Read My Lips - the blog

What exactly do ya do with a pair of these?

What kind of pair with up did you come when you read that title? I mean the number of possibilities are endless ... well maybe not endless but at least more than a few, true? There are ta-ta's of course, and dainties, despite usually being a single garment seem to be called pairs, as are pants, as well. It could be a pair of glasses, or a pair of nuts. It might even be a pair of comics. In this case, however, it is none of those. And no, it ain't a pair of bellybuttons, though I am sure a few of you regulars were betting on that ending ... it is a pair of tired, bloodshot droopy eyes urging me to find my bed. There is a high point to this insanity, however. I survived another Monday. I'm not too sure yet that I'll survive Tuesday. End of report.

Parishioners praise plastic pastor

LEGO CHURCH - A few quick facts:

• How long to build it? - It was about a year and a half of planning, building and photographing.
• How many pieces of LEGO to build it? - More than 75,000
• How big is it? - About 7 feet by 5 1/2 feet by 30 inches (2.2 m x 1.7 m x .76 m)
• How many lego people does it seat? - 1372
• How many windows? - 3976
• It features a balcony, a Narthex, stairs to the balcony, restrooms, coat rooms, several mosaics, a nave, a baptistry, an altar, a crucifix, a pulpit and an elaborate pipe organ.

I'm throwing in the towel, myself

I would have never predicted the end of this bout: Robby the Robot* vs. Mars Rover:

I’m not even sure if Robot has a gun – Rover on the other hand has the devastating rock abrasion tool. Mars Rover wins with a K.O. - Will Robison is unquestionably now in danger. - Versus Blog

Robby deserves to be named.

This surely ain't the first time the subject's been broached?

Via 15 Minutes, a humor column from a 20-something guy named Justin McLachlan, I discovered the following Blogger Code of Ethics:

We, readers and writers of blogs, ask other bloggers to adapt a code of ethics that requires them to seek truth and report it (not rumors, not unconfirmed hype, but truth), minimize the harm they do to others (especially those they're reporting on), act independently (be free of obligations or outside interests that compromises what they're reporting and if not, that they disclose those interests) and be accountable (to the public, their readers, other bloggers, etc.). We ask that this code of ethics be prominent and accessible to blog readers, and that questions about violations of the code will be dealt with openly and honestly. - source

It was also penned by Justin McLachlan.

What? Pen myself in a box? What's ya'll's thoughts?

Something new happened at last night's Academy Award Show

Blanchett's win for portraying movie icon Katharine Hepburn in "Aviator" marked the first time an actor has won an Oscar for playing another Oscar-winning actor. It was Blanchett's second nomination; her first was for the lead performance in 1998's "Elizabeth." - source

It was a truly amazing performance.

Moona's "It's all in the Meme"

Bold the states you've been to, underline the states you've lived in and italicize the state you're in now...

Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois* / Indiana / Iowa, / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana/ Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma/ Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C /

Found at Anomalous Noodge

*Birth through age 18 months, Berwyn, Illinois 1950-1952

Eyes wide open

I don't feel like going to work today. My teenage son drove my car to the big city one hundred miles away from the town where I live. He didn't scare me too much until the return trip. It was late and both of us were tired. I was looking out of the side window and trying to tune out the rap music that he was playing, when I glanced the other way just in time to see that he had dozed off and was heading toward the car on the opposite side of the road. For once, he actually thanked me instead of telling me that he had everything under control. I was really wide awake after that. In fact, my eyes looked pretty much like this most of the night. I also have a headache from his music. This is really going to be a Monday, if you know what I mean.

It's time to shine

and all the lights are off. No, seriously, I've been mindlessly watching the cartoon channel and have reduced myself to drooling moron level. Regrettably, I am still unable to kiss my navel. I failed to ever consider whether my navel was wanting to be kissed, and, if so, by whom. For my own part, I have seen other navels that I'd rather kiss. I have even found other parts of my own body to be more desirable as kissing targets. There are, however, very few actual parts of my own body that I am able to kiss. I seem to remember a point in my life when I could still kiss the bottom of either foot. I believe I lost that ability about the same time as I gave up on wearing diapers ... such time being sometime last week. Wow, would you look at the time? End of report.

I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a Beltbuster today --

Heck, I've gotta be liquored up to ask for a Dilly Bar. - Mike Durrett

Feb. 27, 2005

You'll need to be intimate with the details of whatever the recent hoopla was surrounding Spongebob Squarepants to fully understand the nuances of this week's Opus strip. What with my feigned mortal fear of all matters Spongebob, I lack such knowledge and am lost. After a very long period of meditation, I conclude that Steve made homosexual allusions with respect to Opus' hygiene habits and clothing choices. I, myself, thought the sight of Opus in fruit-topped hat and fully-colored pansy-printed briefs was thoroughly fetching, to be sure. Zeebo, speechless, voiced no opinion, one way or another. Bill, suspiciously, was absent. Pickles is AWOL.

The dice came up snake eyes this time

A la Gauche: Political News and Commentary from the Far Left
^{proud member of the reality-based community}

Isn't claiming to be from the far left and still having some connection to reality a bit like saying you are personally responsible for putting the ass in the word jackass? When I said a la Gauche to myself, I noted a really sour aftertaste, kind of like you taste right after you dined on some French food. Hmm.

Anyone up for a QUICKIE*?

DigitalCatharsis: Antarctica Blog? found via Jennifer

*Ya might surprisingly find yourself wishing to have quite a long and intimate adventure with the Mighty Jimbo once things get under way.

It's all in the meme

Bold the states you've been to, underline the states you've lived in and italicize the state you're in now...

Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana* / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma** / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C /

Found at Anomalous Noodge

*Basic Training and AIT Fork Polk, Louisiana, Aug 1977 - early 1978.

**Birth through age 6, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 1955-1961.

The cost of living or dying

_{Click to Enlarge}

Death or life or life or death
Death is life and life is death
I gotta use words when I talk to you
But if you understand or if you don't
That’s nothing to me and nothing to you
We all gotta do what we gotta do

Source: Sweeney Agonistes by T. S. Elliott

It has been brought to my attention numerous times by various insurance salespersons that I really should be planning in some way for the cost of dying. I read recently that the average cost of a funeral in the United States is over $7000. Considering the high costs of embalming, caskets, burial plots, memorials, services, and cemetery upkeep, the cost of dying has indeed become one of the many unavoidable costs of living. Moreover, the certainty of death has often guaranteed the surety of income for many.

Having lived in five small towns ranging in population from five hundred to twenty thousand, I have observed that in the very small towns, it is not unusual for the wealthiest person in town to be the owner of the local funeral home. As towns grow larger, the competition is greater, but the business is still usually steady and lucrative. Personally, I have always thought that spending an exorbitant amount in preserving a body which would naturally decay serves little purpose but merely to show how little civilization has advanced in some ways.

I have also lived in the city during one period of my life, and still visit from time to time. I have thus further observed that where there is increased competition for "rites" to bury our own remains, other businessmen have begun marketing final resting places for our beloved pets.*

*At this point I am tempted to digress to one of my other "pet peeves" -- the practice of some people who spend more on a pet than most people spend on their children. I always wonder why such persons do not just adopt a child. Perhaps it is because pets do not talk back.

A Bit of Heaven [Pet Cemetery and Crematorium] is a family-owned and operated business established in 1996. We are the newest and most beautiful pet cemetery in the city of Houston TX. Our courteous, caring staff will console you and provide comfort during these most difficult times for animal lovers.
[Click photo on left to enlarge.]

[We offer] the grieving pet owner the most complete range of services and products including pet burial, cremation, animal caskets, urns and pet memorial plaques. -- Source.

Sample costs for such a pet funeral might cost up to $865 just for the burial plot, up to $350 for a custom granite marker, up to $140 per year for annual maintenance fees, and up to $350 for the casket.

A wise man once said "Let the dead bury their dead." Sometimes I just feel saying what the old Australian said:

Tan me hide when I'm dead, Fred,
tan me hide when I'm dead.
So we tanned his hide when he died Clyde,
(Spoken) And that's it hanging on the shed.

In that mysterious place between this and that

I got this nagging physical condition. It seems to be like a stabbing sensation right between a couple of the ribs just below my right arm. It is a bit hard to describe as it in not really an ache nor is it up to the point of being a pain, but is somewhere in the middle. I found several ointments that were designed to ease body aches and pains, but I was unable to find any that claimed to ease aches and pains and anything in between. I guess I'll just have to put up with that stabbing sensation for a another minute or two until I can get this damn bullet into the chamber of this gun, then I am gonna shoot it right between the eyes.

I truly hate coming up with such fantastic humorous ideas on Saturday, knowing no one is going to ever read any of this, anyway. The one or two of you who do will either be so drunk from your Saturday night revelry or so hung over as a result of sleeping it off to be able to understand any of it, I'm sure. Oh, well, no sense in wasting all this valuable electronic space. Let me bait a good Google hook: snail guano. That ought to be good for 30 hits this year. Oh, but if all of life's simple pleasures were so easy, there would not be a million zillion guys wishing they had the physical agility of the family dog, Prince. I can barely see my navel, much less kiss it. End of report.

Sometimes addlepatedness comes in handy

_{Click to Enlarge}

I'd planned all week to go see Loretta Lynn at Billy Bob's this evening. I got busy today doing this and that and almost plumb forgot about it. Thankfully, at the very last moment, I decided to check Billy Bob's website to see if I could still possibly make the show.

Guess`what I found?

I wonder if his momma knows ---

Meet Blaire Hartman of Shelbyville, Indiana, United States:

I am gay. I like to write poetry and be depressed and cry.

Feb. 26, 2005

Well, here we go again with a nice set of links to point out those nuggets of wisdom and gems of humor that I have found here and there through my blog surfing adventures. All links open in new windows, so feel free to click and read ... the list will be awaiting your return. Now, for your reading pleasure, the proprietors of Read My Lips are proud to present:

• Psych Grad Momma decided to go out this weekend with the objective of seeing something for the very first time. A`new face should be on the horizon, one would think.
• The survey says that parents today are more lax toward their kids’ marijuana use than they were just 10 years ago. Get the full story at Blogging Baby, another venture of Zero Boss, Jay Allen.
• If you are needing a free Louis Vuitton case to cover your free ipod, go see jason barrow.
• What was that deal about putting your face on the internet?
• A three-year-old boy has become the youngest member of Mensa. Spork: The Success Spot
• "Brolsma's performance could only be described as earnest but painful." - Source. Spork: Link Right 2. Same might be said of this Adam Sandler act.
• Toys for the electronic masses: Letter James. Spork: Dispatches from France*

and, lastly,

• Looking for the funniest T-shirts on the Internet? t-shirthumor.com says they're the place. jen found a couple she liked.

*The linking of a blog with France in the title does not connote a change in any opinion previously expressed on this blog.

A new outlook for some barking moonbats

Ya know, I am getting a bit tired of that old hackneyed line of ya'll's:

Bush lied, people died.

So, I got a replacement line for ya'll:

Bush won, get back to fun.

And for ya'll NRA types:

Bush won, so I get to keep my gun.

And lastly, for ya'll who just can't take another four years of Bush:

Waah, waah, waah! I'm moving to France.

Au revoir, subordonnés bêtes. We'll help ya pack!

Of sushi breath and other odd odors

I don't know if any of ya'll readers are keeping up with the happenings here on Read My Lips, but it seems our reputation is being dragged through the mud in Japan. I'm not real clear on what was being said, but it concerned this here post. I was curious about it, of course, so ran right over to your friendly neighborhood babelfish and tried to get it translated into Texanese. About the best I could get is this:

Because Website of PS.The New York Times has taken pay system, when it passes fixed time, it seems that the article only one part stops being indicated by the picture. Just a little it was perplexed, but certain ???? of America, in ???, "Read My Lips-the blog", had picked up this topic. Also the article is quoted totally long. Also the interpretation that with respect to copyright, a little there is a problem, is possible, but because it make the source clear, we would like to introduce. You could point also the track/truck back, but Japanese of the optimistic open space letter doing to transform into that sight, it came out. As for entry being to fear ??????, the ? ? ? which it stops.

Now the best I could figure out was they were all agog over bananadog and wanted to pass it around on JOL (Japan On Line) and were worried about breaking copyright laws, either that, or they were claiming that they had created bananadog and wondered why they were not properly credited, or just wondered what was the price on those bananas at Wal-Mart. Although I am awful glad to be getting visitors from that fine upstanding volcanic atoll on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, I ain't doing all that well getting a good handle on speaking enough Spanish to order the right brand of beer in the local border towns, so it might be awhile before I catch onto how to interpret ya'll's chicken scratches enough to understand what all the hoopla is about. All I can say is Yee Haw! Thanks for dropping in and come back any old time.

Then, on the more serious side of the current occurrences hereabouts ... I am most hopeful I have allayed a young momma's fears when she was worried why her baby's poop has green in it. It might be a surprise to many of ya'll that I get quite a few hits a day from people searching for green baby poop.

Nobody got the joke in last night's report. I didn't even get a dirty look.

I met with a man earlier today. He was seeking something. He thought I might be of assistance in his search. He needed recruits. He was a navel recruiter. I tugged my shirt down so as to conceal my Buddha belly and sent him on his way. End of report.

Saving Jesus

A man is stumbling through the woods, totally drunk, when he comes upon a preacher baptizing people in the river. He proceeds to walk into the water and subsequently bumps into the preacher. The preacher turns around and is almost overcome by the smell of alcohol, whereupon he asks the drunk, "Are you ready to find Jesus?"

The drunk answers, "Yes, I am." So the preacher grabs him and dunks him in the water. He pulls him up and asks the drunk, "Brother have you found Jesus?"

The drunk replies, "No, I haven't found Jesus."

The preacher shocked at the answer, dunks him into the water again for a little longer. He again pulls him out of the water and asks again, "Have you found Jesus my brother?"

The drunk again answers, "No, I haven't found Jesus."

By this time the preacher is at his wits end and dunks the drunk in the water again --- but this time holds him down for about 30 seconds and when he begins kicking his arms and legs he pulls him up. The preacher again asks the drunk, "For the love of God have you found Jesus?"

The drunk wipes his eyes and catches his breath and says to the preacher, "Are you sure this is where he fell in?"

Feb. 25, 2005

In the "I Wish I Had Said That" Dept.:

Fathers are men who give daughters away, to other men who aren't nearly good enough, so that they can have children that are smarter than anybody's.

and then, in the "I Guess You Really Had to Be There" Dept:

Four ministers often had theological arguments amongst themselves, and three were always in accord against the fourth. One day, the odd pastor out, after the usual "3 to 1, majority rules" statement, decided to appeal to a higher authority.

"Oh, Lord!" he cried. "I know in my heart that I am right and they are wrong! Please give me a sign to prove it to them!"

It was a beautiful, sunny day but the moment the minister finished his prayer, a storm cloud moved across the sky above them. It rumbled once and dissolved. "A sign from God! See, I'm right, I knew it!"

But the other three disagreed, pointing out that storm clouds form on hot days.

So the pastor prayed again: "Oh, God, I need a bigger sign to show that I am right and they are wrong. So please, Lord, a bigger sign!"

This time four storm clouds appeared, rushed toward each other to form one big cloud, and a bolt of lightning came forth from the cloud and slammed into a tree on a nearby hill.

"I told you I was right!" cried the minister, but his friends insisted that nothing had happened that could not be explained by natural causes.

The Pastor was getting ready to ask for a *very big* sign, but just as he said, "Oh God...," the sky turned pitch black, the earth shook, and a deep, booming voice intoned, "YESSSS HEEEEEEEE'S RIIIIIIIGHT!"

The minister put his hands on his hips, turned to the other three, and said, "Well, there you have it?!"

"So what," shrugged one of the other pastors, "now it's 3 to 2."

Now that's news [so they say]!

Man bites dog.

David Todd is accused of sinking his teeth into the animal's head in a busy street in Edinburgh.

An eyewitness told Lothian and Borders Police the 34-year-old dragged the bitch across the road before biting its head and kicking its body.

Todd is facing charges of breach of the peace and animal cruelty for the alleged attack earlier this month close to Edinburgh's Meadowbank Retail Park.

The eight-year-old labrador/retriever cross was taken into protective care by police and handed over to the Guide Dogs for the Blind Association. -- Source.

