Flooding uncovers skeleton along Warm Fork River.
I note there's nothing in any report so far to suggest it was in a casket.
Our new chief of police described the skeleton as "very old." I'm wondering HOW old.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Life In Post-America Linkfest: 7-26-08.
Modern-day Poor Richards targeted by Memphis police director.
Jackbooted Thug Tasers Man Seven Times While He Was Alive, Then Two More After Death For Good Measure.
Cops who lost brutality lawsuits promoted for their "aggression."
Why don't we hear anything about the eminent domain dark side of media darling T. Boone Pickens' plan?
California Uber Alles.
Bexley OH considering ban on picketing in front of homes.
They must hate trees in Moorpark.
Minneapolis City Council rescinds ban on police compiling "political dossiers."
The Sun-Times hearts the Windy Nanny-City.
Jackbooted Thug Tasers Man Seven Times While He Was Alive, Then Two More After Death For Good Measure.
Cops who lost brutality lawsuits promoted for their "aggression."
Why don't we hear anything about the eminent domain dark side of media darling T. Boone Pickens' plan?
California Uber Alles.
Bexley OH considering ban on picketing in front of homes.
They must hate trees in Moorpark.
Minneapolis City Council rescinds ban on police compiling "political dossiers."
The Sun-Times hearts the Windy Nanny-City.
Perhaps I am missing the point.
Is the message behind this commercial . . .
... that Old Spice Double Impact will make your lower half smell like a horse?
... that Old Spice Double Impact will make your lower half smell like a horse?
Monday, July 21, 2008
Here I call upon the vast and undoubtedly infallible medical knowledge of my readers.
Is a fasting blood sugar value of 84 mg/dl too low?
I can't seem to get a straight answer on this.
I even went to the pharmacist and asked, and she went into this big, long complicated thing including, among other things, how tall I am and never did answer the question.
I can't seem to get a straight answer on this.
I even went to the pharmacist and asked, and she went into this big, long complicated thing including, among other things, how tall I am and never did answer the question.
Just a reminder.
The Freedom Tower is still going to be hideous-looking.
I haven't seen an idea put into motion with so little forethought since Mr. Hand married Steve Jobs and went with a hyphenated surname.
I haven't seen an idea put into motion with so little forethought since Mr. Hand married Steve Jobs and went with a hyphenated surname.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
My life is pretty boring lately.
Not much to post.
Unless you want to hear about the dream I had where I was a contestant on a reality show against a bunch of children, and the challenge we were competing in was similar to the Grand Prize Game on the old Bozo Show, where you throw the balls in the buckets, only we were seated and the buckets were on a table in front of us. The farthest bucket was barely further away than the length of my arms.
Needless to say, I won.
Hell no, I wasn't gonna let the kids win! There were half a million dollars at stake!
Unless you want to hear about the dream I had where I was a contestant on a reality show against a bunch of children, and the challenge we were competing in was similar to the Grand Prize Game on the old Bozo Show, where you throw the balls in the buckets, only we were seated and the buckets were on a table in front of us. The farthest bucket was barely further away than the length of my arms.
Needless to say, I won.
Hell no, I wasn't gonna let the kids win! There were half a million dollars at stake!
Big 3 American Beer Search Update.
It's worse than I thought.
Rolling Rock is now owned by A-B, which will soon be owned by the Belgians.
Schlitz ond Old Milwaukee were bought out by Pabst, which was bought out by Miller, that South-African beer.
Which means my poll is pretty much useless, so I'm removing it.
There are some American beers out there, but none of them seem to be nationwide.
Rolling Rock is now owned by A-B, which will soon be owned by the Belgians.
Schlitz ond Old Milwaukee were bought out by Pabst, which was bought out by Miller, that South-African beer.
Which means my poll is pretty much useless, so I'm removing it.
There are some American beers out there, but none of them seem to be nationwide.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Finally, a useful poll.
72% of poll respondents say Bud can no longer call itself "The Great American Lager" if InBev succeeds in their buyout.
Remember when Bud derided Miller (and now, I guess Coors) as "That South-African Beer"?
With the Big Three of American Beermaking now in foreign hands, which three beers should replace them?
Obviously, I'm gonna vote for Shiner Bock, even though it's more regional than national. And I guess Samuel Adams would have to be in there too. But I'm having a hard time coming up with a third.
I know, let's do a poll. If you don't see your suggestion listed in the poll, leave list it here.
Remember when Bud derided Miller (and now, I guess Coors) as "That South-African Beer"?
With the Big Three of American Beermaking now in foreign hands, which three beers should replace them?
Obviously, I'm gonna vote for Shiner Bock, even though it's more regional than national. And I guess Samuel Adams would have to be in there too. But I'm having a hard time coming up with a third.
I know, let's do a poll. If you don't see your suggestion listed in the poll, leave list it here.
Hey, Bob. I gotta suggestion.
I can hear the People Against Everything salivating already.
This will give them a reason to begin work on banning baseballs.
Or requiring that MLB move to those squishy, oversized softballs the retarded kids use.
Or requiring that MLB move to those squishy, oversized softballs the retarded kids use.
Apparently, schools in The Jop need to concentrate on language and grammar skills.
At least, I assume Mike Pound went to school in The Jop. I could be wrong.
If it says my love is a red, red rose, it's a metaphor. If it says my love is LIKE (or as) a red, red rose, it's a simile.
And if you're confusing either one with an analogy, seek psychiatric help immediately.
[George Will] likes to make obscure (at least to me) historical and mythical analogies. At least I think they’re analogies, they could be metaphors. Or similes. I can never remember which is which.
If it says my love is a red, red rose, it's a metaphor. If it says my love is LIKE (or as) a red, red rose, it's a simile.
And if you're confusing either one with an analogy, seek psychiatric help immediately.
*MY* Two Cents Worth, dammit!!!
Upon returning from my morning cig run yesterday, I discovered The Man was trying to maize-hole me on the water bill again by manipulating the meter readings. The little black City Utilities pickup was parked by the intersection just below me.
It had only been 22 days since the last time they read it. Last month they read it late; this month it was early. It figures. And dollars to doughnuts they'll read it late again NEXT month.
I had rationed my water usage to achieve the 20-unit minimum for which I would be billed at 31 days. Yesterday, I reached 14.3. That meant I would be billed for 5.7 units I didn’t use, which I’m pretty sure is 570 gallons.
I was pretty sure the meter maid hadn’t gotten to my house yet.
So I did four loads of laundry, washed out the bathtub, mopped the bathroom floor, watered the ‘maters, filled the watering can for the next day, and refilled all the bottles of sugar-free Kool(ish)-Aid in the fridge.
I did so much laundry, I had to dig out the pink Pantycopter to fit it all on the clotheslines.
I managed to use up another 1.8 units of water.
When I later ran the numbers, the electricity I used doing the laundry cost two cents less than those 1.8 units of water would have cost if I had waited to do the activities after the meter was read.
That was an awful lot of work for those two cents, but it’s two of MY cents that I kept the city government from getting.
It had only been 22 days since the last time they read it. Last month they read it late; this month it was early. It figures. And dollars to doughnuts they'll read it late again NEXT month.
I had rationed my water usage to achieve the 20-unit minimum for which I would be billed at 31 days. Yesterday, I reached 14.3. That meant I would be billed for 5.7 units I didn’t use, which I’m pretty sure is 570 gallons.
I was pretty sure the meter maid hadn’t gotten to my house yet.
So I did four loads of laundry, washed out the bathtub, mopped the bathroom floor, watered the ‘maters, filled the watering can for the next day, and refilled all the bottles of sugar-free Kool(ish)-Aid in the fridge.
I did so much laundry, I had to dig out the pink Pantycopter to fit it all on the clotheslines.
I managed to use up another 1.8 units of water.
When I later ran the numbers, the electricity I used doing the laundry cost two cents less than those 1.8 units of water would have cost if I had waited to do the activities after the meter was read.
That was an awful lot of work for those two cents, but it’s two of MY cents that I kept the city government from getting.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Apparently, the Aussie constitution includes a right not to get annoyed.
...a dozen demonstrators poked fun Wednesday at a new Australian law
meant to protect participants of next week's World Youth Day from being annoyed
by opponents.
They'll be having one of those Intervention things for ME one of these days.
Saturday night I decided to quit cigs and nearly quit caffeine.
Sunday afternoon, I had to revise the decision.
Not too bright of me to try to quit them both at the same time. It caused insatiable appetite and a giant, invisible C-clamp to steadily tighten at it's contact points on the sides of my forehead.
