The LP Erector Set

I've bitched from time to time about the notes I keep.

One would think, were one I, and were one actually paying any kind of attention to the shit that spews from my fingers to the blogosphere, that one would take better notes. But alas, one has not yet learned.

But just so you understand what I have to work with, I give you the gilded Tome of LP (scrap x.23 of Y pile):



{Sigh}

Yep, Jerkin' the Vamp. That was the last item not crossed off the list.

What does that mean? Am I admitting something?

I implore you to believe me that I have no idea. I'm mostly sure that I don't mean jerking off a vampire. I'm also pretty sure that Mr. Jerk has nothing to do with it. Sometimes I think that I would give my left arm to remember the meanings of all of the "notes" that I've left myself.

And not just because the right arm is the jerkin' tool.

By the by, I've just noticed that the discerning reader may finally catch the "punch line" to a particularly lame ball of wax that I posted to The Blogger Cooler.

And now, for dramatic flair, I end this post thusly:

Finis.

What goes up, must... LP

Fuck!

I lost the lottery again. I mean, what are the odds?

But one person who has visited Li'l' ol' LP has won the lottery! Not that they'll ever know, and not that they're going to see dime one.

Tonight's LP winner was from 24.37.173.#, Montral, Canada. S/he was directed by my good friend Mr. Commentator to this little piece of the blogosphere. S/he spent exactly 0.000 seconds viewing LP, which is just about the government recommended limit.

Please give it up for our 10,000th visitor. Know that one ten-thousandth of a second was not enough to trigger the balloons.

Seriously, though. I was sure I'd win this time.

A brief dream XII

Last night I dreamed that we were celebrating my mother's birthday in the 'party room' of the restaurant at which I used to work. I was sick with regret for having asked our server, "You're still here?"

My mother decided to stand up and read to us from her several "Odes To Captain Picard".

Later, I discovered that my car had been stolen by an ex girlfriend.

WISMO

Me?

I've been sitting around, mostly. Chewing ice. You know.

The four day weekend turned vomitous and magically became a five day weekend. And now I'm nose to the grindstone, trying to catch up with a week's worth of work.

Rather, I would be, if I weren't typing this and chewing on ice.

Tryptophan

Let's face it - Thanks Giving is far and away the best holiday of the year. It's like Christmas without the stress, and without having to store your toddler in a cardboard box for a few months becuase you don' t have enough money left to pay for day care.

And let's not forget football.

Family. Check.
Turkey. Check.
Football. Check.

Until recently, I thought that Johnny Appleseed was apocryphal. To find out otherwise was really a sucker-punch to my belief system. So if native Americans and heavily-buckled puritans really spent a feast or two together prior to a bitter winter, more power to them. I prefer my myths to have a grain of truth, anyway.

I'm going to be vague this holiday litany, but no less heartfelt:

I'm thankful for my my family.
I'm thankful that I'm here, not there.
I'm thankful that it's coming, but hasn't happened.
I'm thankful for a few more years.
I'm thankful for the accident of my birth in this country.
I'm thankful for all of you, meatspace and cyber.

Shit, this list could go on forever. There's a scene in the movie Dogma where the protagonist has a chance to speak to God and begins, "Thanks for.... everything."

That sounds just about right.

A brief dream XI

Last night I dreamed that a Michael Jackson "sex" tape had been leaked.

It began with him ordering his entourage to hire dozens of prostitutes. After these ladies had fallen asleep in his mansion, he crept around like Nosferatu smelling their hair.

In the morning he refused to pay them.

BASIC Valentine con queso

START:
RANDOMIZE TIMER

I$="love you!"
Am$="in love with you!"

Main:
PRINT "I ";i$

PRINT"I am ";am$

GOSUB SAPPYSHIT

QUERY:
PRINT "So soon, my love?"
PRINT "(y/N)"
querry:
lk$ = INKEY$
IF lk$ = "y" THEN GOTO END
IF lk$ = "" THEN GOTO QUERY
IF lk$ = "n" THEN GOTO START
GOTO QUERY

SAPPYSHIT:
PRINT "Tu es mi burrito grande. Con ventajas."
PRINT ""
PRINT "You have to go? Already?"
RETURN

END:
PRINT "Via con Dios, mi Amiga."
PRINT ""
PRINT "Would anyone like to teach me to speak Spanish, before I start sounding like Muu-Muu?"