A Big Bodacious Blessing from Buddha

[T]he truth is, blogs are very self-indulgent. - Jay

Well, ya'll remember when I accidentally turned all my tightey-whities into tightey-pinkies? If ya'll will recall, it was a certain set of red sweats that was the cause of that accidental dying of my dainties. Well, there has been another incident ... of a different sort.

It got a bit chilly today, after several lovely days in the upper 70s and mid 80s, so I decided to take a soak in a tub of hot water to warm my bones. I jumped out, dried off and ran into the bedroom for something to wear. Those red sweats were folded, laying on a chair and suited my bill perfectly. I donned the sweat set and felt all warm and toasty. I partially removed said sweats momentarily to take the requisite peekage at belly button so as to make this report and made a most disturbing discovery. No, not that the piercing holes had finally and fully closed, first, because that announcement is premature, and secondly, it is not the time in this show yet to report on the condition of my navel. My navel is just a small part of my epidermal surface. I must not have fully dried off when I dressed in these red sweats because, like the condition of my formerly white briefs, my skin has turned pink.

Anyway, the holes are almost closed, thankfully, and the bruise discoloration is disappearing day-by-day, thankfully. The navel is still a bit rebellious, but hopefully a few years in therapy will assist it in getting over whatever crisis set it off on the wrong track. Despite the holes not being closed, the big toe was given the prize, and being magnanimous, said winner invited everyone to a party to celebrate the victory. I heard there was enough toe cheese to go around for all. I was invited to attend, but just hanging around with a bunch of hangnails is not really my cup of tea. End of report.

A new meaning for calling cards

The deputy leader of the Westminister City Council recently expressed his concerns about London's new "Red Phone Booth" district:

Gee, I'm sorry I cut off the wrong arm!

[A] 1999 study in the Annals of Internal Medicine ... said the VA policy [apologizing for mistakes and offering compensation] "seems to be the rare solution that is both ethically correct and cost-effective." - source

Offensive jokes 101

Leaving no stone unturned?

• How do you get a sweet little 80-year-old lady to say the F word?
• Get another sweet little 80-year-old lady to yell *BINGO*!

There's more ... a whole lot more.

Intervention is sometimes necessarily on the Divine level

I probably do not hold Pope John Paul II in as high esteem as most, and especially as those of the Catholic faith would be expected to do, but still, it is sad to hear he is again having health problems.

Doctors treating Pope John Paul II are weighing whether to perform a tracheotomy to ease the ailing pontiff's breathing. - source

While I am sure the doctors have a good handle on the situation, is this not a case where the final say ought to be elsewhere? I mean, if blind faith in God is not the answer in this situation, is it ever?

[Addendum: Received via email:

The pope has had a tracheotomy, Vatican officials tell CNN.

Still no clue as to God's advice in the situation.]

Birds charged with FWI

Another social problem of increasing severity has come to light -- avian alcoholism. This disease is causing injuries, death, and family dysfunction in bird families across the nation.*

Recently, the first avian chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous (AAA) was formed in Columbia, South Carolina, after a shocking incident in which many drunken birds perished and others were treated for concussions after overindulging in fermented holly berries.

In other parts of the country, drunken birds have attacked people who passed by holly or pyracantha bushes where partying birds had become intoxicated.

Avian alcoholism has lead to dysfunctional bird families and bird homelessness.

*It is now suspected that the birds in the Hitchcock movie were fed fermented berries in preparation for their role. Animal activists are investigating.

Different strokes for different folks

In late winter, 88-year-old Edna McDonald dons a camouflage jacket over her teddy-bear embroidered shirt, grabs her purse and her rattlesnake tongs and heads out on the hunt. January and February are snake-hunting season for McDonald. It's been that way since she started handling the creatures as a babe like some Hill Country Hercules. -- Source

I lived in a town where they had a rattlesnake roundup for twenty-two years, but I never liked to look at the snakes, much less hunt them.

But snake-hunting does appeal to some. (Read Snakedance, one of Tig's original short stories.)

Deep in the cave, a half-dozen rattlesnakes were curled up, hibernating. With the giddiness of a tomboy and a wink or two at the onlookers, she slid a long sprayer into the den while Kuzenka pumped in gasoline from a two-gallon drum to tease them out. The chemical smell wafted through the dank air.

As the snakes, one by one, slithered out of the rock, she and Kuzenka, armed with long-handled tongs, grabbed them behind their heads, lightly enough not to snap their vertebrae. The rattlers started vibrating, and soon the snake bucket — a small, tightly meshed cage — was buzzing like a forest full of cicadas.

In two weeks she will deposit the snakes into a giant pit at the Oglesby Rattlesnake Roundup, a kind of sensational, old-style carnival where, among other daredevil stunts, one couple will climb into a sleeping bag with dozens of snakes. If McDonald's snakes are among the longest, or the shortest, or the heaviest, she will win a cash prize.

Eventually she will sell the snakes, at about $3.50 a pound, to a man who markets them as a delicacy to Dallas country clubs. McDonald has tried rattlesnake only once, and she was unimpressed: "It tastes like a cross between chicken and fish."

Roundups under fire
The practice of collecting snakes with gasoline and the roundups themselves, which also are found in Kansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, Alabama and Georgia, have been criticized by animal rights and environmentalist groups.

The Humane Society claims that the number of livestock deaths from rattlesnake bites is negligible, points out that rattlesnakes control rodent populations and describes the roundups as "cruel and ecologically damaging events" that "violate the most basic principles of wildlife management and humane living."

Investigators have witnessed the shutting of snakes' mouths with wire or fishing line so they could be used as props in photos.

At least a pair of roundups in Texas have closed in the past couple of years as the number of hunters has dwindled, said Chris Hamilton, a Dallas photojournalist who is working on a book about the fading culture of the Texas rattlesnake roundups.

"These little roundups were the identities of these towns," he said. "That was their spring festival that gave people a reason to have a parade or a dance."

McDonald simply says her work saves cattle and horses from debilitating bites.

"What we do is we try to do everything to help the rancher. They're the people who grow groceries, they grow our meat," said McDonald, who was "burning up" when she was told she needed a permit to sell the snakes last year.

The state requires any person possessing more than 25 rattlesnakes for commercial sale or trade to buy an $18 nongame permit.

"I don't know what's happened to our Texas," she said."After a while you'll need to have a permit to have sex."

Appearances can be deceiving

This is not a beautiful mountain range.

In the Eye of the Beholder #3

You've heard of Christo, but were you aware that the "anti-Christo" has now appeared?

No way to treat a lady

Said the Little Lady to the guys in the band, "We did not invite the 'wretched refuse of your teeming shore,' and we're suing!"

Owners of the Chicago's Little Lady tour boat are the latest to file a civil lawsuit against the Dave Matthews Band, claiming human waste from the rock band's tour bus was emptied from a downtown bridge into the Chicago River -- right in the path of the watercraft.

Children, senior citizens, persons with disabilities and a pregnant woman were drenched by the "foul-smelling, brownish-yellow liquid" in the Aug. 8 incident, according to a suit filed by the vessel's owner Wednesday in Cook County Circuit Court. Mercury Skyline Yacht Charters Inc. is seeking compensatory damages in excess of $50,000 and punitive damages in the amount of $5 million in four separate counts, allegations the illegal act of dumping the waste interfered with the vessel's business that day and beyond.

Blegging for bucks

I need ya'll's help. I lost my laptop. Without a rapid replacement, I can no longer keep ya'll properly entertained. It is a tragedy, I know, but I would not be here crying for your help if not for the fact that the loss occurred when my three billion dollar mansion burned to the ground, destroying all my belongings including all the cash I'd cached in that fire-proof safe so as to take care of minor emergencies exactly like this. All of the rest of my fortune is tied up in an off-shore slush fund called the Kristopher Kringle Kookie Kompany, doing business out of a freighter in the midst of the Indian Ocean flying under a Nigerian flag.

I was only able to post this by using a friend's free ipod to hack into Paris Hilton's cell phone and multimedia message this to my server hosted on the new satellite my dad's company launched into space just last week from our private estate on the dark side of Pitcairn Island.

OTBTJTB™

I'm late, I'm late for a very important ...

See what happens when your intrepid reporter lays down for a much needed nap at 5:00 p.m.? I'd even requested a wake-up call, which I did get, so as to arise for the Wednesday night showing of Smallville. I quickly weighed in on the effort it would take to recover the appropriate remote control, acclimate myself sufficiently to recognize which button would initiate the television, and to adjust my head so that I could see said TV over my Bozo feet and concluded that it would be far easier to forego a timely catching of this episode, rolled over, and went back to sleep. I awoke, roughly*, about a half hour ago, and, after a sufficient interval of relaxation while partially submerged in a tub of hot water, I felt I owed my loyal readership their treasured report.

Day five in the navel fiasco, and my appointed day to win the cache of toe cheese should the holes pierced through the skin of navel area of my Buddha belly be fully closed by the recently passed midnight. Such did not occur. A thorough examination of the area showed a smather of daylight to still be visible. Big toe takes the cheese. Drat. End of report.

P.S. It has been suggested that I offer the broken plastic sword swizzle stick that was the cause of the piercing up for auction on Ebay. I'll be contemplating all possible consequences to this action over the next several hours ... provided I don't fall back to sleep.

*meant in the most literal sense, since** I awoke with a severe muscle pain on the right side of my back.

**Back to back homonym usage was done purposefully.

Automobile-> Tires-> Gasoline-> Gastronome

It seems that the executives of Michelin were having a brainstorming session, and somehow associated the word "gastronome" with automotive products.

I remember when "recommended by Duncan Hines" was a coveted award to be displayed by restaurants, and I never had a problem understanding why.

But how did the Michelin Man get in the act?

(I heard that his cousin is the Pillsbury Dough Boy.)

Stranger things have made others millions

Here's my take on how to make a better ipod: add breasts.

Another "top ten" list

According to Kaplan Test Prep and Admissions, these are the "Top 10 Odd College Courses" being offered:

1. Philosophy and Star Trek
2. Daytime Serials: Family and Social Roles
3. The American Vacation
4. The Horror Film in Context
5. Comparative History of Organized Crime
6. The Road Movie
7. American Degenerates
8. The Art of Sin and the Sin of Art
9. Death and the Nineteenth Century
10. Art of Walking

Just think, if all of these courses were available in one university which offered a doctorate in Odd Studies, the candidate might produce a scary soap opera featuring characters from Star Trek who become involved with mobsters. In one episode, Dr. Spock and his girlfriend Bonnie Parker take a road trip, stopping off for a walking tour through a pornographic museum operated by degenerates. On the way back, they are attacked by giant armadillos as they travel through Texas.

So, where would you guess that these unusual courses are taught?

If you guessed California, you're wrong, even though Californians have the reputation of being different. In fact, to take advantage of all of these studies, one would have to travel to Washington, D.C., Wisconsin, Iowa, Maine, Massachusetts, New York, West Virginia, Rhode Island, Indiana, and Kentucky. None of these courses are taught in any state farther west than Iowa, nor are any two of these courses available in a single place. So now you have your bit of trivia for the day ...

And the Award for Supreme Idiocy goes to ...

I have mentioned my collection of all the Best Movie Oscar winners previously. All this month, except for one or two tokens toward Black History Month, Turner Classic Movies has been showcasing movies that were either nominated or won Oscars for this and that. This week, they are showcasing the ones nominated and/or won the award for Best Picture. I am only short 3 movies* of having all the winners, most on VHS, and few on DVD, and even fewer on both. Two of the movies I do not currently have in my collection were being shown on TMC, one tonight and one in about an hour. I checked the schedules, put them on my itinerary, and even went so far as to break out two brand new tapes so as to make the capture and put them into my collection.

The Best Years of Our Lives began tonight at 7:00 pm CW[hatever]T. I had the everything set up and ready to go, and, especially after listening to the intro where the movie was touted as the best movie ever made, considering the likes of Ben Hur, Gone With the Wind, and Casablanca, was eager to add this pearl to my library, and hit record. Two hours into this almost three hour movie I heard the VCR begin to rewind. Better luck, next try: The Lost Weekend, to be timer recorded at 2:30am Wednesday morning. Gandhi seems to be a hard one to catch, commercial-free or otherwise.

I discovered today that the dictionary does contain a $50.00 word for navel gazing: "sopilsistic."

The bruising is darker, but the navel seems to be coming out of its blue funk at abruptly, quite by accident mind you,* losing its plastic sword swizzle stick adornment. The holes have still not fully closed following the fourth day. Just me and my left big toe left in the pool. I have day five and the toe has day six. If no daylight is visible at midnight tomorrow night, the toe cheese is all mine, I tell ya, all mine. Mwuhahahahahaha! End of report.

*Of course, I'll be another one short when they announce this year's winner. I'll likely know which one won long after several of ya'll have reported the news in ya'll's blogs 'cause I am usually in bed long before that announcement is made.

Nyaaaaah! What's up, Doc?

In a move decried by millions of us who grew up watching the Bugs & Tweety/Roadrunner Hour as part of our Saturday morning cartoon fare, WB is revamping five of its popular characters, plus another not so popular character, for a new show set far into the future, 2772 to be exact.

So as to appease those traditionalists that love Bugs, Daffy, Taz, and the gang just as they have appeared since the 1930's, Buzz, Daf, Spaz, and the others are their distant relations. From what the Big Guy in Charge said on MSNBC, Buzz ain't gonna be your granddaddy's bunny. He is sleek and has a whole new attitude. Roadrunner's kin is called Roadster while his toonmate gets a most drastic moniker makeover and will be known simply as Slick.* The sixth member is called Lexi, and, for the life of me, I sure don't remember any characters of that ilk appearing in Merry Melodies or Looney Toons. I do suppose, however, they had to find a female character of some sort. The WB lineup is particularly masculine, what with Petunia Pig being the most famous femme-mem of the WB cast.

Some in the current fold are keeping a keen eye on the situation.

Spork: verbatim

*I'd somehow envision his being called Sky Captain in the World of Acme or something.

Stephen Barbee murdered Lisa & Jayden Underwood

It seems some idiot slept around on his wife, got the gal pregnant and when she threatened to tell his wife, he strangled both her and her 7-year-old son. How do I know this? Because he was duly arrested and thereafter confessed his transgressions to the police.

FORT WORTH -- The bodies of a missing seven-months pregnant woman and her 7-year-old son were found Tuesday morning off Farm Road 407 in Justin, just hours after police arrested a Fort Worth man charged with capital murder in their disappearance. - source [though you'll likely be forced to register just to "read all about it"]

OK, so the guy didn't want his wife to know he was an adulterer and escalates to murder. I bet he lied about it, as well, and likely coveted his neighbor's ass at some point. Yep, ladies, these are the kind of winners for which ya'll gals are doffing your dainties.

So, is Mr. Barbee gonna be the first to be charged under the new Federal law dealing with fetal murders, or do you think the fact that Texas is gung-ho about killing as many of its criminals as anywhere else in the world will be enough for them to skip their chance on this case?

OTBTJTB™

According to the experts

Finally, we know why people who act like idjits don't realize it. According to a recent article in the Journal of Personal and Social Psychology,

People tend to hold overly favorable views of their abilities in many social and intellectual domains. The authors suggest that this overestimation occurs, in part, because people who are unskilled in these domains suffer a dual burden: Not only do these people reach erroneous conclusions and make unfortunate choices, but their incompetence robs them of the metacognitive ability to realize it. - Source.

Or as Steve H. puts it,

The idea seems to be, if you're a gigantic dumbass, you're too much of a dumbass to know you're a dumbass. The fact that everyone calls you "dumbass" while you're growing up should be a clue, but you don't get it, because...you're a DUMBASS.

They actually have a term for the kind of intelligence it takes to realize you're an idiot. They call it "metacognition." - Source.

However, his post does not go into detail about the data collected to validate this study. The participants were asked to rate themselves in the areas of humor, grammar, and logic, with their results compared to those of experts. It is the experts' evaluation of the jokes used to evaluate the subjects' perception of humor that is the source of my consternation:

Expert ratings revealed that jokes ranged from the not so funny (e.g., "Question: What is big as a man, but weighs nothing? Answer: His shadow." Mean expert rating = 1.3) to the very funny (e.g., "If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is 'God is crying.' And if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is 'probably because of something you did.'" Mean expert rating = 9.6).

