They don't come when you call

They don't chase squirrels at all.

Haunting melody

All that's old is new again

What strange confluence of the stars made Faith No More pop back up on the radar?

First the Levi's commercial with FNM's cover of Easy Like a Sunday Morning, then the commercial for the new Discovery Channel program Dirty Jobs featuring We Care a Lot (which happens to have the line "It's a dirty job but someone's got to do it.")

I expect to hear a Kidz Bop commercial featuring screeching minions butchering Epic.

Then the cover of War Pigs for a Gulf War drama.



You know, who the hell died and made Mike Patton King Shit? I love the Mosley albums. I mean, to begin Death March with the following exchange is just brilliant:

"Can I get a transfer, man? 95 cents! Fuck you, I'll skate to the beach - and I'll look better gettin' there."

Or better yet, the dialogue at the beginning of The Crab Song with lines like "I love you, come back!" superimposed with "Stay out! Bitch!"

Well, to be honest I have a low threshold for "brilliance", but I still think it's pretty cool.

Where ya be, Chuck? Come back to us!

Shall I shop for you, part 3

I love this stuff. Star Wars Episode III translated into Chinese and back into English.

Yes, I know Chinese isn't any more a language than is Mexican. Stay on target.

I just want to add that this doesn't make me laugh for the same reason that the first commentor seems to think it's funny - in other words, it's not about stupid people making bad translations. It has to be enjoyed for what it is.

So, go check out this blog entry and laugh your ass off.

These people walk among us

Snopes has a section on "unanswerables".

I just want to list a couple of my favorites:


Hi, I just wanted to ask if you could investigate this urban legend. 16 is the age of consent for having sex with someone over 18.


They say that if a person has a pet cat and dies, if the person's body is not found fairly soon after death, the cat, having not been fed, will become ravenously hungry and eat the dead person's face off ? JUST the face!

Is this true? My cat often looks me in the face. I used to think he was just being friendly. Now I know he's just sizing me up, like a chef at a butcher shop, waiting for "the big day". Since hearing this rumor, every time my cat licks his chops it gives me the willies!


A friend of mine asked me if I've ever hear of invisible witches or ghosts that suck the blood out of a person's arm while they are sleeping. Apparently, she saw "marks" on her boyfriend's arm and this was the story that he told her.


Is it true that a girl cannot get pregnant if her mate smokes the seeds of marijuana when he smokes marijuana, please tell me if this is true because a lot of people tell me it is true and a lot of people tell me it's not and I don't know whaether to believe it or not because this town lies a lot. thanks.


Now go read it. I can barely see the keyboard from the tears of laughter.

Glom

As a verb, can glom be used without a preposition? I don't think I've ever heard it used by itself.

Also, I had always thought of glom referring to attraction, as opposed to grabbing. My mental image of the word is a coalescing gravity, not a random snatch.

Hmm.

All funny-as-hell has boken loose

My god, people. You have been keeping me in stitches. I'd blame this craziness on the full moon, but I think that was last week. So I'll just assume you've all been drinking heavily.

Here's the short list of the funniest lines I've come across today:

I'm gonna have my weird way with you sister!

Thank J. at his new site for this gem.


this story drew me in. -Vortexia

A response to a recent post on Lisa's newly painted blog.


My daughter likes raisins dipped in ranch dressing.

PSUMommy drops the weird bomb here at humble ol' LP.


Note: I had to separate J's and PSUM's comments, because they were just too creepy to be next to eachother. It's like crossing the streams - it would be bad.

A cubist dinner

My son is a genius.

But it took his mother and I a few months to understand.

"Laah!" means yellow. Of course.

"Hiife!" means five. Of course.

"Nhhh, nhhh, nhhh!" means "Give me those pasta pockets. I swear. Could I be more clear?"

And as further proof of the unassailable fact that my son is a freak'n genius, I present his dinner:



I think this means something...

Daddy knows...ooof!

My son is amused by many things. But his current favorite game is to find someone sitted, back up until he's at the far end of the room, and then run break-neck toward said person. He then bangs his head against that person's gut. Repeatedly.

For the last few bangs, he turns completely perpendicular, so that his nose bounces off the belly-button. Whack, whack... HAHA!

This evening he came running up to a standing KOM like an NFL running back stiffarming ahead of himself. Said stiff-arm caught poor KOM in the nuts.

I managed not to throw up, but methinks my siring days are over.

Remeber when blueballs were figurative? I guess he's done with the thought of siblings.


Plumber-crack, ahoy!

Run, little man! Daddy's so proud!

Like Pied Piper, sans weirdo conitations

I'm the duck at the end of the line.

So.

Prepare yourself for stupidity: Press random buttons and lose

...And then see if anyone else fell for it.

