Are you an "express grips" policy member at Walgreens, Rite Aid or some other mutha-effin' place?

eXPRESs ssssss grips.

grip it expressly.

grip it WITH DISPATCH.

Operation "Bore Children to Tears" is underway.

One week into my daughter's career as a student and this smart and curious little girl is already telling me what a lousy week she had at school, that she doesn't like it, that it powerful sucks because she and her classmates are required to sit and be quiet all day long.

I feel ya, sista.

It's been 35 years since I attended kindergarten, and somehow educators still haven't figured out what makes five-year-old girls and boys tick, haven't figured out that boys and girls do not need to be quiet or sit still in order to learn, that quietness and stillness retard mental and emotional development in five-year-olds, just like it does for most human beings.

Just keep on sucking, institutional educators. Some day, maybe, you'll just go away and leave us all alone.

Man seeks Man

You: Distant, incomprehensible, intelligent and wise. Does carbon-based life turn you on?

Me: Violent, creative, instinctual, emotional, frightened.

What I seek: Your total destruction.

What I hope you seek: A little slap and tickle, a good fight.

My dream: An epic clash of cultures, planets ground to dust, depleted stars, trillions dead, a dark epoch and perhaps an epiphany, a small hope, a pair of intrepid dreamers, a common enemy, a common goal, two star-crossed lovers in need of each other’s warmth, strength, life, joined in a technological manner by a mutual commitment of love, of harmony, of balance, drifting through a bountiful universe spreading eternal bliss to all we touch.

My nightmare: That we're alone here, or simply farther from each other than our farthest thoughts, farther than matter can go, farther than light can reach.

Priorities

Have a second kid, and your priorities become:

1) care for second kid
2) care for first kid
3) stay employed
4) abandon short, medium and several long term goals

Oh, hello again.

Is there anything more subversive than helping the working class rise?

My other grandpa died

Grandma Linda, do you know what my other grandpa did?

No.

He died. His heart stopped and he died.

He died?

Yeah, he died.

... a snail crawling on an Exchange 2007 server... That is my dream. That is my nightmare

I've installed this app many times in many environments, and I SWEAR TO GOD each time I encounter some wacky error that requires all of my Google skills to resolve. I don't think I've ever had an E2k7 install go smoothly. Not even once...

Here were the new hurdles this last time:
1) Windows Server 2008 requires Exchange 2k7 SP1 (>5GB .iso, by the way, so start downloading a day or two in advance and pray it doesn't get corrupted during the process.)

2) Exchange 2k7 SP1 is NOT SUPPORTED on Windows Server 2008 R2... (I can't begin to understand the reasoning behind that, since R2 seems to be the version everyone gets.)

3) ADDS must be installed in Windows Server 2008 to avoid the puzzling "system cannot find the specified file" error. (Look in the exchange setup log for the details.)

Special thanks to the itowns blog for helping me through some of these problems.

If I think about it too much, I start crying.

Listen.

Put several copies of Fugazi, "Runaway Return" into your iTunes and sit back.

repeat, repeat, repeat until you can't stand the song anymore.

home, son! doing? gone? Near? get your tee shirts here.

I am my video game, and you are yours.

Are video games the end of music, art and nations?

Pong may be a pointless waste of time, but if you and a friend were locked in a cell for 72 hours with nothing but an Atari 2600 and two cartriges(Pac Man and Space Invaders) which would you play?

Think carefully, because your choice says a lot about who you are, and what you're likely to do in the future. You could be giving the authorities the probable cause they need to lock you up for heineous acts you haven't even thought of committing yet. That's because your video game preferences telegraph your inclinations, your soul, your morals, and even the brain chemistry that makes you tick.

