated for the Nobel Peace prize, although that's not quite as difficult as it sounds.

He's scheduled to die by lethal injection Dec. 13 unless he's granted pardon by Governor Arnold Swartz.... Schwarts... Swortsennjager... (fuck it, I can't spell his last name at the moment.)

[Thunderclap and flash of lightning] "Thy nightmares hath come true. Poison shalt course through thy veins until thou art dead!"

Anyway, here's what Williams says about the birth of the Crips in 1969:

"... we started out—at least my intent was to, in a sense, address all of the so-called neighboring gangs in the area and to... cleanse the neighborhood of all these, you know, marauding gangs. But I was totally wrong. And eventually, we morphed into the monster we were addressing."

[Thuderclap and the flash of lightning] "Gangs begat gangs until one day the mother-of-all gangs was begotten, and then: decades of street violence; and then: the Lord sayeth unto his men, 'Thou shalt pop caps in the asses of thine enemies! Thou shall strike blows in the names of security, honor and turf!'"

Williams and his supporters say he has made significant progress in reforming his gangbanging ways. He has apologized for starting the Crips in the first place. He has turned to peaceful, non-violent activity and has also written children's books that encourage readers to avoid gangs and violence.

But is that enough? Has he cut off an ear, burned apologies into his flesh, or otherwise flagellated his demonic body? Simply put, Has he atoned?

I don't know if Williams should be granted clemency. My gut feeling is "why not?", but it's not because I think Williams is the world's greatest redeemer. I just don't give a damn about capital punishment. I suppose I'd feel differently if someone I loved was murdered, but at the moment that's not the case.

[Thunderclap and lightning] "Thou shalt drive by the abodes of thine enemy, and thou shalt unleash a storm of lead into thine enemy's hearth. And thine enemy shalt be thee."

Writing about prostitutes

I'm talking about pornography, and this is how it works:
You watch, read, examine.
During the next few minutes, you grow increasingly insane with lust.
The madness overwhelms you, and you must beat off.
And that, my boy, is the moment when pornography loses its grip on your soul.
That, my boy, is the only way to beat titties and ass.

Poetry by Hugo Strange Winterhalter

The Tally of Good continues: Fighting negativity with the help of lists

Been a while since I've revisited my list of lovelies.
So here they are, the things I love:

1) Viva Burrito
2) Clean sheets
3) My house, my lady (and the sea... Yarr!)
4) The guitar.
5) Words
6) This book I'm reading, and the book I just finished
7) Art Bell, and freak jobs
8) Breaking the law
9) Revolutions
10) Having a job (for a time being, at least)

I picked a bad week to quit sniffing glue

Looks like it's gonna be a long week of bitching, 'cuz I keep running into things that piss me off.

...like people who never answer their phones, instead allowing a machine do the answering for them. Would you just pick up the goddamned phone? I don't really want to talk to you either, but we have business to communicate and it would be nice if we could just get it over with. And who, exactly, do you think you are that you must screen all your calls? Donald Fucking Trump?

It's gonna be a shrill, torturous, bombastic bitch-a-thon... No peace, sparse joy, and rare fits of bitter laughter.

Fine. If that's the way it's gotta be, then I guess I just roll with it and dish this crap out to everyone I meet...

Republicans: I'm putting you on notice.

You're getting mighty close to finding yourselves on my list of people who I think suck.

You mutherfuckers are really getting on my nerves with all this shifty, morally-reprehensible, self-serving, illegal, fuck-the-country-so-me-and-my-wife-can-have-a-luxury-house BULLSHIT!

I don't wanna hear another word from you fuckers (yes, I said "fuckers" again) about morality, or restoring dignity to the government, or any of that bullshit because you have proven that your kind are just as fucked up (yes, again) as the "other" kind -- whomever the hell they are.

Not another word!

Tom Delay: shut your fucking mouth!
I. Lewis Libbey: shut the fuck up!
Bill Frist: fuck off!
Dick Cheney: go fuck yourself!
George Bush: be an idiot on your own fucking dime!
Bill Clinton: you're a fuckup, too, so don't get too high and mighty with me!

Here it is, in plain English, my message to you, in case you're too righteous to listen to crude language:

In the past five years, you people alone have done more to ruin the public's trust of the government than all the gay weddings, illegal immigration, jihads, terrorist attacks, hurricanes, oil shortages, abortions, runaway social programs, unpopular wars, poor economic performance and ballooning trade deficits put together.

Bang-up job. Keep up the destruction. You people suck, and you know it. I've got a job now, so that means I'll be sending my money anywhere but your direction...

This brain is a telescope to the future.

Video games. I'm saying it again -- video games are the next dominant art form.

Even the New York Times said so.

Even universities are coming around to the idea.

Those people who mock and doubt my words -- they only have themselves to blame on day I come to deliver this message: You were told, by me, that this would be so.

Hugo gets a job

Now what the hell do you think about that?

One day, video games will supplant music, art and the scientific method. And it's about time.

This is so fucking good, I thought I'd invite you all to enjoy.

Regards,

HW

Rock & Roll ain't cheap these days

Seems Fender (or maybe just The Man) has recently hiked list prices on their guitars by about $200 -- particularly the American Standard series Telecasters and Stratocasters. They run almost $1,000 at places like Guitar Center and Musician's Friend -- two notorious low-ballers in the retail musical instrument market. I paid a pubic-hair more than $700 for mine a few years ago.

It sounds like a good plan because musicians are known for having tons of disposable cash...

...that should come off like sarcasm because that's the way it was intended.

Anyway, hard-working rookie musicians can still rock out; they just have to downgrade a little bit to something like the Fender "Li'l Hendrix" series, which comes with four guitar picks, a guitar strap imprinted with musical notation of few measures from Beethoven's "Ode to Joy", and a flamboyant plastic-fabric cape "like the rockstars wear."

One hundred prevarications per minute: White House press room transcripts

Stumbled into this website the other day, read these, and then passed out with disbelief and shame.

I almost wish these jerks would just get it over with and order us all to report to the lead mines for duty. When did endless lying, obfuscation and prevarication become standard of communication in this open society of ours? Do these people really think word games like this actually help this country?

Tell me it's not true that every foul cliche in the English language fits our great American leaders: Lying, thieving, killing, conspiring, law-breaking, self-serving motherfuckers... Every last one.

Fuck them!

Let's revolt. Send these cold, embittered men and women to some grey desolate, deserted North Dakota crossroad farm town so they can spend their dying days in banishment arguing about whose method was most effective at crushing the American spirit.

Goddamned motherfuckers!

All this scandal is wearing thin

It was fun at first to see our country's leaders scurry from the horrible truth that Americans are finally grasping the deceit and obfuscations they've been handed in past years.

But not so much anymore.

This guy, Jack Abramoff, and all the crap he's accused of, it's really starting to scare me.

Abramoff seems to be the subject of about a million indictments and investigations, most of which involve high-level Republican politicians and right-wing religious leaders. Abraham is most closely tied to Tom Delay -- who now has a couple of indictments of his own to contend with -- but he was also pretty tight with the leadership of just about every major federal department.

One story even has him trading blows with the fucking mob, but the scary part of that story is that Abramoff came out the winner -- the mobster who crossed him ended up dead, shot to death in his BMW. Investigators have since learned that for months after the guy's death, Abramoff and his buddy plundered the corpse's former business for all it was worth, driving it into the ground, giving themselves $500,000 salaries and buying $300,000-skybox tickets in Washington D.C. -- which Abramoff then used to grease the wheels of our beautiful nation's leadership.

Kinda makes me feel sorry for organized crime.


My question of the day:

Do the people running this country -- George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Tom Delay, Karl Rove, I. Libbey Lewis, all the rest... do they even like each other anymore? Or do they hit the showers after a hard day's work to wash away the accumulation of filth and evil that they splatter all over the halls of power?

I'm asking because I really want to know. I'm fucking serious. I really want to know why thugs like this are a requirement of powerful governance in this country.

American torture

You just can't declare someone an eternal enemy and expect the sentiment to withstand the test of time. I certainly can't, even though I try. For example, I'm a card-carrying disbeliever, especially of christians and most if not all organized religion.

But, when it comes to torture -- specifically the cruel, inhumane, degrading, U.S.-sanctioned kind for which our vice president apparently yearns -- some christians come off looking pretty good. Some, like these military catholics, think that even if torture were a necessary and effective tool for combating terrorists, nazis, fascist space aliens, abortion-loving homosexuals or drug-crazed, pistol-packing Canadians, it's still absolutely, morally wrong.

That's according to James H. Toner, Department of Leadership and Ethics, Air War College, Maxwell AFB, Ala.

There's even a bible quote in there (not that I would've ever recogonized it without the biblical reference system of letters, colons and numbers in parentheses.)

Now, Mr. Toner may not be head of the department or anything -- hell, he might just be the Air War College janitor for all I know, but he seems like a bright enough guy. If he thinks torture is wrong, I think I'll just have to support him on that one.

