Für Montag

Es gibt immer nächst Zeit.

Es gibt immer folgendes Mal??

Whatever. There's always next time.

Maybe.

Two things, & waste

When I was younger, much younger, I used to hear a buzzing sound. This only occurred when there were no other sounds to hear, often in the overly warm seat in a locked car. The buzz would come slowly, relentlessly. Soon it would be too loud to bear. Could this have been the sound of the Universe, the Om? I wonder.

I hear it sometimes still, but never so poignantly.

The other thing I've forgotten entirely.

So we'll make something up. What do I wish to discuss?

Oh, one thing right now.

No, two things.

First, I heard it on other blogs, and I've felt it myself. It would seem that many people think youthful indiscretion is the same as stupidity. I disagree, and that is that.

Second.. crap, forgot that one as well. But it was huge, man. Woulda shook your world. Better that I've forgotten. Don' t need you all acting crazy.

An imagined exchange

Producer 1: We need to string a few licks together, something hard rock.

Producer 2: Yeah, something fast and ridiculous and in your face!

Joe Satriani: And what's this for again?

P1: We're making a movie about two time-travelling idiots who lay the foundations of a future utopian society.

P2: Bong-head and Theo's Wild Ride.

P1: That's a working title, anyway. We imagine a scene in which a citizen of the future comes back to jam with his heroes.

JS: And that's where I come in?

P2: Sort of... we just need you to record it. We're going to have the actor pretend to play it.

JS: And who's that?

P1: We've got it down to Louie Anderson or George Carlin.

JS: I don't know, guys...

P2: And we're going to have Stevie Salas do the on-screen fingering.

JS: What! You don't even-

P1: {loudly} Allright, somebody get Yngwie on the line!

JS: {softly, head lowered} I'll do it.

Crap.

I should have known someone had already thought of it.

A few posts ago I mentioned that I had a new idea that I was excited about, and was working to figure out how to implement it. Well, it's already been done.

In summary, I was thinking about a 'choose your own blog', but as I tried to come up with material I realized that no single person would be able to write that much. So I was going to make it open, and let people build on previous posts with whatever interested them. Or something like that. I'm too crestfallen to go into detail.

"The Greatest Adventure of all Time" is more of an interactive choose your own adventure story, but the same general premise. And much better executed than anything that I could have put together.

Oh well, at least I'm off the hook from wasting any more time on it. Speaking of which, if anyone is interested, http://chooseyourownblog.blogspot.com is again free.

KOM posts a picture, revels in the past

For those of you who missed the first few pivotal months of LP, I pity you. Go read the archives! But I intended to say that I have posted only one other picture of myself on this blog.

Until now.

The following is undated, but sometime after the whole Germany fiasco. Many more friend than are pictured joined us for this expedition to the "lost coast".


I'm the asshole with the shirt wrapped around his head.
I somehow acquired the nickname "Captain" on this voyage.

The short haired girl with the cigarette growing out of her head had a scene in the movie 'Jack'. She's listed in the filmography as "drug store clerk". She also made a gorgeous bridesmaid at our wedding. Now she's is Fresno. Fresno. WTF?

The guy in the foreground is a post or two unto himself. He was with me when I first went to Germany as an exchange student. Recently, he married a girl who was one of my best friends when I was 22, or so. I've mentioned her here. She's the one that forgot her birth control pills...

Mr. Laughy on the right is the craziest happiest motherfucker that I've ever met. We've had some really good times together, and some that were not so good. But he's a solid guy. I hadn't seen him in over a year when the wife and I got married. The murmur just got back to me a few months ago that he was somewhat offended that he hadn't been invited to the occasion. Sorry, buddy. This one's for you. And yes, crazy ass, I've mentioned you before, as well. He was the one drinking tequila and playing videogames. And just to set the record straight, it was Killer Instinct on the N64, not Mortal Combat.

Why I hate televangelists

Let's see.

Besides this guy,


"Yes, Allah willing, we will strike down Chavez. And the
streets will run with the blood of the communist
sympathizers. Allah willing."

can you think of anyone else who invokes the name of God and then suggests murder?

Anyone?

Uno más

Paint by numbers

I'm taking preorders.

Since I have nothing better to do...

