Good news and bad news

Well, I am glad to announce that my belly button is functioning normally, and, despite by belief otherwise, has been for a great number of years. On the flip side, however, I am a bit embarrassed to confess my recent discovery that the innate connection between male sexuality and naval seamen is not as I had been led to imagine. If you failed to understand the hidden meaning behind that inane reference, please remember the purpose of this report. End of report.

Yada!

Nameless post

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, tired and weary
Upon Google queries, watching movies from the days of yore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly I thought of blogging,
It was if I must be tapping, tapping on my keyboard more.
" 'Tis some visitor, " I muttered, "looking at the blog once more--
           Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in that bleak December;
It was then I started blogging, and was drawn to blogging more.
Eagerly I wished the morrow -- Vainly I had sought to borrow
From my dreams and from my sorrow--tweaking words, and seeking more
For the rare and snarky post--one which readers will adore --
          Nameless here for evermore.

"Myyy PRECIOUSSS"

Hmmm. I wonder why I mentally picture this guy splashing joyfully around a babbling brook in an attempt to barehandedly catch his own sushi?

A small blip on the radar screen

The world is full of all kinds of people. Sadly, though, some are unkind. That is kind of sad, huh?

Monday, Monday

Only once did I have a somber moment last weekend, when Tig showed me one of his old posts about working moms. In it, he had presented an excellent case for the stay-at-home mom. Unfortunately, even though I had always been against farming out young children to day care centers, I took only two months off after the birth of each child. So for about an hour, I was off in my own little world, on a guilt trip to the past, regretting the way things had worked out. I do this from time to time anyway--when I see mothers with small children who, along with a supportive husband, have chosen to place child-rearing in its proper place of importance. I have also beaten myself up over choices made by my son when he was left as a latch-key teenager.

The truth is, I really wanted to stay at home with my two children, now 24 and 17, but circumstances prevented this from happening. Now, I know what you're probably thinking--that I was caught up in materialism and was not able to sacrifice my "standard of living." Not so.

I had two reasons why I felt that I was better off at work, and that my children were actually better off in daycare:

1. Mother-in-law
2. Father-in-law

Yet as I mulled over the depressing events of my former existence, I thought about what a beautiful (inside and out) person my daughter has become, even though her circumstances at home were far from perfect. In some ways, these adversities have made her a more sensitive, perceptive, and sympathetic person, and she uses these traits in her chosen fields of psychology and art. I realized (as I have so many times before) that I cannot dwell on the past, but rather enjoy the present. And so I returned to my enjoyable weekend.

l knew after only a few months of marriage that I had married the wrong person. We met in a college environment, when he was into existentialist writers and appeared to have admirable goals. Soon we moved back to his home town of nearly 500 people, and his whole personality changed. Moreover, my in-laws could see our house from theirs, and they made everything their business. I tried hard to convince him to move away before we had children, but when it didn't happen after five years, I decided that, at age 30, I really did need to start my family. I kept making excuses for the way my then-husband was acting, blaming it on his parents' influence. And I did make the vow "for better or for worse." I didn't know how much worse it could get. I will not bore you with additional details, except to say that after the children were born, we were expected to be at their home more than we were at ours. The only time I had by myself with the children was in the car when I commuted to work, or at home with them when they were sick. My daughter finally admitted at age 22 that many of her asthma attacks were faked.

OTB enters the Terrible Twos

Well, with not much to do, Outside the Beltway turns two. It seems like only yesterday that little James Joyce was penning his first ode and is now regarded by many to be a minor poet of little renown Joyner is one of the most highly regarded bloggers. Let me be among the first to say: James, here is hoping you are around for another two, at least. ;)

Some important facts are sadly overlooked

Despite threats of continued terror and violence, Iraqis poured out to vote yesterday. Despite the reported high turn out numbers, however, in a head-for-head count, more deceased Democrats climbed from their graves to vote for John Kerry in our most recently held US Presidential election than the number of Iraqis who braved threats of gunfire to vote in a totally free election for the first time.

A Probable Prognostication

Yesterday I was having a little too much fun with the OTB™ Fun with Fiction Contest. Tig told me that I had sent in enough entries and needed to quit.

The goal is to change one letter of a book title so as to give the story an entirely new meaning. After the altered title, offer a one or two sentence explanation of the new story.

The Greatest Story Ever Sold - The story of famous author Terence A. (Tiger) Russell, whose publication of the short story "Snakedance" drew national attention to his talents. Subsequently, his Alien Attitudes™ trilogy, which won the Pulitzer Prize in 2006, was made into trio blockbuster movies.

[The basis of a motivational seminar which I attended a few years ago was that if you visualize the results that you want, you are likely to achieve them.]

Jellybean roulette

Round and round we go, and where the jellybean stops, only I know. It's a blue one, but I can't remember what flavor it is. I ain't gonna eat it, anyway. It's covered with sticky lint. Yuk!

Anyway, speaking of lint, I do not remember when we last had a navel lint sighting here on the nightly navel gazing report. Tonight, it appears, is not going to be the night to see such streak come to the end. Nope, jellybean lint is as good as we can do. The topic on tonight's agenda is belly button quakes. It is a very serious topic. Have you ever seen a quaking belly button? It ain't a pretty sight.

I was experiencing a very severe quaking spell in the area of my belly button yesterday in response to a comment Denita made to this short snark attack I made. The uncontrollable chuckling event initiated a truly intensely sustained quaking episode of such a massive magnitude that aftershocks were experienced as late as this afternoon. I was thankful that there were no large bodies of water involved. I imagine that we are all glad to skip another tsunami event for a long time to come.

I don't know who or what could have been effected by any possible tsunami, anyway. It has been a long while since the last census was taken to tabulate the amount of different life forms living near the summit of my Buddha belly. I do know, of course, that some sort of life exists, because, earlier today, I personally noticed a tiny little thingie crawling around. After closer inspection, I found myself completely satisfied with the creature's camping permit. Only recently, I have been made aware that my navel, on some plane of existence, is a popular recreational area. I have no say in the matter, or so I was told.

I almost wish I had nothing worse to worry over than a bit of belly button lint, here and there. One of my worries is that ya'll will all overlook an interesting bit of fiction I recently created: Snakedance. End of report.

Blogger Worker Dead at Computer Desk Five Days

It could happen.

Birmingham, AL--Bosses of a publishing firm are trying to work out why no one noticed that one of their employees had been sitting dead at his desk for five days before anyone asked if he was feeling okay. George Turklebaum, 51, who had been employed as a proof-reader at a New York firm for 30 years, had a heart attack in the open-plan office he shared with 23 other workers. He quietly passed away on Monday, but nobody noticed until Saturday morning when an office cleaner asked why he was still working during the weekend. His boss Elliot Wachiaski said "George was always the first guy in each morning and the last to leave at night, so no one found it unusual that he was in the same position all that time and didn't say anything. He was always absorbed in his work and kept much to himself." A post mortem examination revealed that he had been dead for five days after suffering a coronary. Ironically, George was proofreading manuscripts of medical textbooks when he died. Moral of the story: Don't work too hard. Nobody notices anyway. Source.

Now that I have started blogging, I am beginning to feel the same way. With this paucity of comments, I am beginning to understand how Tig felt when he told us that he was leaving the blogosphere.

Come on, you guys! How about at least reading Tig's new short story and leaving him a comment. He and his navel would certainly appreciate it.

A slow day is good for picking nits

I can't remember anything, except I love you. - Gregory Peck to Ingrid Bergman in Spellbound.

Jan. 30, 2005

Zeebo's fledgling relationship with his new found father, Steve Dallas, appears to be the stuff of which neither dreams nor movies are made and Opus seems to be especially broken up over the dilemma.

My dogs eat cat mummies for breakfast

Do not be fooled into thinking that I am a "dog person." I would rather have seven cat mummies than a dog. - Esther Wilberforce-Packard*

*It is suspected that the character of Esther is actually portrayed by Frances McDormand.

All the early bird ever gets is another worm

It's Sunday morning, the paper's late, and I am here. So! Just where in the blazes of eternal damnation are you?

While I have your attention ^{~clears throat raccously~} have you read this yet?

A desperate tale of salty times

I was once sailing smoothly along on the ship of life when I somehow slipped and fell overboard. The next thing I knew, I was swimming in a sea of sorrow or dog-paddling, so-to-speak, in deep sh*t. How thankful I was that someone quickly threw me a Lifesaver® that I did not even care that it was a Spearmint Lifesaver®. Ironically, you see, I positively abhor the flavor of spearmint. I have often supposed that it had simply been enough that someone actually cared enough to throw anything to distract me from riding downward on the swirling undertow in my ocean of despair. I soon found myself again encircled by sharks, and, once surrounded by such circle of friends, I quickly found my sea legs once again.

I have, lately, again begun to see the sea gulls circling overhead and the water has already climbed up to my navel. If you see the water around me start to swirl, please don't flush again. I appreciate your attention to these minor details. Please be sure to read the original story that I penned earlier today. I think you'll really enjoy it. End of report.

Is there never anything good to read on Saturdays?

OK, so, no one blogs on Saturdays, right? Well, how about a bit of original fiction? Here is a quick short story I penned this morning from an idea I got on a drive to and from Abilene yesterday on a trip I took to take care of some family business. It is, as yet, untitled, so suggestions are appreciated.

Snakedance - by Terence A. (Tiger) Russell

"Dolt" was the term Jesse used to refer to Billy Wilson. He referred to Billy Wilson often. Billy was the older brother of his girl, Sarah Wilson, and, akin to Mary's lamb, where Sarah went, Billy was soon to follow. Jesse loved to spend time with Sarah, but hated having Billy constantly under foot.

Billy was a big boy, six-foot two inches tall, and weighing in at 220. A full head of never-combed rusty red hair topped a round smiling face and a pair of twinkling gray eyes. Being addle-pated as he was, he was unaware of his own strength. Often, he knocked the wind out of a man with a mere friendly slap on the back. How often Jesse had experienced that distinct pleasure.

Billy imagined himself to be a comedian and was too often coming up with the most inane jokes. When revealing the punch line, so as to emphasize the point, Billy would lift his leg, stomp it strongly upon the ground, and pound the back of the person nearest to him. All too often, that person happened to be Jesse.

"Hey, Dolt!" Jesse yelled to Billy, as he loped up the lane to meet him.

"Hey, Jesse," Billy replied, breathlessly as he neared. "Comin' to visit with Sarah?"

"Yeah, I am, Dolt, so buzz off, for once, won't ya?"

"But don't you want to hear a joke, Jesse? I made up a new one today. It is really funny."

"No, Billy," Jesse replied, "I don't want to hear one of your stupid jokes. Now go away."

"Oh leave him alone, Jesse," Sarah said as she crossed from the clothesline, 20 feet from the lane to Jesse's right. "You really ought to be nicer to him if you are planning on his being your brother-in-law, you know?"

"Yes, and he might be the uncle to our children, too, if we could ever find some time to be alone to make some."

"Shh! Jesse!" she retorted. "It's vulgar to talk aloud of such things."

"Jesse's talking vulgar, Jesse's talking vulgar!" Billy began to chant.

"Shut up, Dolt!" Jesse said, glaring at Billy.

Sarah huffed. "OK. That's the last straw, Jesse Johnson." She paused, taking a deep breath. "I am through with you for today. Just go on home."

"But, Sarah, sweetie. Billy knows I don't mean anything by it, don't you, Billy?"

"Yeah, Jesse," Billy replied, "It's all in fun, right?" he continued, slapping Jesse heartily on the back.

"Yes, it's all in fun, Billy," Jesse grunted, trying to catch his breath, in response.

"No matter," Sarah continued. "I have had enough of your continual derision of my dear brother Billy, and until you think up some way to make it up to him, don't come back." Without waiting for his response, she spun on her heels and went back to her chore.

"See what you did?" Jesse said to Billy, as he stood in the middle of the lane, toeing a dimple in its pale yellow dirt surface. "You done got Sarah riled at me."

"So, do you want to hear my joke now?" Billy asked, "Huh, do you?"

"No, I don't!" Jesse said sharply. He turned and began to amble off down the lane to his home place over the far ridge.

For three days, Jesse brooded. He would walk far enough to reach the trees bordering the Wilson place, where, unseen, he could watch Sarah walk to and fro, feeding the chickens, seeing to the livestock, and tending to the garden. Of course, Billy, as always, cheerfully dogged her every step.

Nothing ever came to his mind, though. All he wanted was some way to get Billy out of his way so that he could court Sarah. It seemed impossible. Jesse wondered if he should just give up on Sarah.

These thoughts were going through his mind that third afternoon, as he wandered among the trees at the edge of the Wilson place, following the little clear brook that trickled along its course through that thick copse of willow shoots. He had a long stick in hand, using it to prod among the shadows under bushy clumps and to overturn large rocks to examine what might be found beneath them. He was so deep in thought that he had not heard Billy's approach.

"Hi Jesse!" Billy said from directly behind him.

Startled, Jesse stood straight up, striking the crown of is head on Billy's chin. "Ouch!" he exclaimed. "Billy, you dolt! Where'd you come from?"

"Where ya been, Jesse? I been looking for you. Wanna hear my joke?"

"Not right now, Billy. I'm busy."

"What are ya doing, Jesse?"

"Hunting rattlesnakes."

"Oh, can I hunt rattlesnakes with you, Jesse?"

"You can't hunt rattlesnakes with someone else, Billy. Don't you know that? Rattlesnake hunting is a one man operation. The snakes won't come out if they see two people, so it is impossible to catch them if more'n one person is doin' the huntin'."

"Oh. OK. But I sure would like to learn to hunt rattlesnakes, Jesse. Maybe you could come over to the house later and teach me to do it."

"Do you think it would be all right with Sarah?"

"Oh, yeah. Sarah has been watching for you. I think she would like for you to come, especially if she knew you were coming to see me and teach me to hunt rattlesnakes."

"It's a deal, Billy! I'll be over later and I will bring you your own personal rattlesnake hunting kit and tell you everything you need to know about hunting rattlesnakes if you'll fix it where Sarah ain't mad at me anymore."

Whop! Billy gleefully slapped Jesse on the back. "Deal! See ya later." Billy turned and began to skip off toward home singing to himself, "I'm gonna learn to hunt rattlesnakes, I'm gonna learn to hunt rattlesnakes..."

Jesse searched the ground for a few minutes for the perfect stick, and, finding it, trotted off toward home. He quickly arrived there, darted toward the barn, and took one of several empty burlap feed sacks hanging over the rail in the stable, before turning to run back up the lane toward the Wilson farm.

As he crossed the last rise and was in sight of the Wilson house, Jesse could see Billy standing in the small yard that fronted the house, looking his way, jumping up and down, and yelling at the top of his lungs, "Here he comes, here he comes!"

"Hey Billy!" Jesse said, as he slowed to walk the last few steps into the yard. "Here's your rattlesnake hunting kit. I think this stick is the right length for you, and this is a good sack to put the snakes in." He proffered the sack and stick to Billy, who eager took possession of the items.

"Teach me to hunt rattlesnakes, Jesse, won't ya, huh? Huh?" Billy insisted.

"Nothin' to it, Billy. It don't take a genius. You just use the stick to prod around in the shadows and to flip over rocks. If you find a rattlesnake, you just use the stick to pick it up and put it in the sack. If the snake rattles its tail, it is thinking of biting you, so be careful. If they bite you, you can die, so try not to get bit. You understand that, don't you, Billy?"

"Yeah, I understand. Kinda like not bein' sprayed by a skunk, right?"

"Worse, Billy. You can eventually get rid of the skunk stink, but once you are dead, it is forever."

"Yeah, like when our old dog Coalie died, right?"

"Like that, Billy. Come to think of it, maybe you are too simple to be huntin' rattlesnakes. You better give me back that snake hunting kit," Jesse said, reaching out to take back the items.

Billy hugged the stick and sack to his chest and screamed, "No! I can do it! Don't be an Indian-giver, Jesse, please?" Billy began to cry.

"OK, Billy. I'm sorry. Just be careful, OK? I don't think Sarah will never forgive me if I let anything bad happen to you."

"I'll be careful, Jesse!" Billy exclaimed gleefully as he began to quickly amble away, holding his stick and bag aloft. "I'll be the best rattlesnake hunter you ever seen, you just wait and see!"