Way to go, military Catholics! Pray for me if you like, and next time you repent before god, maybe you could toss in a couple of my sins, too. It would lighten up my load considerably.

By the way, what kind of person do you have to be to defend the position that certain branches of the American government should be exempt from the rules that govern torture?

Does Cheney even refer to himself as a human anymore? Has he been the subject of some top-secret medical procedure that allows humans to live and work without their hearts? What in the hell does that man do when the sun goes down?

Anybody know?

Has anybody checked?

Democrats: 4-ever losers

Subhead: How the Democrats will never win because they're slow and they can't think beyond what they want to eat for dinner.

Sub-subhead: You fuckers lost another opportunity to derail the ultra-conservative cabal that has been driving this country to its knees for the last five years.

So, you thought keeping quiet as ultra-religious conservatives bitch-slapped President Bush into submission after he nominated Harriet Miers to the Supreme Court was good idea? Well, now we have an even more egregious nominee, and we also have Republican unity that all but ensures he'll make it to the big dance. The Republican centrists who were the only reason Democrats can still even consider the word "fillibuster" are being coaxed back into the right-wing fold.

Goodbye swing vote, hello Scalito and the New World Spanish Inquisition.

I'm sure there is a blood-thirsty, pitbull of a Democrat out there somewhere who's thinking the same thing I am: Why didn't the Democrats jump on the opportunity to support Bush and his half-baked nomination of Miers.

What? Are you fucking mad?

No, I'm not. Listen: We knew Miers was probably a freak, but we also knew -- or at least suspected -- she was a woman. So, had she been approved by the Senate, Roe v. Wade might not have been such a problem as it likely will be with this new guy, Samuel Alito. That's observation number one.

We didn't know what she thought about things like affirmative action, sex discrimination and the display of nativity scenes in public buildings, but we certainly know what Alito thinks about them; and his thoughts ain't exactly progressive are they? So we traded a big Harriet question mark for a known, card-carrying, right-wing freak. That's observation number two.

But here's where it gets tricky (or to be accurate, would have gotten tricky had a few Democrats been thinking outside the box instead of constantly reacting in opposition to every fucking stupid, pointless utterance that comes from our White House idiot box or the Republican party):

Say the Democrats actually had the temerity to back Miers, what might have happened? Yes, Miers possibly gets appointed to the Surpreme Court and we roll the dice with her; but at the same time, ultra-christian right-wing Republicans just might have found themselves isolated from the majority, from the Republican center AND from the office of the President. It could have derailed the right-wing agenda for fucking years! Could've been a bloodless coup. Could've, but won't.

Why is that important that Democrats adopt the spirit of a killer? We want this to stop. Because we want sanity to return to our country. Because we are fucking sick and tired of this crap.

The only way its gonna happen is if Democrats pull their heads out of their asses, revise their platform so that it can withstand the mindless polarity that pervades politics these days, produce a few leaders who can actually motivate people, and start acting like fucking murderous WINNERS!

Goodbye, sunshine

No!!!

Damn you, I said NOOO!!!

Awwg... It's such a crushing defeat every year, the end of Daylight Savings Time. Fading, fading, gone is the joy of summer.

Fuck.

BUT ON THE BRIGHT SIDE...

If you could name one good thing George W. Bush has done during his presidency, it would be signing the Energy Policy Act of 2005. The act amends the Uniform Time Act of 1966 and, starting in 2007, will extend Daylight Savings Time by four weeks each year. Soon, we will bask in summer's glow until the first Sunday in November, rather than the last Sunday in October.

I like the way you think, Mr. President. What other good stuff is in the act? Let's see (moisten tip of thumb; turn pages to bill's table of contents):

1) Subsidizes U.S. energy companies... Check.

2) Subsidizes Texas energy companies in particular... Check.

3) Has no effect on rising oil prices... Check.

4) Leaves no lobbyist behind, according to Sen. John McCain... Check.

5) Does not allow drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Reserve... Hey, wait a minute here. What's all this about not drilling in Alaska?

Well, at least we get more sunlight in the evenings.

And now, some punditry

I. Lewis Libby, cut down at the knees, bleeding from the mouth and left for dead! A goner, yes?

Karl Rove, the crosshairs hovering over his temple, nervously awaits his political assassination!

But do they face any real danger? No.

Is the presidency in jeopardy? Not likely.

These two guys did their jobs -- they insulated their political bosses from attack. Libby and Rove are taking one for the team, and they're doing it in style. What, you think they're gonna go to jail? Could this country really tolerate something like that? The highest advisors to the president and vice president as convicted felons? Could the United States ever command respect in the world again?

They will be rewarded, because they're national fucking heroes. Would any board of directors hesitate for a second to hire either of them to lead their global military contracting company? Think about it. Hell, I'd even hire one of them to manage my life for 12 months, if I could afford it. Think of how well off I'd be!

Years from now, when all is said and done, Libby and Rove will be relaxing in large leather chairs alongside the former Prez, his dad, the former Vice Prez and anyone else they care to associate with, content with the success of their tenure. Smokin' cigars and slappin' backs. They successfully changed direction of the national ship. Fuckin' A. Fuckin' B., too.

So, maybe we're doomed as a result. But then again, maybe not.

Gotta give them credit for their effort, even if you don't like it; and if you can't recognize their impact, you're a pussy.

Well then, what's really going on here? Nothing, except that this second-term presidency is unraveling like they all do. Not too big a deal. In the end, they all become ex-presidents. It's the law.

I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't a secret club on some warm, forgotten island where Bush, Bush, Clinton, Carter (Ford -- is he still alive?) and all their aides gather every quarter for some major debauchery, including endless pranks involving the ambushing and de-pantsing of each others' vice presidents. Man, that would be fun.

Anyway, all's well in the country, far as we can tell, because it's fucking impossible for one man to manage a representative government for an extended length of time. On deck, a Democrat possibly. God only knows how he'll fuck it up (and it will be a he, mark my words.) But he'll move on, too. Then the next one... until the empire collapses. And there ain't a damn thing any president's gonna be able to do to stop that.

There you have it.

It's time for a manifesto

We fully intend to bring the republic to its knees by forgoing the foreign-made trinkets and gadgets that this psychotic capitalist nation collects daily by the millions of tons.

We reject features like powered antennae and rear-view-mirror-mounted digital temperature gauges. We replace them with home-grown, stovetop-canned jalapenos, suits handmade from paper and sidewalks built of recycled brick and mortar.

We view Christmas as an American hell that threatens everything we hold dear -- things like Halloween, Thanksgiving, New Years Eve and our sound financial footing.

We eschew foolish offers, sidewalk sales, coupons and clearances in favor of not buying the crap nobody else wants. Furthermore, we do not accept the "throwaway market" that supplies us with keychain flashlights, fancy-but-not-too-fancy logo-embellished pens in unnecessarily large jewelry boxes, or free large-sized tee-shirts with corporate slogans.

We ignore the hype of the marketplace; preferring the tranquility of a home void of burdensome bullshit that we don't need, can't use and in reality don't even want.

We recognize technology for what it is -- machinery that eases the burden of the industrial age, not a tool to isolate us from our brothers and sisters. Meanwhile, we recognize the intrinsic value of a used Atari 2600 with two paddles, two joysticks and all the video game cartriges that can fit into a medium-sized cardboard box -- especially Pong. We recognize and appreciate the many levels of meaning that accompany the term "joystick."

Finally, we declare red lights as the signal to GO forward with this as-yet-unnamed revolution. Did Che stop for red lights? We doubt it.

Is 50 years of Rock & Roll enough?

If I were an English 102 student confronted with the task of writing his final 20-page research paper (and possibly the last large writing project of his life) I would consider this theme:

Rock, Roll and Pop: Sick, Dying or Dead?

I would attack the issue not from the touchy-feely, ill-defined bullshit of a music critic, but from an academic, historical perspective the likes of which would tickle the erudite fancy of my professor.

My position: that Rock & Roll's time is up. Not because it sucks, not because it's boring; but because it's simply time for something new. The evidence would speak for itself, and my writing acumen -- even at such a young age -- would send my point sailing home with no questions left unanswered.

The arguments would highlight the historical patterns of western music development, specifically the length of time each genre or musical period maintained its dominance in western society. I would point out that Rock & Roll has so far survived about as long as the Classic period during which Mozart thrived and that it has dominated longer than did jazz, blues or country western. I would also mention that although the longest-lasting music period in recorded history spanned 143 years, it was fueled by the cultural, spiritual, scientific and social reawakening of the western mind during the Renaissance; and I would express doubt that a reawakening of similar magnitude had ever occurred during the past 50 years.

I would argue that technical advances have accelerated social turnover, and that 50 years today feels much like 140 years did in the 15th and 16th centuries.

Finally, I would include details on how modern Rock & Roll artists are eating their elderly to sustain their moment in the spotlight. How they mine the past for fresh-sounding music -- culling ideas from the greatest musicians and songwriters of '50s, '60s, '70s and '80s. I would add that many artists look beyond the limits of pop music to infuse life into their songs, thereby diluting -- and narrow-minded types might even call it tainting -- the bloodline of Rock & Roll.

