Read My Lips - the blog

Apr. 29, 2005

People were in their pews talking at church. Suddenly, Satan appeared at the front of the church. Everyone started screaming and running for the front entrance, trampling each other in a frantic effort to get away from evil incarnate. Soon everyone had exited the church except for one elderly gentleman who sat calmly in his pew without moving, seeming oblivious to the fact that God's ultimate enemy was in his presence.

So Satan walked up to the old man and said, "Don't you know who I am?"

The man replied, "Yep, sure do."

"Aren't you afraid of me?" Satan asked.

"Nope, sure ain't." said the man.

"Don't you realize I can kill with a word?" asked Satan.

"Don't doubt it for a minute," returned the old man, in an even tone.

Did you know that I could cause you profound horrifying, AGONY for all eternity?" persisted Satan.

"Yep," was the calm reply.

"And you're still not afraid?" asked Satan.

"Nope," said the old man.

More than a little perturbed, Satan asked, "Well, why aren't you afraid of me?"

The man calmly replied, "Been married to your sister for 44 years."

We'll just say it's all right

Well, if yesterday was the absolute worse day I ever had in my whole life, I survived it. That's all I'm gonna say about that.

I decided today that when a movie is made about my life, I want Lisa Kudrow to play ME.*

My navel is basking in tiny beads of sweat in response to a current rise in barometric pressure and an increase in ambient humidity. I'd hazard a guess it has been watching The Weather Channel while I've been busy elsewhere. As if, right? End of report.

[Addendum: Did I neglect to mention that Read My Lips, due to the simple request of our regal leader Pixy Misa, is now, hopefully, totally .php. I don't know why, except that supposedly means my inanity loads into your browser more quickly. End of addendum.]

*It's just a joke, OK?

The further adventures of web searchers

It seems there might be some research going on in someone home remedy department. Via a look at my StatCounter, I found one of my hits came from a search for can a tooth be pulled while on crack cocaine? So, first of all, just exactly who is expected to do the pulling? I don't want a dentist playing around in my mouth after smoking a rock or two. As to what effects the substance might have for those who are sitting in the chair -- I'll leave such experiments up to our intrepid web searcher.

Oh crud -- I'm 50

I awoke this morning to the bleeping of my cell phone alarm. It seems that today is my birthday ... the golden anniversary* of my birth. I have now experienced 50 years of life and just working up to this milestone has been murder. All I have to do now is find a place to hide the body until the heat dies down. With summer approaching, that might take some time.

[In the Why Not? Dept.]

*Feel free to send me ample amounts of gold, if you please. Also note that my birth falls in April, thus making diamonds my birthstone. You can throw a few of them into the pot as well. ;)

Things you miss when you are very busy elsewhere

Hmmm, seems as I have been working hard to get my book ready for the publisher and my blogging has been slow, the visitors keep coming despite my absence. I have noticed there is still an average of 300 visitors a day hitting the site, and sometime here lately, the 200,000th visitor, in accordance to the StatCounter meter, dropped by to visit. I'm sorry for forgetting to leave out a cold glass of lemonade. Forgive me, won't you?

My navel is pleased to report that it is unchanged from the very last report and feels badly to have not kept up with its nightly duty. I'll gladly take that blame, however, as I have been using the computer for other uses, so it is hard for my navel to do anything while I'm here. Strangely, it still seems to feel it has to accompany me wherever I go, though, so maybe the blame is not all mine, after all. End of report.

These days the rod never sees the light

I just caught wind of the story out of Florida about the little 5 year old girl who literally was arrested, cuffed, and detained in the back of a police car for acting badly in kindergarten. Although the situation is appalling, I was possibly most appalled by this:

The girl's mother, Inda Akins, said she is consulting an attorney.

"She's never going back to that school," Akins said. "They set my baby up."

I don't know, but I somehow figure that any child who attains the age of five and lacks the necessary respect for authority to do what this child did was likely set up by a tragic lack of parenting, more than anything else.

Of course, ya'll knew that, didn't ya?

OTBTJTB™

Apr. 24, 2005

Today's strip just gave us a simple reminder, appropriate, I suppose for springtime. Despite how you feel sometimes with all the crap turmoil that life throws at you, there always exists a quick fix. All it ever takes is a borrowed wheel chair grocery cart and a steep hill.

BTW, check out berkeleybreathed.com. I'll wait to rate it when Berkeley links the Eye on Opus archive.

Things to do besides cleaning house

Those boys at Jib Jab have gone Jewish Hip Hop. Be the first on your block to see it, 'cause you know all your friends will soon be talking about it.

I just don't know what to make of it*

Your Friday, April 22, 2005 Horoscope Taurus!

Your motivation to clean up around the house could be the start of an interesting chain of discoveries. Reorganize things in order to make them more compatible with new methods instead of the way they used to get done.

Is this a specific indication that I badly need to clean up my act, that I'll find a $20 bill I previously misplaced and now be able to put a couple of gallons of gas in my tank, or just your average Taurean spring cleaning reminder?

Your votes will be tabulated later this evening by some Florida Democrats, who've already promised that Al Gore will win despite not even being among the possible choices.

*This message was blessed by the spirit of Pope John Paul II.**

**Only it is truly a matter of faith.***

**Although I hope you know that I am also amenable to charity.

Concise but perhaps profound (Or, who's verbose??)

I have found myself thinking about the profound nature of one of Tig's recent posts:

My ego is exceeded greatly by my own insignificance.

Could this statement be akin to a very complex theory propounded by Michael Hoffman?

The ego-entity exists as a real set of patterns and dynamics, but the ego is not as solid, continuous, or powerful as it seems. The ego is both a set of real patterns, but also a projected, constructed image. In a way, the perceived ego exists, and in a way, it does not. The mind usually projects and constructs a fairly solid and simple image of oneself. Seeing the illusory aspects of this mental representation and feeling the absence of the accustomed sense of personal solidity can be experienced as death, as literal cessation of personal existence, because the naive mind strongly identifies with the projected image and the feeling of personal solidity.

Mental processing is structured with the conscious ego-representation as the center of control and experiencing. This representation of the ego is a dynamic set of mental constructs. The ego-entity at the center of mental processing is partly an illusory projection. The ego includes the deceiving, projected representation of the ego-entity. This deceivingly tangible representation of the self or ego is only a part of the ego.