"I bet you will, Billy, I bet you will!" Jesse replied as Billy moved farther and farther away. "Good hunting."

Sarah had watched the entire scene from the porch. She approached Jesse as Billy moved father into the distance. "He'll be OK, won't he?"

"Yeah! I think so," Jesse said, as he reached for her hand. "Those snakes'll likely head for cover when they see him coming."

"I knew you'd come up with something. I always knew you had a pretty good head on your shoulders."

"Let's go sit on that porch swing and hold hands until the sun goes down."

"Let's," replied Sarah, her cheeks swelling slightly, as they pinkened.

Remarkably, the two of them were able to peacefully feast upon each other's company, without Billy's continual interference for an hour and a half. Jesse had been unaware of the passage of time as he gazed into the deep blue eyes of Sarah during their talk of their future life together.

"Are you going to stay over for supper, Jesse?" he heard Mrs. Wilson ask. He had not heard her approach.

"I guess I could, Mrs. Wilson, but I'll have to call and check," he replied.

"That'll be fine. You know where the phone is ... say, where's Billy?"

"He's off somewhere hunting snakes, Ma! Jesse gave him a stick and a toe-sack and told him it was a rattlesnake hunting kit, and Billy giddily ambled off in search of his prey. We ain't seen hide nor hair of him since."

"Ain't like that boy to wander off by himself like that," she muttered. "Billy!" she yelled through cupped hands into the distance. "Supper'll be ready soon, boy. You be gettin' home now!" She turned and walked back toward the door muttering to herself, "I guess that boy is finally growing up. Never ever went off like that before, no by himself," then eyeing Jesse, who had yet moved off the porch swing, "Boy, if you are planning on staying over for supper, you had better be getting to that phone!"

"Yes, ma'am," Jesse said, rising and following the woman into the house. The aroma of fried chicken permeated the home's interior. "It sure smells delicious, Mrs. Wilson."

"Thanks! I hope it is." She turned back into the kitchen. Jesse did not follow her down the hallway toward the kitchen door, stopping instead at the little alcove in the wall where the phone was placed. He lifted the receiver and dialed the number.

Following a short conversation, his mother quickly acceded to his decision to eat at the Wilson's. "You're now 20 and practically a full-grown man," she said. "I ‘spect soon that Sarah will be fixing all your meals, anyway, so I might as well get used to setting an empty plate at your place at the table."

He returned to the porch just as Billy was arriving from wherever he had been. He was climbing the steps onto the porch just as Jesse was exiting the door to the house. Billy tossed the sack to the surface of the porch with a soft thud at Jesse's feet.

"Already got four of ‘em, Jesse. Them rattlesnakes ain't so hard to catch."

Well, I'm a Monkey's Aunt!

Betcha didn't know ...

• The only animals born with horns are giraffes. [From a female perspective, ouch!]
• The only milk that doesn't curdle when boiled is camel milk.
• The ostrich is the only bird that provides us with leather.
• A snake is smelling when it sticks out its tongue.
• The pig is the nearest living relative to the hippopotamus.
• The chicken is the closest living relative of Tyrannosaurus Rex.
• Sharks attack men ten times more often than they attack women. [hmmmm ...]
• The shark is the only known animal that never gets sick.
• A cow gives approximately 200,000 glasses of milk during her life.
• Crocodiles can't stick out their tongues because it is a protection to prevent them from biting off their tongue with all of those sharp teeth and very powerful jaws.
• Armadillos are the only animals that can get leprosy.
• A kangaroo can't jump unless its tail is touching the ground.
• The only place on the body of a cow that has sweat glands is the nose.

Source

 

I can see the family resemblance here ...

but this is a stretch --

 

Purely personal predicament

If I could keep me away from myself I would, but I can't. You see, I overheard me in a discussion with myself regarding plans for my future. Those plans would be good for me and I could see how they could be of great benefit to myself, but I seemed to be left completely out of the picture. I was both alarmed and appalled. I would have consulted my navel, but who knows with whom its loyalties lie: me, myself, or I? End of post

[De-linked by OTB]

Can Peewee Herman be his sidekick?

Beware you dastardly villains! Here comes Ringoman.

Things you likely did not know

Garfield has a chauffeur.

Touch gloves and commence fighting

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Eric was simply appalled!

May I have your attention, please

If you find this blog to be an enjoyable read, click here

Props used in this post are the responsibility of Susie.

Jan. 28, 2005

"9-1-1 Operator."

"Yes," stammered Ethyl Azala, the well known elderly matron of the town, "Please send the fire department, quickly!"

"Is your house on fire?"

"No, not that, but I have two naked bikers climbing up toward my bedroom window."

"Then you meant to have me dispatch the police, right?"

"No, I definitely want the fire department. That ladder of theirs is much too short."

Calvinating the competition

Well, where do I start? It was a very bizarre day. I awoke with naught on my calendar, so decided to drive to one of the neighboring burgs to sit in court in hopes of snagging a court appointment or two. There was a judicial conference involving the judge of the court, so the court was not to be in session on this day. No problem. I merely walked over to visit the District Attorneys' Office to discuss a case I was assigned yesterday. Afterward, I drove to the jail to deliver the bad news to my client.

I thought the biggest part of my day was over and decided to go visit with Moona and eat lunch at her Rotary Club meeting. I was about 15 minutes out when I get a call inquiring why I was not appearing with my client in court in the other neighboring burg. Well, I could rant and rave about the root of that problem, but I won't. Let it just be said that while electronic communication beats snail mail anytime -- human error permeates all modes.

So, a quick u-turn and a mad dash, and I was there in less than a fortnight, if a fortnight is equal to 45 minutes. I stood around for a few minutes until there was a lull at the bench, went up and agreed to pass off the case one more time for the DA to investigate whether my poor, mentally defective, client was actually driving the evading vehicle or was merely pulling it out of the ditch after the actual driver and friend ran off and left my client holding the figurative bag the facts of the matter. It was now too late to make the hour drive to do the previously planned lunch thing, so I stopped in at Wendy's for a sumptuous lunch of burger, fries, and DP.

On my way back, however, I found myself sitting at a light next to one of those Dodge trucks with the hemi engine. I look over at the driver and he starts revving his engine as if challenging my ancient Lincoln Town Car to a drag race. The light turned and he sped off to the next red light. I again came up along side him, and he again replayed the scenario. Again, the light changed and off he sped.

I arrived at the next light, which I know from prior experience has a long left turn cycle, to see him sitting there. I deftly jumped from my car, ran around and popped the trunk, and retrieved my Calvin. Quickly, I threw it in the road and climbed back into my car just as the light changed. Off I sped, my eye affixed to the rear-view mirror watching as my Calvin took hold of the necessary equipment and commenced to spray a steady stream of urine all over the idiot in the hemi-powered Dodge Ram truck.

No, seriously folks ... I have every Calvin and Hobbes book that Waterson ever produced and I do not remember ever having seen a single drawing of Calvin urinating on anything. So, who officially assigned Calvin to urinate on everything? Initially, I suspected my own navel was involved, but it produced evidence of an iron clad alibi. End of report.

[Ed. note: No llamas were butchered in the creation of this post.]

Laughing at adversity is not normally naturally disastrous

Putting aside the irony of a black hip-hop station having ads pulled by McDonald's

for airing what some say is a racist satire of the tsunami tragedy in Southeast Asia to the tune of 'We Are the World,' a song created in the 1980s to fight hunger in Africa - source

"What happened is morally and socially indefensible," said Rick Cummings, president of Emmis Radio. The station is owned by Emmis Communications Corp. "All involved, myself included, are ashamed and deeply sorry. I know the members of the morning show are truly contrite. They know their actions here are inexcusable," Cummings said in a statement.

The piece used racial slurs to describe people swept away in the disaster, made jokes about child slavery and people watching their mothers die. - source

"You can hear God laughing, 'Swim you b**ches swim,'" was one line in the song, sung by staff of the show.

In Chapter 2 of the book How to Write, by Jim Foreman, we are told:

One of the oldest foundations to play humor against is conflict. I don't mean conflict which leads to blows, but simply mental of situational conflict. It can be man against man, man against machine or even man against some outside influence such as weather, government or society.

And how much worse is such humor worse than cruelty jokes, which have been around for years?

Q. What did the little moron do when he learned that he was going to die?
A. He went into the living room.

Q. Why did the little moron drive his car into a tree?
A. He wanted to hear its bark.

Q. Why did Moona drive the rent car off the road?
A. ????? I'm sure Tig will think of an appropriate answer.

Humor, like love, usually comes from a situation in which a person is not only physically interested but is also mentally involved. Like love, the pleasure of humor can be experienced again and again if it is applied properly. In humor, there is always the right time and the right place for it to happen and should one of those two parameters be missing, there is little chance that the desired response to humor will result.

Santa didn't have time to visit Asia this year so he just gave them a wave as he he passed.

Fairy Liquid have donated a million bottles of detergent to the tsunami appeal, they heard that there were a lot of Asians washing up on the beaches.

Ellen Macarthur's bid to circumnavigate the globe in record time has failed...She was beaten by a Sri Lankan on a deck chair.

Did you hear the Billabong surfing Pro Am this year was won by an Indonesian on a kitchen table.

And yet flatulence still goes unchecked

San Francisco bans outdoor smoking

in all city-owned parks, public plazas and sports facilities except golf courses.

Update of my publication efforts

I contact another agent today. I chose to contact Kristin Nelson because of the compassion she showed to those of us who are lost as to how to get our work into the market:

A Message to Writers: For many authors, writing is a life dream and a passion. I understand the depth and the importance of this. The hardest part of being an agent is when I have to say "No" because I realize what impact that rejection has. Regardless of my response to your query, persevere, believe in your talent, keep your sense of humor, and most of all, write.

In case you are not aware of the quality of this piece of work, I invite you to visit the extended entry to read a short excerpt of the material.

Alura wished she had something to read. She was bored and lacked the patience to just sit and stare at nothing. I do suppose I could run though my martial arts exercise routine.

Alura began the exercise ritual, but quickly sensed that she was being watched by unseen eyes. She searched the walls and corners for any sign of security cameras, but found none. She glanced across at the cell on the opposite side of the broad hallway. It was completely dark. Still, Alura felt like there was something in that dark cell watching her. As her eyes adjusted to the level of light in the dark cell, Alura was almost sure she could make out a silhouette of something.

"Is there someone there?" she asked. Something moved in the darkness. Whatever it was, it was staying in the back of that very dark cell.

"Show yourself," Alura called. It moved again, but Alura was still unable to see who or what was in that cell. Oh well, she thought and resumed her exercise routine. She now faced the doorway, however, and continued to watch the dark cell across from hers while practicing her movements.

As Alura danced a martial arts ballet, a discernible shape began to emerge from the shadows of the dark cell. It, whatever it was, crept closer and closer toward the barred door. As its shaped became more pronounced, Alura became convinced that it was something very large.

Alura remained silent, continuing her routine with gaze affixed upon the opposing cell. The silhouetted shape began to make sense. It must be one of those elephant things I saw spirit away the dead lion bodies earlier.

It spoke, asking a question, "What sort of dance is that? I have never seen dance moves like those."

Alura was startled. It speaks my language. She paused her routine and approached the barred door of her cell to address the voice in the other cell. She called across and asked, "Do you speak English?"

"I don't know this ‘English,' lady. I am, however, well versed in the language of the Creators. Are you not a Creator?"

"No. I don't think so. What is a Creator?" she asked, mostly rhetorically. She continued, "I am from Earth. Do you know anything about Earth?"

"Earth? Is it a distant Iftzian territory? I have heard that there are many distant territories on the other side of The Great Water."

"Earth is the name of my world" Alura stated. "I am not from this world," she continued.

"I am not versed in the names of the stars and the worlds that circle them. I am but a lowly Elee. I am called Hor/10 because I am 10th in the line of the Hor clan. Legend say that the Creators made us from the wild animals of Iftz. The Creators exist here no longer, as legend says that the Leonids seized control of all of Iftz and drove the Creators away. The Leonids are powerful and they intend to enslave or destroy all rival forms of life on this world."

"These Leonids are quickly proving themselves to be ghastly beings, but your kind is so much larger and stronger. Why is it that you do not fight back?"

"We may be both large and strong, but we have no weapons. We may be both large and strong, but we are clumsy and stupid. Have you witnessed the devastation that a single Leonid can inflict with a single claw?" Hor/10 asked.

"Yes, I earlier witnessed a Leonid officer fell two of his underlings. With but a single swipe across the throat with one of those claws, those two died silently."

"They killed my own father in such a manner -- right before my eyes. Even the largest and strongest Elee quakes with fear at the slightest confrontation with the smallest Leonid."

Alura remarked, "Those overgrown pussycats don't frighten me! They would never be able to lay a claw on me, I am sure!"

"They do frighten me, however, but my fear will likely not last for long now that my time grows near."

"What do you mean that your time grows near?" Alura queried. "Why have they locked you up? Surely, if you are fearful of them to such an utterly high degree, you are already completely at their mercy. What further can they hope to achieve by locking you away"

"I have violated one of their laws. I acquired a possession. For that, they must make an example of me. I must die."

"Die because you acquired a possession? That is absolutely ludicrous. Whatever do you mean?" Alura questioned.

"You see these?" Hor/10 asked as he moved into the light and put a finger onto the bridge piece of a pair of sunglasses that he, despite standing in absolute darkness, wore upon his huge face.

"Yes."

"These were given to me by an outlander trader as a gift. I was assigned to be his porter and charged with transporting his cases while he moved about Iftz conducting business with the Leonids. When we first met, he removed these sunglasses from one of his cases and laid them in my hand. We were both immediately surrounded by Leonid Security. I was arrested before I could decline his gift."

"That is so ignorant. What's with these Leonids?"

"They are ruthless tyrants. They arrested the trader, as well. It is also violation of Iftzian law to bestow a possession upon an Elee. He is also here in this prison, somewhere. Little short purple guy in a robe. Dik, I think. I do not think they intend to execute him."

"The activity you were watching is a practice routine I use to keep my fighting skills current. On my world, there are forms of fighting in which one only needs the use of one's hands and feet to incapacitate one's enemies, even those with claws, knives, or even more advanced weaponry."

"I think I would like to see an exhibition of your skills. I fear, however, that I shall be long dead before you get a chance to put your skills into practice." As he was concluding his statement, Hor/10 quickly retreated into the darkness of his cell. He exclaimed questioningly "What was that?"

"What?" Alura asked.

"I saw a flash of a very bright light through your window."

Before Alura could respond, a portion of the ceiling crashed onto the floor.

A bit of advice to the next idiot in line

Now I am hearing that they are going to charge Mr. Juan Manuel Alvarez with 11 counts of murder and are going to seek the death penalty. But for a last minute change of heart, it seems that Mr. Alvarez was set to execute himself. Mr. Dow B. Hover of the State of New York used to be the executioner for Sing Sing prison and was an expert in electrocution. He also knew a way to kill himself without taking a whole lot of innocent people with him:

On June 1, 1990, in the middle of the afternoon, Gladys's [sic] son, Jack, stopped by the house to check on him. "Granddad!" he shouted, as he entered the breezeway. No answer. Jack heard the hum of a car's engine. He twisted the handle of the door leading to the garage and discovered that the garage was full of exhaust.

Dow B. Hover sat in the front seat of his Plymouth, the driver's window rolled down, his arms folded across his chest. At first, Jack yanked at the garage door, trying to pull it open, before remembering that he needed to push a button. It was already too late; Hover's skin was cold to the touch. Here, in the same garage where he had once changed his license plates before driving off to Sing Sing, it appears that the state's last executioner ended one more life: his own. - source

Death from carbon monoxide poisoning is painless and you simply find yourself falling asleep to never awaken again.* No trains or innocent train-riding commuters need be involved.

*It is not my purpose to propose that anyone take their own life, but simply that should it be their choice to do so, they do so sensibly -- without harm to others.

Yada!

Back! ^{by popular demand}

Well, let me start off by thanking the three who leaped forth and demanded that I continue this daily column. Knowing that the surrounding waters are filled with piranhas will make my nightly swim through the blogosphere more enjoyable. See if you can fit that square analogy into the triangular gap my logic laid bare.