I'm so ashamed. The good news is that the winner gets to buy me dinner. And I swear by all that is holy that I will somehow track the winner down and make that person pay... for dinner.

Sunsets and happy thoughts

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKINAAAAAAAAARGH!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

ROOOOO!

CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

WRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

T-sp, t-sp. I think I have a cat hair in my mouth.

Great moments in television

Once again, I was running random Google image searches looking for a new Avatar, when I ran into a transcript of my favorite Ren and Stimpy. Here for your pleasure, blatantly ripped off from this site, and abridged to the good stuff.

(2002 stupid things to do - borrowing without asking!)





STIMPY: I'll turn off the gravity. It'll help you relax.

REN: What a pal. Ahhh. This is the good life. Just relax...and let my mind drift. Yeahhhh. I'll just relax, and think pleasant thoughts...Chicken pot pie!...Chocolate-covered raisins!...Ehh...Glazed ham!.. Heh...heh...heh...they think I'm crazy. But I know better. It is not I who am crazy. It is not I who am mad! Didn'tcha hear 'em? Didn'tcha see the CROWDS? Oh my beloved ice cream bar... how I love to lick your creamy center! HOOOWWWWWW... and your oh-so-nutty chocolate covering! You're not like the others... you like the same things I do! Waxed paper... boiled football leather... dog breath... We're not hitchhiking anymore! We're riding!

STIMPY: Stop it! You're talking crazy!

REN: Oh no, I know what YOU want. You coveteth my ICECREAM BAR!



STIMPY: C'mon now...

REN: No you don't! You can't take it from me now. I've had this ice-cream bar since I was a CHILD! People...always trying to take it from me! Why won't they LEAVE ME ALOOOOOONNNNE?

STIMPY: E...easy, now.

REN: Back off, man! (grabs toothbrush) Don't make me use this! One stop closer, I'm WARNING ya! Don't make me use it! (Stimpy steps closer) NOW you've done it. YOU FORCED ME TO USE IT!
(horrible sounds as Ren brushes his teeth. They struggle.

REN: Eeee...eh...I'm hurting. (collapses)

STIMPY: You poor crazy kid!

[Bridge. Ren dictates into log.]

REN: Captain's log. I'm tired. So tired. I can't believe my own partner attacked me. Maybe...if I occupy his MIND with more DUTIES, I can control his... space madness.

REN: Now, listen, Cadet. I've got a JOB for you. See this button? DON'T TOUCH IT! It's the HISTORY ERASER button, you FOOL!

STIMPY: So what'll happen?

REN: That's just IT! We don't KNOW! Maayyybeee something bad?... Mayyybeee something good! I guess we'll never know! 'Cause you're going to guard it! You won't TOUCH it, will you?



ANNOUNCER: Oh, how long can trusty Cadet Stimpy hold out? How can he possibly resist the diabolical urge to push the button that could erase his very existence? Will his tortured mind give in to its uncontrollable desires? Can he resist the temptation to push the button that, even now, beckons him ever closer? Will he succumb to the maddening urge to eradicate history? At the MERE...PUSH...of a SINGLE...BUTTON! The beeyootiful SHINY button! The jolly CANDY-LIKE button! Will he hold out, folks? CAN he hold out?

STIMPY: NO I CAN'T!!!EEEEEYAAAHHHH!

Yesh, for the shake of all mankind...

Picard at McDonalds.

Fillet o' fish.



Yesh.

Get.. it.. out.. of.. my.. HEAD!

THE AMERICAN:

Bangkok, Oriental setting
And the city don't know what the city is getting
The creme de la creme of the chess world in a
Show with everything but Yul Brynner

Time flies -- doesn't seem a minute
Since the Tirolean spa had the chess boys in it
All change -- don't you know that when you
Play at this level there's no ordinary venue

It's Iceland -- or the Philippines -- or Hastings -- or --
or this place!

COMPANY:

One night in Bangkok and the world's your oyster
The bars are temples but the pearls ain't free
You'll find a god in every golden cloister
And if you're lucky then the god's a she
I can feel an angel sliding up to me

THE AMERICAN:

One town's very like another
When your head's down over your pieces, brother

COMPANY:

It's a drag, it's a bore, it's really such a pity
To be looking at the board, not looking at the city

THE AMERICAN:

I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine
Whaddya mean? Ya seen one crowded, polluted, stinking town --

COMPANY:

Tea, girls, warm, sweet
Some are set up in the Somerset Maugham suite

THE AMERICAN:

Get Thai'd! You're talking to a tourist
Whose every move's among the purest
I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine

COMPANY:

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble
Not much between despair and ecstasy
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble
Can't be too careful with your company
I can feel the devil walking next to me

THE AMERICAN:

Siam's gonna be the witness
To the ultimate test of cerebral fitness
This grips me more than would a
Muddy old river or reclining Buddha

And thank God I'm only watching the game -- controlling it --

I don't see you guys rating
The kind of mate I'm contemplating
I'd let you watch, I would invite you
But the queens we use would not excite you

So you better go back to your bars, your temples, your massage
parlours --

COMPANY:

One night in Bangkok and the world's your oyster
The bars are temples but the pearls ain't free
You'll find a god in every golden cloister
A little flesh, a little history
I can feel an angel sliding up to me

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble
Not much between despair and ecstasy
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble
Can't be too careful with your company
I can feel the devil walking next to me

Open letter to oxymorons

To whom it may concern:

Regarding: "What Condition My Condition Was In"

Kenny Rogers?

What the bleeding fuck is that all about? Why didn't anyone let me know?

Did Dolly Parton sing "I Wanna Sex you Up"?

Did Roy Orbison sing "Creeping Death"?

What about Billy Joel's "Fairies Wear Boots"?

Amy Grant's "Run to the Hills"?

Bronson Pinchot recites "The Charge of the Light Brigade" as Balki? (Haff a league, cozin!)?

Honestly, what the fuck? I mean, why do I even pay taxes?

Oh, but we had fun

The first place that I moved into after leaving my parent's house was referred to as the "crash pad"; fondly if you were a guest, not so much by those of us that lived there.

I have enough stories from the 12 months in that location to fill several blogs. But tonight, I'm just going to share a couple of choice Mad Libs born of too much partying by college-age wankers.


More Father Goose Rhymes

Little Boy Blue come blow your hootchie.
The sheep's in the falice,
The cow's in the marygold.
Where is the sickly boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the erect nipple, fast asleep.


Mother And Son

Mother: Junior, you come right inside. You're late, and your supper is getting slimy.
Son: Aw, mom. I've been out playing pussy ball with some of the other goat herders.
M: Well, get inside. And don't forget to wipe your muddy orgy.
S: Okay, mom. Can I watch television while I eat? There's a stinky new show on.
M: No, not while you're eating your hermaphrodite.
S: But mom! "Have Gash, Will Travel" is on.
M: No, sir. You've been watching too much TV. You're liable to strain your yeast infection.
S: Gee whiz! That's my favorite program. It stars Don Knots as the gunslinger.
M: Never mind. Go and wash your hammer.
S: Aw, mom. I don't have to - I'm gristly.
M: Don't talk back to me, young man, or I'll have to speak to your hymen.


The Plumbers Visit

Woman: Are you the plumber that I sent for?
Plumber: Yes, madam. I came over as freakishly as I could. Is there something wrong with your steamy gob?
W: No, it's my stain. The sticky, crumbly thing is all stopped up.
P: Have you tried cleaning it with a toothy snatch?
W: Yes, but there was too much diarhea in the meatloaf.
P: Well, fuck me! This looks like it's going to be a twitchy job!
W: Do you think I'll need new maggots?
P: Well, if you pelvic thrust is cracked, I'll have to tighten your fishmongers. Then I can tell.
W: All right. But just make sure that you don't scratch my sloppy old people sex.


Now, to be honest, none of these are "choice" Ad Libs. But the others I had to omit for being too vulgar. And as an aside, for those of you who are 18 or older, and have already ruined your life, these really are much funnier when you're high.

Shall I shop for you... update.

Filtering through some stats, I noticed a link from a Blog with a .jp domain. I'm glad I did - it appears to be a round-up of thoughts regarding the Passion of the Christmas photo that I briefly discussed.

It was fun to see the english translated into Japanese and then back into english. My post would have been much better if I had in fact stated:

"In the boing boing which conveys this insanity to me appreciation. It is a little difficult to understand the left side of this strange Japanese announcement. Stopping the hand of work, you stared this photograph 30 minutes, but whether this has meant what you could not understand completely."

Fucking brilliant. "Stopping the hand of work." Wax on, wax off.

Forgiving the brain-jarringly difficult Google translation, we come to the conclusion:

"However " we would like to see it is thought to happen to see, for example in word of the Japanese christianity magazine life, this poster " the designer or the copywriter are not Christian. They " this is not parody under any condition, problem we would like to raise the fact that Christmas of today loses original meaning ", that, you say this poster was made. (Omission) you are surprised in the form which sees the essence of this movie than Christian, ", don't you think? it is to have caught favorablily. Here you call difference of culture?"

Yep. I think we would definately call it a cultural difference.

Humor gone awry

This is even scarier than I intended. I was going to label it drunk white-guy speaks R&B, but it should perhaps be titled neighborhood pedophile watches the kids walk home from school...

And yet, against my better judgement, here it is.

You better dip that thang.