Hey! It's 5:30, and I'm still at work!

And better yet, I don't know why!

The boss won't let me leave, and he won't tell me what I'm doing here!

I guess I could be here all night!


Sometimes I really, really fucking hate working salary.

A complete waste of time II

This time featuring a poem of the last 25 search results that referred to lil' ol' LP, duplicates removed:


i love my mother despite
Biblical teaching against tattoos or defiling the body
i get my kicks above the waistline

sticky white panties
sex kom
sir ious sex

mitch hedberg quotes
Flying Spaghetti Monster
for the sake of all mankind i will have a "small sprite"

I WAS WORKING AS A WAITRESS IN A COCKTAIL LOUNGE
ass hurts? rape
lacivious

beloved ice cream bar
blow up the earth? that's where i keep all my stuff
"space madness" transcript Ren

SpongeBob polyphony
terri hatcher
Doodle Bops

choppin broccoli

Same Weekend - KOM as asshole, V2.0

I had told her that I loved her, once, and I don't think it was untrue. But what did I know about love when I was a teenager?

When you're young, love is patient and kind. To a point.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things... but it seldomely endures all things.
When you're young.

Or I was wrong, and I never loved her.

The other one I loved. I know I loved her because when she left I couldn't eat for a week. I learned that emotional pain can become physical pain, and it can burn for months. I loved her and I hated her and I wanted her and I wanted her dead.

So when she left I contacted the before-girl. The sweet girl who maybe felt something for me like I felt for the other. Which is the real evil in this story.

She came, I came and we came. Then she left.

Somehow the other found out. She still had meathooks in my brain. I thought I still wanted her, and I would have said anything for another chance. I told her that we had just fooled around.

I think she believed me. Still, she tightened the hooks and extended the chain - just so that any freedom would hurt more.

The last time I heard from the before-girl, she had gotten pregnant and been sent away by her overbearing, ultra conservative parents.

Being the victim is horrible. Being the perpetrator is worse. Not knowing the difference, or realizing it too late, is what finaly drags you down, down, down.

One Weekend - KOM as asshole, V1.0

Somehow, I got her to come up from San Diego for a long-distance booty-call.

Yeah, she was the one that had proposed the ultimatum that allowed me to further pursue the girl who I thought was the love of my life.

She was also the freak that allowed us to drag her to Tijuana.

She showed up at my door with her friend. I don't know who the hell this guy was, but she had somehow convinced him to drive up to the Bay Area from San Diego. He said "Hey," then left. She must have concocted some story, indeed.

I tried to clean some things up downstairs, while she "freshened up." Eventually, I went upstairs.

This girl had figured out not only where my stereo was, but how to use it. Unfortunately, the CD and song that she chose to insert was Donna Lewis's "I love You Always Forever". To this day, I don't know where I put my stereo, and I sure as shit didn't know how to use it. So I couldn't turn it off.

Anyhow, true to her word, she wasn't wearing any panties. She let me pull her pants down, let me lay her across my mattress (what, you want a bed? I was 20 years old, living in a two-story safe-house from gang violence! Prioritize, man!)

I must be particularly bad at dining at the 'Y', so to speak, because she got herself up and demanded a proper date before "all that stuff" happens.

{Dinner, maybe a movie... probably not. I don't remember. Let's just say that time elapsed.}

Later, on the floor (mattress, for all of you romantics), I stripped her down. We were making out like rabid seals, when I popped her bra off. Then lo and behold, I spied the longest hair that I've ever seen not attached to a hippy's head - and rooted squarely in her ariola.

I could have flossed with it. All of my teeth. I was going to say something, then I remembered my buddy's tale about the woman that he had sex with that had a "shark fin" clitoris. In my book, that counts as a dick. So I wasn't too, too worried.

I stroked her neck, looking for an Adam's Apple. OK, that didn't really happen. I slightly convulsed and said something like "Wrabbagah!"

"What?"

"Nothing, baby, lay back."

A bit later, I discovered that she was a virgin.

"Why won't this damn thing go in??"

"Ow.."

"Oh.."

The next morning, she decided to be helpful and do the dishes. Helpfully, she put liquid dish-soap into the dishwasher. Helpfully, she turned the machine on.

