Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Here is what Tyrone wrote:
In the skit, landlord was pronounced "layun-lawah." Murphy knew the golden rule of ebonics, always leave off the last consonant.
The antethesis of Tyrone must then be Jack Handy, which was another of my favorites from SNL: The Good Years.
A few of my fav's:
Anyway, I was searching around the internet for Best of SNL DVDs (I want the ones featuring Murphy, Farrell, Carvey, Chevy Chase, Christopher Walken, Billy Crystal, Phil Hartman, Steve Martin, Weekend Update) and felt like sharing some of the experience.
I can still recall old Mister Barnslow getting out every morning and nailing a fresh load of tadpoles to the old board of his. Then he'd spin it round and round, like a wheel of fortune, and no matter where it stopped he'd yell out, "Tadpoles! Tadpoles is a winner!" We all thought he was crazy. But then we had some growing up to do.
If you're a cowboy and you're dragging a guy behind your horse, I bet it would really make you mad if you looked back and the guy was reading a magazine.
I remember that one fateful day when Coach took me aside. I knew what was coming. "You don't have to tell me," I said. "I'm off the team, aren't I?" "Well," said Coach, "you never were really ON the team. You made that uniform you're wearing out of rags and towels, and your helmet is a toy space helmet. You show up at practice and then either steal the ball and make us chase you to get it back, or you try to tackle people at inappropriate times." It was all true what he was saying. And yet, I thought something is brewing inside the head of this Coach. He sees something in me, some kind of raw talent that he can mold. But that's when I felt the handcuffs go on.
When you're riding in a time machine way far into the future, don't stick your elbow out the window, or it'll turn into a fossil.
If your friend is already dead, and being eaten by vultures, I think it's okay to feed some bits of your friend to one of the vultures, to teach him to do some tricks. But only if you're serious about adopting the vulture.
It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.
Fear can sometimes be a useful emotion. For instance, let's say you're an astronaut on the moon and you fear that your partner has been turned into Dracula. The next time he goes out for the moon pieces, wham!, you just slam the door behind him and blast off. He might call you on the radio and say he's not Dracula, but you just say, "Think again, bat man."
Dad always thought laughter was the best medicine, which I guess is why several of us died of tuberculosis.
Maybe in order to understand mankind, we have to look at the word itself: "Mankind." Basically, it's made up of two separate words - "mank" and "ind". What do these words mean ? It's a mystery, and that's why so is mankind.
One thing kids like is to be tricked. For instance, I was going to take my little nephew to Disneyland, but instead I drove him to an old burned-out warehouse. "Oh, no," I said. "Disneyland burned down." He cried and cried, but I think that deep down, he thought it was a pretty good joke. I started to drive over to the real Disneyland, but it was getting pretty late.
You have any favorites?
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
It's time to "delete" all lobbyists. Then, delete all congressional incum- bents. Then, delete... oh gosh, who can we delete next? Maybe you have suggestions.
How about any fat f*ck who puts his/her own financial well being over that of his/her employees. Or any political fat f*ck who puts their own needs above those of his/her country.
Don't get me started on this. I've about had it with DC. That town needs an enema.
So, frankly, does corporate America.
* - u
Monday, March 27, 2006
"Yeah, can I help you?"
"Social security number XXX-YY-ZZZZ?" At this point, I'm wondering who's dead. I asked who he was. He pulled out his card. "Officer Ben Dover (real name) (not really, I'm protecting his anonymity) (actually that's not true either, I just don't remember his real name, otherwise I'd gladly use it - I have no respect for others' privacy) from the Ellisville police department." Unmarked car, plain clothes.
I invited him in. He proceeded to tell me about how he'd tracked me down via my former apartment manager, who knew my butcher, who was friends with my baker, who's sister dated my candlestick maker, who knew my address. He said they had a guy in custody who had stolen my identity and was opening accounts, renting vehicles, etc. under my name.
I immediately freaked out. I'd heard stories of how this happened fairly regularly, but it had never happened to me. I'd never lost my wallet, never left my credit cards anywhere... nothing.
The cop said this guy had gotten a driver's license, gym membership, etc. using my name, but hadn't charged anything to any of my current accounts, banged my wife, or anything else of a malicious nature.
Well, maybe he had banged my wife. I didn't know for sure. But anyway.
Just then, the doorbell rang. My brain still swimming, I left the cop sitting in the kitchen for a minute while I headed to the door, prepared to bust some Jehovah's Witness cap. I never anticipated what I'd see next.
Skinny legs, fluffy white feathers, beak. Your standard run-of-the-mill Gallus Domesticus. Well, I should say, a guy dressed up in a chicken suit.
I took one hesitant step backward, while quickly replaying the last few minutes in my head.
Cop tracked me down. Stolen identity.