In a dissociative cognitive state, the usual cognitive structures constituting the ego relax, loosen, and disengage, while remaining available to a degree, as a tool. The projection of the ego image also ceases, unless called upon. Oneself still exists in many ways, such as a body, a brain, a mind, possessions, and a personal past. One genuine aspect of oneself has temporarily ceased to firmly exist: the egoic cognitive processing, which is largely but not entirely suspended. The projection of the self-image is also partly suspended. Insofar as the mind confuses the projected self-image with that part of the self which is genuine, that projected self never existed, other than a perceptual illusion, and so the projected self could not cease to exist.

If the ego is defined strictly as the natural assumption that the mentally projected self-representation is literally oneself, then the ego is only an illusion. But such a narrowed definition of "ego" ignores the real cognitive structures that reliably project that illusion. The ego, as a mode or subsystem of mental processing, is more than just the illusory aspect of the ego projection. The ego, considered as an entire subsystem of the mind, is a large, complex, and dynamic set of mental processes, of which the deceivingly tangible mental representation is only one part.

Regarding insignificance, a physicist noted the following:

Humans seem to be extremely unimportant in the grand scheme of the Universe. This insight is often associated with Copernicus, who suggested (although not for the first time) that the Earth was not the centre of the Solar System. A bigger step towards calibrating our insignificance was taken by Edwin Hubble, who determined that astrophysical nebulae are really separate galaxies in their own right. We now think there are about one hundred billion such galaxies in the observable Universe, with perhaps one hundred billion stars per galaxy. But a metaphysically distinct blow to our importance came with the introduction of the idea of dark matter — we are not even made of the same stuff that comprises most of the Universe.

Apr. 22, 2005

There was a job opening in the country's most prestigious law firm and it finally came down to Robert and Paul. Both graduated magna cum laude from law school. Both came from good families. Both were equally attractive and well spoken. It was up to the senior partner to choose one, so he took each aside and asked, "Why did you become a lawyer?"

In seconds, he chose Paul. Baffled, Robert took Paul aside.

"I don't understand why I was rejected. When Mr. Armstrong asked me why I became a lawyer, I said that I had the greatest respect for the law, that I'd lay down my life for the Constitution and that all I wanted was to do right by my clients.

What in the world did you tell him?"

"I said I became a lawyer because of my hands," Robert replies.

"Your hands? What do you mean?"

"Well, I took a look one day and there wasn't any money in either of them!"

I actually became a lawyer in line with Robert's reasoning. That might be why I am broke most of the time.

Multifaceted Moona?

Found this little test while visiting Eric & Denita's blog.

You are the rare, the overlooked, yet incredibly useful dodecahedron: the d12. You are a creative, romantic soul. You often act without thinking, but make up for your lack of plans with plenty of heart. You easily solve problems that stump others, but your answers tend to put you into even deeper trouble. You write long, detailed backgrounds for all your characters, and are most likely to dress up as one or get involved in cos-play. You can be silly at times and are easily distracted by your own day dreams, but are at the end of the day you're someone who can be depended on.

Take the quiz at dicepool.com

[Sneaking in the back door to post my own results on Moona's blurb:

Take the quiz at dicepool.com

Tig]

Disclaimer:

This survey is completely scientific. Despite the mind-boggling complexity of mankind, the billions of distinctly different personalities found on Earth can easily be divided into seven simple categories that correspond to the five Platonic solids, a pseudo polyhedron, and whatever the hell a d100 is. The results of this quiz should be considered not only meaningful but also infallible, and pertinent to your success as a fully realized individual. If you feel the results of this examination do not match your perceived personality, you should take whatever drastic measures are needed to cram your superego back into proper alignment, as described by the quiz results.

And if you believe that, we have some really great critical-hit insurance to sell you.

It'd definitely stir shake things up

Jake Coyle of the AP was going through the possible choices for the next Bond, analyzing what each contender brings to the role. He even went as far as throwing a couple of possibly overlooked people who could play the role. I loved this one:

Christopher Walken: OK, so Walken is over 60. But who wouldn't run to the theater to see Walken play Bond? It would immediately be the most interesting movie of the year. In reference to one of Walken's Saturday Night Live skits, if there's one thing Bond could use, it's more cowbell.

Of course, trying to envision that might make me laugh myself to death. I chuckled heartily when I read it. Story source.*

*Of course, it might have already slipped down that where did it go? rabbithole.

It's nearing the end of the trail

The latest word from my editor is that the suggested changes should be coming my way somewhat later this evening, so I will likely be looking over such, and making such changes, modifying the text so as to fix whatever the problem is, or whatever, etc. As usual, if any of you want to look it over, leave me a comment. I am always looking for more input.

The very latest poop*

There's a new Pope to be known as John Paul III Benedict XVI. In a bold move to increase the number of the world's Catholics, he made an amazing offer public. From this point forward, you can get a free communion with every bar mitzvah, just upon proper request. More.

*Hey, if ya want a faster branch on the news grapevine, I suggest you go here.

It blipped right outta there

My ego is exceeded greatly by my own insignificance.

Reserved for future use

Vaguely, I recall looking endlessly from the back end of a Conestoga wagon until I literally passed out from heat and boredom, falling into a fitful slumber on the rough floorboards. My childhood was thusly spent in a delirium of bad dreams and mundane views of passing prairie.

Even the Mighty Eeyore has nothing on me

In lieu of several missed NNGR™s and such, allow me to explain that I am currently working on getting all the pieces of my book together so as to get it finally published. I have about six people just dying to read it, and several others who have promised to buy signed copies of it because they love me or want to love me, or something like that. I'm well, or not too far off of the mark if you consider everything I've gone through to get to this point of my life, and eating well. There are plenty out there whose lives are not going as well as mine, but I can assure you that could never work as hard to find fault with their lives as I do with mine.

Apr. 17, 2005

It seems that the worst punishment a man can get for stating his opinions about anything dealing with women is the opportunity to explain his reasons for doing so.

With no apologies to Steve Martin

I guess I might just be a wild and crazy guy. I got myself a snazzy new tat. A little back story first before I give ya the 411 on the whole skinny. It seems my friend and I were waiting in line to go see this artsy fartsy cinematic what-cha-ma-call-it (not all that great, in my opinion, but that is a whole other story all together) and happened to be standing right in front of one of them tattoo/piercing salons. My Friend was chattering on about how sexy I'd look with this tattoo or that tattoo, you know how some people's mouths just run on and on. Well, my navel was putting pressure on me to do something a bit different than my friend's idea. It was twisting my arm pretty hard and threatening to tell about some the skeletons in that hidden closet behind my refrigerator ... so I finally gave in. I got a brand spanking new tattoo and my head hurts like ach eee double hockey sticks. However, I got me a full color picture of Bart Simpson's butt right in the middle of my forehead.