So I gave up on quitting the caffeine and decided to limit my smoking to a pack a day.
Monday, I ran out of cigarettes around noon.
I made it past what I thought was the worst part that afternoon, the fatigue and sweaty forehead, by taking a nap.
Around six, I was feeling almost human again.
At seven, I watched an episode of A&E network's INTERVENTION.
The guy smoked crack using a rolled-up piece of Diet Coke carton.
All I could think about was how much it looked like a cigarette. It was like some sort of Lung Cancer Porn; I could not take my eyes off the scene.
When the scene was over, I had to make a trip to the convenience store.
Two packs of Camel Menthols.
Sunday afternoon, I had to revise the decision.
Not too bright of me to try to quit them both at the same time. It caused insatiable appetite and a giant, invisible C-clamp to steadily tighten at it's contact points on the sides of my forehead.
So I gave up on quitting the caffeine and decided to limit my smoking to a pack a day.
Monday, I ran out of cigarettes around noon.
I made it past what I thought was the worst part that afternoon, the fatigue and sweaty forehead, by taking a nap.
Around six, I was feeling almost human again.
At seven, I watched an episode of A&E network's INTERVENTION.
The guy smoked crack using a rolled-up piece of Diet Coke carton.
All I could think about was how much it looked like a cigarette. It was like some sort of Lung Cancer Porn; I could not take my eyes off the scene.
When the scene was over, I had to make a trip to the convenience store.
Two packs of Camel Menthols.
Collectivists on (Well, okay, *IN*) PARADE
Here is the latest evidence that we have but one major party in America, and it is the Borg Party.
This weekend, PARADE “magazine” asked John McCain and Barack Obama “What is Patriotism?”
Here is the title and an excerpt of each of their responses. Without peeking, see if you can guess which nominee gave which response.
Nominee #1, What is Patriotism?
SACRIFICE FOR THE COMMON GOOD
Nominee #2, What is Patriotism?
A CAUSE GREATER THAN SELF-INTEREST
So, which response comes from the nominee of which wing of the Borg Party?
This weekend, PARADE “magazine” asked John McCain and Barack Obama “What is Patriotism?”
Here is the title and an excerpt of each of their responses. Without peeking, see if you can guess which nominee gave which response.
Nominee #1, What is Patriotism?
SACRIFICE FOR THE COMMON GOOD
That is the community we strive to build -- one in which we recognize we share
common hopes and dreams, one in which we continue to insist that there is
nothing we cannot do when we put our minds to it, and one in which we see
ourselves as part of a larger story, our own fates wrapped up in the fates of
all who share allegiance to America’s singular creed.
Nominee #2, What is Patriotism?
A CAUSE GREATER THAN SELF-INTEREST
We are blessed to be Americans, and blessed that so many of us have so often
believed in a cause far greater than self-interest, far greater than ourselves .
. . [T]he gift we can give back to our country is a patriotism that requires us
to be good citizens in public office or in the community spaces where government
is absent.
So, which response comes from the nominee of which wing of the Borg Party?
[TANGENT: Here's a quote from Obama's answer -- "I remember listening to my mother reading me the first lines of the Declaration of Independence and explaining how its ideas applied to every American . . . We can say and write what we think, without hearing a sudden knock on the door."
Apparently, Mama Obama never spent any time in Thayer, MO. ]
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Hugo and The Bunny Man.
For reasons discussed elsewhere, I spend no money in Thayer unless I absolutely HAVE to.
So, when I found myself in Salem last week with time to kill, I decided to pick up some things I have been doing without. I went to a little discount grocery store south of town and bought, among other things, frog legs.
On the way back, I decided to stop at a little convenience store that has been there forever and buy some gas.
When I was running the streets of Salem, it was a Sinclair station. I think the last time I checked, it was a Phillips 66.
I never thought to look for what brand it was, until I was pulling out.
Citgo.
But in my defense, Hugo Chavez has never showed up in my front yard and told me I am not ALLOWED to have an opinion.
Had I seen the Citgo sign, I *STILL* would not have waited until I got back to Thayer to fill up ($20), but I wouldn't have bought Citgo, either. I would have bought my gas at the Shell station in Salem.
So, when I found myself in Salem last week with time to kill, I decided to pick up some things I have been doing without. I went to a little discount grocery store south of town and bought, among other things, frog legs.
On the way back, I decided to stop at a little convenience store that has been there forever and buy some gas.
When I was running the streets of Salem, it was a Sinclair station. I think the last time I checked, it was a Phillips 66.
I never thought to look for what brand it was, until I was pulling out.
Citgo.
But in my defense, Hugo Chavez has never showed up in my front yard and told me I am not ALLOWED to have an opinion.
Had I seen the Citgo sign, I *STILL* would not have waited until I got back to Thayer to fill up ($20), but I wouldn't have bought Citgo, either. I would have bought my gas at the Shell station in Salem.
I've hidden my Man Card so they can't take it away from me.
I blew out the rear speakers in my titty-pink station wagon.
What was I listening to, you ask? Motorhead? Judas Priest?
No.
What was I listening to, you ask? Motorhead? Judas Priest?
No.
Speaking of Maxipads . . .
I’m sitting in my car Tuesday, waiting for the library to open. As usual, they’re late. For the umpteenth time, I wonder when people just stopped caring about doing things the right way, like showing up on time.
Lying on the sidewalk, about halfway between me and the door, is what appears to be a white piece of paper of some sort.
Finally, one of the librarians arrives.
I get out of my car and start toward the library.
When I get to the object on the sidewalk, I realize it is not a piece of paper, but a lightweight feminine hygiene product. Gross. At least it doesn’t appear to be used.
I go on about my business and enter the library for my blogging fix.
About ninety minutes later, I come back out.
And notice two more of the things between the original and my car, over by the edge of the grass.
I get a mental picture of some woman having a VERY bad day, trying to chase down her panty shields in a windstorm.
For a moment, it’s an amusing image.
But then I wonder why she had an open box of panty shields OUTSIDE.
Lying on the sidewalk, about halfway between me and the door, is what appears to be a white piece of paper of some sort.
Finally, one of the librarians arrives.
I get out of my car and start toward the library.
When I get to the object on the sidewalk, I realize it is not a piece of paper, but a lightweight feminine hygiene product. Gross. At least it doesn’t appear to be used.
I go on about my business and enter the library for my blogging fix.
About ninety minutes later, I come back out.
And notice two more of the things between the original and my car, over by the edge of the grass.
I get a mental picture of some woman having a VERY bad day, trying to chase down her panty shields in a windstorm.
For a moment, it’s an amusing image.
But then I wonder why she had an open box of panty shields OUTSIDE.
Now I’m gonna get her finger germs on my butt.
In my quest to reduce my consumption of oil-based products, I buy loose rolls of toilet paper for a quarter apiece at a local grocery salvage store rather than buy them shrinkwrapped in plastic in bundles of multiples of four or six at the grocery store.
I just have to be careful not to buy rolls that are half-gone or have water damage.
At least, I HOPE it’s water damage.
Yeah, yeah; I know that at some point in their past they were almost certainly shrinkwrapped just like that. But somewhere along the line, someone decided that rather than throw out the toilet paper just because the package was damaged, they’d make the responsible decision to recover the toilet paper.
And if I DID buy the Toilet Paper Of The Masses, it would be TWO plastic shrinkwraps bought and thrown away (the one thrown away due to damage, plus the one I would be buying) instead of just one.
I tell you all this to set up the following.
So I’m standing in line at the register at Ken’s Salvage Grocery. I’ve filled my cart with ten Cups Of Noodles ($.10 each), ten of those little plastic bottles of Kool(ish)-Aid that kids drink ($.10 each), a package of very slightly out-of-date Cherry Cordial Hershey’s Kisses ($1), a used paperback for my mom ($1), a couple of 16-oz. packages of turkey coldcuts to make sammiches with ($1.99 each), a box of individual packets of True Lemon ($2), a slightly dented tube of Pringles ($.75), and four rolls of the aforementioned toilet paper, which are resting on top.
One of the rolls has a festive, simple little floral design on it.
The woman in line in front of me turns around, focuses on this roll of toilet paper, and . . . get this . . . CARESSES IT WITH HER FINGER!!!
“Oooh, I haven’t seen that kind in a long, long time!” she remarks, “I used to buy it ALL THE TIME, and I really LOVED it!”
Is it too much to ask for a man and his asswipe to remain unmolested in the checkout aisle?
I GET that other people have rubbed their grubby little hands on it while it sat in the bin on the shelf, but there’s something about it being in my cart, being fingered right in front of me, that rubs me the wrong way.