People are fucking weird

No, this isn't the beginning of a Seinfeldesque rant about foibles.

I mean simply to say that all of you are absolutely out to fucking lunch.

I'd stated before that I'm a solipsist. Then I recanted. Well now I'm re-stating, or, er, un-canting.

I'd love to say that I mean everyone except my family, friends, and local blog community. But I mean all y'alls.

Smartass asks, "If you're a Solipsist, why bother explaining yourself? Why bother even blogging?"

Well, Smarass, it's to entertain the voices in my head - so that you all will quiet down for a while. I mean, I know that you all go into cold storage when I'm not thinking about you or talking to you. I know this. But sometimes I get confused and pretend that you are all real people.

You see, Mr. Cruise and I are onto something. We've both realized that we're not crazy - it's the rest of you. So stop making me hit myself. I'll tell you a bedtime story if you promise to stop.

"Once upon a time there was a King. A King of Mediocrity. Unlike Midas, everything he touched turned... well, to the middle of the bell-curve, anyway. He didn't live on the street, but he had house-envy.

One recent day, he had an epiphany! He realized that it was much more fulfilling to post whatever the fuck was on his mind.

It turned out that there was very little on his mind, but he managed to fill page after page with crap. This made the King quite happy. He could even say things like 'Numer nine... number nine... number nine... number nine... number nine...' indefinately. It was quite mediocre, to be sure, but the grass is always greener, yadda, yadda, yadda.

[I told me to stop hitting me, dammit.]

The K.O.M. suddenly realized that he had run out of gas, and that the post that he was writing should draw to a close. It made him laugh to think that it had no reason to exist, and moreso that it made no sense.

The laughs of the King made flowers grow, poop shine and castrati sing alto."

The fucking end. Off to bed with you.

Sweet justification

Several years ago, there was a full-page splash of Christopher Walken's face in a magazine. I did the one thing that anyone would do and cut out the face to make a mask. I even cut a little hole out of the mouth, so that I could stick out my tongue.

I say "that anyone would do", but apparently most people just thought it was weird.

Then today, while searching Google images for a new avatar (I'm in a rut, what can I say?), I came across the following picture:



I just knew Mozart liked beer.

Turf brain

"I don't have to worry about what people think of me, whether they hate me or not. People hated on Jesus. They threw stones at him and tried to kill him, so how can I complain or worry about what people think?" - Terrell Owens

Because, Terrell, with Jesus they succeeded.

Dumbass.

A brief dream VIII

They must be putting something in the water...

I have two jobs, and they have intersected at an unlikely place.

My main job is working for a corrupt Union boss, making sure that the cops never get too close to the truth about the "disappearances" that seem to come up every time there is a labor dispute. Instead of an office, I sit at a grade-school desk with 30 or so other operatives in a preschool. For our latest efforts, we all got $10K bonuses printed on a check emblazoned with Mr. Peabody.

I also moonlight, on retainer, for a Japanese game developer and Anime director. He is just known by "Akira", being too cool to have two names. While he makes animated movies, he likes to use real set pieces. And wherever he films, he brings his cats.

He always loses his cats, though. I am there to find them.

By a strange turn of events, the scene of one of the "disappearances" is also one of the lots that were being used as a set piece. I was madly trying to explain myself to both the cops and Akira when I woke up.

Shall I shop for you, par rum pum pum pum...

Thanks to boingboing for bringing me this insanity -


It's a little difficult to make out the left side of this bizarre Japanese advertisement, so visit the original link.

Now I'll always picture Jesus whistling bad mall Muzak; his only cross to bear is apparently making sure he gets his girlfriend the perfect Christmas gift. Oh, the irony.

I particularly like Santa in the background. Nice touch.

I've spent the last 30 minutes staring at this thing instead of working, and all I can say is: "Whoa." I have absolutely no idea what it's supposed to mean. Every time I think I'm close, I notice something else.

They should use this picture to replace Rorschach blots.

Beam him up, er, someone.

James Doohan has passed. May his heaven be Klingon-free.

LP gets lucky

A first for Lacivious Polyphony: we have managed to procure a guest speaker. And not just any old earthquake expert or 'hummer in the White House' pundit, but J. K. Rowling. The author is here to tell us a bit about "The Hydrophiliac Purple-one".

JKR "That's Half-Blood Prince."

KOM "Of course it its. You can understand my confusion. Please tell us, Mr. Rowling, where your name comes from?"

JKR "I'm a woman."

KOM "Of course, all people come from women! Extraordinary answer. Is it hot in here to you?"

JKR "No, I'm MS Rowling."

KOM "Good for you! Learn to cook and you might just be a missus some day."

JKR [staring]

KOM "Hot enough for you? Haha."

JKR [eyes narrow]

KOM "I understand that you write books!"