To bolster my point, this 2003 article in LA City Beat would serve as a reference. And to provide balance, I would reference this review of a book by English professor Kevin J. H. Dettmar, who argues that Rock & Roll doesn't die, but reinvents itself. His ideas would be well-refuted and his physical appearance mocked.

A timeline of musical history would be prominently displayed and it would demonstrate:

1) The Baroque period, the paternal twin of the Renaissance, lasted 143 years. The period brought us secular music and harmonized melody.

2) The Classic period, exemplified by the boy-man genius-prodigy Wolfgang Mozart, blew past us in a scant 53 years.

3) Ragtime is born in 1876.

4) Edison invented the phonograph in 1878.

5) The Romantic period -- which included the likes of Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Strauss and Debussy -- lasted only 90 years, and ended in 1910 (a mere 44 years before Rock & Roll hit the scene!)

5) The first jazz record recorded in 1917. Forty-one years later, John Coltrane ushers in jazz's "New Wave."

6) Bessie Smith bangs out the blues hit "Down Hearted Blues" in 1923.

7) Electric guitar invented in 1934. A year later, Glen Miller debuts in New York City.

8) Bing Crosby sings White Christmas in 1942. America loves it.

9) LP record format invented.

10) The first known usage of the term Rock & Roll in 1951. Elvis Presley three years later.

11) Fifty-four years of Rock, Roll and Pop followed. And although various offshoots and forms evolved during that time -- some more successful than others -- Rock & Roll and pop music, fueled by advanced technology, marketing and distribution efficiencies never before seen on this planet, evolved rapidly but just as rapidly depleted the resources of its genre.

I would conclude that Rock, Roll and pop will survive in a gradually weakening state only as long as the members of this generation survive. It will then occupy large shelves in college libraries so that future music students can study the evolution of the art, safely protected from Rock's fury by a wide generation gap.

And my research paper would receive an "A."

Under-employed and loving it

Maybe we're not doing so badly.

The other night, I heard one friend chortle with envy when he heard that another owed about $10,000 in credit-card debt. And boy, did he chortle -- like a fucking chortle monster leashed to a fire hydrant during a rainstorm. (Chortle monsters fear water...)

Seems he would LOVE to have $10,000 in credit-card debt, as his current debt apparently exceeds that amount many times over. His minimum payments are enormous, he explained.

The remark didn't sink in immediately, however, during the past 24 hours, it has: What he was saying in not so many words is that he has tens of thousands of dollars in credit card debt.

For what?

Children's braces? Plastic surgery? New car on the credit card?

Tens of thousands of dollars in spur-of-the-moment purchases?
Tens of thousands of dollars in happy-hour drinks?
Tens of thousands of dollars in home electronics?
Matching furniture sets?
Christmas gifts?
Snow tires?
Clean sheets?
Airplane tickets?
Online porn?
Groceries?
Rent?
Ammunition?

Fuck me.

I had almost forgotten that I cut my cards into pieces years ago. Now I remember why I did it. My schizophrenic alter ego -- the one with all the common sense and discipline -- took charge, kept me from hurting myself.

Jesus, I love that guy...

Dreamy Monday

Welcome to the new American Motors Range Hand 1000: The logical "next step" for vehicles of utility and sport.

Do you take large bites? Do you crave what the 1,000 has to offer? Follow these steps to find out:

1) Evaluate whether you really need a large truck like the Range Hand 1000. Many customers find that they have little use for a truck at all since they barely have the will and strength to climb into its 62-inch-high driver's seat each morning. Furthermore, many of our customers haven't done a full day's manual labor in the past ten years.

2) Calculate the largest gasoline bill you've ever paid, and then double it.

3) Balance your need to stroke your own ego against your need to accelerate up a mountain pass while towing a 5,000-pound speed boat. Many customers don't even own a speed boat, and often it's those customers who find they've wasted their money on the Ranger Hand's optional towing package.

4) Ask yourself, "What function do dual rear wheels really serve?" If you can't answer that question, or if you have to think about it, it's unlikely you would truly appreciate their special qualities.

5) Determine whether the SuperMax Diesel is really a good fit for your lifestyle. You likely need the SuperMax Diesel if you regularly transport farm equipment on flatbed trailers, operate your vehicle on open road in a long-haul capacity, or use your vehicle to pull tree trunks from the earth. Conversely, if you simply drive your vehicle from your garage to the parking garage at the office, you might enjoy the award-winning "Rainbows of Judy" edition Range Hand 1000.

6) Are you willing to throw yourself from a moving vehicle? Some drivers find the Ranger Hand's occasional braking anomalies and listless "country-road" steering discomforting.

There are no right or wrong answers. Could be you're not a perfect fit for the world of utility sport, but don't worry -- you likely need the American Motors Range Hand 1000 most of all. In fact, you just might need two.

An open message to my "peeps":

STOP ACTING LIKE JERKS!

How could it possibly be that I'm the most reliable, punctual and respectful person I know?

It didn't used to be that way. Once was a day when I was the slacker who believed his magnanimous presence was the best and most appropriate gift he could bring to a wedding party. People happily tolerated the "charming quirks" that were the small price to pay for my cherished love and devotion. Time meant nothing to me, and other people's time meant even less. "I'll get there when I get there" was my mantra; and when I finally did get there, I made sure it was worth the wait. They should've put my friendship on the exchanges. I would've made a killing -- so damned cool.

Not so anymore. These days I'm the last person to blow off happy hour with a minor acquaintance, the last person to show up an hour late to a party, the last person to ignore phone messages. It's great. I'm a great person now: top-shelf, first-rate, high-quality, of presidential timber and bearing. But here's the puzzle: I haven't changed a thing, except I'm much more handsome.

But I still don't care about other people's time, I still don't like buying wedding gifts for minor acquaintances, I still don't care if I act like the deep-down irresponsible fool I know myself to be.

I have not changed, friends. You have. You have all adopted my asshole ways, and the worst part is you don't even know it. And here's the second-worst part: You dipshits are grown-ups! It's not like you're a bunch of drugged-up 19-year-olds with unstoppable erections. It's time to free your heads from your shit tubes.

Example No. 1:

Me, leaving a message on the phone to Asshole No. 1, about 8:30 a.m., : "Got tickets to a rock show tomorrow night. Let me know today if you want to go and I'll hold one for you."

[No reply]

Me, the next day: "Did you get my message?"

Asshole No. 1: "I didn't get in until late."

Me: The show wasn't last night, it's tonight."

Asshole No. 1: "Yeah. Well, it was late."

Me (to myself, because I don't like to get worked up over these things -- god know's I've been just such a dickhead many times):
"Fuck you. For eight hours yesterday and eight more today you couldn't call, couldn't say something like 'I'm busy, don't want to go?' Well, Dipshit, try this tip next time: pull your head out of your ass and stop running around like an idiot in heat. I don't care where the fuck you were. When I call, I expect you -- of all people -- to call back. Don't be an unnecessary asshole."

Example No. 2

Me (to Assholes No. 2, 3 and 4): "I've secured a rehearsal space. It's cheap, it's big, it's perfect. Let's pretend we're rock stars."

Them: "Great!

[No action]

Me: "Hey, anybody out there? Let's rehearse."

Them: "Can't. Too busy."

Me: "You fuckers owe me $75."

Example No. 3

Me (to Asshole No. 5, a good friend from long ago who came to town recently. What an opportunity we had to catch up. Could be the last time, you know.):
"Give me a call this week and we'll go out Friday."

Asshole No. 5, via e-mail, about 4:30 p.m. Friday afternoon: "Family B.S.... My aunt, who lives in a hospice, isn't doing well. Probably won't make it. Sorry. I'll call you when I get home to England."

Me: "You've got to be kidding."

Other examples
A) We're hiking, but you've slept in (two times, two different people) B) We're all going to a show, but you don't show up even though you've told everyone would C)We're trying to get some work done, but you won't call me back (or reply to e-mails.)

There are more. They're all different, but they're all just the same excuse dressed up in words appropriate for the occasion. They all say the same thing: I don't give a fuck about you. My life, my things, my plans are so goddamned important that I don't have a moment to spare on something so trivial as courtesy.

Conclusion

Suck it, fuckers. You're the ass-hats, not me.

Satan: savior or pimp?

You might not have known it, but BENEATH HALLOWEEN'S CANDY COATING IS A HISTORY OF DIABOLICAL EVIL!

Seems clear that Samhain (in any form -- summer's end or lord of death) wants to eat your babies; but if you think that's scary, imagine what those punk-ass Muslims have in store. Jesus Christ... They don't have a chance.

I'm going on the record here: christians give me the creeps. And here's why:

1) Christians love peace, but constantly seek war. They are surrounded by enemies.

2) Christians don't trust themselves.

3) Christians prey on the weak.

