If you're reading this, you should probably contact the F.B.I.
The boy seems to hate freedom.
So last week his mother -- who's only my common-law wife because I refuse to marry such a heartless woman -- reported him to the C.I.A. in hopes they would assassinate him. He hasn't shown up since, and even though the food bill has decreased considerably, I'm beginning to worry.
His rent is due.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Thursday, March 24, 2005
I am my own world, my own universe, my own everything
Well now, that wasn't as difficult as I expected. It's been a week, and not a single first-person reference. In fact, not a single reference to anything at all. So, let's celebrate:
In the event I become incapacitated and lose my ability to make competent medical decisions; here is my living will, the standing orders and last wishes to which my medical power of attorney (hopefully it's a dude, because dudes are thinkers and not feelers) is hereby dutifully bound:
WHEREAS, I am in charge now,
WHEREAS, if I become a vegetative idiot and my survival depends upon my feeding tube,
BE IT RESOLVED THAT,
-- My daily intake of aged, single-malt scotch shall be doubled, AND --
-- Three 18-year-old Eastern European prostitutes shall be hired to alternatively massage my back, style my hair and moisturize my genitals, AND --
-- A self-righteous politician who is preferably a Republican -- although a Democrat will do just as well if he or she has recently been elected Regent for the University of Colorado -- shall be invited to my hospice room, AND --
-- My diet shall be supplemented with a cocktail of illicit recreational drugs until my body involuntarily surges from the gurney and assaults the dastardly statesman, AND --
-- The regimen of drugs shall be continued until one of us is dead.
ALSO WHEREAS, if I become a vegetable, but others believe I might recover if given more time; and if "recovery" means I'd live in a daily puddle of my own leavings,
BE IT RESOLVED THAT,
-- A bouquet of flowers shall be sent to the three 18-year-old Eastern European prostitutes, AND --
-- The media shall be called, AND --
-- I shall be killed with 16-ounce ball peen hammers.
AND BE IT AGAIN RESOLVED:
-- That is what I want, you fucking bastards.
To me, it seems pretty clear. There should be no disputes, no need to call the governor, no need to enlist Congress, no need to bother the President.
Well now, that wasn't as difficult as I expected. It's been a week, and not a single first-person reference. In fact, not a single reference to anything at all. So, let's celebrate:
In the event I become incapacitated and lose my ability to make competent medical decisions; here is my living will, the standing orders and last wishes to which my medical power of attorney (hopefully it's a dude, because dudes are thinkers and not feelers) is hereby dutifully bound:
WHEREAS, I am in charge now,
WHEREAS, if I become a vegetative idiot and my survival depends upon my feeding tube,
BE IT RESOLVED THAT,
-- My daily intake of aged, single-malt scotch shall be doubled, AND --
-- Three 18-year-old Eastern European prostitutes shall be hired to alternatively massage my back, style my hair and moisturize my genitals, AND --
-- A self-righteous politician who is preferably a Republican -- although a Democrat will do just as well if he or she has recently been elected Regent for the University of Colorado -- shall be invited to my hospice room, AND --
-- My diet shall be supplemented with a cocktail of illicit recreational drugs until my body involuntarily surges from the gurney and assaults the dastardly statesman, AND --
-- The regimen of drugs shall be continued until one of us is dead.
ALSO WHEREAS, if I become a vegetable, but others believe I might recover if given more time; and if "recovery" means I'd live in a daily puddle of my own leavings,
BE IT RESOLVED THAT,
-- A bouquet of flowers shall be sent to the three 18-year-old Eastern European prostitutes, AND --
-- The media shall be called, AND --
-- I shall be killed with 16-ounce ball peen hammers.
AND BE IT AGAIN RESOLVED:
-- That is what I want, you fucking bastards.
To me, it seems pretty clear. There should be no disputes, no need to call the governor, no need to enlist Congress, no need to bother the President.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Banned: that bag of hot air, Jim
Starting now, I will strictly avoid first person references in my posts for one week, just to see if I can. If all goes well, the ban could be extended an additional week.