JKR "What, did the tape just start? Were you messing with me?"

KOM "Tape? Haha. I like your style. Now, my wife has read all of your books, but I'm afraid that I can't be bothered."

JKR "A Heathen says what?"

KOM "Wha- Nice Mizz Rowling. Almost got me! Can you please tell our readers, what's a dickfore?"

JKR "A dickfore?"

KOM "Hahahaha. Oh, priceless. You heard it here first, folks."

JKR "I really don't know where these questions are-"

KOM "Hey fat chick, you ticklish?"

JKR "What?"

KOM "You know, you Humpty-dance?"

JKR [standing] "I think this interview is over. Why would you ask something like that?"

KOM "Precious, sit down now. Don't be square! I'll be asking the questions."

JKR [staring, slowly sitting]

KOM "As I was saying, I never read any of the books, but I saw the first couple movies."

JKR "Thank you."

KOM "For what..."

JKR "-Your interest"
KOM [simultaneously] "...My boredom?"

JKR "What?"

KOM "Hahaha. Tell us about the new book."

JKR "Well, I don't want to give too much away-"

KOM "-No worries, it stays in Vegas, so to speak."

JKR "What?"

KOM "Nothing, please continue."

JKR "Well, Harry Potter finds himself in a-"

KOM "Harry who?"

JKR [suddenly leaves]

That went surprisingly well for our first celebrity interview. My sources tell me that Grisham can get violent, so we are trying to contact Jesus. Something about a Bib-el-eh. Whatever, we'll ask him if he agrees to come down. Good night.

A brief dream VII

There was a row of tall, closely packed houses, and I was playing some OCD/Hopscotch game and jumping from rooftop to rooftop, following a couple of girls. Finally, I came to the last house and couldn't figure out how I was going to get down.

After some work I managed to get to the ground safely, right in front of the crew from Jackass. They took me back to their trailer, and told me that one of them was going to jump off the roof of the same house that I had climbed down. I asked him to wear pants, because I didn't want to see his shin bone sticking out when he broke his leg.

On the way to the house, the Jackass crew turned into patchouli and dumpster-diving variety street hippies. We were going to watch Dave Mathews at a free concert. The opening band was dressed in Anime-looking robot outfits, dancing... erratically.


Dance! Dance!

Then there was something about a giant rat.

Getting a grip

I haven't been this embarrassed since I posted about playing a game of chess for the "rights" to a girl. Thanks for throwing that one back in my face, btw, V. ;)

I woke up Saturday morning (well, afternoon if you must know) with one burning need - to delete the last post that I had written. I think I must have had nightmares or something. Picture me, black and white, clutching the sheets and sweating. Various versions of my head pop up and surround me, all moaning variations on the theme "Validate me!", "I'm not good enough!", "Did I leave the iron on...?"

I woke up, bolted out of bed... and watched Teletubbies with my son. Then I had breakfast. Eventually, though, I turned on the old computer and completely re-wrote the preceding post. I couldn't quite bring myself to delete it. I have edited posts before, but I've never completely erased one. Lord knows that I wish I had. But I did the next-best thing and just wiped the crap that had been there, and put up a for-rent sign. BTW, if anyone wants to leave a post in that space, you're welcome to it. I don't charge much, and the location is... well, it's okay. Okay, it's shit. Imagine being bookended by these last few posts! I mean, it really never had a chance in hell to begin with.

It's come up thousands of different times, and on thousands of different blogs. It must be a sign of taking oneself too seriously, and that is why I'm embarrassed. I did in fact have an arbitrary number of visits that I thought I would never achieve (thank you, one time Google-leading "Doodle Bops" listing), but since I though it was impossible, or at least unlikely, I never really thought about it. Truth be told, this started as a way for me to post crap. Like, I guess, everyone else.

And then someone replied.

Oh, Jesus, I should have removed replies when I started this. I didn't know any better. One minute you're writing crap for yourself, then next thing you know you're trying to refine that crap for people that you've never met. Like Super Man squeezing a lump of coal into a diamond - except, when you squeeze shit it just oozes out of your fingers. I got to thinking so much about the people that read this pittance that I started to freak out. "I owe it to the people!", I thought. "Must entertain!", I fretted.

I guess I completely lost sight of the goal: to publish my own crap to the world wide web, people be damned. For my own amusement. And even more truthfully, as I've stated before, it was really just an excuse to try to learn a smidge of HTML.

Don't get me wrong - I often type things where the best response I receive is "Hunh?". That makes me feel almost as good as getting 20 replies.

Look, people. There's way too much drama going on with these blogs. It makes sense, because blogging is just a microcosm of meatspace. Still, I'm sorry that I got confused and started to take it all seriously. Shit, even apologizing presupposes some real interest in this and you. I can't win.