Cute, really cute.

Six in one hand, half a dozen in the other

There were six distinct individuals involved in this fiasco. Should any of them be held unaccountable for their actions? Feel free to chip in your thoughts about this situation in the comments.

Name for a dog

The news came yesterday:

Supermarket giant Winn-Dixie Stores Inc. (WIN), which has struggled to compete with Wal-Mart Supercenters and other grocery chains, said Tuesday it has filed for bankruptcy reorganization. Its shares tumbled. - Source.

Perhaps the dog should have been named Wal-Mart. Reviews for the movie are not too good:

Apparently, this movie is based upon a beloved children’s book, or least that’s what the ads keep stressing, but frankly, until this movie came along I’d never heard of it. I can only suggest, that if the book really is beloved, you’d be better off reading it than watching this "dull as watching the grass grow" movie version. - Source.

OK, so where's my magic wand?

My Inner Hero - Wizard!

There are many types of magic, but all require a sharp mind and a cool head. There is no puzzle I can't solve, no problem I can't think my way out of. When you feel confused or uncertain, you can always rely on me to untangle the knots and put everything back in order for you.

How about you? Click here to find your own inner hero.

George, but I forgot where I ran across this link. Oh well, take the test yourself, and if you forget you found the link here, don't worry. I am not getting anything for pushing you through the door.

Instapun-it

1. The quadruplets were always wandering off. It was a four-gone conclusion.
2. A bicycle can't stand on its own because it is two-tired.
3. Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
4. A grenade thrown into a kitchen in France would result in Linoleum Blownapart.
5. Show me a piano falling down a mineshaft and I'll show you A-flat minor.
6. He drove his expensive car into a tree and found out how the Mercedes bends.
7. When a clock is hungry it goes back four seconds.
8. Those who jump off a Paris bridge are in Seine.
9. What did the grape say when it got stepped on? Nothing - but it let out a little whine.
10. A boiled egg in the morning is hard to beat.

Please pardon this pathetic post. This pastime was prompted by the proclivity to procrastinate productivity. (In other words, I am long overdue for a vacation!)

Dissing the Oscars

"The awards don't really affect anybody's lives in the crowd. Meanwhile, the Nobel Peace Prize, there's no one there. Nobody cares what the scientists are wearing. 'What are you wearing Professor Allen?' 'Pants!'" - Comedian Chris Rock, who will be presenting the Academy Awards. - Source

He has a point. ...

Not hardly worth a handful of free electrons*

I played too long and stayed up late, the clock has just changed the date, I don't know what I can say, but to tell ya'll all it's another day. I know this post is naught but lame, and sadly I will bear the blame, but the time has come to get to bed, and let those dreams invade my head.

Ya'll remember in my last Blogging for Books submission where I claimed I never again wrote another poem ... I meant that to mean I was never ever again able to write a good poem. Pathetic poems, like that mess of moose poop above, continue to pop out of my head with no regularity of any kind.

A quick view of my navel shows the holes have still not closed. Bruising, likely a result of the actual act of piercing activity itself, is visible around its perimeter. It is not a pretty sight. End of report.

*and surely not worth a plug nickel.

Sexual harassment by a female gorilla

It seems that Koko, a female Gorilla in San Mateo, California, has been accused of sexual harassment by two female workers, who have filed a lawsuit against the Gorilla Foundation after being fired for failure to expose their breasts to her.

The suit, in any case, says that Patterson would interpret hand movements by Koko as a demand to see exposed human nipples. She warned Alperin and Keller that their employment with the foundation would suffer, the suit says, if they "did not indulge Koko's nipple fetish."

During at least three visits, the suit says, "Patterson communicated to Alperin that exposing one's breasts to Koko is a normal component to developing a personal bond with the gorilla." - Source.

Koko, on the other hand, also claims discrimination because of her preference for females.

Koko -- older sister of Kubi, who presided over the zoo's Gorilla World exhibit until he died last year -- now has a vocabulary of more than 1,000 words in American Sign Language, according to foundation claims that are much debated among scientists.

The subject of books, videos and documentary films, the hairy linguist participated in what was called the first interspecies chat on the Internet in 1998, attracting more than 8,000 AOL users.

San Francisco attorney Stephen Sommers, who is representing Alperin and Keller, has a transcript of that chat.

"There's a history with this nipple thing," he said, leafing through the transcript and pointing out the word "nipple" -- which he'd highlighted in pink -- each time it appeared.

Banana-Vision?

The four largest television networks in the United States, are NBC, CBS, ABC and Fox.

Quick, what's the fifth largest network?

According to Wal-Mart and to an agency that handles its ad sales, the TV operation captures some 130 million viewers every four weeks, making it the fifth-largest television network in the United States after NBC, CBS, ABC and Fox. - Source.

It seems that Wal-Mart TV has been nick-named Banana-Vision, supposedly because a large monitor is always installed above the bananas. However, it seems that with this distraction, shoppers are not being as picky about their bananas.

I don't think that banana dog would approve.

The New York Times article explains why Wal-Mart is spending so much on a TV network.

PEARLAND, Tex. - Here in the Houston suburbs, Banana-Vision has arrived. That's the industry nickname for the 42-inch high-definition L.C.D. monitor installed directly over a pyramid of bright yellow bananas in the produce section of the local Wal-Mart store.

This TV screen and others scattered through the store are part of the Wal-Mart TV Network, a Web network of in-store programming that the company started in 1998. These days it shows previews of soon-to-be-released movies, snippets of sports events and rock concerts, and corporate messages from the world of Wal-Mart, including some intended to improve its battered public image.

But the principal reason for Wal-Mart TV is to show a constant stream of consumer product ads purchased by companies like Kraft, Unilever, Hallmark and PepsiCo. And little wonder. According to Wal-Mart and to an agency that handles its ad sales, the TV operation captures some 130 million viewers every four weeks, making it the fifth-largest television network in the United States after NBC, CBS, ABC and Fox.

While other retailers have experimented with in-store television, Wal-Mart's network, which is available in almost all its 2,600 locations, is the most extensive. The company, eager to promote it, is upgrading its broadcasting plans and equipment.

"It's sort of a neat idea," said Beatrice White, a Houston resident who said she bought bananas every time she went to the store, but had just noticed the screen above them. "I just walked up here and I was looking at it. I think if you've got children with you, it would entertain them."

Armando Rivera, a Wal-Mart worker who was shopping after his shift, said the programs included sports from time to time, and "sometimes I'll stand and watch it for a while."

Late last year, the company hired Nielsen Media Research to evaluate its network (Nielsen does not regularly measure Wal-Mart TV viewers the way it does with the broadcast networks). The study found that shoppers watched Wal-Mart TV an average of seven minutes a store visit, 44 percent longer than in a similar study in 2002.

That growth has caught the eye of marketers that in the age of TiVo and proliferating cable channels are searching for other ways to send their messages to an increasingly hard-to-reach consumer.

According to Wal-Mart's rate card, advertisers pay $137,000 to $292,000 to show a single commercial for a four-week period, depending on the length of the ad and the number of stores where it is shown.

PepsiCo's Frito-Lay division has been bulking up on its ads in Wal-Mart for the last five years, said Haston Lewis, a vice president at Frito-Lay.

"From a marketing standpoint," Mr. Lewis said, "we want to be on the cutting edge of identifying and leveraging the most effective vehicles to capture consumers. The reality is unlike 40 or 50 years ago, more and more of your customers are shopping at Wal-Mart. So they have become a new medium to reach consumers."

As part of Wal-Mart's TV upgrade, some 600 of the 42-inch screens are to be installed by December and eventually every store will have them. The monitors they are replacing were one step removed from 1960's models, able to broadcast color but bolted high above shoppers' heads and easily overlooked.

And the company plans to tailor its broadcasts more specifically to areas of its stores - like electronics, produce or deli - and to individual stores, based on regional tastes and situations.

The placement of the wide, difficult-to-ignore screen at the store near Houston in the last few months represents one part of Wal-Mart's effort to capitalize on its captive audience. In the produce aisle, the TV screen gets shoppers' attention, thanks to its big size and lighted face, and from speakers installed on the ceiling, which create a kind of pathway of sound that can make even focused buyers turn toward its source.

Across the way in the delicatessen area is another screen, with different programming, and on the other side of the store, in electronics, is another.

The power of televised distraction is clear.

"A lot of them are picking up bananas and not even looking at them," said Dale Koehler, the store manager, referring to his customers. "They're looking at the TV."

The correct term might be "misogynist"

I have discussed this post* with several feminists with which I am acquainted and all quickly declined to indulge in the offered activity with the responsible blogger. In fact, since said author intimated that he could outwank any woman, a couple of my feminist friends suggested that he should try flying solo in his requested endeavor.

*I inferred that this was actually meant as humor. I suppose Skinmeister failed to study the life of Andy Kaufman sufficiently before initiating this stunt or maybe he just wants to be badly misunderstood.

Don't hate either me or the Great State of Texas

Today is February 21, 2005, officially President's Day, and also is the actual date Washington's Birthday ... and, despite this date being still in the midst of winter, the sun is brightly shining and the outside temperature is currently 77°F. If it was 77°C, I'd have had to turn on my A/C unit already. Of course, it looks like it ain't gonna be this way for the rest of the week. Ya might wanna keep your umbrella handy:

Who the heck is Hunter S. Thompson?

Other than being some guy dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, I am privy to very little other information. His name is familiar and I believe that he was a writer, but I have never read any of his books. Steve knows a lot more about the guy, but seems to have held him in something less than high opinion. Personally, I possess of no opinion of any kind. Imagine that!

You can't fix everything with a virtual hug or ecard

I was all set to blog about the bad start I was having to a beautiful day, weather-wise, where I found my problems were petty compared to the problems besetting our favorite dollar movie manager.

It's not the ending I would have preferred

Well, here it is the end of the weekend. I guess it is grammatically correct to use a double end within the same sentence. I, though, cannot be concerned with that. I am mired in a stress press. I bet you are wondering what the heck a stress press is, right? Well, let's just say it is being between a rock and a hard place, with both sides pushing toward each other and the pressure in your head is building up to the breaking point. Yeah, go ahead and throw Monday at me and then stand out of my way. Someone's liable to die before the sun sets tomorrow. Keep your dial set on the news channels.

Day two. Daylight still visible through holes in my navel. More toes out of the running. Toe cheese is still mine for the taking. Buddha belly is embarrassed over the whole fiasco and has petitioned for permission to evict my navel in response. I am unsure when this case goes to court, but you can bet I have vacation scheduled for that week. I'm planning on being out of town. End of report.

Feb. 20, 2005

Well, the last line of the last panel was the point of the strip and would have been been my comment about such, as well. I guess you'll have to read this one to figure out what I am not saying, but I wouldn't bother ... really. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight. Please have Berke Breathed get Zeebo and Pickles involved in this strip and give us something at which to laugh.

They say size really doesn't matter

I broke my favorite knick-knack. It was the cutest little ceramic Paddy Whack, ya know. I tossed it when I gave my dog a bone ... might be time now for this old man to go rolling home. What do ya expect, people? It's Saturday!

Navel observed. Still not a pretty sight. Toes betting holes would close on first day lose. Ha ha! Still betting on day five. I've got a year's supply of toe cheese riding on it. End of report.

Fischer finds George

[H]e found himself in the presence of another being -- an identical replica of himself. Yet for some reason, he knew this being to be God. He remained in this place for a number of days, before awaking again in his lab -- apparently with the formula solved. - Stupid Beautiful Lies

I am confused. Could this possibly on the up and up? Usually when I run across stories like this, I normally find a link to something at Weekly World News.

I'm still picking bits of shell outta my teeth

AAAiiiiieeeeeeee! I just got in from a charitable event in a neighboring town. It was a post-Mardi Gras Mardi Gras party, it seemed, although they weren't requiring anyone to do anything for beads. They just handed them out. Kinda takes all the fun outta of Mardi Gras when there ain't no tit-for-tat in exchange for those valuable strings of beads, ya know?

Anyway, the event featured some Zydeco band whose name has skipped my mind. It probably would not have done so had the band not skipped out the back door behind a giggling group of garishly-garbed gals just after I arrived. I suppose that whatever panky in which they were involved was already way too far over on the hanky side for them to abandon their activity anytime soon. Mostly, therefore, the party was without music.

The proffered repast was something called Cajun Boil. Now, you have to understand that I am a very squeamish eater ... having passed on both gumbo and jambalaya in past opportunities, suspicious of what kind of trash they throw into the pot. I had no sooner gotten myself seated than someone plopped a mash of shrimp, sausage, new potatoes, corn on the cob, and big red crawdads, or as they called 'em, crayfish, right down in front of me. No weapons -- eat with your hands.

Despite my nature, I sampled those crayfishies, not just once, but twice. I didn't suck their brains outta their heads like some I saw, but ate the entire meaty tail. It really wasn't all that bad, I guess. It didn't taste much like chicken, but, then, I don't like chicken. I choked it down without gagging, which for me is really saying something. I actually felt quite proud of myself.

Eating has always been what gives me the heebie-jeebies while watching Fear Factor. I just cannot imagine putting some of the stuff in my mouth that they eat on that show. However, I now suspect that I could choke down a half dozen crawdads for $50,000.00. Of course, on Fear Factor, the crawdads would probably still be alive and you'd feel their legs wiggling as they slid down your throat. Excuse me ... I need to see a man called Ralph.

Sorry ... thanks for waiting. So, my navel is still not speaking with me. I "accidentally" knocked a tin of Band-aid®s off a shelf in the bathroom which just happened to fall onto that plastic sword swizzle stick stuck through my navel and it snapped in half and fell to the floor. My toes have begun a pool to bet on how many days it takes for the holes to close up. I'm in for 5 days. I don't actually have a clue, but I made an educated guess. Now the scar will likely take years to fade away. End of report.

*Excellent poster for sale at TotallyNawlins.Com.

Win a FREE Ipod!!!!!!

The 133rd commenter* to this post in the next hour** wins a free ipod. The actual chances of anyone winning this prize are somewhere between nil and next to nil.

*One one entry per person*** within any ten minute span.

**The hour begins at the time identified below, Central Whatever Time.

***Persons are identified by email address used when commenting.

"My KFC franchise didn't come all that cheaply," he said.

Four brothers left home for college and, after graduation they were all successful professionals and prospered. Some years later, they chatted after having dinner together. They discussed the gifts they were able to give their elderly mother who lived far away in another city.

The first said "I had a big house built for Mama."

The second said "I had a hundred thousand dollar theater built in the house."

The third said "I had my Mercedes dealer deliver an SL600 to her".

The fourth said, "You know how Mama loved reading the Bible and you know she can't read anymore because she can't see very well. I met this preacher who told me about a parrot that can recite the entire Bible. It took twenty preachers 12 years to teach him. I had to pledge to contribute $100,000 a year for the next twenty years to the church, but it was worth it. Mama just has to name the chapter and verse and the parrot will recite it!"

The other brothers were impressed.

After the holidays, dutiful and diligent follower of Miss Manners that she was, Mama sent out her Thank You notes. She wrote:

Milton, the house you built is so huge. I live in only one room, but I have to clean the whole house. Thanks anyway.

Marvin, I am too old to travel. I stay home; I have my groceries delivered, so I never use the Mercedes. The thought was good. Thanks.

Michael, you gave me an expensive theater with Dolby sound, it could hold 50 people, but all my friends are dead, I've lost my hearing and I'm nearly blind. I'll never use it. Thank you for the gesture just the same.

Dearest Melvin, you were the only son to have the good sense to give a little thought to your gift. The chicken was delicious. Thank you.

Long-distance recollection

I never know why I seem to find myself going back to my childhood. I was just remembering the elations of my educational evolution. First it was graduating from big pencils and those wide tablets with the dotted center line to regular pencils and Big Chief® Tablets to ball point and five-hole notebook paper.

We were poor. We were so poor I was endlessly saddled with naught but a lowly two-hole notebook. Oh, how I envied those rich kids and their fancy three-hole notebooks. I thought they had reached the pinnacle of school-supply fame until I met the new kid -- that lovely blonde, blue-eyed lass with the perfect white teeth and dazzling smile. She had a five-hole notebook and plenty of reinforcements. I was in awe of this school-supply goddess. I think she was from Canada.

