Wednesday, January 25, 2012
I Made Fire - This Always Makes Me Laugh
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Hey, come buy some of my @#$%^!
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Nice Shot...Dick!
Ready, aim...stupidity.
Cheney accidentally shoots hunting companion
By JoAnne Allen Sun Feb 12, 7:44 PM ET
I have been in semi-retirement, but I felt compelled to share this with you. The story I pulled right from MSNBC, and added my own commentary in blue text. Enjoy.
WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Vice President Dick Cheney accidentally wounded a companion with shotgun pellets on a weekend quail hunt in Texas, his office said on Sunday.
Cheney's companion, Austin lawyer Harry Whittington, 78, was listed in stable condition after being brought in on Saturday night, said Yvonne Wheeler, a spokeswoman for the Christus Spohn Hospital in Corpus Christi, Texas.
“We were surprised, because lawyer season isn’t open for another month yet,” said Yvonne.
Cheney's office said Whittington had been sprayed by birdshot while hunting at the Armstrong Ranch in south Texas, about 200 miles south of San Antonio.
Cheney’s office finds that news like this is best delivered in a way that downplays the whole tricky responsibility angle.
The shooting was first reported by the Corpus Christi Caller-Times. The vice president's office did not disclose the accident until the day after it happened.
Smells like a “hunter-gate” scandal. Vice President...Quail...draw your own conclusion. Or, just fill in a Ted Kennedy joke if you like.
Katharine Armstrong, whose family owns the ranch, was a member of the hunting party and witnessed the accident.
Katherine added, “Harry does have a rather quail-ish look to him. You know--small eyes and whatnot. I considered shooting him.”
She said Cheney, an experienced hunter, did not realize Whittington had rejoined the group without announcing himself, which is proper protocol among hunters.
Naturally, Cheney blasted him, which is standard practice when proper protocol is overlooked.
"They had no idea he was there," Armstrong said.
"A bird flew up, the vice president followed it through around to his right and shot, and unfortunately, unbeknownst to anybody, Harry was there and he got peppered pretty good with a spray of 28-gauge pellets," Armstrong said in a telephone interview.
"He was turning, facing the vice president, but turning to the right, and it sprayed him across the right side of his face, his shoulder, his chest and along the rib cage area," she said.
“Dick was pretty drunk, so it took about three shots...”
Armstrong said Cheney's medical team attended to Whittington before he was taken to the hospital.
She described Cheney as "an excellent, conscientious shot."
"The person who is not doing the shooting at the point is just as responsible and, should be, as the person actually shooting," Armstrong said.
“The person looking down the barrel and pulling the trigger is basically a bystander, watching someone get badly shot from really close range.”
Cheney spokeswoman Lea Anne McBride said the vice president had been with Whittington at the hospital on Sunday.
"The vice president visited with Harry Whittington at the hospital and was pleased to see he is doing fine and in good spirits," McBride said.
Harry basically never has to work again, and the Bush administration will be providing him with Air Force One, 40 wives, and 40 virgins not to sue.
Cheney has been a frequent visitor to the Armstrong Ranch and in October spoke at the funeral of family patriarch Tobin Armstrong.
Cheney fatally shot Tobin in the neck, as well as two hunting guides and stabbed a Springer Spaniel during a pheasant hunt in September.
Armstrong's wife, Anne, served as U.S. ambassador to Britain and as an adviser to presidents Nixon, Reagan and George Bush.
The 50,000-acre ranch was settled in 1882 by his grandfather, John Armstrong III, a Texas Ranger known for capturing outlaw John Wesley Hardin.
Hardin, coincidentally, also shot people. Only, that was on purpose...
Whittington serves on the Texas state Funeral Services Commission and the state Office of Patient Protection and is a former member of the board of the Texas Department of Corrections.
Somewhere tonight, Michael Moore is singing.
Guns don’t kill people, politicians do.
Cheney accidentally shoots hunting companion
By JoAnne Allen Sun Feb 12, 7:44 PM ET
I have been in semi-retirement, but I felt compelled to share this with you. The story I pulled right from MSNBC, and added my own commentary in blue text. Enjoy.
WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Vice President Dick Cheney accidentally wounded a companion with shotgun pellets on a weekend quail hunt in Texas, his office said on Sunday.
Cheney's companion, Austin lawyer Harry Whittington, 78, was listed in stable condition after being brought in on Saturday night, said Yvonne Wheeler, a spokeswoman for the Christus Spohn Hospital in Corpus Christi, Texas.
“We were surprised, because lawyer season isn’t open for another month yet,” said Yvonne.
Cheney's office said Whittington had been sprayed by birdshot while hunting at the Armstrong Ranch in south Texas, about 200 miles south of San Antonio.
Cheney’s office finds that news like this is best delivered in a way that downplays the whole tricky responsibility angle.
The shooting was first reported by the Corpus Christi Caller-Times. The vice president's office did not disclose the accident until the day after it happened.
Smells like a “hunter-gate” scandal. Vice President...Quail...draw your own conclusion. Or, just fill in a Ted Kennedy joke if you like.
Katharine Armstrong, whose family owns the ranch, was a member of the hunting party and witnessed the accident.
Katherine added, “Harry does have a rather quail-ish look to him. You know--small eyes and whatnot. I considered shooting him.”
She said Cheney, an experienced hunter, did not realize Whittington had rejoined the group without announcing himself, which is proper protocol among hunters.
Naturally, Cheney blasted him, which is standard practice when proper protocol is overlooked.
"They had no idea he was there," Armstrong said.
"A bird flew up, the vice president followed it through around to his right and shot, and unfortunately, unbeknownst to anybody, Harry was there and he got peppered pretty good with a spray of 28-gauge pellets," Armstrong said in a telephone interview.
"He was turning, facing the vice president, but turning to the right, and it sprayed him across the right side of his face, his shoulder, his chest and along the rib cage area," she said.
“Dick was pretty drunk, so it took about three shots...”
Armstrong said Cheney's medical team attended to Whittington before he was taken to the hospital.
She described Cheney as "an excellent, conscientious shot."
"The person who is not doing the shooting at the point is just as responsible and, should be, as the person actually shooting," Armstrong said.
“The person looking down the barrel and pulling the trigger is basically a bystander, watching someone get badly shot from really close range.”
Cheney spokeswoman Lea Anne McBride said the vice president had been with Whittington at the hospital on Sunday.
"The vice president visited with Harry Whittington at the hospital and was pleased to see he is doing fine and in good spirits," McBride said.
Harry basically never has to work again, and the Bush administration will be providing him with Air Force One, 40 wives, and 40 virgins not to sue.
Cheney has been a frequent visitor to the Armstrong Ranch and in October spoke at the funeral of family patriarch Tobin Armstrong.
Cheney fatally shot Tobin in the neck, as well as two hunting guides and stabbed a Springer Spaniel during a pheasant hunt in September.
Armstrong's wife, Anne, served as U.S. ambassador to Britain and as an adviser to presidents Nixon, Reagan and George Bush.
The 50,000-acre ranch was settled in 1882 by his grandfather, John Armstrong III, a Texas Ranger known for capturing outlaw John Wesley Hardin.
Hardin, coincidentally, also shot people. Only, that was on purpose...
Whittington serves on the Texas state Funeral Services Commission and the state Office of Patient Protection and is a former member of the board of the Texas Department of Corrections.
Somewhere tonight, Michael Moore is singing.
Guns don’t kill people, politicians do.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Ring of Fire
Let me begin by saying that this is not funny at all. In the same sense that accidentally mistaking butter for cheese and eating it and having severe cramping etc. is also not funny.
I was awakened from a delightful nap this afternoon to the sound of my wife screaming, “Help me, help me!” from the master bath. Naturally, my first reaction was, “what part of *nap* do you not understand?” But that was fleeting, and I soon regained my mental composure once I understood there was an actual emergency. To be fair, I have been awakened from some delightful naps to be consulted on whether these curtains or those curtains would look better over the sink, or to observe that the dog appears to be watching television.
So let me back up a minute. My wife has a painful rash on her forehead—so painful that she’s been prescribed vicatin for it. The pain is so bad it can kick off a migraine headache, which doesn’t really help much. My parents have been coming by all week with ready to heat-up meals and sympathy cards etc. because they are very thoughtful and helpful like that.
Okay, back to the bathroom. I’m standing over her, still groggy from sleep and her entire head is in the sink and she’s scrubbing it vigorously with a soggy towel. This is not normal behavior for her, so I ask what’s up.
“My face is on FIRE! It hurts it hurts it huuuuurrrrts!”
Apparently, while I was asleep my mom came by with an “ointment” that they use at home for arthritis pain. A rash is not arthritis, but I let that one go. The miracle drug Dr. Mom prescribed is called Capzasin HP and it’s a high potency doctor-recommended formula for arthritis pain relief. It’s supposed to deaden the nerves that cause pain. I gathered this from reading the front of the red box head-in-the-sink handed me.
I burst into action—which for me means hopping from one foot to the other and saying, “What do you want me to do?”
“Read the box you idiot! What does it say? Read or die!”
I read, “Use only as directed. Massage into painful area until thoroughly absorbed. Avoid contact with eye or mucous membranes (yuck). Do not apply to broken or irritated skin. A transient burning sensation may occur upon application but generally disappears within several days...”
“Shit!”
The cleansing ritual that followed was prolonged, painful, and peppered with colorful swear words. I could have warned her, had I been awake, that anytime mom comes at you with any kind of medical help--it’s going to hurt plenty. I have too much Bactine “now, this might sting a little” experience to sit still for that. But she was caught totally off-guard. By the end of it we were both laughing, and it appears no permanent damage was done.
What have we learned from all this? Don’t put strange shit on your face. Arthritis is not a rash. And, never trust your parents—they’re trying to kill you and make it look like an accident.
Also, don’t eat butter on crackers, no matter how much it may look like cheese.
I was awakened from a delightful nap this afternoon to the sound of my wife screaming, “Help me, help me!” from the master bath. Naturally, my first reaction was, “what part of *nap* do you not understand?” But that was fleeting, and I soon regained my mental composure once I understood there was an actual emergency. To be fair, I have been awakened from some delightful naps to be consulted on whether these curtains or those curtains would look better over the sink, or to observe that the dog appears to be watching television.
So let me back up a minute. My wife has a painful rash on her forehead—so painful that she’s been prescribed vicatin for it. The pain is so bad it can kick off a migraine headache, which doesn’t really help much. My parents have been coming by all week with ready to heat-up meals and sympathy cards etc. because they are very thoughtful and helpful like that.
Okay, back to the bathroom. I’m standing over her, still groggy from sleep and her entire head is in the sink and she’s scrubbing it vigorously with a soggy towel. This is not normal behavior for her, so I ask what’s up.
“My face is on FIRE! It hurts it hurts it huuuuurrrrts!”
Apparently, while I was asleep my mom came by with an “ointment” that they use at home for arthritis pain. A rash is not arthritis, but I let that one go. The miracle drug Dr. Mom prescribed is called Capzasin HP and it’s a high potency doctor-recommended formula for arthritis pain relief. It’s supposed to deaden the nerves that cause pain. I gathered this from reading the front of the red box head-in-the-sink handed me.
I burst into action—which for me means hopping from one foot to the other and saying, “What do you want me to do?”
“Read the box you idiot! What does it say? Read or die!”
I read, “Use only as directed. Massage into painful area until thoroughly absorbed. Avoid contact with eye or mucous membranes (yuck). Do not apply to broken or irritated skin. A transient burning sensation may occur upon application but generally disappears within several days...”
“Shit!”
The cleansing ritual that followed was prolonged, painful, and peppered with colorful swear words. I could have warned her, had I been awake, that anytime mom comes at you with any kind of medical help--it’s going to hurt plenty. I have too much Bactine “now, this might sting a little” experience to sit still for that. But she was caught totally off-guard. By the end of it we were both laughing, and it appears no permanent damage was done.
What have we learned from all this? Don’t put strange shit on your face. Arthritis is not a rash. And, never trust your parents—they’re trying to kill you and make it look like an accident.
Also, don’t eat butter on crackers, no matter how much it may look like cheese.
Burger King Claims Fourth Victim
Armed and delicious...
AP - Just when Americans thought they were safe—a new rash of fast food mascot crime appears to be sweeping the nation. With the Hamburglar behind bars, many people relaxed their vigilance and are unwittingly putting themselves in jeopardy. Four suspected victims of the “Whopper Killer” have been discovered so far, and there is a girl missing in Aruba.
His majesty breaks into homes early in the morning and attacks his victims in bed. Reports describe the suspect as a vaguely homoerotic Caucasian king about 5’ 10” (over six foot with crown) with brown hair and beard. On at least one occasion he was seen trying to gain access through an unlocked bedroom window.
If you smell an unexplained odor of french fries, or you suspect there is a mascot stalking you, get to a safe, well-lit area immediately and dial 911.