Everyone uses toilet paper; we all know that. But when you see toilet paper in someone’s grocery cart, you’re supposed to pretend like you don’t see it. You’re not supposed to comment on it, and you’re SURE AS HELL not supposed to caress it with your finger!
It’s one of those Unspoken Rules That Holds Society Together, just like not buying your condoms at a store where the people know you, or if you’re a cashier, not broadcasting a request for a price-check on aisle three for the Super-Absorbent Maxipads over the store’s loudspeaker. It just ain’t right.
So if I run into her in the regular grocery store and see that she has some of those Super-Absorbent Maxipads in her cart, I’m gonna make sure everyone in the store knows about it.
“Are those the SUPER ABSORBENT MAXIPADS, ma’am? My washing machine overflowed and flooded the laundry room, and maybe if I got some of the SUPER ABSORBENT MAXIPADS like yours, I could use them to soak up the water!”
I just have to be careful not to buy rolls that are half-gone or have water damage.
At least, I HOPE it’s water damage.
Yeah, yeah; I know that at some point in their past they were almost certainly shrinkwrapped just like that. But somewhere along the line, someone decided that rather than throw out the toilet paper just because the package was damaged, they’d make the responsible decision to recover the toilet paper.
And if I DID buy the Toilet Paper Of The Masses, it would be TWO plastic shrinkwraps bought and thrown away (the one thrown away due to damage, plus the one I would be buying) instead of just one.
I tell you all this to set up the following.
So I’m standing in line at the register at Ken’s Salvage Grocery. I’ve filled my cart with ten Cups Of Noodles ($.10 each), ten of those little plastic bottles of Kool(ish)-Aid that kids drink ($.10 each), a package of very slightly out-of-date Cherry Cordial Hershey’s Kisses ($1), a used paperback for my mom ($1), a couple of 16-oz. packages of turkey coldcuts to make sammiches with ($1.99 each), a box of individual packets of True Lemon ($2), a slightly dented tube of Pringles ($.75), and four rolls of the aforementioned toilet paper, which are resting on top.
One of the rolls has a festive, simple little floral design on it.
The woman in line in front of me turns around, focuses on this roll of toilet paper, and . . . get this . . . CARESSES IT WITH HER FINGER!!!
“Oooh, I haven’t seen that kind in a long, long time!” she remarks, “I used to buy it ALL THE TIME, and I really LOVED it!”
Is it too much to ask for a man and his asswipe to remain unmolested in the checkout aisle?
I GET that other people have rubbed their grubby little hands on it while it sat in the bin on the shelf, but there’s something about it being in my cart, being fingered right in front of me, that rubs me the wrong way.
Everyone uses toilet paper; we all know that. But when you see toilet paper in someone’s grocery cart, you’re supposed to pretend like you don’t see it. You’re not supposed to comment on it, and you’re SURE AS HELL not supposed to caress it with your finger!
It’s one of those Unspoken Rules That Holds Society Together, just like not buying your condoms at a store where the people know you, or if you’re a cashier, not broadcasting a request for a price-check on aisle three for the Super-Absorbent Maxipads over the store’s loudspeaker. It just ain’t right.
So if I run into her in the regular grocery store and see that she has some of those Super-Absorbent Maxipads in her cart, I’m gonna make sure everyone in the store knows about it.
“Are those the SUPER ABSORBENT MAXIPADS, ma’am? My washing machine overflowed and flooded the laundry room, and maybe if I got some of the SUPER ABSORBENT MAXIPADS like yours, I could use them to soak up the water!”
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Speaking of terrifying . . .
. . . I don't remember the 80's being this creepy:
I'm gonna have nightmares for a month!
I'm gonna have nightmares for a month!
Okay, it's official.
Who says one vote doesn't make any difference?
Sure, it's one vote of a Supreme Court Justice, but we were one flip-flop away from the right to keep and bear arms being a collective, not an individual, right.
And if the right spelled out in the 2nd Amendment became collective, not individual, how long would it take for the rights spelled out in the OTHER amendments to be interpreted the same way.
Imagine a country where you cannot have individual religious beliefs; you can only belong to an organized church.
Imagine a country where you cannot speak unless you gather up a bunch of people who agree with you.
Imagine a country where you cannot write your Congressman without a bunch of cosigners.
Imagine a country where you cannot blog unless you belong to the People's Unified Bloggers Association.
Imagine a country where you can't challenge an arrest unless you can find a bunch of people who question the officer's probable cause standard.
We were one vote away from that.
And if the right spelled out in the 2nd Amendment became collective, not individual, how long would it take for the rights spelled out in the OTHER amendments to be interpreted the same way.
Imagine a country where you cannot have individual religious beliefs; you can only belong to an organized church.
Imagine a country where you cannot speak unless you gather up a bunch of people who agree with you.
Imagine a country where you cannot write your Congressman without a bunch of cosigners.
Imagine a country where you cannot blog unless you belong to the People's Unified Bloggers Association.
Imagine a country where you can't challenge an arrest unless you can find a bunch of people who question the officer's probable cause standard.
We were one vote away from that.
But isn't "the extreme" . . .
... what MAKES an ideological interpretation an ideological interpretation and not a pragmatic interpretation?
Here's today's Idiot Jerkoff Quote of the Day:
Here's today's Idiot Jerkoff Quote of the Day:
Like a college student who gets his first taste of Ayn Rand and then starts
interpreting everything—his government, his professors, his girlfriend—from an
objectivist viewpoint, they’ve taken an ideological interpretation to the
extremes.
Short-E?
Am I the only one that notices that Wall-E looks an awful lot like a cuter, squishified knock-off of Johnny Five?
[Update: No, I'm not.]
Hyperwatting.
Hah.
A few days ago, I took my trusty screwdriver to the basement and turned the thermostat on the water heater from halfway between "Hot" and "Very Hot" to just "Hot."
It seems to be saving me about 2 kwh a day.
One of these days I'm gonna grow a sack and flip the breaker, turning it off altogether, only turning it on about an hour before a shower or washing dishes.
A few days ago, I took my trusty screwdriver to the basement and turned the thermostat on the water heater from halfway between "Hot" and "Very Hot" to just "Hot."
It seems to be saving me about 2 kwh a day.
One of these days I'm gonna grow a sack and flip the breaker, turning it off altogether, only turning it on about an hour before a shower or washing dishes.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Is whitey still trying to keep my people down? Blanket-ass, PLEASE!!!
Oh, look! My red brethren and I get an insult I haven't heard before!
Too bad Arkansas State has already gone with the Red Wolves as their new mascot, 'cuz I might buy a shirt with the ASU Blanket-Asses on it! And every year, there could be a scrimmage between the Blanket-Asses and the Fighting Whities at Little Bighorn!
And it's even OK to use the term in Pawhuska.
Too bad Arkansas State has already gone with the Red Wolves as their new mascot, 'cuz I might buy a shirt with the ASU Blanket-Asses on it! And every year, there could be a scrimmage between the Blanket-Asses and the Fighting Whities at Little Bighorn!
And it's even OK to use the term in Pawhuska.
Barrples and oranges.
A little more on Bob Barr.
If forced to choose between Bush and Clinton, he chooses Bubba.
What Barr isn't seeing is that Clinton had his party in control of Congress for only two years, whereas Bush had his party in control for six. Give Clinton six years of a Democratic Congress, and there'd have been Wacos and Elian raids all over the place.
It's not evidence of the intrinsic good of Clinton and the intrinsic bad of Bush, but rather of how much liberty dies when government can "get things done" without the intrinsic good of gridlock.
If forced to choose between Bush and Clinton, he chooses Bubba.
President Clinton... I certainly had my problems with him. But what he did, in terms of perjury and obstruction was bad but it was not destructive of the very systemic foundations of our country.
What Barr isn't seeing is that Clinton had his party in control of Congress for only two years, whereas Bush had his party in control for six. Give Clinton six years of a Democratic Congress, and there'd have been Wacos and Elian raids all over the place.
It's not evidence of the intrinsic good of Clinton and the intrinsic bad of Bush, but rather of how much liberty dies when government can "get things done" without the intrinsic good of gridlock.
You almost had me, Bob.
I try to look at what candidates are doing, not what they're saying. So, I was disappointed to find my friend Mr. Hanna seemingly ready to drink the McCain Kool-Aid after he listened to Senator Palpatine talk.
I hear McCain saying all the right things, but then I look at what he's doing as a Senator to advance these issues. And I don't find much of anything.