As the majority of my precious schoolwork clung to my notebook by only the merest slivers of remaining paper, I dropped to my knees and begged her for reinforcements. What I wouldn't give for three additional rings to bind those precious bits of supreme genius. Due to this inadequate security, I did lose much of my early work and what body of work it was. But for its disappearance, I mighta been a contender, I tell ya. I'd of gone all the way to the top. I coulda been the champ.

You could see it coming -- a mile away

I ran into this homosexual acquaintance of mine at the post office. He had a really glum look upon his face. Some bad news had come his way and, I'm telling you, he did not appear to be all that gay to me.*

*I warned ya, I really did.

Feb. 8, 2005 - Moona edition

Some reptilian cruelty jokes ...

Now that's a big'un!

Is this a snakedance, or what?

Now, if this is your idea of fun, you might just be a Redneck.

I didn't make the cut --- again

The finalists in Blogging for Books 8 have been announced and my entry is not included. Wah! Another rejection slip. This is beginning to become monotonous. Move over Rodney.

Feb. 18, 2005

My wife and I were browsing in a crafts store when I noticed a display of country-style musical instruments.

After looking over the flutes, dulcimers and recorders, I picked up a shiny, one-stringed instrument I took to be a mouth harp. I put it to my lips and, much to the amusement of other shoppers, twanged a few notes on it.

After watching from a distance, my wife came up and whispered in my ear, "I hate to tell you this, honey, but you're trying to play a cheese slicer."

I've been known to play a pretty mean cheese-slicer, myself, while my pal, Jim Bob, beats a mean tattoo on the spoons. Melba, his wife, produces sweet tones by blowing across the mouth of a jug. Over in the corner, Bubba twomps the beat on his washtub bass accompanied by Sister Sue's magical fingers rattling across the washboard.

[Graphic is reduced embroidery design found at COOKIES CREATIONS -- clicking on the graphic will open the page with the original source of such graphic.]

Wipe that silly smile off your face ...

Earlier today, I received a call from an old friend. Mike's in show business. I had not been in touch with him since I moved to this tiny burg from Dallas. It was very long call in which he said nothing. He never talks. He's a mime.

Chatting with Mike is a lot like how I feel when I am talking to my belly button. No matter what I have to say, it sits mute and says nothing. Mike, at least, can effect facial movements: smiles, raised eyebrows, and frowns. My navel simply sits stoically silent.

My navel, however, has returned. It is still skewered with that little pink plastic-sword drink stirrer. No explanations about its whereabouts over these past few days have been forthcoming. I am glad to have it back where it belongs and have not pressed the issue. Still, I find that I just can't bear to look upon it. It is quite a difficult task to navel gaze when ya can't stand the sight of your own belly button. End of report.

[Ed. note: The mime seen above is a graphic rendering I created from a photo found here. If you recognize yourself, thanks for providing the perfect face to compliment my report.]

You know you you're a Redneck if ...

That little thing about assumptions

Just a few moments ago, I was traveling back this way from someplace else, and a half a block from the turn I have to make from the major highway through the town, I put my right turn signal on. Thankfully, I was also slowing down, though, I was not traveling all that fast, as I had just made a right turn on the highway only a block or so. I suppose this was a piece of luck, as, just as I was passing the entrance to the post office, some lady pulled right out in front of me, less than 3 feet was left before I would slam right into her driver's door if I was not already driving at a slow speed with my foot right on my brake. I could not understand why in the world the lady would do something as stupid as that until I remembered that my right turn signal was on and that she probably assumed it meant I was going to turn into the same parking lot she was leaving. I am thankful that no collision occurred and no one was injured. Just think, if such had occurred, someone would have likely looked like an ass ... although I am pretty sure that it would have been neither you nor me.

Amazing Grace

Well,yesterday I lived up to one of the nicknames that I have acquired over the years -- Grace. As I was walking to my car after having my split ends trimmed by the local hair clipper, I tripped over one of those little curbs in the parking lot, bumming up my left elbow and knee, ruining my only good pair of brown pants, and further irritating my right wrist, which has lately had twinges of the returning carpel tunnel pain that I thought had gone away when I had surgery ten years ago. To add insult to injury, as I tried to catch myself with my right hand, which was clutching my keys, I hit the buttons which both popped up the trunk and set off the car alarm. Nothing like calling attention to my clumsiness.

It is amazing to me that I can wreck a car without having a scratch or a bruise, yet injure myself by merely walking through a parking lot. But this would not be first encounter with cement. In the fifth grade, I broke my arm when I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk while participating in a walking race. And about two years ago, I was walking through the parking lot of a nearby apartment complex trying to find my then-fifteen-year-old son, who should have been home long before, I tripped over a speed bump, falling on my chin. I honestly think I cracked it. And although no one saw me fall that time, when I went to work the next day, one of my vicious co-workers started a rumor that my son had beaten me up. When the boss heard the rumor, she called me into the office to find out if I needed the services of the State's EAP counselor. I don't know if she ever believed my story. But if you knew me, you would.

Do I really have to?

Wow, I ain't sure what came over me this day, but I just did not want to get out of bed. I did, though --- get out of bed. I just didn't want to do so. I just had stuff to do ... the stuff I get paid to do. Hey, I know it's a nasty job, but someone has to do it. I did do it, too, and I did it well. I then returned to this location and returned to bed. Ah, what a life! End of report.

Chocolate is bad good

"Oh, no! Is this the last piece of my Valentine chocolate?" I told myself that surely I had not already devoured nearly the entire package of candy that I received on Saturday -- Well, I did share one piece. And after all, I had not eaten any chocolate in a long time. A recovering chocoholic, I finally reasoned that if I ate the last piece and did not buy any to replace it, I would be all right. Really, I would.

As I was savoring every bite of that exquisitely smooth and scrumptious confection, I continued to surf the net for interesting material to include in my next post. It was then that I ran across a blog post entitled "What's a Chocoholic to Do?" Assuming that it was written by a fellow blogger who had also just finished off her last piece of Valentine chocolate, I began reading. It was not at all what I had expected.

It seems that the cocoa beans used to make the candy that I had just enjoyed might have been harvested by child slaves on the Ivory Coast of Africa.

Few realize that most of the cocoa beans that go into Nestle, Mars and Hershey candy bars come from Ivory Coast, where thousands of enslaved boys — some as young as 9 — work in the most squalid, brutal conditions imaginable.

According to one report, the child slaves of Ivory Coast "are whipped, beaten and broken like horses to harvest the almond-sized beans that are made into chocolate treats for more fortunate children in Europe and the United States."

From reading this post, it appeared that only if the "Fair Trade" label appears on a wrapper or box of chocolate can rest assured that its basic ingredient had not been gathered by these unfortunate, mistreated children.

Frantically, I dug through the trash, looking for any packaging that I might have thrown away. Surely this company, which has prided itself on making the finest chocolate in the USA since 1852, has not contributed to the propagation of child abuse.

Finding no label, I went to the company's website. But all I could find was the history of chocolate -- which was actually quite interesting -- and further descriptions of the luscious stuff that I had just consumed.

Ghirardelli Dark Chocolate’s rich, legendary signature taste is created by a precise blend of deep-roasted cocoa beans and hand-selected ingredients. Deep, dark and decadent, this redefines chocolate indulgence.

I then surfed on to the website of non-profit organization that grants companies the right to display the Fair Trade Label. Surprisingly, I found that Transfair USA (the official name of the organization) only began the process of certifying cocoa and chocolate in September 2002. In fact, these are the only brands of chocolate that have received the seal of approval from Transfair:

Nirvana Chocolates, Art Bars (Ithaca Fine Chocolates), Cocoa Camino, Coffee-Tea-Etc., Ltd., Dagoba Organic Chocolates, Divine Bars (Day Chocolate Company), Endangered Species Chocolate Company, E.B. Botanicals, Equal Exchange, Fair Trade Teas, Frontier Cooperative, Green & Black's (Maya Gold Bars), Green Mountain Coffee Roasters, Lake Champlain Chocolates, Nutraceutical Corporation (Fun Fresh Foods), Mont Blanc Gourmet, Omanhene Chocolate Co., Shaman Chocolates, Sojourn, Spruce Foods, Sweet Earth Organic Chocolates.

I have heard of none of these brands, and I have no knowledge of whether the brands that I do know have even applied for certification.

The site also informs potential licensees of the certification process and offers additional forms to order fair trade labels, as well as DVDs, brochures, and posters about fair trade. There are announcements for jobs and for volunteer opportunities, as well as solicitations for donations. Also, since this organization also puts their stamp of approval on coffee, tea, and fresh fruit, there are announcements about food fairs featuring organic fruits and vegetables.

I finally decided that the lack of a label on my chocolate was not conclusive evidence that I helping to perpetuate child slavery.

That really was good chocolate. I refuse to feel guilty about something that I cannot prove. Please don't tell me that I should be. I won't listen.

Britain's royal nightmare

In an article appropriately titled "Bride of Chucky,", the Fort Worth Star-Telegram suggested that Price Charles' attraction for Camilla Bowles might be "a Freudian thing."

Oedipal Rex: Charles' nanny fantasy

Charles and Mabel were meant to be.

Er, we mean, Charles and Camilla.

Sorry, sometimes it's hard to tell the two apart.

Who is Mabel? Charles' childhood nanny, Mabel Anderson, that's who, and the spittin' image of his bride-to-be. The resemblance is a little creepy, actually. But according to author Suzi Malin, it's a stellar example of prima copulist coupling.

In short: It's a Freudian thing.

Malin's book Love at First Sight describes prima copulism as a person's attraction to someone who resembles their first love, i.e. Mommy or Daddy, or, in Charles' case, the nanny who, for all practical purposes, raised him.

Malin's 2004 book is full of examples of celebrity couples who share the same facial proportions (harmonism), the same facial features (echoism) or a resemblance to the other's parent (e.g., Madonna's father is a grizzled, elderly version of Sean Penn. Honest.)

In Charles' case, his young nanny and Camilla share not only the same facial shape, but the droop of their upper eyelids, the line of their noses and upper lips, and the curve of their chins are remarkably similar, Malin shows.

Whereas Diana and Charles simply shared harmonism, Charles' attraction to Camilla apparently pervades his psyche -- and once again confirms that Oedipal complexes exist outside Shakespearean plays.

-- Liz Stevens

In the eye of the beholder #2

What do you call 7500 gates, each sixteen feet high, ranging in width from five feet six inches to eighteen feet, erected along twenty-three miles of footpaths? Why, a work of art, of course! In fact, according to one source, this is the largest artwork since the Sphinx.

All together, these gates contain 5,290 tons of steel, 1,089,882 square feet of saffron-covered fabric, and 315,491 feet of vinyl tubes; yet they will be taken down only sixteen days after six hundred workers set them in place. Why? Ask the artists, Christo and Jeanne-Claude:

Question: The Gates, like all of your work, is temporary and public. Why do you choose to create temporary public art?
Answer: The temporary quality of the projects is an aesthetic decision. Our works are temporary in order to endow the works of art with a feeling of urgency to be seen, and the love and tenderness brought by the fact that they will not last. Those feelings are usually reserved for other temporary things such as childhood and our own life. These are valued because we know that they will not last. We want to offer this feeling of love and tenderness to our works, as an added value (dimension) and as an additional aesthetic quality.

Here are the effects that the artists wish to create:

For those who will walk through The Gates, following the walkways, and staying away from the grass, The Gates will be a golden ceiling creating warm shadows. When seen from the buildings surrounding Central Park, The Gates will seem like a golden river appearing and disappearing through the bare branches of the trees and will highlight the shape of the footpaths.

The 16 day duration work of art, free to all, will be a long-to-be-remembered joyous experience for every New Yorker, as a democratic expression that Olmsted invoked when he conceived a “central” park. The luminous moving fabric will underline the organic design of the park, while the rectangular poles will be a reminder of the geometric grid pattern of the city blocks around the park. The Gates will harmonize with the beauty of Central Park. - Source.

Or, in the artist's words:

Question: What is the best vantage point for appreciating The Gates?
Answer: There is no particular special vantage point to experience and enjoy walking under The Gates, on 23 miles of walkways. The succession of 7,500 gates moving capriciously in the wind, projecting on one another at different levels, sometimes hiding the buildings around the park, will reveal the serpentine design of the walkways....

Before anyone questions, the project was funded by the artists themselves, not by the City of New York. By the way, you might also call them "wrappers." (I never did like rap music, either.)

The artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude were born in the same hour on the same day, June 13, 1935. Christo Vladimirov Javacheff was born in Gabrovo, Bulgaria, of a Bulgarian industrialist family. Jeanne-Claude Denat de Guillebon was born in Casablanca, Morocco, of a French military family. The couple first met in Paris in 1958, while Christo was working on Packages and Wrapped Objects. Source.

Lazily licking lava lamp lollipops

Did I ever tell ya'll about the time I stumbled and fell into some photo-developer in my dad's darkroom during my childhood? Yep, that was one horrible acid trip. Scarred me for life. Hardy, har, har! Sorry about pun-nishing you so badly with the chemical references, but was watching a show on George Washington Carver on the History Channel. I remember hearing many a seventh and eighth grade classmate report on the autobiography of this particular man. It and an equally short and simple autobiography on Young Mr. Penney were among the most popular books in our tiny country school library and were reported on each week by at least one of my classmates. However, a plethora of pathetic reports could not conceal the accomplishments of G.W. Carver. I have long been an avid admirer of his genius.

I also tripped once and was sure I'd broken a brickbat. I was almost sure that was what I was hearing. "You clumsy child. You done gone and broke my valuable brickbat." I looked at that little ceramic elephant laying on the floor and wondered how it could be a brickbat. I couldn't see banging many bricks out of the brickyard with that broken ceramic elephant. It was not until a few years later, when I was 4, that I finally understood that I had broken a bit of bric-a-brac. Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk! Got ya again.

OK, I know tonight's entry got a bit silly, but such is pretty much what blurfs out of the corners of my mind as I work to clear my mind as the day winds down. There usually seems to be a bit here and there that is a bit more worthwhile, but not this night. I tell ya, I just ain't myself lately. I am just not the same person with a piece missing. Buddha belly misses my navel. It is blind without its eye. End of report.

Caption this!*

Give it your best shot -- or two or three.

Winners will be named Saturday.

*I personally took the photo with my free ipod.**

**As if!

A philosophical discussion on bullsh*t

If you have been looking for a book about bullsh*t -- search no more* ...

Harry G. Frankfurt, 76, a moral philosopher of international reputation and a professor emeritus at Princeton has authored of a book recently published by the Princeton University Press which is entitled simply On Bullsh*t. This book is not intended to be bullsh*t, but rather a serious philosophical work with the purpose of defining the true nature of [bull]. Read the excerpt from the book in the extended entry to find out how bullsh*tting is different from lying.

Totally unrelated to the subject matter of Mr. Frankfort's current book, it would appear that he might make a very good blogger. The reason that I say this is that his reason for becoming interested in philosophy is not much different from what draws me to blogging:

"... I could never make up my mind what I was interested in, and philosophy enabled you to be interested in anything."

Disclaimer: This is not to say that all philosophers would make good bloggers [nor the converse], nor do I intend to imply that bloggers would be good bullsh*tters [nor the converse]. Certainly some of these statements might be true in certain instances, however, in some other circumstances, might lack the evidence to prove such. (My twenty-seven and a half years' experience in composing memorandums acceptable within a bureaucracy which was typified by the ponderous proliferation of paper for the purpose of providing justification for actions taken therein is perhaps evident at this point.)

What is [bull], after all? Mr. Frankfurt points out it is neither fish nor fowl. Those who produce it certainly aren't honest, but neither are they liars, given that the liar and the honest man are linked in their common, if not identical, regard for the truth.

"It is impossible for someone to lie unless he thinks he knows the truth," Mr. Frankfurt writes. "A person who lies is thereby responding to the truth, and he is to that extent respectful of it."

The bull artist, on the other hand, cares nothing for truth or falsehood. The only thing that matters to him is "getting away with what he says," Mr. Frankfurt writes. An advertiser or a politician or talk show host given to [bull] "does not reject the authority of the truth, as the liar does, and oppose himself to it," he writes. "He pays no attention to it at all."