So, remember when I told ya'll* that I had satellite TV and would likely not peruse more than a few of the stations. Well, so far, over 75% of my viewing time has been dedicated to one station. Any guesses as to which one?

The other 25% of my viewing time has been dedicated to gazing upon my navel. It is not an arbitrary decision on my part. My navel required such to be written into its contract. Well, actually, its agent was directly responsible for passing along such demand. Thankfully, there is nothing in the contract that states I am no allowed to let my mind wander while my eyes are focuses on the little dimple in the midst of my Buddha belly. End of report.

*I apologize for those of you who wanted everything to be perfectly grammatically correct for this point on, but I have a very hard time with referring to the whole blogosphere as you or you all. Ya'll will** just have to put up with my usage of ya'll.

**That could've easily been drawled as Ya'll'll 'round these parts.

Eye candy

Safe for work

Yada!

Ha! No more guilt about leaving the bed unmade*

Confess, now! Haven't you ever thought that making a bed was ludicrous? You're gone from the house all day, and what do you do when you get home but pull down the sheets and get in. ... What's the point?

Well, researchers have now shown that not making your bed may be beneficial to your health!

*Sorry, Mom.

Front of Car Rear-Ended

Just a few minutes ago, the director of another local non-profit organization stopped by to visit. I was telling him about the fate of my Cadillac Catera and the subsequent wreck that I had in the rental vehicle. He proceded to tell me that he had recently been involved in a wreck as well.

Several weeks ago, he had taken his car to the dealer where I recently purchased my Taurus, which is across the street from his office. When his car was ready, he decided to walk across the street. Suddenly, a young lady in a Ford Focus swerved and was about to hit him. Sizing up the situation, he decided that he could not get out of the way of the car, so would either have to duck down or jump up to avoid the full impact. Since the car had little clearance underneath it, he decided to jump up. When he did, he landed on the hood of the car. The only part of the car which was damaged was the hood, which now had an imprint of his rear end. My friend had no injuries except for (so he told me) a very bruised buttox. This certainly lends a different meaning to the term "rear end collision."

Still fighting the addiction

Here I sit at work, still compelled to wander off to the blogosphere.

Well, I told you that I fibbed to you about working at Walmart. Guess it's time I told you what I really do. I am the Executive Director of a non-profit organization that provides hot home-delivered meals to homebound elderly citizens of the rural county in which I reside, along with nutritional supplements, passes for the local transit system, and referrals to a larger agency which can provide additional services, such as counseling, home modification and repair, or help with household chores. It sounds like a big title, and actually has quite a bit of responsibility, but the State pays me more in retirement than what I earn at this.

The State agency from which I retired was known as the Welfare Department when I started in 1976, but it has changed names three times since then (for political correctness and other various reasons). During my twenty-seven-and-a-half year career, I worked in the nursing home program, AFDC (TANF), Food Stamps, Children's Medicaid, CHIP, and Employment Services programs. I also served two years monitoring offices in the region for compliance with regional office procedure and taught a new-worker training class. I broke the monotony of working there by writing silly poetry and song parodies about the job.

Nearly everyone who worked there for an extended period of time remarked at one time or another that they should write a book about their experiences. After all, not only have we heard thousands of bizarre real-life stories, but we have also experienced bureaucracy at its worst. The last five years that I worked for this agency, I felt like the department store employees in the movie The Devil and Miss Jones. Younger employees in higher positions were doing all they could to force me out so that they could hire someone who did not earn more than they did. Finally, when the State offered an early-retirement deal, I took it. I started my current job during my last two weeks as a State employee.

Prior to that I taught in junior high and high school (some funny stories here, too). I was certified in history, math, and English.

So now you know the truth. Perhaps this revelation will provide catharsis for me.

Not

OK, guess why Tig did not do the Nightly Navel Gazin' Report last night. You have three choices:

1. Only two hands were raised in favor of continuation of this report.
2. He could not locate his navel.
3. His DSL is down again.

Another show of hands!

How many of ya'll would like me to continue the Nightly Navel Gazin' Report™?

Blogging Addiction

All right, I confess. It was really projection when I implied that the kan'tgaroo and the toucan't needed therapy. It was really a call for help for my own blogging addiction.

Yes, though I have blogged for only a little over a month, I already know that I'm in serious trouble. I find myself constantly toggling over to the blog site while I work, sneaking in an entry here and there. In fact, if I go a day without blogging, I begin to feel very shaky. I fear it could get even more serious; it seems that the disease even has a name: Post-Bloggies Depression (PBD).

I'm lobbying the American Psychiatric Association this week to consider a new mental disease: Post-Bloggies Depression (PBD). Here's my preliminary write-up for the next edition of the DSM:

Post-Bloggies Depression, or PBD, is an overwhelming sense of one's smallness in the face of an ever-expanding blogosphere. Clinical practice recognizes two varieties of this illness:

Mild PBD. The patient feels no animosity toward actual finalists, and doesn't tie his self-esteem to the honor. The patient does, however, suffer chronic sadness at the thought of how much talent surrounds his tiny province of blogdom. The suffering is especially acute if the patient previously perceived himself to be a "big fish" in the blog world, and suddenly realized, thanks to the Bloggies, that he is the equivalent of a relief pitcher for a AAA baseball team.

Psychotic PBD. A mix of Mild PBD, megalomania and paranoid schizophrenia. The Psychotic PBD patient spends most of his time holed up in a room printing out blog postings from finalists and tacking them to the wall, using push pins and colored strings to simulate hyperlinks; the patient stares at these for hours, memorizing the "map" of the blogosphere so well that he can tell you how to start from any arbitrary blog and reach any of the finalists in less than six clicks. He uses everything from whois lookups on domain names to phone calls to relatives to ferret out the physical identities of finalists, and spends inordinate time and money following them around their native towns and blogging their comings and goings via wireless access points. Psychotic PBD sufferers are considered extremely dangerous people who may eventually kidnap one or more finalists and force them to guest-blog and cross-promote from the patient's basement until the incoming Technorati count for the patient's blog exceeds 500.

Why is this child crying?

^{click to enlarge}

There is great cause for celebration no matter who ultimately wins

The Academy Award Nominations are out and Michael Moore's* name goes unmentioned. Of course, as usual, the Academy shows its belief that animated movies are not considered to be Best Picture material.

*I personally thought Fahrenheit 9/11 was a shoo-in for the best foreign language film, being that the movie was narrated by a well-known known barking moonbat.

For all of my adoring fans in Austin

Let me assist you in keeping down the cost of living. Would saving a dollar on your lunch be of any assistance to any of ya'll?

Jan. 16 & Jan. 23, 2005 [for Denita]

On Sunday, January 16th, Opus, whose excuse is that he has been away for 10 years, discovered that Windows is not only an operating system, but, for those of us that are frustrated with how badly it performs, it is also the name of a good output device.

This past Sunday, being January 23, 2005, Steve Dallas claims that the blonde, blue-eyed nanny misinterpreted his statements. He claimed he was only telling her how much he appreciated her assistance, whereas she believed he was asking for her assistance in a wholly different kind of situation, altogether.

Berke Breathed seemed a bit mixed up, as well. He seems to think Slovakia is somewhere in Scandinavia. Additionally, it seems that not only is Steve supporting himself and his newly found son, Zeebo, now -- but has a live-in nanny, a big-butted penguin and a catatonic cat living under his roof.

Is the term "catatonic cat" superfluous or redundant?

Tsunami Transplants Turtle

^{Another Tsunami Tsurvivor!}

Helicopters scouring a devastated Indian island have sighted endangered sea turtles nesting again at new locations a month after the tsunamis wrecked their habitat.

Name: Olive Ridley Sea Turtle (Lepidochelys oliveacea)
Cool Facts: It is the smallest of the sea turtles. It often travels thousands of miles between feeding and nesting sites. It has been known to turn cannibalistic in captivity.
Conservation Status: Endangered
Major Threats: Loss of nesting sites, egg poaching, fishing and pollution.

Tig and Moona's Excellent Adventure

I'm at work now, but thought I'd take a break. I really need a vacation.

I haven't had a vacation in a long time. I suppose that the little trip that Tig and I took Saturday to visit with Denita TwoDragons' family was as close to a vacation as I've had in awhile. You may remember that I had been looking for a car to replace the one that the car dealer wrecked (can't say much about that since I subsequently wrecked the rent car), and Saturday, after getting a second opinion from Tig, I settled on a used Ford Taurus. I can't say that I like it as well as my old Cadillac Catera, but it's a nice car for the money. After closing the deal, Tig suggested that we take the car on a road trip and test it out. I had been wanting to meet Denita TwoDragons, so we headed for Tinyville.

After arriving there, we talked about visiting a nearby quaint hole-in-the-wall, blink-and-you'll-miss-it town, and then riding a bit farther for dinner in another slightly larger town famous for German food. The scenery was really pretty, even at dusk. After awhile, though, we felt rather as though we were traveling in circles. Although we knew that the town was close, there were no signs posted. However, we finally arrived, and had a good time looking at souvenirs and listening to music. Next, as planned we experienced pleasant conversation and excellent German food.

Well, so much for my break from work. Next time I have a break, I might even tell you what kind of job I really have.

There is help available

Dr. Wihtred (Pumbaa) Warthog has begun a support group for animals who are having problems with motivation and self-esteem. Perhaps we should refer the kan'tgaroo and the toucan't.

High speed internet and brains

In the short time that I've been blogging, I have come to the conclusion that bad blogging days must be related to problems with the white matter, not with the gray matter. For instance, Tig had problems posting because of his malfunctioning DSL.

In one recent study, Dr. Bartzokis likened gray matter,* which covers the brain, to computers scattered across the Internet. He compared the white matter underneath to the cables that connect them. And he suggested that the growth of the white matter improved the brain's ability to process information much as high-speed Internet connections improve computer communicate.

But then, it's more complicated than that, since some people use their right brains more, and some their left, the right generally being the more creative side. So sometimes it's just that the right and left brains are having a little trouble communicating:

"Hey! Right Brain! Wake up. We've got to write [another post]."
"Give it a rest, will you?"
"Come on, you've got no reason to be so grumpy."
"Reason? What's that?"
"You are so difficult to deal with sometimes."
"No, I'm not." "Yes you are. I can never get you to do what I want." "That's because you're always trying to control me."
"But I need an idea. Now! You know I can't write without you."
"You interrupted a wonderful daydream."

I think I hear another chorus of "Look What [She's] Done to My Brain Blog."

*

Definition: The portions of the brain and spinal cord which are gray and composed of the main bodies of neurons (called cytons). This is in contrast to white matter, which is the portions that are white and composed of the axons and dendrites of neurons.

Brain scans of 70 men, ages 19 to 76 confirms that the brain's gray matter, the cell bodies of nerve cells, declines steadily from adolescence. But surprisingly, the white matter, the fatty material that insulates the long extending branches of the nerve cells and makes nerve signals move faster, in the frontal parts of the brain appears to grow at least until the late 40's, before beginning to decline. The growth of white matter may improve the brain's ability to process information. The study, from the Department of Veterans Affairs, appears in the May issue of The Archives of General Psychiatry.

**

Overall size aside, some evidence suggests that female brains are relatively more endowed with gray matter - the prized neurons thought to do the bulk of the brain's thinking - while men's brains are packed with more white matter, the tissue between neurons.

To further complicate the portrait of cerebral diversity, new brain imaging studies from the University of California, Irvine, suggest that men and women with equal I.Q. scores use different proportions of their gray and white matter when solving problems like those on intelligence tests.

Men, they said, appear to devote 6.5 times as much of their gray matter to intelligence-related tasks as do women, while women rely far more heavily on white matter to pull them through a ponder.

Blogger toys

While perusing the virtual toy store in search of a suitable jack-in-the-box, I ran across some interesting action figures. I was thinking about buying one for Tig.

• Isaac Newton: "Pelt your genius action figure with apples until he figures out the gravity of the situation. Equal-and-opposite reaction figure sold separately."
• Archimedes: "‘Hey, Mom, I found him!' Whether taking a bath, looking for that elusive lever long enough to move the earth or just plain screwing around, Archy metes out good times. Keep the Syracuse smarty away from Roman soldiers, and he might come up with the calculus two millennia early!"
• Edward Teller: "Ed goes fission--and fusion!--through political minefields for five decades pitching nukes. From mass destruction to nudging away incoming comets and asteroids, Edward tells ya, ‘No nukes is bad nukes.' "
• Lorenzo Romano Amedeo Carlo Avogadro: "What a mouthful! But you've got his number now--you'll have 6.02x1023 hours of fun with the man who figured out that equal volumes of all gases at the same temperature and pressure contain the same number of molecules. No, really, you will."
• The Big Box o' Steves: "What's more fun than a scientist-writer? A scientist-writer named Steve! You'll get Steven Weinberg, Stephen Jay Gould, Stephen Wolfram, Steven Pinker and Stephen Hawking. Hi-ho, Steverino! (Keep Pinker and Gould figures separate to avoid spontaneous combustion.)"
• Antoine Lavoisier: "Out with the bad phlogiston, in with the good oxygen. You'll lose your head (he did, in that scary Reign of Terror!) over the man behind the law of conservation of mass. Thirteen-year-old wife not sold in the U.S."
• Franz de Waal: "I see primates, I see Franz! Stare at de Waal as he observes chimps and picks up clues about why we humans do the wacky things we do. You'll have a Goodall time!"
• Werner Heisenberg: "Uncertain where you left your Heisenberg action figure? So is he! Check the desk drawers. But don't be surprised if you find Schrödinger's cat. Which may be dead. Or alive!"
• Charles Darwin: "This action figure loves coming along for boat rides and bird-watching but can get down at the Down house in Downe for 40 years at a time. Comes complete with his faithful bulldog, Huxley. Warning: some school boards may try to stick pins in him, but he'll survive those pricks."

I was going to suggest B. F. Skinner, but what good is an action figure that you don't take out of the box?

Show of hands!

How many of you readers would like a catch-up post on the two previously omitted Eye on Opus columns?

A final snark before I go watch Smallville reruns or something

Velociman had nothing to say about kan'tgaroos today.

She likely didn't find it to be so crappy

After explaining that today has been calculated to be the crappiest day of the year, a blogger wishes his sister a Happy Birthday. The title refers to how she likely felt. She likely also agreed with his own assessment of his blog as determined by his titling of the linked post.

I really don't know from whence it came*

*However, I am sure it was either the right or the left side of my brain.

**And ya'll thought I was only mixed up about the date.

It is all Moona's fault*

OK, got profiled and it said:

Your Brain Usage Profile:

Auditory : 43%
Visual : 56%
Left : 56%
Right : 43%

Yada!

*According to the current evidence, it usually is.

Not all opportunites are equal

The initial $2 million investment for his book project came from his banking software company, which he sold five years ago. His biggest cost was creating the pricey jewels based on the 12 forest creatures. The gems mostly came from Jewelry Designs in Danbury, Connecticut, a partnership that happened by coincidence. - CNN.com - $1 million treasure hunt hidden in pages of fairy tale - Jan 22, 2005

Business as usual, it seems

Well, within the first week of service, my DSL connection has already gone kaput! It is as dead as our good friend, Johnny Carson. I say good friend, because, I remember him visiting us in our living room nearly every night during my childhood.

I called the phone company yesterday and spent 30 minutes on the phone with some tech and went through this or that trying to find the cause of my problem. The solution finally turned out to be: Well, I'll have to write up a ticket and let the local engineers figure out what is going on. If it is still down all day tomorrow, give us another call. [Paraphrased according to my poor memory of the conversation]

My third world phone company does not understand that just because we all live in a very small town some of us don't sit around with our thumbs up our asses wondering why the sun does not continue to shine during rainstorms or why you can only make hay while the sun is shining. I can tell you that I'll, likely have email piling up higher than the snow on top of, oh, let's say Pike's Peak. Surely there is some snow up there, by now. I was disappointed at the lack of snow in the Pennsylvania stadiums all over yesterday. I was especially hoping to see the Philadelphia fans pummel the Falcon players with snowballs during game play, like they are wont to do. My disappointment has really left me jaded about snowfall reports. I am not going to assume there is any anywhere other than at the top of the rockies, despite anything Susie might have said.