But I shouldn't be surprised. I myself, after listening to a Bob Barr interview, was almost ready to drink the Barr-Aid. Barr's no longer in a position where he COULD do much of anything to advance his new-found libertarian ideology, even if he wanted to, so all we have to judge him on IS his words. He might sincerely regret his authoritarian past, and the only thing he can do about it is say he was wrong.
So I was ALMOST ready to give him the benefit of the doubt.
That is, until 5:02 - 5:22.
What's so hard to understand about the concept that the government should not be in the business of dictating the genders of the participants in a private contract?
I hear McCain saying all the right things, but then I look at what he's doing as a Senator to advance these issues. And I don't find much of anything.
But I shouldn't be surprised. I myself, after listening to a Bob Barr interview, was almost ready to drink the Barr-Aid. Barr's no longer in a position where he COULD do much of anything to advance his new-found libertarian ideology, even if he wanted to, so all we have to judge him on IS his words. He might sincerely regret his authoritarian past, and the only thing he can do about it is say he was wrong.
So I was ALMOST ready to give him the benefit of the doubt.
That is, until 5:02 - 5:22.
What's so hard to understand about the concept that the government should not be in the business of dictating the genders of the participants in a private contract?
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Unfortunately, I wasn't near the stereo.
Because if I was, the pollster that called my house yesterday would have gotten an earful of Uncle Fukka.
As soon as I found out it was a political pollster, I hung up.
Mostly because I surmised that given the heated campaign ad war between Missouri Republican gub-goob candidates Hulshof and Steelman, it was probably gonna ask who I was voting for in that race or in the general, and I hafta admit I don't know yet. Or if.
Who is this Andy Finkenstadt person?
As soon as I found out it was a political pollster, I hung up.
Mostly because I surmised that given the heated campaign ad war between Missouri Republican gub-goob candidates Hulshof and Steelman, it was probably gonna ask who I was voting for in that race or in the general, and I hafta admit I don't know yet. Or if.
Who is this Andy Finkenstadt person?
More Evidence The Two Major Parties Stand For Nothing.
We've got the Republican nominee accepting Candidate Welfare, and Democrat going solely private-sector.
Remember when the Republicans expected you to pull yourself up by your OWN bootstraps, and it was the Democrats who wanted the government to force the public to buy your bootstraps FOR you?
I am reminded of the passages in Orwell's 1984, where "our" side, Oceania, is locked in a perpetual war, but randomly changes it's allegiances and oppositions with and to Eurasia and Eastasia.
Remember when the Republicans expected you to pull yourself up by your OWN bootstraps, and it was the Democrats who wanted the government to force the public to buy your bootstraps FOR you?
I am reminded of the passages in Orwell's 1984, where "our" side, Oceania, is locked in a perpetual war, but randomly changes it's allegiances and oppositions with and to Eurasia and Eastasia.
Yellow is the New Black.
South Africans now classify the Chinese as "black."
Any commenter who makes reference to any case of the verb "to niggle" immediately forfeits all their Princess Points and gets demoted all the way back down, beyond even the title of Drag Princess, to Drag Chambermaid.
[H/T 2 The Colbert Report.]
Any commenter who makes reference to any case of the verb "to niggle" immediately forfeits all their Princess Points and gets demoted all the way back down, beyond even the title of Drag Princess, to Drag Chambermaid.
[H/T 2 The Colbert Report.]
Sudden Nonpact.
Turns out there probably wasn't any pact to get pregnant at all.
Sounds to me like a case of a certain principal who is a little too eager to get his or her name in the paper.
Sounds to me like a case of a certain principal who is a little too eager to get his or her name in the paper.
Good + Bad = Good?
Is it a good thing if Kid Rock takes the right position (it's okay to pirate his music) for the wrong reason (because he's rich)?
The right reason, of course, is that his music is primarily his intellectual property, and if he wants to let you steal it, that's all the reason you need.
Aw, who'm I kidding? Everybody here knows I bring this up only because it gives me an excuse to post this.
(Note to self -- turn it up to 11.)
(My apologies for not including the proper intro piece.)
The right reason, of course, is that his music is primarily his intellectual property, and if he wants to let you steal it, that's all the reason you need.
Aw, who'm I kidding? Everybody here knows I bring this up only because it gives me an excuse to post this.
(Note to self -- turn it up to 11.)
(My apologies for not including the proper intro piece.)
Write this down; I'm giving Mrs. Kerry some free publicity.
Well, not really.
I'm posting this simply because the professional complainers have succeeded in getting it yanked.
Watch it. Then get three others to watch it, and get them each to get three others to watch it. In other words, watch it forward.
I'm posting this simply because the professional complainers have succeeded in getting it yanked.
Watch it. Then get three others to watch it, and get them each to get three others to watch it. In other words, watch it forward.
MoveOn's latest.
Apparently, she plans on giving Alex permanent brain damage so she will always be his guardian.
Because otherwise, once he turns 18, the decision on whether or not he enters the military will be his, not hers.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Chirp . . . Chirp . . . Chirp . . . Chirp *SQUIRT* . . . Chirp . . . Chirp . . . Chirp.
Made a trip to the farmer’s market this morning. Bought three big ‘maters for $3.00. Not too economical, but at least they were tax-free, and with the salmonella problems lately, I didn’t mind paying a little more so I could have ‘maters on my evening turkey sammich.
Got home and sat in the kitchen, figuring out my electricity and water usage for yesterday and trying to extrapolate it out to see how much I’d use for the month. An annoying little bird perched on top of my garage chirped every 2.25 seconds for more than ten minutes straight.
I grabbed the squirty little water bottle that I use to piss off Patches when she makes annoying meow sounds too much, and pointed it at the feathered offender. It chirped again. I squirted.
The mesh from the window screen dispersed the stream into an ineffectual mess.
Two and a quarter seconds later, the bird chirped again.
“Go be annoying somewhere else,” I commanded it.
It did not comply. Two and a quarter seconds later, it chirped yet again.
I gave up and closed the window.
Got home and sat in the kitchen, figuring out my electricity and water usage for yesterday and trying to extrapolate it out to see how much I’d use for the month. An annoying little bird perched on top of my garage chirped every 2.25 seconds for more than ten minutes straight.
I grabbed the squirty little water bottle that I use to piss off Patches when she makes annoying meow sounds too much, and pointed it at the feathered offender. It chirped again. I squirted.
The mesh from the window screen dispersed the stream into an ineffectual mess.
Two and a quarter seconds later, the bird chirped again.
“Go be annoying somewhere else,” I commanded it.
It did not comply. Two and a quarter seconds later, it chirped yet again.
I gave up and closed the window.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
This is the part where Tippi Hedren’s fan club come after me with pitchforks and torches.
But first, the backstory.
One of these days I’ll learn how to write one of these posts without a long, drawn-out explanation of the background and a bunch of tangents, but apparently today is not that day.
Where to start? I suppose the best place to begin is with the people in the rental next door.
A few months ago, the woman brought home a cat with four kittens that had been dumped at one of the local grocery stores. Two of the kittens disappeared almost immediately; I don’t know if she gave them away or what.
Then a few weeks later, one of the other two got run over.
And that left Mama Kitty and Spot. The neighbors said Spot’s name was Patches, but I had an indoor cat named Patches, so her name was Spot whenever she came over to my house.
I felt bad for Mama Kitty and Spot. Their owners seemed to feed all their animals out of one bowl, so Mama Kitty and Spot had to compete with a Basset Hound, a big black mixed-breed, and two or three Chihuahuas if they wanted anything to eat.
So I began feeding them table scraps in a pan on my front porch. I don’t feed my minpin table scraps because it makes messy things happen on the carpet, so rather than put it in the trash (where the cats would no doubt tear into it when I put the trash out by the road Tuesday mornings), I gave it to them.
Mama Kitty and Spot were very friendly to me, but Spot, even when she was only a few weeks old, absolutely LOATHED Tiny. She’d lay her ears back and growl and spit and hiss every time he came near her.
But that’s one of those irrelevant tangents.
I noticed in early spring that Mama Kitty began gaining weight and got all lemon-shaped. I knew that meant she was getting ready to extrude another batch of kittens, so I began feeding her even more.
I never got to see the kittens; when the time came, the neighbors took her in the house. The woman told me she had seven. After a week or so, they began letting Mama Kitty out for a little while each day, but the kittens never came with her.
But Spot stopped by every afternoon like clockwork.
I’d sit on a chair on the porch and she’d jump up in my lap and demand to be petted.
I noticed around the first of the month the neighbors began moving stuff out of the house. Through the grapevine I heard they were moving because their three kids had outgrown the house.
