wad's place

Blowing This Turkey Dump

2006-12-18T10:51:00.000-08:00

Following FP's lead, and moving this crap to Wordpress. Check it out.

Why Atheism Always Loses

2006-12-14T19:22:00.000-08:00

No affiliation, no iconography, no language.

It's more than just not having a club; atheism is wholly not an organization. While atheists may be referred to as a group, no real group exists, nor will ever form. Small collectives of determined intellectuals, no doubt, may give lie to that statement, but not in sufficient numbers to be of concern, numbers theism can muster with ease. Groups form around beliefs, and atheism is emphatically not about belief. It's about disbelief, and that is very different.

What's your next tattoo going to be? Piece of jewelry? How will you decorate your home? What will be the central theme of the greatest examples of architecture in your town? Utilitarian? Yeah, right. For the big time bang-for-your-buck oh-gosh effect, it's hard to beat religious and mystical imagery. We want to see the symbols and glyphs of magical other-worlds. We want to imagine the suffering of our savior. We want our hearts filled with the hope of unfulfillable promises. We love that kind of stuff. We really do. The more ridiculous it is, the better we like it.

Dogma charges the images initially, then we attach our own meanings and associations. In this way the icons take on a life of their own: starting out as nothing more than a few squiggles carved by savages millennia ago and ultimately forming the perfect imaginary vessel in which to preserve all our imaginary notions.

OMG! Even the ruthless and unstoppable destruction of language that is the Internet can't lessen the value of invoking a deity as an exclamation! The reptilian appeal of the god concept satisfies on a gut level during moments of passion that no amount of logic or factual evidence will ever be able to touch.

And the books are important, too. All the theisms have their central text and it goes without saying that no central text for atheism exists, nor will one ever.

Atheism is indefensible. Saying that no war will ever be fought in atheism's name, though perfectly true, implies a false predicate: that atheism has a name. It doesn't. Atheism will never assuage our fears of the unknown, never tell us that we're special, never justify our over-zealous love/abject hatred of ourselves and one another. It's a concept as difficult to understand as the zero must have been for the ancient Greeks. And the popular intellect will never, ever be able to grasp it; nor will they want to.

Atheism is dead.

Too Funny

2006-12-04T11:38:00.000-08:00

Picture of Santorum Losing with his whole fam-damily gathered 'round. via http://whatdoiknow.org/

Loving the cross between stupefied-amazement and rectal over-tension that Specs is wearing on the right. But Mom's Jimmy Cagney sneer is awesome, too.

I Bring The News

2006-10-08T08:30:00.000-07:00

I am happy to speak to you today about a profound milestone in human history.

Many millennia ago, the human looked up to the sky for the first time and was confused. Such a vast and dazzling unknown spread out so wide, so far, where does it go? From where did it come? The sun's nurturing heat guided our aimless wanderings through long days of discovery. At night, though we knew not where we were going, the moon's great beacon of light guided us on our long journey through the darkness. We put our faith in the heavens, high above and mysterious, and the heavens lead us unfailingly to the joyous daybreak at the end of our long night of confusion.

With our natural inclination to anthropomorphize, we gave that unknown a name. We depended on it in the morning, we thanked it in the afternoon, by nightfall we were praying to it. With our natural disinclination to consistency, we called it by many different names, and over time we even came to expect that it would save us in our hour of need.

Many thousands of years later, we are still confused. Many thousands of years later, we are still sadly crippled by the manacles of messiahs that never come, messiahs we can only read about in the books we wrote, hoping with all our hearts that simply committing our wishes to paper will somehow make them come true. Many thousands of years later, we still live on our lonely, little planet of isolation amidst the vast cosmos of association, walking in tiny circles, hoping that by ritualizing our failures we will somehow transform them into successes. Many thousands of years later, the human still languishes in its confusion, a slave to its faith, ready to murder its own kind rather than give up its beliefs. And so I speak today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense I want to cash a check. I have seen the promissory notes of the priests, the glib promises of the prophets, the ready reassurances of the rabbis, and it is obvious today that theism has defaulted on all of these promises. It is obvious today that theism never had the capital to write these checks in the first place. It is obvious today that all the beliefs in theism's tiny world will never amount to anything but shackles for the human race, never amount to anything but palliative reassurances on our pathetic frustrations, never amount to anything but a few hopeful words to whisper against the rising tides of our own confusion. Fortunately, sufficient funds exist in the great vault of opportunity that is the universe, if only we have the courage to seize them.

I speak to you today to alert you to the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the sopor of agnosticism, or to ingest the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to cast off the retarding veil of piety and realize the real promises of awareness. Now is the time to rise up from the dark, desolate valley of faith to the sunlit path of rational consideration. Now is the time to lift our species up from the quicksands of fantastic beliefs to the rock solid road of discovery. Now is the time to make theism just an early chapter in the continuing saga of the human species.

It would be fatal for the world to overlook the urgency of the moment. Note the swirling cesspools of faith-based ethnic cleansing, the world leaders/imperious sycophants conducting their war crimes with pious protection, the confused jihadis destroying their lives and the lives of others for empty promises and illusory rewards. This sweltering summer of legitimate discontent will not end until there is an invigorating autumn of awakening. Two thousand and six is not an end, but a beginning. Let the seeds of reason be planted so that we may reap the winds of change and pass through this dark time as the hurricane of revolt shakes the foundation of our society and blows open the doors to a sane, new world.

I speak today also of tolerance. Those of us who would stand on the warm threshold of the sound and reasonable palace of methodical exploration must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for sanity by drinking from the chalice of fanaticism. Our objective is a higher plane of dignity and discipline. No matter how violently our theistic brothers and sisters oppose the coming age of awareness, we must not allow our creative ambitions to degenerate into physical violence. Only tolerance will work.

As we persevere to learn, we must make the pledge that we shall not slip back into the warm embrace of institutionalized ignorance. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of independent thought, "When will you respect our beliefs?" We can never respect beliefs that nurture hate. We can never respect beliefs in extra-planar super beings. We can never respect plans for an illogical "life" after death. We can never respect self-aggrandizing leaders, power-drunk and false, and we can never respect their funny costumes. No, no, respect is too much to ask for these crazy hallucinations that have flooded human culture from its beginning.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here through great trials and tribulations. Some of you have only just escaped the clutches of religion, battered by the storms of easy answers, staggered by the torrents of pre-digested beliefs. Some of you have fresh claw marks on your heals from where your fellow crabs tried to pull you back into the basket of faith. Some of you may even still be drinking from the medicating elixir of theism. You are all veterans of theistic suffering. Continue to persevere knowing that the search for knowledge is its own reward.

Go back to your homes, go back to your jobs, your careers, go back to your town halls and your seats of government knowing that the days of organized religion have peaked. Ideologically, religion reached its maximum centuries ago and has been slowly ebbing ever since. With every passing moment religion becomes a little less useful, a little less relevant. It tries to change its spots and stripes by buying bigger venues and embracing different fads, but it can never grow beyond the brittle exo-skeleton of its sad beliefs. Indeed, the valley of despair is paved with sad beliefs.

And though we have great struggles still before us, herculean tasks to rise above the leviathan of our past dependence on theism, long hours, days, years of work yet to undo the shroud of confusion that it has woven, I bring the news today.

I bring the news that this is the life we have, this is the world in which we dwell; the only joy, love, and happiness we will ever get the chance to share is right here. This is our world. I bring the news.

I bring the news that ignorance can be cured, that discovery is our passion, that learning is our joy.

I bring the news that will lay every mountain low, raise every valley to the sky, and empty the oceans of ignorance. I bring the news, my fellow beings, that we are not a splintered free-for-all of fractious fighting, that we are not agents of alien influence destined to war against one another, that we are not enemies sworn to conflict and chaos. No! We are all members of the same kingdom, the same class, the same species, the same clan of siblings, of parents, of sons and daughters, of friends and lovers. We are fellows in filial fraternity, we are bands of brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers; we are family. We drink the same water, we breath the same air, we have the same blood coursing through our veins. I bring the news.

I bring the news today, all these thousands of years later, that the sky is still a mystery, and that is cause for celebration! I bring the news that our stupidity is not a sentence but rather an opportunity. I bring the news that each and every one of us contains unlimited potential and that together we can explore the stars and embrace future. I bring the news, brothers and sisters, that we shall cast off the constraints of sad beliefs and enter a new world of limitless discovery unfettered by faith. Free at last, free at last, good riddance to religion, we are free at last!

Guilt-o-Matic

2006-09-07T08:08:00.000-07:00

You have to recognize that the Bush Administration has really done everyone a great favor when it comes to that thorny, old problem of establishing guilt. They've revolutionized the process, streamlined it for the modern age. Unhampered by the need to gather evidence or provide a jury or any of that silly prerogative writ crap, it's so much easier now to just lock people up and start torturing them. How on earth did we ever manage with all that nonsense about due process and regular justice? Habeas Schmabeas, now that that's out of the way, I've got plenty of time to watch my stock portfolio become engorged on the blood of fallen soldiers.

Thank you, you radical ideological ass-clowns, thank you so very much.

Relig-o-Matic

2006-08-31T08:44:00.001-07:00

Lonely? Lost? Overcome with feelings of absurdity and futility? Desperate to belong to something righteous that will make you feel morally superior to those around you? Or are you just looking for free coffee and snacks on the weekend? If you said yes to any of these questions, then religion is the thing for you.

That's right, religion has been imbuing hopelessly pathetic people, like yourself, with a glowing sense of self-worth for centuries. By simply forking over some of your hard-earned scratch, kneeling down and bending over when told to, and generally not asking too many questions, you can become a member of any number of organizations that will deliver a whole host of excellent benefits, most of which will only become available to you after you're dead. But still, no matter how you slice it, religion is one hell of a deal.

But so many religions dot the earthly landscape, how will you ever pick the right one? How will you find the one that's best for you? Well, your old pal, Wad, is here to help. I present to you a list of important questions for which you should have definite answers before committing your life to this religion or that cult.

Number one: in the case of a monotheistic religion, find out if this particular god is the one true god. This is a very important question and you shouldn't take just anyone's word for it. Best thing to do is inquire at a variety of different religious organizations and have them all weigh in on the god you're considering. For instance, ask the Discordians what they think of Jesus. Or ask the Presbyterians and the Protestants what they think of Allah. Have the Jews talk to you about Kali and Baphomet. You get the picture. Whatever they say about their own god you should regard carefully; obviously they will be biased. But the stuff they say about the other gods will be perfectly objective.

Same thing in the case of a polytheistic religion (used to be a lot more popular than they are today, but a few are still out there): are all the gods equally true or are some of them a little false? Again, do careful research before making a decision.

Number two: exactly what is the benefit package you will receive once you're dead, assuming you have fulfilled all organizational requirements and are a normal member? Are requirements negotiable? Are prizes awarded on a sliding scale? A lot of variation exists here so check around. And be sure to get it all in writing so in case something goes wrong you'll have recourse for your grievances.

Number three: will you have to kill yourself? Figure this out early on as it can really screw things up if you find out too late. Assuming you will and you're cool with that, what sort of prizes will you receive after you're dead? Often, the benefits package offered to the newly deceased gets a few bonuses thrown in if you kill yourself in a prescribed way. I've heard that at least one religion offers a butt-load of virgins if you kill yourself just right. Personally, I prefer a woman with a little experience, but whatever. I think you get a pony, too. Again, remember to read the fine print.

Number four: will killing other people be part of the deal? If so, can you assassinate people you dislike personally, or will you be assigned targets by the organizers? Again, what sort of rewards will this assignment net you and can you get any of them while still alive? This is important because if you get arrested for murder, instead of getting virgins, spending time in the joint might simply de-virginize you, if you know what I mean (and I think you do). Knowing whether or not the religion provides free and effective legal defense in this situation is a very serious concern. Alternatively, does it have a substantial enough prison following to help you make the right kinds of friends in lock-down?

Number five: consider the details and methods of daily prayer: performing ablutions, chanting, fiddling with beads, special dance moves, gesticulations. Consider the dress code: outfits, colors, hairstyles. Some religions demand an austere existence and a disciplined daily regimen, while others let you dress the way you want and pray when you want. Get hooked up with the group that works for you!

Number six: where exactly will you be going once you're dead? Don't leave this up to chance; get coordinates. Also, check to see who else might be going; it would suck to get there and find a bunch of people you don't like. For instance, if it turns out that your religion and another competing religion are actually praying to the same god, you might both end up in the same place (heaven, valhala, paradise, whatever) and it might be awkward having to hang out with people you spent so much time hating when you were alive.

Finally, lucky number seven, a few minor points to consider: some religions are very popular with the stars and joining may give you the opportunity to meet a favorite, Cat Stevens, John Travolta, or Barry Manilow for instance. Will it help you get laid? Do a lot of hot chicks attend? Do you like the free drinks or snacks this religion offers at its regular meetings? Do they have a proper coffee maker or are they serving instant (ugh)? What do you think of this particular religion's paraphernalia and will you enjoy decorating your home, automobile, and office with it? How much time will you have to spend trying to talk other people (non-believers) into joining? Do you mind being spat on and having doors slammed in your face very much?

Once you have clear, logical answers to these questions, you should have no trouble making the right choice.

Cheers!

P.S. Maybe this article seemed a little sexist. That's because religion is sexist. Sure, some exceptions exist, but mostly being religious and being a woman means getting the table scraps the men leave. For women, joining a religion should be done purely for the service of the men in your life (and for the men in the church, including the god or gods therein, which will almost always be portrayed as male). So if you're a woman and you're reading this, don't you worry your pretty little head about all of these big, scary questions, Buttercup. Just print them out and hand them respectfully to your man when he's in a good mood. And then get back to fixing dinner and taking care of the kids.

The God Thing

2006-08-18T06:20:00.000-07:00

So many people talk about a god thing: god this, god that, god's watching, god'll get you for that. But what the hell is it? It's usually referred to with masculine pronouns, so is it a man? If it is a man, is it married? If not, is it gay? Who are its friends? Does it have any hobbies?

Those who are into this god thing tend to say crazy things when trying to describe it. Ask one "where is god?" and he will likely reply "he is everywhere," or "he is in your heart," which I shouldn't have to tell you are nonsense answers. If you ask the store clerk "where is the frozen food?" and she suggests elective surgery, how is that helpful?

This god thing, if its enthusiasts are to be believed, exists perhaps at some mysterious location, perhaps one nearby, perhaps far away, always has and always will. No rational explanation for why anyone should believe something this fantastic is ever supplied. Indeed, this is when waxing philosophies about faith usually start. And, oh, how they wax.

Florid literary meanderings aside, we have no empirical data on this god thing as an entity, as an individual. What data there are, all woven from the various available dogmas, in a practical sense focus on only two aspects: how it can do whatever it wants, and how it tends to display fairly simple emotions. We know its fury and we know its love, often at the same time, but never the conflicts of conscience, regret, sorrow, and introspection that come with maturity. Kind of like a little girl playing with her dollies—one minute, all is sweetness and light; the next, Mr. Flippy has committed some nebulous infraction and has to be punished for his insolence—this god thing never demonstrates any sophisticated reflection on any issue, merely smites the infidels when necessary. This by itself would be suspicious enough, but the god thing's vengeance upon the humans is always wrought by other humans.

Well, almost always. Natural disasters are often attributed to the god thing. Because it can do anything it wants, so it goes, rather than soil itself by dealing personally with the lowly humans it will, as its enthusiasts will tell you, wreck their stuff with floods and earthquakes and such. Again, this is very suspicious. Not only are natural disasters fairly easily explained today via simple observations of nature, but they are also very indiscriminate. The god thing gets so upset at the humans' infractions that its retribution will ruin the habitats of other species as well? Seems very petty. Sounds like what we're actually talking about is just a big baby.

Behold the god thing: it is nothing more than a reflection of its enthusiasts' psyches. While curious behavior is the norm among humans, pretending super-heroes and deities exist (super-heroes and deities that always look like humans, of course) is remarkable because it is enjoyed in nearly every corner of our little planet in many, many variations, by every different culture we have. Forgetting for the moment the extraordinarily lucrative nature of organized religion, what could have driven us to adopt such an odd practice with such enthusiasm?

People are justifiably frustrated and frightened by their powerlessness in this world. Other animals are stronger, faster, can swim better, see farther, and we are utterly outclassed by the forces of nature. So, to stave off our trembling fear, we dream up something with limitless powers and infinite this and endless that and pretend to have some control over it through organizational affiliations. Genius! We'll give the people at the head of the organization funny costumes to wear and pretend publicly that they can actually talk to the purely made-up god thing while privately we pretend to talk to it ourselves. It really is all ours to do with as we see fit, which presents an opportunity with limitless potential for putting forward our own petty grievances with our neighbors who we dislike for many reasons, but mostly because we want their land and they remind us too much of ourselves.

Our god thing has no personality of its own, no hobbies, no interests. It has no real character of any sort, no favorite foods, no favorite jokes. Infinitely malleable, it cannot contradict a political alliance or motive because it does not exist. It is an empty vessel, a concept open to interpretation into which we petty, frightened, and insignificant humans, the militant ones, can pour all of our pathetic rage, humiliation, and fears, to be meted out against one another as we see fit, with prejudice. Or those peace loving among us can pour in our hopes and dreams and prayers of salvation without fear of denial or of being tricked, because no one is there.

It provides an instant justification for any act of selfishness we can dream up, and an easy explanation for all of our many failures: the will of the god thing explains everything. No one can deny its usefulness.

Not the least of its uses, the god thing provides an easy, if spurious, escape from nihilism. The void is terrifying primarily because it is our lack of understanding about the world around us that informs it. A fantastic answer may seem preferable when the truth is, perhaps, beyond our grasp. But it's a tactical error if you want to play the long game.

No, we don't understand why we're here or where we're going or what the point of it all is or even if a point exists, but we understand more today than we did yesterday. Having just begun to understand so much, let's not hang up our track shoes so early in the race by embracing a worldview that we'll have to apologize for later, particularly one that has played out so poorly over the previous centuries.

Throw down your gods.

progeneration

2006-08-05T10:19:00.000-07:00

Mister Wad and Missus Wad made a Baby Wad, a Little Wad, a Tiny Love Wad. Check it out:

First chance I get, I will tell her she is special.

Really Stupid

2006-07-22T21:32:00.000-07:00

Most people are told that they're special as children. I was. You probably were, too. Unfortunately, what most people actually are is really stupid. Few are told this when they're little, and even fewer ever figure it out at all.

I actually was special. I'm not saying that to brag, it's just a simple observation. Most people are really stupid and I'm not really stupid. The overwhelming presence of stupidity has lowered the bar for special so far that simply not being really stupid is all it takes. We'll need to come up with a new title for people that rise above even that. Maybe we can call them Teh Genius!

Oh sure, I have my moments, like the time I asked "When's the baby due?" to a woman that was not pregnant. Or the time a friend asked me what I thought of his spiritual endeavors and I told him, honestly. Even those of us who are not really stupid screw up from time to time.

Really stupid is different. Really stupid requires effort and constant vigilance to prevent common sense from sneaking in. It's tricky that way. Even something as seemingly innocuous as reading a book can wreck everything.

You are probably one of the really stupid ones. Take it personally, if you like; the numbers are against you. For instance, if you think the war on terror is an enterprise worth even the cost of the ammunition and ordnance being wasted, not to mention the cost of the disastrous reconstruction scandals, and certainly not to even consider the cost of human lives lost individually and the irreparable damage to each family torn asunder thereby, then you are really stupid.

It's simple. If you fell for any of that shit, if you believe the that the war on terror is defending your freedom rather than destroying it, then all those people that told you you were special as a child were horribly wrong. You are actually really stupid and not at all special.

Again, when you hear those assclowns conflate what happened on September 11th, 2001 with our military presence in Iraq, if you hear that and think to yourself something like, "We'll teach those Iraqi bastards!" while picturing the twin towers in flames, then you are really stupid.

Should you do anything about it? Well, by remaining really stupid you are going to enjoy more of everything: larger social network, greater job opportunities, chicks will dig you more, the forms at the DMV, hospital, pretty much everywhere are always written with you in mind, same goes for the warning labels that cover most products for sale anywhere today, television and radio will be more entertaining to you, you may even find the spam filling your inbox to be interesting and useful, the list of benefits is almost infinite.

When it's your turn to bend over and take it up the ass so that the feckless child of some politician can get a free ride (perhaps all the way to the White House), you'll be so much happier if you're really stupid. Hell, you'll probably turn around and vote for the chump while his come's still dribbling out of your butt. Hooray for you!

It's almost idiotic not to be really stupid. Life is so much easier that way.

Little Soldier

2006-06-28T22:11:00.000-07:00

Hi, I'm Dick Cheney's penis. I know, I know, it's hard to see me because I'm so small. But listen, I really hope there's another terrorist attack soon. I have been so limp for so long, I almost can't remember what it's like to be erect. I seriously have not been fully erect since those guys flew those planes into the World Trade Center. Man, that was great. Two and a half full inches of raging, turgid, man-meat. You have no idea how fat I was then, and for days and days without flagging. Oh, how hard I was. I almost didn't mind being shoved up Alberto's stinking, Mexican ass, that's how hard I was.

I'm sure I'm speaking for every dick in the PNAC when I say that we were all feeling pretty sad for a long time because nobody would take our idea of invading Iraq seriously. We knew it would be a real wank-fest if we could just kill a few towel-heads and start strutting like cocks on the walk and sucking all the juicy crude up from beneath that sandy hell-hole of a country. We knew it would be an awesome adventure and everyone would be so envious of us. But no one would listen. No no no, it would be disastrous, they said. The rest of the world will hate us, they said. Too many of our troops will die, they said. Peace, freedom, justice, blah blah blah, bunch of fucking pussies. Honestly, no one would give our brilliant scheme the time of day. It was so humiliating.

So when those buildings crashed and burned, we (the respective cocks of guys like Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, Jeb Bush, Donald Rumsfeld, and Paul Wolfowitz) collectively blew the biggest fucking load we have ever blown in our entire fucking lives. Imagine us all curled up like sad little dicks, sweating in the dark, humid confines of our trousers, sitting there stewing in our depression, wondering why we never seem to get the credit we deserve for being such upstanding dicks, drooling our despair into our silk boxer shorts, when all of a sudden, bang! We had our solution. Yeah! Splooge city! That was so fucking awesome! We knew right then that the American people would go along with us no matter what kind of crackpot nonsense we might spew now. Because of what those assholes from Saudi Arabia did to those towers we knew we had a blank check to blow up the towel-headed nation of our choice. Yippee!! Now we can invade Iraq, just like we always wanted. Not like it matters that Iraq had nothing to do with the attack at all: no one in America can tell any of those fucking camel-jockeys apart. And besides we couldn't very well go after Saudi Fucking Arabia could we, the Bin Laden family would be so upset with us. Duh.

So anywayz... that was awesome being so rock hard for so long. I remember all the tough talk Dick made from inside the bunker. Oh man, he nearly rubbed me raw, but it was worth it. Oh the mess I made. But it's been a while now. Frankly, the only time I've popped recently was when Dick shot that guy in the face. That was it. And it really wasn't that great of a load because of all the people around. I hope next time he thinks to use Air Force One instead of a limo to go shoot anyone, it's so much more private.

So what I'm trying to say is I need some more. I'm like a junky and I really need another fix. But nothing Dick does these days is really working. The Abu Ghraib photos aren't even working anymore. And Guantanamo has been getting so much media attention lately that it's no longer practical to sneak over there and waterboard a few detainees for a quick jerk. I'm desperate for another good ejaculation, and nothing short of the kind of disaster that will send normal, thinking Americans into a blind fury will suffice. I sure hope something bad happens soon, otherwise I may wither up and fall off.

Government at its Best

2006-06-23T20:37:00.000-07:00

The other day I dropped a pen.

When I bent over to pick it up, all of a sudden I realized Treasury Secretary John Snow's nose was up my ass.

I said, "Why is your nose up my ass?"

He said, "It is vital to the war on terror that my nose is up your ass."

Treasury Secretary John Snow then said that the nose-up-my-ass effort is "government at its best" and it is "entirely consistent with our democratic values, with our best legal traditions."

Snow went on to say, "By keeping my nose up your ass, we've been able to locate operatives, we've been able to locate their financiers, we've been able to chart the terrorist networks and we've been able to bring the terrorists to justice." Then he said, "If al-Qaida is up your ass, we want to know about it."

Then Vice President Dick Cheney waddled in, "What I find most disturbing about the al-Qaida-is-up-your-ass stories is that some of the news media take it upon themselves to disclose these vital national security programs, thereby making it more difficult for us to climb quietly up the asses of the American people." Then Cheney squawked, "That offends me."

Slipping quietly out of Vice President Dick Cheney's ass, Attorney General Alberto Gonzales said, "The Justice Department has reviewed the program and we believe it is awesome. It's really just super."

Poking his head out of Vice President Dick Cheney's ass, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld then said, "And you can be sure that when, I mean, if the next, I mean, another terrorist attack strikes in, on, around, or umm... within the continental United States it will be because we haven't looked far enough up your ass. It's the only way to stop the terrorists, bless your heart."

The president wanted to add to the conversation, I could tell, but Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld wouldn't move out of the way.

Never did find that pen.

I Pee on the Floor

2006-06-16T23:43:00.000-07:00

Not on purpose, mind you. It just happens.

It goes like this: step up to the urinal, tackle out, quick check to establish targeting, let her rip.

I've done this so many times, thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands. I don't really pay very much attention. Pretty much I'm on auto-pilot. My head angles back and slightly to the left. I stare up at the wall, study the tiles, examine the light fixtures, and pretty much just daydream for a little while. Using my ears to monitor accuracy, adjustments to trajectory are made automatically, almost unconsciously. I'm relaxed. It's like a mini-vacation from work.

It took a long time to even notice the puddle.

When I finally did, I would look at the puddle as I moved away and sneer at it, "What kind of jackass pees on the floor?" The parents of the guy that did that must be really low-down.

Over time a grain of doubt, a spec of self-suspicion crept into my mind. I began to wonder, in a purely theoretical way, if I could be the culprit. Being nearly inconceivable, I didn't put much weight behind the notion, but I did wonder, on occasion, just a little.

Eventually I decided to do the bare minimum to discover if I had anything to do with it: I would check the floor before doing my business so I would have a frame of reference with which to compare my observations afterwards. This is a much easier thing to plan than to actually do. While I really only want to accomplish one thing in that room (well, two things, but that's a different post), it does not take much to distract me. In fact, toddlers generally have a longer attention span than I do. And the idea to check the floor pretty much only occurs to me as I walk away from the urinal. So generally, I'm done before I remember. But I persevered.

Eventually I came to realize that I was, indeed, peeing on the floor.

How did this happen? At what point did I become such white trash? I've been doing this for years (quite a few) and would like to think with all that practice I'd be pretty good at it by now. Accuracy, for instance, should be second nature. But the evidence is plain enough. Maybe I've never been the sharp-shooter I imagined myself to be. Tragic.

I'm not going to clean it up or anything, but it does bug me just a little bit.

Just Trying to Help

2006-06-14T21:50:00.000-07:00

I was an AOL subscriber once. Thanks to a lot of therapy, I can now admit that. I know it wasn't my fault. It was 1997 and I didn't know any better. I originally became interested in the Internet because I heard that you could see pictures of ladies' thingies and stuff. I thought AOL was the way to go because everyone was doing it. But I didn't know the dangers involved. Sure the chat rooms were fun (many marvel at the speed of my one-handed typing even today), but eventually the dirty feeling became too much.

Fortunately, back then AOL customer service representatives spoke down to you as if they were the chosen few, the elite AOL CSRs, chosen by providence to dispense or withhold access to that most holy of places, the AOL Universe. Really all you had to do was type one word out of place and they would threaten to cancel your account anyway (at which point subscribers would normally beg--NO PLEASE, I'll give you my first born! Anything! Even my Star Wars characters figurine collection! Just don't cancel my account!). So, because they didn't care so much about retention back then, it was easy for me to quit.

Now, apparently, things are different. AOL is on the rocks and the dwindling number of people willing to be associated with what is essentially the tenement slums of the Internet (actually, I think myspace is stealing even that title from them) is driving them to change their tune and try hard to prevent people from leaving.

For those who are ready to quit using AOL, here is a list of reasons/motivations you can use to explain your actions to the AOL customer service representative, and thereby minimize the hassle he or she has been ordered to give you:

11. Gouged out eyes after seeing the cat that chased a bear up a tree for the millionth time.

10. Would like to stop being associated with the largest group of eternal-newbies on the Web.

9. No longer accept email.

8. Joined a mega-church that has an exclusive deal with Comcast.

7. A close family member was killed by an avalanche of AOL CDs when she opened her P.O. box after a short vacation.

6. Terrified of being among the last to leave the sinking ship.

5. Don't want to be around when AOL finally goes belly-up in a ditch off the Information Superhighway.

4. Never liked Sleepless in Seattle anyway.

3. Have run out of patience with obstructive customer service representatives.

2. Have decided the Internet is the work of Satan and will be devoting life to making it stop.

1. Can no longer live with the shame of being an AOL subscriber.

Good luck!

Diversity

2006-06-06T22:32:00.000-07:00

Get some!

You want it in your stock portfolio. You want it in your gene pool. You want it in a free market. It's pretty much always good.

So why are we so stuck on oil? When it comes to petroleum we have put all our yams in the same bag. Seems like anyone who was paying attention would see this as a bad idea. Kinda' like the Potato Famine in Ireland, if our single source of energy turns bad, we're good and screwed.

But we can buy oil from Canada, and South America, and Africa, as well as the Middle East. That's diversity, isn't it? Well, it's all coming from the same planet. So, no, I don't think so.

And besides, have you noticed that countries that derive their wealth mostly or exclusively from selling oil are pretty much run by huge dicks? Hugo Chavez, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo, Muammar Qadhafi, all these guys are huge pricks who get to spout off anytime they want because of one thing: oil wealth.

And who is supplying all that wealth? Hey it's you and me, my fellow Americans! Yay! Hooray for us! We're so great.

Every 4-strokes of intake, compression, combustion, and exhaust (oh yeah, we love the exhaust) sings a song of support for the worlds biggest assholes.

Saudi Arabian schools teach their studentry that Jews are pigs and Christians are dogs and so foster an environment that their brand of fundamentalist wing-nuts can feel comfortable in, nurturing their hate, giving rise to organizations like Al Queda, and doing whatever the hell they want. It's a great system, and we're the ones paying for it! Yay, we're the best! Let's have the Bin Laden family over for dinner. President Bush will show them our gratitude for all they've done for us. Yes, the Bushes and the Bin Ladens are great friends. Isn't that great?

We were suckered into this situation by the oil men. They sold us out and continue to do so. They told us oil would be a panacea that we could use to power every aspect of our lives, make our clothes out of, our carpets, our disposable cups, our fertilizers, but what we really got was a petro-chemical noose that every single one of our necks is in right now.

The obvious solution: we need diversity in our fuel sources. That way if one goes bad we have alternatives. If the spud goes bad (or the shrub), toss it out and eat a turnip.

Sounds so simple, so why am I still worried?

Smoking

2006-05-08T00:32:00.000-07:00

And while I'm talking about dicks up the butt, let's quickly go over smoking.

If you smoke cigarettes, you are the bitch of a bunch of fat, disgusting old white guys. Seriously. Your butt is full of their shriveled little dicks. They're so old and repulsive that they probably can't even get hard anymore, but that's OK because you never stop sucking. That's the beauty of it. Every time you place that long, white cylinder to your lips and draw the silky white contents deep into your body, some pasty old man wearing a thousand dollar watch has himself a little orgasm. Probably shits himself at the same time but that's OK, too, because he can afford a full butt-wiping nursing staff on the profits he and old men like him have been making off their bitches (that's you) for years. Every time you cough, they come. Every time you hack up tar they get a chubby. Every time you develop lung cancer, they pop a load.

Suck, suck, suck, several times a day, every day, for ever and ever. It's like a non-stop come shot all over your face, and hair, and clothes, your car, your home. It's like you're the little whore in the middle of a tobacco executive gang-bang, getting used and abused without regard. And normal people can smell that shit on you from a good ways off. With just one whiff, everyone knows that you are the tobacco companies' bitch and that you like it, love sucking that shit and getting it all over you. You can't stop. You gotta' have more, more of that hot white tobacco jism.

At least, until you get the balls to quit.

Which Way Did We Go?

2006-04-30T16:12:00.000-07:00

I'm reading Our Endangered Values by Jimmy Carter. In it he reprints an op-ed piece he did on March 3rd, 2003. For those of us that may have misplaced our programs, that was well into shrub's first term, but just the beginning of his greatest screw-up. The Iraq debacle hadn't officially been announced, but we now know its preparations and the decision to invade had already been made. But we didn't know that then. At that time we were still enjoying some world-class* performances from the Secretary of State, Colin "will lick corporate ass-crack for money" Powell, the Security Advisor, Condoleeza "they named an oil tanker after me because I ooze black sludge" Rice, the Vice President, Dick "unsafe with any weapon" Cheney, and several other high profile charlatans, all doing the now famous soft-shoe about phantom weapons of mass destruction and the magical transmogrification of a favored son of some Saudi big-shots, who actually attacked us and caused serious damage, into a despotic Iraqi president, who couldn't have attacked anyone armed with anything greater than a pee-shooter, and whose greatest damage done may have been entertaining Donald "you put your head up the ass you've got not the ass you want" Rumsfeld. Ah, the wonders of stage-craft.

In Mr. Carter's piece, he outlines some reasonable requirements for a just war. Things like: (I'm paraphrasing) only as a last resort, don't kill the civilians, match the war's violence to the crime committed, make sure you have representation at home and abroad, and (my favorite) make sure you improve the peace. Quote:

"Although there are visions of a panacea of peace and democracy in Iraq, it is quite possible that the aftermath of a successful military invasion will destabilize the region, and that aroused terrorists might detract from the personal safety of our people and the security of our nation."

And:

"...the heartfelt sympathy and friendship offered to us after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, even from formerly antagonistic regimes, has been largely dissipated, and increasingly unilateral and domineering policies have brought our country to its lowest level of international distrust and antagonism in memory. We will surely decline further in stature if we launch a war in clear defiance of UN opposition, but to continue using the presence and threat of our military power to force Iraq's compliance with all UN resolutions--with war as a final option--will enhance our status as a champion of peace and justice."

Champion of peace and justice. Man, that sounds familiar. I think our country used to stand for that kind of stuff. Was it just a dream? Do we have fascists running our country into the ground right now? Is it true that more people voted for American Idol than voted for the presidency? Are we completely screwed and will this nightmare just keep getting worse?

The future of the United States has been stolen by the corporations. They own our politicians, and we are the sheep they use to go from being super-wealthy to being extra-super-wealthy-deluxe. I love that photo of the Exxon exec who wrote his own bonus to the tune of something like $150,000 per day he "worked." You can tell by the volume of flabby jowl swinging beneath this pelican-man's chin that he hasn't done any work in a very long time. Trickle down economics? You seriously want me to believe that as people become this ridiculously wealthy that they're going to come over all benevolent and want to see that their fellow man is taken care of? Pull the other one. That toxic gullet will regurgitate the occasional golden fish for his flabby offspring that will grow up to be just as thick and useless as the shrub, and the rest of the world will just have to swim through the chum to find his or her own way. If you're not holding at least $20 or $30 million, then you've got one of those fat, pasty white cocksuckers' dicks up your ass right now. Enjoy!

These guys aren't leaders; they're losers. Wealth does not equal virtue, far from it. And oil-wealth is the least virtuous of all. In case you haven't noticed, oil is a death sentence for the human race. The sooner we get off it, the better our chances of an extended life will be. Also, much of the industrialized world is well ahead of us in this regard. We're falling behind in every way except for fattening the salaries of useless fat white guys (oh, and killing people with skin darker than ours, and suing each other).

As long as our election and legislative processes are dominated by the checkbooks of corporate fat heads, our future road map will continue to be one of failure.

Someday I hope we come back to a place where Freedom and Justice and Equality aren't just buzz-words, not just concepts that we read about in books. I think we used to stand for those things. And that was cool.

Wad out.

*When I say "world-class" what I mean, of course, is "sad, pathetic parodies of humanity washed up onto the shore of public discourse by the most incompetent and ill-natured of tides."

We Love The Terror

2006-04-29T14:19:00.000-07:00

Here's a lovely shot of our lovely* little Secretary of State enjoying a lovely little photo-op with a lovely little dictator from Equatorial Guinea. Aren't they just adorable? Maybe they will go for tea later, or perhaps just cut the ears off of a few dissidents. The bosom does swell with pride knowing that the slimeballs appointed by the ass-clown who was installed as president by the supreme court are making time to entertain the raw sewage of humanity. But then, we have a great history of doing just that, don't we.

The war on terror is a bunch of bullshit. We took Saddam down because he wasn't playing ball. This chump gets the red carpet because he knows how to suck ass. So here's a suggestion: any of the folks out there that think the president is doing a good job (amazingly, one out of three people still do) go read a little history.

While contemplating the NSA wiretapping and the extraordinary renditions and Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo, remember that Patrick Henry said, "Give me liberty or give me death." The little weasels that think the war on terror is somehow a good idea are essentially saying, "Take my liberty, just don't let the scary men hurt me!" Benjamin Franklin said, "Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety." Think about it.

And remember: dissent is patriotic. Embracing, supporting, or complying with despots is cowardly.

*When I say lovely, what I really mean is face-caught-fire-and-was-extinguished-with-an-axe ugly.

Make The Pizza Come Fasterz

2006-04-28T23:33:00.000-07:00

I don't know much, but I can tell you something.

Now, I'm no minute-man, but I'm not going to lie and tell you that I'm some kind of sexual athlete either. The length of my performance would be unsuitable for a career in porn in more ways than one. And that's OK.

But the estimated interval of delivery was 45 minutes to an hour, written in plain black and white lettering on their damn site, which sounds to me like plenty of time to put the moves on the little woman.

So take it from me, if you're in a hurry for that pizza, just start making the sign of the double-humped iguana with the partner of your choice immediately after ordering and that guy will be at your door, literally, faster than you can stick it in.

Another tip: get the anchovies on the side.

Wad out.

A Simple Formula

2006-02-15T00:39:00.001-08:00

The Bush Administration + weapons = madcap hijinks and hilarity!

They're such cut-ups. They keep everyone in stitches. They make Homer Simpson seem thoughtful. They make the Three Stooges seem methodical. They make Joseph Stalin seem like their hero. It's a riot!

Here's what I want to see: take Saddam Hussein out of jail and give him his own show. I'm not kidding. I'm talking about Comedy Gold here. This would be the reality TV show of all time. Here's the opening scene:

Saddam sits on a ratty couch wearing a stained wife beater with a Bud tall in one hand, the remote in the other, and a bowl of pork rinds in his lap. The camera is behind the TV, his angry and confused mug staring straight into it as reruns of the Jeffersons play. In walks someone who looks like a cross between Opie from the Andy Griffith Show and Alfred E. Newman. He stands just behind the couch and says: "Hey Saddam, have you seen my uranium enrichment tubes anywhere?"

Saddam doesn't say a word, just shifts to one side and rips a fart so loud that the Elvis collector plates rattle on the wall behind.

"Damn dude. Is that how you gassed the Kurds?" Says the goofy guy with the ears.

Canned laughter goes full tilt as the music and the opening credits come up. The music sounds like part Benny Hill, part Britney Spears with a fast, staccato trumpet line and a heavily studio processed, husky female voice singing "It's the Dubya and Bubba Show!"

Alternatively, if Saddam isn't available for the part, Dick Cheney could play it. They're practically the same guy, anywayz.

I'm telling you: Comedy Gold!

Please, god.

2006-02-11T13:43:00.000-08:00

If I could just see a gay human-badger and a gay human-ostrich joined in holy wedlock by a woman in a persistant vegetative state while aboard a space-ship on a manned mission to Mars, I would renounce all of my cynicism and believe everything that the President has ever said.

I would have no choice.

I think it is delicious irony the way conservatives who are in favor of the war in Iraq and of promoting Democracy there must talk out both sides of their mouths. For anyone who is paying attention can clearly see that in order for it to work, we must convince the people of Iraq to renounce their conservative views and become more liberal in their ways: equality, women's rights, the whole bit. I love that.

Perhaps, too, conservatives will see that without liberal views, we would all still be living in the dark ages. Of course, many of them seem to want nothing more than to return there. But it doesn't matter.

Thank god, liberals always win. Conservative sticks-in-the-mud can dig their heals in and plot and scheme to wreck the wheels of progress, and they do, and will continue to do so. But just as we can no longer believe that evil spirits are the cause of common ailments, or that the earth is the center of the universe, or that it's flat, we have no choice but to grow up, accept reality, and get wise.

And that's what being liberal is all about.

Oh, and just a reminder: the President and his kabal lied bald-facedly to the American people to start the war in Iraq which has made the world much less safe (its only benefit has been to Haliburton and a few other war profiteers), and he has no intention of finishing it or returning the money it's wasting. When he said "Mission Accomplished," he meant "Mission Accomplished."

Sleep well!

Another Reason

2006-01-30T03:37:00.000-08:00

Another reason to abandon the god concept: it's conceited.

That creatures with brains as small as ours should be able to explain the universe is farcical. We can't even explain why putting a sleeping person's hand in a bucket of warm water makes him or her pee his or her respective pants. And that should tell you something.

That book you're thumping was written by some guy, not this crazy super being you've been going on about. That crazy super being only exists in your tiny, addled minds.

Being comfortable with our own ignorance is humble and modest. It is also the first step to really figuring out what the hell is going on here.

Abortion and Execution

2006-01-28T13:00:00.000-08:00

Two issues that really ought to be considered together.

Both are horrendous. Both are made worse when done by amateurs. Both enjoy support from factions that are often strongly opposed to the other. Why is that?

If you're against capital punishment, but support a woman's right to choose, does that mean you hate babies?

If you think abortion is murder, but feel murderers should be put to death, does that make you a hypocrite?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Nick and Jessica

2006-01-10T22:17:00.000-08:00

Nick and Jessica broke up. It's so sad. One minute they are the very embodiment of love everlasting, the next they're going their separate ways. I just don't understand how that can happen. It's pretty much all I can think about these days.

That and the growing trade deficit with China, which has increased over 200% since 1995, 150% with the rest of the world.

That there's twice as much severe draught in the world today as there was in 1970.

That full grown adults still believe in imaginary creatures they call gods, to the point of being happy to kill whomever they imagine their gods want them to kill for whatever reason they imagine their imaginary super-being might want them to.

The simultaneous increase in the cost of petroleum, with the decrease in its availability, and the increase in our need for a green energy policy for so many different reasons, and our dogged determination to consume more and more oil as fast as possible to the exclusion of all other options, even to the point of ridiculing those that might have the temerity to suggest an alternate energy source.

The broad, sweeping wiretapping, email intercepting, and spying that is invading our homes, destroying the freedoms that once set The United States apart from rogue states that don't care about freedom, and doing so in a way that is completely incapable of delivering positive results in the Orwellian bullshit we are forced to refer to as the war on terror.

That full grown adults have been and continue to be fooled time and again that war can be waged against a concept.

The naked opportunistic greed that has blinded every politician in every house of government to any issues that are relevant to me, my family, and the rest of this ignorant nation of chumps.

That those with great monetary wealth often tend to lose all sense of modesty and humility, not to mention compassion, in their quest for even greater piles filthy lucre.

And whether our troops will be invading Iran next because Israel's been blown up by a nuclear bomb, the Kurds have seceded and immediately been invaded by Turkey, and the Shia and the Sunnis have decided now's a great time to annihilate one another.

But mostly how Nick and Jessica are doing.

I hope those poor kids can work it out. They seemed so happy together.

Delicious

2005-12-18T21:09:00.000-08:00

I wonder if it ever occurred to you how delicious you are.

While skittering around in your little world, did you ever think that the muscles inside your exo-skeleton were tasty? Or that one day a hominid would use the tip of one of your spiny legs to dig out those delicious muscles and eat them?

I bet you didn't. I mean, I've looked through your body thoroughly. I've seen the disgusting yellowish-green soup that fills the cavity just beneath your carapace. I've seen your white, finger-like gills there, too, on either side. I've seen your eye-stalks and your strange little mandibles and that odd little triangular flap of articulated shell (wide and blunt if you're a girl--narrow and pointy if you're a boy) at the very back on your bottom. I've seen your hard, chitinous claws, sharp and dangerously powerful (when you were still alive, at least). I've cut my fingers dismantling those claws in such a way that I could grab the cartilaginous tendon and open and close them myself while making growling noises and closing in on my brother's fingers or face. I know you intimately, inside and out. And I've never seen anything that looks even remotely like a brain.

So it is highly unlikely that you could have been self-aware.

Nonetheless, I try to put myself in your legs, so to speak. I imagine myself crawling around on the ocean floor. I imagine the water to be nurturing not cold, with bits of food constantly floating by with every pulse of the tides and the surf, the soft susurration of the waves high above, the clicking of my claws, and the scent of rotting organic material all around.

I am the master of my realm. I have fought my way up from when I was tiny, winning the lottery, essentially, that spares some and turns others, many others, into dinner. My brothers, farewell. What I don't run from I can frighten with my dangerous claws, maybe even kill and eat the little fish that I catch, the shrimp, the clams. The sea is teaming with meals just waiting for me to hunt them down. But I never pass up those things that have already died and drift down from above and into my world. Oh no.

I have no thought for who they were or what they did; when they arrive I see them only as food. And I will eat. I will have to eat fast, because others are coming, maybe they even beat me to it. But no matter, I will have my share and grow strong and dominate. The soft, squishy flesh shreds easily in my powerful claws. I transfer it quickly to my mouth-hole and masticate it precisely the right amount so that my gastric mill can process the raw material and convert it to energy so that I can carry on. I do not savor. I do not reflect. My focus could only be disturbed by something approaching from above.

I am always on the look out for things that descend too quickly. Things that descend quickly I run from. I can move forward or back fairly well, but I move sideways like lightning. Or I can quickly bury myself in the sand if my eye-stalks spot any danger from above.

However, I do not notice the ground upon which I stand falling away below me. If I had a brain, I might have been suspicious of the generous assortment of carp, a fresh-water fish, tied to the metal ribs of this odd grill, here in my salt-water home. But I have no muscle-memory to help me in this case. All I know is that it is food.

Erupting from the surface of the sea for the first time in my entire life, exposed to the air, I can make nothing of what I see, hear, or smell: light so bright and a competely new world spinning around me, the murmurings of the sea replaced with harsh shreaking, howling noises, the smell of the food barely perceptible even though it is still in my claws. I and my brothers and sisters are trapped. We cannot run; we cannot hide.

We could not have been aware of the hominids. I could not have determined that they were children. I could not have noticed that one had red hair, the other sandy blond. I could not really have even understood that I and my siblings were now in a bucket of fresh water that we could easily have escaped from as it sat there poorly guarded on the pier just below the Golden Gate Bridge in the chill San Francisco bay breeze on that bright summer day. In fact, if any of my brethren even tried to escape, I would pull them back. We all would.

We wouldn't even struggle much when we're placed in the boiling water. The pain would have certainly made our fate clear, but it would have been too late at that point. Within moments, a few short clicks, we were, ourselves, dinner.

And a tasty, delicious dinner at that.

Thank you, Dungeness Crabs. I have always loved eating you.

Cars Suck

2005-12-04T12:40:00.000-08:00

They do. Sorry if you have a favorite, but it sucks as well. Personally, I've always thought the AC Cobra was a badass ride (the 289 will do just fine), but it sucks, too. Apparently, the gasoline combustion engine is only around 25% efficient (I assume this goes for diesel engines as well). I know this is true because I looked it up on the Web and the Web never lies. So the next time you hear someone talking about fuel efficiency, just yawn and shake your head. Our automobiles waste three fourths of what we put into their tanks, and that's a crying shame.

You Are The Dead

2005-11-29T00:40:00.000-08:00

And here in my hand I see this knife; the blood I believe is my own.

Explicit paths to the fore and beyond, intractably damning all, I succumb. And here's where I get to do some really cool shit.

He was handing out noses, and I said, "Get fucked, shit-heal. I got no time for you."

Ah, good times. I'll wipe this tear from my eye later.

Eric Blair, who wrote as George Orwell, wrote 1984, and you didn't.

F*ckers

2005-11-25T08:26:00.000-08:00

The financial firetruck flew from the fiduciary fortress freeing fatuous fascists and fanatical fools from a fair-trade-agreement with false friends and from fornicating with felons following forced faggotry and facetious felicity for fifteen fellows who found fortune by fleeing from filial faith.

Stay Where You Are

2005-11-19T17:20:00.000-08:00

If you approach life from an existential viewpoint, as I do, you can't help but question almost everything. For instance, what is now as opposed to just now, or what is here as opposed to beyond? It's easy enough to assume something, anything, but ultimately really difficult to compile convincing data that you can take anywhere and not have it fall apart at the slightest provocation. All it takes is one voice, one tiny squeak of dissent, and everything tailspins out of control. Who am I?

"Stay where you are."

Bricks and mortar, the sidewalk and the shards of broken glass that litter it, everything looks quite solid. Uptown is that way, downtown over there; clearly any number of exits are available to me. But where am I gonna' go? This is what I know. Right here everything is real, solid, fundamental... and beyond... just someone else's reality. How can it matter to me and to what I know? And what do I know? And where am I supposed to be right now?

"Stay where you are."

The aroma of burnt rubber leaves an acrid film on my awareness. The occasional wisp of smoke smelling faintly of car exhaust (and another smell I can't quite identify) implies that I'm still alive, and there's a slight throbbing in my wrists to match the ringing in my ears. So, there you go. Surely I'm supposed to be doing something right now. Somewhere in the midst of this confusion is a path; I'm sure of it. Sticky spots of goo flecked with broken, green glass twinkling in the morning sun cover the faux Native American design of the upholstered bench seat cover. Although I can't quite remember why, I'm sure the goo is sweet.

Between the bricks are panes of glass; behind the panes of glass, faces peer at me. I should be doing something constructive right now, something that would move my project forward. Am I a shark? Does life cease as soon as I stop moving? What if, as I move forward, I find myself somewhere I have already been? Does that mean I was actually moving backwards? How did I get here? Why is it so quiet right now? Normally the challenge is to filter out the noise so as to identify the signal, but occasionally, silence blocks out the entire world. I've never heard silence like this before.

"Stay where you are."

What did I hear? The explosive crunching the metal made, paint scraping, tires squealing. I still don't understand why. Why am I here? I was moving forward. Everything was cool. And then...

The door opens and a hand reaches in and grabs my shoulder, pulling me out of my truck, forcing me to stand on my feet on the street. The pavement feels solid. Is this my opportunity? What am I supposed to do? Words fly past my head like bats. I brush them aside and consider my options. Only, I have no idea what my options are. I feel sure that I have some, and that they're important, or rather, some of them are, or that it's important to choose one of them, the right one. Can I have two options? Can I pick more than one? Perhaps those people behind the glass can help me. Are they my friends? Do they like me?

"Stay where you are."

This now certainly is large. I'm used to nows that whiz buy and are gone before you even saw it coming; I had a now like that recently, I'm pretty sure. But this now is still here somehow; it just keeps stretching on and on. I wonder if I should be worried. It's nice, in a way, oddly comforting. I feel as if I could take a nap in this now, so warm and friendly, almost luxurious. Now, what was I doing?

Placeholder Text

2005-10-26T19:49:00.000-07:00

This is placeholder text. It doesn't actually say anything, so there is no point in reading it. Seriously, if you are reading this, you should just stop. There is absolutely no point in reading this at all, none whatsoever. Not a single word herein is substantive in any way. These are, essentially, non-words, filling, or rather, emptying this non-message into the ether, word after word of non-information taking up space, wasting valuable pixels, toner, and/or ink depending on what medium it's been output. At some point, actual copy written by an actual copywriter will be here, where this non-copy currently resides, at which time studious attention will be welcome, encouraged even, nay demanded! But that will be then and not now. Now the correct thing to do is simply glance across this non-text and imagine that it says something terribly useful, whatever might be appropriate. For instance, if this is an ad for forbezider valves, you should imagine a concise and engrossing paragraph or two, or three, of pertinent and provocative forbezider valve information. This information will be so craftily written you, a mere mortal, will, very likely, be completely powerless to resist its siren call and will rush directly to the nearest forbezider valve retailer and purchase a gross, even if you have absolutely no use for forbezider valves, even if you don't know what a forbezider valve is or what sort of things it's responsible for valving. Gosh, that will be fine when that happens. But for now just pretend this is the actual, legitimate copy. Don't read it. This vapid, hollow, substanceless copy that just drones on and on without regard for the burden it is placing on you, gentle reader, is, to be sure, a poor substitute for the glorious language to come. It almost seems criminal to allow such frivolous nattering to inform even a single sentence, much less a great, sprawling paragraph that defies intelligibility with its hugeness and gratuitous lack of page breaks. Surely, if an appropriate body of enforcement existed, a "Grammar Gestapo" if you will, they would apprehend this egregious block and throw it in the literary brig with no hope of parole. And there it would rot, never again to harm the unsuspecting eye, out for a read where it assumed it would be, and jolly-well should have been, safe from this sort of injurious screed. Surely you've stopped reading by now. Haven't you? Why? Look, with great emphasis, I told you to stop reading in the first few sentences, but you kept on. Didn't you? Over and over I warned you, tried to protect you, but you've ignored me. Well, that's just great. Very well, you have brought this on yourself. Are you happy now? Hmm? Are you? Children in third world countries have to walk bare-footed for miles over uneven road surfaces, many of which are not even paved properly, just for a glimpse of a 2-color pamphlet on VCR repair with hideous registration and hickies all over it because it was printed on a faulty ABDick with the rollers practically falling out of it on a day when the press operator wasn't feeling very well at all and the inks were poorly mixed and the T-Head was completely out of whack, and here you are engrossed in something that doesn't have any substance or message at all. It's an outrage! You should be ashamed of yourself! I demand that you stop reading right now! I mean it. Absolutely stop right this very minute. Do not read one more word. You're still reading, aren't you. I knew it. You make me sad. I weep. No, don't try to console me. No. I know you don't mean it. You always do this. My mother told me you were no good. If only I had listened... Blast you. No matter how hard I try, I can't stop loving you. You beast.

Change Is Scary

2005-10-23T17:27:00.000-07:00

I know why the teeming millions are so reluctant to give up their gods. It's because they're chicken. And why shouldn't they be? The world is a scary place, and it just gets scarier when you realize no one is going to save us.

Poor babies.

Of course, the thought of simply failing to be "the chosen" species, simply not being any longer the one thing that made us(*) special for all those long centuries, is pretty hard as well.

Too bad.

And that whole "living forever in paradise" thing is probably pretty hard to let go of.

The god concept is a literary tool designed to cow and comfort frightened savages who didn't know any better. That human beings are a blight upon this planet should be obvious to anyone who takes so much as a fleeting glance at the wreckage we've strewn about at every available opportunity. And nothing lasts forever. You don't have to be very smart to recognize these simple truths.

So buck up, theist folks. Even if you like to point at the so-called "extremists" and tell yourself that you're better than them, you're not. You're still choosing to believe things that are completely and utterly indefensible. On top of which, you are enabling the extremists because your so-called "progressive" beliefs share the same foundation as their dynamite fueld rampages. You are all, in a word, insane. The sooner you snap out of it, the better.

As an added bonus, when you choose to think for yourself, you get to be a moral creature. Maybe that doesn't sound like much, but it's actually quite cool. You see, as long as you make decisions based on the fear of punishment or hope of reward, you are essentially a coward. It's actually *way* cooler when someone chooses to do the right thing even when they know damn well that being a complete dick is always an option.

(*)Us, of course, is a highly subjective term. Perhaps many "progressive" theists sing the song of embracing diversity, but throughout the ages theists have largely sought to restrict membership to their exclusive club, "the chosen," based on such trivia as skin color or wealth. But as soon as one stops clinging pathetically to the big, strong god fantasy, one truly does get to embrace diversity. It goes without saying. Once you realize you're not special, you're no longer condescending to every other living organism on the planet that we all share. Truly beautiful things can happen then.

I'm An Excellent Driver

2005-10-12T20:29:00.000-07:00

Really, I am.

I resisted getting a driver's license until I was nineteen because I so loved my bicycle, and because I had to be a rebel. All my friends had gotten theirs years earlier. But since that day when I finally gave in and took the test, I have enjoyed a nearly spotless record.

Genuinely spotless, that is, until just a few weeks ago. That was when I lost control for, maybe, less than a second; and that's all it takes. I was parking (I can parallel park like a demon.) and I was tired. I could probably have done it, but I changed my mind and, when I was pretty much all the way in, I decided: screw it. I'm gonna' park somewhere else, where it's easier. So I turned my head around and stepped on the gas, completely forgetting to put my white 2004 Dakota Quad-Cab with the V8 into drive.

The truck jerked back and I immediately jumped on the brake. I did not feel an impact with the truck behind me, but when I pulled away its owner, who just happened to be watching from his driveway, came out and told me that I had dented his bumper. My desire at that time was to be responsible for my actions, so despite not being able to see any damage on my truck at all, I presented my insurance information.

The thing is, I'm not sure I actually hit his truck. The dent he pointed to was about the size of a quarter and, looking back, I can't really see how my truck at the angle it was could have even touched his car where the dent was. But I didn't think of this at the time. I was pretty much at the mercy of my personal code of responsibility, and simply, stupidly resigned myself to the marring of my perfect record.

The guy started out talking to me like a man. We discussed simply taking care of it. I told him that I would pay for a new bumper, and he said he would see how much it cost and get back to me, which he did. $607 and change, I told him to go ahead and get it fixed and, in exchange for the receipt, I would pay him back. He said he would do that. But he didn't.

That was when he started talking like a weasel. Instead of being good to his word, he got the price from the dealer and expected me to be happy with something other than a receipt. He hadn't replaced the bumper. He stammered when he was talking to me. He started speaking bullshit. "It's a receipt. It's printed from a computer and everything." he said.

"Sounds like what you've got there is a quote." Honestly, why do people have to do this? If he had said that he simply wanted the cash in the first place, I wouldn't have gone there, but at least he would still have his self-respect. So that's when I called my insurance company.

The insurance company explained to me that in California the "victim" of an at-fault car crash is entitled to the insurance payout even if the "perpetrator" has made any other kind of deal. So if I had paid him he could have been paid again by my insurance company. So California drivers be warned: dealing with this sort of thing off the record could easily turn into something too nice for the "victim." And if there's anything that I've learned it's that it doesn't pay to be too nice.

Fast forward two weeks. My lovely, white, spotless, 2004 Quad-Cab Dodge Dakota with the V8 is parked, quietly minding its own business, not bothering anyone, in a public parking lot while I'm at work. I parked it there at noon on a Friday.

I left work around 7:00 pm to find this. Nice, eh? There's a brewery nearby, so the best that anyone can figure is that some drunk asshole lost control of his (or her) vehicle while trying to park (or leave), smashed my truck, and drove away. You can see the tire track in the grass. It's a little burnt, probably because the jackass spun the tires in his (or her) haste to get away. And wow, what a lesson: now I know how it's done! None of this "leaving a tiny dent" bullshit. When you wreck something, wreck it like you mean it!

So, how about that? Ironic, no? I guess I'd be even more bummed if this $500 gift (that's my deductible) had happened after paying the weasel six bills for his stupid bumper, but it's not as though I'm jumping for joy.

I will try to remember that weasels and jackasses are actually the predominant breed of creatures in human society and not assume by default that the person I'm dealing with is trustworthy. It's not as if I didn't already have plenty of evidence. This really is an obvious lesson I should have learned long ago, but sometimes I'm just a dope that way.

But I am an excellent driver.

Black Petroleum Stain Take 2

2005-10-07T23:39:00.000-07:00

Picture a room filled with sexy women, naked and undulating in a way that indicates they are hot and ready for love. The women are beautiful in a diverse way. Whatever your ideal of female beauty is, she's there. They look nice, they smell nice, you're sure they'll feel nice, too. Some of the women have name tags (it's not clear how the tags are attached). You see Civil Rights, Integrity, Diversity, Truth, Compassion, Tolerance, Education, Liberty, Justice, Equality, Freedom, and Social Welfare, just to name a few. Aside from the name tags, it looks like your basic porn shoot, just absent the dicks.

Suddenly, a small band of naked, grossly overweight old men barge in, their bleached white, corpulent bodies rippling as they charge. The women, who are clearly startled, try to maintain the composure and the passion they had been feeling just moments before, while trying to contain the dismay and horror inspired by these trolls.

The trolls have dicks that are so tiny they are nearly invisible beneath the revolting folds of flesh that cascade like great tubes of grease around each of their disgusting frames. Instead, all that can be seen where their balls should be is inflamed skin, a rash of bubbling sores oozing poisonous green and yellow puss, reeking of death. Their faces contorted in a shark-like rictus of unchecked indulgence, they launch themselves at the women, groping and fucking any part they can lay their greedy little hands upon, smearing their diseases all over the untouched beauty of the women in a feeding frenzy. Fat fingers still sticky and dirty from whatever they had been rolling in just before grasp the soft, clean limbs, pulling them into uncomfortable positions, soiling them, making the women wince and cry out.

The trolls are a paradox. Despite an obvious lack of good health and well being, many showing obvious signs of horrific diseases in full bloom and evidence of multiple surgeries, they have limitless energy when it comes to despoiling. They are relentless. You can hear them barking and swearing what alternately sounds like racoons growling and angry old men saying, "Go fuck yourself!"

The women suffer, and cannot move away. Their cries are muffled and they soon begin to fade. Their beauty slips away and their energy ebbs. These pinnacles of desirability slowly succumb to the diseases and the abuses the trolls have thrust upon them. They have no chance. No one comes to save them. They are abandoned.

Other women appear now. In addition to the wonderful ladies that were there before, you now see name-tags that read Iraq, Rita, Katrina, and 911. These ladies are far from beautiful, but the trolls show no reluctance in taking advantage of them. Indeed, it would seem their tragic nature spurs the trolls to even greater acts of indulgent, opportunistic greed.

In time, all the ladies are dead and the trolls reluctantly pull away, seemingly satiated. They lazily wipe the congealed drool from their chins, absentmindedly scratch at the running sores and festering boils that blanket their bodies, their bald heads shining with the sweat of their ill-efforts. They look at one another and then gaze upon the corpses, flies buzzing around the dead that have already begun to decay.

For a moment, something like a glimmer of recognition seems to pass behind their eyes, almost as if they can see the horrible waste that they are and that they've caused in their disgusting rape of all that they see. They look at each other. They look back at all the destruction they've wrecked. They look at one another again, chuckle, and get right back to fucking things up, high-fiving and glad-handing each other as they return to the horrible results of their terrible industry, those decomposing bodies that were once pregnant with potential, now wasted. They jump on and start fucking like there's no tomorrow, casting up a tangible cloud of horrific stink, enveloping them and blanketing everything they touch with a slippery, black petroleum stain.

Black Petroleum Stain

2005-09-27T21:32:00.000-07:00

Picture a room filled with sexy women, naked and undulating in a way that indicates they are hot and ready for love. The women are beautiful in a diverse way. Whatever your ideal of female beauty is, she's there. They look nice, they smell nice, you're sure they'll feel nice, too. Some of the women have name tags (it's not clear how the tags are attached). You see Rita and Katrina, Civil Rights, Integrity, Diversity, Truth, Iraq, Compassion, Tolerance, Education, 911, Liberty, Justice, Equality, and Freedom, just to name a few. Aside from the name tags, it looks like your basic porn shoot, just absent the dicks.

Suddenly, a small band of naked, grossly overweight old men barge in, their bleached white, corpulent bodies rippling as they charge at the women, who are clearly startled, trying to maintain their composure and the passion they had been feeling just moments before, while trying to contain the dismay and horror inspired by these trolls.

The trolls have dicks that are so tiny they are nearly invisible beneath the revolting folds of flesh that cascade like great tubes of grease around each of their disgusting frames. Instead, all that can be seen where their balls should be is inflamed skin, a rash of bubbling sores oozing poisonous green and yellow puss, reeking of death. Their faces contorted in a shark-like rictus of unchecked indulgence, a feeding frenzy, they launch themselves at the women, groping and fucking any part they can lay their greedy little hands upon, smearing their diseases all over the untouched beauty of the women. Fat fingers still sticky from whatever they had been rolling in just before grasp the soft, clean limbs, pulling them into uncomfortable positions, soiling them, making the women wince and cry out.

The trolls are a paradox. Despite an obvious lack of good health and well being, many showing obvious signs of horrific diseases in full bloom and evidence of multiple surgeries, they have limitless energy when it comes to despoiling. They are relentless. You can hear them barking and swearing what alternately sounds like racoons growling and angry old men saying, "Go fuck yourself!"

The women suffer, and cannot move away. Their cries are muffled and they soon begin to fade. Their beauty slips away and their energy ebbs. These pinnacles of desirability slowly succumb to the diseases and the abuse the trolls have thrust upon them. They have no chance. No one comes to save them. They are abandoned.

In time, the ladies are all dead and the trolls reluctantly pull away, seemingly satiated. They lazily wipe congealed drool from their chins, absentmindedly scratch at the running sores and festering boils that blanket their bodies, their bald heads shining with the sweat of their ill-efforts. They look at one another and then gaze upon the corpses, flies buzzing around the dead that have already begun to decay.

For a moment, something like a glimmer of recognition seems to pass behind their eyes, almost as if they can see the horrible waste that they are and that they've caused in their disgusting rape of all that is good. They look at each other. They look back at all the destruction they've wrecked. They look at one another again, chuckle, and get right back to fucking things up, high-fiving and glad-handing each other all the way back to those decomposing corpses where they jump on and start fucking like there's no tomorrow, their terrible industry casting up an almost tangible cloud of horrific stink, enveloping them and blanketing everything they touch with a slippery, black petroleum stain.

Stupid Things About The Tungsten T5

2005-09-19T08:35:00.000-07:00

I just upgraded my PDA. I had been using the T3, but now I've got the T5. You may ask, What happened to the T4? And I do not know.

What I do know is: you can't expect Palm to get everything right, ever.

They got a couple things right with the T5 that they wiffed on the T3. For instance, they provided a "drive mode." Drive mode allows you to transfer files from your computer to your PDA. Wow! What a revolutionary concept! Imagine being able to transfer files from one computing device to another. Golly! That's when you know you're really living. It's like they're connected or something. Really neat. I'm sure this concept will catch on, and when it does I predict it will be called connectworking or something like that.

Another thing they did right: they did away with the slider portion and now the T5 is just one big juicy PDA with a 320x480 screen, all-color, all the time. The T3 had this slider thing that concealed or revealed part of the screen. I suppose a "gee-whiz" factor existed there, but I never felt it. I felt sure from the beginning that nothing good would come of this and I was right. It was only a matter of time before two of the four screws that held the damned thing on fell out and I became one of the many upset T3 owners. Apparently, Palm will be happy to repair the device for $125; yeah, that's a good deal. Fortunately, this guy sells replacement screws cheap. I added a tiny bit of liquid teflon to help keep them from falling out again.

Aside from that, a processor that is 16MHz faster (Woo!), and considerably more memory (256MB up from 64MB), the T5 is hardly different from the T3. It even lost a few features that were cool and perpetuated a couple things that continue to be stupid.

At first, the fact that it was just a big screen and didn't have the slider thing made me happy, but I soon found that it didn't fit in my hand as comfortably as the T3. Not sure why. It is .13" wider than the T3 and .03" thinner, but I wouldn't expect such tiny amounts to have much impact. Nonetheless, the T3 is easier to hold.

It came with a free wireless card as a special promotion, a $100 value. Wireless is cool, but it'll be cooler when I have a decent browser to use. It comes with Blazer which has a tendency to say things like, "This Web site is too big! I will crash the entire OS now. Fatal error." The wireless card is tiny, too, wafer thin and roughly 1x2". With something that small, one wonders why it wasn't integrated into the unit like my wife's iPaq (with which we can replace all of our remote controls in the living room).

One of the most obvious things that was missing: the cradle. And this is a very stupid omission. The cradle for the T3 was challenging due to the slider. It was really hard, nearly impossible with just one hand, to remove the PDA from its cradle. It would expand instead of detach and force you to work much harder than is reasonable for such a rudimentary task. But at least, with the T3, you got the cradle.

With the T5, you get no cradle, but Palm offers a "cradle kit" for $50. That's right, $50. Are these guys high? Why on earth would anyone pay that much for a cradle when you can get one from this guy for $20? I actually got mine via ebay for $12, so if you need one, check there first. What's more the eforcity cradle allows you to charge your PDA via its USB connection to your computer. I don't think we need to call Scotland Yard to figure out why this is better. Anyone who has lived with computers has lived with power adapters that take up three spaces on a normal power strip and a rat's nest of cables beneath and on top of one's desk. An opportunity to make one or more of these things go away is always welcome.

The stupidity of Palm's cradle kit requires additional paragraphs. Palm thinks that you will see shelling out $50 for this "kit" as a good idea because they sweetened the deal. Oh yes, they did. In addition to the cradle, lucky consumer, you will also receive an assortment of adapters to allow you to power your device all over the world! Yay! Truly this is a fantastic windfall of fortune!

Except for the fact that they included the adapters with the unit. Yes, that's right. These adapters are already in the box taking up space where the cradle might have been. High? The marketing department must have been snorting Ajax when they came up with this idea.

As a side note, I am actually glad they have begun to realize that they have users outside of the United States. I let the smoke out of the original power supply for my T3 in a hotel room in Rome (blowing the breaker and leaving us in darkness) because it couldn't handle the current over there. Every other electronic device, even my wife's hair dryer, was 240v compliant, so it's good that Palm is finally catching up.

Anyone who has ever used a Palm device, or anyone who has been near a person who owns a Palm device, knows what the alarm sounds like. It's something like an ascending fourth sort of trilled like a triplet with a swing feel and a rest in the middle. It's nothing to shout home about, and turning it off is usually the first thing I do with my new PDA. That's why the vibrate feature is nice. Oh what's that? No vibrate feature on the T5? You don't say. Well, sucks to be you. WTF?

As if that wasn't bad enough, they also did away with the voice recording option. Pictures are great, but the sound recordings I've made at various candid moments actually contain greater emotional memory. I am very upset to see this feature go.

The screen on my old Compaq iPaq could be adjusted, which was important because on full power it would eat through the battery in about two minutes. On the other hand, it was bright enough to be used as a headlight on an airplane, and you could easily read the screen in full daylight or a well-lit room with the backlight turned off. The Palm screen is almost impossible to read in direct sunlight, easy to read only when indoors, and has no adjustment of any kind that I'm aware of. This is lame and should have been addressed long ago.

Finally, the one cool thing that I miss the most specifically from the T3 is the stylus. The T3 stylus conceals itself in such a fashion as to leave just its very top exposed on the top right of the device. It looks like a button and when you push it the stylus pops out a little so you can easily grab it. My old iPaq did something similar but used a tooth-and-groove setup that eventually wore out, $50 to repair. The T3 stylus used a much smarter design that did not rely on a tooth that could be worn down but rather an internal two-step spring that seems much more robust. The T5 uses that same old boring stylus that has been used on PDAs forever, like on my Handspring Visor. Hello? Are we still in 1999?

A few superficial omissions:

No LCD. Charging the T5 is largely an act of faith because there is no light of any sort on the case. Try Battery Graph. It's free.
No microphone vents and no record button. Already mentioned, but visually it is obvious that the T5 does less than the T3, not more.
No embossed Palm logo button on the case. Obviously no reduction in functionality, but it makes the case look cheap, not like the flagship Palm device.
Recessed power button. Half the time I try to turn it on I have to try twice because the first push failed to turn it on.

So, there ya' go. I'm not sure why I'm still using a Palm device, to be honest. The iPaq line seems to offer more variety and functionality. I think the only things holding me back are Plucker and Space Trader.

Sympathy for the Disaster

2005-09-03T16:17:00.000-07:00

I express sympathy for those who are in support of our president. He has called himself a "war president." Clearly, George W. Bush is "The Disaster President."

Young George has set the disaster bar at an unprecedented level. Never before has so much destr uction and s h a m e been wrecked upon America. For it all to have occurred on a single president's watch is truly an unparalleled achievement. And yet, he may even b r i n g mo re.

The amount of cognitive dissonance his supporters eat each day for breakfast, in order to continue believing in the nincompoop and his band of buffoons, must be extremely detrimental to digestion. On top of which, the resulting inability to appreciate irony must rob life of so much depth and color. It is very sad to consider, and I am very sad for all of those people.

Dumbasses.

Karl Wall Hack Rove

2005-08-20T16:55:00.000-07:00

Just a thought.

Anyone who might consider Karl Rove clever or effective, might also consider chumps who use wall hacks and aimbots in the same light.

We wear our morals on our sleaves.

Regarding God

2005-08-09T08:43:00.000-07:00

Interviewer: So tell me about this god.

Theist: Well, He's all knowing.

I: It's a fellow?

T: Sorry?

I: God. God's a fellow? A guy?

T: Well, yes. I think so.

I: Is he married?

T: No, I don't believe He is.

I: Does he have a girlfriend?

T: Um... no, not that anyone's aware of at least.

I: He's not gay, is he?

T: I should say not.

I: So, you're not really sure, then?

T: The Lord God is not gay!

I: OK, OK, settle down. So, he lives alone. Very interesting. What do his neighbors think of him?

T: Excuse me?

I: His neighbors, do they like him? Have him over for drinks on occasion?

T: No.

I: He's a recluse, then?

T: I... I'm not sure you'd call Him a recluse. He's God.

I: He sounds reclusive. Mostly people hang out with other people unless they're messed up in some way, you know, like the Unabomber. Maybe something happened to this god fellow when he was a kid, parents didn't love him, or he got beat up by the neighbor kids. Or maybe he was savaged by a french poodle at the park or something. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes things happen. It's the nature of life that whatever happens to us we have to get over it and move on. You can't let things from the past hold you back. Maybe this god guy should join a book club or something.

T: God does not need to join a book club!

I: He already has a hobby?

T: He doesn't have a hobby! He's God!

I: OK, what does he do?

T: Do?

I: Yeah, where does he work?

T: He doesn't work anywhere. He's god.

I: Unemployed. No hobbies. Lives alone. Neighbors don't like him.

T: He doesn't have any neighbors.

I: Oh, so he has a large estate and he's really wealthy, yeah?

T: He has the biggest estate and no one is more wealthy.

I: Doorman? Security guards? The whole works?

T: Well, there's Saint Peter.

I: Saint who?

T: Peter. He guards the Pearly Gates.

I: Pearly? As in made from pearls?

T: I think so, yes.

I: Gates made of pearls sounds awfully gay. Are you sure we're not talking about Liberace? This sounds like a pretty fruity estate he's got.

T: Look. He's god, OK? He can have whatever kind of estate He wants.

I: Hey, whatever. Settle down. Maybe he's not gay. Maybe he's just another one of those wealthy freaks, like Michael Jackson. Wait, Jackson is gay, isn't he? I haven't been keeping up with the tabloids. Nevermind. It doesn't matter. So, he lives alone on this massive estate?

T: It's not an estate. It's Heaven.

I: OK. And who lives with him there?

T: We all will... at least, those of us who recognize the Lord as our savior.

I: Uh huh. Sounds Kinda' Messed Up to me. What about pets? Does he have a pet? A hamster? A doberman? Half a bee named Eric?

T: He has no pets. Unless, maybe you could consider us his pets.

I: Look this show isn't long enough to psychanalyze you, OK? Save your bizarre sexual fantasies for another time and try to stick to the subject. Is he tall?

T: What?

I: Does he have a big nose?

T: Excuse me?

I: A mole? A hairlip? Talk with a lisp? Lazy eye? Acne scars? How do you recognize him if you don't know what he looks like?

T: He doesn't look like anything. He's god!

I: OK, so you don't know what he looks like. But you know he's single, reclusive, unemployed, and loaded. Maybe it's Howard Hughes?

T: It's not Howard Hughes. Howard Hughes is dead.

I: So is Liberace. How old is he?

T: Who?

I: God.

T: He doesn't have an age. He's timeless.

I: That's what they said about Led Zepplin, but now there's plenty of college kids that couldn't tell Led Zepplin's Moby Dick from Melville's.

T: I... umm...

I: So where is it?

T: Where is what?

I: Heaven. Is it near Jamaica? Bermuda? I hear there are some really nice places near the Azores.

T: I... uh... heaven is umm... I'm not really sure where it is. I just know that I'm going to go there when I die.

I: When you die?

T: Yes. That's right.

I: That's freaky. You have to die in order to get in?

T: Yes.

I: Let me make sure I have this straight: At an undisclosed location, a mysterious, unemployed recluse of questionable sexual persuasion is waiting for you to die so that you can come live with him. Is that right?

T: Yes, that's right.

I: That's just about the craziest thing I've ever heard in my life.

T: The faithful will live in Heaven with God for eternity.

I: Eternity?

T: Yes, eternity.

I: Would you care to explain that?

T: What?

I: Eternity. What is eternity?

T: It's forever.

I: It can't be forever. Nothing's forever. Look, if it's a nice place there's gonna' be costs involved. Even the cheapest places have overhead. There's gonna' have to be someone to polish the pearls on that gate you were talking about, someone to take out the trash. All of this stuff costs money. And if there's a number of people staying there, those costs are going to multiply. My guess is that god will want you to pull your own weight or get out. That's how I'd do it, at least. Who wants a bunch of free-loaders hanging out all over your pad taking up space? No one, that's who. So I figure, as soon as this god character gets tired of you, boom, you're gone. Then what are you gonna' do? You're dead.

T: I... uh... it's forever.

I: Look, snap out of it. Forever is non-sense, OK? It's children's story book stuff. You think you procrastinate now?

Even with life as short as it is, people are always putting things off until later, right? Well, what's gonna' happen when there's always later? Why would you do anything ever? You could always do it later, right? I don't think you've thought this through.

T: I... uh... the Bible...

I: The bible? What's that?

T: The Bible is God's word.

I: It's a book?

T: Yes, the Good Book.

I: He wrote it?

T: Yes. Well... it was written for Him.

I: What do you mean it was written for him?

T: Matthew, Paul, Luke, and many others were divinely inspired and wrote the things that God inspired them to write and that is the Bible.

I: Where did they write it?

T: Where?

I: Yeah, where? Was it Albuquerque?

T: Umm... no, it was... I, uh... Jerusalem, maybe.

I: You have no idea.

T: Well, no, not really.

I: OK, when was it written?

T: A long time ago.

I: Can you be more specific? Was it before the civil war? Was it that long ago?

T: Oh, much longer than that.

I: Uh huh. What language was it written in?

T: Oh, umm... Hebrew, I think. Or was it Aramaic? Uh... Latin?

I: Okey dokey, let's see if I have this straight: you don't know when it was written, who wrote it, or in what language it was originally written, but you're devoting your life to its contents, is that right?

T: Yeah, pretty much.

I: That's awsome. And that's all the time we have for today's show. Tune in next week when we'll discuss the Stockholm Syndrome. Should be a hoot. Ta ta for now.

The Daily Show I would Like To Have Seen

2005-07-26T22:29:00.000-07:00

Stewart: Senator Rick Santorum, thank you for being on the show.

Santorum: Thank you for having me.

Stewart: I have a copy of your book here: It Takes A Family. I assume you have styled it after the 1968 movie, starring Robert Wagner, It Takes a Thief, or perhaps after your favorite rap singer's album of the same name, It Takes a Thief, by Coolio.

Santorum: No. Actually, I just wanted to emphasize the importance of family in modern society.

Stewart: Oh. You weren't tacitly admitting through subtle literary allusion that republicans have become the modern-day equivalent to the Twelfth and Thirteenth century robber barons of Europe, stealing shamelessly like thieves from the working class?

Santorum: Between a man and a woman.

Stewart: Yeah, whatever. Is it true that you and your wife brought home your stillborn child to hug and kiss it in bed with your other, living, children?

Santorum: I don't feel comfortable talking about that.

Stewart: I bet you don't! That sh*t's f*cking whack, buddy. It's a freaking corpse and you're all putting your lips on it and hugging it and it must have been all cold and blue and stiff with the rigor mortis. Ugh! I bet you scarred your, living, children for life. Did you ever think about that? What if they grow up thinking it's appropriate to cuddle with corpses? How you gonna' feel when junior starts rummaging through graveyards in search of companionship, or jumps into an open casket and starts spooning someone's dearly departed at the next funeral?

Santorum: I thought we aqreed before the show that we wouldn't talk about this.

Stewart: Yeah, whatever. You ever notice how you politicians never answer the f*cking question? You just keep spewing your "talking points" ad nauseam. I think it's lame.

Santorum: Are you calling me lame?

Stewart: And what's with the fecal lube thing?

Santorum: Excuse me?

Stewart: Oh, don't play dumb with me, Senator; I know it's no act. Everyone knows that santorum is the frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex. And it happens to be your last name. How do you explain that?

...

Psychotics In Positions of Power, The New Crusades

2005-03-29T10:50:00.000-08:00

Nutcases in charge.
Museum director in Russia fined and threatened with jail for displaying art that some religious types found objectional.

Think it can't happen here?

Nutcases in school.
If this bill becomes law, Republicans in Florida will have erased several centuries of progress.

Nutcases in the museums.
IMAX now Kow tows to religious kooks.

What's next? How soon until non-believers are burned at the stake?

Oh God Stop

2005-03-25T14:20:00.000-08:00

If I told you invisible monkeys lived in my butt, you would be justified in thinking I was nuts. But if I tell you that an invisible, super-powerful, all-knowing creature that lives way up high is watching and judging my every move and your every move and every move of everyone on the entire planet and may even be fixing to kill us all only to bring the ones he really likes to live with him (after killing them too, of course) in his kingdom in the sky for ever and ever, chances are you'd be cool with that.

Which is the more preposterous claim?

More evidence is available to support which claim? Evidence, please remember, is not "a lot of people agree that it's true." If a number of people agree that a space ship will pick up their Nike footed corpses after they eat poison pudding, that doesn't make it true.

I'm really tired of kooks influencing my life. My calendar is ruled by superstitious holidays. What I'm allowed to see on TV, or in a theater is subject to the whims of cannibal psychopaths who like to pretend they're eating a real person and drinking his blood. The government of my country has been taken over by self-interested nutjobs who take obscene advantage of the concept of morality (and the lives of innocent people) in order to further their own selfish, political agendas, all under the guise of piety. I can't even sneeze without delusional dimwits invoking the name of their imagined deity. It's all utter bullshit and I'm sick of it.

Just stop.

Let's evolve. It'll be nice. Trust me. We'll need to kill each other less often. We'll have more time for video games, and the games will be better, too. Science will be able to work faster and more efficiently when it doesn't have to mold its findings into a pre-conceived notion. That means we'll have more efficient everything, but most important: we won't have to pay $3 for a gallon of fuel. Blowing off religion really will be better for everyone.

All religion does is foster hate and division. Seriously, it's no good. Just quit it.

Fuckers.

Straight Jacket Hill

2005-03-17T15:32:00.000-08:00

One day, shortly after moving to Novato, I saw an apparition of a man in a straight jacket standing on the hill that separates Novato from San Rafael. I was northbound and the hill in question was on the left, the west side of 101.

I assume it was an apparition. I can think of no reason why anyone would dress themselves that way (or be dressed that way by others, I suppose) and stand there, legs shoulder width apart, facing south. And I certainly saw it. It was not something I glimpsed sidelong, a trick of the light, or a 5-point buck that I mistook. No, I had plenty of time to look right at it and even look around briefly to see if any of my fellow motorists had spotted it. None appeared to.

A sign of insanity? Well, I suppose so. But what is sane, anyway? Is it sane to criminalize marijuana, an herb that has never killed anyone, and allow alcohol and tobacco, two drugs that kill thousands outright every year and contribute to the demise of thousands more all over the world, to be purchased openly almost anywhere? Or is it sane to attribute virtue to someone simply because he or she is wealthy? Or elect clearly corrupt people to public office? No, of course it isn't. We live in an insane world.

If I start seeing or hearing things that encourage me to behave irrationally (like, listening to Garth Brooks or Britney Spears, or eating at McDonalds, or believing anything our president says) then I'll consider seeking treatment. But even then, I'll probably hold back. Those that make their living treating nutcases often turn out to be nutcases themselves, or so I believe.

Besides, Salvador Dalí saw apparitions, and he did some nice work. Maybe I need to start painting. I think I will.

Like Dalí's apparitions, I see this one as a symbolic message from my subconscious. I believe it is telling me that I bound to Novato, that it will be my home for the rest of my life. And I'm OK with that. Of course, that's how I like to think of it. I wonder about other interpretations, too. A man in a straight jacket can actually walk around; it's just his arms that are bound. So he can't be productive. Maybe Novato is holding me back. Maybe I'm supposed to be doing something really heavy right now, something that will change the world, and, like, bring about a new world order and feed all the starving children and silence the stupid people, and, and, and...

Then again, maybe I'm just nuts.

The Long Way of Getting Things Done

2005-03-16T14:54:00.000-08:00

Every bleeding heart liberal in the country can beg and cry and whine and plead until they're blue in the mouth and none of the noise they make will ever have an impact on the whims of American bureaucracy. However, if the United States Military says they want something, absolutely nothing will limit the amount of (our) money they'll spend to get it.

I'd say it was the long way there, but here's hoping something good comes of it. From what I've heard, the real issue is the fuel cell, or rather the materials needed to make one: platinum more often than not. It's hard to mass produce something that's made from rare materials.

That guy's, like, totally gay!

2005-02-18T14:25:00.000-08:00

I'm really enjoying this Guckert/Gannon thing. Evidence of the Bush administration's incompetence is commonplace, but when a gem like this comes to light it makes me smile.

Because I have a minute, and because I think I'm really funny, I'd like to imagine that this isn't incompetence, just for a minute. I'd like to imagine that this wasn't a lapse in the Bush administration's vetting process, but rather that this is actually the stereotype of its members. It starts out well enough:

Loves guns. NRA member. SUV driver. Likes to play at being outspoken. Talks the talk.

But then, of course, there's the whole, "likes to post pictures of himself naked and solicit homosexual sex" part. (This is where I start to giggle.) And not just a little, but he actually has or had multiple Web sites devoted to this pursuit. (More here.)

So, during the workday he's all about guns and god, maybe even enjoys spouting homophobic comments around the cooler, perhaps has even beaten up a fag or two, just for show. But down deep it's man-on-man action that gives him wood.

This makes the concept of a vice president or senator with homosexual offspring actively pursuing a constitutional ammendment to prohibit gay marriage a lot easier to digest. It all kinda' makes sense.

Ha ha ha. That's just a little bit of whimsy. Chuckle chuckle. Of course I'm not suggesting that Dick Cheney or Alan Keys surf gay porn at night. Or that most of the guys that you see drivng SUVs or monster trucks with gun racks are latent homosexuals.

That would be absurd.

It's Just a Blob of Fat

2005-02-16T14:32:00.000-08:00

"Rejecting criticism the penalties will stifle free
speech and homogenize radio and TV broadcasts, bill
supporters said stiff fines were needed to give
deep-pocketed broadcasters more incentive to clean
up their programs and to help assure parents that
their children won't be exposed to inappropriate material."

Pretty much the first thing any of us is likely to be aware of when we enter this crazy world is a tit. And the tit remains a major focal point of most children for a good while. Why is it then that a tit, just a few years later, can become such a threat to the little chilldren everywhere? And just an image of one from quite a ways away at that? It doesn't even have to be in the same room.

Is it the edge of a slippery slope? Does the progression start with a single exposed nipple and slide inexorably to the basement floor of public morality where leather-clad politicians roll around with transexual bread-boffers in a bacchanalian free-for-all with prancing livestock and Freudian implications?

I think not.

Mind you, I'm not suggesting for a moment that deep-pocketed broadcasters don't need to clean up their programs. Only the cleansing I'd like to see would involve flushing the infinitely-regurgitated sludge that spews from so many stations in a relentless deluge of bad acting, crap concepts, and inane dialogue surrounded by condescending commercials that insult the intelligence as they attempt to force-feed even more regurgitated crap down the oblivious gullets of the TV viewing population. Seriously. How so many people can sit happily as a fire-hose of shit is opened wide and directed right at them is beyond me. But the guys that produce the shit are the criminals; their customers are simply victims.

But do we need our representatives working on this? Is this maybe what dipshits and dumbasses do when they can't resolve the cognitive-dissonance that results from professing a love of freedom while auctioning off civil liberties to the group with the most influential lobbyists?

Never mind that we have seen nearly 1500 Americans die (and counting) for a poorly conceived lie. And also do not think about the people wounded that are more than ten times as numerous. Try not to consider, as well, that when the word "wounded" is used in this context it means "lost a leg or two" or "can no longer see" or "must eat through a tube" or "shits into a bag taped to the thigh from now on" because the guys that only need a bandage aren't counted as wounded, they're patched up and sent back to try again. No, that's not important. Preventing people from seeing a tit, now that's legislation that shines. The measure passed 389-38.

Thanks, assholes.

I've nearly got this down

2005-02-10T22:00:00.000-08:00

How To Start Your Very Own Blog In Fifty-One Easy Steps! at kuro5hin.org

Ambush Alley Would Like to Kick Our Ass

2005-01-11T17:41:00.000-08:00

Fascinating read, this Back to the Street without Joy: Counterinsurgency Lessons from Vietnam and Other Small Wars by Robert M. Cassidy on Parameters.

The "Street without Joy" is the title of a book by Bernard Fall that, according to Mr. Cassidy, explains why the French failed to defeat the Viet Minh during the Indochina War, which began in 1946. This war ultimately lasted nearly thirty years, but starting in 1954 it came to be known as the Vietnam War, a civil conflict in which the United States helped South Vietnam fight against North Vietnam and the Viet Cong. The "Street without Joy" is also the nick-name for Highway 1 on the coast of Indochina (the area now composed of Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia) also known as "Ambush Alley," and ironically, the place where Mr. Fall was killed by an IED during a Viet Cong ambush in 1967.

Mr. Cassidy draws not only from that conflict, but also from the Banana Wars, a series of conflicts in and around the Caribbean, including but not limited to Nicaragua, Mexico, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, and Cuba (1909-1926); the Philippine Insurrection (or Philippine-American War 1898-1913); and even the Indian Wars of the early United States of America (1775-1890); chapters of history made no less pertinent by the passage of time to our present situation in Iraq, where we face a highly mobile enemy who is difficult to strike with a massive war machine.

Cassidy references Robert Taber's book, The War of the Flea: Guerrilla Warfare in Theory and Practice, in which Taber wrote:

"Analogically, the guerrilla fights
the war of the flea, and his
military enemy suffers the dog's
disadvantages: too much to defend;
too small, ubiquitous, and agile
an enemy to come to grips with. If
the war continues long enough
--this is the theory--the dog
succumbs to exhaustion and
anemia without ever having found
anything on which to close its
jaws or to rake with its claws."

And, in Cassidy's words:

"An overarching principle, though, is not
to fight small wars with big-war
methods--the goal is to gain results
with the least application of force
and minimum loss of civilian
(non-combatant) life."

While we might utterly dominate anyone who would be so foolish as to meet us in a conventional war, in the "war of the flea" we can easily have our asses handed to us. Which is not to say we can't win it, only that it requires a much different approach and execution.

"In small wars, tolerance, sympathy, and
kindness should be the keynote to our
relationship with the mass of the
population."

Occasionally, numbers describing Iraqi support for our military in Iraq are bandied about. Some sites I've read suggest a healthy percentage of people living in Baghdad support us; other sites I've read suggest nothing of the sort. Cassidy makes the point that the support of the population is indispensable. So if we don't have it, we need to get it. Once people are on our side, we can work with them to reach a common goal. But convincing them to be on our side could be tricky considering how much ordnance we've dropped on Iraq so far.

Methods of engendering popular support include rebuilding infrastructure and showing respect and compassion to the civilians, particularly the women and children. Perhaps if untrustworthy companies such as Halliburton (google.com) weren't given no-bid contracts at our expense, we could get some serious work done. Why the American people tolerate such a blatant conflict of interest in the second highest office is beyond me (The Boston Globe). I can only assume people are not paying attention. That or perhaps they are all out fucking themselves right now.

Much more information can be found in the article. I am challenged by the sheer volume of essays and articles at Parameters.

Here's another good one from Parameters: In Praise of Attrition by Ralph Peters. In this essay, Mr. Peters underscores the importance of killing and how our military's troubles can be traced to a timidity that has crippled our armed forces ever since Vietnam.

We live in interesting times.

Eggnog can hurt you

2005-01-06T13:18:00.000-08:00

OK, I measured stuff this time. Liquids lend themselves to that sort of thing and this recipe is all about liquids. Feel free to experiment with the amounts, of course. If you want you can put less booze in, for instance. But why would you want to do that?

Here's the ingredient list for about 8 servings. Feel free to double or triple the amounts as you see fit:

4 eggs (separated)

1/2 cup sugar (divided equally in two)

1/2 cup brandy

1 1/2 cups whisky

1 1/2 cups milk

1 cup heavy whipping cream (divided equally in two)

Fresh nutmeg

1. Mix half the sugar into the yokes. Set aside.

2. Beat whites until stiff, add other half of sugar.

3. Fold the yokes into the whites.

4. Slowly add the milk, the booze, and half of the cream.

5. Whip the remaining cream and fold into the mixture.

6. Ladle into cups, grind some nutmeg on top for aroma and decoration, and serve.

Seriously strong and tasty cups of egg and liquor goodness is what you'll have. So watch out. I was strongly influenced by (where "was strongly influenced by" means "shamelessly stole") this recipe here. And after drinking a couple of these you will be strongly influenced, too. So watch out. This delicious concoction is a great prelude to staying put, definitely not to driving.

Peace out.

more nattering

2005-01-05T11:23:00.000-08:00

This is from Bill O'Reilly's column on Foxnews:

"All loyal Americans should be hoping
that Iraq will stabilize and that
democracy will take root there. Even
if you don't support the war, the
goal of a free Iraq is noble. And
Americans are the good guys in Iraq.
And there's no other honest way to
see it. The situation could go either
way. Unfortunately, pray the good
guys win."

To use the phrase "loyal Americans" is to make yourself sound like an ass. It's as if you think we should be bowing and scraping and saying "Yes sir!" to whoever has more money or power, a king for instance. An American is a proud individual with a glorious history of defying those who would subject him or her. Americans are loyal to themselves and those things we hold dear, not to some nebulous ideal that's been woven from whole cloth and spun by pundits for mass consumption. Make no mistake: dissent is patriotic.

What if the Iraqis democratically vote to install a theocracy? Will those that support this war be satisfied? Or will the bombing continue until Iraqis vote the way they're told?

"Americans are the good guys in Iraq." This phrase desperately needs repeating. What with the growing number of starving children Washington Post, and over 15,000 civilians dead iraqbodycount.net, we need to repeat this one over and over and as loudly as we can if we expect anyone to ever believe it. Fortunately, as Foxnews proves, that's all it takes to convince many these days. They so effectively fabricated a connection between the guy that actually did the towers and Saddam that people actually thought attacking Iraq was a response to 911, and were pacified when George let Osama get away latimes.com.

"Unfortunately, pray the good guys win." This sentence is ironic. Is praying for the good guys to win really unfortunate? I'm going to assume that O'Reilly's poor grasp of English is at fault here. Or maybe the transcriber messed up the punctuation and what he really meant was: "The situation could go either way, unfortunately." But that doesn't make much sense either. Saying it could go either way sounds optimistic to me.

"Just today, 'The Boston Globe'
took two quotations from me
completely out of context. And that
aggressively secular newspaper will
do that all day long."

"Aggressively secular?" So, if The Boston Globe is a "secular" newspaper, is Bill implying that Foxnews is overtly religious? I can see religious people watching and listening and perhaps secretly masturbating to Foxnews, but I really hope people don't see it as a good source for spiritual guidance. That would be a tragedy of epic proportions. Although, I'm sure O'Reilly would enjoy playing the part of Father Bill (just keep the children away).

Or maybe Bill is making a reference to the Washington Times. Now, there's a religious newspaper. Owned and staffed by Moonies, it has no credibility, but the good Reverend Sun Myung Moon's paper is well loved by Foxnews Google.com. They quote it all the time. And it most certainly is a source of spiritual guidance for many, perhaps even Bill. Perhaps Bill even refers to the reverend as "Father," like all his followers do.

There's a picture: imagine O'Reilly being bounced on Reverend Moon's knee, big shit-eating grins on each of their faces. "Goo goo goo, Billy. Here's your copy for today's talking points. Be sure to throw in a few 'We are definitely not lying to you.' lines. Everybody loves it when you say stuff like that. It's so, hmm..., what's the word I'm looking for? Oh yeah: incredible." he says, laughing as he jabs Billy's fat, little tummy with his finger. "Now go get your daddy's crown."

gorenfeld.net

Los Gatos

2005-01-02T01:31:00.000-08:00

So, we're doing the cat thing again. I still feel bad, but these guys are awfully cute. It's almost like I'm powerless in a weird, backwards sort of way, like I'm this clumsy Baby Huey sort of creature, or Lenny from Of Mice And Men just trying to love and be loved but wreaking havoc instead. But I should back up a little.

I've had dogs, cats, hamsters, guinea pigs, tadpoles/frogs, fish, hermit crabs, birds, and sea monkeys as pets for most of my life (not all at once, mind you). Since 1999, however, I've been living pet free, and I kind of liked it. It was sort of liberating to not have to worry about the well being of someone other than myself for a few years. Of course, I missed the warmth and companionship, but left to my own devices, I probably would have remained petless for a little longer and then ultimately would have gone for a dog. Since G came into my life, my priorities have changed a little.

G is my my fiancé. G's cat, Toonses, passed away a few months after we started dating. Toonses was found abandoned in a parking lot as a kitten and was, by all accounts, a fine friend and companion to her for many years. He developed a malady that was never properly diagnosed and despite a great deal of care and attention, many expensive trips to the vet, and a loving support staff that included not only G but also her mother and friends, he succumbed at a relatively early age. Needless to say, G has been jonesing for a kitten ever since. And I'm cool with that. I love animals: some of my best friends are animals.

A few weeks ago, G and I had a bit of a cat debacle. We decided to rescue a cat from a shelter and arrived early one morning to look at kittens. Most everyone was napping, but one fellow, a bright-eyed orange and white kitten named Cruiser, was up and talking to us. He also had a good rapport with the gal working at the shelter and just gave off a good vibe in general. We sat with him in one of the meeting rooms and after a few minutes of making him chase the bouncy thing on a string tied to a stick we decided he was the one for us.

One of the other gals at the shelter told us he was mouthy. "Mouthy?" I asked. By way of explanation she sort of gently clawed at my hand with her fingers. This mildly surprising and completely unwarranted (in my opinion) violation of my personal space did little to help us understand what she was saying, but we were caught up in the moment and let it go.

Mouthy, as it turns out, actually means bitey. Cruiser was all about biting. He was a very cool cat in many ways: only scratched the things we gave him to scratch--never the furniture, played with the toys we bought him, and wasn't at all skittish--a rare, fair feature in a cat, and had loads of personality. But he could not stop biting.

Every morning he'd climb onto our faces and bite us on whatever was exposed, purring like crazy the whole time. He'd never break the skin with his teeth but was less careful with his claws. It was near impossible to pet him at all without him trying to bite, and it was laborious to try and respond to his rough mode of play without encouraging him. Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck would temporarily settle him down. Another tactic I employed was carefully rolling his gums over his teeth so that he'd feel the force of his jaws on his own flesh whenever he'd try to bite. He was only trying to play, never did this in anger, but it was a deal-breaker nonetheless.

A trip to the vet illustrated the situation for us. The vet described Cruiser as an extremely aggressive cat and cautioned us against allowing him near small children. We're planning to raise a couple yard monsters in a year or so, which meant that Cruiser had to go. That simple. G called me at work to tell me this, weeping. We were still within the two week trial period, so I took him back.

We like to think that we did the right thing because he's still a kitten and this gives him a better chance to get adopted by someone else. Whereas if we'd kept him only to give him up the first time he took a swipe at the future half-pint, he'd be an adult cat, less cute, and therefore less adoptable. The more I think about it, though, the more I think I signed the little guy's death warrant when I spelled out the phrase "too aggressive" as our reason for returning him.

Ironically, we now have two kittens. It's as if we decided that because one was too much to deal with, two will be easier. And everyone assures us that it's true. With a pair of kittens, litter-mates even, they will work out their aggression on each other and leave the house and its occupants safe and intact. That's what everyone says, anyway. In the meantime, they've already ruined two pieces of expensive leather furniture. So much for popular theory.

One is a siamese mix and the other a tabby. I named the former Albrecht, and G named the latter Brodie. Brodie is named after the character in Mallrats who does the stink-palm. Albrecht is named after the German painter/engraver Albrecht Durer. They're great friends and inseparable, fighting, eating, sleeping, and charging from one end of the house to the other all day long. They are slowly becoming a little less skittish, but so far only Albrecht has shown any affinity for being a lap cat.

Their favorite hide-out is inside the bottom of a reclining chair in the living room. Kittens. Damn, they're cute. And I negotiated a deal where I get a dog when the imminent kids are just a few years old. Maybe I'll name it George.

Nattering Radio

2004-12-26T11:36:00.000-08:00

"Nattering nabobs of negativism."

William Saffire (whose name is an anagram of "a slim, frail wife") apparently wrote this, and Spiro Agnew (whose name is an anagram of "grow a penis") apparently said it. Agnew was vice-president to Richard Nixon; they were two peas in the most politically corrupt pod we've seen (at least until the second Bush administration). Saffire is a hired gun who writes, among other things, speeches for politicians. In that capacity it's safe to assume that genuine, heart-felt sentiments will be rare. No one has ever won an election by spilling his own guts; evisceration is only something you do to your oponents, which is where Saffire and his fellow eunuchs come in. They write what they're told to write, what needs to be written in order to further the agenda of those who sign the checks. Money talks and bullshit is what they're paid to write.

In a recent interview, Terry Gross spoke with Richard Viguerie, "the funding father of the conservative movement," and at one point he said that the reason liberal talk-radio is not as successful as conservative is that the liberal kind can't sell advertising. This guy should know; he is all about raising money. So what does that tell us?

Personally, I hate advertising. I go out of my way to find my information and entertainment ad-free. I don't even mind paying to avoid being subjected to what I see as the most hideous form of expression human beings have ever conceived, worse even than disco. I could spend paragraphs listing all the things that make advertising horrible, but I won't. Suffice to say that I believe an affinity for or even a broad tolerance of advertising would in the least sense be a character flaw, and in the worst case, a sign of a seriously sub-par intellect. You'd really have to be a dunce to enjoy that crap.

So, obviously, I'm not part of conservative talk radio's target demographic. I've never eaten at Ruth's Chris Steak House and if I ever do, it won't be because Rush Limbaugh smacked his lips or made yummy noises while reading the ad copy he was handed. I like NPR among other reasons because it never shoves nattering commercials down my throat. I listen to it often, but I also seek data from a variety of sources to inform myself, which is why I occasionaly read the output from guys like Saffire and O'Reilly, even though it's difficult.

I guess my point is that I'm really smart because I go out of my way to educate myself, and if you listen to conservative talk radio, particularly if you do so exclusively, you must be an idiot incapable of thinking for yourself and far too willing to let people with hidden agendas spew crap into your life. Maybe you should consider suicide.

Politics at the Dinner Table

2004-12-26T02:25:00.000-08:00

Had a little moment at the dinner table just now. The future brother-in-law and sister-in-law got my hackles up by expressing some support for George W. At one point, "He was CEO of his own company..." I explained that he ran it into the ground, managed to sell his stock just before it tanked, and was never somehow investigated by the SEC. She actually relpied, "That's because he's smart." Great. I asked that some of his accomplishments be stated. That's probably what elicited the CEO comment. After I shot that down the only thing left for them to do was attack Kerry.

It's sad when the candidate you support has so little going for him that when asked to list his accomplishments all you can do is flick boogers at his opponent, particularly when it's an already-defeated opponent.

I don't like Kerry much better than Bush, but at least he served. I don't think he'd have made a great president, and I didn't vote for him. I'm amazed at how he got shot down, though. He was a horrible candidate in many of the same ways George is, but he actually went to Vietnam. I understand he was in that part of Vietnam where actual bullets were being fired from actual guns causing many actual wounds and even a few actual deaths. Who shot who is, perhaps, not crystal clear, but he was there. That much is. George, on the other hand, actually was not. Thanks to all sorts of strings being pulled, he got a cushy job in the National Guard where they taught him how to fly an airplane and stuff. At some point he wandered off to Alabama to help some family friends in some political capacity. He has never allowed anyone to see the records of his time at the National Guard, that was the point Dan Rather's blunder so unfortunately smoke-screened: we still don't know for sure whether George is guilty of criminal conduct in regards to his National Guard service. He could very well be a deserter. Hmm... I wonder if those stalwart pillars of justice, The Swift-Boat Veterans for Truth, could again come to the rescue of inquiring minds everywhere and fill in the blanks for us on George? Swiftly? That'd be great.

Of course, this is all bullshit anyway. The conflict between Republicans and Democrats is itself a smokescreen. Michale Moore and Rush Limbaugh probably hang out together at the same fat farm, get their prescriptions written by the same doctors, maybe even hire the same undocumented workers to clean their toilets. The crap that spews from their over-paid orifices isn't worth the paper they wipe with.

The corruption in our government is endemic. As long as money remains the driving force in politics, how can we ever expect it to change?

When my grandfather was my age, he was able to support his entire family on a modest income. He got some lucky breaks, but he was a hard-worker and he did well, brought himself up from nothing and led a comfortable life. The son of Irish immigrants, he passed away on March 17th, 2003 at the age of 78. How's that for the Luck of the Irish?

The amount of money necessary to buy a house or two and raise a family has risen more than the wage of the middle class worker has, a lot more. Maybe what this means is that, in traditional American fashion, we need to rise to the new challenge and kick ass just that much harder. What I worry this means is that the middle class is dying out. A country's strength comes from its middle class. The upper class is mostly a bunch of useless, over-educated, empty-headed shit-for-brains who have nothing to contribute and can only waste resources. The lower class isn't supposed to exist, I think, but they're the ones picking our tomatoes and standing down on the corner waiting for someone in a truck to come by and hire them, a few bucks for hard labor.

Señor Mañuel Labor is a huge component of our population right now. I don't have the numbers, but it doesn't take a Federal Task Force to figure out, not when you can see for yourself several dozen guys standing on multiple street corners in nearly every town in California, Oregon, Arizona and other states besides. No matter what side of that issue you stand on, whether you think they are leaching our resources and bringing us down, or hiring them to clean your house or weed your garden, or both (you fuckin' hypocrite), you must realize that these people are mostly working for less than the minimum wage. The more of them there are, the larger the lower class becomes, and as long as they're undocumented this remains a secret faction, a ticking time-bomb. One day a break point will be reached when their numbers rise to become a significant percentage of the population and what happens then may not be good. Maybe it'll be great. I don't know. But historically speaking, when the lower classes balloon up bad things happen.

We can continue to call ourselves democrats or republicans and then yell about how the other guys suck, blah blah blah, until we're blue in the face. But both parties are guilty of the same crimes and have been for a very long time (Tammany and Tweed, anyone?). Until we rip the plutocratic and oligarchical elements out of our political system, none of us will be able to digest our dinner peacefully.

Sleep

2004-12-25T01:22:00.000-08:00

"I only know that while I sleep I have no fear, nor hope, nor trouble, nor glory. God bless the inventor of sleep, the cloak that covers all man's thoughts, the food that cures all hunger, the water that quenches all thirst, the fire that warms the cold, the cold that cools heat; the common coin, in short, that can purchase all things, the balancing weight that levels the shepherd with the king and the simple with the wise. There's only one bad thing about sleep, as I have heard say, and that is that it looks like death; for there's but little difference between a sleeping man and a dead one."

Sancho Panza
from Don Quixote by Cervantes

Third Eye

2004-12-25T01:19:00.000-08:00

For so long I believed they would eventually go away. People told me they would. Popular notion said they would. I believed. I was patient.

The ads are all aimed at young people. Indeed, the very presence of the spots implies immaturity, as if one cannot be an adult without a clear complexion. Stridex, Clearasil, Oxy Clean Medicated Pads, grown ups are never used to sell these products, only kids. The plain implication, the unavoidable inference is that this malady only afflicts the young, and therefore once one has grown sufficiently one will never have to deal with a zit ever again. One day a switch will be thrown and the strings of christmas tree pimples will disappear, just like that. That's the message.

It's bullshit, of course. They never go away. I sweat less on average; I have much better hygiene; and honestly I do have fewer than I did when I was in highschool, but they still plague me in a profound way.

The ones that pop up right next to a nostril, in that crevice of flesh where oil concentrates in the protected valley between cheek and nose, those are usually painful. Sometimes they'll actually sprout just inside the nostril, making it nearly impossible to pick a booger without sending lightning bolts of pain through one's face. The side of the nose can be painfull, as can the cheek and the chin. But the forehead presents special opportunities for the ambitious pimple.

Anywhere on the forehead is a drag since it's so obvious, like a blinking marquee advertising an action-packed thriller of adolescent frustration. But for ultimate effect the placement has to be dead-center, right between the eyes. Cyclops. The all-seeing third eye. That's the beauty. You get one of these babies and you can scare small children and tiny animals. All day long fun.

The effect on members of the opposite sex is also notable, but not always like you'd expect. Certainly, even if she's studying Homer and your name happens to be Odysseus, this will not likely help your chances of scoring, but if you already have a girlfriend (or wife) the presence of a big juicy zit (particularly if it's on your back) will fire her up. You tell me if I'm wrong, but it becomes irresistible and must be popped. Your discomfort will be far from her mind as she squeezes and pressures that little blister until it squirts its payload like vanilla cream with a little cherry sauce. Again, this may not actually help you score, but some strange satisfaction on her part will be evident nonetheless.

It could be worse, I know. Some guys and gals get it real bad, and there's no joke about that. It really sucks. The occasional pimple I get is really no big deal and I'm thankful for the relatively zit-free complexion I've got. Just do me one favor: look me in the eye when you talk to me.

Bummed About Larry

2004-12-23T01:02:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe it was that long ago. I'm trying to do the math in my tiny, addled brain and I'm stumbling, partly because I find simple arithmetic challenging, and partly because I'm trying to deny how old I must be for this to be true. 2004 minus 1987 is 17? Seventeen years ago? I must have been playing on my 8088. That fuckin' thing didn't even have a hard-drive. Damn. I'm old.

Leisure Suit Larry in the Land of the Lounge Lizards came on 5 1/4" floppy disks and delivered its graphic splendor in 16 colors or less. I played it. It was fun. The game was basically a text adventure with graphics. Navigation was accomplished by entering text commands: knock on door, open window, put on condom, that sort of thing.

The second LSL game utilized the brand new VGA graphics. It was pretty much the same thing but with slightly better images. You still never really saw anything, no titty, no booty, no clam, but it was still fun. So were the next two games. I'm pretty sure I played them all.

Recently, the LSL games have been resurrected with Leisure Suit Larry: Magna Cum Laude. And it's horrible. Al Lowe was the man behind the original games but he didn't have anything to do with this one. It's sort of like Brittany's Dance Party only with slightly more boobies bouncing in bikini tops. No puzzles, no characters worth remembering, no plot. I rented it for the PS2 and played it for about ten minutes. Hitting the directional arrows to a beat is not my idea of a good time, even if there's a possibility of seeing some titty, which I don't think there actually was. I saw a PC version of the game called Uncut and Uncensored that advertises itself as having all the nudity and sex scenes left in. That one apparently has some titty, but free porn is way too plentiful for me to be willing to drop $40 on a lame rip-off of a classic game just to see the titties. And I'm a little creeped-out by the thought of the sex scenes. It just doesn't seem right. Some things are better left to the imagination.

Poor Larry.

The neo-cons love you, Denny.

2004-12-22T21:25:00.000-08:00

I listened to Richard Perle on NPR this morning. It was pretty funny. I think most people don't realize what a whiny little bitch Perle is because of his smug, condescending demeanor. But if you ignore the arrogant tone and just listen to his words it's not so hard to imagine the chubby kid who wore glasses and always told you about how important his dad was and would tell on you and stuff. I listened for about 40 minutes and heard Mr. Perle say things like, "You have no evidence." and "I think you need to be really careful about using the word 'lie.'" When referenced comments were presented he would say, "I am not familiar with the document to which you refer." When callers were upset about our country's naked aggression and complete disregard for law and justice, Perle would say, "See? That's why it's impossible to have a discourse with the liberal mindset." I think it's very disingenuous to insist on evidence when your plan to invade another country relied solely on lies to sell itself to the people of America and the world (though, far fewer outside the U.S. actually fell for the lies). I like evidence, but I'm not sitting smugly at home doing phone interviews while thousands sacrifice their lives and limbs to carry out my ill-thought plans for a New American Century, simultaneously talking down my nose and out the side of my mouth. And this talk of ruthless dictators is further disingenuity: why should we be concerned about taking one down while we've propped up so many? Even Saddam at one time shook hands and shared dinner with Donald Rumsfeld. Plenty more besides are roaming even now. (I wonder: if Pinochet falls hard enough, will Kissinger be implicated as well?)

He had a flunky with him whose name I can't recall now, a professor of some sort, author of papers and such, sounded a little gay. This fellow at one point said that he was flattered to be called a neo-con. Later he made a statement that seemed to imply that neo-cons were just a figment of liberal imaginations, raving lunatics to the one. Clearly, raving lunatics rule the day.

It's about the oil. We all must be able to see that. I know it's comforting to believe that our president is a good man and that he really does care about all the death and disfigurement that is occurring on his watch, even as I write this, but the evidence clearly shows that that is not true.

George W. Bush was an unremarkable student who was floated by his exceptionally well-connected parents through prestigious schools, into the military, into a career, and finally into public office. He has nothing to be proud of in his personal history, no accomplishments to speak of. The college years? What was his grade point average? The National Guard? Did he even show up? Do you know the difference between going AWOL and deserting? His business career? Ran his company into the ground but managed to sell his stock just before it tanked. Normally that sort of thing would be investigated by the SEC, but not if your parents are well-connected, like George's are. Seriously, the guy is a big loser. I feel very strongly that people who support him swallow massive doses of denial every day for breakfast, or studiously avoid doing any research at all. Well, some people support him for good reasons (I use the term "good" loosely), but those are the small group of insanely rich people to whom the Bush Presidency owes its success. Without their money and support the massive propaganda machines such as Fox News and the Washington Times couldn't exist, and if they didn't exist no one could have been tricked into believing that Saddam posed a threat to anyone other than the Kurds. Did you know that the Washington Times is owned by the Reverend Sun Myung Moon? Did you know that he bleeds something like $10,000,000 a year to keep that paper running, and that its only reason for existing is to spew poorly written propaganda for the administration? Moonies. Yeah, that's right. George and all the rest of them owe that raving lunatic big time. Money talks, my friend. Even if you are bat-shit nuts, a large enough pile of money will win you friends in high places, George W. Bush for instance.

The petroleum is killing us. This is something else we all must be able to see. It's bad. Simple as that. The combustion engine is a horrible design that produces too much pollution, wastes too much fuel, and delivers too little power. That may be hard to see when you feel the vibrating rush of a V8 hemi growling down the highway, but just stop and look at the cost of gas and the mileage vehicles get. It's pathetic. We can do better, a lot better. But it will be hard.

We're addicted to oil. The Saudi Arabian theocracy has so much money invested in our economy that if they were to pull out right now, if we were to suddenly stop buying super-tankers full of oil, the United States would plunge into ruin. Oh sure, the environment would benefit, but we'd become a third-world country overnight. Quitting the oil will be painful, extremely painful, but continuing to be a junky sucks, and it will ruin us. Addicts always quit, either by force of will or force of death. Which path will we take? Already, we see the price of oil has spiked considerably, not just the cost at the pump, but now we pay with human lives. How do you feel about that? Next time you're at the pump, imagine that it's human blood you're injecting. Feel good? Like it? Yeah, baby, unleaded premium O positive. Good to the last drop. Hey look! I think that was cousin Denny I just pumped into my Hummer! Thanks Denny! If you hadn't died in Mosul last week, I couldn't go 4-wheeling tonight. You the man, Denny. You the man.

Tofu Corn Casserole

2004-12-22T13:42:00.000-08:00

Bare in mind: all of these measurements are approximate. I never actually measure anything, just put in what seems right, taste, move on. You can always add more. :-)
Ingredients for the tofu mixture: 1 big block of firm tofu Personally, I like Wildwood and Wildwood sells tofu in two sizes. One is roughly square, the other more like a rectangle or brick which is twice the size of the square. Go for the brick. If you can’t find Wildwood Tofu, just get a big block of whatever is the firmest. 1 big onion Chop it up real tiny-like. Keep a good cross‑draft going over the cutting board or use a food processor to keep from crying like a little girl. 2 jalapeno peppers Chop them up real tiny-like. Maybe get a glove for your left hand. Otherwise be real careful you don’t stick your finger in your eye later, cuz that will suck if you do. If you're a big sissy, you can throw away the seeds. That will make it less hot, but why would you want to do that? 1/4 cup sun-dried tomatoes Get the ones that come in a jar drowning in olive oil and chop them up real tiny-like. 1 tablespoon chili powder 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1/4 cup olive oil Use good olive oil. The tofu is totally reliant on the other ingredients for flavor and this is one of, if not, the most important. 1/2 a bag or so of shredded sharp cheddar Life is too short to use mild cheddar. 1 teaspoon curry paste The curry paste will need to be diluted so that it can mix. It would like to be diluted with milk, but this recipe ain’t got no milk in it so use olive oil and be aggressive. 1/4 cup good red wine 2 cans Green Giant Niblets Ingredients for the cornmeal mixture: 2 cups corn meal I am really hazy on this part. Was it 2 cups or was it 1 cup? Was the ratio to water 1:1 or 1:2? I can’t remember. You figure it out. Just remember: mush. That’s what you want. Also, don't stop stiring while it's heating. 2 cups water See above. 1 tablespoon hot sauce Tapatío, Cholula, Crystal or Tobasco, your choice. 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1/2 teaspoon cumin 1 tablespoon butter	-------	Step 1. Fix the Tofu Take the big block of firm tofu and dice it. Personally, I don’t find the cube an appetizing shape. So once the tofu has been diced, I like to mix it up on the cutting board into a pile and then chop it a bit, randomly changing it into irregular shapes and sizes that are, I think, a little more food-like in appearance. Don’t get carried away, though. Step 2. Compress the Tofu Now put the diced and chopped tofu into a bowl with the finely chopped jalapeno peppers, finely chopped onion, finely chopped sun-dried tomatoes, chili powder, cayenne pepper, paprika, olive oil, and curry paste. Mix this up nice and then press it down tight in the bowl. Cover it with Saran wrap and put it in the fridge overnight. Step 3. Fry the Tofu Now take it out and brown it in a frying pan over high heat. Fry a small enough amount at a time as will allow you to get good color in as short a period of time as possible. If you put too much of the tofu mixture into the pan at once it will just bubble and cook, and that’s not what you want. If you do this right a layer of brown goodness will form on the bottom of the pan. De-glaze this with some good red wine and add to the mixture. Step 4. