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!
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