I really think it fits me well, don't you? I mean, I am always the butt never the bridesmaid. I also never pinched a bridesmaid's butt but that is a whole other story and a very boring one at that. On behalf of my navel, I like to say goodnight Gracie. End of report.

I knew somthing was wrong

I really didn't think that there was anything to biorhythms. Now I'm not so sure.

I felt that there was something wrong as soon as I awoke this morning. The neurons in my brain just didn't seem to be connecting right. In fact, I could feel a headache coming on. I hit the snooze more times than I intended, finally sleeping through the last alarm. I was an hour late getting up. Then, of course, my hair would not cooperate, and what I wanted to wear was wrinkled. Finally, when opened my contact lens case, I found that I had apparently dropped one of my lenses when I was storing them last night. It was the last disposable lense I had left.

When I arrived at the Meals on Wheels headquarters, where I am the director, I found that my assistant, who needed to leave early for a doctor's appointment, was having trouble finding a substitute for a delivery route and would have to leave to deliver the route herself.

As the other volunteers, started coming in from their routes, one had been a meal short. The next volunteer coming in had had an extra meal, so I begged him to take the meal to the lady who had not received hers. Then the phone rang, and a woman in the neighboring town where we have a satellite office had received a bag of liquid nutritional supplements instead of her meal. She said that since she was overweight and diabetic, she didn't think that these were intended for her. It seems that the substitute in the neigboring town should have delivered this to another lady down the street from her.

Just a moment ago, my assistant left for her doctor's appointment. She always does the order for the next day. Guess what -- she forgot!

I can hardly wait to see what the remainder of the day has in store. I will be glad when my biorhythms are again in an upswing. But then, maybe this was just a coincidence.

Apr. 15, 2005

Well today being tax day ought to be enough of a joke, but my aunt sent me this quite humorous little tall tale:

Two hillbillies walk into a bar. While having a shot of whiskey, they talk about their moonshine operation. Suddenly, a woman at a nearby table, who is eating a sandwich, begins to cough. After a minute or so, it becomes apparent that she is in real distress.

One of the hillbillies looks at her and says "Kin ya swallar?"

The woman shakes her head no.

"Kin ya breathe?"

The woman begins to turn blue and shakes her head no.

The hillbilly walks over to the woman, lifts up the back of her dress, yanks down her drawers and quickly gives her right butt cheek a lick with his tongue. The woman is so shocked that she has a violent spasm and the obstruction flies out of her mouth.

As she begins to breathe again, the hillbilly walks slowly back to the bar. His partner says, "Ya know, I'd heerd of that there 'Hind Lick Maneuver', but I ain't never seed nobody do it a'fore!"

If I could only illustrate this point

My navel prefers Dr. Seuss. End of report.

"It's not going to get read tonight."

I have been working my fingers to the bone getting the final revisions done to Book One so as to get the manuscript in the editor's hands. I did my part and delivered the completed work to my editor this very evening and what do I hear? Read the title, folks. Unbelievable, right?

I am low on creativity juice, so I'm not going to bamboozle you with my brilliance on this evening.* I guess that means this post will draw a lot of comments. Look what the peckerwood scenario from last night did! Unbelievable, right?

My navel announced today that it's gonna become an astronaut. Unbelievable, right? End of report.

[Maybe I should have put a skunk on this one too.]

*You can't say I didn't warn ya, right?

The difference between woodpeckers and peckerwoods

Woodpeckers peck on wood whereas peckerwoods dream of doing something -- anything, that is -- that would bring them any kind of attention. Did you understand that this time, peckerwood?

I didn't think so. Well, I am too tired to sit here and explain it all night like last time, so just sit there with you thumb up your ass and contemplate.

Do what? You don't understand what contemplate means? Heck, its only three syllables. George, but you are really a peckerwood, did you know that?

My navel wishes to disassociate itself from this post, but I was a bit too lazy to take the word Navel out of the category. It's just going to have to live with the reference, I suppose. Just like ya'll peckerwoods will have to live with the shame of being a peckerwood, right? Now get out of there, you peckerwoods. End of report.

With a little help from my friends*, hopefully

I think my commenting function is broken. Would one or two of you try to leave a snarky comment to assist me in finding the problem?

*Although, if they are willing to assist, enemies will suffice, as well.

Sharing some news about old, really old, stuff

A team of Japanese genetic scientists aims to bring woolly mammoths back to life and create a Jurassic Park-style refuge for resurrected species .... The team of scientists,... aim to revive the Ice Age plant-eaters, 10,000 years after they went extinct.

Their plan: to retrieve sperm from a mammoth frozen in tundra, use it to impregnate an elephant, and then raise the offspring in a safari park in the Siberian wild. The preserve, dubbed Pleistocene Park, could feature not only mammoths, but also extinct species of deer, woolly rhinoceroses, and even saber-toothed cats, he said. - source

I'd rather they worked on resurrecting species whose extinction was closer to now than the beginning of time. How about a few dodos and Tasmanian tigers first, huh?

For news dealing with something closer to home, my home, that is, check out the extended entry.

The Glen Rose Trackway is a series of fossilized dinosaur footprints left some 107 million years ago at the edge of a lagoon. Excavated from the bed of the Paluxy River, near the town of Glen Rose in central Texas, the trackway gives a picture of dinosaurs that in some ways is more striking than that offered by fossils. - source

Strange voices on the breeze

It was quiet earlier ... one of those pre-summer days when the weather is getting a bit sultry yet still too early in the year for the air to be filled with buzzing bugs. I was sitting in the chair with my eyes closed, wondering why no further comments have come in on that neat little story I posted a day or so ago and, likewise, trying to come up with some idea what I could put down for this report. It was very quiet except for a perceived conversation that floated on the thick humid air. I could almost have sworn that all the dogs in the neighborhood were shooting the breeze.

It was so unlike the normal barkathon that goes on regularly, where the barking is raucous and follows the path of whatever irritant is moving around the neighborhood, whether that be children on scooters, stray dog, or prowling tomcat. I could actually distinguish different dogs, who seemed to be taking turns, as if conversing. I could almost envision them surrounding a green felt table playing a few rounds of cards.

My navel thinks I have gone to the dogs. I do suddenly find myself craving a Scooby-snack. End of report.

Well, almost two dozen showed up

The deadline for entries in this month's contest has passed and the list of entries is up for your review. I have read them all and I urge you all to do the same. These people worked long and hard to create some very well written posts related to the topic: cruelty. My own personal entry is here.

What unusually large teeth you have!