And this makes him, Mr. Frankfurt says, potentially more harmful than any liar, because any culture and he means this culture rife with [bull] is one in danger of rejecting "the possibility of knowing how things truly are." It follows that any form of political argument or intellectual analysis or commercial appeal is only as legitimate, and true, as it is persuasive. There is no other court of appeal.

The reader is left to imagine a culture in which institutions, leaders, events, ethics feel improvised and lacking in substance. "All that is solid," as Marx once wrote, "melts into air."

*but in case you were not seeking the book, but rather the substance thereof, please note that there is a Bullsh*t Generator available for your use.

Something to make your body quake

The criminal trial might actually turn out to be the death of MJ before it really gets good and started. Judge said [paraphrasing here] "Get plenty of rest, drink lots of fluids, and we'll see ya back here in a week."

"What grammar school has put together ..."

I received another wedding invitation in the mail. I'll not attend, but could send along a gift. I don't know all that much about this particular couple, however. From what I do know, I'd say that the groom doesn't have the sense to come in out of the rain. As for the bride -- other than little boys --- I have no clue as to Madame Letourneau's likes.

No, truly, is this not just another example of how societal rules are ineffective in matters of the heart? Ain't it strange how, in the end, the oddest relationships always endure the test of time?

Fahrenheit Minus 320

Since Michael Moore failed to win an Oscar with his last movie, he is planning another movie starring Ted Williams, the Boston Red Sox Hall of Famer. Date of release will be at an undetermined time in the future.

The live-in customers at the Alcor Life Extension Foundation here reside in eight 10-foot-high steel tanks filled with liquid nitrogen. They are incapable of breathing, thinking, walking, riding a bike or scratching an itch. But don't refer to them as deceased.

They may be frozen at minus 320 degrees Fahrenheit and identified by prisonlike numbers. But to Alcor, the 67 bodies - in many cases, just severed heads - are patients who may live again if science can just figure out how to reanimate them.

Alcor's most renowned frozen parts - the head and trunk of the once-mighty Ted Williams , ... - are in one of the gigantic tanks. - Source

Alcor is a small nonprofit company built on the spectacular wager that it can rescue its patients from natural post-mortem deterioration until a distant time when cellular regeneration, nanotechnology, cloning or some other science can restart their lives, as if the diseases, heart attacks, old age, murders or accidents that concluded their first go-rounds had never happened ... [T]he company has only one full-service rival, the Cryonics Institute, outside Detroit, which has preserved 68 bodies, including the mother and two wives of its founder, Robert C. W. Ettinger, who is 86.

Monkeyin' around

Inspired by the Blogger Love Song,* this happy couple enjoyed a romantic VD.

*perhaps the only couple so inspired by this ditty

Oh Boy, is my face ever RED!

You don't come across a day like today all that often. I mean if you walked up to someone on any other day and said, "Happy VD!" they'd likely stare at ya like you had sprouted huge ears and a long face, and brayed for your supper. Today, it was fair game to associate VD with Valentine's Day. It was possible to find an appropriate card to convey the news. The Clap for Valentine's Day? I made an off-hand remark about the use of VD for today's holiday event and its use as an acronym for a gift that a lot of people might unexpectedly receive from the actual celebrations related to such holiday with a group of young adults. One certain coquette was quick to retort, "They're referred to as STDs, now, Grandpa." Cheeky little tart, what? And here I was all set to give her one of those little candy hearts that have the little sayings on them and she had to go and call me Grandpa. I had a retort for her, as well, but I remained a gentleman and kept my mouth shut. I do sometimes remember the lessons my momma taught me, oh, so many years ago.

Oh well, I did really want to say something special on this special day, but as usual, Nat has already, most eloquently, said exactly what was running through my mind:

So happy Valentine's Day, y'all! May all of your pornography remain undiscovered and all of your intercourse be of the non-felonious persuasion. - Pickle Juice

In other news, there is still no sign of my navel. Foul play is suspected. I wonder if this is what happened to Alfred Hitchcock? End of report.

Blogger Love Song

Oh, it's so nice to be with you
I love all the things you say and do

It's amazing how you can speak right to my heart
Without saying a word, you can light up the dark
Try as I may, I could never explain
What I hear when you don't say a thing

The smile on your face lets me know that you need me
There's a truth in your eyes saying you'll never leave me

I don't remember what day it was
I didn't notice what time it was
All I know is that I fell in love with you
And if all my dreams come true
I'll be spending time with you

Every day's a new day in love with you
With each day comes a new way of loving you

Every time I kiss your lips my mind starts to wander
And if all my dreams come true
I'll be spending time with you

Oh, I love you more today than yesterday
But not as much as tomorrow
I love you more today than yesterday
But, darling, not as much as tomorrow

I believe in you
You know the door to my very soul
You're the light in my deepest darkest hour
You're my saviour when I fall
And you may not think
I care for you
When you know down inside
That I really do

Touch me and I end up singing
Trouble seems to up and disappear
You touch me with the love you're bringing
I can't really lose when you're near
When you're near, my love

Sooner or later, love is gonna let ya
Sooner or later, love is gonna win

Its just a matter of time
Before you make up your mind
To give all that love that you've been hiding
Its just a question of when
I've told you time and again
I'll get all the love you've been denying

I'll be your dream, I'll be your wish, I'll be your fantasy

I'll be your hope, I'll be your love, be everything that you need

I love you more with every breath truly, madly, deeply, do
I want to stand with you on a mountain
I want to bathe with you in the sea
I want to lay like this forever
Until the sky falls down on me

I've tried so hard to convince myself
That this feeling just can't be right, and I'm tellin' you

It's too late to turn back now
I believe, I believe, I believe I'm fallin' in love

I think I love you
So what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of
A love there is no cure for

I told the witch doctor I was in love with you
I told the witch doctor you didn't love me too
And then the witch doctor, he told me what to do
He said that ....

Ooo eee, ooo ah ah ting tang
Walla walla, bing bang

Then the blogger says,

And I know that my song isn't saying anything new
Oh, but after the loving, I'm still in love with you.

... and then finally breaks into a chorus of "Woo-hoo, woo-hoo-hoo! Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo-hoo!"

Ya ask a stupid question ...

OK, so someone tell me ... just exactly what it is that a dead guy can do with 8 Grammys, again?

First grade is harder than in used to be

It seems that, in some jurisdictions, it is a violation of playground rules to give away a baggie filled with dirt. Rumor has it that swapping lunch is classified as a capital offense.

Finger pointing: Michael_the_ArchAngel

I don't believe a word of it ...

I've just returned following a dreaded trip to the local constabulary. Regretfully, I have had to file a Missing Navel Report. The rebellious incident reported last eve seems to be only the tip of the iceberg. My relationship with that little impression in the midst of my Buddha belly sank faster than the Titanic. It disappeared after I fell asleep last night and has not reappeared. I am very concerned for its well-being. Although mature in a chronological sense, my navel lacks the mental capacity to function on its own. I'll likely not sleep until it returns safe and sound. If you see a strange navel wandering around your neighborhood, would you please contact the local police? Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated. End of report.

Blogging for Books 8

The premise was stated:

Blogging for Books #8: Risk (Guest Author: Faulker Fox)
Risk is an inherent part of life. We take our lives in our hands each day just by getting out of bed. Risk is responsible for much of our pain in this world, but it's also the source of all of our pleasures.

For this Blogging for Books, write a blog entry (2,000 words or less, please) about a time when you took a risk in your life on someone or something - a new romance, a new career, a new home, etc. Were you successful beyond your wildest dreams - or did you crash and burn?

I pondered the given assignment, reflected upon the events of my life, and, upon due consideration, I chose the following glimpse into my life:

Murphy's Love, by Terence A. (Tiger) Russell

Almost everyone has suffered the anguish of inconsolable rejection after having bared their basest emotions in honest disclosure of their feelings to a beloved. Is there a more intense pain than that associated with a broken heart or is any other experience comparable to having one's offer of love merely refuted and swept away as so much unwanted jetsam upon the winds of ill fate? Consider, if you would, the following scenario of true love denied.

At the tender young age of 23, following my four-year stint in the US Army, I was just another penniless college student living off-campus in a sparsely furnished apartment. I ate very little and survived on meager rations: four-for-a-buck macaroni and cheese dinners and popcorn. I would likely have eaten a bit better if I were not also saddled, at the time, with a two-pack-a-day addiction to Camel Filters. The cigarette habit, which I eventually, only very recently, conquered, was acquired while I was in High School and perfected during my Army years. "Smoke ‘em if you've got ‘em." If you were in the Army between 1973 and 1977, you'll know what I mean.

Most of my popcorn supply was pilfered, clandestinely, from the huge bags that supplied the popper at my nearby convenience store. I had often, during those lean college years, supplemented my small monthly GI Bill stipend by clerking in that very same chain of convenience stores. Indispensable knowledge was gained via that employment which assisted in building easy bonds with other, similarly employed, people. Upon my arrival in the new neighborhood, I had quickly allied myself with the employees of the local store. Despite the steady employee turnover, the assorted crew members provided a steady supply of raw popcorn kernels, as well as allowed a bit of free range grazing, so-to-speak: popcorn served in a plain-brown-paper bag and fountain drinks in a reused cup.

There happened along this particular girl who caught my eye. Her name was Kate. Kate was far lovelier than any girl I had previously encountered. My mind, even to this day, lacks the competence to fully describe her beauty. On her every scheduled shift, where classes allowed, I would make several trips to the store for a chat, a bite of popcorn, a drink, or, sometimes, to actually purchase another pack of smokes. As our relationship had progressed over a period of weeks, I began to feel my heart beat as she glanced in my direction. Kate's eyes sparkled and I was dazzled. I easily fell head-over-heels-in-love with Kate.

Inside, however, as now, I am yet but a shy and insecure little boy. That part of me struggles to voice my innermost feelings. I remained resolute and mute in Kate's company, always the gentleman, as my mother had insisted. Sullenly, I would often amble back to my tiny space, flop down, and loll upon my unmade bed: a mattress tossed upon the floor. How could I, a guy who begged for food to eat, ever win the heart of my sweet Katie. My innards twisted into knots and my knees wobbled. Mentally, I was unsteady and unsure of what to do or say so as to profess my deep-felt love.

Eventually, I began to wrangle with my scattered thoughts, and, in attempting to find some order in that chaos, began to jot notes. I soon found myself compelled to write and I wrote words. I scratched those words out, and wrote other words in their place. At some point, I looked at the words and found that I had produced the following prayer:

O Wondrous One! Aid Me!
Minister to my needs.
I only seek to honor
That flower ‘mong the weeds
Whose goodness has brushed
This wicked heart of mine,
And caused my eyes to see
That Divine Plan of Thine
Which unites man with woman
And woman with a man,
To join their lives together
Through guidance of Your Hand.
O Wondrous One! Aid Me!
The words I cannot find
Which sincerely serve to paint
This queen of womankind.
The grace of Aphrodite,
The beautiful rainbow,
The sweetness of honey,
Or the purity of snow;
Each fails in its mission
To metaphorically portray
The virtues of this angel
Whose smile lights my day.
O Wondrous One! Aid Me!

I read and reread the prayer, allowing my conviction that I had produced something extraordinary to defeat my nagging self-doubt. I scribbled and scratched the words of my creation upon a clean sheet of paper. I repeated the process endlessly until the proper level penmanship perfection was attained. That perfect copy of my sentimental psalm was slipped into a highly valuable clean white envelope upon which had previously been meticulously penned: "Kate."The sealed envelope, I delivered it into the capable hands of the store's manager. He heartily agreed to present it to Kate upon her mid-afternoon arrival.

My gamble made, and no reply expected for several hours, I headed off to class. Tick-tock, tick-tock. My stomach endlessly churned. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Kate's shift had begun. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Surely she had read it by now. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I just finished my last class and can now go home. Should I now make a store run to get her reaction? I'll wait. It's rush hour and the store will be very busy right now. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Rush hour is over and I'm out of smokes. Now I had to get to the store.

I made that trip a bit more slowly than I had ever previously done and, as I ambled forth, my mind filled with possibilities. I soon arrived, however, and, as I entered, I saw Kate behind the counter, conversing with her co-worker and roommate, Jill. I liked Jill, as well, but not in the same way as I like Kate. I loved Kate, after all.

Kate walked over. "I got your poem," she said. "I really liked it."

"You did?" I beamed.

"Yes," she said, as she altered the tone of her voice, "but there's something you don't understand. Jilly is more than just my roommate."

I took the point to be that Jill, too, loved Kate and that Kate loved Jill, in return. Such revelation produced a heartache within me from which I have never fully recovered. I never again attempted to pen poetry nor do I now ever offer much in the way of prayer.

I did, however, marry twice to women who physically resembled Kate, although neither of those marriages endured. The first woman eventually drifted off along an entirely different path than myself while the second woman's path ended entirely too abruptly. Kate, along with Jill, I hope, lived happily ever after.

Feb. 13, 2005

Steve Dallas PSA: Never waste a Valentine's Day. At the very least, gift some candy underwear upon an attractive stranger.

Navels will be navels, they say

I tell you, I am at wit's end. I just don't know what to do with my navel. Here I went and spent a considerable amount of my hard earned money on some colorful new coverings so as to bedeck it in only the best finery one can buy in an outlet store and I find that while I had my back turned, my navel, without my permission, went and got itself pierced. I am unsure if I will be able to remain in the same house with my own navel any longer. Anyone with any advice as how to handle this situation? End of report.

I promised ya'll something special -- it's just late

Well, I did tell ya'll that I was going to post up another short story for ya'll's entertainment today. I am here to keep that promise and am sorry it is so late in the day. Hopefully, any of ya'll who want to know what I was doing all day instead of blogging will come around and read the Nightly Navel Gazin' Report™ a bit later. I ain't gonna promise you a rose garden or even a good story, but I might share what I was doing. However, this post is just here to introduce the following story. Enjoy! Oh, and before I forget, it you like this one and want more, if you have not yet read 2014 and Snakedance, feel free to do so.

The Ghost of the ‘Glades, by Terence A. (Tiger) Russell

I drank too much and stayed too late at the party. I had a long drive back to Tampa Bay from Ruth's house on Key Largo. I thankfully made it onto the mainland and to the cut off without encountering the State Police. I was just off of probation for my last charge of driving under the influence. I'd be all right if I could just make it onto the road through The Everglades. It was rarely used by anyone, especially so, after dark. There were few structures of any sort to be seen along that hundred or so mile stretch of road, and the few that were there were often unlit in the darkness. It was a dark, desolate, and spooky stretch of two-lane road through swamps and bogs filled with ‘gators, pumas, and God only knew what else. I worked hard to convince myself that I would be able to keep the car on the road along the entire stretch of road and was pleased when I finally reached the turn without incident. Home free, for I would have sobered sufficiently by the time I reached the other end of the route. I was sure. This was not my first time to trek home along this route following a late night of drinking and partying at Ruth's house on Key Largo.

The lights of civilization fall away quickly as you enter into The Everglades at night, partly because they end so abruptly, but partially because of the great swarms of insects that fly out of the ‘Glades to endlessly encircle them through the night. These very same insects were beginning to regularly splat onto my windshield. I mused about becoming wealthy by opening a car wash at either end of this long stretch of bug-filled highway, but remembered that it was seldom traveled and such fact alone was likely the reason someone else had not already gotten rich by doing so. I caught sight of something moving to my left in the dark, just a tiny bit of something moving quickly through the blackness lining both sides of the road. It had been just a fleeting glimpse - caught with my peripheral vision. I jerked my head to get a better look, but saw nothing. It was either nothing to worry about or nothing. I quickly dismissed it. I was still a bit drunk.

The headlights cut through the massive swarms of bugs that flew directly into their glow and illuminated the barren road ahead. There was naught to see but the press of roadside vegetation, the pale gray ribbon of asphalt, and the zillions of kamikaze bugs smashing headlong onto the grill of my 1993 Ford Taurus. It had a few miles on it but it ran well and the stereo worked. The soft mellow voice of Nat King Cole was singing to me through the surrounding speakers. I could feel myself nodding off and was coaxing myself to keep my eyes open when, through my bleary vision, I spied something, at the very limits of my headlight beams, move quickly across the road. I jerked my eyes wide open but it was gone. It had been large, like a man, but very pale. I slowed and searched the surrounding area. I craned my neck around to look at both sides of the road and to the rear but could see nothing. I again dismissed this vision as having been a likely figment of my drunken imagination, pressed the gas pedal, and proceeded forward through the sea of bugs.