Helpfully, I instructed her to mop up the 300 cubic yards of foam that squeezed out of the dishwasher. She was non-plussed.

I was furious.

My room mates were really, really high, and thought it was absolutely hysterical. Actually, it was. But I still made her mop up the whole damn kitchen. While I joined them and laughed and laughed.

I'm a bastard, I know. Or at least I was.

But when I last talked to her on the phone, shortly thereafter, she wanted to experiment, as she said, "with butt sex". How's a dog to learn, I ask you??

That's about the time that I thought it would be a good idea to ignore work and visit Tijuana.

Stupid question, laid to rest

If a tree falls in a forest, and no person is present to hear it, there is no sound.

Slowly creeps one more week

Slowly it comes. Slowly. Doesn't it?

As I sit staring at the screen, blue coming in streams, rings and drifts, it comes.

One more week, today.

The radio distracts, but I know. I know. Still, it comes.

A promise not yet uttered, not yet honored. Still it comes.

The days melt into weeks, the weeks into months. I've known for some time now. I've known, but I thought it was for me. I thought I had more time.

But it's not for me. I realized that today. It hasn't been for me for nearly two years.

So it comes. And it creeps. And it worries, and it weeps. It disguises itself, and it's found out. It stays up late, and it goes to bed early. It does what it does only when it's too much. Then it does more when it forgets.

Welcome, and a swift goodbye. I can't be bothered to think of it further. Almost. Another week.

Do I believe myself? I have, and am always disappointed.

One more week.

What dreams may come

Several months ago, I published a brief dream about J. I received quite a bit of ribbing, and I've been somewhat gun-shy since.

Regardless, I've had two other blog-induced dreams to date. They are both a bit fuzzy now. But people, if you didn't give me shit the first time around, I might have been more willing to share immediately after the fact.

I think that I've absolved myself, and I put the onus of weidro truth upon you, reader, to prove to me that I'm crazy.

Anyhow...

Dream one:

I am hanging out in my bedroom at my parent's house. My mom comes to the door to tell me that I have a visitor. It's Sean, from Insight. He jumps up onto my bed and starts to play with a Rubik's Cube.

Several minutes later, J shows up. He sits with Sean on the bed, opposite me on the couch. We decide that this is indeed a sausage fest, and that we need to go elsewhere.

(Dream-sequence cut scene.)

We are at a party, and all of my blogger friends are there. Reese is shaking on the dance platform, Squishi is making drinks, Yawn is in a corner playing with fire... everyone is there and having a good time. (Fuzz-out.)

Dream Two:

My friend Mike and I are hanging out when we realize that we are late for something. We drive around town before remembering that we were supposed to meet Kaci and her husband at their house to watch the kids. Strangely, Kaci and Porter don't go out for a night on the town but disappear behind, and lock, the bedroom door. I wonder what they were doing back there? (Fuzz-out.)


Pin your hangups on me; I expect them. But how can I defend my subconscious brain? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Sometimes babysitting leads to sex. What can I say?

I tell you what, though. If the Sucias can have a Blog-a-thon, we need to do the same thing. I propose that we meet in Vegas, or some mutually middle-ground location so that we can meet eachother in person. It would be interesting, to say the least. Moreso, perhaps, I could stop dreaming about the silly blog-people that live only on my screen, and who infect my otherwise chaste and god-fearing dreams.
(Fuzz-out.)

20-week update

We tell the doctor that we don't want to know the sex of the new arrival, and this is what we get:


Click for larger image.

To be fair, the doctor never said anything except "*cough - not a boy - cough*."

On the other hand, if he's(?) like me, he might have little-little man in hand, and out of view. Either way, as long as s/he's not a hippy or a Cardasian, I'll be happy.

Pop will eat itself

Submitted for your approval:

An advertisement blog hit by a spam comment.

I'm not sure if this is amusing or nauseating.

GUESS

When I grow up, I'm going to invent a search engine for people like myself. That is, people who can vividly recall the flavor and the simile of any given word, but never the word itself. More often than not it's proper nouns (I can't remember actor's names to save my life), but any word will do.

Google User Enablement Sub-System (GUESS). How can I help you?

Um, who's that guy who isn't Nick Nolte?