The prohibition includes parenthetical clarifications, foot notes, or comments made by me, to myself.
Now, that doen't mean I can just refer to myself in the third person either, although if necessity demands my personal reflection on matters, that part of the rule may have to go.
Maintaining an active voice could be a trick, but that's the kind of challenge Jim is ready to tackle.
The point isn't so much to remove Jim from Jim's posts, but to include other subjects. Jim has found that when Jim becomes involved, there's little room for anything else. Jim's just that huge...
Crap, this isn't going to be easy...
Starting now, I will strictly avoid first person references in my posts for one week, just to see if I can. If all goes well, the ban could be extended an additional week.
The prohibition includes parenthetical clarifications, foot notes, or comments made by me, to myself.
Now, that doen't mean I can just refer to myself in the third person either, although if necessity demands my personal reflection on matters, that part of the rule may have to go.
Maintaining an active voice could be a trick, but that's the kind of challenge Jim is ready to tackle.
The point isn't so much to remove Jim from Jim's posts, but to include other subjects. Jim has found that when Jim becomes involved, there's little room for anything else. Jim's just that huge...
Crap, this isn't going to be easy...
Monday, March 14, 2005
I’ve been watching the boy secretly, in order to more accurately catalogue his flaws.
For weeks, his teachers have been sending home little notes -- frantically scribbled tattle-tales warning me my son’s classroom behavior has grown exponentially worse, gorging on itself, so to speak, to the point that he’s likely to become a danger to both himself and his classmates if I don’t intervene.
Most came from Mrs. Scranton, a woman whose judgment I do not respect. She has, in my opinion, been unable to keep the emotional shrapnel from her exploding marriage out of the classroom. Naturally, I ignored those allegations.
But when others like the gym teacher who formerly played tackle for the now-defunct Orlando Rage began expressing similar damning concerns, I thought it was time I take action against my 9-year-old son. I’m currently gathering intelligence.
It started last Tuesday:
-- I called in sick as soon as the boy closed the living room door behind him, then I fled out the back in order to tail him. For an entire block, he followed the sidewalk like the little toe-headed cherub his mother and I believed him to be, dragging his coat, with his blue pack over one small shoulder -- while I navigated a row of small backyards, cursing each six-foot privacy fence that hindered my progress. It seemed important at the time that I maintain a safe distance, mostly to ensure I was getting a true reading on his behavior, but also to preserve the delicate trust the boy and I share.
-- I immediately noticed a transformation once we turned the corner at Bannock and Kenyon.
His first destructive act was to repeatedly kick the neighbor’s chain link fence until the man’s two slick-haired Rottweilers had worked themselves into a terrifying frenzy of vicious barking and growling. The boy paused for a moment and quietly cursed, then resumed his kicking. I couldn't hear what he said, but the animals threw themselves at the metal fencing, biting the links with the maddening intention of eviscerating their tormentor.
The noise was hideous, and I think the dogs had started to injure themselves. I also worried the fence would give. Even from my hidden vantage point across the street, I felt unsafe. The boy stopped only when the dogs wore themselves out, curling up on the oil-soaked dirt in a distant corner of the yard. Others in the neighborhood granted that yard a wide berth, as the dogs and their inbred owner were infamous terrors. Not the boy.
-- Two blocks later, I was surprised when he picked up a handful of ping-pong-ball-sized landscaping stones and threw them one-by-one at late-model cars as they whizzed down the southbound lanes of Broadway.
On the ballfield, the boy is hopeless, but with rocks, he’s surprisingly strong and as accurate as a Palestinian teenager in the streets of Hebron.
I must admit I enjoyed watching the commuters wince or frown when they heard the unpleasant clank of the rocks against their highly buffed fenders. For a moment, seeing the boy actually doing something well spawned inside me a small, shameful pride that had almost no hope of enduring.
-- The boy later set fire to something – by the way it moved, it likely was a cat or some other small creature. Maybe a rabbit. At that point, I had fallen too far behind to see exactly what.