I've been too embarrassed to read the replies to the last post. I'll let them sit in the graveyard, and assume that they weren't overly critical. If you all come back, great. If not, I will still probably keep this shit up from time to time. And I will continue to read you all, if nothing else. What else would I do when I should be "working"?

Update 7/16/05 2:33pm

The last tenant of this space was whiny and indulgent, so I had to evict.

Link of the day

I'm still creeped out by the Electric Grandmother, but this is one Grandma that I can completely get behind.

Game on.

Painful childhood memory, V1.0

I ran across this post by Smoking Trash, and was reminded of a childhood "indescretion" that still haunts me.

I had this Lite-Brite toy and loved it. I would use the "paint-by-numbers" templates to make Warner Brothers Cartoons, Super Hero's, etc.

But one day I got creative and "drew" a picture of my parents. And me. Holding a gun.

The blood from the matri/patricide oozed along the bottom of the page. I showed my masterpiece to one of my friends and he asked me "Why did you make the blood dark, not red?"

"Because," I told him "it's dried."

Nothing to do with Fraggle Rock!

Sorry, folks. My therapist and I have been going over what, exactly, that last post was all about.

Squeek

Sounds about right.

I've busted my ass for the last week and a half to catch up at work - now I'm ahead of schedule. So, I can either file, or I can spend my free time reading blogs.

I hate to file. But I guess that's like saying I hate to hang by my eyelid. Not many people would disagree. If you like to file, and live in the San Francisco Bay area, I have a job for you. It pays shit, but you'll never get bored.

A couple of questions first: Can you recite the alphabet? If a document is entitled "The Mclaughlin Group" does that go under T, M, G, or other? Do you have trouble distinguishing between the concepts of payable and receivable? If you hold your breath for minutes at a time, do you feel any different?

Sigh

I need a helper monkey that doesn't mind hangnails. That makes me think that seeing eye dog is redundant. Would you ask for a useful helper monkey? Are there bling eye dogs?

Wow, that was really lame. Airline peanuts! What's up with that?

Actually, I just noticed that I wrote "bling" eye dong instead of "blind". That is kind of funny. Rex-diddy K-Nizzle.

Shit, I did it again. Eye dong (insert Butthead laugh).

I better quit before I misspell myself into something offensive.

Shout, shout, let it all out

Let's check in on KOM's scream therapy:


FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

AAAAAHHHHHRGGGHHHH!

PIECE OF DONKEY EARED TWATSCICLE!

GAFLUMPTION YARGORDEL!

TOE HEADED TESTICLULAR CELLAR!

SHIT STAINED BUKKAKE REJECT!

SUBTASTIC NOSE GOLD EATING FUCKTARD!

CHICKEN SHIT DUMBFUCK PIECE OF GRIDING GLEET!

It seems that things are still going well.

An observation

I finally had a chance to hang out with Niel this weekend. We had been in contact for most of the week, and he knew that we were going out this weekend.

I called him Saturday night to let him know that I was at a friend's house for her birthday. I told him that we would be going to Henry's (bar) later, and that he should join us.

He told me to call him when we were on our way.

I finally called about 11:45. No answer; left a message. He never showed up.

I guess Niel is getting old, too.

The more things change...

I've been to Dachau twice.

The second time I went, a friend and I walked there from Munich. We spent several hours traveling in circles, trying to find the preserved camp.

After many miles of fruitless search, I stopped an older lady in front of a shop to ask for directions. She didn't speak any English, so I found myself trying to communicate in German. The following is a heavily paraphrased translation:

"Excuse me, do you know where the concentration camp is?"

"What? What camp?" - Here I had made a mistake, and asked about the "Lager", German for camp. I'm still not sure, but I believe that it has the same meaning as camp-ground. Generally a good thing.

"The camp... The area where-"

"Oh, why don't you visit our malls? We have many beautiful parks and buildings!"

"Thank you, but my friend and I are trying to find the camp, the museum, to visit."

"Yes, but it would be good for you to see our churches! Our library! There is an excellent restaurant around the corner - I could show you."

"Again, thank you, but we are just looking for directions to the concentration camp."

She sighed. "Folgt ihr der Schildern." "Just follow the signs." Then she turned, looking very sad, and walked away. Directly across the street was a large, circular sign. A crying face. Another was placed perhaps 100 yards down the path.

Just follow the signs.

I bring this up in lieu of the recent bombings in London. I listen to quite a bit of talk-radio while on the way to, and at, work. There have been messages from every American anagram of an Islamic tolerance council that you can think of. They always say the same thing - that this was a terrible tragedy, please don't hold this against "us".