Anyway, any posting from my end is going to be mostly non-existent until they figure out what is wrong with my DSL. My only other option, the one I am using currently, is to tie up my business line connecting by using my dial-up connection. My business is currently barely trickling in and I am not all that keen on having everyone who tries to call me today getting nothing but a busy signal. I am hopeful most of you will understand.

Wow!

According to the Pew Internet and American Life Project, 27 percent of adults who go online in the United States read blogs. And blogs have greater impact because their readers tend to be policy makers and other influencers of public opinion, media experts say. - [ANICK JESDANUN, AP Internet Writer via Yahoo! News]

Found: puppyblender via Kathy Kinsley

Great things come from great minds*

It seems they discovered a whole new species of animal in the land down under: the kan'tgaroo.

*So what does this entry say about my thinking process?

Tig's Bright Idea

As I thought about what to write in this™, I began wondering what bright had popped into 's brain. I know that it was not another barrage of law enforcement jokes, since we have already provided ample servings of about . Whatever it was, I am certain that he had been thinking outside of the .[He's not your average , you know.]Perhaps he had an idea for the next book (i.e., the "cereal" to the first book) in his Alien Attitudes™. (By the way, I have read the first book, and it's grrr-reat!)

1/24/05 revision in response to comment by Tig:
[He's definitely not your average , you know.]

I have an idea!

I don't know what it is, but hopefully it will somehow brighten my outlook.

?

Wednesday's Not-So-Funny

Oooooh! I'm definitely in the mood for law enforcement jokes after my not-so-funny experience on Wednesday. I received a ticket for the highway patrolman's assumption that I had to have been driving at an unsafe speed. But I don't even want to talk about that.

This won't get me out of having to pay my ticket, but it does make me feel better.

A policeman pulls a man over for speeding and asks him to get out of the car. After looking the man over he says, "Sir, I couldn't help but notice your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been drinking?"

The man gets really indignant and says, "Officer, I couldn't help but notice your eyes are glazed. Have you been eating doughnuts?"

What did the policeman say to his belly button?

You're under a vest!

A man who is driving a car is stopped by a police officer.

The Officer: "You were going at least 75 in a 55 zone."
Man: "No sir, I was going 60."
Wife: "Oh, Harry. You were going 80."

Officer: "I'm also going to give you a ticket for your broken tail light."
Man: "Broken tail light? I didn't know about a broken tail light!"
Wife: "Oh Harry, you've known about that tail light for weeks."

Officer: "I'm also going to give you a citation for not wearing your seat belt."
Man: "Oh, I just took it off when you were walking up to the car."
Wife: "Oh, Harry, you never wear your seat belt."

Man turns to his wife and yells: "Shut your damn mouth!"

Officer turns to the woman and asks, "Ma'am, does your husband talk to you this way all the time?"
Wife: "No, only when he's drunk."

You Might Be a Cop if...

• people shout, "I didn't do it!" when you walk into a room
• your idea of a good time is an armed robbery at shift change
• you disbelieve 90% of what you hear and 75% of what you see
• you believe the government should require a permit to reproduce
• you believe Prozac should be added regularly to the water system
• when you mention vegetables, you're not referring to the food group
• you want to hold a seminar entitled "Suicide - getting it right the first time"
• you call for a criminal record check on anyone who seems friendly toward you
• you believe anyone who says, "I only had two beers" is going to blow over .150
• you walk into places and people think it's high comedy to seize a co-worker and shout, "They've come to get you..."

January 21, 2005

Well, as there was no posting for last Friday, we will give you a daily double:

As he was driving home from work, a man in a rural community was stopped by a local police officer. The motorist was given a ticket for failing to come to a full stop at a stop sign.

"Don't I get a warning?" he protested.

The officer replied, "Sure. If you don't come to a complete stop next time, you'll get another ticket."

Two teenagers were arrested. The police sergeant told them they were entitled to one phone call. Some time later a man entered the station and asked for them by name.

The sergeant said, "I suppose you're the lawyer?"

"Nope," the chap replied. "I'm just here to deliver their pizza."

Heck, I seem to be on a roll with these law enforcement related quickies, so if you will venture into the extended entry, you might find another. ;)

One day a State Trooper was pulling off an expressway near Chicago. When he turned onto the street at the end of the ramp, he noticed someone at a chicken place getting into a car. The driver placed the bucket of chicken on top of his car, got in and drove off with the bucket still on top of his car.

So the trooper decided to perform a community service by giving the driver back his chicken. So he pulled him over, walked up to the car, pulled the bucket off the roof and offered it to the driver.

The driver looked at the trooper and said, "No thanks, I just bought some."

A woman meant to call a record store but dialed the wrong number and got a private home instead. "Do you have 'Eyes of Blue' and 'A Love Supreme'?" she asked.

"Well, no," answered the puzzled homeowner. "But I do have a wife and eleven children."

"Is that a record?" she inquired.

"I don't think so," replied the man, "but it's as close as I want to get!"

Changes to the site

My email inbox has been filled with requests asking me to continue as a blogger. I have been convinced to post something on a daily basis.

A suggestion was made that writing in local dialect is bad. I shall now do my very best to write only in correct American English.

The primary basis of my complaint was that I worked hard to create original content and that too few of you recognized my efforts in your comments. Since "new" and "novel" did not seem to be what was wanted, I shall follow the lead of the most popular blogger and shall no longer attempt to be creative in my blogging efforts. As well, I will attempt to disable commenting on all future entries that I create.

Most of my future blogging will involve my boring you with the mundane details of my life, describing the futility of trying to get a book published when you have no financial where-with-all or contacts in the publishing industry, and infrequent linking to efforts of others with accompanying comments such as "heh," or "indeed."

UPDATE: OK, back to normal --- kind of!

If you consider yourself to be my friend, comment to this post. I would like to know who my friends are.

Heh! Indeed.

The Good Humor Man?

What is good humor? As beauty is in the eye of the beholder, what is funny to one person may go completely over the head of someone else. Some folks try to make everything fit a pattern. They see everything as either good or bad, black or white. One must write according to the advice given in books on writing. However, what kind of creativity would we have in art if works had to meet the elementary guidelines set out in art class? Through the eyes of a creative person, the mundane becomes hilarious, and melancholy becomes euphoria. It's a gift. (That's "Jes' My Take", though.)

Credit a clever Ohio candy maker for the invention of the Good Humor® Bar. It was 1920.

Harry Burt had just created the Jolly Boy Sucker, a lollypop on a stick. Later, while working in his ice cream parlor, Burt developed a smooth chocolate coating that was compatible with ice cream. Unfortunately, the new combination was too messy to eat. Burt’s young son, Harry Jr., suggested that his dad take some of the wooden sticks used for the Jolly Boy Suckers and freeze them into the ice cream. The first ice cream on a stick was born. The name Good Humor came from the belief that a person’s “humor” or temperament was related to the humor of the palate (one’s sense of taste). To market his Good Humor Bars, Burt sent out a fleet of 12 chauffeur-driven trucks with bells to make door-to-door deliveries. The Good Humor Man was born.

Ay, there's the rub

To blog, or not to blog: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous silence,
Or to take arms against a sea of comments,
And by opposing end them? To quit: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To qut, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this redneck guise,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare body? who would a wrecked cars bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their publishers turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Moona, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.

Re: No Thought Wasted

There was a young lady from Vik*
Who loved a suave fellow named Dick.
     Though Iceland is cold
     They found warmth, I am told
And they now have a young son named Rick.

*a town in southern Iceland

Population:
293,966 (July 2004 est.)
Age structure:
0-14 years: 22.5% (male 33,522; female 32,489)
15-64 years: 65.8% (male 98,091; female 95,450)
65 years and over: 11.7% (male 15,552; female 18,862) (2004 est.)
Median age:
total: 33.8 years
male: 33.3 years
female: 34.3 years (2004 est.)
Population growth rate:
0.97% (2004 est.)
Birth rate:
13.83 births/1,000 population (2004 est.)

Population:
293,027,571 (July 2004 est.)
Age structure:
0-14 years: 20.8% (male 31,122,974; female 29,713,748)
15-64 years: 66.9% (male 97,756,380; female 98,183,309)
65 years and over: 12.4% (male 15,078,204; female 21,172,956) (2004 est.)
Median age:
total: 36 years
male: 34.7 years
female: 37.4 years (2004 est.)
Population growth rate:
0.92% (2004 est.)
Birth rate:
14.13 births/1,000 population (2004 est.)

No thought wasted

In my previous guise, I might have said Icelandic women are frigid. Heh. Indeed.

From a reader

This was sent to me by Zaboon, a new reader of the blog:

Etiquette tips for Rednecks

• Etiquette Tips for Rednecks In general
  1. Never take a beer to an interview
  2. Always identify people in your yard before shooting them
  3. It's considered tacky to take a cooler to church
  4. If you have to vacuum the bed, it's time to change the sheets
  5. Even if you are certain that you are included in the will, it's rude to drive a U-Haul to the funeral
• Dining out
  1. When decanting the wine from the box, make sure you tilt the paper cup and pour slowly so as not to 'bruise' the fruit of the wine
  2. If drinking directly from the bottle, always hold it in your hands
• Entertaining
  1. A centerpiece for the table should never be anything prepared by a taxidermist
  2. Do not allow the dog to eat at the table, no matter how good his manners are
• Personal hygiene
  1. While ears need to be cleaned regularly, this job should be done in private using one's own truck keys
  2. Even if you live alone, deodorant is not a waste of money
  3. Use of fragrant toiletries can only delay bathing for a few days
  4. Dirt and grease under the fingernails is a social no-no, as they tend to distract from a woman's jewelry, and alter the taste of finger foods
• Dating (outside the family)
  1. Always offer to bait your date's hook, especially on the first date
  2. Be assertive, Let her know you're interested: "I've been wanting to go out with you ever since I read that stuff about you on the bathroom walls two years ago"
  3. Establish with her parents what time she is expected back. Some will say 10:00 PM. Others might say "Monday". If the latter is the answer, it is the man's responsibility to get her to school on time
• Theater etiquette
  1. Crying babies should be taken to the lobby and picked up immediately after the movie has ended
  2. Refrain from talking to the characters on the screen. Tests have proven that they can't hear you
• Weddings
  1. Livestock, usually is a poor choice for a wedding gift
  2. Kissing the bride for more than five seconds might get you shot
  3. For the groom, at least, rent a tux. A leisure suit with a cummerbund and a clean bowling shirt can create a tacky appearance
  4. Though uncomfortable, say 'yes' to socks and shoes for this special occasion
• Driving etiquette
  1. Dim your headlights for approaching cars
  2. When approaching a four way stop, the vehicle with the largest tires does not always have the right of way
  3. Never tow another car using panty hose and duct tape
  4. When sending the wife down the road with a gas can, it is impolite to ask her to bring back beer too
  5. Do not lay rubber while traveling in a funeral procession

So many roads, so little time....

Sans snappy creative title

I am pleased to discover that a Google searcher found what they sought on my site.

findin the saltpeter chemical

Who needs titles?

Heh! Indeed! Broadband recommended.

Night of the Nervous Navel

My navel has had a very traumatic day. It was scared sh--less when the car that I was driving nearly turned over. Already standoffish, tonight it shrinks further from the light of inspection, snuggling into its dark, warm resting place. Though it would find more comfort in the nearness of another navel, the next best remedy for this stung-out feeling is under the warm covers. Darkness and serenity are welcome friends after the stress caused by the events of the day. End of report.

'Cuz I feel like an idjit

Well, I told y'all about how the technician from the car dealership totaled my car when he took it out on a country road to try to duplicate the problem that I had described. You may remember that the first rental car that they provided for me while insurance matters were being settled was a humongous double-cab pickup. Finally a normal-sized car came in, and I swapped the pick-up for it. Thinking that I really didn't need to spend the extra $15 for the extra insurance on the car, I dropped it when I started driving the car instead. Today I was feeling really stressed, and I decided to take off half a day and drive to the small town where Tig resides. Getting out would surely make me feel better, or maybe not. I took the curvy back road instead of the main highway, because I liked the scenery better. I don't know if I was just preoccupied, or if I was not used to the car, or what. I thought I knew that road like the back of my hand. But somehow, I lost control on a curve, spun around, and nearly flipped the car. Fortunately, I was not hurt, other than in the pocketbook, because my insurance will be paying for the rent car, and I received a ticket as well. I told you that I have bad luck with cars. I really thought that it was changing, but ...

Moogin' Moona

Addendum:

Perhaps today I the Moogin' Blogger. It is appropriate for bloggers to Moog, isn't it?

Also thinkin' 'bout Tig and hopin' he's not singin', "Look what she's done to my blog . . ."

Butchering the Beatles

What more can I say? I didn't sleep very well last night. Perhaps I was worried about my reclusive navel.

(I need to go to work.)

HIPPA compliant?

My navel is unaccustomed to sharing its state with anyone but me. Last night I found it sequesterd in solitude and silence. It left me wondering if the HIPPA regulations are applicable. Perhaps I should consult an attorney.

On the same wavelength

OK, Tig, this "wave" is from your fan club:

A break from blogging is OK, but I don't want to hear the "Q" word. Tell me instead that, having the winter version of spring fever, you are merely pulling my leg -- sort of like an April Fool joke. (Well, April is in the Spring.)

Now, I'm not wanting to make waves here, but something tells me that your brain waves have been the catalyst for some sound waves which are commonly recognized as laughter (aka LOL), and that your creative genius has brought a new wave of entertainment to many in the blogosphere.

The waves and smiles of those who travel down the Blogging Beltway will not be hitting you with the force of a tsunami, but rather with a gentle lapping onto your shore.

Remember that there are all kinds of waves. There are those which merely bring discomfort (i.e., heat wave, cold wave), some that awaken us to what is happening around us (i.e., shock wave, radio wave), but there are some which are meant only to be creative, making the world more tolerable--in fact, a better place.

The Wave Organ is a wave-activated acoustic sculpture located on a jetty in the San Francisco Bay. The concept was developed by Peter Richards and was installed in collaboration with sculptor and master stone mason George Gonzales. Inspiration for the piece came from artist Bill Fontana's recordings made of sounds emanating from a vent pipe of a floating concrete dock in Sydney, Australia.

In 1980, Richards (now a Senior Artist at the Exploratorium) received a planning grant from the National Endowment for the Arts which enabled him to conduct an extensive period of investigation into the physicality of the Wave Organ phenomenon. The sculpture's speaker horn and audio equipment were either built or acquired for use in some of the experiments of this period.

It was a long ride to the bitter end

It does 'pear that my prognosis 'bout not bein' missed was right on point. I did see a smatterin' of people came by to say this and that, but even that traffic petered out after a day. I appreciate those of you who admitted that you read but do not comment, as well as those of ya'll that admit you get very few comments though 'spect you get a steady stream of visitors. Truthfully, this site draws 'bout 200 visitors a day on a fairly steady average, yet seldom was there more than one or two comments, other than from myself, Moona, or the one or two steady regulars, OzGuru and Denita TwoDragons.

I tried to overlook the lack of commentin' and was successful in doin' so for a long long period of time. I understand that there are times when someone reads somethin' and finds no reason to comment 'bout such. A lot of bloggers spend endless hours regurgitatin' the news without addin' much of anythin' new to their reports. I can see why there would be very little commentary necessarily given to such reports. I stopped jes' reportin' the news a long time ago, because, to tell the truth, I thought there was way too much of that bein' done already. I figgered we couldn't all be Glenn Reynolds. I 'spect that James and Steven have more insight into the political stories than I, so what could I add?

Nope, I am a humorist and a creative writer. The only way that I can know if I am truly reachin' my audience is if I am gettin' some feedback. I wasn't gettin' any. I therefore sensed that I had only a very small audience, way too small for the creative efforts I was puttin' forth on a daily basis. I do, however, 'preciate ya'll's well wishes.

If I have anythin' 'portant to share, I'll likely post a blurb here in hopes that it will be seen by someone who cares. Moona is turnin' out to be a natural blogger and is doin' a really great job of takin' over. Read My Lips is still continuin' to get its 200 daily visitors. It seem that there jes' ain't nuthin' for me to fret 'bout here.

Yada!