Today was one of those slow lazy days when you get hardly anything done you expected to have completed. Well, actually, I suppose just putting the final touches on this month's entry in the Blogging for Books contest was something, but the majority of that completely original story was actually written yesterday afternoon.

No, I was lethargic, hardly wishing to move from my chair as I purviewed the lame listings on 100 or so channels. Even my usual fall-back of the History Channel lineup turned out to be a bust, as I had seen all those shows just a week or two ago. Bored to tears, I cried myself to sleep and slept away a great part of the day.

I did, however, make a visit to a local* Chinese buffet that had only recently opened for business. Regrettably, I found the food to be overcooked and barely warm. I surmised it had sat in warming trays since George** only knows when. I can truly say it was the worst food I have ever eaten. It was so horrible, I found myself actually hungry enough to want to eat the fortune cookie. The fortune inside read: There is cause for celebration. You are the Walrus.

My navel is steamed, yet is nowhere near as stiff as the steamed rice at the Chinese Buffet. It has long believed itself to be the Walrus. End of report.

*By local, I mean it was in one of several neighboring towns within a 50 mile radius from the tiny burg where I reside.

**I suppose that Juan or Jose, the two wholly qualified Chinese cooks who were charged with keeping the food flowing likely knew how long those trays sat warming over the hot water below, as well.

Apr. 10, 2005

Perusing the Sunday Comics, Zeebo wonders why females lag from the forefront in so many of life's endeavors. Opus lays the blame on male fashion choices, especially in hats and dainties. For further proof that Breathed has it in for me, note the size and prominence of one particular character given my oft-stated feigned fear of all things SpongeBob.

Blogging for Books #10

Well, the topic for this month's Blogging for Books contest was CRUELTY. As someone who makes it a point to never step on anyone's toes, I found it difficult to recall any events in my own lifetime that would fulfill this quest. As such, I donned my Shirley MacLaine guise and divined the following from the depths of my memories of former lives:

Along Came an Ass
^{by Terence A. (Tiger) Russell}

Following my unsuccessful robbery of the Matamoros train, I narrowly escaped into the Chihuahuan Desert in a feeble attempt to reach the US border. I was a day or so ahead of the Federales when my horse stepped into a prairie dog hole and broke his foreleg. I, myself, tumbled onto the ground and found walking extremely difficult. Still, I forged northward. Wounded and afoot, I now hobbled during the cool nights, resting in the shade of any sufficiently large socorro cactus during the hot desert days. I only was able to maintain this pace for a day before I found myself delirious from loss of blood. Finally lying down in the shade of a rock, I only hoped that my pursuers would find me before Death came along to collect my carcass. However, as luck would have it, a Padre astride a burro beat them both to my location.

The Padre found me unconscious and immediately removed the musket ball from my shoulder. The pain of that operation instantly roused me from my deadly delirium and I opened my eyes to find this old cleric washing the dried blood from my youthful skin. I, however, was more interested in the small gray burro, so I pulled my revolver and, waving it, backed him away. Weakly I stood, and keeping my pistol trained on the monk, I climbed atop his burro to continue my trek north.

As soon as I holstered my gun and turned to ride away, the Padre, uncharacteristically, I thought, dashed up behind me and railed at me in Spanish. He pushed on me, trying to dislodge me from my seat. As is my wont when threatened, I quickly drew my six shooter. Instead of immediately gunning down the valiant priest, I clubbed him behind the ear. He slumped slowly to the ground. For good measure, however, the cruel streak in me caused me to shoot off the toe of his boot as he lay unconscious on the hot desert rocks.

I had only ridden across the next rise when I spied the Rio Grande, winding its way through the desert ahead. Atop said rise, however, a strange bolt of lightning flashed from the skies and struck the gray burro. I was thrown clear but came to rest on a pile of jagged rocks. My leg was broken and the bone was jutting through. By sheer will power I crawled northward toward that shallow waterway that divided Mexico from the United States. I do not remember how I managed, but I eventually found myself in Eagle Pass. Luckily for me, an old friend of mine, Pedro, from the Mexican Mine Wars of the late 60's had settled in the area and assisted me in locating a place to hide and lick my wounds. So, it was in tiny quarters nestled atop Giselda’s Bazaar where I quietly convalesced.

As days passed, I began to recollect the events surrounding my last few days. I wondered about the strange lightning coming so soon after my assault on the kindly Padre. I thought maybe a message had been sent and I pledged to work hard toward making changes to my way of thinking. After a month, my leg had sufficiently healed so that I was, once again, able to again regain my feet. Once I could move about, cabin fever quickly set in. I found that I could no longer simply sit, watching out the window at the people scurrying in and out of Giselda’s during business hours. I did not find such activity to be totally distasteful, however, as I often caught a nice view of Giselda, herself. She was as fine a woman upon which any man had laid a pair of eyes.

Late one evening, just as she was closing up for the night, I crept down the stairs. From my room above, I entered from an alcove at the stairway’s end into the back of the shop. As I approached, a floor board creaked and Giselda spun to face me. As her eyes met mine, Cupid’s arrows flung their magic her way and mine. It was love at first sight, at least, at her first sight of me. I had been watching her, from afar, for many days, as I said.

Soon, we were warm and cozy, and I found myself shirking off the wildness of past with each passing day. ‘Ere long, Giselda was spending her days at la hacienda familia handling our domestic matters while cooking up our child in her womb. Ay Carumba! This gringo was going to soon be a Papa.

I hung up my guns and became a shopkeeper. It became my daily duty and delight to handle the wheelings and dealings of the ongoing operations of the Bazaar. I found I enjoyed interacting with the people and making money in a lawful manner. Life was better than I had ever imagined. From my earliest beginnings in the migrant worker’s camps, I had always been at the bottom of the food chain. I had managed to survive solely by my wits, fast fists, and my ability to clear leather more quickly than most. Few had been surprised when I'd become a bandito and a scourge of lawmen both north and south of the Rio Grande. My life now was quite different and, in my new way of thinking, very good. At least it was until "he" walked into Giselda’s Bazaar.

At first, he seemed to be an ordinary customer, except for the ghastly white eyes that shone out of dead sockets and the white cane that clicked hither and thither as he moved toward the counter. “Motherfucker!” he screeched loudly. That diverted my attention in his direction, as well as averted the attention of the other assorted patrons in our busy border town emporium. I darted over toward this vulgar patron, eager to quickly silence his foul utterances.

“May I assist you, sir?” I asked.