They hadn’t paid much attention to Spot since the kittens had been born, so I thought maybe they’d leave her behind when they moved, since they knew I’d take care of her.
But they didn’t.
About a week ago, they loaded her up in the van, and I don’t think they’ve been back since.
So that left me with a problem -- what to do with the table scraps.
I didn’t want to put them in the trash, because after a couple of days it would stink up the house and attract bugs. I knew there were a few tomcats that stopped by every few nights to steal Mama Kitty and Spot’s food, so I kept putting it out on the porch in the evenings, more out of habit than anything else.
And every morning, it would be gone.
The tomcats were sneaking in at night and eating it, I surmised.
But I surmised wrong.
This afternoon, I put out some sauerkraut and Crockpot baby-back ribs and a piece of grocery-store fried chicken from a few days ago that was probably still edible, but wasn’t all that appetizing when it was new.
I looked out a few minutes later to see a Blue Jay eating the sauerkraut.
And a little later still, I found a swarm of starlings and grackles (unpleasant, oily little birds, those) eating the ribs and fighting over the piece of chicken.
Because of me, the birds have acquired a taste for meat, including bird meat.
Can human meat be far behind?
And that is how I came to realize that I am in a prologue to Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, and that I am the cause of it all.
Tippi Hedren’s fans and relatives are gonna be pissed.
One of these days I’ll learn how to write one of these posts without a long, drawn-out explanation of the background and a bunch of tangents, but apparently today is not that day.
Where to start? I suppose the best place to begin is with the people in the rental next door.
A few months ago, the woman brought home a cat with four kittens that had been dumped at one of the local grocery stores. Two of the kittens disappeared almost immediately; I don’t know if she gave them away or what.
Then a few weeks later, one of the other two got run over.
And that left Mama Kitty and Spot. The neighbors said Spot’s name was Patches, but I had an indoor cat named Patches, so her name was Spot whenever she came over to my house.
I felt bad for Mama Kitty and Spot. Their owners seemed to feed all their animals out of one bowl, so Mama Kitty and Spot had to compete with a Basset Hound, a big black mixed-breed, and two or three Chihuahuas if they wanted anything to eat.
So I began feeding them table scraps in a pan on my front porch. I don’t feed my minpin table scraps because it makes messy things happen on the carpet, so rather than put it in the trash (where the cats would no doubt tear into it when I put the trash out by the road Tuesday mornings), I gave it to them.
Mama Kitty and Spot were very friendly to me, but Spot, even when she was only a few weeks old, absolutely LOATHED Tiny. She’d lay her ears back and growl and spit and hiss every time he came near her.
But that’s one of those irrelevant tangents.
I noticed in early spring that Mama Kitty began gaining weight and got all lemon-shaped. I knew that meant she was getting ready to extrude another batch of kittens, so I began feeding her even more.
I never got to see the kittens; when the time came, the neighbors took her in the house. The woman told me she had seven. After a week or so, they began letting Mama Kitty out for a little while each day, but the kittens never came with her.
But Spot stopped by every afternoon like clockwork.
I’d sit on a chair on the porch and she’d jump up in my lap and demand to be petted.
I noticed around the first of the month the neighbors began moving stuff out of the house. Through the grapevine I heard they were moving because their three kids had outgrown the house.
They hadn’t paid much attention to Spot since the kittens had been born, so I thought maybe they’d leave her behind when they moved, since they knew I’d take care of her.
But they didn’t.
About a week ago, they loaded her up in the van, and I don’t think they’ve been back since.
So that left me with a problem -- what to do with the table scraps.
I didn’t want to put them in the trash, because after a couple of days it would stink up the house and attract bugs. I knew there were a few tomcats that stopped by every few nights to steal Mama Kitty and Spot’s food, so I kept putting it out on the porch in the evenings, more out of habit than anything else.
And every morning, it would be gone.
The tomcats were sneaking in at night and eating it, I surmised.
But I surmised wrong.
This afternoon, I put out some sauerkraut and Crockpot baby-back ribs and a piece of grocery-store fried chicken from a few days ago that was probably still edible, but wasn’t all that appetizing when it was new.
I looked out a few minutes later to see a Blue Jay eating the sauerkraut.
And a little later still, I found a swarm of starlings and grackles (unpleasant, oily little birds, those) eating the ribs and fighting over the piece of chicken.
Because of me, the birds have acquired a taste for meat, including bird meat.
Can human meat be far behind?
And that is how I came to realize that I am in a prologue to Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, and that I am the cause of it all.
Tippi Hedren’s fans and relatives are gonna be pissed.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Winston Smith wept.
UK borough council bans the term "brainstorming" because it might be offensive to epileptics!
Instead, they suggest "thought shower" (offensive to the incontinent?) and "blue-sky thinking" (offensive to depressives?)
Instead, they suggest "thought shower" (offensive to the incontinent?) and "blue-sky thinking" (offensive to depressives?)
She's not fooling anybody.
Everyone knows that for deranged narcissist Hillary Clinton to get what she seems to believe she's entitled to (the Presidency in '12), Barack Obama has to lose in '08. And she knows we know this.
So why's she joining him on the campaign trail?
Because she has to LOOK like she's supporting him, while I'm sure she's got a team assembled in some secure, undisclosed War Room somewhere, coming up with ways to undercut his candidacy.
Remind me again how politics isn't all theater, and is really about substance.
That's Scenario 1, and believe it or not, it's the most gracious to the deranged narcissist.
Because Scenario 2, the only conceivable scenario in which she genuinely wants him to win, involves him putting her on the ticket, winning, and her giving him the Vince Foster treatment.
So why's she joining him on the campaign trail?
Because she has to LOOK like she's supporting him, while I'm sure she's got a team assembled in some secure, undisclosed War Room somewhere, coming up with ways to undercut his candidacy.
Remind me again how politics isn't all theater, and is really about substance.
That's Scenario 1, and believe it or not, it's the most gracious to the deranged narcissist.
Because Scenario 2, the only conceivable scenario in which she genuinely wants him to win, involves him putting her on the ticket, winning, and her giving him the Vince Foster treatment.
Avert your eyes, Kevin Whited!
Now, for the rest of you...
There's a movie out there called "The Foot Fist Way."
Hmmm. I don't think that's one they covered in The Joy of Sex.
There's a movie out there called "The Foot Fist Way."
Hmmm. I don't think that's one they covered in The Joy of Sex.
Look, we KNOW already . . .
. . . that lifting the offshore drilling ban (AND the ANWR ban) wouldn't immediately fix our energy crisis. It would take about a decade.
Doesn't that mean this should have been done a decade ago, when it was first seriously proposed?
Doesn't that mean this should have been done a decade ago, when it was first seriously proposed?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Adventures In Squishing The Goo Out Of Things.
I bought a buttload of cherries at the local farmer’s market the other day. That’s as good a place as any to start.
Not a literal buttload, mind you. Just a large amount, probably more than I could eat up before they turned bad.
But hey, they were tax-free and only cost three bucks. I envisioned everything from banana splits to flavoring my Coke Zeros with them.
One small problem.
When I got them home and washed them off and sampled a couple, I found out they were pie cherries, not sweet cherries. They were too tart to use for things like banana splits. In fact, they were so sour I commented to my mother that they were not cherries at all, but rather they were tiny little plums.
So they sat in my refrigerator a few days while I put on my Pondering Pants to ponder what to do with them.
Finally today, I decided to run them through the juicer, and add a couple of teaspoons of Splenda and have cherry juice.
The juicer is a wondrous thing, if a little wasteful. I had discovered how wasteful while juicing three apples. I got a cupful of apple juice and a double-handful-sized wad of apple pulp and seeds separated out and tossed over into it’s throw-away bin. The juice was good, even with the carrot I let the Government Health Police guilt me into juicing and adding to it, but I thought that’s a lot of waste just for a cup of apple juice.
I picked out the seeds and ate the pulp, thinking that if I had some bread dough and it wasn’t so hot, I could bake some apple bread with it.
At least it threw the seeds in the bin instead of grinding them up and mixing them in the juice, I noted to myself.
But I digress.
It took all but a cupful or so of the cherries to make a cup of juice. I added the couple of spoonfuls of Splenda and took a sip. It was still too sour; it took probably half an hour to force down the stuff, and as I got toward the bottom it got gritty.
It was only when I opened up the throwaway bin that I found that the thing had decided not to throw the cherry pits away whole like it had the apple seeds, but rather to grind them up into something a little coarser than the sand that gets in your crack at the beach.
And any flavors that were in the pits went into the juice. That’s why it was so tart.
Bastard machine.