Not that it mattered. He had crossed a line. Burning animals -- even a cat -- was considered unusual, pointless, and for some observers, probably cruel. Whatever the poor creature was, it finally collapsed in a noisome, smoldering heap at the doorstep of a nearby house, possibly the home of its owner.
I wrote a note detailing what had happened, but thankfully realized in time that a note like that might be taken the wrong way.
No. I tore the note to pieces. The boy must be forced to apologize in person, perhaps after school.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
This child really has no right to burden his little league team like he does
My boy played today in the first game of the season. He certainly has plenty to work on this year: the mechanics of his batting (hilarious to watch if it were someone else's kid,) his ball handling (easy popups seem magnetically attracted to him, probably because his opponents have learned he can't catch them,) and his hustle (the coach describes his running style as sort of "slithering" motion.)
But before we get started on those skills, we need to work on his emotional game.
Today, the boy charged the mound three times, threatened the catcher with the bat, and sparked a brawl with the first baseman that emptied both dugouts.
He gets it from his mother, who conducts her life according to the creed, "strike first, strike low, strike hard." It's worked for her, as it's just the kind of advantage an eager young lawyer needs while scratching out her perch on the the jagged, male-dominated cliffs of Johnson, Faegre, Hinton & Associates.
But I don't think the creed serves the boy well at all. Not while he's playing outfield for the 9-year-old squad of the Englewood Alpacas. He's become a lightening rod on the field, attracting blows both during and after games like a dusty rug. And not just from opponents. Much of his sharp spirit has been directed at his teammates and even his coaches, who have dubbed him the "Angry Nazi" -- and I doubt the nickname's just a colorful handle in the style of "Maverick" or "Iceman."
The foul behavior on-field is causing problems in the stands as well. Parents react with horrified shock when he throws his tiny fists at their childrens' faces. I desperately want to tell them the boy's arms are much too weak to hurt their children badly, but I never do. Instead, I pretend he's not mine and feign horrified shock as well.
Unfortunately, I fear the problem won't be easy to solve, mostly because of his mother. She encourages him from the stands. Quietly, at first, but with each passing inning, more aggressively until by the end she's screaming foul racial slurs and throwing beer bottles at the umpire, the opposing team's batters and the visiting team's fans. She's been allowed to stay because little league fans are a meek, tolerant lot, and I suspect they've come to appreciate the intimidating effect she has on the other team. That only encourages her, I'm afraid.
What I really need is time alone with the boy to counter her negative influence and help him work through his athletic shortcomings. The boy needs to understand that he shouldn't feel threatened by what other players say because he is just a poor ball player. He'll never, ever be any good. It's frustrating for me, as a father, because he should know that already. I've told him.
My boy played today in the first game of the season. He certainly has plenty to work on this year: the mechanics of his batting (hilarious to watch if it were someone else's kid,) his ball handling (easy popups seem magnetically attracted to him, probably because his opponents have learned he can't catch them,) and his hustle (the coach describes his running style as sort of "slithering" motion.)
But before we get started on those skills, we need to work on his emotional game.
Today, the boy charged the mound three times, threatened the catcher with the bat, and sparked a brawl with the first baseman that emptied both dugouts.
He gets it from his mother, who conducts her life according to the creed, "strike first, strike low, strike hard." It's worked for her, as it's just the kind of advantage an eager young lawyer needs while scratching out her perch on the the jagged, male-dominated cliffs of Johnson, Faegre, Hinton & Associates.
But I don't think the creed serves the boy well at all. Not while he's playing outfield for the 9-year-old squad of the Englewood Alpacas. He's become a lightening rod on the field, attracting blows both during and after games like a dusty rug. And not just from opponents. Much of his sharp spirit has been directed at his teammates and even his coaches, who have dubbed him the "Angry Nazi" -- and I doubt the nickname's just a colorful handle in the style of "Maverick" or "Iceman."
The foul behavior on-field is causing problems in the stands as well. Parents react with horrified shock when he throws his tiny fists at their childrens' faces. I desperately want to tell them the boy's arms are much too weak to hurt their children badly, but I never do. Instead, I pretend he's not mine and feign horrified shock as well.