At least the haunting vision of the pale man running across the roadway awakened me. I was now completely alert. I swerved onto the road edge just a bit to keep from hitting a large turtle crossing the road, but my right front tire kicked something up. It banged and clattered under the car to a moment or two. I looked back but the darkness quickly swallowed the dim red glow from my tail lights. I was unable to see either the turtle or whatever it was that I hit. I turned off the stereo to listen to the sounds the car was making as it sped along its way, but could hear nothing peculiar. I thought I smelled gasoline though and my eyes instantly darted toward the gas gauge. I had filled the tank prior to the party and had left Key Largo with a full tank. The gauge showed it to still be three quarters full. The odor of gasoline had dissipated and I concluded, logically, that I had struck a discarded gas can along the road's side. My head was starting to shake off the effects of the rum-laced punch I had downed at the party. I knew this because the dull pain in my brain was painfully announcing the fact.

I was now fully alert and staring straight out at the road ahead when a pale manlike apparition again darted out of the darkness and into the headlight beams. I stomped on the brakes and jerked the wheel to the right, attempting to keep the Taurus' grill from coming into contact with the gaunt figure framed in my headlight beams. As my auto veered, I tried to watch the movements and location of the pale gaunt creature, but, as the car turned, the headlamps no longer illuminated the pale figure. It again disappeared into the darkness. The car came to a stop with the front right tire having ended up well off of the road. The car, however, was stable and I was sure I had not driven into the swamp.

My second thought was to locate any sign of the gaunt pale man and I peered around in an attempt to do so. I pondered exiting my vehicle to make a very thorough search of the surrounding area, but my fear of encountering a ‘gator in the dark, combined with the lack of any sign of a collision with anything, swayed my resolve to remain safely within my car. I shifted into reverse and pressed slowly down upon the gas pedal to back gingerly onto the roadway. I had turned my head to look back over my shoulder when I heard something scratch along the top of the car. I immediately stomped the brake causing the car to immediately stop and something tumbled from the roof of the car, off the hood, onto the pavement and off into the darkness before I could turn back to the front to see what it was. I could see was that I was now fully back onto the roadway and I shifted into overdrive and punched down hard onto the gas pedal. I left whatever it was way behind me as I gunned the Taurus up over 100 mph. I was now scared, fully alert, and wanting, right now, to be at the other end of this road.

I watched out each side as I sped onward through the stark darkness, seeing nothing in that darkness except the rare set of shining eyes. I recalled the eyes of the pale creature being dark and lifeless, even as the headlights of my Taurus had shone directly onto them. My brain assumed that the shining eyes were the expected ‘gators, pumas and God knows what else, except, of course, the what else could not contain one pale manlike apparition with the dull black lifeless eyes. I was mindful, however, that maybe God did only know what it had been that I had seen.

I sniffed gasoline again and my eyes darted toward my gas gauge. I only had a third of a tank left and according to my odometer, I was only about half the way to the only station for 50 miles in any direction. I was sure now that I was leaking gas, and making it to that next station would be a close call. Now six or seven miles beyond the point of my last encounter with the pale apparitions, I slowed down, to hopefully assist in gasoline conservation.

I had now sighted a pale creature on three different occasions. I wondered if there had been three such creatures along my route, or whether there was only one that was somehow keeping pace with my speeding Ford. A chill ran the length of my spine when I reached the conclusion that the latter was the only possible choice and I heartily longed for any signs of civilization. I hunched low over the wheel -- staring blindly ahead through the continual sea of insects that filled the forward thrusting beams, as a myriad of swirling visages of unknown denizens of the darkness filled my mind. I turned off the stereo. I wanted to add my ears to the search of signs of my impending doom. A distant fierce scream cut through the night, its source unknown. My mind raced, searching for any natural cause of such a shrill, piercing scream.

I began to think back on my several previous trips along this same path. I had never taken the time to stop and explore the surroundings on either side of the road and had not a single idea what existed out there in the ‘Glades. On occasion, I had thought of taking one of the air boat rides offered at the now unseen roadside stands. There was never an appropriate opportunity to do so. I now regretted that lack of knowledge as I eyed the gas gauge crawling closer to the "E." I would very soon possibly be afoot or stranded, sitting alone in the darkness inside a powerless automobile. The apparition stepped onto the oncoming lane just as I passed and I assumed it wanted to make me aware that it was still there. I chose to ignore it and sped onward with all due haste toward civilization. Although still a few miles ahead, I was now able to make out the glow of the mercury vapor lamps that surrounded the crossroads gas station.

The Taurus began to show the first signs of running out of fuel as it coughed and hiccuped, then caught again. I hoped it would hold out until I reached the station, and tightly crossed my fingers in an effort in ensure its occurrence. It was not long, however, before the Ford began to violently chug, shake, shimmy, and then died. Quickly, I shifted it into neutral so the car could coast. It coasted forward one hundred feet further before coming to a rest in the middle of the road. The lights from the gas station were still a distant glow on the horizon.

Silently, I sat in the car for an immeasurable amount of time, peering about me through the windows and in the mirrors seeking any sign of movement in the darkness. I turned off the headlamps, but left the park lights on surrounding the car with the soft amber glow to the fore and the soft red glow to the aft. I did not want leave the Taurus, but, sitting idly in its midst, I could determine that nothing would be accomplished by my remaining stolid. I opened the driver's door only a crack and heard the chirps, whirs and buzzing of the surrounding insects, but little else. I gingerly placed one foot upon the ground, observed no movements, before I opened the door completely and swung my other leg around.

I sat sideways in the door opening and peered into the darkness while my ears sought to detect any unusual sounds. Sensing no immediate danger, I pulled myself to my feet, stepped from behind the door and slammed it shut. As it closed, I heard the doors automatically lock and patted my pockets. I had just locked my keys inside the car. All of my identification, credit cards, and money were also locked inside as I had removed my wallet, and locked it in the glove box, before heading into the party. I had gotten my pocket picked when I was 12 and that episode had forever changed me. The result of that change had just caused me to be locked out of my car without the necessities of life.

I slapped myself on the head in disgust at my oversight and began to trek toward the dim light on the horizon. Still afraid of the unknown that existed on either side of the narrow roadway, I walked briskly along the striped center of the dimly lit roadway. A cloud of biting insects engulfed me, and I continually waved of my arms as I continued on my quest to reach civilization safely.
That piercing scream once again cut through the blackness of the night and I felt my bladder loosen in an attempt to involuntarily empty. I suppressed that urge, however and when the screaming soon subsided I was able to relieve my bladder pressure voluntarily. Intermixed with the sound of water splattering onto solid asphalt, sounds of movement were heard within the vegetation along the left side of the roadway. Not quite completely zipped up, my feet began to move more quickly and propelled me briskly onward.

The sounds increased and came now from both sides of the road. I could see nothing, but that fact did not make me feel any more secure. I sprinted forward, breathlessly, racing toward the station. Light from its mercury vapor lamps illuminated portions of the roadway a mere quarter mile ahead and I darted for the safety of those bright lights. I could sense someone or something was close on my heels, but I refused to turn back to see who or what it was. I urged my legs to move faster and faster, longing for the security of the light.

As I moved ever closer to the area bathed by those mercury vapor lights, I again heard that blood curdling scream tear again through the air. It did not come, as expected, from the ‘Glades, but from the area around the store. I quickly closed the distance and had the front door when I saw what looked to be three people, dressed all in black, attempting to drag a young lady in a blue smock out of the door of the convenience store. The young lady, with both hands, gripped the long metal handle of the glass entry door and was refusing to loosen her grasp, despite being stretched as two of the black clad persons pulled hard upon her legs. The third, likely a female, was banging on the other young woman's hands in an attempt to break her grip.

"Stop that!" I yelled, forgetting all about the thing that was pursuing me. I instantly recognized black clad persons as likely members of a Satanic cult reported to be terrorizing the Orlando area. I assumed they had changed locations and I had been lucky enough to walk in on them as they were trying to abduct the store clerk to be the guest of honor at their next ritualistic sacrifice.

My appearance and shout alarmed the group and they ceased their efforts toward the young lady. They turned their attentions to myself and I watched the blue smocked store clerk retreat back into the store and twisted the door lock. The Satanists now appeared intent to make me their next intended sacrifice.

I was at a loss for a plan. I was unarmed, was without shelter, and my only means of escape was to run back the way I had come. The young clerk inside the store was on the telephone and I assumed she was calling for the police. Hopefully, I could hold off the Satanic trio until the police arrived. I stopped, effected a defensive position and awaited the arrival of the charging group.

When the group reached a point about twenty feet from where I stood, they stopped before quickly spinning on their heels and darting toward the safety of their black van. They never made it. The white apparition that had stalked me throughout this night darted past and fell upon each of the trio, in turn, in quick succession. It sucked all life from their bodies and they limply, as rag dolls, fell onto the tarmac. When the third had been dropped, the pale manlike apparition disappeared again into the blackness.

My uneasiness dissipated and a sense of sereneness encircled me as I began to walk toward the store. The clerk watched my approach and moved to unlock the door. As I neared, she opened the door and asked, "What was that?"

I shrugged and said, "Strangely enough, I suspect that it could only have been my guardian angel."

Take the high road or low road but take your time

Have you ever heard it stated that you ought to experience everything, at least, once in your life? I suppose that most, like I, attempted a lot of idiotic, self-indulgent, and experimental activities during our youthful years of growth and maturity. You remember the times when boys were boys and girls were girls -- but both were unsure of what that really meant? Temptations and vices of all sorts reached out their enticing arms to swallow us up and, in those times when adult attentions were directed elsewhere, we indulged, ever cautiously, upon those shallow waters of delusional decadence. Still, given the myriad of skeletons that exist in our respective closets, there is not one walking among us who has done every possible thing there is to do. My navel suggests that you hold off on committing suicide until a few short minutes before your natural death. End of report.

A Good Samaritan story?

An elderly waitress in a Florida bar was helping a patron to the door, as the bar was closing. The man smiled, poured the beer on her face, then smashed the beer bottle over her head. He then proceeded to kick her when she fell to the ground. At the hospital, doctors noticed a brain tumor that would have killed her had it not been detected because she was being treated for her injuries from the attack.

The moral of this story is that it’s ok to smash bottles over people’s heads when you believe they may have an undetected tumor. I’ve done it twice since reading the story. I expect no thanks. The joy I get from helping people live happy, healthy, disease free lives, is the only thanks I need. - Jesse Gersten

Hey, I know of a couple of people that I suspect have undetected brains tumors, as well. I ain't gonna name any names herein, but for those of ya'll that know me, if you are commenting regularly, I assure you that you can feel safe around me when I'm clutching a longneck bottle. ;)

A change in the tide of SPAM

Well, seems I am getting fewer and fewer of those enhancement ads and the erector set assistant pills ... and now I am getting a rash of ads for that jackrabbit device. I am starting to understand how some of ya'll ladies were feeling in the last wave. I don't have no use for the product, but every other email I get is trying to push me to buy one. I ain't ever even watched Sex in the City. I once lived in the city and I wasn't getting any sex. I, therefore, believe it that is a completely fictional program with no basis in fact. People in cities do not actually have sex. They just claim they do. People in the country have lots of sex, but mostly it involves animals. Thankfully, the animals are very very discrete.

[ADDENDUM:

So, who wants to show me the ropes? ;)

found: somewhere.]

OTBTJTB™

*The multiple choice options in this quiz were seriously pathetic. A case of sporks to the first of you who can correctly name my particular fetish.

Feb. 11, 2005 - Moona Edition

A woman decides to have a facelift for her birthday. She spends $5000 and feels pretty good about the results.

On her way home, she stops at a newsstand to buy a newspaper. Before leaving she says to the clerk, "I hope you don't mind my asking, but how old do you think I am?"

"About 32," is the reply.

"I'm exactly 47," the woman says happily.

A little while later she goes into McDonald's and asks the counter girl the very same question. She replies, "I guess about 29."

"Nope, I'm 47."

Now, she's feeling really good about herself. She stops in a drug store on her way down the street. She goes up to the counter to get some mints and asks the clerk the burning question.

The clerk responds, "Oh, I'd say 30."

Again she proudly responds, "I am 47, but, thank you."

While waiting for the bus to go home, she asks an old man the same question.

He replies, "Lady, I'm 78 and my eye sight is going. Although, when I was young, there was a sure way to tell how old a woman was. It sounds very forward, but it requires you to let me put my hands under your bra. Then I can tell you exactly how old you are."

They wait in silence on the empty street until curiosity gets the best of her. She finally blurts out, "What the heck, go ahead." He slips both of his hands under her blouse and under her bra and begins to feel around very slowly and carefully.

After a couple of minutes of this, she says, "Okay, okay,...how old am I?"

He completes one last squeeze of her breasts, removes his hands, and says, "Madam, you are 47."

Stunned and amazed, the woman says, "That was incredible, how could you tell?"

He replies, "I was behind you in line at McDonald's

I am hopeful ya'll are looking forward to tomorrow

I have previously posted a couple of my short stories here for your review: 2014 and Snakedance. It appears that the recent little ditty I penned in hopes of getting published in an upstart Internet Suspense E-Mag was not accepted for the first edition as I had hoped. As I have not heard back at all from the publisher, I will give ya'll all a look at it tomorrow.

Feb. 11, 2005

Vacationing in Alaska, I couldn't help but notice all the warnings about bears posted in campgrounds, visitors' centers and rest areas advising people not to feed the bears, how to avoid bears, what to do if a bear sees you, what to do if a bear attacks, and so on.

My favorite, however, was a hand-lettered sign on the door of a small gas station in a remote area. It said: "Warning! If you are being chased by a bear, don't come in here!"

And for Ozguru and the rest of the denizens of Australia, I put another in the extended entry.

Some years ago an Englishman on a plane to Australia was handed one of these immigration / visitation cards to fill out.

After the standard questions, like name, nationality, passport number, etc., he got to a question that asked, "Have you ever been imprisoned?"

He pondered it for a minute, then wrote down, "I didn't realize this was still a requirement."

The terrorists attack mounted atop spotted horses

Well, now that I have wired the house with wireless Internet, I can address the audience from every seat within my home. Even now, when I am perched upon that special seat in the warmest room of my house, I have my trusty laptop upon the top my lap and am tapping the top of its keys with my stubby fingers. Of course, I did not place myself in this position solely to escape from the cold, although such has turned out to be a pleasant side benefit. The reasoning behind my current location stems from a very nasty local gas attack. Until more is known about the incident, this room appeared to be a most appropriate refuge to await the final outcome. I have been informed that a gang of pintos is believed to have been involved.

Although my navel was exposed to the noxious fumes, it appears to have suffered no ill effects. The same cannot be said for my nasal membranes. End of report.

Get the straight jacket

What's worse than an earworm? How about seeing a sign and suddenly feeling compelled to sing at the top of your lungs: "Woo-hoo, woo-hoo-hoo! Woo-hoo, woo-hoo-hoo! Woo-hoo, woo-hoo-hoo! Woo-hoo, woo-hoo-hoo!" It happened to me--right in the middle of a huge computer and electronics store! At the sight of a Vonage sign, I could not help myself. First quietly, then louder and louder I sang the refrain that rang in my head. I tried walking away from the sign (hopefully, out of sight, out of mind), but it did not work. However, I soon felt the presence of someone behind me.

Fearing that it was a man in a white coat, I continued walking, only to hear others behind me joining in the chorus. When I turned around, I saw that I was leading a whole line of people who, like me, could not control themselves.

I was finally rescued by Tig, who patiently ushered me out of the store. Unfortunately for the others, we saw the men in the little white coats entering the store as we were leaving.

Trivia of the day: The Woo Hoo song is on the sound track of Kill Bill, Volume I.