STOP

Where's the beef?*

I think I've mentioned before that I sometimes wake myself and/or my wife by laughing in my sleep. I don't think it happened this morning, but I still awoke in the early AM hours with a smile on my face.

I had been dreaming about blogging about Sharon Stone tripping on the staircase of her private jet while walking toward a runway press-conference. I coined the word 'tarmactic' to describe her 'fantastic tarmac' tumble. Yeah, for some reason I thought it was pretty damn clever when I was asleep. I'll be filing this under 'A' for Absolutely no bearing on anything - and Apropos.

Despite the fact that this comedic well was obviously dry, I just ran a google-image search for "Gerald Ford Trip". I was presented, predictably, by pictures of a guy named Gerald taking trips in a Ford. So I tried "Chevy Chase Pratfall" and received a much less obvious, though somewhat related, result.

Damn Google.



Did I mean traumatic? Yeah, maybe I did.

All of this, of course, was a preamble to a post that I no longer have the time or interest to begin, much less finish. Basically, it was "What's up with R. Kelly?, v.1.5 - A midget?"


* This post is certified 100% filler, and is not to be considered safe for human consumption.

Post-coital puppet shame

I caught this scene live, on my shower floor.



Is it just me, or does Octopus need a cigarette? Or eight?

Squeel, CA.

We got ditched.

You try following a colorblind maniac from Big Sur to Napa. Red, green, yellow... all the same. There can be only one.

And we were not that one.

So we pulled into the little town of Squeel, CA. They spell it "Soquel", but we know the score. Well, we know it now.

No covert feeling screamed "Children of the Corn". As a matter of fact, nothing overt sent the same message. It was a different kind of horror. Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing any kids at all. "Adults of the Corn". Squeel. Soquel. Whatever.

It was scary.

We pulled off the highway to get a bite to eat. This is nearly always a bad idea. But we were young, invincible and hung-over. Who could have guessed at the Muu-muued horror that would await?

We settled at a hole-in-the-wall "Mexican" taqueria. There were perhaps 3 tables in the whole establishment - we took the four-top.

The woman who emerged, as if by some oily magic, can not properly be described. A puff of smoke, a greasy squeese through each of our legs and then poof, she was ready to take our order. A shock of yellow tangles and an aqua muu-muu leaned far too close to the table and asked "Have yoooou decided?"

Scotty ordered first.

"I'd like the burrito and rice combo plate, please."

"Uno slingback con beanos EEEE tortillalito reeso!"

We all looked at eachother. Better not to make a scene, we decided.

Robyn ordered next.

"The vegetarian burrito, please."

"Vegemitisimo tortillazima shuma con vegetiso, por favor."

At this point, we were pulled, as if by a black hole, to the face of the woman behind the counter ostensibly filling the orders. It was not the woman herself, but her hyper-exagerated eye-rolls that caused the distortion in space time.

"Si, Puta!"

"What??"

"No comprende. Con queso, eh?"

Mike ordered. I think it went without too much of a hitch. Except for when he asked for extra cheese.

"Muy cheeso!" She barked.

I ordered last. "I'll have the relleno lunch with black beans."

"Real-eno con bean-o negro!" she screamed over her shoulder before oozing away as quickly as she'd appeared.

As we waited, we noticed two things. The cook had daggers in her eyes whenever she looked at Muu-muu, and the people outside were crossing the street to avoid walking directly in front of the taqueria.

Our uncomfortable boredom was finally broken by the bravest man in Squeel. He marched through the open door, and rapped his knuckles on the counter. In Spanish, he ordered a glass of the milky liquid that stood on the counter like a gun slinger demanding a whiskey.

"You no drink-o outside-o," chided Muu-muu.

Dude grabbed his drink, then walked to the door and held one leg over the threshold.

"No! No drinko outside-o!! NO DRINK-O! Leche de Viva ONLY INSIDE-O!"

Dude paused to wink at us, then stepped outside to speak with his friends.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Muu-muu was livid, and charged like a lame sauropod after him.

Before the drama could properly conclude, the cook with hate in here eyes signaled that the first part of our meal was ready. Muu-muu twirled back in, tasmanian-devil style, plastic chairs and unbolted tables flying. She threw the first meal in front of Robyn, then dissapeared.

This in fact was my meal, but given the presentation I wouldn't be able to hold it against anyone. The rest of our "food" soon followed.