Unfortunately, I fear the problem won't be easy to solve, mostly because of his mother. She encourages him from the stands. Quietly, at first, but with each passing inning, more aggressively until by the end she's screaming foul racial slurs and throwing beer bottles at the umpire, the opposing team's batters and the visiting team's fans. She's been allowed to stay because little league fans are a meek, tolerant lot, and I suspect they've come to appreciate the intimidating effect she has on the other team. That only encourages her, I'm afraid.
What I really need is time alone with the boy to counter her negative influence and help him work through his athletic shortcomings. The boy needs to understand that he shouldn't feel threatened by what other players say because he is just a poor ball player. He'll never, ever be any good. It's frustrating for me, as a father, because he should know that already. I've told him.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Joey was a pervert, but it didn't bother him.
Early on, his perversion was focused on young rodeo cowboys, which -- he quickly learned -- were not very receptive to his secret thoughts.
He has since turned his attentions to other, less dangerous prey: battle-scarred Samburu warriors from Africa, Hasidic Jews, and middle-aged blondes with tiny pets.
He has also learned the art of making light humor to small groups, a skill that has served him well with his new audience.
Joey is still a pervert. A proud pervert.
Early on, his perversion was focused on young rodeo cowboys, which -- he quickly learned -- were not very receptive to his secret thoughts.
He has since turned his attentions to other, less dangerous prey: battle-scarred Samburu warriors from Africa, Hasidic Jews, and middle-aged blondes with tiny pets.
He has also learned the art of making light humor to small groups, a skill that has served him well with his new audience.
Joey is still a pervert. A proud pervert.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Reasons why the University of Colorado Board of Regents should consider me to replace the outgoing president, crestfallen Betsy Hoffman:
1) I understand the campus culture from the "average guy" point of view: I attended classes at CU for almost two years before dropping out.
2) I never read Chaucer, so I'm unlikely to make any disastrous claims that the word "cunt" is not just a vitriolic slur, but a term of endearment.
3) My house lacks spare rooms, so I could really benefit from the extra space in the President's University Residence. Also, the $400,000 annual salary comes close to my minimum salary requirements.
4) Having created several secret slush funds in the past, I am well qualified to sniff them out.
5) I hate football, unless my favorite team is doing well. This "fair-weather" quality makes me emotionally prepared to fire the head coach if he's a loser.
6) I resent people who make more than I do, therefore, I am not only emotionally prepared, but eager, to fire the head coach.
7) I'm open to partnering with the Colorado Department of Corrections to implement a "reverse-gang-rape training program" at the university, which would be required study for the CU football head coach, the athletic director, the Board of Regents, and all CU football players and recruits. The requirement could be waived for players who publicly declare they are gay or demonstrate they are eunuchs. Regents, however, would be required to take the course twice.
8) I propose to change the institution's name to "Bullshit University."
The new moniker would correctly align the campus culture with its public image, and therefore eliminate the need to stage a 1950s-era Red Scare among the faculty of the state's other campuses of so-called higher education.
9) I would make "being either blond or brunette" an entry requirement for all female students, in homage to Katie Hnida and Lisa Simpson.
10) I would name any available toilet facility after each member of the Board of Regents, Betsy Hoffman, football head coach Gary Barnett and former athletic director Dick Tharp. I would also encourage all students and guests of the university to use the word "hole" after the appropriate name when referring to the toilet, e.g. "Hold on, a minute, I gotta hit the Hoffman hole"; or "Man, the Lucero hole smells today" (that's a jab at Tom Lucero, who is possibly the dumbest regent in the tool shed that is the Board of Regents.)
Off the subject, slightly: has anybody seen the Board of Regents' official group photo? Fantastic smiles, as if university were not, in fact, imploding before their uncomprehending eyes (I think they were all very stoned during the photo session, and may have been struggling with various effects of the drugs. Lucero suffers from confusion, while to his right, Pat Hayes is paralyzed with imagined fear. The rest are dazed, yet content; except for Paul Schauer, who I'm betting burst into laughter a split-second after the flash popped.)