Don't get me started on christians, 'cuz their message has failed me. I love you, Mr. and Mrs. Christian, but you're a couple of fools.

By the way, Satan, you can suck it, too; but I'll never give up on Halloween -- it costs much less than Christmas.

Is it weakend?

Did you hear that?

There it goes again...

I think it's the sound of Friday afternoon...

...Yeah, that's what it is all right.

Friday fuckin' afternoon... Almost home -- gin, vermouth, three olives, a chick groping my junk in a dark corner of some jazz bar as she orders me another...

That's what I'm talking about: respecting yourself.

Warning: Been drinking, listenin' ta muzak

I'm playin' this keyboard like a motherfuckin' Hammond 2-nite! Wrote maself a long, heart-felt, sensatif, brotherly e-mail moments ago -- all while hearin' (not listenin') to Sly & The Family Stone: old stuff (long before that family affair wanted to dance to the music and before cocaine, heavy times and excess brought the poor fuckhead down.)

I got nuthin' ta say at the moment, but keep reading: It could get good shortly.

Like right now...

I have never sucked cock. Nor have I touched one that wasn't mine. In fact, I have rarely even seen another cock in real life except in those awkward locker-room moments when you try not to look, but just can't help it. Now I'm not saying I haven't witnessed foreign cock in those porno-ogrophy flickers, but I don't think those count, 'cuz the actors are nothing but a bunch of fuck robots.

Furthermore: when I witness on the television a real cock in action (like in that movie I watched the other night -- the boring one in which that actress was paid extra to perform honest-to-goodness female-on-male fellatio for the sake of art), it's like I'm examininin' one of the lowest forms of life in the universe. The kind that scratches out its niche from the bottom of the ocean on some distant planet -- probably a slum-planet. Wrong side of the tracks, dig?

Prince knows what I'm talking about:

"This is what the MALE PENIS does when it experiences stimulation -- whether aforementioned stimulation be external, internal or simply non-existent.

This...

...is a textbook example...

...of the homo sapien erection." [sober editor's note, logged days later: this had nothing what-so-ever to do with Prince. I have no idea why I wrote that.]

Mighty. Fucking. Impressive. Isn't it?

Especially when a homo sapien female is slurping up each and every molecule of its goodness -- surely God's greatest gift to female existence; the massive, pulsating, vibrant, ENGORGED, THROBBING (throbbing? You mean like a beating heart or a breathing lung?) forceful, decisive, punctual, struggling, confused, clearly disfunctional yet intriguing and challenging TOWER OF PIZA that is the erect penis of mankind!!!

BOOM, BOOM!

On small step. One giant leap.

Let's talk about my dick: I like it. I like my dick when it's in my hands. I like my dick when it's in my hands AND in the mouth of some fictional slut-whore-foreigner-terrorist-communist-lesbian-who-can't-keep-her-hands-off-my- (okay, take a breath)
DEE-licious, facinating, conversation-inspiring, thick-as-a-brick, COOOOOOOOCK!!!!

But that's only one of the many things I like. For instance, I also like:

* Jalepeno peppers: fresh, fried, pickled, etc.

* My kick-ass dog, Frank, who has been one of the biggest of all pains in my ass. Still, I beg forgiveness from him each week.

* Lots o' music. I really do not care which kind. Mostly, I like the good kind.

* My freaked-out, goofball, bent, broken and healing family. Note to family: Comeon -- we ain't gettin' any better, so let's just DIG, babies. (You too, Dad. You too, Dee -- you both rock like "us" does -- even though y'all have prudence, foresight and discipline.

* The sweeeeeeetest woman in the world (even IF she could learn a thing or two from me if she just relaxed once in a while.) She makes everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, function as intended -- despite my attempts to ruin it all.

* My righteous, heaven-sent brain. Good god, precious one: don't leave me.

Hey big spender, spenda little coin on me

Transferred $10 into my lonely long-term savings account today.

That doesn't preclude withdrawing $40 later this month, but at least it's an effort.

I now have about $420 socked away for retirement.

With that money, I plan to buy an old tin pail, some rubber boots and a giggin' stick. I hope I'll still have my guitar by that point, 'cuz I'll need it to earn safe passage to the south. My skillful coaxin' of soulful tunes from the device shall pay my walkin' fare to the Gulf Coast, where all the survivors will one day reassemble, flush with their newfound wealth sprung from the reconstruction.

I will gig for frogs.

I will sell them on the highway.

Then I shall die -- a wise, happy, deeply-tanned old man.

My kin and those few others whom I will have left behind shall be forced to follow in my footsteps, southward, in order to claim my property: an old tin pail, some used rubber boots, a perfectly fine giggin' stick, my worn-out guitar, and the $300 million dollars I will have earned sellin' frogs on the highway to tourists and wealthy reconstructionist surviviors who, despite their better judgement, still fancy a few frog legs for supper.

Find both truth and fiction in the following account:

Today, I discovered several sets of stolen keys discarded near the dumpster behind the office of my current employer. The keys were not just any keys, but ones stamped with with the warning "DO NOT DUPLICATE." Alongside them were a recent bank statement (about $3,000 in the account), various documents containing sensitive personal information (social security numbers, dates of birth, names and numbers) and three baseballs, slightly scuffed. Inside the dumpster, there was trash.

I deduced that the items belonged to different people. Not the trash -- the trash isn't important.

Like Mike Hammer, I tracked down the items' owners. I called the locksmith who forged the keys and followed the leads. My investigation revealed that they had been stolen from a facility manager's car the night before. The other documents were stolen from different cars in the same area on the same night.

I had uncovered a crime spree!

Like Bruce Wayne, I called the owners and invited them to collect their stolen property, and then I alerted the authorities. A young blonde sheriff's deputy was assigned the case. When she arrived two hours later, she immediately unstrapped her holster and ripped off her shirt, revealing milky-white breasts heaving with anticipation.

Like John Holmes, I pleasured her.

She informed me that a man living in a nearby apartment building was recently arrested in an identity theft sting. He had purchased a $30,000 boat using somebody else's name. The deputy wondered aloud whether my discovery was connected to her case, and then kissed the flesh of my inner thighs with her large, perfectly shaped lips (The cases weren't connected. I could have told her that. My man was a small-time operator, an opportunist who committed foul deeds in the southern reaches of the metropolitan area. Her guy lived nearby, and was already in jail.)

"But," she added between kisses, "Another identity thief was recently discovered living a few miles south of here." She suspected he might be responsible for the stolen property by the dumpster.

"Let's go," I told her. "Time is running short."

I dressed. She strapped on her sidearm, but left her uniform shirt on the floor. Topless, excepting shoulder holster, she winked at me; and the two of us sprinted to her cruiser.

"I'll drive," I said. "You navigate."

I wore my dark sunglasses and a street-smart smile. As we blew down South Parker Road, the deputy brandished her badge, tossed her head and winked again. She threw the badge out the window as if to say, "I now fight crime the effective way -- the vigilante way." Her hair was beautiful in the wind.

For my part, I abandoned my slow-paced life as a millionaire horse-racer.

Off we went: a pretty young pistol-packing deputy and a brilliant and handsome -- if unschooled -- criminal investigator. What an unlikely, yet successful pair. She was a Charlie-Angel, I was a Tom Cruise detective. We captured many dangerous criminals.

What a story to tell. Every word true.

Accomplishments of this last weekend

In no particular order of importance:

1) Partially filled a trench that I dug the weekend prior. Next weekend's task: completely fill it.

2) Removed all sod from the so-called "hell strip" in front of the house. Get out, Satan! Get outta my grass! Turned soil upside down, just to show God just who's in charge of the Country Home on South Bannock St.

3) Rocked & Rolled 'till back had no more bone.

4) Got rocks off.

5) Got rocks back on.

6) Tormented cat -- "flying three-foot backflip" is coming along nicely.

7) Lost dog, then found him. He's really rolling the dice (subconscious recall of political events) when he wanders around like that.

8) Avoided unnecessary bachelor party.

9) Scrubbed human waste from the toilet, sink and bath tub. Licked porcelin afterward in a show of confidence.

What's with all the SHOOTING?

Where are all the NRA members when you need them? Not in fucking New Orleans, because the only gunmen there seem to be street thugs looking for new clothing and madmen intent on bagging the greatest prey of all: human fucking beings.

Law and order take a hike and we immediately resort to violence? I don't get it. I don't recall snipers attacking refugees of last year's tsunami. But here in America, we do catastrophe right -- is that how it is? Click, Click, BANG!" in the Superdome, at the hospitals and in the flooded streets?

Nice.

Goddamned animals.

Live it up, fuckers. You're never gonna get a better chance to explore your inner idiot.

Artists are fuck-up angels.

Cripes...!!! What am I doing out here?

Large flakes fall to the warm, wet asphalt as the Simons boys dodge and weave through the foooottraaaafic on Wharton Avenue that winter-spring afternoon near the shipping docks...