“Yeah, cocksucker, you can,” he sputtered. I could smell the odor of stale beer on his breath, but just barely so, as the stench of stale urine on his clothes worked hard to conceal it.

“Excuse me sir, but could you watch your language? There are ladies present, as you can see.”

“As I can see? You dumb bastard, can’t you see that I can’t?”

“My apologies, Señor. Of course, you’re right.”

“You’re goddamned right I’m right. So, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve already apologized. I’m not too sure what else I can do.”

“Well, you can get me a goddamned pair of sunglasses, asshole, that’s what you can do.”

“Of course, Señor. I think I have just what you want.” I quickly darted over and grabbed our finest pair of Ray-Bans. “Here is one of the finest pairs we have,” I said as I laid them into his hand.

He reached over with his other hand and, with his index finger, traced the outline of the designer sunshades, then briskly tossed them away. “Defective. Run-of-the-mill Chinese import. I want something unique, cocksucker.”

By this time, the store had cleared out. I wanted to clear this bum out of the store, as well, but he was blind, after all. I suppose one had to allow a little latitude to the handicapped. This particular handicapped individual, however, soon proved himself to be one superb pain in the ass. Over the next hour, I proffered one pair of sunglasses after another. He deftly fingered each proffered pair in the identical way, and, just as identically, tossed such aside with disgust. “What kind of fucking trash store is this, anyway? Ain’t ya got anything unique?”

I was about at wit’s end at this point and it was nearing closing time. I had yet missed timely sitting down to one of Giselda’s succulent Tex-Mex repasts and I was not about to have such occur for the first time on account of one rude, crude blind man. I was quickly feeling that I had run out of every alternative other than just physically pitching the bum out into the dusty street when I eyed the old cigar store Indian that stood by the door. Upon it’s face sat the very pair of flat black plastic rimmed glasses with those 3-D lenses it had worn since I had first laid eyes on that silent sentinel. You know the type: one lens red, the other green. “I do have one other pair, Señor. Very unique.”

“Where are they, you bastard. Lemme have ‘em.”

“As you request.” I stepped over, removed the odd glassed from the wooden mannequin, and laid them in the blind man’s hand. He gingerly fingered them over, flipped them over and over, opened them, and placed them upon his face.

“I’ll take these,” he said, as he turned, click-clicking with his cane toward the exit.

“Did you want to pay me for them?” I inquired to his back.

“With all the aggravation you put me through, I kinda deserve ‘em, don’t ya think? If it makes you any happier, numbnuts, you can put it on my bill.” With that, he strode out the door into the street.

I began to busily gathering the dozens of pairs of strewn sunglasses, seeking to put the store in some order before final closing. I put very little thought in the old blind guy. I simply smiled to myself in knowing it would likely take him a few days to learn that he wore such an odd pair of glasses upon his vile visage. It was not only the oddly-colored lenses that made the glasses distinctive. During some point in their long ride upon the wooden Indian’s face, some kid had, with Wite-Out®, painted I’m a Jackass across their front. Of course, in my earlier days, my recent protagonist would have also been missing a few toes for his trouble.

What'll we find behind Door #4?

Hey ya'll. I was on a Holy Mission today. I was sent on a quest to find the Highway to Heaven. I searched here and I searched there. I think I searched most everywhere. Finally, I found it. However, there was a big sign out front saying it had been bought by some lady and was no longer open to the public without a ticket.

I searched the surroundings for some place to purchase a ticket and quickly located the site for the ticket sales. It lay at the other end of a very long line of people. I joined the line, but after an hour, I determined it had not moved one iota. In my desperation, I searched for alternative routes to my destination.

There was another visible path, so I left the line and followed the steady stream of traffic heading along this other path. Little did I know that I was traveling along the Highway to Hell. Even after arrival, I was a bit unsure of where I was. It was not until I found myself Dancing with the Devil that I understood the nature of my predicament.

My navel is complaining that the heat is turned up a bit too high. I'd feed it an ice cube to cool it off, but there are none to be found. End of report.

Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah

Well, I drifted off this afternoon and had the strangest dream. It seems I was living out in the Old West and, being a young greenhorn without the necessary callouses to do a real man's work, I got me a soft job with the railroad. No, I was not relegated to banging stakes into cross-ties, as that is also real man stuff ... I was relegated to the kitchen, where some gal named Dinah was doing all the work, and for some reason all that was asked of me was to sit there strumming on some old banjo, while Dinah sang Fee-Fi-Fiddly-I-O, just to pass the time away. Of course, I wasn't really pleased to have to get up so early in the morn, but for some danged reason, it seemed that darned Captain was always calling for Dinah to blow that horn, and no one could sleep with all that yelling and horn blowing going on.

When I awoke, I noticed I'd been drooling and that a pool of such had collected in my navel. My navel was displeased to have been involuntarily relegated to use as a receptacle for spittle. I was please to know it actually could be of some use. End of report.

The Case of Nobody's Home, by somebody's gardener

Here is a bit of real life:

I just called the house of a friend of mine. Her boyfriend's mother answered and I asked if my friend was there.

She responded: There's nobody here.

I asked: Are you sure?

She responded: Yes, there is nobody here.

I said: Wow, that is strange. There is nobody there, yet someone answers the phone.

She laughed. Who is this?

From somewhere out in The Twilight Zone

One of the strangest posts I have read in a long time:

Pharmacists

Some pharmacists in the United States are refusing to fill prescriptions for birth control pills since birth control is against their religion. In certain (red)* states, lawmakers are working to protect these pharmacists from losing their jobs! I want to become a pharmacist...and a Christian Scientist! Christian Scientists don't believe in modern medicine, meaning no prescriptions for anyone! It would be wonderful to get paid to do a job that you refuse to do and then not get fired for not doing the job that you are getting paid to do! Where do I sign up? Now, if only I could find someone dumb enough to put me in charge of a gaggle of drugs...

posted by Jennifer 08/04/05 10:01 AM Comments (3) - source**

*I am unsure why "(red)" preceded states, since the religion that is against birth control are the Catholics, and since most Catholics are Democrats, why in the heck would the lawmakers in Republican-held red states care whether or not those who refused to fill birth control prescriptions because birth control was against their religion got fired. After all, it is unlikely they would lose any votes if they did nothing at all to stop the firings. As such, I find the reference to be illogical. Mr. Spock signing off.

**Post quoted in the entirety due to the lack of permalinks on the blog.

April 8, 2005 - Moona edition

Q - What do the bathroom doors at the funeral home say?

A - His and Hearse.