See for yourself...: The Regenturds
In conclusion: as president, I couldn't possibly harm the institution further.
But in truth, I am not qualified to fix the incredible mess the Board of Regents has allowed to develop beneath its watchful, yet passive eyes.
To fill the position, they want a strong leader who can rally the students, faculty and public; who knows the state; who has an original vision; and who is "Superwoman" (note to Regent Gail Schwartz: There hasn't been a successful "Superwoman" character yet. Supergirl is about as good as it gets, in a "super-character" sense.)
Seems to me they need a powerful dictator to straighten things out -- a real Saddam Hussein of higher education. A guy (or supergal) with little tolerance for any bull-Shiite.
His (or her) first task? Genocide.
I realize it's an ugly sentiment, but come on... what's it going to take to clean up that campus of fools?
1) I understand the campus culture from the "average guy" point of view: I attended classes at CU for almost two years before dropping out.
2) I never read Chaucer, so I'm unlikely to make any disastrous claims that the word "cunt" is not just a vitriolic slur, but a term of endearment.
3) My house lacks spare rooms, so I could really benefit from the extra space in the President's University Residence. Also, the $400,000 annual salary comes close to my minimum salary requirements.
4) Having created several secret slush funds in the past, I am well qualified to sniff them out.
5) I hate football, unless my favorite team is doing well. This "fair-weather" quality makes me emotionally prepared to fire the head coach if he's a loser.
6) I resent people who make more than I do, therefore, I am not only emotionally prepared, but eager, to fire the head coach.
7) I'm open to partnering with the Colorado Department of Corrections to implement a "reverse-gang-rape training program" at the university, which would be required study for the CU football head coach, the athletic director, the Board of Regents, and all CU football players and recruits. The requirement could be waived for players who publicly declare they are gay or demonstrate they are eunuchs. Regents, however, would be required to take the course twice.
8) I propose to change the institution's name to "Bullshit University."
The new moniker would correctly align the campus culture with its public image, and therefore eliminate the need to stage a 1950s-era Red Scare among the faculty of the state's other campuses of so-called higher education.
9) I would make "being either blond or brunette" an entry requirement for all female students, in homage to Katie Hnida and Lisa Simpson.
10) I would name any available toilet facility after each member of the Board of Regents, Betsy Hoffman, football head coach Gary Barnett and former athletic director Dick Tharp. I would also encourage all students and guests of the university to use the word "hole" after the appropriate name when referring to the toilet, e.g. "Hold on, a minute, I gotta hit the Hoffman hole"; or "Man, the Lucero hole smells today" (that's a jab at Tom Lucero, who is possibly the dumbest regent in the tool shed that is the Board of Regents.)
Off the subject, slightly: has anybody seen the Board of Regents' official group photo? Fantastic smiles, as if university were not, in fact, imploding before their uncomprehending eyes (I think they were all very stoned during the photo session, and may have been struggling with various effects of the drugs. Lucero suffers from confusion, while to his right, Pat Hayes is paralyzed with imagined fear. The rest are dazed, yet content; except for Paul Schauer, who I'm betting burst into laughter a split-second after the flash popped.)
See for yourself...: The Regenturds
In conclusion: as president, I couldn't possibly harm the institution further.
But in truth, I am not qualified to fix the incredible mess the Board of Regents has allowed to develop beneath its watchful, yet passive eyes.
To fill the position, they want a strong leader who can rally the students, faculty and public; who knows the state; who has an original vision; and who is "Superwoman" (note to Regent Gail Schwartz: There hasn't been a successful "Superwoman" character yet. Supergirl is about as good as it gets, in a "super-character" sense.)
Seems to me they need a powerful dictator to straighten things out -- a real Saddam Hussein of higher education. A guy (or supergal) with little tolerance for any bull-Shiite.
His (or her) first task? Genocide.
I realize it's an ugly sentiment, but come on... what's it going to take to clean up that campus of fools?