AP - Just when Americans thought they were safe—a new rash of fast food mascot crime appears to be sweeping the nation. With the Hamburglar behind bars, many people relaxed their vigilance and are unwittingly putting themselves in jeopardy. Four suspected victims of the “Whopper Killer” have been discovered so far, and there is a girl missing in Aruba.
His majesty breaks into homes early in the morning and attacks his victims in bed. Reports describe the suspect as a vaguely homoerotic Caucasian king about 5’ 10” (over six foot with crown) with brown hair and beard. On at least one occasion he was seen trying to gain access through an unlocked bedroom window.
If you smell an unexplained odor of french fries, or you suspect there is a mascot stalking you, get to a safe, well-lit area immediately and dial 911.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Will Someone Please Whack Geraldo?
Feeling "clear"
It’s been a Category Five kind of week.
I’m sure you all have been doing the same TV News tragedy tango I have—flipping between CNN, MSNBC and FOXNews. I’ve worked out a pretty good rhythm now and I can evade most of the commercials. I think it’s ludicrous to have commercials anyway. My wife has gotten used to me shouting from the family room, “The devastation of Hurricane Katrina brought to you by Mazda! Zoom Zoom!” in my official TV voice.
I guess everybody grieves differently. For my own part, N.O. is a great town and it’s absolutely heart-breaking to see people living and dying under such horrifying conditions. It’s also disturbing when you realize that our technological veneer is so fragile, and at any time we’re within hours of the third world. The Stone Age is always out there...waiting for us.
Even so, once the initial shock wore off I found my primary emotion became irritation at the newsvultures clearly trying to outdo each other. Is it cynical to think that program director is whispering to them through their earpiece, “tears on 5, 4, 3...?” They have their game-faces on, but underneath they’re loving it and mentally clearing shelf space for the inevitable CableACE award for broadcast journalism.
I was thinking of *you* quite a bit this week. I began jotting down dumb-ass sound bites newscasters were lobbing out, thinking I’d do a whole piece just on that. I have a bunch of Post-Its stuck to my monitor with various hambone phrases scrawled on them. Some of my favorite gems included “The Big Uneasy” and “Hell and High Water” and “(insert whatever...) of Biblical Proportions” plus “Hell on Earth” and the now infamous “Toxic Gumbo.”
My original intention was to have a contest to get you to send me your best sound turds. But then on Wednesday my dedication started to waver as I began noting other things I thought were equally odd. Like, did you catch the interview with disaster relief nurse “Misty” in the pink Victoria’s Secret cami with lace piping who looked like she was getting ready to evacuate people to the Hefnerdome? Twenty yards away a rat is gnawing on a dead guy’s ankle--and she looks like she’s going to hook up with Paris later at the Funky Pirate. What gives?
Then President Obvious popped by to roll his sleeves up and note that “It will take a long time to rebuild” and “if things aren’t going right, we’re gosh-darn going to make sure they do go right” and to talk about what a swell job everyone was doing. You could see him taking quick glances at his hand. High magnification reveals he had written “Declare war on hurricanes” on there with a Sharpie—I guess as a reminder...
By Thursday I was starting to notice a distinct lack of Jesse Jackson and Anne and I got into a big argument about what kind of food it would be best to serve in Red Cross shelters. She said individually wrapped sandwiches “like you get at the gas station” and I said “pancakes” for what I thought were some pretty good reasons. Mainly, pancake mix is easy to transport and prepare, requires no refrigeration, and it’s *comfort food*. I mean really, if you’ve just been airlifted off your roof after wallowing in swampy attic water for three days--which would you rather have?
Nevertheless, by Friday I gave up on writing about that stuff as I became increasingly fixated on Greta Van Susteren and how, if you stare at her long enough, she looks like Mrs. Potatohead. I went online tonight to get the correct spelling of her last name (oh yes, we’re sticklers for detail here) when I discovered a host of sites devoted to her bad plastic surgery and her association with Scientology. The picture I downloaded of her looking extra potato-ey was another bonus.
Then Geraldo arrived to dish up some righteous indignation down at the convention center. When he was holding the kid in his arms, sweat streaming down his grizzled neck cords, and shouted, “LET MY PEOPLE GO!” I knew I’d never be able to get that image off the back of my retinas. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin'...you’ve got lots of unregistered guns and lawlessness loose down there--and I’ve got virtually unlimited pairs of fresh underpants, bottled water, and pancakes here. Think about it. I bet we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.
It’s been a Category Five kind of week.
I’m sure you all have been doing the same TV News tragedy tango I have—flipping between CNN, MSNBC and FOXNews. I’ve worked out a pretty good rhythm now and I can evade most of the commercials. I think it’s ludicrous to have commercials anyway. My wife has gotten used to me shouting from the family room, “The devastation of Hurricane Katrina brought to you by Mazda! Zoom Zoom!” in my official TV voice.
I guess everybody grieves differently. For my own part, N.O. is a great town and it’s absolutely heart-breaking to see people living and dying under such horrifying conditions. It’s also disturbing when you realize that our technological veneer is so fragile, and at any time we’re within hours of the third world. The Stone Age is always out there...waiting for us.
Even so, once the initial shock wore off I found my primary emotion became irritation at the newsvultures clearly trying to outdo each other. Is it cynical to think that program director is whispering to them through their earpiece, “tears on 5, 4, 3...?” They have their game-faces on, but underneath they’re loving it and mentally clearing shelf space for the inevitable CableACE award for broadcast journalism.
I was thinking of *you* quite a bit this week. I began jotting down dumb-ass sound bites newscasters were lobbing out, thinking I’d do a whole piece just on that. I have a bunch of Post-Its stuck to my monitor with various hambone phrases scrawled on them. Some of my favorite gems included “The Big Uneasy” and “Hell and High Water” and “(insert whatever...) of Biblical Proportions” plus “Hell on Earth” and the now infamous “Toxic Gumbo.”
My original intention was to have a contest to get you to send me your best sound turds. But then on Wednesday my dedication started to waver as I began noting other things I thought were equally odd. Like, did you catch the interview with disaster relief nurse “Misty” in the pink Victoria’s Secret cami with lace piping who looked like she was getting ready to evacuate people to the Hefnerdome? Twenty yards away a rat is gnawing on a dead guy’s ankle--and she looks like she’s going to hook up with Paris later at the Funky Pirate. What gives?
Then President Obvious popped by to roll his sleeves up and note that “It will take a long time to rebuild” and “if things aren’t going right, we’re gosh-darn going to make sure they do go right” and to talk about what a swell job everyone was doing. You could see him taking quick glances at his hand. High magnification reveals he had written “Declare war on hurricanes” on there with a Sharpie—I guess as a reminder...
By Thursday I was starting to notice a distinct lack of Jesse Jackson and Anne and I got into a big argument about what kind of food it would be best to serve in Red Cross shelters. She said individually wrapped sandwiches “like you get at the gas station” and I said “pancakes” for what I thought were some pretty good reasons. Mainly, pancake mix is easy to transport and prepare, requires no refrigeration, and it’s *comfort food*. I mean really, if you’ve just been airlifted off your roof after wallowing in swampy attic water for three days--which would you rather have?
Nevertheless, by Friday I gave up on writing about that stuff as I became increasingly fixated on Greta Van Susteren and how, if you stare at her long enough, she looks like Mrs. Potatohead. I went online tonight to get the correct spelling of her last name (oh yes, we’re sticklers for detail here) when I discovered a host of sites devoted to her bad plastic surgery and her association with Scientology. The picture I downloaded of her looking extra potato-ey was another bonus.
Then Geraldo arrived to dish up some righteous indignation down at the convention center. When he was holding the kid in his arms, sweat streaming down his grizzled neck cords, and shouted, “LET MY PEOPLE GO!” I knew I’d never be able to get that image off the back of my retinas. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin'...you’ve got lots of unregistered guns and lawlessness loose down there--and I’ve got virtually unlimited pairs of fresh underpants, bottled water, and pancakes here. Think about it. I bet we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
The Problem With Dogs
Don't try this at home.
Consider...the hot dog. The *wiener* if you prefer. Tube steak. It’s a nasty food made of ground-up bits of things you wouldn’t feed your dog (no pun intended here) mixed with other things that aren’t normally considered food—like, say, sawdust and insect parts.
Still, you have to admit that when you hear the call of Oscar Mayer nothing else will satisfy. I put down maybe five dogs in an average year. There just aren’t many foods that can really do justice to being cooked on a stick. The other day I notice that summer is almost over (sob) and I haven’t enjoyed even a single frank, and I get this craving. So off to the store I go.
Now you can’t just buy one lone hot dog, right? You have to by a pack. So I pick out two year’s worth of Ballpark specials (Now...with extra Ear & Snout!) and head to the bread area, which is conveniently located in a distant zip code somewhere beyond the pharmacy. I pick up a package of buns and head for home. I fire up the grill and get down to business. I don’t want to waste food, so I cook all ten dogs.
I’m sure you’ve seen those infomercials where the lady holds up the dirty little girl by one ankle while the baritone voice-over drones, “Little Mary drinks from this filthy sewage-polluted stream that runs through the landfill behind that hollow log where she and her 11 brothers and sisters live.” Ever since then I vowed...no more wasting food.
So I tuck each of my dogs into a delicious fresh bun...except for two. Since buns only come in packages of eight to my ten hot dogs, I’m left with a remainder of two--like some kind of meaty division problem. Chalk up one quick stop at the store for another pack of buns. Now my dogs are bedded down, but I have six buns left. Back to the grocery for more dogs. Now I’m long by four wieners (ok, that pun was intended). Here’s how the story goes from here:
+ 8 buns = 4 buns left
+ 10 dogs = 6 dogs left
+ 8 more buns = 2 buns left
+ 10 dogs = 8 dogs left
+ 8 buns = urp!
All told, I’m into this little project to the tune of 4 packs of hot dogs and 5 rolls. Total cost $24.95. So here’s a riddle—what the @#$%! gives? Is this a long-standing feud between butchers and bakers? Is it the Republicans? Are crooked CEOs siphoning off two buns from each pack to pad their retirement funds with extra dough? Are they being shipped off to our brave boys in Eye-raq?
Then I discovered the solution just where you’d expect it—on the internet.
“It's an obvious conspiracy. The bun company is in cahoots with the hot dog company. They want you to buy one pack of hot dogs and one pack of buns. Then, to use up the other two hot dog buns, you have to buy more hot dogs. You would have more hot dog buns left over, so you, once again, are forced to buy more hot dogs. Eventually, this would zero out (8 packs of hot dogs, 80 hot dogs, and 10 packs of buns, 80 buns), but no one wants to eat that many hot dogs.”
People are bad at story problems.
Next week we’ll explore why, even though you purchase them at the same time, you’ll always run out of shampoo before conditioner.
Bon Appetit...
Consider...the hot dog. The *wiener* if you prefer. Tube steak. It’s a nasty food made of ground-up bits of things you wouldn’t feed your dog (no pun intended here) mixed with other things that aren’t normally considered food—like, say, sawdust and insect parts.
Still, you have to admit that when you hear the call of Oscar Mayer nothing else will satisfy. I put down maybe five dogs in an average year. There just aren’t many foods that can really do justice to being cooked on a stick. The other day I notice that summer is almost over (sob) and I haven’t enjoyed even a single frank, and I get this craving. So off to the store I go.
Now you can’t just buy one lone hot dog, right? You have to by a pack. So I pick out two year’s worth of Ballpark specials (Now...with extra Ear & Snout!) and head to the bread area, which is conveniently located in a distant zip code somewhere beyond the pharmacy. I pick up a package of buns and head for home. I fire up the grill and get down to business. I don’t want to waste food, so I cook all ten dogs.
I’m sure you’ve seen those infomercials where the lady holds up the dirty little girl by one ankle while the baritone voice-over drones, “Little Mary drinks from this filthy sewage-polluted stream that runs through the landfill behind that hollow log where she and her 11 brothers and sisters live.” Ever since then I vowed...no more wasting food.
So I tuck each of my dogs into a delicious fresh bun...except for two. Since buns only come in packages of eight to my ten hot dogs, I’m left with a remainder of two--like some kind of meaty division problem. Chalk up one quick stop at the store for another pack of buns. Now my dogs are bedded down, but I have six buns left. Back to the grocery for more dogs. Now I’m long by four wieners (ok, that pun was intended). Here’s how the story goes from here:
+ 8 buns = 4 buns left
+ 10 dogs = 6 dogs left
+ 8 more buns = 2 buns left
+ 10 dogs = 8 dogs left
+ 8 buns = urp!
All told, I’m into this little project to the tune of 4 packs of hot dogs and 5 rolls. Total cost $24.95. So here’s a riddle—what the @#$%! gives? Is this a long-standing feud between butchers and bakers? Is it the Republicans? Are crooked CEOs siphoning off two buns from each pack to pad their retirement funds with extra dough? Are they being shipped off to our brave boys in Eye-raq?
Then I discovered the solution just where you’d expect it—on the internet.
“It's an obvious conspiracy. The bun company is in cahoots with the hot dog company. They want you to buy one pack of hot dogs and one pack of buns. Then, to use up the other two hot dog buns, you have to buy more hot dogs. You would have more hot dog buns left over, so you, once again, are forced to buy more hot dogs. Eventually, this would zero out (8 packs of hot dogs, 80 hot dogs, and 10 packs of buns, 80 buns), but no one wants to eat that many hot dogs.”
People are bad at story problems.
Next week we’ll explore why, even though you purchase them at the same time, you’ll always run out of shampoo before conditioner.
Bon Appetit...
Saturday, August 13, 2005
I'll Have a Hot Christmas
Ahead of the curve--way, way ahead...
Saw this one the other day returning from work. Two houses up the street my neighbor is perched atop a tipsy ladder stapling his Christmas lights to his house. In the front yard Santa and Frosty the Snowman are slowly inflating. Frosty is halfway done so he’s leaned over to the side as if melting in the heat. I quickly check my Casio to see if somehow four months has magically elapsed since I started my commute home. Strange crap like that happens all the time, they just never tell you about it. Just ask Rod Serling.
Nope, it’s still August. So now I’m, like, confused. My neighbor turns (oh yes, Virginia—he’s wearing the traditional red felt hat with the puffball on the end) to wave vigorously at me. I hold my palms up in the air and shrug my shoulders, making the universal symbol for, “Do you know the number to our HOA?” He shouts something incoherent about “Reality TV and Being Bobby Brown.”
An assortment of wreaths, children, and empty Michelob bottles decorate the front porch. “No really,” I inquire, “What are you doing? It’s summer, man.” He raises his staple gun in the air like Excalibur and shouts, “woop Woop WOOP!”
That night, standing in front of his blinding display I wonder what kind of job-related stress makes a man commit Christmas right smack in the middle of summer. Sure, I can see it maybe if you go by “Crazy Larry” and you own a waterbed store.
“It’s Crrrraaaazy Laaaaary’s Christmas in July sale--this weekend only! Stop by today for insane holiday prices on all of our latest full-motion and waveless sleep systems by Serta Aquapedic and Sloshy Slumber. Get an extra twenty percent discount on heaters and liners. I’m totally dain bramaged! Green beer for the Kids! Saturday we dye Easter eggs! I’M TOTALLY FRIGGIN’ CRAZY, Y’ALL! We also have a fine selection of spas and pool tables.”
Poor bastard doesn’t even know those inflatable lawn ornaments are *so* 2003—It’s all about the icicle lights now...
Saw this one the other day returning from work. Two houses up the street my neighbor is perched atop a tipsy ladder stapling his Christmas lights to his house. In the front yard Santa and Frosty the Snowman are slowly inflating. Frosty is halfway done so he’s leaned over to the side as if melting in the heat. I quickly check my Casio to see if somehow four months has magically elapsed since I started my commute home. Strange crap like that happens all the time, they just never tell you about it. Just ask Rod Serling.
Nope, it’s still August. So now I’m, like, confused. My neighbor turns (oh yes, Virginia—he’s wearing the traditional red felt hat with the puffball on the end) to wave vigorously at me. I hold my palms up in the air and shrug my shoulders, making the universal symbol for, “Do you know the number to our HOA?” He shouts something incoherent about “Reality TV and Being Bobby Brown.”
An assortment of wreaths, children, and empty Michelob bottles decorate the front porch. “No really,” I inquire, “What are you doing? It’s summer, man.” He raises his staple gun in the air like Excalibur and shouts, “woop Woop WOOP!”
That night, standing in front of his blinding display I wonder what kind of job-related stress makes a man commit Christmas right smack in the middle of summer. Sure, I can see it maybe if you go by “Crazy Larry” and you own a waterbed store.
“It’s Crrrraaaazy Laaaaary’s Christmas in July sale--this weekend only! Stop by today for insane holiday prices on all of our latest full-motion and waveless sleep systems by Serta Aquapedic and Sloshy Slumber. Get an extra twenty percent discount on heaters and liners. I’m totally dain bramaged! Green beer for the Kids! Saturday we dye Easter eggs! I’M TOTALLY FRIGGIN’ CRAZY, Y’ALL! We also have a fine selection of spas and pool tables.”
Poor bastard doesn’t even know those inflatable lawn ornaments are *so* 2003—It’s all about the icicle lights now...
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Hollywood Declares, “We’re All Tapped Out”
I don’t know if anyone else has noticed, but that talking Quizno’s baby is pretty damn creepy.
You know what else sucks? Paying $9 to go see a movie that I’ve already seen for $3.50 when it originally came out. Namely, all the freeze-dried crap churning it’s way to a theatre near you. I enjoy Will Ferrell as much as the next guy, but let’s face it—Bewitched wasn’t worth going back for. Contrary to what the Marines may tell you, there are just some times when it’s totally right and necessary to leave a man behind.
Bad News Bears? Really? Now I’m picturing a bunch of guys in expensive suits sitting around a mahogany conference table nodding at each other sagely and saying, “I think Paul has a great idea with the BNB project—I just don’t see how this one can miss. I’ll call Sling Blade—He’ll do it...” Oh, and my guess is the recruiting line to sign up for the Russian submarine force will be longer than the line to see Dukes of Hazzard...
Some of this summer’s recycled offerings are wrong, but for exactly the opposite reason. They were done properly the first time. Look folks, Gene Wilder is Willy Wonka and that’s just all there is to it. That movie didn’t need to be remade. Granted, Gene didn’t have the Michael Jackson-inspired effeminate mannerisms that Johnny brings to the role, but my bad dreams after the original were confined mostly to Oompa Loompas. Man, those guys are spooky.
Same story on the Pink Panther. Steve, I loved you with the arrow through the head thing—but Peter Sellers pretty much nailed that part, I think. Anyway, I thought you were still working through your crappy novel phase? What’s happening there?
Ironically, in the 1953 version of War of the Worlds it was the special effects that were kind of cheesy, yet disturbing at the same time—in 2005, it’s Tom Cruise. He’s easy to spot onscreen. When he’s with the space aliens he’s the one that doesn’t look at home.
Do yourself a favor, stay away from the theater this summer and instead rent Team America: World Police. It’s damn funny, Michael Moore explodes, AND it has graphic sex scenes with puppets.
And don’t eat at Quizno’s. First the singing rats and now that hungry demonic baby—when does the pain end?
You know what else sucks? Paying $9 to go see a movie that I’ve already seen for $3.50 when it originally came out. Namely, all the freeze-dried crap churning it’s way to a theatre near you. I enjoy Will Ferrell as much as the next guy, but let’s face it—Bewitched wasn’t worth going back for. Contrary to what the Marines may tell you, there are just some times when it’s totally right and necessary to leave a man behind.
Bad News Bears? Really? Now I’m picturing a bunch of guys in expensive suits sitting around a mahogany conference table nodding at each other sagely and saying, “I think Paul has a great idea with the BNB project—I just don’t see how this one can miss. I’ll call Sling Blade—He’ll do it...” Oh, and my guess is the recruiting line to sign up for the Russian submarine force will be longer than the line to see Dukes of Hazzard...
Some of this summer’s recycled offerings are wrong, but for exactly the opposite reason. They were done properly the first time. Look folks, Gene Wilder is Willy Wonka and that’s just all there is to it. That movie didn’t need to be remade. Granted, Gene didn’t have the Michael Jackson-inspired effeminate mannerisms that Johnny brings to the role, but my bad dreams after the original were confined mostly to Oompa Loompas. Man, those guys are spooky.
Same story on the Pink Panther. Steve, I loved you with the arrow through the head thing—but Peter Sellers pretty much nailed that part, I think. Anyway, I thought you were still working through your crappy novel phase? What’s happening there?
Ironically, in the 1953 version of War of the Worlds it was the special effects that were kind of cheesy, yet disturbing at the same time—in 2005, it’s Tom Cruise. He’s easy to spot onscreen. When he’s with the space aliens he’s the one that doesn’t look at home.
Do yourself a favor, stay away from the theater this summer and instead rent Team America: World Police. It’s damn funny, Michael Moore explodes, AND it has graphic sex scenes with puppets.
And don’t eat at Quizno’s. First the singing rats and now that hungry demonic baby—when does the pain end?
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Snap, Crackle, Apocalypse.
And I feel fine...
Just when you least expect it...Armageddon. I didn’t want to have to share this with you unless I was absolutely sure. I’ve been watching the signs for some time, but now it’s clear that the endgame is playing itself out—just as foretold by Bill Bixby in his book, You Wouldn’t Like Me When it’s the Revelation.
I’d like to outline for you the five signs that the end is near...
1. Religious figures are heading home. Have you noticed that Popes seem to die in threes? First there was Paul VI in 1978, then John Paul I also in 1978, and now the cycle is complete with John Paul II in 2005. Veni Vedi Morti.
2. Stars are on the run. They are better connected than you are and therefore you should keep an eye on what they’re doing and follow suit. Recently former Webster star Emmanuel Lewis was stopped in Georgia doing 70 mph in a 45 zone. The little guy almost slipped off his phonebook. Ask yourself this--what was he running from?
3. Wendy’s goes digital. In March, an unlucky diner at a San Jose Wendy’s restaurant got an unwelcome surprise in their chili—a human finger. Just another sign pointing toward the end of days. Call it an “unhappy meal.”
4. Joan Rivers' face has been completely immobilized by plastic surgery. None of her features move but a strange gravelly voice emanates from her mouth hole. Scientists call it, “The Mask of the White Death.”
5. Honey Bunches of Oats. It seems like a benign part of this complete breakfast, but number each of the letters and then rearrange them in this order: 12, 16, 17, 16, 8/6, 7, 3, 8, 5/9. 10, 11, 4, 18, 11/18, 13, 2, 8. Yes, you read correctly. Now it reads “SATAN BUNNY CHEESE SOON.” I don’t think I need to spell it out for you.
Now all that’s left is for the evil triumvirate to assume dominion over all the earth. Danny Bonaduce and Candace Bergen have already merged into one gruesome entity and now they are awaiting their third “Evil Underboss” to complete the metamorphosis.
If you have a God, I recommend you get square with him this week.
Incidentally, have you noticed Carrot Top has been in Rome all week? And, while the footage is grainy, he appears to be missing a finger...
Just when you least expect it...Armageddon. I didn’t want to have to share this with you unless I was absolutely sure. I’ve been watching the signs for some time, but now it’s clear that the endgame is playing itself out—just as foretold by Bill Bixby in his book, You Wouldn’t Like Me When it’s the Revelation.
I’d like to outline for you the five signs that the end is near...
1. Religious figures are heading home. Have you noticed that Popes seem to die in threes? First there was Paul VI in 1978, then John Paul I also in 1978, and now the cycle is complete with John Paul II in 2005. Veni Vedi Morti.
2. Stars are on the run. They are better connected than you are and therefore you should keep an eye on what they’re doing and follow suit. Recently former Webster star Emmanuel Lewis was stopped in Georgia doing 70 mph in a 45 zone. The little guy almost slipped off his phonebook. Ask yourself this--what was he running from?
3. Wendy’s goes digital. In March, an unlucky diner at a San Jose Wendy’s restaurant got an unwelcome surprise in their chili—a human finger. Just another sign pointing toward the end of days. Call it an “unhappy meal.”
4. Joan Rivers' face has been completely immobilized by plastic surgery. None of her features move but a strange gravelly voice emanates from her mouth hole. Scientists call it, “The Mask of the White Death.”
5. Honey Bunches of Oats. It seems like a benign part of this complete breakfast, but number each of the letters and then rearrange them in this order: 12, 16, 17, 16, 8/6, 7, 3, 8, 5/9. 10, 11, 4, 18, 11/18, 13, 2, 8. Yes, you read correctly. Now it reads “SATAN BUNNY CHEESE SOON.” I don’t think I need to spell it out for you.
Now all that’s left is for the evil triumvirate to assume dominion over all the earth. Danny Bonaduce and Candace Bergen have already merged into one gruesome entity and now they are awaiting their third “Evil Underboss” to complete the metamorphosis.
If you have a God, I recommend you get square with him this week.
Incidentally, have you noticed Carrot Top has been in Rome all week? And, while the footage is grainy, he appears to be missing a finger...
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Brain Food
Ready to eat...
Folks, accept no imitation gator on a stick. And never settle for cheap gator that's "unready to eat." Trust me, you'd be sorry for that later.
As you can see, I like stuff that's both tasty and has a point to it. That's why I'd like you to enjoy our latest "Sister Blog" The Apologist. After just a few bites, you'll make it your only stop for news and critical commentary on the events that shape our world. This one's written by a professional--so you'll find reading something intelligent and insightful may be disorienting at first if you've been hanging around here--but stick to it and I guarantee you'll be hooked. Also, it's damn funny.
Remember, Blogger.com generously fronts the MO Foundation, Inc. $.000027 every time you click one of my special Monday Update preferred links. Shake a leg people.
Folks, accept no imitation gator on a stick. And never settle for cheap gator that's "unready to eat." Trust me, you'd be sorry for that later.
As you can see, I like stuff that's both tasty and has a point to it. That's why I'd like you to enjoy our latest "Sister Blog" The Apologist. After just a few bites, you'll make it your only stop for news and critical commentary on the events that shape our world. This one's written by a professional--so you'll find reading something intelligent and insightful may be disorienting at first if you've been hanging around here--but stick to it and I guarantee you'll be hooked. Also, it's damn funny.
Remember, Blogger.com generously fronts the MO Foundation, Inc. $.000027 every time you click one of my special Monday Update preferred links. Shake a leg people.
Spring Fever, Love, and Too Many Forensic TV Shows
It’s spring, and love is budding out. Everywhere you look...love. Must be something about the warming temperatures and the smell of rain that gets Cupid to restring his bow for another year of hunting. All winter there was not a speck of love to be had—neither for love nor money.
But spring is different. People are holding hands. People are getting engaged. People are getting married. Couples having kids. Coupling and uncoupling and re-coupling and thermo-coupling until my coupling runneth over. (Forthwith, pray tell if thine spell check recognizes “runneth.” For mine doth not.)
But what is love? I mean, what’s it all about? We all say it—Hell, sometimes we even mean it. But what do we mean when we really mean it?
Is it a solemn promise to cherish me and stay by my side through thick and thin? That you’ll stick with me through sickness and health? That it seemed like the right thing to say? Till death do we part? Would you give me a kidney? Would you take a bullet with my name on it? What if it’s not that easy?
Trust me, not everything is revealed during premarital counseling. For instance, the concept of “guest towels” was never once mentioned. There’s plenty of uncharted territory even if you’ve been together for years. Try this little conversational experiment with your soul mate some night while flipping channels between Fear Factor and Cold Case Files.
>Honey?
>Yes, My love?
>Do you love me?
>Of course I do. With all my heart.
>Let’s say, if I was...in Federal prison. Would you love me then? Would you come visit me?
Now, we’ve established that there’s love. Thus, the correct answer would seem to be, “Absolutely. I would visit you and write you letters and bake you a cake with a file in it. I would hijack a helicopter, land it in the exercise yard and help you escape with me to Acapulco. Nothing could ever keep us apart. I love you no matter what.” You may get that answer. But then, you may get this instead...
>What did you do?
>It’s hypothetical. Would you stay with me even though I was in jail? Talk to me on the phone behind two inches of Plexiglas.
>Hypothetically then...What did you do?
This is a bad sign. Probing questions mean you’re talking conditions now. Specifying the terms of the agreement and outlining the rules. You’re establishing parameters. Yes. No. Maybe. It depends.
>Does it matter?
>Yeah, why are you in jail?
>Um, I dunno, say I killed someone.
>No. I couldn’t.
>What? I thought you loved me?
>Yeah, but if you murdered someone then you wouldn’t be the person I thought I loved. You would have deceived me. That would be wrong. I couldn’t love you then.
>What if I didn’t mean to—but I was framed or something. Wouldn’t you trust me?
>I’d have to call the police. It would be the right thing to do.
>Look, King of Queens is on...Go back...go back!
There’s a variation of this conversation I call, “Would you help me dispose of a body?” For extra fun, toss in some descriptive jargon such as bathtub or hacksaw and see what kind of answers you get. Change up the circumstances and feel around the edges. It was an accident. It was self-defense. An amazing fluke, but it would look criminal if you tried to explain it.
Either way, I guarantee you’ll find the answers enlightening. For instance, you might be dating some deranged psycho with a Bonnie and Clyde complex who’s just itching to help you chop up a body. Oh darling, I’ve been waiting for you to ask! Better to know sooner than later. Or, you could be married to a yellow stoolpigeon who would crack and sing the instant the cops started asking tough questions. Which is better?
I don’t know what the right answers are here folks. This love is tricky business. Maybe it’s just what your sweat smells like. Chemicals and pheromones and such. Maybe it’s divine and it would blind you if you looked at it directly without a welding mask. Maybe it’s insanity.
Summer—now there’s a season...
Anyhoo--if you are the type of friend that would be willing to help hide a body without asking a bunch of nosey questions, then please reply through my hotmail address. Have you got an old tarp?
But spring is different. People are holding hands. People are getting engaged. People are getting married. Couples having kids. Coupling and uncoupling and re-coupling and thermo-coupling until my coupling runneth over. (Forthwith, pray tell if thine spell check recognizes “runneth.” For mine doth not.)
But what is love? I mean, what’s it all about? We all say it—Hell, sometimes we even mean it. But what do we mean when we really mean it?
Is it a solemn promise to cherish me and stay by my side through thick and thin? That you’ll stick with me through sickness and health? That it seemed like the right thing to say? Till death do we part? Would you give me a kidney? Would you take a bullet with my name on it? What if it’s not that easy?
Trust me, not everything is revealed during premarital counseling. For instance, the concept of “guest towels” was never once mentioned. There’s plenty of uncharted territory even if you’ve been together for years. Try this little conversational experiment with your soul mate some night while flipping channels between Fear Factor and Cold Case Files.
>Honey?
>Yes, My love?
>Do you love me?
>Of course I do. With all my heart.
>Let’s say, if I was...in Federal prison. Would you love me then? Would you come visit me?
Now, we’ve established that there’s love. Thus, the correct answer would seem to be, “Absolutely. I would visit you and write you letters and bake you a cake with a file in it. I would hijack a helicopter, land it in the exercise yard and help you escape with me to Acapulco. Nothing could ever keep us apart. I love you no matter what.” You may get that answer. But then, you may get this instead...
>What did you do?
>It’s hypothetical. Would you stay with me even though I was in jail? Talk to me on the phone behind two inches of Plexiglas.
>Hypothetically then...What did you do?
This is a bad sign. Probing questions mean you’re talking conditions now. Specifying the terms of the agreement and outlining the rules. You’re establishing parameters. Yes. No. Maybe. It depends.
>Does it matter?
>Yeah, why are you in jail?
>Um, I dunno, say I killed someone.
>No. I couldn’t.
>What? I thought you loved me?
>Yeah, but if you murdered someone then you wouldn’t be the person I thought I loved. You would have deceived me. That would be wrong. I couldn’t love you then.
>What if I didn’t mean to—but I was framed or something. Wouldn’t you trust me?
>I’d have to call the police. It would be the right thing to do.
>Look, King of Queens is on...Go back...go back!
There’s a variation of this conversation I call, “Would you help me dispose of a body?” For extra fun, toss in some descriptive jargon such as bathtub or hacksaw and see what kind of answers you get. Change up the circumstances and feel around the edges. It was an accident. It was self-defense. An amazing fluke, but it would look criminal if you tried to explain it.
Either way, I guarantee you’ll find the answers enlightening. For instance, you might be dating some deranged psycho with a Bonnie and Clyde complex who’s just itching to help you chop up a body. Oh darling, I’ve been waiting for you to ask! Better to know sooner than later. Or, you could be married to a yellow stoolpigeon who would crack and sing the instant the cops started asking tough questions. Which is better?
I don’t know what the right answers are here folks. This love is tricky business. Maybe it’s just what your sweat smells like. Chemicals and pheromones and such. Maybe it’s divine and it would blind you if you looked at it directly without a welding mask. Maybe it’s insanity.
Summer—now there’s a season...
Anyhoo--if you are the type of friend that would be willing to help hide a body without asking a bunch of nosey questions, then please reply through my hotmail address. Have you got an old tarp?
Monday, April 04, 2005
Death - What's all the fuss about?
As I troll the newsy backwaters, I occasionally run across stories that the corporate media overlooks or neglects. Often these little gems can be fascinating, enlightening, or thought-provoking. This isn’t one of those.
In case you’ve recently been in a coma, there was a story about a woman named Terri Schiavo and the question of whether or not to remove her from artificial life support. Underscoring the controversy was a debate between the woman’s family and husband about her level of awareness of hovering silver mylar balloons.
The interesting part about the story wasn’t Terri’s life-and-death struggle, but rather that it made many folks think about what would happen if they were in the same situation. Advances in medical technology mean it’s possible to keep someone breathing long after so-called “life” has ceased. I mean there’s life—and then there’s *quality* of life. The two are not the same.
I estimate that 94.2% of Americans haven’t specified their medical treatment wishes in writing. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s a high percentage if it’s right. Written instructions are critically important in case you become incapacitated and nobody can remember what you said back when you were capacitated. If you’re not going to bother write them down, it’s best to make your wishes memorable like, “If I should become incapable of making decisions about my own care I’d like for a naked shaved Mickey Rooney to shoot me in the head with a bazooka.” People remember things like that.
If I were in Terri’s predicament I don’t think it would have been such a big deal. The more likely scenario in my case would have been a family and spouse fighting each other to see who actually got to yank the plug. As evidence, here’s a transcript of a recent conversation between my wife and hospital nurses:
Wife: “The man I married is gone. He wouldn’t want us to prolong his suffering like this. I want to cease all life support.”
Nurse: “He’s not on life support; he’s just groggy from the anesthesia.”
Wife: “Well, just unplug him, or use a pillow or whatever you usually do. I just want to have closure so I can move on. I have a nail appointment at 4:00”
Nurse: “This is just an outpatient procedure; he’ll be fine in a few minutes when he wakes up.”
Wife: “Why won’t you just let him die with dignity? Must I do everything myself?”
Nurse: “Code orange! Security!”
As you can see, in the absence of clear instructions the medical establishment isn’t always supportive of the family’s wishes. That’s why I’d like to take this opportunity to lay out five specific conditions in which I’d like my life support to be terminated.
1. If doctors determine all my cerebral brain activity has ceased for a period of one year or more, I’d like to remove any artificial respiration, nutrition, or extraordinary procedures to prolong my life.
2. If I am aware but unable to move or communicate due to degenerative disease or injury I’d like to be propped up in bed with a gun in one hand and a beer in the other. Then call police and explain to them there’s a drunken Irishman in room 237 shooting up the place and that he keeps shouting, “tell the coppers they’ll never take me alive! Top of the world Ma!”
3. If I ever pay money to attend a WWF professional wrestling event I’d like to be cremated instantly and have my ashes pressed into small pills that look just like Viagra and then sprinkled over the crowd.
4. If I become completely incontinent and have to wear big crunchy adult diapers so I can maintain my *active lifestyle* (e.g. golfing) while simultaneously making in my pants, I’d like Art Garfunkel to bludgeon me with a low iron as I tee off—like a 3 or 4 maybe. A five wood is okay too. Call the starter and tell him I was killed by a stray ball. See if you can finagle some discounted greens fees or pro shop merchandise because of the trauma you sustained witnessing the horrible tragedy.
5. If I become profoundly mentally disabled due to injury or illness, I’d like to become a Fox News field journalist.
That said, I have been thinking about having a feeding tube installed. It would be pretty convenient for days when you can’t get away from the office for lunch. And, no flossing necessary!
In case you’ve recently been in a coma, there was a story about a woman named Terri Schiavo and the question of whether or not to remove her from artificial life support. Underscoring the controversy was a debate between the woman’s family and husband about her level of awareness of hovering silver mylar balloons.
The interesting part about the story wasn’t Terri’s life-and-death struggle, but rather that it made many folks think about what would happen if they were in the same situation. Advances in medical technology mean it’s possible to keep someone breathing long after so-called “life” has ceased. I mean there’s life—and then there’s *quality* of life. The two are not the same.
I estimate that 94.2% of Americans haven’t specified their medical treatment wishes in writing. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s a high percentage if it’s right. Written instructions are critically important in case you become incapacitated and nobody can remember what you said back when you were capacitated. If you’re not going to bother write them down, it’s best to make your wishes memorable like, “If I should become incapable of making decisions about my own care I’d like for a naked shaved Mickey Rooney to shoot me in the head with a bazooka.” People remember things like that.
If I were in Terri’s predicament I don’t think it would have been such a big deal. The more likely scenario in my case would have been a family and spouse fighting each other to see who actually got to yank the plug. As evidence, here’s a transcript of a recent conversation between my wife and hospital nurses:
Wife: “The man I married is gone. He wouldn’t want us to prolong his suffering like this. I want to cease all life support.”
Nurse: “He’s not on life support; he’s just groggy from the anesthesia.”
Wife: “Well, just unplug him, or use a pillow or whatever you usually do. I just want to have closure so I can move on. I have a nail appointment at 4:00”
Nurse: “This is just an outpatient procedure; he’ll be fine in a few minutes when he wakes up.”
Wife: “Why won’t you just let him die with dignity? Must I do everything myself?”
Nurse: “Code orange! Security!”
As you can see, in the absence of clear instructions the medical establishment isn’t always supportive of the family’s wishes. That’s why I’d like to take this opportunity to lay out five specific conditions in which I’d like my life support to be terminated.
1. If doctors determine all my cerebral brain activity has ceased for a period of one year or more, I’d like to remove any artificial respiration, nutrition, or extraordinary procedures to prolong my life.
2. If I am aware but unable to move or communicate due to degenerative disease or injury I’d like to be propped up in bed with a gun in one hand and a beer in the other. Then call police and explain to them there’s a drunken Irishman in room 237 shooting up the place and that he keeps shouting, “tell the coppers they’ll never take me alive! Top of the world Ma!”
3. If I ever pay money to attend a WWF professional wrestling event I’d like to be cremated instantly and have my ashes pressed into small pills that look just like Viagra and then sprinkled over the crowd.
4. If I become completely incontinent and have to wear big crunchy adult diapers so I can maintain my *active lifestyle* (e.g. golfing) while simultaneously making in my pants, I’d like Art Garfunkel to bludgeon me with a low iron as I tee off—like a 3 or 4 maybe. A five wood is okay too. Call the starter and tell him I was killed by a stray ball. See if you can finagle some discounted greens fees or pro shop merchandise because of the trauma you sustained witnessing the horrible tragedy.
5. If I become profoundly mentally disabled due to injury or illness, I’d like to become a Fox News field journalist.
That said, I have been thinking about having a feeding tube installed. It would be pretty convenient for days when you can’t get away from the office for lunch. And, no flossing necessary!
Was this article helpful to you? Visit the SMUB to rate this blogger, or for more info and pricing on urine absorbent active wear.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
We Have a Winner/Loser II
Another sad installment in our ongoing series showcasing life’s greatest winner/losers.
In a surprise move this week, the warning placard posted on gasoline pumps everywhere became America’s #1 most defaced public notice. The photo used in the Pay for Your Gas or Lose Your License campaign was scribbled on by bored gas pumpers for the umpty-billionth time this week.
The unexpected jump displaced the long-standing #1 resident—the chrome instructions for warm air hand dryers, “Push Button, dry hands under warm air.” The favorite method was to scratch out certain letters with a sharp object so the directions then read, “Push Butt warm hands under arms.”
“Push Butt** was on top for so long that we never thought we’d see its reign end in our lifetime,” noted researcher Carrie A. Sharpie. “I can only attribute this change to the proliferation of touch-free towel dispensers.”
Graffiti connoisseurs cited general discontent over steadily rising gas prices and the officer’s subtly porcine appearance as their primary motivation for defacing the photo.
Casey Kasem could not be reached for comment.
In a surprise move this week, the warning placard posted on gasoline pumps everywhere became America’s #1 most defaced public notice. The photo used in the Pay for Your Gas or Lose Your License campaign was scribbled on by bored gas pumpers for the umpty-billionth time this week.
The unexpected jump displaced the long-standing #1 resident—the chrome instructions for warm air hand dryers, “Push Button, dry hands under warm air.” The favorite method was to scratch out certain letters with a sharp object so the directions then read, “Push Butt warm hands under arms.”
“Push Butt** was on top for so long that we never thought we’d see its reign end in our lifetime,” noted researcher Carrie A. Sharpie. “I can only attribute this change to the proliferation of touch-free towel dispensers.”
Graffiti connoisseurs cited general discontent over steadily rising gas prices and the officer’s subtly porcine appearance as their primary motivation for defacing the photo.
Casey Kasem could not be reached for comment.
*So* Not in Kansas Anymore
I make the turn onto Bourbon Street. The Rue Bourbon is world famous for jazz and hurricanes—A fruity but powerful concoction involving rum and profound suffering and sense of despair the next morning.
Suddenly, a rainbow beam of light shines down from above. A chorus of angels. And I behold a bar, my friends. A bar on Bourbon Street. A bar on Bourbon Street called, of all crazy things…OZ!
I stumble up to the bouncer in a haze of anticipation. I feel that planets subtly align themselves. This is my bar. I am home.
Almost breathless I ask, “That extraordinarily cool shirt you’re wearing. The one that says OZ in that groovy script. Do they sell them inside? You see, I simply must have one. Money is no object.”
I’m told that they are in fact for sale at the bar, which is located in the back. I wander through a dark labyrinth illuminated only by the glow of black light and plasma screen TVs on every wall. I can remember when a small plasma screen started at $10K and went right on up from there. Now they hang them like posters everywhere.
Plasma screens have impressive resolution approaching lifelike. I’m still a little awed by that. There’s some kind of body-building contest on every screen. You can see every tiny hair on the skin like it’s a rope, every bulging muscle, every bulging—oh my dear God. One thing I can’t see—even at this extraordinary resolution—is anyone wearing...any *pants* at all.
I’m at the bar when I realize there’s someone right next to me. A little too next to me. It’s a tall fellow in bright canary-colored silk boxing shorts. Bare chest. He’s wearing a bandolier with condoms stuck in it where the bullets should be.
“Hiya fellah—I’m Gunter. Would you like to follow the yellow brick road?” He nods toward a small doorway against the back wall. There’s mistletoe hanging over the doorjamb.
“NO GOD NO! Ahem, I mean, I’m just here to get a T-shirt actually. I’m not staying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Suit yourself, a-hole”
It takes over *20 minutes* for the smirky bartender to come back with my T-shirt. Meanwhile, I keep my a-hole fully suited as Gunter suggested, and casually flip through last week’s issue of the LeatherMaster and try to give off a blatantly heterosexual vibe.
It just goes to show you.
The damn Germans really are everywhere...
Suddenly, a rainbow beam of light shines down from above. A chorus of angels. And I behold a bar, my friends. A bar on Bourbon Street. A bar on Bourbon Street called, of all crazy things…OZ!
I stumble up to the bouncer in a haze of anticipation. I feel that planets subtly align themselves. This is my bar. I am home.
Almost breathless I ask, “That extraordinarily cool shirt you’re wearing. The one that says OZ in that groovy script. Do they sell them inside? You see, I simply must have one. Money is no object.”
I’m told that they are in fact for sale at the bar, which is located in the back. I wander through a dark labyrinth illuminated only by the glow of black light and plasma screen TVs on every wall. I can remember when a small plasma screen started at $10K and went right on up from there. Now they hang them like posters everywhere.
Plasma screens have impressive resolution approaching lifelike. I’m still a little awed by that. There’s some kind of body-building contest on every screen. You can see every tiny hair on the skin like it’s a rope, every bulging muscle, every bulging—oh my dear God. One thing I can’t see—even at this extraordinary resolution—is anyone wearing...any *pants* at all.
I’m at the bar when I realize there’s someone right next to me. A little too next to me. It’s a tall fellow in bright canary-colored silk boxing shorts. Bare chest. He’s wearing a bandolier with condoms stuck in it where the bullets should be.
“Hiya fellah—I’m Gunter. Would you like to follow the yellow brick road?” He nods toward a small doorway against the back wall. There’s mistletoe hanging over the doorjamb.
“NO GOD NO! Ahem, I mean, I’m just here to get a T-shirt actually. I’m not staying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Suit yourself, a-hole”
It takes over *20 minutes* for the smirky bartender to come back with my T-shirt. Meanwhile, I keep my a-hole fully suited as Gunter suggested, and casually flip through last week’s issue of the LeatherMaster and try to give off a blatantly heterosexual vibe.
It just goes to show you.
The damn Germans really are everywhere...
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Cupcake Licking
Men, try to avoid going to the mall.
Announce you're going to the mall and your wife or girlfriend usually wants to go too, right? Since you'd rather gouge your eyes out with a rusty coat hanger than spend 20 minutes browsing the New England Candle Connection, this involves splitting up and meeting at a certain designated location and time. It's a given that you'll forget both the place and time of the rendezvous immediately on your arrival in the massage chair at the Sharper Image store due to your Y chromosome (which controls the ability to recall important things like anniversaries and the correct way bathroom tissue is supposed to unfurl off the roll). You don't want to find yourself in this embarrassing situation:
"Will wife/girlfriend please come to the customer courtesy desk--we have a sad lost man here who forgot what you were wearing. We found him wandering around the food court, but he has no money..."
Here's another good reason to just say no. When a woman turns an unsupervised man loose in public she ordinarily feels the need to lick the cupcake.
Allow me to explain. You're seven and it's time for dinner with the family. Dessert (say, a plate of cupcakes) beckons from the counter, but you've been admonished they are not to be eaten until after the meal. One cupcake is freakishly larger than the others and looks like it has *way* more frosting and is leaning over under the weight of it. When Mom turns her back, your sister pretends to smell the cupcakes but then she sticks her tongue out and drags it over the mega cupcake slowly, sensually, so you get a real good view. Ewww. With that one lick she's laid claim to the cupcake by making it utterly undesirable to anyone else, but with no damage done. Elegant. It's like the A-bomb--The enemy is gone, but the buildings remain standing.
The grown-up relationship equivalent goes something like this.
"Before we split up I want to try this cologne on you SPRITZ. No, I don't like that at all. Maybe SPRITZ this one. No, that's really awful. Okay, well I'll meet you in front of Mrs. Field's in an hour--Bye!"
Now she can shop with confidence knowing that any potential rivals will instinctively recoil in horror within a twenty foot radius of freaky Old Spice man. The cloud of funk around you has the added benefit of keeping you moving to avoid your own stink, so you're unlikely to be in one place long enough for a salesperson to talk you into something involving a plasma screen and revolving credit.
I'm sure this never happens to you. But do think about it the next time you're standing like a dork in the middle of the shoe department holding her purse. You're just a step away from wearing a sign that says "Property of Susan" around your neck.
Howzit feel cupcake?
Frankly fellas, it's just safer to order your jockey shorts online. Although, that can get weird too.
Announce you're going to the mall and your wife or girlfriend usually wants to go too, right? Since you'd rather gouge your eyes out with a rusty coat hanger than spend 20 minutes browsing the New England Candle Connection, this involves splitting up and meeting at a certain designated location and time. It's a given that you'll forget both the place and time of the rendezvous immediately on your arrival in the massage chair at the Sharper Image store due to your Y chromosome (which controls the ability to recall important things like anniversaries and the correct way bathroom tissue is supposed to unfurl off the roll). You don't want to find yourself in this embarrassing situation:
"Will wife/girlfriend please come to the customer courtesy desk--we have a sad lost man here who forgot what you were wearing. We found him wandering around the food court, but he has no money..."
Here's another good reason to just say no. When a woman turns an unsupervised man loose in public she ordinarily feels the need to lick the cupcake.
Allow me to explain. You're seven and it's time for dinner with the family. Dessert (say, a plate of cupcakes) beckons from the counter, but you've been admonished they are not to be eaten until after the meal. One cupcake is freakishly larger than the others and looks like it has *way* more frosting and is leaning over under the weight of it. When Mom turns her back, your sister pretends to smell the cupcakes but then she sticks her tongue out and drags it over the mega cupcake slowly, sensually, so you get a real good view. Ewww. With that one lick she's laid claim to the cupcake by making it utterly undesirable to anyone else, but with no damage done. Elegant. It's like the A-bomb--The enemy is gone, but the buildings remain standing.
The grown-up relationship equivalent goes something like this.
"Before we split up I want to try this cologne on you SPRITZ. No, I don't like that at all. Maybe SPRITZ this one. No, that's really awful. Okay, well I'll meet you in front of Mrs. Field's in an hour--Bye!"
Now she can shop with confidence knowing that any potential rivals will instinctively recoil in horror within a twenty foot radius of freaky Old Spice man. The cloud of funk around you has the added benefit of keeping you moving to avoid your own stink, so you're unlikely to be in one place long enough for a salesperson to talk you into something involving a plasma screen and revolving credit.
I'm sure this never happens to you. But do think about it the next time you're standing like a dork in the middle of the shoe department holding her purse. You're just a step away from wearing a sign that says "Property of Susan" around your neck.
Howzit feel cupcake?
Frankly fellas, it's just safer to order your jockey shorts online. Although, that can get weird too.
Add to Cart
I went to buy some t-shirts online in order to avoid the mall.
I had a gift card leftover from Christmas I was determined to use. Usually I keep gift cards in a safe but obvious place where I won’t lose them--like in the bottom of a cardboard box in the garage used to store miscellaneous ring shank fasteners and #300 sandpaper scraps. When I find them two years later, and try to cash them in I’m informed that my $50 Chili’s gift card has a current value sufficient to cover a house salad with no dressing. This time it was going to be different. As it turns out, more different than I imagined.
I think the Lands End website is coming on to me.
It teases me. I select my shirt style and color (choices include colors I’m unfamiliar with (It's my Y chromosomes): Ecru, Maize, Alfredo, and Dusky Potassium). Then the site informs me people who wear shirts also like Bermuda shorts and toffee and would I like to add some of them too?
Then it plays hard to get. Your selections are currently on backorder. They will be shipped when they arrive sometime in the fall of 2006.
Then it really turns on the charm. Check out the “come hither” look on the confirmation screen.
Lose the headset, and I think I could be smitten...
I had a gift card leftover from Christmas I was determined to use. Usually I keep gift cards in a safe but obvious place where I won’t lose them--like in the bottom of a cardboard box in the garage used to store miscellaneous ring shank fasteners and #300 sandpaper scraps. When I find them two years later, and try to cash them in I’m informed that my $50 Chili’s gift card has a current value sufficient to cover a house salad with no dressing. This time it was going to be different. As it turns out, more different than I imagined.
I think the Lands End website is coming on to me.
It teases me. I select my shirt style and color (choices include colors I’m unfamiliar with (It's my Y chromosomes): Ecru, Maize, Alfredo, and Dusky Potassium). Then the site informs me people who wear shirts also like Bermuda shorts and toffee and would I like to add some of them too?
Then it plays hard to get. Your selections are currently on backorder. They will be shipped when they arrive sometime in the fall of 2006.
Then it really turns on the charm. Check out the “come hither” look on the confirmation screen.
Lose the headset, and I think I could be smitten...
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
The Thing Speaks for Itself
A few of my thoughts on the late Hunter S. Thompson.
A man who turns a .45 on himself is serious about his suicide.
It's not a cry for attention or for help. It's not acting out the utter hopelessness we all felt when we realized that our family and neighbors had reelected W for another tour. There are pills and exacto knives for that. A .45 cal in the kitchen is a statement. Basically, "I'm all through folks, see you on the flipside." I think Hunter wanted it done on his terms and on his timeline. The man was nothing if not decisive.
Sixty-seven isn't old age by any stretch, but I think it's asking a lot of any mere body to withstand the cumulative onslaught of chemical abuse his got. CNN was reporting tonight that he had to use a wheelchair at times, and his poor body was failing him. Local papers interviewed close friends who hadn't seen him much lately, but said that he had been in good spirits. Good spirits like someone who had reached a difficult decision and had made some peace with it.
All the attempts I've read trying to summarize, explain, or put into context what Hunter was or did fall pretty flat. I think staff writers are getting a bonus for using the terms "Gonzo" and "Fear and Loathing." What I'm loathing is how hollow it all sounds. But, who am I to judge--I don't have the chops or the heart to attempt it either. This article, sent by Anonymous Reader X has something worthwhile to say.
An Appreciation: The Thompson Style: A Sense of Self, and Outrage
somewhere in Hell's smoking section, my guess is that he's got a quiet booth in the back and right know he's bitch-slapping Richard Nixon. When I get there, I'm going to buy him a drink. And then I'm going to take him by the arm, and we'll go see what Marilyn Monroe is doing.
Let the good times roll.
--OZ
A man who turns a .45 on himself is serious about his suicide.
It's not a cry for attention or for help. It's not acting out the utter hopelessness we all felt when we realized that our family and neighbors had reelected W for another tour. There are pills and exacto knives for that. A .45 cal in the kitchen is a statement. Basically, "I'm all through folks, see you on the flipside." I think Hunter wanted it done on his terms and on his timeline. The man was nothing if not decisive.
Sixty-seven isn't old age by any stretch, but I think it's asking a lot of any mere body to withstand the cumulative onslaught of chemical abuse his got. CNN was reporting tonight that he had to use a wheelchair at times, and his poor body was failing him. Local papers interviewed close friends who hadn't seen him much lately, but said that he had been in good spirits. Good spirits like someone who had reached a difficult decision and had made some peace with it.
All the attempts I've read trying to summarize, explain, or put into context what Hunter was or did fall pretty flat. I think staff writers are getting a bonus for using the terms "Gonzo" and "Fear and Loathing." What I'm loathing is how hollow it all sounds. But, who am I to judge--I don't have the chops or the heart to attempt it either. This article, sent by Anonymous Reader X has something worthwhile to say.
An Appreciation: The Thompson Style: A Sense of Self, and Outrage
somewhere in Hell's smoking section, my guess is that he's got a quiet booth in the back and right know he's bitch-slapping Richard Nixon. When I get there, I'm going to buy him a drink. And then I'm going to take him by the arm, and we'll go see what Marilyn Monroe is doing.
Let the good times roll.
--OZ
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Anyone Have a Stamp I Can Borrow in 40 Years?
I received a letter in the mail today, from me. A much older me.
It was postmarked to arrive on my 16th birthday, but there was a scribbled sticky note attached from the USPS that reads, “Delayed delivery, insufficient postage. January 1985” I opened it carefully.
Dear Oz,
Surprise! I am you--at age, well...really old. Best wishes from the future. I’ve invested what remains of our available cash in time-travel delivery of this letter—I hope it finds you well. It’s prohibitively expensive to use this technology, but if you follow my advice exactly, I’ll be wealthy enough to send you additional messages to arrive each year with further information/advice.
Being the future you, I thought I could share some tips that you may find very helpful on this, the occasion of your 16th birthday. I know you were (are) disappointed that you did not find a car with a ginormous bow on it in the driveway this morning. Fortunately for you, this letter will prove to be far more valuable if you carefully heed my advice. Remember, I have my (your) best interests at heart.
Your High School Years:
Don’t try to grow your hair long. It just isn’t a good look for you. Do not date anyone named Angie, Jenny, or Sarah. Especially not Sarah.
Do not try to squat 450 pounds next year.
Change your major several times and try to extend your undergrad to 6-7 years. Do not mix wine and tequila. Avoid rooming with anyone named Vlad or Eric. Your junior year—don’t worry; it’s just a strange mole.
Travel/Safety:
Don’t fly—Pan Am flight 103, or TWA flight 800.
No air travel, and steer clear of New York in September of 2001.
Avoid Space Shuttles Challenger or Discovery. (I realize there's not much risk here but by now if all is going according to plan you're a world-famous prophet and visionary, so anything is possible)
Miscellaneous:
By stock in anything related to technology in the late 1990’s. Seriously, anything will do.
Sell you’re your entire stock portfolio in early 2000. This will *seem* like bad advice—But trust me, sell it all.
In a few years you're going to hear about a product called Rogaine—go ahead and start with that right away.
Do not pay money to see any of the following movies: Showgirls, Roadhouse, Stop or My Mom Will Shoot, The Stuff, SuperFuzz, Cannonball Run II, White Nights, Cobra, Weekend at Bernie’s, Lambada: The Forbidden Dance, Tron, Highlander 2, Xanadu, Zapped! or Zapped Again.
Whew--That should get us started! Have fun, make us some money, and I’ll hopefully send you another letter next year in 1986.
Best wishes,
Me (you!)
P.S. By the way--Michael Jackson is a pedophile, you will never be beaten at air hockey, O.J. Simpson is going to kill a couple of people but will beat the rap, absolutely nothing happens at the millennium changeover, forget about flying cars (that never happens), and your soulmate will be waiting tables at a pizza place on Arapahoe Rd. in two years. Look for the pony-tail and the cute ass. She’s a sucker for a good dirty joke…
It was postmarked to arrive on my 16th birthday, but there was a scribbled sticky note attached from the USPS that reads, “Delayed delivery, insufficient postage. January 1985” I opened it carefully.
Dear Oz,
Surprise! I am you--at age, well...really old. Best wishes from the future. I’ve invested what remains of our available cash in time-travel delivery of this letter—I hope it finds you well. It’s prohibitively expensive to use this technology, but if you follow my advice exactly, I’ll be wealthy enough to send you additional messages to arrive each year with further information/advice.
Being the future you, I thought I could share some tips that you may find very helpful on this, the occasion of your 16th birthday. I know you were (are) disappointed that you did not find a car with a ginormous bow on it in the driveway this morning. Fortunately for you, this letter will prove to be far more valuable if you carefully heed my advice. Remember, I have my (your) best interests at heart.
Your High School Years:
Don’t try to grow your hair long. It just isn’t a good look for you. Do not date anyone named Angie, Jenny, or Sarah. Especially not Sarah.
Do not try to squat 450 pounds next year.
Relax; reliable drug testing will not be available for years.
Don't attempt "break dancing."
Wear your seatbelt at all times; you’re going to be hitting some stuff.
MOST IMPORTANT...Take all your money and buy stock in companies called “Microsoft” “Wal-Mart” or “Starbucks.” Cut lawns, take out a loan, sell your body—it doesn’t matter. Just get the money.
Your College Years:
It doesn’t matter what you major in or what grades you get. Go for something fun like Psychology.
Change your major several times and try to extend your undergrad to 6-7 years. Do not mix wine and tequila. Avoid rooming with anyone named Vlad or Eric. Your junior year—don’t worry; it’s just a strange mole.
Travel/Safety:
Don’t fly—Pan Am flight 103, or TWA flight 800.
No air travel, and steer clear of New York in September of 2001.
Avoid Space Shuttles Challenger or Discovery. (I realize there's not much risk here but by now if all is going according to plan you're a world-famous prophet and visionary, so anything is possible)
Miscellaneous:
By stock in anything related to technology in the late 1990’s. Seriously, anything will do.
Sell you’re your entire stock portfolio in early 2000. This will *seem* like bad advice—But trust me, sell it all.
In a few years you're going to hear about a product called Rogaine—go ahead and start with that right away.
Do not pay money to see any of the following movies: Showgirls, Roadhouse, Stop or My Mom Will Shoot, The Stuff, SuperFuzz, Cannonball Run II, White Nights, Cobra, Weekend at Bernie’s, Lambada: The Forbidden Dance, Tron, Highlander 2, Xanadu, Zapped! or Zapped Again.
Whew--That should get us started! Have fun, make us some money, and I’ll hopefully send you another letter next year in 1986.
Best wishes,
Me (you!)
P.S. By the way--Michael Jackson is a pedophile, you will never be beaten at air hockey, O.J. Simpson is going to kill a couple of people but will beat the rap, absolutely nothing happens at the millennium changeover, forget about flying cars (that never happens), and your soulmate will be waiting tables at a pizza place on Arapahoe Rd. in two years. Look for the pony-tail and the cute ass. She’s a sucker for a good dirty joke…
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Laverne Vs. Shirley
Continuing this week’s theme of America’s Shameful entertainment legacy.
Reading between the lines of the...
Laverne and Shirley Theme Song Lyrics
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
Schemeel, schlemazel, hasenfeffer incorporated.
We're gonna do it!
Okay, we need one more verse in here—I don’t care what it is. Count to eight for all I care!
Schlemiel = noun. (Yiddish) a dolt who is a habitual bungler [syn: shlemiel].
Schlimazel = noun. (Yiddish) a very unlucky or inept person who fails at everything. A born Lenny. [syn: schlimazel, shlimazel.]
Hasenfeffer Incorporated = [Sour Rabbit Stew] Holding company that owns both The Pizza Bowl, and Arnolds.
Give us any chance, we'll take it.
Read us any rule, we'll break it.
We're gonna make our dreams come true.
Doin' it our way.
*Poof* You have the chance to grow old with prissy brunette and a stuffed cat.
Rule number 1, dreams really do come true in Milwaukee Wisconsin.
Nothin's gonna turn us back now,
Straight ahead and on the track now.
We're gonna make our dreams come true,
Doin' it our way.
Yes, if “our way” means falling asleep clutching Boo-Boo Kitty to the sound of the two greasers upstairs getting it on.
There is nothing we won't try,
Never heard the word impossible.
This time there's no stopping us.
We're gonna do it.
Except we actually did hear the word “impossible” on three occasions.
Carmine Ragusa: “That’s impossible, I was wearing a condom”
Squiggy: “That’s impossible, I was wearing a condom”
Lenny: “That’s impossible, Squiggy was wearing a condom”
On your mark, get set, and go now,
Got a dream and we just know now,
We're gonna make that dream come true.
And we'll do it our way, yes our way.
Make all our dreams come true,
And do it our way, yes our way,
Make all our dreams come true
For me and you.
All our dreams of growing old together as bottle-cappers at the Shotz brewery, with occasional visits by Fonzie, and possibly being gay but not knowing it. Oh yes, we’re on our way…
Reading between the lines of the...
Laverne and Shirley Theme Song Lyrics
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
Schemeel, schlemazel, hasenfeffer incorporated.
We're gonna do it!
Okay, we need one more verse in here—I don’t care what it is. Count to eight for all I care!
Schlemiel = noun. (Yiddish) a dolt who is a habitual bungler [syn: shlemiel].
Schlimazel = noun. (Yiddish) a very unlucky or inept person who fails at everything. A born Lenny. [syn: schlimazel, shlimazel.]
Hasenfeffer Incorporated = [Sour Rabbit Stew] Holding company that owns both The Pizza Bowl, and Arnolds.
Give us any chance, we'll take it.
Read us any rule, we'll break it.
We're gonna make our dreams come true.
Doin' it our way.
*Poof* You have the chance to grow old with prissy brunette and a stuffed cat.
Rule number 1, dreams really do come true in Milwaukee Wisconsin.
Nothin's gonna turn us back now,
Straight ahead and on the track now.
We're gonna make our dreams come true,
Doin' it our way.
Yes, if “our way” means falling asleep clutching Boo-Boo Kitty to the sound of the two greasers upstairs getting it on.
There is nothing we won't try,
Never heard the word impossible.
This time there's no stopping us.
We're gonna do it.
Except we actually did hear the word “impossible” on three occasions.
Carmine Ragusa: “That’s impossible, I was wearing a condom”
Squiggy: “That’s impossible, I was wearing a condom”
Lenny: “That’s impossible, Squiggy was wearing a condom”
On your mark, get set, and go now,
Got a dream and we just know now,
We're gonna make that dream come true.
And we'll do it our way, yes our way.
Make all our dreams come true,
And do it our way, yes our way,
Make all our dreams come true
For me and you.
All our dreams of growing old together as bottle-cappers at the Shotz brewery, with occasional visits by Fonzie, and possibly being gay but not knowing it. Oh yes, we’re on our way…
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Bring Me the Head of Ralph Macchio
Fame on, Fame off
Ralph Macchio reflects on films that made him famous
By Douglas HydeSpecial to CNN.com
Special Monday Update extended commentary in super blue text
Tuesday, February 8, 2005 Posted: 11:36 AM EST (1636 GMT)
LOS ANGELES, California (CNN) -- For Ralph Macchio, there's just no escaping "The Karate Kid."
Particularly a certain phrase.
" 'Wax on, wax off' -- [it] comes every day. Well, maybe not every day, but every week," says Macchio. "And everyone yells out the phrase as if they'd just come up with the idea, thinking, 'Whoa, isn't that genius? Hey Ralph, wax on, wax off!' "
If you ever see Ralph on the street, don’t be a schlub. Say something original. “Hey Ralph, good to see you—I bet a friend of mine $5 you were dead! What have you been up to for these past 21 years?”
Still, Macchio has gotten used to nostalgic Gen-X'ers quoting lines from the 1984 coming-of-age classic. Now, to his surprise, another generation is picking up on the film.
I remember seeing Karate Kid and being so pumped up! I felt like I could do anything. Of course, it was all a cock-a-doody lie. It turns out I couldn’t do “anything.” It was all so much falderal. What I *could* do was develop a pretty heavy chemical dependency problem, drop out of community college, and play X Box a lot. Remembering the deception of my childhood tortures my soul. Thank you Daniel-san.
"I go into Blockbuster now and I bump into the sales person or the person behind the desk and they say the film is always out, [that] parents say, 'Oh, this is a good one. I want to share this with my kids.' "
Look Mr. Macchio, we’ve talked about this before. If you don’t stop trying to autograph the rental movies I’m going to have to call the police again. Remember last time? Now please, just go back to your car and sleep it off.
Those parents (and kids) can now get a new edition of the film. A special edition DVD, loaded with extras, arrived last week as part of a four-disc "Karate Kid Collection" box set.
“Loaded with extras.” Translation: There’s some limited scene selection capability (movie 1st half or 2nd half), the theatrical trailer for Starship Troopers, and you can turn on Spanish subtitles. Disks 2, 3 and 4 are blank recordable DVD-Rs.
Macchio has watched it with his own kids and was surprised to discover he identified not with his teenage character, Daniel LaRusso (or "Daniel-san"), but with a certain sage handyman/karate master.
You are going to sit there and watch my movies and eat your popcorn, damnit. I don’t care what your friends are doing. They should be watching this too. This is classic—look, this is the part where I stand there like a wounded chicken. Hey, missy—you cut that out right now or I’ll GIVE you something to cry about…
"It was interesting to watch the film with them, and for the first time I was relating to the Miyagi character, as the mentor, as the one trying to guide the misguided youth," he says of the teacher played by Noriyuki "Pat" Morita. "And I kept saying this Daniel character is just a little arrogant in making these mistakes."
Pat stopped returning my calls about 14 years ago. He said he was going “off the grid” and I wouldn’t be able to reach him probably. But then I heard he was dating Calista Flockhart for a while. I think he just doesn’t have a new permanent number yet. It’s hard when you’re all famous like us. I’m sure he’s going to call me soon. I’m going to sit over her by the phone, just in case.
'You learn to appreciate it'
The "Karate Kid" DVD box set includes all four films: "The Karate Kid" (1984), "The Karate Kid Part II" (1986), "The Karate Kid Part III" (1989) and "The Next Karate Kid" (1994), the latter starring a then-unknown actress named Hilary Swank.
Of course, it’s funny because now Hilary Swank is such a household name. Just say “Hilary” and people immediately respond “Swank.” It’s like playing Marco Polo for Generation X people. They love it.
Macchio admits some of the films are better than others.
Mainly the ones that are Macchio-free tend to be better. Casablanca is great, and I’ve always thought Rear Window was one of Hitch’s best.
"The first film was by far my favorite. I think the second was a very worthy sequel and it explores a whole other culture. It takes you to a whole different place and you explore more of Miyagi's past and his life," he says. "I think the third one was because the second one made a lot of money, and that happens a lot. It's not, it's certainly not my favorite of the three.
In retrospect, I probably should have saved some of the money. But I was on such a roll it seemed like it would never end. Then, the whole franchise went all Hollywood and everything and stopped being about the bittersweet relationship between a boy and his karate mentor and went in this whole other direction. Of course, I begged for even a cameo part--but the director said he just couldn’t let me compromise my vision and artistic integrity by putting me in the movie...at all.
"And then Hilary Swank -- whatever happened to her?" -- he adds jokingly --"she's on the verge of winning her second Oscar or close to it, did a fourth one. That was a different director, a different writer, but it's the same Miyagi."
With the exception of his supporting role in 1992's "My Cousin Vinny," Macchio hasn't been in a high-profile movie since the "Karate Kid" era. Daniel LaRusso continues to be the role he's most closely identified with.
I’ve been doing this landscaping thing for a few years now. It’s pretty lucrative. It was called Karate Kid Garden Services at first but the studio owns the rights to the name--and so now it’s just “Ralph’s Lawn and Sprinkler.” I have my own pickup truck and a trailer where the mowers and weed whips go. I had a couple of kids who helped out in the summer, but that didn’t really work out. Sometimes I sleep in the extended cab.
It's something he's finally at peace with.
"There was a bit of time where it was overwhelming, but as time goes by, as you age you get smarter and wiser with these things and you learn to appreciate it," he says. "When you consider how few times the magic can work, you begin to realize that it's a privilege and you're quite fortunate to have had the opportunity."
I think I have a pretty good shot at “Circus of the Stars” this year. David Hasselhoff’s elbow has been acting up, which means there might be an opening on the *trapeze of doom* that I’d be perfect for.
One can almost hear an old teacher saying, "Very wise, Daniel-san. Miyagi have hope for you."
Doug Ganley also contributed to this report.
Mr. Hyde, I’m all through checking the verb tense, do you want any punctuation in here—some commas or something?
Ralph Macchio reflects on films that made him famous
By Douglas HydeSpecial to CNN.com
Special Monday Update extended commentary in super blue text
Tuesday, February 8, 2005 Posted: 11:36 AM EST (1636 GMT)
LOS ANGELES, California (CNN) -- For Ralph Macchio, there's just no escaping "The Karate Kid."
Particularly a certain phrase.
" 'Wax on, wax off' -- [it] comes every day. Well, maybe not every day, but every week," says Macchio. "And everyone yells out the phrase as if they'd just come up with the idea, thinking, 'Whoa, isn't that genius? Hey Ralph, wax on, wax off!' "
If you ever see Ralph on the street, don’t be a schlub. Say something original. “Hey Ralph, good to see you—I bet a friend of mine $5 you were dead! What have you been up to for these past 21 years?”
Still, Macchio has gotten used to nostalgic Gen-X'ers quoting lines from the 1984 coming-of-age classic. Now, to his surprise, another generation is picking up on the film.
I remember seeing Karate Kid and being so pumped up! I felt like I could do anything. Of course, it was all a cock-a-doody lie. It turns out I couldn’t do “anything.” It was all so much falderal. What I *could* do was develop a pretty heavy chemical dependency problem, drop out of community college, and play X Box a lot. Remembering the deception of my childhood tortures my soul. Thank you Daniel-san.
"I go into Blockbuster now and I bump into the sales person or the person behind the desk and they say the film is always out, [that] parents say, 'Oh, this is a good one. I want to share this with my kids.' "
Look Mr. Macchio, we’ve talked about this before. If you don’t stop trying to autograph the rental movies I’m going to have to call the police again. Remember last time? Now please, just go back to your car and sleep it off.
Those parents (and kids) can now get a new edition of the film. A special edition DVD, loaded with extras, arrived last week as part of a four-disc "Karate Kid Collection" box set.
“Loaded with extras.” Translation: There’s some limited scene selection capability (movie 1st half or 2nd half), the theatrical trailer for Starship Troopers, and you can turn on Spanish subtitles. Disks 2, 3 and 4 are blank recordable DVD-Rs.
Macchio has watched it with his own kids and was surprised to discover he identified not with his teenage character, Daniel LaRusso (or "Daniel-san"), but with a certain sage handyman/karate master.
You are going to sit there and watch my movies and eat your popcorn, damnit. I don’t care what your friends are doing. They should be watching this too. This is classic—look, this is the part where I stand there like a wounded chicken. Hey, missy—you cut that out right now or I’ll GIVE you something to cry about…
"It was interesting to watch the film with them, and for the first time I was relating to the Miyagi character, as the mentor, as the one trying to guide the misguided youth," he says of the teacher played by Noriyuki "Pat" Morita. "And I kept saying this Daniel character is just a little arrogant in making these mistakes."
Pat stopped returning my calls about 14 years ago. He said he was going “off the grid” and I wouldn’t be able to reach him probably. But then I heard he was dating Calista Flockhart for a while. I think he just doesn’t have a new permanent number yet. It’s hard when you’re all famous like us. I’m sure he’s going to call me soon. I’m going to sit over her by the phone, just in case.
'You learn to appreciate it'
The "Karate Kid" DVD box set includes all four films: "The Karate Kid" (1984), "The Karate Kid Part II" (1986), "The Karate Kid Part III" (1989) and "The Next Karate Kid" (1994), the latter starring a then-unknown actress named Hilary Swank.
Of course, it’s funny because now Hilary Swank is such a household name. Just say “Hilary” and people immediately respond “Swank.” It’s like playing Marco Polo for Generation X people. They love it.
Macchio admits some of the films are better than others.
Mainly the ones that are Macchio-free tend to be better. Casablanca is great, and I’ve always thought Rear Window was one of Hitch’s best.
"The first film was by far my favorite. I think the second was a very worthy sequel and it explores a whole other culture. It takes you to a whole different place and you explore more of Miyagi's past and his life," he says. "I think the third one was because the second one made a lot of money, and that happens a lot. It's not, it's certainly not my favorite of the three.
In retrospect, I probably should have saved some of the money. But I was on such a roll it seemed like it would never end. Then, the whole franchise went all Hollywood and everything and stopped being about the bittersweet relationship between a boy and his karate mentor and went in this whole other direction. Of course, I begged for even a cameo part--but the director said he just couldn’t let me compromise my vision and artistic integrity by putting me in the movie...at all.
"And then Hilary Swank -- whatever happened to her?" -- he adds jokingly --"she's on the verge of winning her second Oscar or close to it, did a fourth one. That was a different director, a different writer, but it's the same Miyagi."
With the exception of his supporting role in 1992's "My Cousin Vinny," Macchio hasn't been in a high-profile movie since the "Karate Kid" era. Daniel LaRusso continues to be the role he's most closely identified with.
I’ve been doing this landscaping thing for a few years now. It’s pretty lucrative. It was called Karate Kid Garden Services at first but the studio owns the rights to the name--and so now it’s just “Ralph’s Lawn and Sprinkler.” I have my own pickup truck and a trailer where the mowers and weed whips go. I had a couple of kids who helped out in the summer, but that didn’t really work out. Sometimes I sleep in the extended cab.
It's something he's finally at peace with.
"There was a bit of time where it was overwhelming, but as time goes by, as you age you get smarter and wiser with these things and you learn to appreciate it," he says. "When you consider how few times the magic can work, you begin to realize that it's a privilege and you're quite fortunate to have had the opportunity."
I think I have a pretty good shot at “Circus of the Stars” this year. David Hasselhoff’s elbow has been acting up, which means there might be an opening on the *trapeze of doom* that I’d be perfect for.
One can almost hear an old teacher saying, "Very wise, Daniel-san. Miyagi have hope for you."
Doug Ganley also contributed to this report.
Mr. Hyde, I’m all through checking the verb tense, do you want any punctuation in here—some commas or something?
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Call Me Anytime
“May I have your phone number?” She asked, her eyebrows arched in sultry anticipation.
It doesn’t happen as often as it used to, but I still get this question from time to time. It’s nice, like being carded when you’re in a bar—or so I imagine. I’m always flattered when women show an interest. Lately though, it’s been happening a lot more frequently. I can’t really explain it. It’s not like I’ve been working out or had my teeth capped or anything. This most recent time was the girl at Cheap Clips who runs the counter and drives the big broom during interludes between customer check-ins. But that was just the beginning. Here are some snippets from the rest of my day.
Pizza place: Thanks for calling Mystic Pizza—please hold. {Extended pause} Thanks for holding; would you like to try our cinnamon cheesy garlic breadsticks?
Me: Not really, I would like a large pepperoni and mushroom pizza though. I’ll come pick it up.
Pizza place: Can I get your phone number?
Me: There’s no need to call, we can do the transaction now if you like--I’m ready.
Pizza place: We use it to get your address.
Me: I’ll come and get it. So, the whole address thing is sort of a moot point then.
Pizza place: We put it on the box.
Me: You might want to think about caller ID, then the number would be right there for you. What if you just write "OZ" on the box?
Pizza place: Huh?
Me: Exactly. Now, do those cheesy sticks come with any dipping sauces at all?
A similar exchange took place at my next stop, Video Hut.
Video store clerk: Can I have your telephone number?
Me: Oh thanks, I’m flattered. But just the movies please--I’m kinda going to stay in tonight.
Video store clerk: We use it to pull up your account.
Me: Could you use my membership card instead? You see, I’m waiting for an important call from my pizza place and I don’t want to tie up the line.
Video store clerk: Do you want to pay this late fee tonight? I show you had “Naughty Nurse Intensive Care IV: Bedside Manners” out, and it was four days overdue and when it came back the DVD was chipped and had teeth marks on it.
Me: I didn’t rent that. That was my wife.
By now, the people behind me are starting to make ugly noises.
This never happens at my grocery store. Although, it’s not much better there. Clerks are all trained to make direct eye contact with each customer and smile. I find this unnerving. I like a little surly in my service people. Also, no matter what I’m buying—Tic Tacs, a birthday card, Chapstick, whatever—the kid always asks, “Would you like some help out with that?” It’s insulting. I am a young, healthy male, fully capable of carrying a can of Sour Cream and Onion Pringles out to my car. Who do they think they’re talking to anyway? I’m not quite *that* old yet.
Hell. I’ll have you know that women all over town are begging me for my phone number…
It doesn’t happen as often as it used to, but I still get this question from time to time. It’s nice, like being carded when you’re in a bar—or so I imagine. I’m always flattered when women show an interest. Lately though, it’s been happening a lot more frequently. I can’t really explain it. It’s not like I’ve been working out or had my teeth capped or anything. This most recent time was the girl at Cheap Clips who runs the counter and drives the big broom during interludes between customer check-ins. But that was just the beginning. Here are some snippets from the rest of my day.
Pizza place: Thanks for calling Mystic Pizza—please hold. {Extended pause} Thanks for holding; would you like to try our cinnamon cheesy garlic breadsticks?
Me: Not really, I would like a large pepperoni and mushroom pizza though. I’ll come pick it up.
Pizza place: Can I get your phone number?
Me: There’s no need to call, we can do the transaction now if you like--I’m ready.
Pizza place: We use it to get your address.
Me: I’ll come and get it. So, the whole address thing is sort of a moot point then.
Pizza place: We put it on the box.
Me: You might want to think about caller ID, then the number would be right there for you. What if you just write "OZ" on the box?
Pizza place: Huh?
Me: Exactly. Now, do those cheesy sticks come with any dipping sauces at all?
A similar exchange took place at my next stop, Video Hut.
Video store clerk: Can I have your telephone number?
Me: Oh thanks, I’m flattered. But just the movies please--I’m kinda going to stay in tonight.
Video store clerk: We use it to pull up your account.
Me: Could you use my membership card instead? You see, I’m waiting for an important call from my pizza place and I don’t want to tie up the line.
Video store clerk: Do you want to pay this late fee tonight? I show you had “Naughty Nurse Intensive Care IV: Bedside Manners” out, and it was four days overdue and when it came back the DVD was chipped and had teeth marks on it.
Me: I didn’t rent that. That was my wife.
By now, the people behind me are starting to make ugly noises.
This never happens at my grocery store. Although, it’s not much better there. Clerks are all trained to make direct eye contact with each customer and smile. I find this unnerving. I like a little surly in my service people. Also, no matter what I’m buying—Tic Tacs, a birthday card, Chapstick, whatever—the kid always asks, “Would you like some help out with that?” It’s insulting. I am a young, healthy male, fully capable of carrying a can of Sour Cream and Onion Pringles out to my car. Who do they think they’re talking to anyway? I’m not quite *that* old yet.
Hell. I’ll have you know that women all over town are begging me for my phone number…
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Why you still like Peter Gabriel
Scientists have discovered why you’ll stop surfing and plant yourself on any station willing to play “Shock the Monkey.” Researchers at the University of Complicated Things have discovered a tiny gland at the base of the cortex called the Stingocampus, which moderates the human ability to appreciate music.
“The gland is active from puberty until the early onset of adulthood at about age 20.” Stated Dr. George Michael, lead researcher. “After that, the gland quickly atrophies rendering adults virtually incapable of appreciating any music not introduced during that critical seven-year span.” The phenomenon has been dubbed musicoma. It forms a mental time-capsule, much like having Madonna encased in amber.
Scientists first noted the anomaly while doing trend analysis of major-market radio, after discovering the average adult station has a mean catalog of 37 songs. Basically, the same songs by the same artists are looped into a digestible format and repeated daily.
“We’ve interviewed subjects with such acute musicoma that they break out in hives if they hear anything other than Phil Collins or Elton John,” stated Thomas Dolby M.D. “ I just know that if I hear *Sledgehammer* one more time I’m going to completely flip out…”
The Stray Cats could not be reached for comment.
“The gland is active from puberty until the early onset of adulthood at about age 20.” Stated Dr. George Michael, lead researcher. “After that, the gland quickly atrophies rendering adults virtually incapable of appreciating any music not introduced during that critical seven-year span.” The phenomenon has been dubbed musicoma. It forms a mental time-capsule, much like having Madonna encased in amber.
Scientists first noted the anomaly while doing trend analysis of major-market radio, after discovering the average adult station has a mean catalog of 37 songs. Basically, the same songs by the same artists are looped into a digestible format and repeated daily.
“We’ve interviewed subjects with such acute musicoma that they break out in hives if they hear anything other than Phil Collins or Elton John,” stated Thomas Dolby M.D. “ I just know that if I hear *Sledgehammer* one more time I’m going to completely flip out…”
The Stray Cats could not be reached for comment.
Blog O'Theday
Sure, clicking the Next Blog button you might stumble across something entertaining--something enlightening--even something extraordinarily naughty. But for every blog of quality you'll have to sift through dozens of pages of vacation pictures from Berwyn, Il, extended suicide notes, blogs in French (Le Bloge), and Canadian college student posts about how they've cut class (Yet again! Can you believe it?) and how last night's pub crawl left them uncertain about their true feelings for Christopher and/or Tina.
At Monday Update we've already done the suffering for you.
With a name like Shamus, you know it's going to be good. Shamus O'Drunkahan Has Issues will resolve your relationship problems, restore your will to live, get you the notes from the classes you've missed, and help you find your soul mate--ridding yourself of that cheating skank/toad forever.*
I particularly recommend A Letter to Walt's Frozen Head and Our Museum Rots.
*Standard MOconnect linkage fees apply. Your account will automatically be billed at the standard $1 per laugh "mirth surcharge" rate. Press CTRL-ALT-DEL to view further disclosures.
At Monday Update we've already done the suffering for you.
With a name like Shamus, you know it's going to be good. Shamus O'Drunkahan Has Issues will resolve your relationship problems, restore your will to live, get you the notes from the classes you've missed, and help you find your soul mate--ridding yourself of that cheating skank/toad forever.*
I particularly recommend A Letter to Walt's Frozen Head and Our Museum Rots.
*Standard MOconnect linkage fees apply. Your account will automatically be billed at the standard $1 per laugh "mirth surcharge" rate. Press CTRL-ALT-DEL to view further disclosures.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Alien visit--brief but satisfying...
Mystery Lights Spotted
Last night 2/9/05 at about 7:00 Anne and I were out for our nightly dog walk and we saw two unusually bright stars to the Southeast--just above the Canis Major constellation. I marked their positions for you on this handy star map with green "X" marks. The lights looked very much like stars, but brighter than Sirius (Which, coincidentally, is called the Dog star).
I stopped to point them out, and as we watched they slowly dimmed out and disappeared entirely. The lights never changed position. From when we noticed them until we couldn't see them anymore maybe 15-20 seconds elapsed.
Keep in mind, we’re not too far from a military airfield and a major international airport, so we're pretty used to seeing aircraft of all sorts with their landing lights on, playing tag, dumping solid waste tanks, engines aflame etc. This was different. Too different.
Sure, if a plane has its landing lights on and is headed right at you it looks vaguely similar--but eventually you see movement or the angle changes and you see the strobe or wing lights. These just faded out to nothing, and we didn't see or hear anything else in that area of the sky. Plus the lights were far enough apart we don't think they were part of a single object.
Anyone else see this? I’ve requested info from the college and local news stations. Meanwhile, I’m sleeping on my back so if I wake up with short green folks in my room later they won’t be able to probe me so easy…
Where’s Jack Horkheimer when you really need him?
Last night 2/9/05 at about 7:00 Anne and I were out for our nightly dog walk and we saw two unusually bright stars to the Southeast--just above the Canis Major constellation. I marked their positions for you on this handy star map with green "X" marks. The lights looked very much like stars, but brighter than Sirius (Which, coincidentally, is called the Dog star).
I stopped to point them out, and as we watched they slowly dimmed out and disappeared entirely. The lights never changed position. From when we noticed them until we couldn't see them anymore maybe 15-20 seconds elapsed.
Keep in mind, we’re not too far from a military airfield and a major international airport, so we're pretty used to seeing aircraft of all sorts with their landing lights on, playing tag, dumping solid waste tanks, engines aflame etc. This was different. Too different.
Sure, if a plane has its landing lights on and is headed right at you it looks vaguely similar--but eventually you see movement or the angle changes and you see the strobe or wing lights. These just faded out to nothing, and we didn't see or hear anything else in that area of the sky. Plus the lights were far enough apart we don't think they were part of a single object.
Anyone else see this? I’ve requested info from the college and local news stations. Meanwhile, I’m sleeping on my back so if I wake up with short green folks in my room later they won’t be able to probe me so easy…
Where’s Jack Horkheimer when you really need him?
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
City of Chicago Honors Update
Sweet Home Chicago
(Photo Credit, Stolen 2005)
Okay, so maybe not the *whole* city. You will be pleased to learn the Monday Update was recently declared linkworthy by the Chicago Naughty Girl Chamber of Comedy. The swearing-in ceremony was held on February 8th at Navy Pier, and official “Tastes of Chicago” refreshments were served (beer brats, cheese fries, complementary angioplasty). Other awards will likely follow. I’ll keep you posted.
For those of you unfamiliar with Confessions of a Naughty Girl, she’s dedicated to the promotion and preservation of Golden Corral low-carb dining, Safety Dancing, Wanton Spooning, and relentless Vanilla Icing. Follow the link at left get in on the ground floor of a soon-to-be famous Southern writer who knows all the funny words and their correct sequence. You might remember her from junior high—she was the girl that made you laugh so hard during lunch that milk came out of your nose…
As many of you know, I spent some time in St.Charles, just West of Chicago (see earlier post, “Life Before Funifuti”). Eventually, I was asked to leave—some pish posh about felonious parking—but I still think of the city warmly, despite the bench warrants.
(Photo Credit, Stolen 2005)
Okay, so maybe not the *whole* city. You will be pleased to learn the Monday Update was recently declared linkworthy by the Chicago Naughty Girl Chamber of Comedy. The swearing-in ceremony was held on February 8th at Navy Pier, and official “Tastes of Chicago” refreshments were served (beer brats, cheese fries, complementary angioplasty). Other awards will likely follow. I’ll keep you posted.
For those of you unfamiliar with Confessions of a Naughty Girl, she’s dedicated to the promotion and preservation of Golden Corral low-carb dining, Safety Dancing, Wanton Spooning, and relentless Vanilla Icing. Follow the link at left get in on the ground floor of a soon-to-be famous Southern writer who knows all the funny words and their correct sequence. You might remember her from junior high—she was the girl that made you laugh so hard during lunch that milk came out of your nose…
As many of you know, I spent some time in St.Charles, just West of Chicago (see earlier post, “Life Before Funifuti”). Eventually, I was asked to leave—some pish posh about felonious parking—but I still think of the city warmly, despite the bench warrants.