I hope cherry pits aren’t hallucinogenic or poisonous. The giant, floating Ray Romano head hovering over my house, pulsating to the sounds of Siouxsie and the Banshees, assured me they weren’t, so maybe I'm safe.
Not a literal buttload, mind you. Just a large amount, probably more than I could eat up before they turned bad.
But hey, they were tax-free and only cost three bucks. I envisioned everything from banana splits to flavoring my Coke Zeros with them.
One small problem.
When I got them home and washed them off and sampled a couple, I found out they were pie cherries, not sweet cherries. They were too tart to use for things like banana splits. In fact, they were so sour I commented to my mother that they were not cherries at all, but rather they were tiny little plums.
So they sat in my refrigerator a few days while I put on my Pondering Pants to ponder what to do with them.
Finally today, I decided to run them through the juicer, and add a couple of teaspoons of Splenda and have cherry juice.
The juicer is a wondrous thing, if a little wasteful. I had discovered how wasteful while juicing three apples. I got a cupful of apple juice and a double-handful-sized wad of apple pulp and seeds separated out and tossed over into it’s throw-away bin. The juice was good, even with the carrot I let the Government Health Police guilt me into juicing and adding to it, but I thought that’s a lot of waste just for a cup of apple juice.
I picked out the seeds and ate the pulp, thinking that if I had some bread dough and it wasn’t so hot, I could bake some apple bread with it.
At least it threw the seeds in the bin instead of grinding them up and mixing them in the juice, I noted to myself.
But I digress.
It took all but a cupful or so of the cherries to make a cup of juice. I added the couple of spoonfuls of Splenda and took a sip. It was still too sour; it took probably half an hour to force down the stuff, and as I got toward the bottom it got gritty.
It was only when I opened up the throwaway bin that I found that the thing had decided not to throw the cherry pits away whole like it had the apple seeds, but rather to grind them up into something a little coarser than the sand that gets in your crack at the beach.
And any flavors that were in the pits went into the juice. That’s why it was so tart.
Bastard machine.
I hope cherry pits aren’t hallucinogenic or poisonous. The giant, floating Ray Romano head hovering over my house, pulsating to the sounds of Siouxsie and the Banshees, assured me they weren’t, so maybe I'm safe.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
So much for anonymity.
I have a prepaid cellphone.
I got it, partly because I like the convenience, but mostly because I like the idea of not giving my personal information to TracPhone.
My expiration date is in a couple of weeks. I usually refill it before it gets this close, but I'm thinking of not using it anymore.
A couple of days ago, I get this offer in the mail trying to get me to go ahead and buy a year's worth of minutes. At my home. With my home address on it. Addressed to "TracPhone Customer."
It seems they've kept track of the land-line number I called long ago to activate the phone, and used that number to get my address.
Bastards.
I got it, partly because I like the convenience, but mostly because I like the idea of not giving my personal information to TracPhone.
My expiration date is in a couple of weeks. I usually refill it before it gets this close, but I'm thinking of not using it anymore.
A couple of days ago, I get this offer in the mail trying to get me to go ahead and buy a year's worth of minutes. At my home. With my home address on it. Addressed to "TracPhone Customer."
It seems they've kept track of the land-line number I called long ago to activate the phone, and used that number to get my address.
Bastards.
The bathroom has no windows.
So I have been struggling with how to save energy lighting it.
I'm not willing to go so far as trying to drop a deuce in the dark (Didn't Ronnie Milsap sing a song about that?) (And how do blind people or people in the dark know when they're done wiping?) but it seems a little silly to have to burn three lightbulbs (they all come on when you flip the switch) several times a day. That's a minimum of 120, and maybe up to 180, watts each time.
I *could* leave the door open and let the light from the windows on the sunporch illuminate me, but I'm just not one of those open-door poopers. Someone, somewhere, might be watching. And the last thing I need right now is a big-ass indecent-exposure production.
I tried a nightlight, but it barely put out enough light to FIND my way to the porcelain throne. And I tried candles, but I burned my fingers a couple of times, and in the summer, I don't want to create any more heat than I have to.
That's when I had the idea to dig out the old battery-powered fluorescent lantern. Nine watts.
So when the urge hits, like some eighteenth-century sharecropper headed toward the little house with the moon cutout on the door, I grab my lantern.
So far, my mother hasn't asked what I'm doing. If she does, I'll tell her I have to watch for rattlesnakes.
I'm not willing to go so far as trying to drop a deuce in the dark (Didn't Ronnie Milsap sing a song about that?) (And how do blind people or people in the dark know when they're done wiping?) but it seems a little silly to have to burn three lightbulbs (they all come on when you flip the switch) several times a day. That's a minimum of 120, and maybe up to 180, watts each time.
I *could* leave the door open and let the light from the windows on the sunporch illuminate me, but I'm just not one of those open-door poopers. Someone, somewhere, might be watching. And the last thing I need right now is a big-ass indecent-exposure production.
I tried a nightlight, but it barely put out enough light to FIND my way to the porcelain throne. And I tried candles, but I burned my fingers a couple of times, and in the summer, I don't want to create any more heat than I have to.
That's when I had the idea to dig out the old battery-powered fluorescent lantern. Nine watts.
So when the urge hits, like some eighteenth-century sharecropper headed toward the little house with the moon cutout on the door, I grab my lantern.
So far, my mother hasn't asked what I'm doing. If she does, I'll tell her I have to watch for rattlesnakes.
Monday, June 16, 2008
One thing that bothers me . . .
. . . about the idea of "A rising tide lifts all boats" is that the way the Left wants to raise the tide is to smash the most successful boats into kindling, sell the kindling for money to buy bottled water, and pour the bottled water into the ocean.
Tim Russert, R.I.P.
Tim Russert passed away.
Of all the Sunday morning talking heads, Tim Russert didn't bother me as much as many.
Of course, I kinda liked him after in an interview with some right-wing zealot (I don't remember who,) he outed his son on national TV, but affirmed that he will always love him, no matter what.
(Now that I think about it, he may have been speaking hypothetically; I don't know.)
This exchange happened in a time when coming out to your parents was more likely to get you disowned and homeless than accepted.
But one thing I did like about him, was that when he played GOTCHA with a guest, it never seemed like he was trying to "get" the guest, but rather that he was trying to get at the truth.
And while I'm sure his Moynihan/Cuomo roots indoctrinated him into Leftism, he came across as a jovial Leftist, not an angry one.
Of all the Sunday morning talking heads, Tim Russert didn't bother me as much as many.
Of course, I kinda liked him after in an interview with some right-wing zealot (I don't remember who,) he outed his son on national TV, but affirmed that he will always love him, no matter what.
(Now that I think about it, he may have been speaking hypothetically; I don't know.)
This exchange happened in a time when coming out to your parents was more likely to get you disowned and homeless than accepted.
But one thing I did like about him, was that when he played GOTCHA with a guest, it never seemed like he was trying to "get" the guest, but rather that he was trying to get at the truth.
And while I'm sure his Moynihan/Cuomo roots indoctrinated him into Leftism, he came across as a jovial Leftist, not an angry one.
Friday, June 13, 2008
On the rare occasions I drink beer, I now drink Shiner Bock exclusively.
So I don't much care what happens to Budweiser.
On the upside, if they ARE bought out by foreigners, maybe that vacuous, empty-eyed Kasey Kahne will have to move out of the country.
But on a related note, do you have to have a permit to buy the seeds you'd plant in a Ho Garden? Are they only legal in Nevada?
On the upside, if they ARE bought out by foreigners, maybe that vacuous, empty-eyed Kasey Kahne will have to move out of the country.
But on a related note, do you have to have a permit to buy the seeds you'd plant in a Ho Garden? Are they only legal in Nevada?
I used to want my basic cable to carry Fox News.
I even contacted them a few times suggesting that their customers would be better served by having A CNN channel and A Fox News channel instead of two CNNs, which are CNN and CNN Headline News.
Not anymore.
If my cable company DOES add Fox to it's basic lineup, I'm gonna block it.
Not anymore.
If my cable company DOES add Fox to it's basic lineup, I'm gonna block it.
Who said the following?
"Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are rights that belong to us as individuals. But our lives, our freedom, our happiness are best enjoyed, best protected, and best advanced when we do work together."
A. Karl Marx
B. Fidel Castro
C. Chairman Mao
D. Hillary Clinton
Answer here.
(Hint: The speech also included the desire for "an economy that lifts all of our people and ensures that our prosperity is broadly distributed and shared.")
A. Karl Marx
B. Fidel Castro
C. Chairman Mao
D. Hillary Clinton
Answer here.