Big news afloat on the other side of The Big Pond

Prince Chuckie of Wales has finally decided to lawfully formalize his relationship with Camilla Bowles. Royal watchers are likely aware that Chuckie has been sniffing up Camilla's skirt for years and years. Although the linked story paints a lighter back story, it is actually believed that Chuck was carrying on an affair with this very same wretched skank prior to his storybook wedding to Princess Di and that his continued behind-closed-door dalliances with the other woman eventually doomed that very same marriage. The news report* states that everyone from H.R.H. Elizabeth II to P.M. Tony Blair are ecstatic over the news. It is believed that most subjects of the royal family are hopeful the reigning Queen survives her son so that Prince William becomes the next Queen.

*I originally heard this story on the radio. The above link to the Yahoo rendition of the AP story was harvested from OTB.

Anyone have the name of a good well digger?

I don't know if it is the result of the very long day I had today or what, but when I finally found time to dip my bucket into my cranial well of creativity, it came back full of zilch. I was unable to find a single drop of inanity, not a film of snarkiness, nor a shred of hilarity. Momma always said there would be days like this. I do suppose it is fair game to mention my momma* in this report, as, if my recollections are correct, she once had a pretty strong personal link with my navel. End of report.

Alas, it seems there may be another barrister in the blogosphere with a penchant for navel gazing.

*I'm still missing her, as well.

The "eyes" have it

OK, so I'm late. It doesn't mean anything other than I was busy amusing my navel's muse. She's actually imaginary, imagine that! An imaginary muse, how amusing. Moona thinks a gaffe of hers is the reason the report is untimely, but the fault lies upon an imaginary creature who failed to appear. No, it is not my navel's muse but a nasty creature from my anxiety closet which challenged me to a midnight duel and then failed to show, as agreed. I had to shoot its second. That role, however, was being played by my big toe. I suppose it is a good thing I am a lousy shot. Truthfully, I had better pull the plug on this production because it seems to be going somewhere, and I am afraid to discover its eventual destination. My navel is busily ogling its muse, and how it can ogle without any eyes is beyond me. End of report.

In the eye of the beholder

Marcel Duchamp's Fountain came top of a poll of 500 art experts in the run-up to this year's Turner Prize which takes place on Monday.

Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon (1907) was second,

with Andy Warhol's Marilyn Diptych from 1962 coming third.

Duchcamp shocked the art establishment when he took the urinal, signed it and put it on display in 1917.

"The choice of Duchamp's Fountain as the most influential work of modern art ahead of works by Picasso and Matisse comes as a bit of a shock," said art expert Simon Wilson.

"But it reflects the dynamic nature of art today and the idea that the creative process that goes into a work of art is the most important thing - the work itself can be made of anything and can take any form."

Duchamp has influenced many contemporary artists, including Tracey Emin - her unmade bed was inspired by the French artist. - Source.

Some of the artists who participated in the poll have demanded a recount.

"Duchamp was a terrorist and so was Hitler." This alarming statement was made by the well-known art critic Donald Kuspit, who apparently misunderstood the intent and meaning of Zugzwang, a provocative installation by the German artist Rudolf Herz that consisted of a gallery whose walls were covered from floor to ceiling with black-and-white photographic portraits of Duchamp and Hitler.

Kuspit's Freudian readings of Duchamp are, at best, misguided, and at worst, ignorant. They are, in part, based on his acceptance of a false premise: that Duchamp could not paint as well as Matisse, and, therefore, simply gave up trying. "I think the readymade was born of Duchamp's awareness of his inadequacy as an artist," Kuspit asserts, "his way of covering up his lack of imagination." In dismissing the significance of his readymades, Duchamp avoided the inevitable issue of their artistic status and esthetic content, something which he claimed they did not possess (they were selected with what he called "esthetic indifference"). Engaging in a discussion about these works would only cause Duchamp to appear as though he were defending them, and he was intelligent enough to know that this was not his job. As Leo Steinberg once put it, "If you want the truth about a work of art, be sure always to get your data from the horse's mouth, bearing in mind that the artist is the one selling the horse."
...

In dismissing the significance of his readymades, Duchamp avoided the inevitable issue of their artistic status and esthetic content, something which he claimed they did not possess (they were selected with what he called "esthetic indifference"). Engaging in a discussion about these works would only cause Duchamp to appear as though he were defending them, and he was intelligent enough to know that this was not his job. As Leo Steinberg once put it, "If you want the truth about a work of art, be sure always to get your data from the horse's mouth, bearing in mind that the artist is the one selling the horse." (8)

Duchamp was not, of course, selling his readymades, but he was certainly in support of the ideas that brought them into existence. A more effective argument would come later, by people like me who wholeheartedly support the work and the conceptual strategies that brought it into being. I suppose, according to paranoiacs like Kuspit, who cannot find a sufficient explanation for Duchamp's success, we are simply working on behalf of a worldwide intellectual conspiracy. Source.

Have you been feeling antsy lately?

Ants have four Prime Directives:

• Look for Food
• If you come across green pheromone, follow it to the food ... otherwise, just wander around randomly
• Pick Food Up
• If you come across food, pick it up and turn around
• Bring Food Home
• Follow the pheromones home, dropping more pheromones as you go to reinforce the trail
• Drop Food Off
• Once you're home, drop the food off and turn around to get more

Out of those directives, some very interesting behaviour emerges:

• Ants quickly find the closest food sources, and work together to consume it
• Random scouts luck across food sources even though they are very far away
• The ants focus on the closest food sources, consuming them until they are all gone

That sounds pretty bloggy! Once you translate some of the terms involved (ants = bloggers, food sources = articles/blog posts), it's not hard to reconfigure the ant rules into Blogging Directives:

• Look for News
• If you come across a link to a news story, follow it to the article/blog post... otherwise, just surf the web randomly
• Read News
• If you come across a news story, read it
• Blog News
• Blog the link, making sure to link to the blog where you first saw the link (attribution link = pheromone!)
• Drop News Off
• Once you're done, turn around to get more links on the same subject

The results are very similar:

• Bloggers quickly find the most interesting news stories, and work together to cover/analyze them
• Random scouts luck across interesting news stories even though they far off the beaten path
• Bloggers tend to focus on the most interesting news story, covering them until there are no more angles or insights left

There's one big difference between ants and bloggers (well, besides being self-aware). In the ant simulation, there were no new food sources. But in the blogosphere, content sites (and increasingly, weblogs) are constantly providing fresh articles to consume. It's this constant source of food which replenishes the blogosphere and supports so much blogging. - Source.

Another major difference would be, since the blogger brain is much larger than the ant brain, the blogger does probably feel pain with much greater intensity.

It might be time to phone Kenesaw

It seems that Canseco's new book has caused more commotion in the baseball world than occurred when he assisted the 1919 ChiSox to throw the World Series.

[Addendum: It just occurred to me that with all of the talk about "Shoeless" Joe Jackson and Pete Rose not being allowed into Baseball's Hall of Fame, that maybe it is time to erect Baseball's Hall of Shame where we could induct the culprits of the Black Sox incident, Pete Rose, all the steroid freaks they cull out of the ranks, and I suppose Jose Canseco himself would deserve a place for assisting Carlos Martinez of the Indians to score a homerun off of his own team, the 1993 Texas Rangers, by giving the ball a header, ala futbol, into the bleachers:

I thought I had it. I was twisting around like this. It grazed my glove, hit me on the head, and bounced over. I'll be on ESPN for about a month. - Jose Canseco.]

Point and shoot --

And if your aim is good, you can mount its head upon your wall, cover the floor with a rug made out of its hide, and grind its innards all up in a combination with some spices. Besides some nifty new home decorations, you'll have plenty of meat to gift upon your hapless neighbors. Ah, the thrill of being a redneck.

Speaking of rednecks ... have I ever told you the story about my navel and the Buddha belly upon which it rests? Bubba says I ain't nowhere near close to being Buddha-sized, and I guess Bubba should know about that. I suspect they ain't made the T-shirt yet that can stop Bubba's belly button from eyeballing the crowd. Bubba's belly might match the Buddha, himself. I'd love to see the two of them in a pie-eating contest.* Bubba loves his pie. Joe Bob says that is why Bubba's wife is always smiling. I wanted to take off my cap and scratch my bald spot but, instead, just nodded. Then I scratched my navel. End of report.

*Joe Bob said they'd most likely be sumo wrestlin'.

Feeling no pain

If you enjoy fishing, you can rest assured that you are not traumatizing those cute, slimy, squiggly creatures used to entice fish onto your hooks. In a study funded by the government of Norway, it was determined that the use of earthworms as fishbait does not constitute cruelty to animals. The conclusion of the study indicates that, indeed, these creatures feel no pain

Norway might have considered banning the use of live worms as fish bait if the study had found they felt pain, but Prof Farstad said: "It seems to be only reflex curling when put on the hook ... They might sense something but it is not painful and does not compromise their well-being."

Prof Farstad said most invertebrates, including lobsters and crabs boiled alive, did not feel pain because, unlike mammals, they did not have a big brain to read the signals. Source.

(But wait, could it be that the worms used in this study were collected from tequila bottles? That could certainly have dulled their sense of pain.)

Or, taking this logic to another level, is it possible that pain tolerance for some people is inversely proportional to the size of their brains?

Texas: A man convicted of robbery worked out a deal to pay $9600 in damages rather than serve a prison sentence. For payment, he provided the court a check -- a *forged* check. He got 10 years.

(Location Unknown): A man went into a drug store, pulled a gun, announced a robbery, and pulled a Hefty-bag face mask over his head -- and realized that he'd forgotten to cut eye holes in the mask.

Sao Paulo, Brazil: Psychiatrist Oscar Dominguez was listening to a patient talk about her sex life when he pulled out a gun and shot her to death. As he explained to the court, "I just couldn't take those nut cases anymore."

Rouen, France: Moments after robbing a bank, Jules Duprer jumped into a car, shouting, "Get away quick, before the cops come." He failed to notice that the car he was counting on to spirit him to safety was a *police* car.

(Location Unknown): A gentleman awoke one cold morning and found that his car would not start; the problem was a frozen fuel line. No problem for Mr. Brilliant -- one need only warm up the gas, right? So he siphoned off the fuel, put it into a pot, took it into the kitchen and heated it up on the stove....

Source.

A modern-day fairy tale

Once upon these times, two young maidens in their teens decided that they should stay at home and bake cookies for their neighbors rather than go to a dance where their peers would probably be cursing and drinking. Painstakingly, they worked hard on their altruistic task, carefully decorating the cookies, dividing their handiwork into seven little packages, embellished with red and pink paper hearts on which they wrote: "Have a nice night." Enthusiatically, they delivered their goodies to seven rural neighbors, ringing the doorbell and leaving their little surprises on the front porch.

Within the next few days, they received six thank-you letters from appreciative neighbors. A special "thanks" from the seventh recipient, however, was later delivered in the forrm of a knock on the door from the local constable, who summoned them for an appearance at Small Claims Court.

The pair were ordered to pay $871.70 plus $39 in court costs after neighbor ... [age] 49, filed a lawsuit complaining that the unsolicited cookies, left at her house after the girls knocked on her door, had triggered an anxiety attack that sent her to the hospital the next day.

So, what do you think?

1. The intent of these girls was (malicious/virtuous).

2. These girls were certainly (encouraged/discouraged) from the perfomance of random acts of kindness in the future.
3. The moral of this modern-day fairy tale* is ___________________________.
[Suggestions invited.]

*In case you did not check the link, this was an actual occurence.


Posted by Moona at 12:16 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Beware! Bargains Ahead Afoot

On Sunday afternoon, my son and I decided to visit my daughter, who lives in the metropolis ninety miles away from the rural area where we reside. Soon after our arrival, my daughter decided that she wanted to go shoe-shopping. Of course, my son and my daughter's boyfriend were thrilled with the idea, especially considering that they had been looking forward to watching the Super Bowl that evening. Thinking that a cup of her favorite designer coffee might take her mind off shopping long enough that the mega-mall's closing time would be too near to make the trip worthwhile, we all walked to the neighborhood coffeehouse to sip the exquisitely overpriced java.

However, her plans were not daunted, for she knew of a wonderful discount shoe warehouse in a strip in close enough proximity that we still had enough time for the excursion. After we arrived at the huge store, the three of them browsed in the designer shoe aisle while I headed for the bargain racks at the back of the store. After all, since this was a discount shoe warehouse, a sale here should be quite a deal. However, finding nothing which suited my budget, I caught up with my crew in time to see my daughter's boyfriend pick up a shoe.

Obviously thinking that it was the ugliest shoe he had ever seen, he handed it to her and said, "How about this one?"

Seeing the designer label conspicuously lettered on the shoe, she exclaimed, "Oh, those are really nice!" But her expression changed as she looked at the price on the box. "But they're four ninety-nine," she said.

"$4.99--Why so cheap?" her boyfriend asked, puzzled at why that would bother her.

"No, they're not $4.99--They're four hundred ninety-nine dollars."

We can only surmise what makes these shoes so valuable. For once, I was right there with my son and my daughter's boyfriend, as we considered what might set these shoes apart from everyday footwear.

• Maybe they massage your feet as you walk.
• Maybe they will take you home if you click your heels together.
• Maybe they have a radar detector that causes your heavy foot to let up on the gas pedal of your car if a police car is nearby.
• Maybe they will unlock you car or your house if you lose your keys.
• Or perhaps they increase your metabolism with every step you take so that you never gain weight.

After visiting still another store in the strip mall, staying until it was ready to close, we then headed for a local Italian establishment which had educational restrooms. I can now say "Excuse me" in Italian. It sounded sort of like "Skoozie" if I remember correctly. None of the other phrases appeared to be useful in my locality, and I promptly forgot them.

I think I'm gonna gag ... anyone have a bag?

Anything is possible, or so they say. I believe I recently discovered necessary evidence to prove the truth of that statement. As utterly incredible as it may seem, my navel, this very day, was able to communicate with me. I promise this to an absolute fact! It growled at me, viciously, my navel did. I heard an unmistakable rumble. My ears detected a rich deeply resonant tone which was seen to cause my Buddha belly to jiggle. Believing such to be a cry for food, I quickly tossed it a couple of cracker crumbs. In each previous episode involving both my navel and cracker crumbs, I recall having to dig cracker crumbs out of my navel. However, it seems anything is possible if you allow your mind to wander off for a long walk down a dark, lonely road. End of report.

It would be the very end of them

I have received a continuous barrage of commercial email messages* with the following question:

What would happen to your family if you died?

Regrettably, I have to admit that my family will die with me. Such family exists only in my dreams and such dreams nightmares would, I logically assume, cease upon my death.

*The namesake which is so regularly used in referencing such type of messages is unworthy of the continual malignancy infecting its honor which is created by such misuse. It may now be time to stop dragging such a praiseworthy pork product's name through the mud during discussions of the slime found so regularly in our respective inboxes with which we find ourselves barraged by those worthless cretins lurking deep back in the dark slime-encrusted corners** of the ethosphere.

**It just occurred to me that if Al Gore had done a much better job of designing the internet in the beginning, those corners might be much better illuminated and a little less slime-encrusted.

Another inane Public Service Announcement

Banana dog is crying. He believes himself to be unloved.

Feb. 6, 2005

Not much to be said for today's offering. Berke bashes those fad diets which are not dependent upon eating less and exercising more but are based upon the mass consumption of fat-bottomed penguins and other foods containing very few carbohydrates.

Barely better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick

Tonight, the report is going to deal with a few different driving dilemmas. [Try saying that with a mouthful of dimes.] I just returned from an adventure in the big city where I went to purchase a couple of electronic items I needed to implement my plans to fully take over command of my home: a wireless router which I need so as to be able to connect my laptop to the DSL from any room in the house and a secondary USB hub to increase the number of USB ports for my main box by an additional 3.* The first dilemma arose almost immediately as I was forced to drive around half of a sizable geode that was parked in the middle of the traffic lane near my house. I managed to avoid any contact with said geode through exceptional exercise of masterful driving skills. In addition, thankfully, it was only half a geode instead of half a Geo.

I, then, had gotten not a mile out of town when I came up behind a blue-haired lady adorned in the customary red hat and purple dress, driving a late model pink Cadillac at the steady speed of 35 miles an hour in a 70 mile zone, hugging the center stripe of a two lane country road in a lengthy no-passing zone. Although I have nothing but admiration and respect for members of the Red Hat Society, does membership in the Society entitle you to ownership of the roads? If you must be moving so slowly that pony carts are piling up behind you -- please, ladies -- pull over onto the shoulder and let them pass.