Man in chicken suit at door.
Yep. It was all true. For a moment, I contemplated the possibility that I had slipped deep into the Twilight Zone. Next, I considered that huffing whipped cream from aeresol cans throughout my adolescent years had taken its toll.
Then, I became suspicious. It crossed my mind that these two guys could be working in cahoots, looking for unsuspecting people to rob or pillage. Or, that my friends had been busy planning some sort of retribution for something.
So with chicken man in plain sight, I looked back into the kitchen, half expecting to see that the cop had changed into a gorilla suit and was rifling through drawers, pocketing silverware. That was not the case, he was quietly sitting at the table where I had left him.
"Can I help you?"
Off came the chicken head. It was Bill, the Schwann's man, making the rounds, taking orders, delivering food.
In a goddamn chicken suit.
Side note: It must have been a real shitty day when Bill - a grown man making 10 dollars an hour driving around in a smelly, faded mascot outfit selling frozen food door-to-door - realized that he had made such a serious vocational error.Despite it all, I was curiously calm. This was, I reassured myself, simply a set of coincidental circumstances that, in a billion years, could never be repeated.
I told Bill we didn't need anything this week, but that he made a really good-looking chicken. He laughed and informed me he had studied method acting in college. He went on his way.
I then went to the phone and called the number on the cop's business card, just to make sure he WAS an officer. It all checked out.
The cop told me he needed nothing from me... the suspect was in custody and would be facing all the appropriate charges, but that he'd follow up in a few days with a progress report, to give me a little peace of mind. I told him thanks, and he left.
I sat quietly for a few minutes, pondering the events of the day. I'm not sure if I felt more violated by the stolen identity or the chicken man. It was only about 11 am, but this would be as good a time as any to start drinking.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
I want to know why scientists, astronomers and pastry chefs everywhere have dissed our own satellite by giving it a shitty name, while assigning exotic and godly names to the satellites of OTHER planets.
How does Jupiter score names like Europa, Ganymede, Callisto, Io... while we get "Moon?" How does Saturn get Pan, Atlas, Prometheus, Pandora and Janus, while our own satellite rates such a shabby name? Size doesn't seem to matter in this case... the relatively diminutive Mars has Phobos and Deimos.
Even the "little planet that could," Pluto, has a satellite called Charon. That's kind of sexy - say it aloud.. "Charon." (Wasn't that a huge song from the 80's by The Knack? Oh, sorry, that was My Sharona)
Even our star gets a raw deal. "Sun." Huh? Why not Sirius, or Centaurus? Damn, even Betelgeuse has a better name.
I'm pissed, so I'm assigning a new name to our satellite - like it, or screw off. It shall now be called "Phillip."
I bought a new laptop this week.
My old one, an HP 5000 series, is great - it had a 60 gig hard drive and a 3 Ghz processor, but the port where you charge the battery was wearing out and would barely make contact. I inquired as to the cost of repair, and it would have cost about 25 percent as much as a brand new HP dv8113cl. 17 inch screen, 120 gig hard drive, Media Center, DVD burner, 64 bit... yeah, it was a pretty easy decision.
So, if you'd like to buy my old laptop, it's for sale. Great machine...
Why do restaurants leave the tails on shrimp even when served as part of a pasta (or similarly messy) dish? You get cream sauce all over your fingers, fer chrissake.
Some places also leave the mussels in the shell. Why? I understand presentation, but doesn't practicality mean anything? Screw the fancy look, I want to NOT need a wet-nap. Is that so difficult?
My lower back has been hurting pretty badly for the past few days, so finally I broke down and saw my doctor about it. After running tests and taking X-rays, he told me I have simply strained and over-exerted it. How, I wondered, had I done that? I've done little more than stand behind a microphone for the past 25 years!
Then, it hit me. It's all that "carrying across the threshold" that did me in! I will forever have a bad back because I can't seem to stay single.
I find it funny that the group Train has a song called "Cab." Just sayin'...
Sunday, March 19, 2006
As I was dropping the jetsam from Regis' debris field into a grocery bag today, a few things occurred to me:
The neighbor's yard looks better than mine. Regardless of the fact that all yards in this neighborhood are cared for by the same group of Mexican illegals, I am convinced his grass is greener.
It is impossible to smile when picking up shit. Even if you contrive a crooked grin, it will disappear as you attempt to grip the log with whatever tool you're using... usually devolving into something akin to a grimmace. There is also a slight turning of the head sideways, as if looking directly at the manure will cause facial burns.
The tool you use says a lot about your personality. A scoop indicates a straight-forward person who attacks a job quickly and efficiently. A dustpan-type tool is a sign of creativity, the user approaching the job with a flair for the dramatic. In my case, I use this thing that resembles a piece of earth-moving equipment. It indicates power, control, and a penchant toward genius.