While walking along the sidewalk in front of his church, a minister heard the intoning of a prayer that nearly made his collar wilt. Apparently, his five-year-old son and his playmates had found a dead robin. Feeling that proper burial should be performed, they had secured a small box and cotton batting, then dug a hole and made ready for the disposal of the deceased.

The minister's son was chosen to say the appropriate prayers and with sonorous dignity intoned his version of what he thought his father always said: "Glory be unto the Faaaather ... and unto the Sonnn ... and into the hole he gooooes."

And if these weren't bad enough, read on ...

It is with the saddest heart that I must pass on the following news...

Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community. The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71. Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies and Captain Crunch. The grave site was piled high with flours. Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he still, as a crusty old man, was considered a roll model for millions. Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough; two children John Dough and Jane Dough plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes. - Source.

3 buddies die in a car crash, they go to heaven to an orientation. They are all asked, "When you are in your casket and friends and family are mourning upon you, what would you like to hear them say about you?"

The first man says, "I would like to hear them say that I was a great doctor of my time, and a great family man."

The second man says, "I would like to hear that I was a wonderful husband and school teacher which made a huge difference in our children of tomorrow."

The last guy replies, "I would like to hear them say ... LOOK!! HE'S MOVING!!!" - Source.

Posted by Susan R at 11:52 AM | Comments (1)

April 8, 2005

A passenger in a taxi leaned over to ask the driver a question and tapped him on the shoulder. The driver screamed, lost control of the cab, nearly hit a bus, drove up over the curb, and stopped just inches from a large plate glass window.

For a few moments everything was silent in the cab, and then the still shaking driver said, "I'm sorry but you scared the daylights out of me."

The frightened passenger apologized to the driver and said he didn't realize a mere tap on the shoulder could frighten him so much.

The driver replied, "No, no, I'm sorry, it's entirely my fault. Today is my first day driving a cab ... I've been driving a hearse for the last 25 years."

It was just a small blip on the radar screen

I am unsure if any of ya'll believe in biorhythms and such, but I think there may be something to it. As you can see from the chart below, I am only just now starting to recover intellectually while I am almost drained emotionally. Thankfully, physically, I am doing pretty well, but due to my mental and emotional status, I feel exhausted.

I fell asleep without warning last evening, and totally neglected to post the report. Oh well, it does not seem to be missed, as, unlike other, more well-known blogging superstars, there was no audience clamoring for my appearance.

My navel does not believe in biorhythms. It also does not believe in money. I is, however, obsessed with love. End of report.

It never gets harder than this

No matter what I do or what I try, I never see any better results. Thankfully, the status quo seems to be sufficient. I say thankfully despite there having been times when I wished otherwise. What? You don't know to what I am referring? Neither do I? In fact, I don't even seem to remember what we were discussing? Where am I? Who am I? Why am I wearing my underwear backwards?

There is this little dimple in this big mound of flesh just below my chin that seems to be wanting to contribute to this message in some manner. What? It told me to write end of report. OK. End of report.

Happy "belated" second blogoversary

I guess if you forget your own blogoversary, you really have no reason to complain if no one else seems to notice, right? April 4, 2003 to April 4, 2005

What would you like on your Tombstone®?

It's creeping nearer and nearer, day by day ... that dreaded 50th birthday ... qualification for membership in AARP. And, what's worse than turning 50, is wearing those 50 years draped over your brittle bones like so much sack cloth ... stained sack cloth. I have been noticing these strange blotches developing on my hands and arms. I remember seeing odd splotches on my ancestors, those really old ones who used to pinch my cheeks when they were still pinchable. Alas, I have gone from being a little cherub who hated to get his cheeks pinched into an old crone who loves the feel of smooth skin on his fingertips. One who loves to apply subtle pressure to supple young muscles.

Come here, young'un. I need some cheeks to pinch.

It's true. I'm a codger. Time to go pick out a casket.

My navel disagrees with my age assessment. It thinks of itself as a spring chicken. I do admit that the area surrounding my navel is spongy like a spring chicken, or springy like a sponge chicken, or chicken like a springy sponge.* End of report.

*If you think this is strange, you ought to have a gander at last night's NNGR™. It was a real goose gas to create. It was it created while I was getting gassed. I didn't want to do it but I was laughing so hard, I couldn't stop myself. You're not mad at me, are you? Feel free to share your answer. ;)

No one here but us chickens

Nearly eleven years ago, convicted killer Randolf Dial escaped from Oklahoma State Reformatory in Granite, Oklahoma, with the assistant warden's wife, Bobbi Parker, the mother of two then-teenage daughters. Mr Dial was talented as a sculptor and artist. After attaining trustee status at the prison, he and Mrs. Parker had been operating an inmate pottery program. Since leaving the prison, the two used the aliases Richard and Samantha Deahl and worked on chicken farms. Shelby County Sheriff Newton Johnson commented:

"It's unusual that someone would be held against her will for 11 years, but I guess anything's possible"

It seems that she had some opportunities to escape.

"She came in the store by herself. All she had to do was pick up the phone and dial. She had chances to get away," store clerk Earlene Mitchell said.

James Chandler, another store employee, said Parker didn't say much.

"She's kinda shy, like she's not in the real know about raising chickens," Chandler said.

Dial, on the other hand, did not really feel that he had escaped, because of having to hide:

"I was doing time," he said. "I never went anywhere. It was just the same as being in prison, except I had a big yard."

He is fairly compliant about his return to prison:

"I hope they will let me have my paint and brushes," he said. "That's all I hope."

When he talked with his chicken-farm companion Monday night, he told her to "be good to herself. She's got it coming."

I wonder if her husband found the story of her kidnapping to be full of Chicken Sh*t?

She's probably against corporal punishment, too

Most of us would agree that a good teacher should also be a good role model. But how many times have we heard from teachers and maybe even from parents: "Don't do as I do -- Do as I say."

This parent, herself a teacher in a nearby school, arrived for an unscheduled and rather unorthodox parent-teacher conference which, by the way, also violated student confidentiality, since it was held in front of an entire class of seventh graders.

Paulette Baines, a North Dallas High School teacher, left her campus Friday morning and showed up angry and unannounced in the classroom of Mary Oliver at nearby Travis.

The police report says Ms. Oliver was sitting at her desk when Ms. Baines walked into the room and grabbed her by the hair. She hit Ms. Oliver in the face repeatedly with her fist and dragged her across the floor as the class of seventh-graders watched. Ms. Baines also kicked Ms. Oliver several times in the side while she was on the floor.