That's fine, and I understand where they are coming from. I feel no compunction to beat up the next middle-eastern person that I see, but I suppose that there are people out there that can't differentiate between the local kabab retailer and the enemy. On the other hand, and this is where the terrorists have the edge, how do I know that the local kebab retailer isn't just biding time? I can't. You can't. No one can.

I'm going to be religist here, but I can't understand why only words are offered in condolence. Every time I hear a message from the American Islamic Happy-Happy People Society, I struggle, struggle to hear their words and except them. But it just sounds so much to me like Arafat "condemning" attacks on Israel.

My blind spot is rage, and I won't try to deny it. I know in my heart that the vast majority of Muslims are just like you and I. They probably pray more often, but that isn't a difficult goal when compared to an agnostic. I can't believe that most Muslims wish their children to die in a "martyr" attack. To be honest, it sickens me that anyone would be happy with their children's death, no matter the reason. God, is that a cultural bias? Is it possible that people would be happy to sacrifice their offspring? Even God stayed the hand of Abraham before slaying Isaac. Would it have been different if Isaac were encouraged to strap bombs onto himself and detonate them at a cafe? Would Abraham have been proud?

I don't know. But I'm splitting hairs; excuse my digression.

As much as I want to throttle any given Islamic Peace Society, as much as I want to yell "Why the fuck aren't you doing anything other than protecting yourselves? Why can't you help to stop this?!", I remember the old German lady and her sad, sad goodbye.

Follow the signs.

How to waste 45 minutes

Bah! I was going to post something that related to "A Stranger in a Strange Land", but I was blocked at every stage.

I simply wanted to speak about the "objective" observer that accompanied our hero.

Just to parlay into a post about the Judicial nominee.

But Google wants to play games with me.

Home improvement

Ah, the fourth of July. I officially turn 1/2 year older this day. For those of you whose math skills are only slightly better than mine, I think that makes my birthday in September. No, that can't be right. Whatever; as long as I remember our anniversary, the wife will let me know.

I took a big step in my sad, sad emotional life and installed a pet door in the outside garage door. Now the cats can come and leave as they please. The last time I let one of my cats out was a particularly intense experience. But it ended well.

We have one cat that we adopted recently that has been an outdoor cat, so he has come and gone as he's pleased pretty much since we got him. But the other cats are spoiled brats that have grown up inside, and were afraid to walk on grass for months.

I'm happy to say that both of the "indoor" cats have come back several times already, and seem to be enjoying freedom tempered with creature comfort. I just hope that they don't jump into the neighbor's yard when the dogs are out. We also live on the artery, if you will, of the neighborhood. I trust that they think large metal chunks traveling at 30+mph are scary enough to bother moving. But I don't put anything above them, princesses that they are.

The pet door that I installed is a POS. And not even a Star Wars POS, dammit.

The screws are rubber. That bears repeating, I think. The screws are rubber. In fact, they serve very little purpose. You are supposed to drill a hole directly though the door, then jimmy the screws through! They latch on to nuts on the other end.

After less than 12 hours, the rubber "door" portion of the contraption fell off. Now I have to jimmy the damn rubber screws off to re-attach the door. God bless it! Bob Villa is twitching somewhere. My "home improvement" has resulted, basically, in a large, square hole in the outside garage door.

Thankfully, I have a large tree out front from which to hang an engine. If I'm going white-trash, I might as well go all the way. I've also been looking online for design plans for a meth lab. Especially now that I have excellent ventilation in the garage.

Kick up yer heels, Jessup, we's goin' raise some shit tuhnight!

Return of the flying pig

I've just finished watching what VH1 would allow me to see of Pink Floyd playing Hyde Park for the Live 8 concert. This is kind of a big deal for me because PF has been my favorite band ever since I thought in terms of favorite bands. But I was too young to ever see Waters perform with them.

It's sad, really. On my deathbed, I'll be looking over my life accomplishments and think of how great it was, that time back in 2005, when I saw Pink Floyd reunited and in 2D on my 19" bedroom TV.



The set list isn't what I would have chosen (well, okay, I probably would have closed with Comfortably Numb, too), but indicative of what you hear played on the radio anymore. So I can hang. And I'm so glad that they didn't look or sound as foolish as I imagined. I guess I have Stone's fans to thank for permitting graying rockers to continue to play. Even the Who didn't look too bad. Hope I die before I get old, indeed.

But am I the only one, the only one in the world, who believed in his heart of hearts that they were going to dig up Syd Barret for an encore? I guess I had no reason to expect it, it just felt right.

Maybe we'll have 3D TV by the time the real reunion takes place. Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Mmm. Urine soufle!

I have mentioned before that I worked as a server for 5 years. 5 long, long years. 5 excruciating, scuicidal years. 5 mind numbing, foot killing... where was I?