Monday, March 07, 2005
Martha Stewart called this weekend. She wanted her CDs back (I borrowed a few over the past months while housesitting -- Susan Tedeski, Bob Dylan's greatest hits, Rolling Stones Hot Rocks...that kind of thing.) After a few minutes of discussion, though, I realized it wasn't the CDs Martha needed.
"The house is just too big," she said. "Could I come by?"
I know what you're thinking, but she wasn't hungry for my wedding tackle. This time.
No, she asked to sleep in my basement room, with the door locked. The basement in my house is more of a cellar, really -- dirt floor, spiders, no lights, tiny garden-level window.
What could I say to Martha Stewart? My stocks are doing really well since her release, so I set her up with a cot and a bucket.
It's been three days; she says she's having a great time.
"The house is just too big," she said. "Could I come by?"
I know what you're thinking, but she wasn't hungry for my wedding tackle. This time.
No, she asked to sleep in my basement room, with the door locked. The basement in my house is more of a cellar, really -- dirt floor, spiders, no lights, tiny garden-level window.
What could I say to Martha Stewart? My stocks are doing really well since her release, so I set her up with a cot and a bucket.
It's been three days; she says she's having a great time.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Has there ever been software worse than Microsoft Word? If so, I hope I never find it.
I just spent the better part of an hour reformatting my resume so that it should appear EXACTLY the same, no matter who prints it. That's important, and I wasn't about to take any shit from Microsoft about it, although shit is exactly what Microsoft tried to give. It should not have been that hard. Clicking, highlighting, inserting. I blame others.
But, finally, the resume is perfect. Now I can sit back, knock back a few beers, work my girlfriend's Tivo and reject the flood of low offers. Guys like me are a hot commodity.
I just spent the better part of an hour reformatting my resume so that it should appear EXACTLY the same, no matter who prints it. That's important, and I wasn't about to take any shit from Microsoft about it, although shit is exactly what Microsoft tried to give. It should not have been that hard. Clicking, highlighting, inserting. I blame others.
But, finally, the resume is perfect. Now I can sit back, knock back a few beers, work my girlfriend's Tivo and reject the flood of low offers. Guys like me are a hot commodity.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Time is running short, so I'd best get this done before, you know, the unspeakable happens.
The postdates indicate that for quite some while, I've been reticent, in a writing sense. Probably a word for that, but I'm much too busy to look it up.
Here's why: I'm trying to kill myself with journalism. It's a blunt, ineffective weapon, but over time, I'm positive the method will work. It's a good bet I will die with a pen in my hand (or most likely hunched over a dirty keyboard, a half-empty cup of stale coffee spilled on the scattered papers of my desk, perhaps some vomit leaking from the corner of my mouth.)
I hope the words on the monitor will be clever, like Hunter S. Thompson's last communique, typewritten and centered on the page: counselor.
Likely, though, it will read something like: The city council will decide the matter at an upcoming meeting. Or maybe it will be these words. A letter to no one, that says nothing.
But, before I go, I'd just like to tell all those journalism links on "Wordicus: the blog" to please go fuck themselves. I've had very litte fun the last couple of years, and I honestly believe those damn links, or the profession that spawned them, are at fault.
So please, fuck off. All of you.
The postdates indicate that for quite some while, I've been reticent, in a writing sense. Probably a word for that, but I'm much too busy to look it up.
Here's why: I'm trying to kill myself with journalism. It's a blunt, ineffective weapon, but over time, I'm positive the method will work. It's a good bet I will die with a pen in my hand (or most likely hunched over a dirty keyboard, a half-empty cup of stale coffee spilled on the scattered papers of my desk, perhaps some vomit leaking from the corner of my mouth.)
I hope the words on the monitor will be clever, like Hunter S. Thompson's last communique, typewritten and centered on the page: counselor.
Likely, though, it will read something like: The city council will decide the matter at an upcoming meeting. Or maybe it will be these words. A letter to no one, that says nothing.
But, before I go, I'd just like to tell all those journalism links on "Wordicus: the blog" to please go fuck themselves. I've had very litte fun the last couple of years, and I honestly believe those damn links, or the profession that spawned them, are at fault.
So please, fuck off. All of you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