^{Gallopin' off to greener pastures.}

A belated report

This morning I awoke to a dim light coming from the softly-glowing computer screen atop the messy, bill-covered desk in the corner of my bedroom. I looked at the alarm clock beside my bed, not remembering what time I had collapsed into comfort. Upon further inspection, I found that I had even failed to set my alarm clock. I decided to get up to see if I had finished the post upon which I was working. Finding only an unsaved draft-form report on the state of the site's surrogate navel, I decided to try to recollect how I had planned to conclude my report. Here's what I found:

11:00 p.m - I returned home awhile ago after spending a relaxing evening. My state was so placid, in fact, that I began feeling that my brain was somehow detached from my body, which had turned into a blob of amorphous protoplasm. How this blob hung onto the steering wheel of my car and directed it into my garage, I cannot be certain. I now picture this formless mass, which has somehow conformed to the chair in front of my computer, sort of rolling off the chair and wallowing around until it finds its way to the warmth and comfort between the sheets of my bed. My navel is merely along for the ride.

Strawberry Fields Forever

I guess nothing is forever.

Beatles' Strawberry Fields to Close Forever
AFP

Jan. 14, 2005 — Strawberry Fields, the English orphanage immortalized in the famous Beatles song "Strawberry Fields Forever," is to close soon.

The facility in the Woolton district of Liverpool in northwest England, where John Lennon played as a child in the wooded park, has been ordered to close, the Salvation Army said Wednesday.

The site inspired the words of "Strawberry Fields Forever," written by John Lennon in 1966 and released as a single on Feb. 17, 1967.

On Wednesday, the British Beatles Fan Club called for Lennon's widow Yoko Ono to intervene to save what it said has become "a pilgrimage site for many Beatles fans."

In 1984, Ono had donated 50,000 pounds (98,000 euros) to keep it open.

However the fate of the orphanage, where only three children are currently housed, appears to have been decided. Liverpool's city council and British National Heritage have said they would not save Strawberry Fields this time.

OTBTJTB™

Surrogate navel

It was a dark and dreary night Two nights have now passed with no report on the state of the nation navel of our [hopefully] temporarily-absent author. Perhaps a surrogate navel should be inspected.

Here goes. Let's see--How does he do it? Concentrate (I tell myself)--[It must involve some type of meditation.] Then again, maybe I should just r e l a x. . . . Ah, there! It's coming. Yes, my navel has once more stayed up past her bedtime (yawn) and is desirous of being in a dark place, under the covers of my bed. End of report.

Tig, if this doesn't convince you that you need to come back, what will?

Polyblogging/Pollyblogging

Seein' as how I've heard that polibloggers get more comments, I thought I might try my hand at polyblogging pollyblogging. First I considered polyphrasticontranominegalondulation,

The overuse of long words.
Mentioned in The Age (Australian newspaper) Letters to the Editor section in the early 90's by someone looking for the longest word in the English language.
Also a short lived zine in Melbourne.
In Yes Minister, Humphrey uses polyphrasticontranominegalondulation to manipulate the activities of the Minister

but gave up after a few minutes of searching returned no sign of the bird from my childhood memories.

Hoping that my feeble efforts will not be an embarrassment to this site's originator, who is by the way a polyprodigy, i.e.,

A person who is a prodigy several times over. The boy was perfect in everything he did. He was polyprodigious!

That said, I think I will put the cover on my polyurethane keyboard and crawl under my polyester blanket.

No time for this

Time's a strange concept. Seems that at any given point in time, my brain seems not to be totally in the present, but instead engaging simultaneously in sidetrips to the past and future. As they so aptly said in the song, does anybody really know what time it is? And while time "keeps on slippin' into the future," it can also seem to be standing still when there's something that you're lookin' forward to.

Time

And an astronomer said, Master, what of Time?

And he answered:

You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable. You would adjust your conduct and even direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons.

Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.

Yet the timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness,

And knows that yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream.

And that that which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space.

Idioms: time flies when you're having fun -- time to time

Idiom * Meaning * Example

time flies when you're having fun time *goes quickly when you are playing, how time flies * He looked at his watch, yawned and said, "Time flies when you're having fun, eh."

Pink Floyd - Time

(Mason, Waters, Wright, Gilmour) 7:06

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way. Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.

DOES ANYBODY REALLY KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS

As I was walking down the street one day

A man came up to me and asked me what the time was that was
on my watch, yeah

And I said

Does anybody really know what time it is
I don't

Does anybody really care
care

If so I can't imagine why
about time

We've all got time enough to cry
Oh no, no

And I was walking down the street one day

A pretty lady looked at me and said her diamond watch had
stopped cold, yeah

And I said

Does anybody really know what time it is
I don't

Does anybody really care
care

If so I can't imagine why
about time

We've all got time enough to cry
Oh no, no

And I was walking down the street one day

Being pushed and shoved by people trying to beat the clock,
oh no, I just don't know,
I just don't know

And I said, yes I said

RAP
People runnin' everywhere
Don't know the way to go
Don't know where I am
Can't see past the next step
Don't have to think past the last mile
Have no time to look around
Just run around, run around and think why

Does anybody really know what time it is
I don't

Does anybody really care
care

If so I can't imagine why
about time

We've all got time enough to die
Oh no, no

• time is money
• time is valuable, time is equal to money
• Employers who pay hourly wages know that time is money
• time is of the essence
• it is important to work as quickly as possible
• make hay while...
• When you're paying $75 an hour for a lawyer's services, time is of the essence
• time off /
• days off work, holidays
• I've been working too hard. I think I need some time off
• time on your hand
• time to relax or do what you wish, time to kill
• If you have time on your hands, read the novel Fifth Business
• time out
• stop for a minute to discuss or plan
• We need a time out to look at the map. I think we're lost
• time ran out
• there was no more time allowed for the game etc.
• Time ran out before I could complete the exam
• time stands still
• everything seems to slow down or stop moving, slo mo
• When the towers went down, time stood still
• time to kill
• time to relax or rest, kill time
• We had some time to kill while the car was being repaired
• time to time
• time's a wasting
• we are wasting time, we should be working
• Time's a wasting. Let's finish our work and then rest
• time's up
• there is no more time for the test or game etc.
• The coach checked his watch and said, "Time's up. Stop running."
• times were hard
• it was a time of poverty, hard times
• It was 1850. Times were hard in Sweden then.

Mama always told me not to 'scuss politics or religion...

But then I never was really to good about takin' my mama's advice on such matters. Maybe she was right, but the "safe" subjects that she recommended--like the weather---are not always safe either. No one seems to agree on why there are so many unusual weather-happenings.

During the cold Eastern USA winter of 2003-04 we received a few questions asking things such as: "Doesn't this winter show there's no global warming?"

People in the western USA, which was generally warm and dry, could have just as easily asked: "Isn't this winter proof we should be worried about global warming?"

The answer to both? "No."

This week has proven the truth of the old saying: "If you don't like the weather in Central Illinois, just wait five minutes."

Only the Grand Canal, Venice's biggest and most famous waterway, can still take water traffic, and the falling canal levels have given rise to terms such as "ghost town" and "desert" in local papers.

"The phenomenon is due to low pressure, that is, the good weather that coincides with the syzygy, the alignment of the moon, earth and sun," said Venice's tides office.

Like ever'thin' else, guess it depends 'pon where yore sittin'.

Gosh, everything reminds me of a song--Hope I'm not gettin' another earworm.

Mud Slide Slim lyrics

From the album Mud Slide Slim & Blue Horizon
Mud slide slim and the blue horizon
Oh, mud slide, i'm dependent on you
I don't know but i've been told
There's a time from time to time
I can't eat, i can't sleep
But i just might move my feet
'cause there's nothing like
The sound of sweet soul music
To change a young lady's mind
And there's nothing like a
Walk on down by the bayou
To leave the world behind
Mud slide i'm depending upon you
Mister mud slide slim and the blue horizon

I've been letting the time go by
Letting the time go by
Yes, i'm letting the time go by
Letting the time go by

Moona’s myopic musings on misarticulated mumblings and mundane minutia

Maybe I misinterpreted the monotone monologue coming from the mobile phone when I called my friend, but feeling that solitude was his preferred state, I was momentarily moved to meditation on my own melancholy mindset. Several months ago, I had misinterpreted the motivations of a person who had appeared to be fond of me, only to find that he wanted only to borrow a large sum of money, promising to pay me back quickly. The fellow subsequently disappeared quickly upon the check's clearance through the bank. Having received one of my paltry paychecks yesterday, I spent the morning making payments on my multitudinous bills, maligning my self for my misjudgment in misappropriating my minuscule monies. Meditating upon my misfortune, markedly miffed at myself for messing up, I murmured to myself that when life gives us manure, we must mange it appropriately. While some people just get irritated at the manure piles, others realize that we simply need to make the best of it.*
*[At any rate, I realized after awaking at 2:20 a.m.--able to read my bedside clock without the aid of corrective lenses? No, I plopped into bed without removing my contacts--ouch! Out! Out! Damn . . .--that there had been more rumblin' 'round in my head on this subject than what I had included in my post, which I also failed to categorize.] So with that in mind, I meandered back to my computer in order to modify my mediocre manuscript. . .We can't just assume that what we are left with is not worth usin.' Still, thinking back to my misfortunate mistake of being mislead by the person to whom I now miserably refer to as "Mr. A. Hole," I wish that there might find a way to fight mire with mire, so to speak. Guess I'm not the first one in this situation, seein' as how there's a song by Limp Bizkit expressin' my sentiments 'zactly.

[chorus]

..Gimme back my money you bum..
You said you'd pay me back
I'm broke and for that you deserve a smackin' for slackin'
Now people say I'm a slacker
If IM a slacker then its through the eyes of the ones that are blind!!
Me, I'm broke
Poor old me
I'm broke

Source.

The enraged navel or the saga of BOOB [Jan. 14, 2005 Edition]

I was layin' warmly on the sofa last eve, watchin' whatever while dozin' intermittently, wonderin' if I should venture to one of my several computers so as to give this report. My thoughts, however, were tanglin' 'tween my displeasure in the acknowledgment of efforts put forth my myself and my co-blogger Moona over these past few days and my utter malaise in givin' a whit 'bout any of it, anyway. I am wonderin' if I am afflicted with BOOB, (burned out on bloggin'), bein' as how I feel I am gettin' minimal feedback on my own efforts.

Despite the supposed networkin' that attends the blogosphere, there has not been one person connected with the publishin' industry contact me regardin' the book project. Strike One.

Durin' the recent blog awards activities, this blog was not even nominated by anyone other than myself. Strike Two.

The utter lack of comments seems to show there is no real appreciation of my efforts. Maybe it is time for me to give up this hobby. I 'member Kate once said in her rules of bloggin' that ya should not be doin' it if ya weren't enjoyin' it. I might have 'bout reached that point. The blogosphere does not need my voice, I 'spect I could really make better use of my time, and I no longer need the piles of money that I receive for my feeble bloggin' efforts [/not].

I don't figger too many of ya'll will miss me. I am hopeful that Moona, however, will continue with her fledglin' bloggin' efforts.

Python Pete--and he's not even an Irish Setter

I don't know what's wrong with me today. I don't want to do what I'm 'sposed to, I'm too tired to do anything but sit here, but too wound up to go to bed, so here I go surfin' the web again. I've heard of all kinds of different ways to get rid of snakes, but this seems like an unusual plan to me.

Little dog trains to hunt giant snakes in Everglades
BY ELIZABETH CARAM
KNIGHT RIDDER NEWSPAPERS

January 14, 2005

MIAMI -- In the strange-but-true fight against giant pythons that increasingly are roaming the far reaches of the Florida Everglades, park officials have come up with an unlikely weapon: a beagle named Python Pete.

The 6-month-old puppy is being trained to track the snakes that biologists say have invaded Everglades National Park -- discarded pets that have grown to science-fiction proportions.

"These are extraordinary times as the park faces a unique issue. We have to do what it takes to find these pythons," said Rick Cook, public affairs officer for the Everglades. "The hope is that the dog will be able to pick up the snakes' scent."

The experimental idea came from Lori Oberhofer, an Everglades wildlife technician who worked for the U.S. Department of Agriculture in Guam four years ago where a similar program is still used.

Oberhofer brings the puppy to work with her every day, training him for his future snake-tracking duties by using a rag that smells like python.

"Although this has never been tried before in the Everglades, we have great plans for him," Oberhofer said.

Park biologist Skip Snow is hopeful that the experiment will turn into the solution the park needs.

"We do not know if Python Pete will be successful. He's still a puppy," Snow cautioned.

The problem of giant snakes in the Everglades is becoming more acute because the pythons are competing with native animals -- including the indigo snake, which the federal government lists as threatened -- for food and living space. Burmese pythons, for example, typically grow to about 20 feet.

Already, park-goers have witnessed two headline-making battles between alligators and pythons. The first came in January 2003 when two reptiles engaged in an epic 24-hour fight. The snake finally managed to escape.

Nearly a year later, in February 2004, another snake wasn't as lucky. Park visitors saw an alligator catch one of the large snakes and swim away victoriously.

Park biologists plan to eradicate the Everglades' python population, euthanizing any that are found.

Daniel Vice, assistant state director for the U.S. Department of Agriculture, works in Guam with Jack Russell terriers that are used to detect and capture brown tree snakes.

"Studies indicate that a well-trained, experienced dog and handler team can expect to find about 75 percent of the snakes," Vice said.

Oberhofer, who paid for the dog, said she hopes that Pete will be just as productive in the Everglades.

"He is showing lots of potential and has already accomplished what much older dogs are trained to do. And he's still just a 6-month-old puppy," she said.

The dog's training sessions generally last 10 minutes, once or twice a day. Inside a plastic container in the corner of Oberhofer's office, a large, mesh laundry bag holds a large python. Pete's favorite rag, checkered and chewed on, is kept in the box, absorbing snake musk.

When it's time to train, Oberhofer puts a special red collar and matching leash on Pete -- a combination used only when it is "work time." She leads him outside to a field with knee-high grass, carrying the mesh bag containing the python and musky rag. Oberhofer gently drags the bag through the grass, creating a 50-foot scent trail for Pete. Then she tells him: "Find it!"

The puppy's ears perk up and he begins sniffing the grass. He finds the trail, which has been marked by stakes. As a reward when he has tracked the snake, Oberhofer lets him play tug-of-war with the musky rag.

"I want Pete to think that this scent means fun," she said.

So far, the beagle has found the trail each time he has tried, she said.

When he's ready, Oberhofer will take Pete out into the field for the real thing: to hunt for pythons. To keep him from becoming a snake snack, Pete will always be kept on a leash, Oberhofer said.

"If Python Pete turns out to be very successful at finding pythons for us, I would anticipate that we would continue using him and perhaps expand the program and get more dogs," she said. "But that would depend on future funding for the program."

Copyright © 2005 Detroit Free Press Inc.

Crossing the border

While airport security increases the time that it takes for Americans to travel by air, our borders continue to be difficult to protect--especially the southern border. Does something seem a bit wrong with this picture?

COMING TO AMERICA

How to be an illegal

Mexico government publishes guide to assist border crossers
© 2005 WorldNetDaily.com

The government of Mexico is raising eyebrows with a new comic book offering advice on how to cross the border into the U.S. illegally.

Called "The Guide for the Mexican Migrant," the 32-page book published by Mexico's Foreign Ministry uses simple language to offer information on safety, legal rights and living unobtrusively in America.

"This guide is intended to give you some practical advice that could be of use if you have made the difficult decision to seek new work opportunities outside your country," the book says, according to the Arizona Republic.

Illustrations depict illegals wading into a river, trying to evade U.S. Border Patrol and crouching near a hole in a border fence. Immigrants are also shown hiking through the desert with rock formations similar to those in Arizona and being caught by an American agent.

Among the tips offered:

"Try to walk during times when the heat is not as intense";

"Salt water helps you retain your body's liquids. Although you'll feel thirstier, if you drink water with salt the risk of dehydration is much lower";

"Thick clothing increases your weight when wet, and this makes it difficult to swim or float."

It also says if migrants get lost, they should follow train tracks or power lines. It warns of walking for days to reach towns or roads in the desert.