(Hint: The speech also included the desire for "an economy that lifts all of our people and ensures that our prosperity is broadly distributed and shared.")
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Remember when I said . . .
. . . a little while ago that it was approaching the time when Hank Rearden disapp*---...
Friday, May 23, 2008
They don't get the difference between "author" and "narrator," apparently.
The pro-jackboot crowd seem awfully concerned about an entry from an old, now-defunct blog of mine.
So, of course I'm going to reprint it.
DQ ADVENTURE
I hate the word "special." "Special" is a lie, any truth of it long ago murdered by the masses resentful of differences, originality and deviations. "Special"'s extinction came when it's upper vertebrae snapped under the cruel Birkenstocks of conformity.
But I hungered. I sought something to fill up the black hole inside the pit.
So I forfeited my soul and bought into the corporate marketing conspiracy, long enough to buy a "Special." The shattered pieces of my integrity lay surrounding me, scattered across the fake stone tiles on the Dairy Queen floor.
"Dairy Queen," I noted to myself. The very concept of a Dairy Queen reeked of corporate marketing. As if lactose-containing beverages were regimented into a monarchy.
More likely a reference to a transsexual with functional implants, my inner monologue suggested.
I forked over my paper trade medium to the grotesquely chipper cashier. Abraham Lincoln stared up at her with frightened, empty fish eyes as she put him in the cash drawer. Maybe he thought John Wilkes Booth was hiding in the darkness of the register.
She grabbed a Washington, miserable at the blisters his wooden teeth were wearing on his gums, and some shiny pieces of silver and handed them to me. I didn't count them. Maybe I should have. I wonder if Judas counted his.
She handed me a medium soda cup which was covered in garish blues and reds and golds. Cup has aspirations of being Superman, the monologue continued. As if Superman was something to aspire to. Shallow, fascist bastard. Notice how he never goes out with the ugly chicks.
"If you'll have a seat, I'll bring it out to you when it's done," the cashier continued. How sad for her, I thought. There is no future for her, no Bigger Picture. The most important thing in her life is how closely she can copy the hairstyles she sees in celebrity magazines. She has no bigger dreams than becoming a cheerleader and, if there is a Jesus, homecoming queen.
I've got news for you, honey. Jesus votes against fat chicks becoming homecoming queen. I'm not saying it's right; it's just one of those things that is. Maybe if you quit buying into the corporate bullshit message that says your entire identity is defined by how much you consume, long enough to lose a dozen or two pounds, maybe then Jesus will vote for you.
I grabbed the monstrously loudly-colored cup and went to the drink dispenser. I wanted unsweet tea, but the thought of the hideously pink packets of saccharine depressed me and made my head hurt. I needed caffeine but there was no Diet Mountain Dew and regular Mountain Dew is far too sweet. That was okay, I didn't feel like looking at the fluorescent yellow-green through a whole meal anyway. I wanted something dark. Something black. Or crimson.
I refused to buy into the physically violent ad campaign of Hawaiian Punch. Besides, it was Bozo Red, not crimson. They were out of Dr. Pepper. I refused to salute to the red, white, and blue of the Diet Pepsi nozzle.
That left Pepsi and Wild Cherry Pepsi. I chose the latter and found my way to a table. I should have had coffee.
I stared out the window at the white sky and the terminal late-summer leaves until she brought my food on a bright red, petroleum-based, landfill-clogging tray. The first thing I'll do when I'm declared Emperor of the World is ban cheerful colors, I thought at her. They are depressing.
The double cheeseburger and fries were in a tacky little box, with the burger wrapped in paper. I required condiments.
I arose and drifted over to the condiment table. I chose a small white paper tub and placed it under the phallic stainless-steel catsup nozzle. I depressed the plunger and it ejaculated my allotment of catsup into the tub. Sadly, it was not crimson either. It, too, was Bozo Red.
Catsup should be the color of barbecue sauce or port wine.
I returned to my table and unwrapped the burger. Damn. I forgot to tell them to hold the lettuce. I can live with the lifeless white of the onions and the embalmed pickles and the pale tomatoes, but the combination of green and leafy is just tragic.
I plucked the offending plant product from the burger and lay it on a napkin. It gaped up at me, confounded that I would find it unworthy. I pushed it to the other side of the table, as far away from me as I could.
It was then I saw the cheese. It was obscenely yellow. Not just yellow; happy-face yellow. I can tolerate cheese and it's whole embodiment of decay thing, but why the hell is cheese yellow, I wondered, perhaps aloud. Why can't it be black or brown or even red?
I made it red with half my catsup. I smeared half of the tub on the cheese, then drew a horrified smiley face on it before smashing the bun on top of it. Not so goddamn cheerful now, are we, I gloated, grinning perversely before feeding upon it.
I imagined the little cheeseman screaming in terror and agony. My perverse smile turning to chuckles, I became a vampire and him my prey. He tasted vaguely like unidentified meat.
I noticed the cowering french fries and, between bites of the cheeseman, dunked their heads in the remaining catsup, drowning them before eating their corpses. They screamed before dying. They begged. They pled for mercy. I had no mercy to give them. I was undeterred. Die, you weak little bastards, I told them, again perhaps aloud.
An elderly couple was looking at me with an amusing mixture of concern and confusion. Mind your own damn business or I'll eat you too, I thought at them. Maybe they picked up the thought, or maybe it was the dirty look I gave them, or maybe it was their own embarrassment at being caught staring at me. Whichever it was, they quickly averted their eyes and made fake conversations with each other while picking at their food.
I put the cheeseman out of his misery and finished him off. He had long since stopped shrieking and was by then only whimpering in quiet acceptance of his fate.
My hunger was satisfied, but I hadn't eaten all the fries. There were about a half dozen still alive. This presented a conundrum. I wasn't going to eat them, but they had seen too much; I couldn't leave them as witnesses.
I pulled them apart.
And wrapped their dismembered bodies in the discarded lettuce.
I got up and took the remains over to the trash can. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the couple watching me again.
So after I dumped my victims in the trash can, of course I genuflected a little.
I took my garish cup back to the drink machine for a refill and headed to the door. Once I got there, I had to check one more time, just to see. I spun around.
They were watching me again.
This time it was DEFINITELY aloud. "What was I SUPPOSED to do? The cheese was YELLOW!"
I turned and pushed open the door. The artificial franchise atmosphere escaping made an audible whoosh.
I walked to my car, opened the driver's side door, and climbed in. I dug into my shirt pocket and fished out my Blackstone Cherry little cigars. I flicked one out of the pack and lit it. Force of habit dictates a quick drag before I start my car.
I stared out my windshield absently. Then I couldn't believe it.
They were STILL staring at me, out of the restaurant window beside their booth.
How sad and empty their lives must be, that they would be so concerned with how someone they don't know eats a cheeseburger and fries, I thought.
I smiled and waved cheerfully at them, then glared and flipped them off, then smiled and waved again.
And then, I started my car, backed out of my parking space, and was on my way.
So, of course I'm going to reprint it.
DQ ADVENTURE
I hate the word "special." "Special" is a lie, any truth of it long ago murdered by the masses resentful of differences, originality and deviations. "Special"'s extinction came when it's upper vertebrae snapped under the cruel Birkenstocks of conformity.
But I hungered. I sought something to fill up the black hole inside the pit.
So I forfeited my soul and bought into the corporate marketing conspiracy, long enough to buy a "Special." The shattered pieces of my integrity lay surrounding me, scattered across the fake stone tiles on the Dairy Queen floor.
"Dairy Queen," I noted to myself. The very concept of a Dairy Queen reeked of corporate marketing. As if lactose-containing beverages were regimented into a monarchy.
More likely a reference to a transsexual with functional implants, my inner monologue suggested.
I forked over my paper trade medium to the grotesquely chipper cashier. Abraham Lincoln stared up at her with frightened, empty fish eyes as she put him in the cash drawer. Maybe he thought John Wilkes Booth was hiding in the darkness of the register.
She grabbed a Washington, miserable at the blisters his wooden teeth were wearing on his gums, and some shiny pieces of silver and handed them to me. I didn't count them. Maybe I should have. I wonder if Judas counted his.
She handed me a medium soda cup which was covered in garish blues and reds and golds. Cup has aspirations of being Superman, the monologue continued. As if Superman was something to aspire to. Shallow, fascist bastard. Notice how he never goes out with the ugly chicks.