Gary Busey?

Close. No, same teeth but not completely insane.

Ron Perlman?

or

Google User Enablement Sub-System (GUESS). How can I help you?

What is it when you're not on welfare, but you have money?

Hard Work?

No. More like you don't work, but people talk about you eating hamburgers in a bikini.

Trust Fund?

or

Google User Enablement Sub-System (GUESS). How can I help you?

What's that word... I think it begins with an 's'. I it means something to the effect of not, ummm. No. It means uhh, comes back into your head??

Memory?


Thank you, GUESS. I don't know how I've ever... umm, is there a word for 'make stuff happen without consulting you?'

At what cost?

One month after our son was born, my wife and I celebrated our 1st year anniversary.

We went to the Rutherford Grill, and enjoyed a few cocktails before being seated. I remember that I had the osterich. If you're interested, it tastes like the bloodiest steak that you've ever had. Mild and velvet.

I remember also that I told my wife that I loved her more than my newly born son.

I will never be able to excorcise that claim. I will never be able to take back the words that came from my mouth, nor the feeling behind it. And I will never, never forgive myself.

I was a new father, nothing made any sense. I had probably slept 40 hours in the last month. But my wife had that look in her eyes, like she'd been cheating. It was instantly clear to me that I came second, and always would. This mere boy that I had helped create would always be more important than me.

This was a rude awakening, and a terrible way to spend an anniversary. A first anniversary. So I thought at the time.

Now when I look at my son, my heart swells. Sometimes it's hard not to cry at his sheer beauty. It may have taken a few months, but he has become the single most important aspect of my life. I would do anything in my power to help him, and I would do anything in my power to defend him. I would step over my own mother to catch him up after the most mundane boo-boo.

Woe be anything that attmepts to harm him. I would gladly give my life one hundred times over for the opportunity to exact lasting, painful revenge on anyone who merely slights him.

Sometimes, when I dream, I picture my son... hurt, by forces outside of my control. As if one day, I will exact revenge. As if one day, the earth will shudder under the will of my hate.

I'm not sure that I support Cindy Sheehan. I've stated before that I think she's unwell. It's easy for me, oh so easy, to say that she needs to get over her hate, her pain, her confusion, and join us in the 'real world'. He's been dead for over a year, and no apology from W. will make it easier.

But sometimes, sometimes, I admire her restraint. Retribution would be swift and bloody if I truly believed that Bush were responsible for my own son's death. Somehow, I would make them all pay.

My life is insignificant and expendable.

A new direction

It came to me during a piss, as most good ideas do. Well, except those that come to me while I'm sitting on the same receptacle.

It's too early to discuss my new Opus. I hope that it will not crash and burn like the last. But I really think that this has legs. After all, I don't need any new programming skills, just a bit of perseverance. And a whole hell of a lot of scratch paper.

Intrigued?

I suspect it's already doomed, but I'm going to try anyway. What I need from you, my friends, are a few topics to discuss. And it would be helpful if you could also suggest tangents that you also like to discuss.



Shhh. It's a secret for now. You'll all know in good time.

This country needs more cowbell

It's finally happened.

It looks like Christopher Walken is running for president.

I still can't tell if this is a hoax or not, and I'm too busy at work to look into it. Either way, I see this ending badly. Chris, holding up a toddler as a human shield to protect himself from Anthony Michael Hall, who is trying to snipe him from the rafters.

Twatscicle

Good news, my brothers! As of 11:30 pm, 8/12/05, little ol' LP is listed as #2 on Google for Twatscicle. And #1 on MSN.

My parents would be so proud!

Naysayers would point out that Icicle is spelled without an 's'.

Perhaps, but I decree (and I can do this due to my world-wide ranking on this subject) that Twatscicle is correctly spelled.

I'd like to thank Scream Therapy, as well as the sicko that actually did a web-search for the term. 30 year old virgin, this webby is for YOU!

All joking aside, I've got to do something about all of the "sticky white panties" hits that I receive. I am happy to blame Mel for this, but really, people, it's getting out of control. And who the fuck is actually searching for that?

I could understand "naked hairy bowler diaries", or even "smells like tuna and boobs", but sticky white panties? Why does this keep coming up? You people are unmitigated freaks, that's why. I don't trust a one of you as far as I could throw you. Please direct your searches for panties and tuna elswhere.