You shouldn't use kitchen utensils to pick up canis crap. My neighbor uses a large soup spoon, and I just can't endorse that. Nothing I would ever put into my mouth will be used to pick up fecal matter, because I'm fairly aloof, and often deep in thought. What if I got confused?
Regis clearly rules the household. How could it be perceived differently? He barks, I drop everything and let him outside. He whines, I feed him. He brings me his "sockie," we play tug-of-war. And, once a week, I rummage around the yard to retrieve his brownies.
Why has nobody invented a doggie toilet and training program for its use?
Chile, a country of startling contrasts and extreme beauty, is more than eighteen times LONGER than its widest point. Yes, sometimes while cleaning up dookie, you think about South American geography.
Note to self: stop feeding Regis peanuts.
And then, I was finished. And humbled. Time to clean the cat box - but that's the subject of another blog...
Friday, March 17, 2006
Sorry, you've come to the wrong place.
Irish Palm Pilot
This made me laugh. I love being Irish, even if it's just for one day.
The police have a field day on this holiday, which reminded me of a fantasy of mine to be a cop for ONE day. I wrote about it last year:
Please, just endulge my fantasy for a moment.
What is the fine for littering, anyway? The first thing I'd do if I were a cop is stop every single person I caught throwing out their cigarette butts. Neither the road, nor the grill of my car, are your personal ashtrays. Those little butts have a half-life longer than a pair of my socks, so put it in your ashtray or your ass. I don't care. Just keep it off the road.
I'd stop every mini van. I'd find a reason. End of statement.
I'd stop every person who refuses to leave the left lane. What is your problem, stud? Can't you see the left lane is for passing? Okay, so you sleep on the left side of the bed and masturbate with your left hand. Neither is a reason for what you're doing. Slide over. Let the faster drivers pass, so I can bust their ass down the road doing 80 in a 65.
I'd stop my fellow cops for speeding up through yellow lights, failing to use their turn signal and for double parking. If only to laugh at my own bombastic gall, because of course I believe in doing all these things. But for whatever reason, I would just want my fellow officers to come to hate me. I really don't know why.
I would stop every single person who ever passed me. Even if they're only doing the speed limit. I would want them to meet the cop they just had the balls to pass. No tickets, of course, just to say hello. And, that you have balls.
I'd throw in jail EVERY person who believes they are more important than the next guy. Some of those people include:
- The guy who is in the middle of the intersection stuck behind other cars when the light turns red. He's blocking traffic going the other way. He's an asshole. He's going to jail.
- The person who blocks traffic because they forgot they need to turn left, so they sit there with their turn signal on, blocking traffic behind them, so THEY can cut in when the cars in that lane begin to move. God forbid you would be considerate of others' schedules, you're the important one, right? SCREW you buddy, go straight and turn around. Don't make others wait behind you because you were daydreaming. And by "others," of course I mean me.
- The jackass who thinks he knows when his light is ready to turn green by watching the other lights, and jumps the gun. Little does asshole know, he has no anticipatory prowess... so now half of his car is sticking out into the intersection. And I'm there to bust his poor-timing, self-centered, in-a-hurry ass. Me. The cop.
I have a very healthy fantasy life.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
We were on a cruise to the southern Caribbean, and were chilling out in the spa on the pool deck late at night. Like, maybe 3 am.
I am hurting bad for a vacation - it's been quite a while since I traveled outside the US. I think that, the moment I get through the turmoil going on in my life right now, I shall be calling Brenda, my travel agent.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
And by "must," of course I mean "should, but I know you probably don't have much time, being the important MF you are, so it's certainly optional, but you will be glad you took the time to watch because they are pretty f-ing good, and besides, you need a release right now because I can cut the goddamn tension with a knife."
While puttering around on some of my favorite blogs, I came across This guy, who is possibly the best juggler I've ever seen. Watch it. He gets better as the video goes along. I found it through The Disparate Housewife - Trinette is slowly taking over the world with her mad blogging skills, she gets better every day.
Over at Old Horsetail Snake, Gene (who has his own blogging skill set) found the Bush/Clinton Tapes... a video which will quite possibly fund the rest of the Iraq war. I know I'M tired of payin'.
Monday, March 13, 2006
St. Louis' inaugural Funnel-Fest happened yesterday, as the first real storms of the season spawned an impromptu weather-watching party. The crew of Bill's Garage decided that there is safety in numbers - and getting blown away is something best enjoyed with company, so we converged to watch the weather channel and fritter away a Sunday afternoon.