If caught by Border Patrol, the book says, "Don't throw stones or objects at the officer or patrol vehicles because this is considered a provocation. Raise your hands slowly so they see you are unarmed."

It also recommends not running away from agents in pursuit.

"It's better to be detained a few hours and repatriated to Mexico than to get lost in the desert," the guide states.

Mad Cow

Have you ever tried to imagine how a mad cow acts?

Leading Canadian official wants cows massacred

The Globe & Mail
^{Friday 14th January, 2005}

Ralph Klein, Premier of the Canadian state of Alberta, has called for a mass slaughter of older cattle.Klein wants to convince consumers and Canada's trading partners that the domestic beef supply is free from mad-cow disease.

That kind of Draconian step would be aimed at the 1.76 million animals born before August, 1997, when Canada began to halt the widespread practice of feeding cattle protein made from the body parts of other cattle.

A mass slaughter has, until now, been an unthinkable prospect for Canada's cattle industry, since it would wipe out animals worth more than $1-billion before the start of the mad-cow crisis and which would still fetch upward of $350-million today.

But Mr. Klein said yesterday that talk has already started about a large-scale cull of cattle, after this week's discovery of the fourth case of bovine spongiform encephalopathy in a Canadian cow.

'Personally, and from what I hear, is a cull necessary? The answer is yes. I think that the ranching industry will come to that conclusion and devise a way to achieve that cull,' Mr. Klein told reporters in Toronto, where he gave a speech to the Empire Club of Canada.

Several ranchers and a major industry group confirmed yesterday that a mass cull is indeed being discussed as a way to ensure that the U.S. import ban on shipments of Canadian cattle ends as scheduled in early March. But the Canadian industry's fight is about to get tougher, with the U.S. Senate confirming yesterday that it will hold public hearings next month to review the plan to reopen the border to Canadian cattle under 30 months of age. Cattle most likely to be slaughtered would not have been allowed into the United States under those changes.

Since May, 2003, three cattle that were born before 1997 in Canada have tested positive for BSE; just this week, an Alberta cow born in 1998 was found to have the disease.

That suggested Canada's supposedly tough new feed rules weren't followed and threw into question whether the United States would still open its border March 7 to young Canadian cattle and beef according to its current plan.

Officially, the Bush administration says it is 'on track' to reopen the border. But U.S. Agriculture Secretary Ann Veneman has also made it clear that the United States will closely monitor the Canadian-led investigation into the possible source of the latest infection.

'We are going to send a team to Canada to help with the investigation,' Ms. Veneman told reporters. 'We will continue to investigate this process to determine if there are any different actions that need to be taken.

'Although the Senate does not have the formal authority to keep the border closed, it can provide a high-profile platform that could make it politically awkward for the White House to go ahead.

Already, the head of the Senate agriculture committee has signaled that he believes the latest case of BSE, in an animal born after the feed ban was put in place, is a problem. 'A second case in a month of BSE from a Canadian-born cow raises some serious questions regarding Canada's compliance with its feed ban,' Republican Saxby Chambliss said. The agriculture committee in the House of Representatives is expected to begin a similar probe.

Ottawa is worried that the discovery of another infected cow will bolster the arguments of protectionist U.S. forces and put pressure on the U.S. government to reconsider the resumption of cattle shipments.

'[People] are still concerned about the possibility of the lobby on the Hill putting pressure on the U.S. government to back step,' said one senior federal official.But the optics of a mass cull could be a problem. Television images of mass burials and piles of burning carcasses in Britain were a potent and constant reminder of the BSE scare there in the 1990s. 'What I'm hoping to avoid is the idea of pits of dead cattle scattered across the countryside,' said Cindy McCreath, a spokeswoman with the Canadian Cattlemen's Association.

Some ranchers see a wholesale slaughter as a way to undermine the protectionist lobby in the United States. That support is firm, even though a mass slaughter would, at a minimum, mean sharply lower selling prices for each animal and could mean that carcasses would be disposed of without any payment. 'If it's that or the industry, let's take the haircut,' said Brent Stutheit, who has a 250-head herd in the foothills west of Red Deer, Alta.

One industry veteran said it is unlikely that the carcasses from a mass slaughter would be sold, since such an influx would overwhelm stockyards, slaughterhouses and freezers. 'We don't even have close to the facilities to do that,' said Will Irvine, general manager at the Calgary Stockyards.

Despite Mr. Klein's personal support for the idea of a mass slaughter, he is not yet proposing any payouts for the beef industry. A spokeswoman for Mr. Klein said it is 'far too early' to consider a compensation package.

Support for a cull is far from universal. 'Certainly Premier Klein has his ideas,' said Elizabeth Whiting, spokeswoman for federal Agriculture Minister Andy Mitchell. 'It's not something we are thinking about right now.'

Federal Conservative agriculture critic Diane Finley said culling 1.76 million old cattle would be a 'dramatic overreaction,' and her party is crunching the numbers to propose a more limited cull program. Among the provinces, Ontario said calls for a cull are premature, while British Columbia said a mass slaughter is not necessary at the moment.

Investigators from the Canadian Food Inspection Agency are now at the Alberta farm where the infected animal was found and have quarantined the herd. Twenty-two animals from the infected cow's birth cohort have been identified, and were killed yesterday morning so they could be tested for BSE. Test results are expected late tomorrow or on Saturday.

The agency said there was one spot of good news for Canada's cattle industry: Tests on nine animals from the birth cohort of the cow confirmed as infected in late December have all come back negative, confirming that those animals were healthy. The CFIA added that four additional animals were exported to the United States, rather than the single animal previously disclosed.

Indonesian ungratefuls?

I was listening to a story on the radio this morning, so looked it up to be sure I heard right.

BANDA ACEH, Aceh (AP): Indonesia's vice president reiterated on Friday that foreign soldiers helping tsunami relief efforts must be out of the country by late March, but that aid workers can remain past that deadline. "Three months is enough for emergency help from the foreign militaries," Vice President Jusuf Kalla said during a brief stop in Banda Aceh on a tour of the region most devastated by the Dec. 26 tsunami. "Civilians will still be OK to stay." The Indonesian government has said the hundreds of foreign troops helping aid efforts in Aceh province must leave the area by March 26.

TNI allegedly collects 'border fees' from foreign volunteers JAKARTA (Antara): A number of foreign volunteers working in Aceh relief programs have expressed concern over fees collected by Indonesian Military (TNI) personnel along the border between Medan, North Sumatra, and Banda Aceh. Adian, chairman of the Independent Volunteers' Commission, said on Friday that complaints had been raised by volunteers from various countries, including Australia and Japan. Volunteers were reportedly asked by TNI border troops to pay Rp 1 million (US$108.10) each toward the purchase of communications equipment and for security support. The fees had been collected over the last three days in a number of locations between Banda Aceh and Langsa in Aceh, he said. Indonesian Navy spokesman First Adm. Abdul Malik Yusuf has denied the reports. "It's nonsense. No Navy personnel collects levies from the volunteers aboard the war ships to Aceh and North Sumatra," he said. (**)

Lackadaisical Loggygagging in the Land of Linkin'

As I ladle my luncheon lentil soup, I lapse into lethargy and long for leave from my lackluster labor--a leisurely lumber to a lonely location, perhaps linking up with a lustful lighthearted lawyer who makes me laugh. The likelihood that my Lilliputian talents make me a liability to "'Lips" lurks in my labyrinth of thoughts. Knowing that I should not be loitering, I continue to work intermittently, but still looking at links, loading Lemony Snicket pages, and wondering what Lemon Meringue's next adventure will be.

Oh, well--the "L" with it--I need to get back to work.

It was a cold January night

I went to bed early last night. My navel was only concerned with gettin' warm. End of report.

Well, there oughta be a few other choices than I had before

Well, got Satellite TV, so guess I finally moved into the 20th Century. I said 20th on purpose, 'cause I am well aware that satellite communications ain't nuthin' new. I jes' finally decided it was likely more of a necessity than an extravagance. All a part of my fiscal replannin' and such. Although I jes' made a major restructurin' of my law practice so as to decrease the amount of my monthly overhead, the satellite TV is free if you consider that the telephone company package which included such, along with a hopefully-soon-to-be-installed DSL connection and some 5¢ a minute nationwide long distance plan on my fax line home number, cost substantially the same as my cable internet connection in my now closed courthouse square located business office.

I ain't all that sure than I will be watchin' all that much more TV, but then there are occasions when that seems to be all I do. However, I was quite pleased with what I was able to receive on a clear day with no RF interference from the ancient fire trucks two doors down, which was the line-up seen locally in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area. I pretty well only watched WB for Smallville, UPN for Enterprise, and whatever was showin' on PBS pretty much of the rest of the time. Well, I would catch any of them Law&Order or CSI shows. I 'sposedly have America's Top 120 channels. I guess. I only see about six I am likely to monitor for possible content: History, Discovery, A&E, Bravo, SciFi, and Comedy Central. Heck, I'd rather see CNN and C-Span filtered through my favorite bloggers, likely will only check several of the others for movies I have been lookin' to catch. Yada!

Tragedy spells headlines?

The media seem to cater to the public's fascination with grotesque, macabre, or tragic events.

Violence and tragedy are staples of American journalism because readers are attracted to gruesome stories and photographs. "If it bleeds, it leads" is an undesirable rule of thumb. Judges of contests also have a fatal attraction. Pulitzer Prizes are most often awarded to photographers who make pictures of gruesome, dramatic moments (Goodwin, 1983). Milwaukee Journal editor Sig Gissler summed up the newspaper profession's sometimes Hedonistic philosophy when he admitted, "We have a commercial interest in catastrophe" ("Knocking on death's door," 1989, p. 49).

Govind was thrilled to see aid workers. He took them to the beach, showed them how far the water had reached, and described how the boats had been sucked out to sea. He pointed out a damaged boat from another village that had washed ashore. They were struck by the neatness of the waterfront: the debris had mostly been cleared. They asked Govind how many people had died in Komitichavadi, and Govind said none.

This seemed to disappoint the people from Bangalore. The woman mentioned that the scene did not much resemble what she had seen on TV. They had come looking, one of the workers later said, for "places that had been really destroyed."

Whatever the current tragedy, from David Koresh to 9-11, we can be sure that the media will keep us inundated with the gory details. But as we continue to hear the cries of "Tsunami, tsunami!" I seem to have been plagued with an earworm.

earworm (EER.wurm) n. A song or tune that repeats over and over inside a person's head. Also: ear-worm, ear worm.

Example Citation:

"I couldn't get the song out of my head. It's like a broken record," Clark said Thursday while shopping at the Galleria at Tyler mall in Riverside. "I keep humming it, and you know, I don't even like Prince's music."

Her experience reflects a phenomenon shared by the vast majority of people, according to an ongoing study at the University of Cincinnati. Nearly everybody has been mentally tortured at one point in their lives by an "earworm" - a tune that keeps repeating itself over and over in their heads.

The research also indicates that people who get the most earworms tend to listen to music frequently and have neurotic habits, such as biting pencils or tapping fingers.

-Hieu Tran Phan, "'Sticky tune' hits a chord with many," The Press-Enterprise, March 4, 2003

No tail graces this tale, it seems

Thanks to my pal, David, of Ripples, I was coaxed to read this which gave me the idea for the followin:

It was a dead January night in the boonies. A humid kind of early and unseasonably warm winter night where the wolves bay at the remnants of the last quarter moon. The kind of night where mysteries are born. The kind of night I live for.

My name is Blather. And I’m a private dick. It wasn't always so, but then I wasn't aways married.*

I am well aware that most of ya'll only care 'bout what my navel has been up to of late, don't ya? Well -- it has been up to 'bout waist high for most of today. Bet ya didn't see that comin'! End of report.

[Addendum: Ya know, I really hate it when I am wantin' to go to bed early 'cause I have to get an early start tomorrow, bein' ever'body hates me, nobody loves me, I guess I'll jes' eat a worm and need to get up early to catch one as I have to get an early start to make it to a neighborin' burg for court tomorrow, bein' what court is early and it is still takin' over an hour for my damn tub to fill. Long story -- kinda sad, really startin' to piss me off get my goat. So, anyway, to get to the point of this addendum, my navel is perplexed at why, if ya only get one day older and deeper in debt, why the heck ya would be spendin' your time loadin' sixteen tons of anythin'? I was unable to contrive logical reasonin' which would adequately address the situation and I will now likely lay awake for hours playin' this scenario through my mind. It would seem that my navel possesses a mean streak. End of addendum.]

*Please be aware that this is a fictional piece about a fictional character. I am not married. Jes' so's ya know. Not that I don't wanna settle down at some point. Jes' findin' it hard to locate the mother of my children.

Oh, you poor baby, you!

This poor English lass was severely mistreated by a bloody yankee.*

Orphaned paisley sock awarded to OTB.

*It'll prolly take some of ya'll a long time to understand the snark involved with this reference.

The things that come to mind

I jes' had the oddest phrase jump into my mind and am without a clue as to the cause:

Digital dalliances done dirt cheap.

Swimmin' laps through the prickly-pear patch

Yep, I feel like I am still jes' a-treadin' water and ain't makin' no progress through the precarious predicament in which I find myself currently mired despite all the naturally wonderful inducements spurrin' me toward action. I seem to have caught a bad case of spring fever in the midst of the winter, but not the kind that motivates ya t'ward gettin' your spring cleanin' done. Nope, the mess still is firmly in place and likely to stay that way for the time bein'. I got boxes and boxes of paper that needs to be gone through so as to get the situation well in hand. Speakin' of well in hand ... oops, let's not go there.

My mouth is yawnin' and my eyes are droopin' and my navel is clamorin' for me to go curl up in a fetal position 'neath that double layer of goose down, but the temperature is so balmy, I ain't even wearin' nuthin' 'bove the navel. The lower half, o' course, is covered by that previously mentioned "Grrrrreat" set of sleep pants, tied snugly 'round my waist jes' below my navel. Bare and uncovered, the navel sits amid the Buddha belly in resplendent glory. That little cherry mole is still keepin' watch. End of report.

I can't blog on this ---

Jay has already used the only possibly good title:

Jesus Christ, Superstore, You Are As Funny As They Say You Are

*Which means that I am likely jes' a bein' an asshole for pointin' such out, right?

Tryin' to relive last Friday

Man reunited with long lost sock searchin' through debris washed up on a beach in Bangladesh followin' the recent tsunami.

The façades behind which opportunity hides

I have been watchin' Amber Frey take the spotlight now that Scott Peterson has been convicted, pushin' to publicize the book that supposedly discloses her side of the story. What I see is an opportunist, but one who innocently found herself in the middle of a nasty situation and used her head so as to come out on top. Most people were a lot more interested in this case than I was. As it will likely be hard to ever understand his motivation for havin' done what he supposedly did, what more is there to learn from this situation. Some guy thought he could get away with murder --- happens all the time, 'cept sometimes it's the gal -- but they usually jes' kill their children. In this case, another person got caught up in the mess, Amber Frey, and, as it turned out, the day she met Scott Peterson was her lucky day. Now, I have not seen enough evidence for me to believe Amber Frey is all that intelligent, but she seems to have been smart enough to seek competent advice at an early enough point in the situation to make it pay off for herself and her children. Is she a villain? No. Is she capitalizin' on a tragedy? No more so than she has a right to take. Is she wrong to do so? Not in my opinion. I am not gonna buy her book, but I still ain't interested in the case. I figger enough of the rest of ya'll will do so such that the life of Amber and her family will be benefited thereby. I hope so.

It's Just Another Day

When I commented on Tig's Nightly Navel Gazin Report™ last night, I told him that I had stayed up to read it. That was only partially true. While those were my intentions, I actually had zoned out in front of the television, tired from a rather uneventful Monday. Awaking to music with a throbbing beat, I looked up at the screen to find a movie which would not have been my choosing. Why, there was some sort of threesome with Madonna, Jennifer Lopez, and . . . Who was that guy? I quickly turned off the TV and logged on to my computer, since it was later than I had intended to stay up.

Today I must drive to the big city for a meeting related to my job, which by the way is not at Walmart. I was sort of pullin' yore leg when I told ya that.

So guess I'll jump into my gas-guzzlin' loaner pick-up and head for the city.