I wonder if the student who complained about her teacher to the counselor was proud of how her mother defended her. The sad part is that there are those who blame the school's lack of sensitivity for black students for this parent's outburst. While the student alleged that she and another black student had been singled out, Ms. Oliver said

that she had not singled out any of the girls but had told them "y'all" need to get back to class.

The trigger on this incident apparently was pulled earlier that morning. Ms. Oliver has said she saw Ms. Baines' daughter and other girls in the hallway at their lockers during class. She told them to get back to class. Ms. Baines' daughter got upset and went to the school counselor, who called Ms. Baines.

Neither teacher could be reached Monday. I was told that Ms. Oliver was asleep and recuperating at home from her injuries. Ms. Baines has been charged with assault.

On Sunday, Ms. Oliver told reporter Margarita Martín-Hidalgo that she had not singled out any of the girls but had told them "y'all" need to get back to class.

Some parents say race may have played a part.

I talked to Rossi Walter, who is black. He serves as president of the Dallas Council of PTAs and happens to have children at Travis.

Mr. Walter told me that he spoke with Ms. Baines, who is black. Here, in a nutshell, is what she told him:

Ms. Baines' daughter and a friend, who is black, were in the hallway during class. Ms. Oliver, who is white, directed them to get back to class but ignored a white girl who also was in the hallway in violation of school rules.

Let me stress that no one has established what role race may have played in Friday's incident. Ms. Oliver had taught science to Ms. Baines' daughter in past years. So, maybe there was a history there that had nothing to do with race.

But racial tension has plagued Travis since it opened in 2001 in Oak Lawn.

"It was foreseeable that something like this would happen," said Kenneth Walker, a black lawyer and parent of a Travis child from 2001 to 2003.

More than two years ago, I met with Mr. Walker and other black parents about their concerns that white administrators and teachers at Travis were not sensitive to black families and children.

They said they believed their children were treated differently when it came to grades and other forms of academic recognition.

"They put their heads in the sand instead of taking positive steps to address our concerns," said Mr. Walker, who described the Travis campus as "hostile territory" for black families.

Travis is a magnet school for academically talented kids. Kids apply for admission based on test scores, grades and recommendations. Competition is tough. The student body is evenly divided between black, white and Hispanic students. But the teaching staff is overwhelmingly white – 70 percent in the elementary school and 75 percent in the middle school.

At a school like Travis, where excellence is the goal, there's a lot of talk about who can cut it academically and who can't. Sometimes, the talk turns to students who should return to their less-than-rigorous neighborhood schools.

To Mr. Walker and other black parents, it seems that the question of belonging and ability was asked too often about minority students.

Mr. Walter, the PTA president, said he believes some white teachers have unconsciously created the impression that they expect less of black students than white students. The result is less faculty attention and interaction with some black students, he said.

"I don't think it's racism, but I can see how some people might see it as racism," he said.

Mr. Walter described Ms. Oliver as a strict teacher. For the record, he said his son had a good relationship with her when they were student and teacher.

The source of the violence at Travis on Friday morning must not be written off as just another isolated incident, Mr. Walter said.

I wanted to ask Mari Smith, Travis' principal, whether it's time for a serious, extended dialogue about race at Travis. And whether she believes more minority teachers are needed there. Or whether she and her bosses think yet another sensitivity training course will do the trick.

She declined to be interviewed Monday.

What it is? per askance

Something wicked, something wild, something simple, something mild; Thoughtless people, purple pie, listen people, to my tale: life so easy can be dull, boring stories left to tell.

It's like plowing through granite to break into those deep realms of originality. Blurbs on nothingness tickle lightly off my tongue sans substancy. Searching, searching, searching.

Navel quixotically quizzical. End of report.

My bucket has a hole in it ...

and all my good ideas drained right out the bottom of it. Like the tears I shed when I learned of my loss, they ran down the hill in tumultuous rivulets to gather into great streams that surge toward the great ocean of knowledge. Alas, I'm drained.

My navel says that was a bit deep. I thought it was all wet. I'll leave it up to you* to make your own decision. End of report.

*Will the last person to leave the building be sure to shut off the water?

Jes' sayin', ya know?

Just to reiterate a point. I do not have time to register to comment. Therefore, you'll never know what I had to say.

Apr. 3, 2005

Pfizzer Pharmaceuticals proudly presents pill pushing physicians. The best artificially induced euphoria that money can buy. Several stunning side effects included at no additional charge. Artfully done. Opus stunning in puce and pustules.

In Requiem: John Paul II

Even though I'm not a Catholic, I am mourning the death of a great Pope. RIP John Paul II. You showed the world what a Pope could truly be and set a great example for all those who follow.

Facing down Billy the Kid?

You know, there is all this talk all the time about the demise of the Earth if we don't stop doing this or that ... and I say, why worry? If Battlestar Galactica has shown us nothing else, at least we now know that you don't actually need an planet to survive, you only have to be good at fighting Cylons.

Now, onto more important matters: Today, of course, as the title implies was Billy the Kid Day in the burgeoning metropolis of Hico, TX, a festival to celebrate the claim of one Ollie L. "Brushy Bill" Roberts as having actually been "the" Billy the Kid. The event was well attended. I bought a candle, donated some money to a few local charities in lieu of purchasing the assort wares*, consumed some "tater twisters" and a sno-cone,** and toured the Billy the Kid Museum.

This was not my introduction to Brushy Bill's claim to fame. I have always been a skeptic of his purported notoriety. It was, however, my first visit to the museum created in his honor. I immediately saw something that clued me in on a possible beginning to this controversy. There was a an old, though not ancient, sign that formerly welcomed people to the town which read:

Hico, Texas
Where everybody is somebody

I guess that Ollie L. Roberts tired of being nobody, so took Hico's offer to heart. He packed up his bags and moved to Hico where he could indeed "be" Billy the Kid.

I am not the only one to deny Brushy Bill's claim. See holes poked in Brushy's claim here. Also:

Tom Sullivan, a sheriff in Lincoln County, New Mexico earlier this month opened case number 2003-274, in which his office, with the cooperation of the state of New Mexico, will use 21st century technology to hopefully put to rest questions about what actually happened at shoot-outs in 1881.

Sheriff Sullivan says that DNA testing can prove where the body of the real Billy the Kid rests, and that Sheriff Pat Garrett shot him dead on July 14, 1881 in a house in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

---

The project started three months ago after Sullivan visited a museum in Hico, Texas dedicated to Brushy Bill Roberts, who claimed in 1950 to be Billy the Kid. Claims by the museum that Billy the Kid died there suggests that Sheriff Pat Garrett shot someone other than the Kid in New Mexico and covered it up.