Both Pac Man and Space Invaders require immense concentration, but Pac Man's mazes demand players possess foresight, tactical awareness and an abundance of cowardice, while successful Space Invader players exhibit a two-dimensional single-minded urge to kill tempered by a strong desire to protect friends from harm. Video games stimulate different thought centers in the brain, and there's no reason a good game developer -- with the aid of a psychologist and neurologist -- couldn't create a game that targets people with specific personality traits. Perhaps they already have; think about the thieving, cop-killing, prostitute-whacking elements of Grand Theft Auto. It's high art in every sense of the word. The game will be on display in museums someday.

Why is this important? Because we could be barking up the wrong tree with ideas like Japanese weather control devices, mind control machines and UFO coverups. I suggest that the most effective paradigm of influence and control has already made its way into billions of homes worldwide. Grand Theft Auto, the best-selling video game title a few years ago, garnered an estimated $250 million. Its publisher, Rockstar Games, sold 5 million copies in 2004, and analyists expect total sales to exceed the previous Grand Theft title, which sold 15 million copies. That would be $750 million dollars. Titanic -- the best-selling blockbuster movie of all time -- was released in 1997 and it earned a paltry $600 million.


If I were director of, say, the Department of Homeland Security, the Central Intelligence Agency or the National Security Administration, I'd be looking very closely at the habits of video game players. Because video games aren't just for teenage boys anymore -- the average player is 29 years old. Everybody is playing.

So tell me, which do you prefer?

Space Invaders -- You are a ruthless killer and destroyer who uses your skill and power to protect your fellow man. You are a machine-gunner in a bunker, firing off death and dismemberment to everyone in your path. But you would never do that do a friend.

Pac Man -- You are a goal-oriented, selfish individual who scrambles for gold and runs from any conflict you can't win. You are a tactical thinker, a rule-follower, the perfect plotter who succeeds when he is far from danger, tucked away in the rear eschelons.

Asteroids -- You are a wild man who should not be allowed near others, but who is the most capable of triumph in the face of overwhelming defeat. You spin your wheels as fast as they go, and you do a lot of damage.

Missile Command -- You are a general with the capacity to marshal tens of thousands of troops with the snap of a finger, but only when someone orders you to do it. You are not a mercenary. Instead, you are a slave to warfare.

Bezerker -- You are insane.

Sim City -- You are a god.

Flight Simulator -- You love to work. Endlessly shuttling loads of tourists from one destination to another doesn't bother you at all. And it never will.

Tetris -- You came of age in the '90s. You strive to comply. You organize everything. You are the perfect minion. People like you are why we now have places like the Container Store.

Grand Theft Auto -- As much as you wish you could, you will never, ever, steal a car, drive it recklessly down crowded city sidewalks, or kill a cop. You talk loud and say nothing. In the real world, you crumple at the first sign of authority.

Doom, or more recently, Halo -- You have a brain disorder.

World of Warcraft -- You understand that "the real world" is a farce and have joined the burgeoning critical multitude as it works toward the inevitable end of the church, the global economy, and humananity as we know it. You uncontrollably yearn for the day when leadership, government and self-restraint are no longer a necessary evil of society. You quite possibly could be an anarchist.

So pick carefully. Who, exactly, are you?

Might have to give up fishing because I'm a soft hearted man

When you're as good a fisherman as I am, "catch and release" starts to seem a little cruel. I prefer "catch and fry up in the campfire" because it tends to more quickly end the torment these animals are forced to endure. It's a torment I'm directly responsible for every time I expertly present a caddis fly in such a tempting manner that the fish must strike. Poor little guy can't help himself.

I'm no longer proud of my little triumphs because they come too regularly.

Therefore, I will fish only until I have collected enough to eat, then I will find something else to do for the rest of the day. And one day, I will fish no more.

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: 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

Are you an IT professional like me?

Information technology is a lot like plumbing, but without many of the plumber's perks. 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, and in many cases, it's appropriate for a plumber to show a little butt crack. Chief Information Officers often wear suits and NEVER get to show the skin.

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?"


So I immediately 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 skilled flamenco musicians can produce a three-octave melody by simply clapping their hands?

WTF?

"It's true, dude."


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 your playing doesn't make Andalucians wince in displeasure. 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.