In this decade, there are both fools and those who don't fancy themselves fools. The striking difference between the two is the shade of their tax forms each fiscal year. Fools struggle against the rules of their greators, and those who are not struggle against each other.

Poor bastards.

Neither of them realizes that fools always win!

Jk

More on heaven and hell

"Good heavens! You are hellish fun!"

"What the hell are you doing in my heaven? Get offa my cloud!"

"Hell, yeah!"

"Heavens, No!"

"That woman has heavenly thighs. I'd give a hell-of-a-lot of money to stroke them with a wet paintbrush."

"What the hell?"

"Heaven sakes!"

"Heaven help us."

"To hell with us."

"With rockets like that, she must be sent straight from heaven."

"She's a hellcat in the sack.

Heaven and Hell: Suggestions for their use in sermons

Eloquent, with modern elements:

"Downloaded from on high, perhaps from heaven, the latest updates shower us with golden joy, god-ish in the way they improve our soggy existence.

"Uploaded from below, certainly from hell, our petty, vain efforts to improve our lot on this planet do nothing but interfere with god's work.

"Look upward for software updates, but always be wary of downstream inquiries. Guard your backsides, as the devil strives to shove stuff up your butts!

Persuasive:

"If you ain't with god, you're agin' him. Get yo' ass up to heaven, or I send u 2 hell!"

Like Wimpy the hamburger man:

"Give me some money today, and I promise to pay you back when we're all dead in heaven."


Quote a lyric:

"Go forth. Be ye good, be ye pious, be ye gentle, my tender flock, for you will be '...cli-imbing [the] stai-airway [pause] to hea-ven.' [pause for masterful guitar]"

Comparison/Contrast:

"Hell is a suffocating cavern of magma and sulfur, buried deep in the earth's core, where demons force the damned to suck Satan's white-hot genitalia until their mouths catch fire.

"Heaven, by contrast, is freezing cold and full of fluttering angels. The saved kneel alongside history's finest men and women, and together they warm God's frozen genitals for eternity while he dispenses kindly wisdom."

Helpful:

"I suggest you strive for heaven, because that's where ice cream goes when it dies. I'd steer clear of hell if I were you -- the "hellies" only get okra, overcooked spinach and sardines."

Bullet points:

Heaven:

- well-lit
- spacious
- "right side of tracks"
- eternal happiness
- the "safe bet"


Hell:

- eternal misery
- "nanny state"
- high-crime
- "tax-and-spend"
- prison-like decor

Dangerous colonels in drag

...Burning Leopard to Drooping Snake, over...

...Drooping Snake, do you copy...?

...Burning Leopard, Drooping Snake, over...



[radio static]

"They're not responding, sir. I don't know why."

"Try again, soldier, but this time use different adjectives."

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't know. Anything. Just do it for christsakes!"

...Funky Leopard to Horrid Snake, over...

...Funky Leopard, Horrid Snake, over...

[static]

"Try different nouns, too."

...Dissonent Hyperbole to Deep Zenith, over...

...Dissonent Hyperbole, Deep Zenith, over...

[static...followed by clicking]

...Copy, Dissonent Hyperbole. This is Deep Zenith...

[static]

"Sir, we've made contact!"

"See? What'd I tell you?"

"What are your orders?"

"Attack... Kill... Destroy..."

"...no, wait a minute. Gimme the handset..."

[Labored breathing crackles over the airwaves, then a pause, filled only with ambient noise]

"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. That's my nightmare..."

[In the background: "Sir, that's from a movie...]

"Shit, you're right."

[Radio static]

"Okay...[inaudible] ...

...you can't handle the truth!"

[Background: "That's a from a movie, too."]
[Heavy breathing briefly resumes amid the static]

"Fuck."

[More breathing. In the background, the soldier's voice: "Do you want me to do it?"]

"NO!"

[Rustling...inaudible...]

"Top Gun rules of engagement are written for your safety and for that of your team... They are not flexible, nor am I. Is that clear?"

[Static. In the background, likely the soldier: "Jesus Christ. Colonel, this is stupid..."]

[Repeated gunshots, followed by rustling, inaudible mumbling and microphone noise]

"Your days of fingerbanging Mary J. Rottencrotch through her pretty pink panties are over..."

Terrible Goodbye

"Jonathan."

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

"Playing Legos."

"Can you stop for a moment please? I have something to say to you."

Jonathon let the half-completed dune buggy chassis drop carefully to the floor, rose from his knees and turned to face his mother's young boyfriend. He said nothing as he stared up at the Dale's unshaven chin.

"What would you like for dinner?" Dale asked.

"I ate when I came home from school," Jonathan said.

"What time did you come home?"

"When school ended," Jonathon said. "Same time as I always do."

Dale stared at the boy for a moment, saying nothing. He swayed slightly in his shoes, and Jonathon thought he smelled like charcoal.

./

"I'm leaving now, and I won't be back," Dale said. "Your mother has asked me to go. She doesn't love me any more."

Jonathon said nothing. He focused his eyes about six inches in front of his face. He saw nothing, but heard each of Dale's words, even the unspoken ones.

"Will you kiss me goodbye?" Dale asked.

Jonathon made no move. Dale bent down and grasped the boy by the shoulders.

"I love you Jonathon. You know that, don't you?"

Jonathon said nothing.

"Jonathon?"

Nothing.

"You know, Jonathon, I've told you about this behavior before..."

Dale's voice cut short when the door upstairs slammed shut. Footsteps thudded slowl999999999999999999999999999999999999
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ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp;
y across the ceiling, which
obscured the carpeted floor of the house's small living room
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!!!GET OFF, YOU FREAKISH CAT!!!

Bruce Lee to kitten: Young one, you fight with too much anger!

Bruce Lee is not a cat, but if he were -- and if he weren't dead and if he lived next door -- he'd likely offer this advice to our kitten, who is learning to hunt phantom prey in our backyard:

"You make too much noise! And all that anticipatory wiggling before you pounce only wastes energy while telegraphing your attack. The less effort, the faster and more powerful you will be."

"Relax, little kitten. Your blows should be an extension of your chi. Let them explode from deep inside like suprise lightening on a hot, cloudless day; let them rain like one-inch ball bearings plummeting from some Lagrangian orbit; let them destroy flesh, bone and spirit."

"Calm your breathing, and don't do that twitching thing with your mouth when you think you see something moving in the grass."

"Let your opponent graze your skin, and you smash into his flesh, kitty. Let him smash into your flesh, and you fracture his bones. Let him fracture your bones, and you take his life. Then relax in both your glory and pain as you eat your opponent."

"Try the one-inch punch. It's deadly."

News flash: cats are jerks!

And so are the Egyptians, who decided it would be a good idea to domesticate and deify them. Cats are all cute, fuzzy, entertaining jerks, which should be sent to a big cat island somewhere so they can run around and lick their butts all day long, pissing on everything and meowing up a freakin' hootenanny.

Cats have no brains. Dogs, they have brains, albeit tiny ones that can't accomplish much useful work in this Internet-crazy world. But still, dogs have brains.

Cats have no hearts. They're killers that prey on Earth's tiny creatures, snapping their tiny little skeletons between their cat jaws. Then, they poop in the dirt and lick their butts.

Cats are deaf. They don't respond to normal rationalizations like, "No kitty! Bad kitty!" They simply ignore the human voice, then pee on the couch when you're not looking.

Cats make no sense when they speak. They meow and meow, but can't string together a cogent argument that has even a hope of moving men to action. Cats would make horrible military commanders, and likely wouldn't make good lawyers, either. They go on and on, saying insane little things that have no bearing on the real world, no connection to reality what-so-ever, no point at all.

Cats are wimps. They run away, like baby sprinters fleeing a pack of hungry wolves. That hissing and those puffy tails aren't even the slightest bit scary.

Lists

I love how the boss walks into the office singing some cheesy song from the 1980s that I haven't heard in years. It cracks me up every time.

An open letter to Sufjan Stevens, and to his zombie fans at the Bluebird Theater Friday night

Mr. Stevens,

Thanks for bringing your light-hearted, melodic and intriguing show to Denver. Although your music was very quiet, I heard every note, every one of your soft sighs, your musicians' tiniest mistakes, and even some of the performers' banter usually reserved for the folks on stage.

Under normal circumstances, those sounds would be inaudible. But Friday night at the Bluebird wasn't a normal circumstance, or at least I hope it wasn't. I hope for your sake that people in other venues display a little emotion, and if not dance, at least sway side-to-side or nod their heads to the beat. Maybe your shows in Chicago produce more reaction since those people are likely thrilled you're writing songs about their city. They never stop raving about the place anyway.

I know some shows can get a little scary, especially during moments of mass insanity when the crowd surges toward the stage and you feel like your life and the lives of everyone in the venue are protected only by the forethought of a few powerful people: the concert promoter, the road manager, the security workers, the architect who designed the theater, the engineer who approved the plans, the city safety inspectors who checked all their work, and the emergency workers who rush to everyone's aid when things go terribly wrong.

But your show Friday night was scary for other reasons.