You'll soon find yourself not sippin' your regular brand

I have felt like a numb-skull for most of the day, tryin' to find somethin' to blog 'bout. I had the followin' topics available:

• my sore back
• my cluttered life
• my currently unpublished book
• my lack of money

• how utterly tired I was.

Tsunami Tsurvival.

My navel literally had nuthin' to do with this creation, whatsoever, and wanted me to make that perfectly clear. End of report.

OTBTJTB™

*I actually have no current T-shirt available for sale to benefit such project, but if there is actually enough clamor for it, or someone else steals this idea and makes a bundle off of it, then please feel free to assist me in my book publication endeavors.

Trippin' on my shoelaces crossin' the finish line

Somethin' like that! I am worn to a frazzle. Got the office all moved out and moved into the house. Got a backache, a neckache, and a headache .... but fixin' to go take a really hot bath and get into bed. The navel is really lookin' forward to gettin' the post done, so adios ya'll! Ridin' off into the moonrise bein' as it is a bit too late in the evenin' to ride off into the sunset. Applause appreciated. End of report.

Jan. 9, 2005

Well, seems online datin' ain't changed a whit since Al Gore invented the Internet. Opus tried to entice his date by effectin' his best George Clooney impression but she was more interested in the cab driver.

Musta been a weird week for Breathed, 'cause great parodies dealin' with the truth of online romance have easily been done usin' a single panel. Not the stuff to base your entire weekly strip 'pon, in my estimation.

Fulfillin' other's wildest dreams*

Jes' for OzGuru

Standard Saturday with a twist

Didn't see much cause for bein' prolific today, as it was Saturday and we all know how dead the blogosphere is on Saturdays. I was 'splainin' to Moona today how most bloggers are intelligent, love to write, etc. so mostly we are worried 'bout what we are writin' more than anythin' else. She was wonderin' why there were so few comments. I wonder 'bout that all the time. 'Specially when I went all out to provide the first new Alien Attitudes™ comic strip in five years or so.

Well, thankfully was feelin' a bit better today, so got a lot more of that office move done. Still have one more round to go, though, but had to come empty some of the boxes so as to have somethin' to pack more of that big pile of paper. My navel has been out of the loop for most of the day, havin' been benched while my consciousness was busy tryin' to figure out where to put ever'thin'. I am still tryin' to figure out where to put some of the stuff I moved in here three years ago. I have too much stuff and am in a profession that generates way too much paper. 'Mostly, though, it is as if it is impossible to ever be able to throw any of it away. I have boxes and boxes of closed files I have toted endlessly from place to place. They will likely haunt me until the day I die. End of report.

Oh, my artistic skills are still as paltry as ever

'Member when I was tellin' ya'll that my Alien Attitude Trilogy came from a comic strip I used to do several years ago? Well, after a really long hiatus, however, not quite the ten years between Outland and Opus, I am pleased to introduce a brand new Alien Attitudes™ comic, to be found in the extended entry.

Orphaned sock twins reunited

As I took my first load of laundry from the dryer, I began contemplatin’ orphaned socks. Bein’ the frugal person that I am, I have long had a basket-orphanage for the forlorn foundlings rescued from my dryer, providing them a safe refuge until such time that I might be instrumental in reuniting them with their lost twin. I had always surmised that the lost siblings were naughty pranksters, merely hiding from me in order to exasperate me. Never had I realized that the evil Count Maytag might be lurking in my laundry room.

My basket-orphanage has grown quite large, with orphans not only from the country of Ban-Lon and Nylon, but also from Cottonia and the newer nation of Microfiber. These stranded waifs are a melancholy group, since one is the loneliest number.As I sorted the clothes taken from my first load, I found additional strays which I gently carried to the orphanage. I am glad to report that sets of twins have now been united.

This made me think of stories that I have read about twins who were reunited after long periods of time. Often when they reunite, they are found to have similar traits which they recognize in each other when they meet. [This even seems to be true for animals.] For instance,

The first pair Bouchard met, James Arthur Springer and James Edward Lewis, had just been reunited at age 39 after being given up by their mother and separately adopted as 1-month-olds. Springer and Lewis, both Ohioans, found they had each married and divorced a woman named Linda and remarried a Betty. They shared interests in mechanical drawing and carpentry; their favorite school subject had been math, their least favorite, spelling. They smoked and drank the same amount and got headaches at the same time of day.

Equally astounding was another set of twins, Oskar Stohr and Jack Yufe. At first, they appeared to be a textbook case of the primacy of culture in forming individuals -- just the opposite of the Lewis-Springer pair. Separated from his twin six months after their birth in Trinidad, Oskar was brought up Catholic in Germany and joined the Hitler Youth. Jack stayed behind in the Caribbean, was raised a Jew and lived for a time in Israel. Yet despite the stark contrast of their lives, when the twins were reunited in their fifth decade they had similar speech and thought patterns, similar gaits, a taste for spicy foods and common peculiarities such as flushing the toilet before they used it.

. . a woman named Gilia Angell recalls wandering into the St. Patrick's Cathedral gift shop in New York and buying a postcard of an airbrushed Jesus, which she mailed to her twin sister in Olympia, Wash. A few days later, she says, a letter postmarked the same day arrived from Olympia. Enclosed was a refrigerator magnet "with the same filmy airbrushed picture of Jesus!" Then there are those twin pranks, adding to our general sense of wonderment over their doubleness -- duped boyfriends and confused motor vehicles officials, cheating on SAT tests . . .

Geneticist humor: A little joke is posted on the bulletin board of the clinical genetics department at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. It's a diagram of the X chromosome, with the names and descriptions of imaginary genes scribbled at intervals along it: "visa" -- the gene for shopping addiction; "klutz" -- the inability-to-manipulate-mechanical-objects gene; "blab" -- the gene for prolonged telephone conversation; "eek" -- the fear-of-bugs gene. There's even a gene for emotional instability -- "shrill" -- and one for learned helplessness: "honey . . ."

Lemon Meringue's Adventures of Orphaned Socks*

Well, it seems Count Maytag was chasin' after the fortune left to three orphaned socks: a purplish colored Ban-lon hose, a Nike sports sock, and a knitted baby bootie with a myriad of holes. Thankfully, with the inventiveness of the Ban-lon hosiery, the superb readin' ability of the Nike sports stockin', and the way the baby bootie was bitin' into the toes of anyone idiotic enough to try to stretch it onto a full-sized foot ... well, you get the picture. Actually, the movie 'pon which this inanity is based was quite good, as were the credits. I'll give it four-paws up and a shake of my striped tail.

The navel dozed fitfully durin' the movie, payin' very little heed to the scenario flashin' 'cross the screen as such navel seemed to be mired in ponderance at how an homage of some type could, in some way, be referenced within Book Two or Three of the Alien Attitudes™ Trilogy. End of report.

*Bein' as today was the kamikaze laundry assault day, today's postin's were brought to you by the letter orphaned socks.

News Flash! Nigerian Sex Scandal

Yes, it seems that INTERPOL broke open a huge case involvin' several Nigerians who were caught in the very act of selling orphaned socks into the world market as sex slaves.

Eight minute deadline

Doin' a kamikaze laundry assault, where ever' piece of clothin', sheets, towels, whatever, which are not hangin' on a hanger or put away in a drawer are bein' washed, dried, and properly stowed away, 'cept this and that item that find themselves worthy of bein' completely discarded for some reason or 'nother ... which, by the way, with my proclivity of findin' almos' ever'thin' still has some use or 'nother, it is not often anythin' 'cept frozen-food wrappin's and paper towels finds its way into my trashcans. Although it is somethin' my own mother used to do, I still refuse to convert a worn-out pair of underwear into use as a dishrag. Well, that was the bell. Time to take the clothes outta the washer, throw them in the dryer, throw another load in the washer, and start another full cycle goin'.

Jan. 7, 2005

At the French Army base, the weekly target practice at the rifle range had been canceled for the thirty-third time in a row and was again replaced with a physical fitness test for the whole unit.

One soldier mused, "Does it bother anyone else that our Army doesn't seem to care how well we can shoot, but they are extremely interested in how fast we can run?"

This is modification of a joke sent to me by my New Zealand friend, George.

Kill Bill Still ill Vol. 2

Still gettin plenty of bed rest and feelin' like if I don't kick this bug pretty soon, I might be covered with bed sores. If things go like they did last eve, I will toss and turn all night, runnin' storylines through my head dealin' with the next installment in the Alien Attitudes™ trilogy. My navel seems to be one of the few parts of my body that is not runnin', achin', or otherwise afflicted with cold symptoms. End of report.

Raging Rivers of Rhinorrhoea

After reading Tig's last entry, I decided to search the net to see if I could find some new cold remedy for him to try. Most of what I found involved herbs that are not to be found in either one of our small towns. But I did find some interesting facts about the common cold. One was a definition of the scientific name "snot" found in the "Howstuffworks" website.

rhinorrhoea, n.: This is the fanciest way of describing your babbling, bubbling stream of snot. You probably recognize the last part of that word, and the first half, rhin, is Greek for nose. (A rhinoceros is literally a horn-nose.)

It feels like it sounds: A rhinovirus is a good indication of how it would be to have a rhinoceros stuck up your nose. Your throat hurts. Later you begin to sneeze. Then, a babbling stream of snot bursts from your nose. In the end, you cough. Maybe your colds don't take this exact route, but you can probably predict the path they'll hack through your head.

Ms. Holmes tried to find out more about the common cold from Owen Hendley, who has spent a long time studying on the subject. He explains that

A cold virus gets into your nose when you touch your germy fingers to your nose or eyes. ("You gotta do something pretty stupid to get it in you, I'm sorry to say," says Hendley, who admitted having just caught a cold from his kids.) The virus, be it rhino, corona or some other cold-causing breed, infects cells and multiplies, its numbers concentrating at the back of your nose. The infected cells send out an SOS, and it's your very own response to that plea that makes you wish you hadn't bothered. Among the possible culprits are leaky blood vessels. As a normal part of fighting disease, your vessels leak special portions. If these leak into your throat, Hendley says, they may irritate the tissues there. Leakage, plus swelling of blood vessels, goes on to cause congestion in your head.

Well, Tig, hope you're feelin' better. In the mean time, get something to eat. This one's a myth, but it doesn't seem to hurt anything either.

Myth 6: You should feed a cold (and starve a fever).
Facts: 1. The origin of this old saying is obscure. There is no scientific evidence that excess eating will cure a cold.

2. On the other hand, eating tasty food will not make a cold worse and may help the cold victim feel better. Commoncold.org features tasty recipes for the cold sufferer.

Kill Bill Still ill

Well, I tossed and turned all night, limped through court this mornin' and am back home to get a bit more rest. It was 22 degrees this mornin' and my house is cold, cold, cold, but I did do what I said I was gonna do. I stopped by Walmart and bought one of those hot oil radiators and have it heatin' up my bedroom as I am sittin' here in my full length leather coat in the ol' home office typin' this up. I am still in the midst of movin' stuff in and reorganizin' the rooms so as to work from home now. Gettin' sick was not in my plans, though. I jes' feel like the proverbial dog feces stuck on the bottom of you shoe. No matter what ya do, how hard ya try, ya jes' cannot shake it. It will stick 'round 'til it is ready to go away, or until it dries up and flakes off. Either way, I am headin' back to the warmth I feel under that double layer of goose down.

(S)he who laughs last . . .

Tig and I were talkin' the other day about how some people really have a warped sense of humor. In fact, in some instances, it becomes a total abuse of authority. In Tig's little town, everyone must have a post office box; no mail is delivered to any houses in town. Seems that the postal employee who assigns the boxes to customers has only one hard and fast rule: The vertical position of the assigned post office box will be inversely proportional to the height of the postal customer. In other words, if you're tall, you'll get a box on the bottom, and if you're short, your box will be on top.

I told him that my newspaper carrier seemed to be equally twisted. Whenever the weather is dry, my newspaper may be found on the driveway or on the sidewalk, but in "rain, sleet, or snow" I can be sure that my paper will be in the grass or mud, not quite properly wrapped.

It seems that there are some people who must find a way to have more power over others than their job really allows.

For instance

Holy spit! Tainted food dogs cops
Spit, urine, cleaning products and other contaminants found in the fast food served to police officers in restaurants around the country has left many in law enforcement wary of reaching for that next burger and fries.

The problem is consistent with a growing disrespect for authority and antipolice sentiment in the public at large, said Jim Pasco, executive director of the national Fraternal Order of Police. “There has been an erosion in respect for authority figures in general and police officers are among the most visible authority figures, they’re going to be targets for this kind of misconduct,” he told Law Enforcement News. Another hypothesis is the resentment felt by underpaid teenage workers...

Narcissists in Positions of Authority

Frequently Asked Questions # 11 - By: Dr. Sam Vaknin
Question: Are narcissists in position of authority more likely to take advantage of their patients/students/subordinates?

Answer: Being in a position of authority secures the uninterrupted flow of Narcissistic Supply. Fed by the awe, fear, subordination, admiration, adoration and obedience of his underlings, parish, students, or patients - the narcissist thrives in such circumstances. The narcissist aspires to acquire authority by any means available to him. He may achieve this by making use of some outstanding traits or skills such as his intelligence, or through an asymmetry built into a relationship. The narcissistic medical doctor or mental health professional and his patients, the narcissistic guide, teacher, or mentor and his students, the narcissistic leader, guru, pundit, or psychic and his followers or admirers, or the narcissistic business tycoon, boss, or employer and his subordinates - all are instances of such asymmetries.

The day that I was determined that I was indeed expecting my second child, the doctor had left his notes in the little room, and I saw the date that he wrote in the records.

However, when he took me into his office to talk with me about the results, he told me two weeks later than that. I thought nothing of it, until the awaited day drew nearer and nearer.

Of course, I had been through this before. When I had my first child, the doctor who delivered my daughter was to speak at a nurses' graduation, and he was obviously frustrated by the fact that if I didn't hurry up, he would miss it. Thus he gave me an I-V of something that made my contractions harder and faster so that he could meet his schedule.

When the due date for my son had passed, he told me that if I did not go into labor by two weeks from the due date, he would induce labor. When he left the room, I started talking to the nurse, who was his wife. I told her that I hoped that he did not have to do that, because I imagined it would be more painful. She told me that, when she had her children, he always induced labor for convenience if had to go to conventions near the due date.

So I thought back to the date that I had seen in that little room, realizing now that his plan is to minimizes the instances of having to be called in the middle of the night by convincing unsuspecting fat ladies that they are "more pregnant" than they really are. He was going to have to pay. I had my last child a day or two earlier than the due date, and I was going to do everything I could to hasten the birth. I walked every change I got, did as much exercise as my round body would allow, and sure enough, the night before I was to be "induced," I went into labor. I called the doctor, and he did his best to convince me that I was wrong. However, he said, since I lived a long distance from the hospital, he would let me check in the night before.

We rushed to the hospital, with me in the backseat, along with my seven-year-old daughter, whom we did not have time to drop off anywhere. My mother lived in the town where the hospital was located, so we thought that after I got settled in the ER, she could be taken to my mom's. On the way there, my daughter got sick and started vomiting. It was a ride not to be forgotten. As soon as the nurses examined me, they were on the phone to the doctor. By their conversation, I could tell that he was still trying to get out of it, but he managed to get there shortly before my son was born at 1:11 a.m. No one really knew why I laughed when he walked in. I really had never told anybody else about what I did. I thought it was worth sharing.

Chicken Soup for the Common Cold

So whatta ya think? Does a big hot bowl of Dollar Store two-fer-a-buck chicken noodle soup that ya are gonna have to go out in freezin' weather to get really all the much better for ya than say heatin' up some of Emperor Ramen's Magical Manna™ ya have already on hand when ya are down for the count with a really bad cold? Well, ponderin' the complexities of the foregoin', I did venture out and dined 'pon a Sonic-sized™ order of tots sprinkled with chili juice and watery cheese sauce.

I also stopped by Dollar General, the closest thing we have to WallyWorld in this tiny burg, after my meal 'cause I noticed the oil light come on in my monstrous, gas-guzzlin', oil-burnin' and leakin', ancient appearin' ('93) Champagne-colored Lincoln Town Car.* That is usually a sign that I need to get some oil. It needs an oil change soon and may soon be up for an engine overhaul unless my luck changes a bit. I'd like to purchase a Cooper Mini or another 87-92 LX 5.0 hopefully non-red Mustang Convertible in top condition.