Thirdly, the final incident also involved Cadillacs and Cadillac drivers. Oddly, while in the city, I saw a Cadillac pulled over to the side of the 8 lane expressway with some malfunction or other and while attempting to discover the nature of the problem, saw another car pull in behind to assist: another Cadillac. Now, these were both late model full-bodied Cadillacs and I was always under the impression that all full-sized Cadillac owners possessed membership with American Automobile Association, otherwise known as "Triple A."

My navel is not currently able to drive and was thus unconcerned with these incidents. Its chief complaint was simply that the seat belt continue to chafe upon it while I was not looking. End of report.

*It is actually a four port hub, but since it has to be plugged into an existing port, you only gain 3.

Reaching deeply into my bag of gags

There was a big announcement in the corporate world today. Waffle House named John Kerry as their new National Spokesman. I was very impressed with their selection as Senator Kerry has proven himself exceptionally qualified for this position.*

*Or was it that position?

Pat, I'd like to buy a comment please

Although it is Saturday, I suspect there are still a few surfing around the blogosphere, and the odds of one or two of you hitting this site is phenomenal. For the sake of science, why don't you leave a comment to let me know you were here. That goes especially for you, Kilroy!

In requiem

Elvis Presley was very pissed
to see Jack Kennedy's ass get kissed.
Good friend Ossie will be sorely missed!
See Bubba Ho-Tep to get the gist.

It was neither a dark nor stormy night

I was in the mood for another drive today, but, not wanting to venture far from home, I went to the next town to take care of a matter involving one of my clients, then decided to come back via some of the back roads. Well, as such usually turns out, I got a bit turned around and found myself circling around and around the same roads, over and over. I am pretty sure I was lost in the midst of the area known locally as goatneck. I am unsure why it is called goatneck, but it might be because such seems like it would be the natural haunt of the legendary Goatman. The ancient asphalt lanes were wide but mostly under the canopy of overhanging live oaks and the vegetation which had grown up along the bordering fences was dense, choking out much of the light. In actuality, I seem to remember the location as being named as one of the possible sites where the story behind The Texas Chain Saw Massacre actually occurred.

I can tell you I was a bit wary of the most minor circumstances dealing with my surroundings, as I found myself passing the same dilapidated church time and time again. Peculiarly, there was no one around, most pleasantly to me being the entire absence of the legendary Goatman, except for three men sitting on the bench just outside of some shack advertising BBQ for sale. They looked familiar. At first, I thought it was these three:

Then, I was almost sure it was this trio:

The lighting was more direct on my third pass and I was finally able to recognize these guys:

The BBQ smelled wonderful. I didn't stop. It smelled just like the sort of trap any semi-intelligent Goatman or cannibalistic person with a chain saw might set for unwary travelers. I eventually located the hole in the hedge which released me from the vicious cycle. I was relieved and my navel was ecstatic. It feared that, if the cycle were to continue, the next trio we might encounter would be this group:

Given the strong resemblance of my Buddha belly to that of the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man, my navel was so terrified it might have peed itself. We, of course, are all aware that navels do not pee, right? End of report.

No beautiful minds here

As I mentioned earlier, the first two years after receiving my Bachelor's degree, I taught math and history in junior high and high school. Even then I was shocked at the difference in curriculum and teaching methods, as well as the level of achievement of students, since the time that I was in those grades. For example, when I gave a worksheet to a seventh grade class with the instructions to find the product of the numbers in each problem, one of the students asked, "Do you plus it or do you times it?" It seems that the curriculum has changed further since my exit from the profession:

Last week I purchased a burger at Burger King for $1.58. The counter girl took my $2 and I was digging for my change when I pulled 8 cents from my pocket and gave it to her. She stood there, holding the nickel and 3 pennies, while looking at the screen on her register. I sensed her discomfort and tried to tell her to just give me two quarters, but she hailed the manager for help. While he tried to explain the transaction to her, she stood there and cried. Why do I tell you this? Please read more about the "history of teaching math":

• Teaching Math In 1950:

  A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is 4/5 of the price. What is his profit?

• Teaching Math In 1960:

  A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100.. His cost of production is 4/5 of the price, or $80. What is his profit?

• Teaching Math In 1980:

  A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is $80 and his profit is $20.

  Your assignment: Underline the number 20.

• Teaching Math In 1990:

  By cutting down beautiful forest trees, the logger makes $20. What do you think of this way of making a living?

  Topic for class participation after answering the question:

  How did the birds and squirrels feel as the logger cut down the trees? (There are no wrong answers)

  
  _{Note: Above picture
  found at same source}

• Teaching Math In 2005:

  El hachero vende un camion carga por $100.

  La cuesta de production es ...

  Thanks James.

  Source.!

Feb. 4, 2005

A little old man shuffled ... slowly ... into an ice cream parlor, pulled himself ... slowly ... painfully .... up onto a stool. After catching his breath, he ordered a banana split.

The waitress asked kindly, "Crushed nuts?"

"No," he replied, "Arthritis."

On a more positive note

Wednesday morning I missed work because I had several items of personal business to tend to, the first of which was my hearing before the Justice of the Peace in Small Claims Court.

As you remember, I was recently dumped by a local "hit-man" whom I refer to as Mr. A. Hole. He hits on middle-aged or older women whom he suspects might have a nest-egg. After the sweet-talker borrowed a large (to me) sum of money, he called from a cell phone to let me know that he was no longer interested. (You see, the check had just cleared the bank, and that was all he thought he could get from me.) I recently heard that he is about to marry a woman who is about ten years older than he. Perhaps he and his new bride were in Las Vegas or Reno for their marriage (using her money, of course), and that's why he didn't show up. I can only surmise. But if he doesn't appeal in the next ten days (probably allowing three more days for mail time), then I will have a judgment against him. Then maybe some day I'll get my money back.

After court was over, I then had to go to see another JP in a neigboring town about the traffic ticket that I received when I had the wreck in the rental car (which I was driving because the car dealer totaled my car.)

That afternoon, I was suddenly very tired. I went home early to take a nap, thinking that I would go back to the office later to make up for having been gone all morning. I slept for twelve hours. I guess I needed it.

Tokens of Appreciation

As I read the Nightly Navel Gazin' Report™ last night, I thought to myself that while a refrigerator magnet may not seem like much of a gift, I confess that I have been disappointed at times with tokens of appreciation (or the lack thereof).

One of the biggest recent disappointments was my retirement reception. In the twenty-seven and a half years that I worked for the State, I was on many planning committees for retiring employees, many whom had neither tenure or accomplishments even close to mine. In planning these events, we always took care to make them memorable for the employee, taking into consideration their personalities, their likes and dislikes, and their convenience.

However, when I retired, my "party" was at a location eighty-five miles from where I lived, and the event was shared with four other retirees from other towns much closer to the site of the event. I had never even heard the names of any of them. On the other hand, since I had often been on planning committees for regional meetings and had participated in the programs, nearly everyone knew me. Yet some of those who knew me best, including some family members, were unable to make the long trip to the reception. Thus not only was I not acquainted with the others who shared the reception, but I was also greeted by people whose names I did not know. In addition, the money collected for the reception was split five ways. While most honorees at parties that I had helped to plan received a lovely corsage, very nice gifts (usually along with a money tree) I received a cheap watch which has already quit running, and a corsage made out of a one-dollar bill and some cheap lace, probably from a Dollar Store.

However, I was just about as excited when I received a vacuum cleaner from my now ex-husband for our first anniversary (after which he asked what I was going to cook for supper). Or when, after ten years of never sending me flowers, he finally sent an arrangement to my office ... of artificial flowers.

I don't need no stinking Stephen King title

OK, first of all, neither Stephen King nor anything to do with Stephen King is connected with this post. The only reason that I even mention Stephen King is because it is so close to "stinking" especially when ya say it really really fast with a Texas drawl, though, likely being tired at the time assists greatly in such assessment.

I am sorry for the extreme dearth of posting today. I was busy, busy, busy, what with court this morning followed closely by the signing up of a new client with a retainer in just the right amount to cover the rest of my monthly bills. I very much wish to thank George for promptly answering my earlier prayers.

Of course, the dilemma I faced when I first walked through the door from court was a major cause of my lack of available posting time. I walked in to find that my printer had spit out a half of ream of pages with one or two lines of miscellaneous characters on each page. It was clamoring to be loaded with more paper so as to continue its printing out such meaningless garbage. I worked for an hour or more to get that stupid printer to cease that continual action. Despite such difficulties, I am unable to find the printer to be at fault. I suspect the predicament was the act of some malicious miscreant that discovered my disabled firewall. Ya'll will likely recall that I did so in my attempt to discover why I could not access my gmail. Finally, by uninstalling and reinstalling the printer, I was able bring the massive paper waste came to a halt.

Thereafter, I still have correspondence to prepare. Let me note, as well, that I forgot to take such to the mail drop on my way to Republican Club meeting as planned. I just returned from that meeting.

I told you I had a busy day. As if being busy was not enough, my back has been aching since the moment I arose. I am now also discovering that I have a most horrendous case of indigestion. Indigestion, however, is not rare occurrence in my life. In fact, I suspect I might be the only person in the world who could eat a single Gummi® Bear and experience indigestion as a result.

I failed to mention that, in recognition of my failed bid to win the County Attorney seat for the party, the Republican Club bestowed a valuable gift upon me this evening. I am now the proud owner of a nifty refrigerator magnet and I have just the refrigerator for it. My navel is well, although still stalked by the small cherry mole. Luckily, the cherry mole seems to be successfully held at bay by that surrounding barrier of soft black hairs. Although the local temperature has risen above the severely frigid range, my navel is already clamoring for the warmth of that double layer of goose down. I know my back could use the rest, as well. End of report.

How many teardrops can you fit on the head of a pin?

I want a Mulligan. I want a do-over. I want to go back and start all over, at least from here:

Bright eyed and, though quite close, not yet bushy tailed, I had the whole wide world at my feet.

You can bet my visions of the future did not put me at 50 and childless. My dreams may dim but refuse to die. But all I can do is cry, because if wishes were horses, then pigs could fly.

All of that should just fit in a well-rounded navel. End of report.

A possible French Invasionary Force*?

I just noticed this line in my StatCounter:

Lisez mes lèvres - le blog: Gaffes de searchin de Google les 'payent au loin grand certains

I can't lick the froggish lingo, but without reading the words, know it is a hope to find a decapitation video. From my having continually witnessed a steady flow of visitors along this same path, I am assured that the French populace is clamoring for the reintroduction of the guillotine. I am only wondering if the leaders of that country are to be beheaded this time around.

*Any possible such force would probably be filled with members of the French Foreign Legion.

Ouch, that really hurts

You sometimes have to open your eyes wide to avoid some of the traps you come across during your lifetime. I stumbled out without my glasses this morning to fetch the paper. As I bent over, I reached out to pat the head of one of my dogs who was sitting nearby and got bit hard on my hand. I quickly closed my hand around the neck of my pet and yanked it close so as to give it a hard rap with the extended knuckle of my middle finger right on the top of the noggin, such being the established punishment for biting the hand that feeds you, and found myself face-to-tooth-gnashing-face with the meanest looking animal I have ever seen in my life. I am still not sure what it was or what it was doing in my front yard, but I quickly flung the creature away. It hit the ground, looked down in recoil, as if it was surprised it could see no shadow, which everyone knows is almost impossible on such a cloudy day as this, then it was off, burrowing quickly into the ground, hopefully not to be seen again around these parts for a long, long time ... a year or so, at least.

As an extra for some of ya'll joke loving folks, I left something special in the extended entry.

Yada!

Over breakfast, a woman said to her husband, "I'll bet you don't know what day it is."

"Of course, I do," he answered, as if offended. He drained the last drop of his coffee and left for work.

At 10:00 a.m., the doorbell rang. The woman was handed a box containing a dozen long-stemmed red roses. At 1:00 p.m., there was a delivery of a box of Godiva chocolates. Later in the afternoon, a brightly wrapped box was delivered from Victoria's Secret.

The woman could no longer wait for her husband to return home, so called him.

"Oh, love," she stammered, "First flowers, then chocolates, and now lingerie ... I have never had such a wonderful Groundhog Day in my life."

To run some more or not to run some more ...

I awoke this morning listening to the clock-radio story about Emmitt Smith planning on retiring. I was hoping to scoop the whole blogosphere with the story, but, as it is really cold and I was so very very warm buried up under that double layer of goose-down, I did not jump right up to come blog about it. I see James Joyner was on the ball. However, according to USA Today, Emmitt says the retirement talk is all BS.

[UPDATE: Was stuck on a bench for awhile and found a copy of today's Star-Telegram. From a thorough reading between the lines of the story [it might be this one, but I am not making any promises. I am actually unable to view it due to whatever security settings won't allow me to even check my gmail on this system], I suspect that unless Emmitt cannot talk Jerry Jones into letting him play for the Cowboys next year, Emmitt will still be signed with the Cowboys--in order that he may retire as a Cowboy. I personally suspect that it will be more of a drawn out affair than something to expect to happen quickly ... I figure Jerry Jones will milk it for every ounce of publicity he can get from it, and there will be speculation about Emmitt actually playing in next year's season, and, the evidence is that there might be a likely possibility of such, if you actually look at Emmitt's production from this past season, being dependent up two factors: how much money Emmitt wants for playing and Bill Parcell's assessment of Emmitt's abilities. I think he would fit well in the backfield as a good third down back, as he is sure-handed, catches well, and has enough experience to improvise, if necessary. Emmitt looks good as a Cowboy, don't you think?]

Frozen neurons thawed over an open flame

OK, so my thoughts are a bit singed, this evening. Thank goodness my navel was shielded from the heat. The last thing I wanted was was to inhale the stink from a fricasseed navel. No snow, but the forecast is open until time for the roosters to crow in the morning. So, think those roosters will crawl out of a nice warm bed in the morn to crow? I am kind of hopeful they will sleep in, that the schools will close, that the courts will close, and that there will be a Jimmy Neutron marathon on Nickelodeon, either that or some channel will finally come up with a bright idea and start showing reruns of Topper. Heck, I'd settle for watching old Lassie shows all day if it is bitterly cold and I can stay buried under that double layer of goose down and watch TV. My navel finds that to be a most enjoyable exercise, as well. Here is hoping my neurons find sufficient rest and a modicum of warmth, and that you and yours are warm and toasty, wherever you may be. End of highly pathetic report.

Because I love Susie so much

Random Ten Albums:

White Album (Beatles)
Greatest Hits Vol. 2 (Tanya Tucker)
Bat Out of Hell (Meat Loaf*)
Rhymin' Simon (Paul Simon)
Eight Seconds Soundtrack (various)
Hotel California (The Eagles)
Fandango (ZZ Top)
Big Chill Soundtrack (various)
No Fences (Garth Brooks)
Street Survivors (Lynyrd Skynyrd)

1. What is the total amount of music files on your computer? Not much, maybe two sample files that came with the computer, several of Pixy Misa's original creations, and some assorted bits and pieces. I am not an audiophile.

2. The last CD you bought is: 40 Licks--Rolling Stones

3. What is the song you last listened to before this message: I seriously cannot remember. It was classic country, but who was singing and what song it was, I cannot remember.

4: Five songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you:
Yesterday--the Beatles
There's a Tear in My Beer--Hank Williams and son
Whatever you call that theme music on those Vonage commercials--unknown
Momma Loves Me--Paul Simon
Two of a Kind, Working on a Full House--Garth Brooks

5. Who are you gonna pass this stick to (five persons and why)?
I don't know five people that I dislike enough onto which to foist this petard. If ya see it and want to play, do so, otherwise, don't fret the small stuff.

Doing it for Susie

*Don't let yours.

What is white, cold, and falls from the sky?

No one in my neck of the world is able to get any work done, right now. It seems that the possibility of snow is in the weather forecast for this afternoon and tonight. Most people around here are less worried about the actual snow itself than the mere occurrence of snow. Opportunities like this are rare, indeed, and many are wondering just exactly what a blue moon actually looks like. Several of my friends have mentioned that they are hopeful for a break in the clouds so they will have the ability to get a good look at one.

If you are confused, no problem. It is likely that you ain't from around here. If asked if it ever snows around here, more than likely, any local old timer will say, "Yeah, it snows, oh, maybe once in a blue moon."