First, it is marvelously unnerving to stand in such close proximity to so many silent people. It's hard to find reasonable comparisons, but libraries, funerals and church services immediately come to mind, even though such similes have been rendered trite with overuse.

Second, your music so mesmerized the audience that I fear not a single member was capable of fleeing the building in the event of a large fire. Hundreds could have died, the lot of carcasses charred to a creepy vestige of the mind-numbingly silent crowd they once comprised -- kind of like those thousands of terra-cotta warrior statues discovered buried in China, only memorialized by fire rather than earth.

Thankfully, that didn't happen.

You remarked on the phenomenon yourself -- that we were a very quiet and attentive audience. It was a kind thing to say, but I think you missed the point. We are actually too cool. We've seen it all before. We simply refuse to get worked up in any way -- no matter how good the music, how well-matched the outfits, or how pretty the female musicians.

Please don't be concerned. We are merely Denverites who don't know joy and who couldn't express it even if we encountered it.

Maybe you could do a little song about us someday.

Regards,

Jk.


To the music lovers at the Bluebird Theater that night:

I'm not angry with you, but I'm very disappointed. First of all, Sufjan's show wasn't so impressive as to steal your voices away (It seemed little quiet to me, and perhaps even a little slow. Maybe it was the altitude, which has affected visiting performers and athletes in the past.) But the show wasn't boring, either. (The ladies were pretty, and Sufjan's not bad looking, either.) In fact, it really wasn't a bad show at all, and none of you left in disgust; further proving my point that you actually enjoyed the show, but were incapable of showing it. Even the Irish construction worker who complained he was tired because awoke at 5 a.m. that day stayed for the duration.

But all of you just stood there, motionless and silent, like extremely cool people who had seen it all before and who refuse to get worked up over some traveling band of easy-going musicians in matching outfits. You glared when I danced, or spoke, or yelled loudly between songs "You could at least move your heads a little!"

You glared when I did anything at all other than cross my arms on my chest and stare silently at the stage alongside you.

In conclusion, you were simply the worst audience I've ever been a part of in my life, except maybe for the ones at Steve Earle shows in Boulder where everyone sits quietly in their chairs and shushes everyone else. Those are pretty bad, even for liberals.


Regards,

Jk.

The Ten Commandments, and their exact opposites

You'd think that a quick Google of The Ten Commandments would instantly yield said commandments, with extensive commentary on their benefits, including cogent arguments against violating them.

But you'd be wrong.

I invite you to check for yourself. In Google, type "The Ten Commandments" (without quotes) and please, e-mail me your results.

Here's what I found:

1) What does God want from us? Should we keep the Ten Commandments?

Excerpts:

"What does it mean to love God 'with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind?' How do we do this? Well, when we say that someone loves money we understand that money is very important to them. They desire to have money and they seek to obtain it. Money is an important part of their lives. To love God is much the same."

[God is like money]

"You may heard [sic] that Jesus came to do away with the commandments, or to "nail the commandments to the cross." Don't believe it! Consider these words from Jesus: 'And, behold, one came and said unto him, Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life? 17. And he said unto him, Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God: but if thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments. 18. He saith unto him, Which? Jesus said, Thou shalt do no murder, Thou shalt not commit adultery, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness, 19. Honour thy father and thy mother: and, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. (Matthew 19:16-19)"

[The narrator struggles with grammar, or maybe suffers from keyboard typos; and Jesus referred to himself in the third person, recalling only seven of the ten commandments.]

2) A company offering inspirational posters in varying sizes, starting at $2.99

3) A compilation of newspaper articles detailing the fracus over ten-commandment monuments in U.S. courthouses.

4) A Canadian website with the following caveat: We do not promote our own religious beliefs. We can't because we are a multi-faith group. We try to explain the full diversity of religious belief in North America, from Asatru to Zoroastrianism, including Christianity, Hinduism, Wicca, Universism, and others.

5) This site -- operated by a non-denominational bible-based church in Rawlins, Wyoming -- which (finally) sorts this mess out.

So here the commandments are, according to www.therain.org. I've taken the liberty to include their opposites as well, in hopes of avoiding confusion.

1) Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
Anticommandment: thou shall have thousands of gods before me, and after me, and over me, and under me. In fact, thou shalt not have me as a god at all...

2) Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image. (this seems to be a double-negative, but then again, maybe it's not. It's hard to tell, but I'll do my best)
Anticommandment: Thou SHALL make unto thee MANY graven images, especially ones made from wood or stone

3) Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain.
Anticommandment: In the presence of the LORD thy God, thou most certainly shalt cuss like a clap-smacked sailor in Southeast Asia. And thou shall blame the LORD thy God for the burning in thy loins.

4) Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Anticommandment: Fuck like a whore on Saturday, cussing the LORD thy God's name the whole time thusly: Oh GOD! OHH GOD! OHHH GOD!

5) Honor thy father and thy mother.
Anticommandment: Steal thy parents' car and drive it to thy girlfriend's abode, fuck her in her parents' bed, crash the car into thy neighbor's tree while driving home

6) Thou shalt not kill.
Anticommandment: Kill, kill, kill, especially the Muslims and Pagans

7) Thou shalt not commit adultery.
Anticommandment: Oh yes, thou shalt!

8) Thou shalt not steal.
Anticommandment: Whatever...

9) Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.
Anticommandment: Thou shalt secretly witness thy neighbors have sex, then claim thou didn't.

10) Thou shalt not covet anything that is thy neighbour's.
Anticommandment: Thou shalt covet thy neighbour's buttocks above thy life.

Endless goodbyes

Is there anything worse than saying goodbye? If there is, for christsakes, don't tell me about it. I fucking hate that (I love Viva Burrito, I love clean sheets, etc. There's an earlier post that explains this whole Viva Burrito thing...)

Even if I haven't seen some dude in years, there's still the possibility that I'll bump into him somewhere, so long as he still lives here. But if he moves, that's pretty much it, isn't it? Well, maybe not, but it still feels that way.

See ya, Judd. Have fun in Australia w/ your new wife. I'll be here, in Denver, doing whatever it is I do. You know where to reach me...

I love Viva Burrito.
I love clean sheets.
I love reading on the toilet 'til my legs fall asleep.
It goes on like that...

Jk.

Lovely list, day one.

* I love Viva burrito, specifically the carnitas tacos they sell, as well the pickled jalepenos and carrots that come in plastic bags sealed with knot.
* I love clean sheets.
* taking my time on the toilet, basically reading 'til my legs fall asleep.
* The Moffat Tunnel East Portal, and all the stuff that's nearby.
* Dolmades
* This particular newspaper column
* Two Tecates in a can, without lime.
* The banged-up Martin D-1 guitar I have at home, with good strings tuned down nearly a full step. Along those lines, I like the little callouses I have on the fingertips of my left hand -- they signal that I'm playing enough.

Days and days of silence, followed by a split-second's sweet, soothing noise

Actually, it was the other way around -- the soothing noise is the drudgery of work, the silence was an entire week's worth of Texas right here in Colorado. Good to see you, buddy. Hope you get back soon.

Changes are coming, friends. They come slowly, and in the tiniest of increments, almost imperceptible increments, hardly worth noting. But they're a-comin' none-the-less. Take, for instance, the gloomy cloud of gloom that's been rubbing its balls on my soul for the past few years. Soon, that fuckmist will be heading down the road to bother someone else.

Yes, I can tell. It's coming soon. Or rather, it will be going soon.

To help it along, I'm doing tricksy little things to break it down.

I make lists.

Lists of things I like. Little likeable things that brighten those less likeable moments of the day, like earlier when I was on the phone, talking to a friend, making loud retard sounds (duuuuueeeeeeeeerrr!) and moving my hand in that way that retards do (severely bent wrist, slapping against the chest) while just barely outside my realm of awareness (behind me, to the right, on the other side of a parked car) a REAL LIFE RETARDED LADY in a wheelchair was being loaded into a van with the aid of a helper. She and her helper looked right at me, the helper with something like derision, the retarded woman with interest or maybe the excitement one feels when one recognizes a peer. (By the way, I was only attempting to describe to my friend on the other end of the line how "retarded" I would be if I tried to play the guitar left-handed like Jimi Hendrix or Elizabeth Cotten. See?)

Anyway, I blew it. I was, at least for the moment, a walking pee stick.

So, I recite my list of little lovies.

1) I love those carnitas tacos they sell at Viva Burrito on Leetsdale.
2) I love clean sheets.
3) I love not having a real job, although the money sucks. (normally, I'd have start over as a result of that secondary negative point, but this is really just for demonstration purposes.)
4) I love crunchy peanut butter.
5) etc.

These are all dinky things that I love. Nothing big, nothing important. Nothing to get anyone's dander up.

Baby steps.

With baby steps, I will rehabilitate my damaged sense of joy -- the sense of joy that has been mutilated by the last decade, probably due to the fact that I am surprisingly unprepared for adult life. I seem to get dumber the older I get, and if that's the way it has to be, then I accept that. There's a strange beauty in dumbness. Dumbness is the new smartness.