The turkey fryer was bubbling away, rendering spicy fried "cumulo-chicken"* that rivaled even my Mom's finest work. "Mashed-mobile-home" potatoes** were the side item of the day, along with "hail-acious" green bean casserole, "barometric" broccoli cheese casserole, and a dessert of severely sumptuous "squall-berry" shortcake.***
It was "stratus-faction guaranteed" with a Red Bull and vodka drink we called "The F-4."****
Doppler Dave and Hurricane Emily break away from television coverage to share a "meteorological moment."
The storms turned out to be quite deadly, killing nine across Missouri. This post in no way minimizes the danger of the storms, or the lives lost. We just tried to keep a sense of humor through a pretty bad night.
*Stop me if this is sounding cheesy.
**Never mind, don't stop me now, I'm on a roll. (Get it? Mobile home... on a roll? Not funny? Pretty insensitive? Yeah I thought so, too)
***Yeah, that's what I said. You can't fix stupid, and I am.
****Okay, that's it. I'm going to throw myself onto my sword to spare you further pain.
Friday, March 10, 2006
There is a time every year when I sense that the weather "clicks." The last day of freezing temperatures, the final frost, the last real opportunity for snow. My feeling is, that day was Tuesday, here.
It frosted Tuesday morning, and the temperature was about 30. It had been around that temperature for several days prior, and I think that will be the last extended period of cold weather we will have. Call it my meteorological mastery, call it my vast knowledge of, and connection with, nature. Shit, call it a guess... which it is.
But I'm telling you, spring and summer are here to stay. The yard will soon green up, and not just in the areas where Regis pees. The trees will bud, flowers will awaken, and minds will again move toward those sweet summer thoughts... like cleaning the gutter, mowing the goddamn grass and washing the dirty-ass car.
Oh, and steak on the grill.
Damn I love summer.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Have a great Thursday. It is raining outside my window - and we desperately needed it - so I'm watching it fall, sipping hot coffee and working. Talk to you tomorrow!
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
A little over 6 months later, she is dead.
Predictable, because 60 percent of lung cancer victims are dead within a year of diagnosis, 85 percent die within 5 years.
Less researched, but very much a factor, is the effect of stress and emotional turmoil on the body. Scientists don't have firm numbers, but the world is full of examples of people who die immediately after a spouse passes. I wrote about the health effects of a "broken heart" several months ago, and I am a total believer that mood, stress and events play a major role in our health. Most know the long-term effects of high blood pressure, for example. But little research has been done about the short-term effects of the vacuum left after a death or break-up.
In 1983, my grandfather died in a tractor accident at the young age of 57. My grandmother, who was a little older than he, suffered immediate health issues caused by the stress of his passing, and lived only 10 more years. In the last 2, she whithered away to nothing, and her official cause of death was "failure to thrive." She had slowly starved herself to death.
On the other hand, I've seen people diagnosed with cancer, but who possess a real zeal and love for life, who far outlive their diagnosis. I have no research to prove it, but I believe it has something to do with having a positive attitude and the will to live.
There are countless examples of perfectly healthy people who lose a spouse, then themselves die only days later. When the value of life dips below a threshhold, it's possible to simply "will yourself" to death.
There is little hard evidence, but I believe that had something to do with Dana Reeve's death. I know it did with my grandmother. Cause of death: broken heart.
Dana Reeve, 1961-2006
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Really, I don't care about numbers, this blog is not a tool for my ego, (yeah, right) (no, it's really not) (yes it is, I'm all about my counter) (that's so not true!) (yes it is, and also I'm a comment whore) (no, I'm not) (whateva) but I thought it might be neat to see what other things around the world total 40,000:
- In Cameroon, the Yaounde water supply project cost 40,000 million CFAF, which, according to my calculations, is a shitload of CFAF.
- In June 2004, John Kerry proposed that the US add 40,000 additional active-duty troops to our armed services. That didn't happen, because the election didn't exactly go his way.
- 40,000 is the number of people in Karachi who were protesting the cartoons of Muhammed. Coincidentally, I just drew a set of balls on a picture of John the Baptist and nothing is being lit on fire here.
- 40,000 is the number of tools available at www.mytoolstore.com. ONE is the number of tools who host American Idol.
- $40,000 is the approximate cost of an Escalade, prior to adding the 15" subwoofers and spinner rims, which inevitably follow any Escalade purchase.
- 40,000 is the series number of the Microplane Kitchen Grater. Developed for the woodshop... perfected for the kitchen, it has patented cutting edges originally designed for shaving wood. The 40000 series Microplane® graters are the original woodworking/ kitchen tools.
Clearly I have a lot of company at 40,000. I can't wait to get to 69,000 - imagine what I can find Googling the number 69. (and that's just one very tame example)
Friday, March 03, 2006
I will have to reassess my situation. Perhaps I'm not the person I once thought I was.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
To participate, go to Osbasso's site and get the details. Here's hoping this thing doesn't burn twice!
PS - I was naked when I took this picture, thus it qualifies for HNT.