But Muu-muu wouldn't hand me my plate. She was too large to fit around the cramped table, and not nimble enough to slide it in front of me.

"I can take it," I said.

"No, it's too caliente!" she said, once again butchering her child-like grasp of the language.

"I've worked in a restaurant for 5 years... I can handle it."

"NOOOO!! No food-o tu burn-o!" she screamed back, and morphed into a slick eel, compressing her considerable mass into a single appendage and slamming the luke-warm platter in front of me.

I didn't look at anyone else's food, because I was tragically tansfixed with my "relleno".

I love rellenos. I try one nearly everywhere I go. Some are excellent, some are ok. Some are bad. Only one has been Squeel.

My Squeel relleno was a turd stuffed with american cheese and wrapped in a limp tortilla. At this time I was still a bachelor and was used to, shall we say, unique combinations. But my heart and my stomach both "ran for the border" and took refuge in my balls. It was truly awfull.

I don't remember anything after this point until we stopped for gas some time later. Stretching our legs, we all looked at ourselves and asked "Did that just happen?"

Well, it did, or it didn't. We've never been able to find "Squeel" on the map.

If you're ever driving in the southern wilds of the Bay Area, and see a town called Squeel, Soquel, or any permutation of those letters, I suggest that you drive right on. If you must stop, I suggest that you take a piss in the bushes and get right the hell back on the highway.

If you must eat, I suggest that you go anywhere but a hole-in-the-wall "mexican" restaurant. Unless you'd like to meet Muu-muu and the vampire cook. They have milky liquid and damp tortillas. And they hunger.

I should have related this for Halloween. The children of the Squeel will not soon be forgotten.

Evolution of a Thanksgiving poem

I have reason to believe that Chuck Yaeger stole my bicycle. The fish told me.
I don't trust my fish, but I trust Chuck Yeager less. I can throw my fish pretty far.

I believe that Chuck
Yeager stole my bicycle.
The fish told me so.

I don't trust the fish,
I trust Yeager even less
I can throw fish far.

????Yeager ????????????????? ?????????????, ??????????Yeager ? ??????????????????????

I where the chuck Yeager steals my bicycle believe. The fish so informed to me. I the fish, do not rely on the Yeager which is relied on less than me. As for me it can throw the fish directly.

While I'm still in this mood...

LP Presents: The Parents of the Year Award

I just finished reading a very distressing article about Australia's first Wrongful Life lawsuit.

It seems that Alexia Harrington, 24, is suing a Dr. Paul Stephens, because "[h]is negligence resulted in the birth of a child who is 'profoundly disabled.'"

Alexia was born deaf, blind, spastic and retarded.

Alexia's mother matter of factly states that had she known of the possibility of birth defects resulting from Rubella, she would have had an abortion.

Wow. What an amazing thing to tell your kid. "If we'd known you were going to be a burden, we would have ripped you out before you could inconvenience us." Well, apparently it's put the zap on Alexia's head. Sur-fucking-prise.

If you don't think that you should be on Earth, shouldn't you kill yourself? And if you won't kill youself, isn't that an implicit statement that it is better to be alive, regardless?

Oh yeah. She's deaf, blind, spastic and retarded. She isn't suing anybody. Her parents are. The suit is under Alexia's name, because the statute of limitations has expired on her parents filing. How fucking sick is that? To have your daughter file a motion against her own existence?

I pray that I'm never in the position to even have to think about those kinds of choices. Perhaps I am simply not qualified to pass judgement on someone who is in a far more difficult situation than I.

Or perhaps her parents are just fucking monsters.

Melancholy in the land of LP

I'm sad.

Not weepy sad, more like nap-time sad.

Frustrated, I guess one would say.

I've spent a good deal of time this evening reading political blogs. That is my mistake, I know. I shouldn't expect any consolation. Why I do this to myself, I don't know. Since I was just 18, I've flipped the radio between far-right radio and far-left radio. I do the same now, but with blogs and news sites.

I've always tried to find the synthesis between the two. The middle ground that isn't hype or spin or bullshit.

Since my brief stint in college, I'd always considered myself a Hegelian. Two faces of the same coin, usw.

But now all that I hear, read or experience is hate. If both sides are hate, what is the middle? Sadly, the answer is hate. Dialectics require opposites. There are no opposites in politics - just different ways to hate eachother.