“That would make Pat Garrett a murderer. Now he’s our most famous sheriff — and a hero in my book — so I want to clear his name,” Sullivan said. - source

However, none other than Howard Hughes, himself, in his great movie The Outlaw, presented a picture where Garrett actually killed Doc Holliday, buried him, then worked a deal where Billy would surrender his guns to him, take Doc's in exchange, and disappear. With Billy's guns in his possession, no one could refute his claim of having killed the infamous Billy the Kid.

The Hughes story, however, is full of holes, as well. It seems there are other, witnessed accounts of Doc Holliday's death:

In May, 1887, Doc went to Glenwood Springs to try the sulfur vapors, as his health was steadily growing worse, but he was too far gone. He spent his last fifty-seven days in bed and was delirious fourteen of them. On November 8, 1887, he awoke clear-eyed and asked for a glass of whiskey. It was given to him and he drank it down with enjoyment. Then he said, "This is funny", and died. - source

The event did have one highlight, however. The Uncle Bill Roach Band did unveil their new song about Billy the Kid. I was lucky enough to get a copy of it and attempted to upload such for your download pleasure. The munu server rejected it as being a

tad bit on the humongous side. However, if you'd truly like to listen to such, I am sure you can email The Uncle Bill Roach Band and request your own copy.

This report was begun about 11:30pm on Saturday and completed more than 12 hours later. It seems that I had no sooner completed the initial paragraph than I felt a pain in my abdomen akin to having been gut shot by Billy the Kid himself. It seems that my system has been less than efficient and I had to employ a digestive assistant. I was up and down often during the night in order to monitor the progress. This activity and the accompanying gut pain highly irritated my navel, but nowhere near as irritated as it's close neighbor, who was highly inflamed as a result of this nightly activity. So now you know the rest of the story. Good day! End of report.

*Cookies, pudding, and some brightly decorated flip-flops.

**Hawaiian Ice.

The box of zingers is nearly gone

It is in the wee hours of Friday night ... near the witching hour and I am without a clue as to what to do. Well, actually ... I could ... just ... type lots of ellipses and drag a very short post out for awhile ... at least long enough that my brain can think up something humorous or inane for your entertainment pleasure.

Then, again, I could just stare at a blank screen until I fall asleep.

If I was a betting man ... I'd bet on the latter. My lucky streak is going well, so I have a pretty good chance of winning that bet. In this case, however, I expect that I have the inside track on the outcome of the event, as I am the man in charge.

Actually, that is not quite true. I am actually the man over there sleeping. This post was self generated by the blank screen. You didn't expect that lazy navel to lift a finger to assist, did you? End of report.

As Professor Reynolds might say ...

Heh! No, seriously folks, at the other end of the link is something I urge you each and all to read from the very top to the very bottom. Except for a few modifications due to my personal preferences,* I would eagerly sign such document as soon as possible.

*I follow the Cowboys** and usually pass on the beer.

**On occasion, I think George only knows why.

Apr. 1, 2005

What with today being April Fools Day, I almost forgot to bring you the finest in Friday humor. To make up for it, I am going to showcase a really funny joke:

Three women die together in an accident and go to heaven.

When they get there, St. Peter says, "We only have one rule here in heaven: don't step on the ducks!"

So they enter heaven, and sure enough, there are ducks all over the place. It is almost impossible not to step on a duck, and although they try their best to avoid them, the first woman accidentally steps on one.

Along comes St. Peter with the ugliest man she ever saw.

St. Peter chains them together and says, "Your punishment for stepping on a duck is to spend eternity chained to this ugly man!"

The next day, the second woman steps accidentally on a duck and along comes St. Peter, who doesn't miss a thing. With him is another extremely ugly man. He chains them together with the same admonishment as for the first woman.

The third woman has observed all this and, not wanting to be chained for all eternity to an ugly man, is very, VERY careful where she steps.

She manages to go months without stepping on any ducks, but one day St. Peter comes up to her with the most handsome man she has ever laid eyes on .. very tall, long eyelashes, muscular, and thin.

St. Peter chains them together without saying a word.

The happy woman says, "I wonder what I did to deserve being chained to you for all of eternity?"

The guy says, "I don't know about you, but I stepped on a duck!"

Always pay attention to footnotes

Pope's condition worsens. In preparation for his eventual demise, Pope John Paul II names Kim Jong-Il as his successor.*

*April Fools**

**My Terri Schiavo resurrection joke didn't go over well with my test audience.***

***Such being the peanut gallery in today's court session held in the most aptly named facility: The Guinn Justice Center of Johnson County, Texas. This facility is accurately named, after you have disarmed the namesake.****

****If you didn't catch the gist of this one, email me and I might explain it to you.

Who killed Kenny?*

Now, for the first time in several days, the lateness of tonight's report is not solely due to my procrastination. No way Jose. My DSL went down. In fact, it is still down as I am composing this report.

Allow me to disclose that I am doing some last minute revisions on the book in hopes of getting it published by Memorial Day. Thanks to my discussions with Mama Montezz at the 2005 Texas Blogger Bash, I have decided to give lulu.com a try. As I am eager to attempt my own promotion of this project, POD might be my best avenue for launching this endeavor. I am hopeful ya'll are all looking forward to buying a copy of Alien Attitudes: Alura Allen, Alien at Large as soon as it is available.

So, that out of the way ... let me get rid of a few dregs of thought I collected during that mis-timed road trip last Friday. Let me see ... I remember saying I didn't understand the need for quarter horses, as it seemed you'd need a whole one to actually ride. Yeah, yeah, boo -- hiss. I didn't promise these would be good. Hmmm, then I saw that the weigh station was closed and said I was pleased because I was feeling a bit bloated. Better? How about when I said that my Lincoln Town Car was designed to drive through town but to fly though the country? Yeah, I guess that one is kind of lame. Last one: First, however, you have to get the back story. It seems that my traveling companion was taking great delight in pointing out everything found on the side of the highway and providing a complete history. Finally, we passed a brand new school building. My friend said, "Hey that's new." I quipped, "Yeah, before they built that building, they had to hold classes in the restroom of that Shell station over there." Now that you know I'm a smart ass, what does that make you?

My navel is miffed. It seems that while I was busily working on book revisions on the laptop, the laptop was disturbing my navel's peace and tranquility. Guess upon whose shoulders that blame falls? Fine! Let's just see if my navel shares in the rewards when I reap the fruits of my labor. End of report.

*Hmmm, in retaliation for the death or murder of my primary connection to the outside world, I am temporarily renaming my DSL service, Kenny.