To get back to the Dollar store ... as I went to pick up the two bottles of oil I needed, I sorta circled the store hopin' to find one of those hot oil radiators for sale. There were none to be seen, which I had already 'spected prior to lookin' 'round for such. Those radiators seemed to disappear quickly in the three days between the first day I saw them, when I happened to be jes' a bit short on cash, and the next time I stopped in. None had been delivered subsequently, I was informed. I guess I'll put that on my lookout list for when I can hopefully drop by Walmart tomorrow after court is over.

I also neglected to pick up any two-fer-a-dollar cans of chicken noodle soup while at Dollar General. That slight neglect crossed my mind after I got home. Additionally, I wondered if I should have also picked up some mentholated rub to apply on my chest so to assist my breathin' after I fall asleep. I quickly, however, recollected why I no longer ever purchase any of that mentholated rub. That crap is jes' too difficult to wash off completely from your hands. On more than one occasion, I can 'member 'speriencin' the excruciatin'ly painful searin' of my delicate optic tissue 'pon innocently and groggily knucklin' the corners of a weary eyes followin' a supposedly thorough washin' of my hands after havin' used some of that stuff on previous occasions.

I also remember somethin' 'bout gettin' plenty of rest. I felt I did a thorough job in accomplishin' that prong of the cold recovery formula today as I spent most of today either drinkin' Dr. Pepper or catnappin' as noise from the TV was fillin' the background, often while fully reclined on the sofa or my bed and I am promptly headin' back for the rematch. My navel is urgin' me bed-ward, wantin' to avoid any more encounters with the sofa. An earlier encounter with the cord of a couch cushion seems to have left an indelible mark on its psyche. Ponder that point with a healthy servin' of Emperor Ramen's Magical Manna™ and get back to me on it. End of report.

OTBTJTB™ Why? jes' 'cause.

*Did I ever tell ya'll that I figgered out the reason so many underworld characters seem drive Lincoln Town Cars is 'cause ya can actually fit three dead bodies inside the trunk of one. The trunk of my car smells like one or two of those carcasses musta rode 'round for a couple of hot summer days 'fore the right ditch or swamp or construction site to dump the body (or bodies, as the case may be) was found. The rank aroma is ghastly and nauseatin'. It grew so bad that I threw a skunk in the trunk and drove 'round with is rattlin' 'round back there for a few days in hopes the trunk linin' would absorb enough of of its spray to mask the stench of death that emanated from within the depths of that massive trunk. My plan only succeeded in pissin' off a skunk. Sorry skunk. Sorry PETA. [not!]**

**The only thing close to truthful in the previous footnote is the fact that ya really could likely fit 3 dead bodies into the trunk of a Lincoln Town Car. The rest, of course, is from within my imagination.

Coincidentally

The really nasty cold bug, the one you can see currently standin' right over there holdin' the faucet wide open in my left nostril, continues to play havoc inside my head. It has been doin' so since 'bout 5:00 pm last evenin' and now, it seems, it additionally brought along an extremely nasty round of cold weather. Last evenin', late, it was a balmy 70. Currently the air temperature is hoverin' in the mid 30's. Brrrr! I might be able to possibly sniff up a conspiracy if my nose wasn't currently stopped up. Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh ------ choooooo! 'scuse me!

Maybe I didn't eat enough black-eyed peas . . .

As I left my car at the service department of the local dealership on Monday, I think I had a premonition that I would never see her alive again. As I described her symptoms to the mechanic, I told him that I felt of her hood when I pulled into my garage Sunday evening, and she seemed to have a high fever.

The van from the dealership took me on to work, and I worried all day that I was going to get a call that an expensive repair would be needed. After all, January is when the taxes on my house are due, and I'm still recovering from Christmas. Late in the afternoon, the phone rang, and they told me that they still hadn't been able to diagnose the problem, and that she would have to spend the night so that they could run more tests the next morning.

I had already promised Tig that I would come over and help him move, so I called my son, who just got a red Mustang and was glad for any excuse to drive it. I was waiting outside when he pulled up. I got in and he asked, "So how was your day at school," amused by how the tables had turned.

Before heading to Tig's, we went by the dealership to get a few things out of my car. As I left, I told the mechanic, "Take good care of her--She's never been away from home all night."

Mid-morning on Tuesday, the phone rang; it was the mechanic, calling me the progress on my car's repair.

"Moona, how are you today?"

His voice sounded strangely apprehensive. "I'm . . . not sure. Maybe you should tell me." My stomach tightened as I imagined needing a new transmission.

"Well, we still hadn't pinpointed the problem, so the technician took it out on the highway to see if he could duplicate the problem that you described . . . [There was again a big pause.]

"The technician is in the hospital. You're car isn't in very good shape either."

When lunch came, my friend took me to the body shop. When I asked to see my car, the shop manager took me around to the back, where I saw my car's mangled body. "It's totaled," he said.

I guess I didn't eat enough black-eyed peas.

But that wasn't the end of it.

The car dealer called the local Enterprise and told them to reserve me a car at their expense. The car turned out to be a great big, gas-guzzlin' pick-up.

I was really wound up after all of the happenings of the day, so I thought a drive would do me good. So I called Tig to see if he needed more help with the movin.'

By the time I got there, he was beginnin' to feel kinda puny, but we had some supper & went back to his office and started movin' some stuff. He had big bushelfuls of different kinds of soft drinks, but he only drinks Dr. Peppers. He offered the rest to me--There were two great big baskets full of'm.

Tig was beginning to feel worse, so I said good-by and started the 30-mile trip home. As I was drivin,' I thought that helpin' Tig had really been the best thing I could do to relax. He's a laugh a minute, y'know, plus I worked off some of my bein' so wound up. I thought--Nothing more could happen today. The pick-up had less than 3000 miles and ran great. It was so big that if I hit a deer, it would just bounce off.

But that was not to be. As I pulled up to the four-way stop sign at the intersection coming into the town where I live, I heard a noise. I looked in the rear-view mirror only to see cans of soft drink rolling all over the middle of the intersection. I was quite a sight runnin' around and pickin' up cans of soda before more cars entered the intersection.

I can hardly wait to see what's going to happen today.

January 4, 2005

[Written by Moona, because Tig is under the weather.]

When I went to help Tig last night, he was not feelin' too well. As I was leavin', he told me that I could do the Nightly Navel Gazin' Report if I wanted to.

Thinkin' that it prob'ly wouldn't be right for me to inspect his navel, 'spec'ly when he was feelin' puny, I considered givin' you a report on mine. I'm kinda shy, though, so guess I'll jest tell ya that it was still there.

Channelin' Felix the Cat

I'm gonna reach into my bag of tricks and see if I can pull out ... yep there's a great big ol' good-night,* right there! Righty-O! My navel noted Felix's lack thereof. End of report.

*Got a lot of the heavy movin' done, thankfully, with the assistance of Moona and her son. My back is now quite stiff and sore. I am simply worn to a frazzle and regretful that I may have been less than my most prolific self today. I do wanna thank ya for your support.

When life hands ya lemons, write hit songs 'bout it

Ya graduate, get famous, win a Grammy, afterward findin' yourself bein' inducted into the high school's Hall of Fame, and, when ya come back to be a part of the festivities, they send ya to the principal's office. 'Course, I dunno 'bout you, but sounds like a good premise for a Country & Western song.

"Well then, GO TO HELL!¹⁰"

Like I needed that at 5:00 a.m. in the mornin'?

Dull drudgery as the World Turns

I am movin' my office into my home and in the midst of this and that to accomplish the mission. Alterin' furniture arrangements, findin' new and novel ways to store that which is unused and in the way, and discardin' or givin' away some of the stuff for which I have no further use. I have been puttin' this off and puttin' this off despite havin' reached the decision several months ago. I jes' been dreadin' gettin' it done, 'cause, to tell ya the truth (this is categorized under "The Full Story," after all), I HATE MOVIN'.

Polka-dotted pantaloons & a second layer of skin with a drop seat

Ya ever noticed how fashionable is it used to be to go out actually wearin' more undergarments than most people currently have in their top drawer at any one time? What with hoops, corsets, pantaloons, bloomers, garters, leggin's and the like, why'd anyone invent a chastity belt? It'd take all night jes' to get naked enough to do anythin' with all them garments to get through. People of that age had servants to assist them with dressin' and undressin'.

'Course, then there is always them shots in the westerns where people seem to be bathin', once in a blue moon, whether necessary or not, while still encased in their long handled underwear, drop seat properly buttoned, thank ya very much. It was as if they had decided it was a good idea to wash themselves and their underwear at the same time. That's a pretty handy trick to 'member, ya'll bachelor guys. Bathe! Wash your underwear. Do it at the same time if necessary, but do it --- often!

This Public Service Announcement has been brought to you by the United States Department of Navel Observations, North Central Texas Division, batteries not included. For an edited transcript of these proceedings, suitable for framin', please send a SASE, along with 15¢ Canadian, no pennies, no stamps, to Burrell, Shoe Box 1262, Newark, Illinois 55501.* End of report.

[Addendum: I forgot to tell ya'll 'bout my idea for a good comedy skit. Extreme Home Makeovers project: Oscar the Grouch. Send him away to Disney World for a week while they redo his beat up ol' trash can into a shiny stainless steel dipsy dumpster. Oscar's reaction: quite grouchy and thoroughly unimpressed. That's all. End of Addendum.]

*Uh, don't send stuff to this address. It's all a joke, ya'll.

Jan. 2, 2005

In a tribute to Webbed Blobs, BB shows Opus' bein' snatched by the snout and dragged from the room after he tries to lamely pass himself off as a blogger 'pon his overhearin' one lovely young lass 'spress jes' 'zactly how cool she thought they were. I tol' ya'll Breathed reads my crap and here he goes pointin' out webloggers. I mean 'jes how many other webloggers are there, really? Maybe one or two others, right, so it's gotta be me, wouldn't ya say? Berke Breathed is tryin' to make me famous. Woohoo!

The Superbowl bound Dallas Cowboys

Havin' nothin' for which to hope, I thought to long for yesteryear. Now, I'm perplexed 'bout whether to long for Staubach or Aikman. ^~shrug~ *Yawn!*

It is all I can do to stay awake

Thankfully, I only endeavor to get this report out before hittin' the sack for the night. If ya ain't already done so, check out this short story of mine from over 20 years ago: 2014. My navel is completely pleased with this report and moves that such report be closed. My eyelids, in unison, second that emotion. End of report.

Looking back to when I looked for'ard

Folks, I knew I had this 'round here somewhere. This is one of the earliest examples of my creative writing. This was written while I was still an undergraduate student at University of Texas at Arlington, which I attended from 1978 to 1983. I seem to recall that this story was penned in the fall of 1982.

2014
A short story by Terence A. Russell

Twelve volts jolted the flesh of my left arm. The clock above the hatch spoke "5:55," and the holoscreen flashed red, announcing that the President would appear in five minutes.

Dropping to the sleep chamber's deck, I entered the hatch opening beneath it. The dressing console's switch was flicked to the "on" position. A green light on the console immediately brightened. Sliding open the cabinet's door above the console, I removed the neatly pressed clothing, a fresh yellow jumpsuit.

My United States Transportation Authority uniform was quickly donned. The feel of the recycled paper fabric was fresh and crisp, but the bright yellow did not appeal to my senses, was too crisp, and too fresh. I often longed for the feel of freshly washed jeans and a cotton shirt.

The red bulb on the console flashed as I turned to leave. My pajamas were picked up from the floor and placed in the PAPER ONLY chute. The red light went out as I stepped from the wardrobe chamber.

The clock now read 5:57; sufficient time to punch up breakfast before the President began his address. Moving from the private chamber through the lounging chamber and to the galley, the five minutes that it took for the usual breakfast of kelp-cakes, soy sausage, and neutro-ova were pressing my time-sense. The code was punched for a cup of lactocaf and two slices of toasted kelp-bread.

Sliding open the food chute's cover, I removed the tray containing breakfast. I carried it into the lounging chamber and placed it on the table beside my reclino-lounger. After consuming breakfast, my attention was shifted to the holoscreen.

The screen stopped flashing; bright red faded into deep blue. The audio-trac burst forth with "Hail to the Chief." A scene from deep in the White House, buried somewhere beneath the Colorado Rockies, materialized on the screen as an image of the President cleared.

"Citizens," he began, "I apologize for awakening you so early, but my scientists at the National Nutritional Laboratories have informed me that they are ready to release their findings in the tests of the presently available foodstuffs.

"Wishing to keep this as short as possible, I will dispense with the details of the report and read only their conclusions." He read, "'... and in conclusion, we find that the only nutritional products which are completely fit for human consumption are the kelp-bread groups and the hydro-vita fluids. All other substances have been found to contain carcinogens or other health deteriorating substances.'

"This statement is concise and direct enough to give you an understanding of the problem. As you are aware, I have attempted, during my decade as President, to rid this nation of its health problems, crime problems, and economic problems.

"New homes, meals, and jobs were provided. Every room of every building in this nation was provided with a direct hook-up with the central computer back in Dallas. This system, provided from my personal facilities at EDI, is bringing my life-size figure into every lounging chamber across the nation at this very moment.

"Millions of you faithfully provided the necessary information, as members of my National Association of Respected Citizens, which enabled us to rid the nation of its crime element, halting forever the drug distribution network which was destroying this great country.

"Though many raised objection, you cooperated with the national ban on sex in our effort to halt the genetic malformations which were becoming epidemic across the nation, and applauded as the first generation of Americans, perfect Americans, was born in the National Genetic Laboratories just last year.

"I trust you will provide this same support in the problem we face today. It is absolutely necessary to place all foodstuffs, with the exception of the kelp-breads and hydrovita fluids, on the controlled substances list. Workers at the central computer banks will reprogram the memories such that these substances will not longer be available to be delivered to your homes. NARC agents will be alerted that the state will again offer 1,000 credit bounties for each smuggler of controlled substances reported, convicted, and executed by the National Police.

"You must bear with us in this program, as we will make these products available again as soon as our scientists have found a method of neutralizing their harmful effects.

"Thank you for your support, citizens. Before I leave you to your appointed duties, I do wish to brighten your day just a bit. The scientists at the National Genetic Laboratories have succeeded in artificially producing all the necessary genetic materials to produce additional offspring, so that we find it no longer necessary to protect your genitalia from the harmful effects of sexual encounters, and find it no longer necessary to enforce the ban.

"All persons who submit themselves to building clinics for sterilization will find, upon returning from duty, that their sleeping chambers have been reprogrammed to facilitate sexual acts.

"Again, thank you for your support, and I wish each and every one of you a pleasant day." With that the image on the screen and on the floor disappeared.

Stepping to the console, I punched TFG57386743. An image of my girlfriend, Tara, appeared where the President has stood only moments before. She was wearing the dark brown jumpsuit, identifying her as a worker in the National Nutritional Kitchens.

Before I had a chance to speak, she hurriedly blurted out: "Hi Bobby! I'm late. Can't talk. The answer is yes. See you at 1900 sharp," and disappeared.

The clock read 6:24. I was running late myself. My breakfast tray was placed in the delivery chute, and the return code on the galley console was punched. The entry hatch was dialed open, and I moved through it into the corridor. A dozen steps down the corridor led to the trans-booth. The code I had received upon completion of my duty last eve was punched, and I stepped into the booth. Moments later, I found myself in a different booth, in a different corridor. The sign above the console read: STATION 412-NATIONAL GENETIC LABORATORIES-LIBYAN TERRITORY-UNITED STATES OF EARTH, and in smaller letters below: HUMAN OFFSPRING SECTION.

A shudder of excitement, almost that of an orgasm, rushed through me. My security clearance had been upgraded, and I was to have the honor of manipulating the transporter controls for the nation's youngest citizens.

Charging down the corridor, eager to view my new passenger prospects, I opened the hatch marked FIRST GENERATION. Twenty-five identical faces confronted me, each bearing a remarkable resemblance to President Ross Perote.

Happy New Year

Well, gazed 'pon a 4 stud navel while out celebratin'. Too late, too tired to think. Navel is well. Happy 2005! End of report.