Perhaps I'm comparing the wrong things. Perhaps politics long ago reached a synthesis that I'd never realized until now.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that's correct.

So, peace. At last. What a beautiful Orwelli-Bradburian pillow that leaves.

I leave only the softest tears on this pillow. For tomorrow, I must account for my emotions.

...Mr. Man just woke up with a terrible cough, and I'm reminded that everything above is absolute grade-A bullshit. Nothing matters, nothing, except for the children. I put him back down, and I think that he will sleep again. He sleeps on a pillow without tears, without fears, without accountability.

For now.

The end of innocence

Dear Daddy Woo-Woo,

I've broken promise after promise to you. It breaks my heart, but the only way to keep you safe, to keep you innocent is to stow you in a box in the closet. I know that you're there, and that's enough.

Incidentally, I've heard that they made a drink for you. How banal. And you know that I don't care for hefeweizen.

"Squeek?" you ask? Yes, sadly, there is more on my soul than cocktails. I was just trying to buy time. You know that. You've always known.

Yes, today I broke one of the last promises to myself. The seal has been busted wide open, and only kill-bots and leathery-winged demons will be dragging my sorry hide from this mortal coil. Today I...

{Squeek, squeek}

Ok, Woo-Woo. I'm not going to pull any more punches.

Woa! Did you see that? A thing just happened! Right here! Do you want to talk about... that?

{Squeek!}

Ok, my first, favorite and furry friend. Today I activated a cell phone.

I know, I know. It was up there with "never do heroin" and "refrain from buggering animals that can kick back." I never meant to hurt you. Or us.

You see, the woman that replaced you as my soul mate, my confidant, asked me to do it. Stop it, you know that you were only my childhood guide. We've both known that you would finally outlive your usefulness. We both knew. Didn't we?

{SQUEEK!}

Get ahold of youself, Woo-Woo. We talked about marrying this woman. We squeeked at length about her future potential. You were the one that told me to take the plunge! I can't let you back out now. I've kept my end of the bargain -- you're still here, aren't you?

No, Woo-Woo. It's a disposable phone. Prepaid minutes, late 80's-style clip-art graphics. My microwave has more on-board RAM. As we discussed, it's only for emergencies. And there is only one emergency for which it will be activated.

{Squeek?}

Yes, Woo-Woo. The new arrival. The soon, too, too soon, baby. That phone will live with me, day and night. Just in case, for any reason, my wife is not with me.

Yes, I know, I'm separated from a land line perhaps 1 hour a day. But it's in those commuting minutes that anything can happen. I want to be able to turn the Honda around like a stock car racer and accelerate toward birth. If need be.

Yes, you're also right. The last time that I borrowed her cell phone, for the same reason, it almost caused an accident. As you know, I was driving down the highway when the unexpected and unusually loud ring-tone caused me to swerve in and out of on-coming traffic for the better part of a minute. And that wasn't even a false alarm - it was my sister asking me why my wife didn't have her cell phone on her.

Woo-Woo, I tell you that it's different. I only have a few pre-paid minutes, and I won't give the number to anyone but the wife. I will not be calling home to check on the status of the crock pot. This is not a joke.

{Squeeeeek}

Yes, it's all a big ball of bologna. There are legitimate reasons why I now own a cell phone, but they can never make up for the reasons that I've always stated that I never would. But it's all for you, Daddy Woo-Woo. So that you'll have another child to play with. Another child to... It's all for you, Daddy Woo-Woo.

Hasn't it always been? Haven't I always provided? Haven't I always agreed?

What won't I do for your sewed leather eyes and apple-embossed apron?

I've given you the children, Woo-Woo. All that I have. Can't I keep the cell phone? Just this one thing?

Please?

Woo-Woo?

Bushism V

Because the poor are already reaching the stars:



South Carolina Republican debates; February 15, 2000.

Friday come and me wan' go home

Today I have:

Driven to the bank to get documents notarized.

Driven to another bank to make a deposit.

Driven to the post office to pick up the mail.

Finally realized that it's Veteran's Day.


--- Update 11/11, 4:15pm

...Read yet another disgusting tirade by schlock cock Bill O'Reilly. SF Gate has a pretty amusing take on his 'No Spin Zone' comments here.