I have to admit, though, that my personal favorite is for "scrod". #7 for Yahoo searches, baby!

I promise you that when I logged in, this is not the direction that I intended to take.

The great song meme

It's tag-time, kiddies. Thanks, J, for another hair-pulling excursion in decision making.

I'm supposed to list the 10 songs that I'm currently enjoying. Generally I just jukebox my mp3's or put in an album that I particularly enjoy, so it's difficult to pull single songs out of the air. What I have below is neither an all-time favorites list, nor specifically a "what I'm listening to at this moment" list.

It is what it is:


You and Whose Army? - Radiohead

I like the crescendo it builds, much like Exit Music (For a Film), at first barely audible and then rising into a scream. I've always felt a little bit odd about the song, though. I first started paying attention to it shortly after the 9/11 attacks, and the lyrics are... anti-establishment, we'll say.

Telegraph Road - Dire Straits

Love Over Gold is an incredible album, and this is one of the best from it.

Farther on Down the Road - Taj Mahal

For me, this song represents willfully ignorant hope. Even when I feel that things can't get better, it sometimes makes me think that it's possible, yet.

O'Malley's Bar - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

If you can get over the extreme violence, this is actually a damn funny song. It also raises and then crushes a question of culpability in life. Besides, who wouldn't like a song with lyrics like these:

I swooped magnificent upon her
As she sat shivering in her grief
Like the Madonna painted on the church-house wall
In whales blood and banana leaf

Nobody - Tom Waits

Kind of a self-indulgent love song. Is there any other kind?

The Gunner's Dream - Pink Floyd

One of the more emotional tracks on The Final Cut, which in my opinion is one of the best Floyd albums. I know that I'm in the minority, here.

Help on the Way/Slipknot - Joe Gallant & Illuminati

I love the Dead's Blues for Allah, and this disk helps keep it fresh.

She Fucks Me - Ween

This just epitomizes early Ween. Also reminds me of some of my earlier "relationships".

Intruder - Peter Gabriel

This is a creepy song. This is a very creepy song. This is a very, very creepy song.

Bolero - Ravel

One of my son's Baby Einstein tapes plays a "kid friendly" snippet of the piece, and I'm forced about once a week to listen to it in it's entirety. It fills me with an emotion that I can't put my finger on, which makes it memorable for the confusion.


After piecing this together, I'm out of energy to tag anyone in particular. I'm going to take the cop-out and ask that if anyone wishes to do it, awesome. Let me know so that I can check it out.

Link epiphany

I finally made it over to the Web Miztris. She brings up an interesting topic here.

Far be it for me to judge, but we in the little-people circle of half-assed blogs wish that we had problems like hers. Too many blogs to worry about the blog-roll? I feel your pain.

Seriously, I do. I have 40+ listed on this little POS that I try to visit every day, whether or not I am inspired to comment. And still I can't daily make the rounds.

But something of her complaint reminds me of working customer service, and having to hear the truly pitiful travails of those with 2 or more houses. I know, I know that life sucks. But if you're going to complain about your problems with upper-crust society.. I dunno, perhaps how your servant thinks that she ought to be free... well, then I can't feel too sorry.

But I've hit a tangent. I certainly don't envy or even curse the more popular blogs! Well, envy, maybe.

Shit, I take it all back. If I had just begun blogging and had read what I just wrote, even with my current links, few that they are, I would still have bitched! Who am I to complain about issues that are outside of my experience? Perhaps someday, one day, I can be upset about the chore of blogrolling. One day.

But first I need a few people to read this pittance.

... you make the rockin' world go 'round

On my way home from work this evening, the radio's "Big News At 6" feature was about the NAAFA conference in the Bay Area. Almost as an aside, the "hard-hitting reporters" also discussed some social and health issues realted to obesity.



However, the piece was introduced with a voiceover stating (lightly paraphrasing) that "From all over the US, fat people are rolling into the Bay Area! Apperently, they have some weighty issues to discuss!"

The emphasis is not mine.

Now, even if it were patently obvious that they were making fat jokes during this "Big News" event, they had to push the envelope by playing Weird Al's "I'm Fat" in the background.

(As an aside, I should mention that "Big News" is a daily feature on KGO AM, and not yet another fat reference.)

Can you imagine if the headline broadcast had stated "From all over the US, Mexicans are squeezing 15 people per Datsun hatchback to attend this year's Caesar Chavez Jamboree!"

Or perhaps "In every corner of this great nation, homosexuals are sucking dick for bus fare to attend this year's Gay Pride Parade!"

Am I ignoring a line in the sand? An obvious distinction between fat people and any other minority, whether "colored" or gay? I guess I'm not sure...

Are all fat people lazy slobs that eat ham for breakfast and can't be bothered to walk the dog? Are fatties all brazen meat-sucking, dairy-mainlining, cholestorol-inhaling "drug addicts" that have no control? Are all fat people in bad health, and costing Paris Hilton dozens of dollars in taxes each year?

On the flip side, the NAAFA representatives that they interviewed mentioned several times that America is growing fatter, so we should keep Twiggy out of the fashion magazines. I interpreted this as "we're all going to hell in a handbasket, so let's make sure that we at least accept our fate."

Yet, really, who's a size 6 or less? When the NAAFA representatives applaud "plus" size models, it seemed that they were not talking about land-whales, but "average" women. There's a hell of a lot of leeway there, and I refuse to try to define a universally accepted "healthy body". Actually, I prefer a woman with serious curves. These stick-figure anorexics with their sharp hips and bruise-inducing elbows can sleep with some other, shallower, man.

Cutting the subject short, I guess that I am surprised that on the Left Coast - the Bay Area even, there is a whole "class" of citizens that obviously are not recognized as a minority. It's weird to me that we can't make fun of Aztecs, "Little People", transgendered people, blacks, Asians, Mexicans, retarded people, people with a cleft pallete, people with club foot, people that have been brainwashed by third-tier religions, "handy-capable" persons, drug addicts, alcoholics, ugly people, left-handed people, Pollacks, Italians, the Irish, the French, Bible thumpers, atheists, OCD's, poor people, "transients", illiterates or even Helen Kellar - but there will always be a warm spot in our hearts for fat jokes.

I guess that even the far-left has its limits. "Ewww. Vote Republican, Fatty McFatt Ass.. Eww."

naafa

How stress can hurt you

After our son was born, it took us nearly 12 months to settle the bill between our insurance carriers (my wife was covered on her own policy, as well as being covered under mine). After jumping though flaming hoops, we finally got it resolved.

Now we are insured through Kaiser, which is great for at least one thing: copay and go. But as we've thankfully never had any reason to stay in the hospital, I don't know precisely what costs might be incurred during the actual birth of our new little one.

While I fretted away, I had a day-dream in which the nurse asked my wife if she were planning on having an epideral. I, of course, asked how much it would cost.

Don't worry, honey. I already smacked myself for you.

We don't need no stinkin' shuttle!

To celebrate the safe return of the Discovery, I thought that I would link to an excellent article that calls into question the necessity of the whole collective breath holding that we are just now letting out.

It's a bit lengthy, but well worth it if you are interested in the topic. I don't necessarily agree with the viewpoint, but the argument is well made.

What are you looking at?

Good afternoon. My name is Thomas Jefferson.

You may know me for several documents, or for the fact that I was one of the first presidents (suck it, Franklin! Ha-ha!) I've heard that the whole "Declaration of Independance" thing is quite popular, especially among bickering, partisan twats.



What I would like to know is why have you commemorated me with the Nickel and the terribly useless $2.00 bill? And what's all this shit about Monticello?

I would have thought that I did just a little bit for the founding of this country. Is it the slave thing? That fucker Washington had slaves, too! But he's featured on all of the most circulated coins and notes! All that he did was survive a cold winter. And cross a creek.

Hello..!? We're on the East Coast, here. All winters are cold, biatch. Do you think we had Gortex in the 18th century?

Do you notice my expression on the $2.00 bill? That far away, slightly disapproving look? Yeah, ass-head, multiply that look by 250 years. Jefferson is not happy! We stood up to our times' Superpower so that we could eventually debate "mouth-pleasure" in the oval office? Really?

Well, as the author of Ye Olde Declaration, I retract it all. You fuckers don't deserve it. Have fun with soldiers' quarters rights, or taxation without a god-damn fuck for your privileged, white-assed monkey-sucking "representation".

I've given up on you.

Still, maybe I could be on the 5? Or a dime, at least?

Fuckers.

Very short list, unedited II

Words that I've never been able to work into a sentence:

Fucker Loaf Zeitgeist.

We can send a man to the moon...

This is not a Seinfeldian "what's up with that?" question. I'm actually concerned, or at least interested in the answer:

If you dial a 10-digit phone number, why does the phone company "soothing-o-voice" tell you that you need to dial a '1' first? If they know that you need to dial a '1' first, shouldn't they be able to figure out how to connect you without the "listen up, dumbass" commentary?

Can you imagine a pump-jockey asking "Fill what up, sir?"

Would an Alien quandry "You know, they can't hear you scream in space. Press '1' if you wish to scream, anyway."

Your camp-leader says "I know you're happy, but it wasn't clear if you knew it... press '1' to clap your hands."

Your wife says "Wow - I just noticed that your tongue is up to my cervix. Please press '1' if you were thinking about sex."

Can there be a rational explanation for this breach in intuitive continuation? Is there some dark, secret place that the phone company is trying to keep me safe from, by insisting that I dialed wrong?

I have to ask this again: If they know that you need to dial a '1' first, why the drama? It just plain doesn't make sense.

H - SAS in action?

Active ingredients:

Mineral Oil 14%
Petrolatum 71.9%
Phenylephrine HCL 0.25%
Shark Liver Oil 3.0%


Shark liver oil?? What witch brew have I come across?

But to be frank, I would sit on a Rambone if it made my ass feel better.

Ever since I was sick earlier this year, I have been having recurring episodes with Sad Ass Syndrome (SAS). I keep expecting for a chunk of my colon to drip out of me bumm, but it still hasn't happened.

So I don't know if I have hemorrhoids or not.

Do you think it would help if I stopped fisting myself?

Perhaps it's a pregnancy sympathy pain? You know, the butt-birth theory? The only thing that a man can compare with birth is shitting a 10 lbs. bowling ball.. I get 9 months of painful but manageable shits in place of one single "ring of fire" birthing?

Or perhaps I should pamper the be-hind? "Loofah my ass, please!"

It seems to me that SAS may be a blog-killing condition, especially when it's discussed. Whatever is wrong in my butt, please disregard everything that you've read. Skip ahead (when applicable), or read some archive posts. My ass doesn't care.

"Feed me, Seymore!" it screams.
"Hope you like Shark liver oil," says I.

Real World Riverbank - The Inlaws

Setup:

300 degrees Kelvin, Riverbank, CA.

Mother in law is trying to strap young Mr. Man into his car seat.

Cut to scene:

MIL "Ow! Oh, cramp! This never happens. Owww."

FIL "You need to drink more."

MIL "Water, you mean?"

FIL "Whatever..."


I love these people - I can see this becoming a regular feature.

Religion and KOM - Fool's paradise

I'm going to stay up until I get this right.

I often play around here in my LP playground. In fact, I assume that it would appear to the uninitiated that I am the worst sort of atheist. Case in point: my rolling-stone-level reverend status.

But this was never meant as a joke. I had actually been asked to officiate a (still pending) wedding. What's a guy to do? It was never my mission to embarrass some denomination, but simply to receive legitimate status, per my friend's request.

I have hinted before about my religious belief. But as for most of you out there, it's much more complicated than can be explained in a simple post. But I'm going to try again.

I was raised in a very religious household. My mother, when she was about my age, decided that she was 'born again'. To be clear, 'decided' is an unfair word. For her, it was ordained, and she could not but follow the cause. My father, and to this day I don't understand why, followed suit. But he is much more like myself (or I, much more like him), and has extensively studied his Christian heritage. He went to seminary school for years in order to be a Deacon at our local church.

He has told me that during his final exam, he failed only one subject: morality. It would seem that his humanist leanings are too liberal for the Church. Strange, that.

My mother tells me that when I was but a little tike, I wanted to be a priest. She also tells me that when I was not more than 4 years old, I consciously made a decision to "let the Lord into my heart."

I've never told her that I remember it vividly. I was on the fourth to last step of our staircase, and I prayed to God to redeem me, and to be a part of me. Perhaps for children even more so than for men, true supplication means something. To this day, it makes me feel like a failure since I was unable to live up to my purest ideals.

But life and knowledge get in the way.

I did not simply abandon my inherited faith. Actually, I learned more than I think many have. I would direct you, if you give the slightest shit, to my first post on LP. If you care to read it, I think that I make a very strong case for my points. Still, it was miles away from what I cared about. This exchange was precipitated by boredom, and for all of my arguments, I really don't give a shit. I just like to argue, I guess.

Not being comfortable with simple science, or with institutionalized religion, I spent nearly every credit for which I cared to spend money studying philosophy and religion at the local JC. That's Junior College, not Jesus Christ, smart ass.

Assessing the philosophy that I've studied, I can only come to one conclusion: I don't know. Really.

I never mean to discredit religion. In fact, I think it's an important revelation for the masses. But an opiate, at that. Whatever makes one accept the 'golden rule' is okay in my book. If worshipping gravel makes you a decent human being, then I say good for you.

So. I've got my 'Pascal's Wager' ace in the hole, and that makes it easier for me to be so glib. Still, I recognize that if I were born in India, for example, I would likely be Hindu, Buddhist or even Muslim. What can I say?

Are you sure that if you were born elsewhere, that you would be Christian? Are you sure of that?

I don't know. Really.

Spaghetti Monster

I honestly feel like puking whenever the topic of "intelligent design" comes up. It's been discussed ad nauseum, so I don't think it's neccessary to discuss how absolutely fucking crazy it is to teach a religious point of view as a scientifically verifiable theory.

But if the theocrats are going to pull us back into the European middle ages, I hope they understand what they're getting into.

I didn't know they made bags that big

A woman who works two offices down has her door open, and has been eating 1 potato chip every 2 seconds for the last 45 minutes. If you don't hear from me again, it's because I've scraped my ears off of my head and died from the blood loss.

Oh, GOD, make it stop. It's like crunchy water torture.

Bushism III

Yet another, 'nother post from the education president:

-Florence, South Carolina; February 17, 2000.

Very short list, unedited

Coolest instrumental beginnings of 80's songs that I don't particularly care for:

Morrisey - Human Nature The Smiths - How Soon is Now?

Emotions v.1.0

Let's agree that happiness is in flux; it's the dichotic 'opposite' of sadness.

We clear?

No? Did I just coin an adjective? Sweet.

I forget what I was talking about, exactly.

With any luck, I will revist this subject again. But I will be more prepared.

KOM turns a new leaf

You may notice that the Google Adsense banner is gone.

You had advertisements with Google??

Precisiely.

Honestly, it was a remnant of my earlist days of this blog - seeing if I could copy simple code. After I realized that it was worth crappola, I kept it for the stats. But even this seems silly now that I have a couple of stat counters active. The only thing that it really provided me was amusement - the last time I read my own blog one of the advertisements was titled, simply, STUFF.

Who wouldn't click on STUFF?

Well, y'all, for example.

Whew! Glad to be out from under the yoke of Google. What a task master, she is. Why, all that I had to do was blog occasionally and I could make pennies a week! How could this go wrong?

But now I have my personal 'Keep'n it Real!' badge, so I don't have to worry about being entertaining. Being a reformed Adsense client is like being a reformed smoker. I am better than you, even if you never smoked, simply because I quit. And I have carte blanche to be haughty and judegmental of all websites that advertise. That's cool, too.

It's heavy, people. Heavy. It's heavy being better than y'all. But I will find a way to burden your sins, and arise on the third day with a better post!

I'm looking at you, Mary.

Why did it have to go there? I don't know. It must be genetic. Like my propensity for drink and stick-shaped carcinogens. Blame my parents. I'm Generation X; responsibility rolls off of my back like water off a duck.

Suck it, Trebek.

Heat, and a joke gone flat

It's snuck in, it has. Hot and windy, August throttles Summer until its last gasp: September.

Speaking of last gasps, the puppies below would like to thank you for having not clicked their picture. Best to remember them as they were...