I worked in a local Italian chain, Mary's Pizza Shack (well, that finally pinpoints me -- I'm looking at you, TE. Know me now?) While the information below has been covered extensively, and with much more wit, at Waiter Rant, I just wanted to add my two cents from across the kitchen.

Don't eat out if you are on a budget. Don't eat out if you are cheap. Let's be honest for the people that don't know how to cook: restaurants are much more expensive than eating at home. But you don't have to do the dishes. And that's why you tip your server.

Understand that your tip does not go directly into the server's pocket. There are the bussers, the hostesses, the cooks, the prep-people, etc., to tip out. That's a lot of mouths to feed. Thank god that they get paid better than your server.

Your server makes minimum wage, or less. As long as the government thinks that you are making, with tips, better than $5.15 (or whatever the hell it is, nowadays), the proprietor can pay you whatever they want. I generally took home $300-$500 per month in wages. You see, whether the server is tipped or not, the government wants a piece. Keep that in mind, people - tipped or not, you contribute what you should have been tipped. There is very little in life more frustrating than bending over backwards for the right to have to pay for having waited on your table.

The nationally understood tip is 15%. Although Zagat's pins it at better that 18%. People, oh people, this does not mean for excellent service. This is for adequate service. If you don't notice the service, then it begs at least 15%. If you do notice the service, then it was sub-par or excellent. Tip accordingly. But keep in mind that if you decide to go out at 7pm on a Friday night and it takes a while to get your food, it's not your server's fault. If you go out for a smoke and see your server smoking a joint behind a Pinto, then you may shaft the fucker. But if you see your server running his or her ass off, and you're waiting too long for your food, blame the restaurant. It's too cheap to hire more staff. Let me repeat: this is not your server's fault.

One final tip comment. If you are too stupid to move the decimal and multiply by 1.5 in your head, then double the tax. Otherwise, feel free to do the long multiplication on the tag. No one will mind, as long as it's a good tip.

Now for some pet-peeves:

Most dinner salads are lettuce, toppings and "dressing". This does not mean that salads are ranch soup. But if you like to eat ranch dressing by the bucket, please make it clear when you order the salad, not after it's been delivered.

Speaking of which, I know that you have to have your dressing on the side. I know you do. But please know that this is a pain in the ass for all involved. Your tippage has just increased.

And the same for specific requests. "Special orders don't upset us" is a marketing tool, not reality.. You know it's a pain in the ass, we know it's a pain in the ass. Your tippage has just increased. And if there is a single caper that you specifically requested not to have, brush it aside or politely ask that the dish be replaced. Nothing is gained by your being uppity. Most of you are not Oprah.

And as for being rude to your server, I hope that you like urine. Remember that these people are often not only preparing your food, but serving it to you. Woops, did I wipe my ass with my hand? Again? Mmm. Pasta con Cigarette ash? Remember that servers are petty, vindictive assholes because they do a shit job for shitty customers. But a smile, a little understanding, and a tip can work wonders to miraculously preserve the edibility of your order.

Unless you come in at 2:30pm, and the restaurant is empty, don't chat up your server. They are going to be far too busy, and really don't care. If you're a lonely old person, your tippage has just increased.

Speaking of old people: We know that you're on a budget - please see the first thing that I wrote about eating out. That said, if you are particularly cute or have really good stories, the tip may be overlooked. But first, make sure that you come in when it's not busy. Second, if you have to ask yourself whether you're a cute old person, or whether you have good stories, you aren't and you don't. Enjoy your raisin bran and Jerry Fallwell. At home.

Pay attention, now. This is as important as tipping: Do not, under any circumstances, enter a restaurant later than 30 minutes before closing. This marks you as a child molesting wife beater. Why? Because there aren't words in the English language that better describe what a despicable asshole you are. If you're starving go to Taco Bell, and promise yourself to get out of Yoga class 15 minutes earlier next time.

If you are going to arrive with more than 8 people, no matter what time, call ahead. Otherwise, please be patient and keep your mouth the fuck closed as other (smaller) groups get seated before you.

Finally, and this should be obvious, if you have children in high-chairs, please do not put them in the only corner where the server has access to your table. Do you know how difficult it is to balance 8 entrees on one large tray? Can you imagine how much more difficult it is when you are leaning over Junior's head, hot pasta ready to spill on his delicate pate?

Okay, I'm done for now. I have no doubt that I missed many, many things. But I hit on the truly important things.

So, go out and enjoy yourself! If you ever eat at a restaurant again without feeling guilt for just being there, then either I didn't do my job, or you are a cold hearted dick.

Buon appetito!

A Blogger ate my baby

For some reason, my profile booted Chris. Picture URL was wiped clean. But everything else remained. Very strange.

Since I can't be bothered to go back and fix it, let's take a brief moment to say goodbye.



Alas, poor Chris. I knew him, Blogger: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.

{sniff}