I just want to say that I can think of no better way to honor the lives of our soldiers than by offering the terrorists to blow up one of our most important cities. As Sean Hannity would say, "Bill, you're a great American."

This post was funded by Taxpayers for KOM

Fucking Warren Beatty wouldn't stop calling me. I've been forced to screen all of my calls for the last couple of weeks. Still, he left a message every day.

BEEP "Hey guy," {wink, tooth sparkle} (what, you're answering machine doesn't record these details?) "I just want to talk about the issues concerning Californ..." BEEP.

Not to be outdone, Schwarzenegger took precious time out of his skirt chasing to leave similar messages. Really, the only difference was that his issues concerned Kall-EE-for-knee-ah. I'm not sure where that is, but it sounds Polynesian.

It's like I've got my own paparazzi of celebrities. Bizarro-paparazzi. Bizparazazipa.... whatever. The only way I knew that I hadn't died and gone to hell was that Barbara Streisand wasn't leaving me messages. I have a weird image of her running hell's cafeteria, so it wouldn't surprise me if she were also in charge of Ma-Hell.

Speaking of celebrity endorsements, am I the only one who thinks that sending Bush to Virginia made about as much sense as sending Skeletor?

"Hey guy," (yes, this is how all celebrities start sentences). "Ack ACK ack! Wahahaha! Vote for Kilgore, pathetic fool!"

Actually, seeing that typed out makes me think more of a Muppet General Zod. "Bow down, wakawakawaka!"

I think it's finally over, at least for another couple of years. Beatty and Begley, Jr. can walk arm in arm into the sunset, knowing that they helped annoy millions. I, for one, won't be surprised as I get dropped like a dog-headed booty call come morning, now that I've blown my voting wad. And I sure as hell won't miss the messages.

On as serious note, one very good thing came out of this whole carnival. 8 of the 9 Dover, PA school-board members who tried to shoe-horn 'intelligent design' into the curriculum were sacked. The remaining member was not up for re-election. You have no idea how far this goes toward restoring my faith in Americans.

Now we just have to do something about Kansas. Time to start making some calls. "Hey guy," I'll begin.

Men or ideologists?

I took a break from my current obsession, Ratchet: Deadlocked, to sit in on the second half of K-19: Widow Maker.

Already I have too many asides. First: Simply coincidence that both items have titles broken by a colon? Second: I'm such a little bitch about movies - I always tell my wife that I'm not interested, but barring "How Stella Fried Green Ya-ya Pants", I'll usually sit though anything put in front of me. Of course, it helped that cable was out tonight. Which leads to, Third: I've had to listen to the radio all night for updates on the California special election. It's not like I'm missing an episode of Lost or something - why'd cable go out tonight?

K-19 got me to thinking about the War on Terrorism. Rather, the people who are fighting it. On both sides.

The History Channel makes a Holiday Season living by rolling out the stories about wartime Christmas truces, soldiers helping the enemy, chocolates for German children, etc. It never struck me before that this appears to be a European foible. I say appears, because I'm sadly not well versed in world-wide history.

I wondered if this could be easily explained by cultural connectedness. The Allies and the Axis (Japan excluded), both came from a similar background that can be traced back to before the fall of Rome. It would make sense that our holidays as well as our world-view are similar. Why not celebrate Christmas with the enemy? Maybe play a little soccer before the cease-fire ends? They may not always have understood eachother's language, but they shared the common tradition.

Then I wondered specifically about Japan during WWII. Was it simply a lack of cultural cohesion that made the fight so bitter? Is it just a relic of propaganda that makes us think mostly of the Divine Wind, or of their civilians throwing themselves off the cliffs of Iwo Jima rather than be captured?

As an aside, I remember doing a report in 5th grade in which I interviewed my parents about WWII. They were born between 1939 and 1940, and didn't remember much about the war. But I asked them about any stigma with learning foreign languages at this time, and they both remember nothing negative about studying German. Granted, it's long been a language in which the highest sciences have been explored. And even today, how many rural schools are teaching Japanese is America? Still, it struck me that even the dirty Krauts were worth studying, while the sneaky Japs, much less than having anything to teach us, were specifically ignored by all but Military language schools.

I decided that I believed it was in fact more about the ideology of the combatants, than the cultural ties. Although, to be honest, it could easily be argued that the ideology is the cultural difference. But for the sake of simplicity, we'll keep the thoughts separate.

If that same History Channel is to be trusted, the Japanese believed that the Emperor was a deity, or may as well have been. To die for the cause is the highest honor, the greatest reward. Surrendering represents the basest level of cowardice and purpose. While the American may have fought for intangibles like 'freedom', they were really fighting to stay alive; to return to their family and sweethearts. While I won't deny this simple desire to their Japanese counterparts, I believe that the intangible was in fact foremost in their minds. 'Duty', 'Honor', even 'Bushido'.

Still, even the Emperor eventually recognized that the needs of his people outweighed imperialistic design. Complete surrender was finally granted, and we can now enjoy Hello Kitty, inexpensive transistor radios and sushi while still being American.

Islamic terrorists, or at least the ones pulling the strings, don't seem to give a shit. With no specific nation or people for which to be accountable, these leaders can send wave after wave of cannon fodder against the enemy. And the fodder, who willingly die for the cause, are completely taken in with the ideology.

Is that too broad? Can we imagine GI's and Mujahadeen playing soccer together during Ramadan? Can we imagine that, man to man, they can look eachother in the eyes and disagree, but respect the others' situation? Or are we fighting not men, but ideology? Can the two be separated?

'Cuz you know you wanted to know

Many Bothan spies died to bring us this information.

I would also recommend the side-article discussing the Implausibility of the Death Star's Trash Compactor, care of McSweeney's.

This post has been bought to you in lieu of a rant about Terrel Owens. You may thank me later.

K.O.M., Superstar.

Just who the hell do you think you are?

Or, as my favorite David Cross send off states it: "Check this shit ow-ow-out!"

Li'l' ol' LP has gone global. We're infecting pages that have always been, heretofore, verboten. And the first stop on the journey is the Yawning Anus. And if I can make it there, I can make it anywhere.

It's up to you, L.P., New York!

The suffering was unending. Loverboy, Falco and I seem to be the only ones to have escaped the YA torture. I think this might be why he toys with me still. Falco is dead, and Loverboy is fading. It's only a matter of time, now.

My last shout can be read here.

KOM's time machine

Tomorrow I went to the store. Yesterday I will try to remembered to remind myself to have gone to the store, today. But it is tomorrow again, already. Right now, I needed to keep straight what day it was when I will be remembering to reminded myself.

To have befucken, this will be hard.

A complete waste of time III

...Now with commentary!

Yet another glimpse into the search engine keywords that lead unwary visitors to li'l ol' LP


how to suck dick
I guess this one was inevitable.

women's children suck dick
Interestingly, I've learned that most people are the children of women.

Mary "whales blood" "banana leaf"
"Nick Cave fan" "Doubleplusgood"

"beans,beans magical fruit"
The magical fruit. Dumb- pfffft. Excuse me. -ass.

how to make a pipe out of a pencap
Why would you want to do that? Now if you have a bell pepper and a straw...

how to make a poor man's weed pipe
Damn stoners. What were we just talking about?

what does eselsbohrung mean
This made me laugh and laugh. The Google translation is priceless.

paige hemmis nose job
Thanks, Nilo.

"you make my teeth sweat"
That pretty much speaks for itself.

sponge bob fucking pic
Finally, a litmus test for the severly disturbed.

the bird is the word lyrics
Wow, this one's squeaky clean. What gives?

hot albino chick
After some reflection, I say "why the fuck not?"

Retraction

When I woke up this morning, my first thought was that I really didn't like the direction that the last post was headed.

I don't like how it was phrased, and I don't believe that I was as clear about what I was presenting as I had intended. Besides which, it's a whole barrel of monkeys (scorpions?) that I'm not really prepared to deal with.

So to keep things democratic, I've removed the comments feature from both this and the previous post. If anyone did leave a comment, I apologize for copping out.

Li'l' ol' LP will return to her regularly scheduled program after a short nap.

Religion Q&A

People, I'm at a loss.

I would dare to state that the simple majority of the folks that bless me with comments consider themselves religious. Not simply spiritual, but religious.

Yet short of nailing the King of the Jews to the cross myself, I have lambasted, satorized and blasphemed against our favorite savior; still, I get positive comments about my philosophy and world view.

What I'd like to do is get a better sense of you, my reader, through a Q and A. This time, however, I'd like to keep things on a relatively metaphysical plane. Tell me what you believe and why, then in the comments ask me to either counter or support your viewpoint.