"If you'll have a seat, I'll bring it out to you when it's done," the cashier continued. How sad for her, I thought. There is no future for her, no Bigger Picture. The most important thing in her life is how closely she can copy the hairstyles she sees in celebrity magazines. She has no bigger dreams than becoming a cheerleader and, if there is a Jesus, homecoming queen.
I've got news for you, honey. Jesus votes against fat chicks becoming homecoming queen. I'm not saying it's right; it's just one of those things that is. Maybe if you quit buying into the corporate bullshit message that says your entire identity is defined by how much you consume, long enough to lose a dozen or two pounds, maybe then Jesus will vote for you.
I grabbed the monstrously loudly-colored cup and went to the drink dispenser. I wanted unsweet tea, but the thought of the hideously pink packets of saccharine depressed me and made my head hurt. I needed caffeine but there was no Diet Mountain Dew and regular Mountain Dew is far too sweet. That was okay, I didn't feel like looking at the fluorescent yellow-green through a whole meal anyway. I wanted something dark. Something black. Or crimson.
I refused to buy into the physically violent ad campaign of Hawaiian Punch. Besides, it was Bozo Red, not crimson. They were out of Dr. Pepper. I refused to salute to the red, white, and blue of the Diet Pepsi nozzle.
That left Pepsi and Wild Cherry Pepsi. I chose the latter and found my way to a table. I should have had coffee.
I stared out the window at the white sky and the terminal late-summer leaves until she brought my food on a bright red, petroleum-based, landfill-clogging tray. The first thing I'll do when I'm declared Emperor of the World is ban cheerful colors, I thought at her. They are depressing.
The double cheeseburger and fries were in a tacky little box, with the burger wrapped in paper. I required condiments.
I arose and drifted over to the condiment table. I chose a small white paper tub and placed it under the phallic stainless-steel catsup nozzle. I depressed the plunger and it ejaculated my allotment of catsup into the tub. Sadly, it was not crimson either. It, too, was Bozo Red.
Catsup should be the color of barbecue sauce or port wine.
I returned to my table and unwrapped the burger. Damn. I forgot to tell them to hold the lettuce. I can live with the lifeless white of the onions and the embalmed pickles and the pale tomatoes, but the combination of green and leafy is just tragic.
I plucked the offending plant product from the burger and lay it on a napkin. It gaped up at me, confounded that I would find it unworthy. I pushed it to the other side of the table, as far away from me as I could.
It was then I saw the cheese. It was obscenely yellow. Not just yellow; happy-face yellow. I can tolerate cheese and it's whole embodiment of decay thing, but why the hell is cheese yellow, I wondered, perhaps aloud. Why can't it be black or brown or even red?
I made it red with half my catsup. I smeared half of the tub on the cheese, then drew a horrified smiley face on it before smashing the bun on top of it. Not so goddamn cheerful now, are we, I gloated, grinning perversely before feeding upon it.
I imagined the little cheeseman screaming in terror and agony. My perverse smile turning to chuckles, I became a vampire and him my prey. He tasted vaguely like unidentified meat.
I noticed the cowering french fries and, between bites of the cheeseman, dunked their heads in the remaining catsup, drowning them before eating their corpses. They screamed before dying. They begged. They pled for mercy. I had no mercy to give them. I was undeterred. Die, you weak little bastards, I told them, again perhaps aloud.
An elderly couple was looking at me with an amusing mixture of concern and confusion. Mind your own damn business or I'll eat you too, I thought at them. Maybe they picked up the thought, or maybe it was the dirty look I gave them, or maybe it was their own embarrassment at being caught staring at me. Whichever it was, they quickly averted their eyes and made fake conversations with each other while picking at their food.
I put the cheeseman out of his misery and finished him off. He had long since stopped shrieking and was by then only whimpering in quiet acceptance of his fate.
My hunger was satisfied, but I hadn't eaten all the fries. There were about a half dozen still alive. This presented a conundrum. I wasn't going to eat them, but they had seen too much; I couldn't leave them as witnesses.
I pulled them apart.
And wrapped their dismembered bodies in the discarded lettuce.
I got up and took the remains over to the trash can. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the couple watching me again.
So after I dumped my victims in the trash can, of course I genuflected a little.
I took my garish cup back to the drink machine for a refill and headed to the door. Once I got there, I had to check one more time, just to see. I spun around.
They were watching me again.
This time it was DEFINITELY aloud. "What was I SUPPOSED to do? The cheese was YELLOW!"
I turned and pushed open the door. The artificial franchise atmosphere escaping made an audible whoosh.
I walked to my car, opened the driver's side door, and climbed in. I dug into my shirt pocket and fished out my Blackstone Cherry little cigars. I flicked one out of the pack and lit it. Force of habit dictates a quick drag before I start my car.
I stared out my windshield absently. Then I couldn't believe it.
They were STILL staring at me, out of the restaurant window beside their booth.
How sad and empty their lives must be, that they would be so concerned with how someone they don't know eats a cheeseburger and fries, I thought.
I smiled and waved cheerfully at them, then glared and flipped them off, then smiled and waved again.
And then, I started my car, backed out of my parking space, and was on my way.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Sulu to marry partner.
Meanwhile, I notice that Star Trek has had many instances of "interspecies romance"* (on Earth, that's called bestiality) to little uproar from the theocrat right, but they still haven't had a gay character.
* - Spock was half-human, half-Vulcan. Belanna Torres was half-human, half-Klingon. Kirk did it with all sorts of alien women. Klingon Worf married Trill Dax after fathering a child with a half-human, half-Klingon. Human Riker married a half-human, half-Betazoid. Changeling Odo carried on with Bajoran Kira Nerys. Ferengi Rom married a Bajoran Dabo (sp?) girl. And android Data got a special "love kiss" from the Borg Queen, just to name a few.
* - Spock was half-human, half-Vulcan. Belanna Torres was half-human, half-Klingon. Kirk did it with all sorts of alien women. Klingon Worf married Trill Dax after fathering a child with a half-human, half-Klingon. Human Riker married a half-human, half-Betazoid. Changeling Odo carried on with Bajoran Kira Nerys. Ferengi Rom married a Bajoran Dabo (sp?) girl. And android Data got a special "love kiss" from the Borg Queen, just to name a few.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
I'm telling you, Johnny . . .
... you know I'm not voting for you, but if you want me to vote for the Libertarian candidate and not Obama, you'd better not!
EVIDENCE THE RAPTURE HAS COME!!!
Contestants are disappearing as the "American Idol" finale approaches. Unfortunately for Fox, so are the viewers.
Rapture!
Or maybe they are the Prime Movers, and John Galt has gotten to them.
I've got an idea!
Why don't they pay me a million of those cursive "L" thingies with a dash through them, and see if I can stir the soup?
Monday, May 12, 2008
You know how in the old SimCity game . . .
. . . that if you didn't enter in the correct code at the beginning, you could play the game but you were plagued with natural disasters every few seconds?
I wonder if the SimCity programmers are God, cuz the frequency of natural disasters sure seems to be ramping up.
I wonder if the SimCity programmers are God, cuz the frequency of natural disasters sure seems to be ramping up.
Friday, May 9, 2008
What, STILL no posts?
Much of my online time is being spent working on Operation Ex-Lax Redose.
The white man is still trying to keep my people down.
The white man is still trying to keep my people down.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Robot of the Day: Bumbot
Okay; I'll grant you that no matter what Battlebots says, remote-control does not a robot make.
But it shouldn't be too hard to put a little artificial intelligence in the little bugger.
Bonus Song of the Day: Rodney King A Go-Go Mashup.
Click the two "Play" buttons at the same time; then watch this:
as you listen to this:
as you listen to this:
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Robot Awareness Month: 5/3 Roundup.
Mechanical Squirrels and Robot Lizards!
Robot Revolution!
Robosexuals!
Robot Garbagemen!
Robot Urology!
"Giant, squid-like flying AirJelly robot thing"!
Robot Bug Swarm!
Note to self: Things become ominous when you precede them with the word "robot" and end them with an exclamation point.
Robot Revolution!
Robosexuals!
Robot Garbagemen!
Robot Urology!
"Giant, squid-like flying AirJelly robot thing"!
Robot Bug Swarm!
Note to self: Things become ominous when you precede them with the word "robot" and end them with an exclamation point.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Another V.L.P. Day.
This time it's because I have begun Operation Ex-Lax Redose* and need to work on that.
In that spirit, even though May is Robot Awareness Month, here's the song of the day:
* Those of you who need to know what Operation Ex-Lax Redose is will get a link in your email.
In that spirit, even though May is Robot Awareness Month, here's the song of the day:
* Those of you who need to know what Operation Ex-Lax Redose is will get a link in your email.
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