This will succeed, even if it takes decades.

Jk.

Ummm... yeah.

Dozens dead from four mass transit bombings in London a mere hours after I rant about how the English are a bunch of pussies. What an ass.

Jk.

This kind of hubris is normally reserved for people who have jobs

But before I get to the meat of this matter, let me detail my day:

- Awoke at 8:30 a.m.
- Showered, shaved, but did not shit (saved that for later, when the clock would be ticking)
- Arrived at my "clients'" office about 9:30 a.m.
- Shat (while reading Stuff Magazine)
- Changed a few file names, did some research, checked some e-mail, made some phone calls.
- Made a prank technical document. Left it in the printer for others to find.
- Left my "clients'" office about 4:30 p.m.
- Conducted a fruitless Internet search for a free download of Paris Hilton sex video.
- One beer by 5:30 p.m., vodka martini by 6:30 p.m., an hour of guitar, Jack and Coke by 8:30 p.m.
- Begged two beers from a man I once viewed as my economic inferior.
- Begged another from a former colleague (one I like to consider a protege, although he certainly would argue with that)
- A quick -- but drunk -- drive home...

Now, on to the meat of the matter (late, but true):

You fucking British fags have failed us all here in the United States! How could you let this happen? We clearly can't handle this quagmire ourselves, yet you re-elect Blair? It was within your grasp; you could have changed history, but you blew it.

As much as I hate to, I am forced to urge our ignorant, hot-headed leaders to anhililate your pitiful island and wipe all traces of your faded empire from the face of the earth. Only then will you see how horrible a people you have become. You are, in a nutshell, the biggest pussies on the planet! Even more so than the French. It's obvious your pubs have taken a toll on your balls, and I'd love to meet a dozen or two of you in a dark alley. You're Big Show; No Results.

Here's what your idiotic media has to say about it (and believe me, it's taken me a long time to come to this hateful conclusion):

BBC:
We asked Mr. Uncle Sam, an American professor of political science who has sworn his allegiance to the Bush regime what he thinks about the Iraq situation: Professor, isn't it true that President Bush lied to the world and led the United States into a horrible war that killed thousands, if not millions of people?

Professor Sam:
No it's not true. In fact, we saved the planet, including Europe, from Saddam's huge stockpile of weapons of mass destruction.

BBC:
But investigators have not turned up a single weapon. Are you saying you're a liar and a bastard, or are you saying you're an American Pig with the culinary awareness of a butt slug?

Professor:
Neither. I'm saying the world is a better place because of U.S. action, and President Bush, both houses of Congress, the American people, the U.N., most of the Western and Eastern hemispheres, and soon, the U.S. Judicial Branch, know you can't do a God-damned thing about it.

BBC:
Right. That was Ethan Donnely reporting from Washington. Clearly demonstrating a widening rift in American policy on the Iraq war...

Me:
You can say what you want about the U.S. media, but at least when they question the Bush cronies, they have a few hard fucking facts to back their position rather than a bunch of bullshit hyperbole!

Me, again:
God help us all, for we're all a bunch of failures. And suck it, UK! (That's not bullshit hyperbole. I'll nuke you if you to disagree.)

Boom, bang, flash: it's Independence Day

Inspired by a harmless facade of war (and large quantities of booze) we speak to each other with false courage -- a back-slapping, high-fiving, celebration of our grandfathers' heroic and gruesome acts in long-forgotten battles. For most of us, it's the closest we'll ever get to war, and the closest we ever hope to get. Thank god the terrible sounds in the streets aren't real. We'd be scared out of our minds if they were.

Inspired in part by the Band of Gypsies and Jimi Hendrix's wicked-badass interpretation of war: Machine Gun

Jk.

For the very first time, I think I understand handguns

Late tonight, or early this morning, there was a racket outside my door; rap, rap, rapping outside my chamber door. Two men, arguing at first over respect, or mutal fear, or hyperbole, began to show signs of desperation. Sensing this, or maybe just fearing it, I took the time to pull on some pants, as I didn't want to call the authorities, only to stand in the street later in my skivvies recounting the details of the fracus to investigators.

A third man, perhaps worried that the noise caused by the first two might attract unwanted attention to the situation, decided that swift, steadfast, violent action was the only calming recourse available to him at the moment. He tackled the first man in a very manly way, bent his ear to his victim and uttered what can only be assumed was some sort of threat.

The second man, the one who wasn't tackled, took the opportunity to repeatedly kick the prostrate body of the first. This was my second clue that things were quickly spinning out of control. I dialed 9-1-1, and was connected to the Englewood Police.

Immediately, I recounted my version of the ongoing event to the operator, who then asked what race the three men were (black, white, hispanic, aluetian, samoan, polynesian, aboriginal). How the fuck would I know? It was dark, they were fighting near one of those mercury-halogen streetlights that makes everyone look like the flesh on their skulls is dying and they're slowly transforming into orange zombies. I think I said some were dark-skinned, and for all I know, they could've been Italians.

The cops shortly came, but not before I poked my head out the front door and yelled at the little Vin Diesels.

"Hey!"

I can't remember what they did, one might have non-verbally challenged me. It was hard to tell.

"The cops are on their way!"

I know at least one of them heard that. He looked up and seemed to acknowledge what I said. But by then, the fuzz was rolling. Five of them appeared -- maybe more -- lights a-spinnin' and a-blazin', but no sirens thankfully. Wouldn't want to wake any of the neighbors who should have already been awake with all the goddamned noise. More on that later.

Timidly, yet with conviction, I stepped out on the porch. One officer strolled up and pulled a notepad from his breast pocket. "You the one who called?"

I nodded, and felt a sudden, puzzling urge to cry right there on the porch. It occurred to me at that moment that I was fucking scared of these three ne'er-do-wells and their rambunctious behavior. I think I still am.

Yes, I told him, I called 9-1-1.

"What happened?"

"Two guys were fighting, then a third one came and jumped one, wait, the two guys were arguing, not fighting, and the third one came in and jumped the second guy, then the first guy started kicking him on the ground. Right there, in that yard across the street. Those three guys... there's one in a gray shirt, and another in a gray shirt, and one in a..."

I was babbling. Fucking terrified. They're Chicago thugs, probably south-side, or east-side, or south-central, or wherever the fucking thugs come from in that damned city. I remember one of them saying something to that effect: This ain't Chicago, bro! THUMP, right to the ribs!

Like that seemed to matter. Are Chicago cops slow or something? Overloaded with work? Are they selective? Or do they only respond to crimes reported by criminals? I didn't know. I have never tangled with the Chicago PD, nor have I relied on their services. But this I know: here in Denver (or Englewood), when a guy calls the cops on a fight, the smackdown is imminent.

The officer then asked if I wanted to use my name "on the report."

I said I only wanted to call the incident in, because it seemed pretty violent. Like maybe someone could get hurt.

The officer replaced the notebook in his breast pocket. Told me he understood, that a lot of people didn't want to give their names for fear of retribution, that he wouldn't ask any more questions. And he didn't. He walked back to the ruckus and dissappeared amid the activity and flashing lights. I didn't get his name. I didn't think to look.

That's when I noticed that not a single neighbor had even poked a head out their window. Not even the young couple who owned the yard where the fight took place. They have an infant to care for, and they didn't bother to even call. And the tough Irish guy next to them -- the one with the big, tough Irish son who's always talking in grandiloquent roughhouse-style and who seems invincible -- even he stayed in the house. The argument and fight took place within 30 feet of his bedroom. My neighbors to the north: nothing. To the south: nothing. Two houses south, where all the police cars converged with their lights and screeching radios: nothing. There are fucking children living around here, neighbors! Maybe just one of you proud parents could show some balls for your kids?

The officer left me with the uneasy feeling that I really screwed the cops that night. That the only way these guys were going to jail -- and not back to their rooms a half-a-block away, all coked, boozed or methed up, after I publicly challenged them and stood like a preacher on my porch as the cops ran criminal histories and otherwise had their way with them -- was if I answered Mr. Officer's questions correctly. And I didn't.

Not to worry. Surely, I thought, the cops will be cleaning the whole mess up and shipping these young toughs to the hooscow tonight to ponder their errant ways. But I was wrong. The thugs might have even cheered as the squad of officers released them back to the streets. Right there, across from my house, where A., my dog and our new kitten were sleeping. To the thugs' credit, they haven't fire-bombed my house or hassled me in any other way, at least not yet.

To the officer:

What am I, a fucking lawyer? Do you think we all know criminal law from memory? When, exactly, did you learn the law? At crime school, in Fighting Johnny Law 101? Did I really fuck this up, or did you simply avoid some paperwork tonight? I don't know, officer, because I am not a fucking cop!

Do you know how to spell or avoid double negatives? Do you know the weight of any lag bolt between three and five inches long? Do you know which wire to connect to ground on slave dimmer for a living room ceiling fan? Do you know which over-the-counter children's medicines are toxic when mixed?

Should I have known something that I didn't, and should I have challenged you about it? Should I have said, "officer, I'm sure you know your job, but are you saying that by not giving my name, all the information I provided was useless? Isn't fighting assault? I told you they were fighting, but none of them were arrested. Were they play-fighting? Was that one guy play-kicking the other one in the ribs while the third play-held him to the ground with a pretend headlock?

These questions of mine have no answer. But this one does:

Should I move to Chicago? I think maybe I should, because at least I know those three dudes aren't there now.

What our seven-week-old kitten, Jack Kerouac, has to say about current affairs:

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Jack Kerouac, AKA: dorkchop

Like I didn't know this was a bad idea from the beginning

Every day is a new day for a guy like me, and the things I don't know could fill the Library of Congress.

Take today, for example. I think I learned something.

It seems there are an estimated 16,000 insurgents mucking about in Iraq -- about 1,000 of which are suspected foreign fighters (most from Saudi Arabia -- goddammit, why can't we do anything about that?)

In contrast, about 120,000 U.S. troops are stationed there to whoop some ass, according to this Washington Post article. So, ummm, divide 16,000 by 120,000 (carry the remainder to infinity) and you get a ratio of about 13 percent -- or put another way, 7.5 U.S. soldiers for every insurgent. For the suicide bombers, it must be overwhelming; they're like debutants attending a prison ball. With numbers like that, the jihaddists should be able to do a little pirouette in the middle of Baghdad, reach out and touch a U.S. fighter at almost every point on the compass rose.

And yet, the occupation progresses poorly, with no end in sight, and no hint of what the end might even look like, if it ever does come.

I'm beginning to understand why our generals keep telling Bush and Rumsfeld that they have enough troops. The place is crawling with them. They're having a hard time finding parking spaces for all the damaged Humvees. Any more and they'd be tripping over themselves to find the latrines. Have you ever seen what happens when an officer orders a couple dozen young, idle soldiers to erect a tent or some such task that normally requires three or four people? Get out of the way! A strange circus act ensues. It's an awkward, confused shuffle of activity that makes little sense, but greatly amuses fans of Larry, Curly and Moe. (No offense soldier-guys, but it's true. It's not your fault; your superiors are to blame.)

I think we could be overloading Iraq just a bit. I'm willing to bet there's even a contingent of the military musicians there, just to lighten up the mood. One of the hallmarks of a failing...

Wait a minute... Oh for crying out loud!

That means the U.S.M.C. 7th Dandy battalion -- with its highly decorated squads of fish tank cleaners, sculptors, DJs, window dressers, dog groomers, interior designers and morning talk show hosts -- must be encamped there as well.

If the military is anything like it was when I was a young, handsome enlisted man, (and there's little reason to think it's changed -- fucking musicians?) about half of those 120,000 troops are extremely busy waiting for something to do, avoiding work, wasting government resources or, as was the case when I was fighting war, playing ping-pong, foosball, vollyball, or just plain fucking off. And I have no idea what our coalition partners are doing. Does anybody know? Probably playing soccer, or footie.

I hate to demean all those soldiers because they've certainly taken quite a risk -- 1,343 of them were killed in action and 13,190 wounded, according to U.S. Department of Defense numbers. But come on, we have seven times more people than they do!

Here's what this says to me -- and it really doesn't matter whether I'm right or wrong on this point because I'm clearly not in charge: Either occupying a country is an incredibly difficult chore, one that should be undertaken only in extreme circumstances or if you're the Roman Empire; or the U.S. military is a terribly inefficient tool that is wholly unsuited to this type of work.

The next time we try something like this, I suggest we take another approach. Instead of trying to cut the grass of Iraqi insurgency with the sledgehammer that is the U.S. military (insightful metaphor, yes?), why don't we send 16,000 well-paid insurgents of our own to sneak around and car-bomb the bad guys? At the least, we'd give the terrorist rebels fewer targets. And I'm willing to bet we could accomplish the same thing we've accomplished so far, and save the lives of a few musicians while we're at it. (Why on earth would a musician want play that venue?)

This is an excerpt from the FactCheck.org article that got me thinking today:

Prez Bush: "Some of the violence you see in Iraq is being carried out by ruthless killers who are converging on Iraq to fight the advance of peace and freedom. Our military reports that we have killed or captured hundreds of foreign fighters in Iraq who have come from Saudi Arabia, Syria, Iran, Egypt, Sudan, Yemen, Libya and other nations."

FactCheck.org: ... Bush didn't mention that the large majority of insurgents are Iraqis, not foreigners. The overall strength of the insurgency has been estimated at about 16,000 persons. The number of foreign fighters in Iraq is only about 1,000, according to estimates reported by the Brookings Institution. The exact number is of course impossible to know. However, over the course of one week during the major battle for Fallujah in November of 2004, a Marine official said that only about 2% of those detained were foreigners. To be sure, Brookings notes that "U.S. military believe foreign fighters are responsible for the majority of suicide bombings in Iraq," with perhaps as many as 70 percent of bombers coming from Saudi Arabia alone. It is anyone's guess how many of those Saudi suicide bombers might have attempted attacks on US soil, but a look at the map shows that a Saudi jihadist can drive across the border to Baghdad much more easily than getting nearly halfway around the world to to the US.

Morning, sir! I'm standing tall.

There's nothing quite like walking into the workplace with a wicked boner a-bouncin' and a-boingin' in your trousers. Grab coffee, turn on computer, pleasant smile, make light banter with boss, with co-workers, maybe with clients if you're lucky.

"How was your weekend? Really? Sounds fun. I did a lot of yardwork on Saturday, but on Sunday we went hiking near Boulder..."

All the while, your terrible secret is safely hidden behind your untucked shirt and your brain feels like a super-charged capacitor ready to pop, overloaded with images of incredibly naughty women of all types, performing all types of godless acts -- womens in sheets, womens on bikes, womens in the back seats of abandoned cars, five womens, six, maybe more; womens on top, on bottom. Womens! Womens! Womens!

"Yeah, the weather was great, although it did sprinkle a bit during the afternoon. Not that we minded, it was so warm."

Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!

"Did I what? No, I haven't gotten to that yet. It's my first priority this morning. I'll be wrapping up that project today."

Little fucker's trying to chew through the zipper! Down, dammit! Down! Jesus, that feels good... Tight as a fucking drum, they don't call it wood for nothing.

Meanwhile, coworkers and colleagues go about their business as if they don't have maddening erections. They take no notice of the massive, pulsating, vibrant, jaw-dropping member (if it had a voice, it would SCREAM!) barely concealed in your pants (are those jeans stretched to their limits?) But in truth, it's more likely they suffer from a similar shameful affliction 'cause they're all a bunch of freaks around here, anyway -- only they have smaller dicks.

A Modern Rosetta Stone: Deciphering some of the lyrics of Here's Where the Story Ends, sung not by Harriet Wheeler of The Sundays but by pirate whores

Editor's note: Until now, it's all been a lyrical mystery. Our studies have uncovered most of the lyrical content of a beloved, if oft-misunderstood song. I hope this sheds some light, perhaps squelches the moaning of those tireless enthusiasts who prowl the net for answers. (Following italics and bold mine.)

[strumming guitar in G, sparse bass, modest drums in 4/4]

People I know places I go
'tis but a rough sea
you love me not don't touch m' twat
feels like an oak tree

here's where the story ends
senses alive can't feel m' eyes
lucky to see me
you love me not don't touch m' twat
hear like a small flea

here's where the story ends
blimey! here's where the story ends

i am pretty fortunate for a buckled-down nut
with heart and soul of gold
well, we could have went to bed but for the books that you read
were all I loved you for
i am pretty fortunate for a buckled-down nut
with heart that can't grow old
i know why the lights are red porque es malo red
surprise, surprise, surprise

crazy I know places I go
make me feel so tired
I can see how people look down
i'm on the outside

argh! here's where the story ends
arrrgghh! here's where the story ends

it's that little souvenir from a terrible year
which makes my eyes feel sore
& whoever would've thought the books that you bought
were all I loved you for

yarr! the devil in me said g' down to th' shed
Aye know where aye belong
But th' only thin' aye ever really wanted t' saaaay
'twas wrong, 'twas wrong, 'twas wrong...

Editor's footnote: Due to the project's unresolved financial imbroglio and its questionable scientific merit, my experts abandoned all research before I could recover the remaining lyrics. I can only presume they've been lost to time. Thank you very much, Dr. Loren Nielsen, University of Colorado Anthropology Department.

Keep it together, old chap

Everything's gonna be fine.

Jk.

Notes only, pay no attention

Charlie's gettin' hard again.
Seen him yet? He's lookin' thin.

Every night, warm and dry, I sleep like a kitten on mother's milk
I get soft, I get high.

But Charlie
Charlie's gettin' hard and thin

He walks the streets, walks the deserts, walks the mountain canyon rims
Looking for a fight, he can't be right, but he just might win.