Just a few ground rules:

1) No bashers. I'm not interested in attacks.

2) No circuitous questions. For example "Could God make a rock so big that He couldn't lift it?"

3) No stick-in-the-mud's. If you're willing to ask, please be willing to hear.

4) When the comments open, please agree or disagree in a civil manner. We all see things different. That's the spice of life. But if there are any questions about #4, please see # 1.

So, there it is. Ask me anything. Your dialogue is our understanding, and understanding can't be bad.

I plan on keeping this topic open for a week or so. There will be a link in the sidebar for any late-commers.

Fasting on Mount Terrible Two

Mr. Man and I had a strong disagreement tonight.

We are trying to teach Little Guy about manners, and he is usually quite receptive. "Please," we say, and he repeats "peez!" But this evening, shortly after he came home, he wanted a refill of his milk. First Mommy asked him if he could please take the cup over to daddy (I was in the kitchen, near the refridgerator). Little man had a meltdown and disappeared behind the couch. I finally grabbed the cup and filled it with milk. I said "Say please," and he responded "No, no."

I emptied and refilled the dishwasher, all the time offering him his coveted milk if only he would say "please." "No, no." was the invariable reply, if he would even grace me with a response.

"Come, now, little guy, just say "please", and I'll get your milk."

"No, no."

In a flash, it occurred to me that I was Satan tempting Jesus on the mountain. "Hungry? Just say the word and make the stones into milk."

"No, no."

"Well, if you're hungry, throw yourself up into your high chair so that I can feed you."

"No, no."

"Okay, tell you what. All the milk of the Kingdoms of the world, I will give you if you will just say 'please'"

"No, no, no!"

So I put the milk back into the fridge, and Little Man was disconsolate.

Upon further reflection, I've read a couple of things into this exchange. First, I think that I get the idea of "God the Father". It's one thing to read as a son, quite another to read as a dad. I know that he isn't going to starve to death if I refuse the milk. And I would never hold something that he really needs, even out of spite.

But, and God Himself has asked me to relay this message, stop asking The I Am for a bicycle, or a red wagon, or a Barbie, or to catch the winning touchdown. He will provide what you need, not what you want.

He also asked me to tell you that you may, in fact, catch the winning touchdown. This was not by His hand, so he would prefer it if you didn't give him credit. He has imbued you with certain gifts, and he expects you to utilize these gifts. Enjoy and have fun. But remember to give Him praise for all things, not just the minor victories.

Did you remember to praise Him when your last dental checkup showed no new cavities? Did you praise Him when your soufle didn't fall? Did you praise Him when your Blogger post published correctly, and was not lost to the Ether? Yeah, again, minor victories. You've got some work to do.

I prefer to pray once per day, usually when I'm falling asleep. I ask, "Lord, please do not let anything bad happen to my family. If it must, please give me the strength to exact horrific pain upon anyone involved in my misery. Then let me kill myself. Please bless my parents, my kitties, and my household."

I'm not kidding.

Second, it seems to me that Satan is playing the stereotypical parental role. And that is a little disturbing.

He seems to say "Look, you know how to do it, just do it!" I say this nearly every day to Little Man. I am not your servant, figure it out!

We wish to provide our offspring with the best tools that we can provide. Listen to me, listen to us, we know best.

Parents, oh parents, We are Legion.

Jesus seems as petulant as a 2 year-old. Breaking the Sabbath, beating the money exchangers, hanging out with the prostitutes and tax collectors. We wouldn't wish this upon our enemy's kids!

Faith in Jesus is like faith in a 2 year-old. It's difficult, it shows little return, and it causes many headaches. But if you can stick it out, ostensibly, the reward is as great, or better, than watching your own Little Man become a Big Man. Or, that's what I've been told.

You see, I'm still agnostic.

Apropos

Some day's I'm overflowing with ideas for li'l' ol' LP, and other days I am completely dry. On the full days, I tend to write things like "rubber band double dildo toilet crying" on a scrap of paper, hoping that it will jog my memory later. On the dry days, I just stare at the scavenger hunt list, and shake my head.

Today is definately a dry day. But last night I dreamed about posting the following:


APROPOS

Of course, he could be in the pro-life crowd and the pun still works, but given the heat that his cohort has gotten for being gay, I'm guessing that they're all a little more left-leaning.

And yes, this was much, much funnier when I was asleep.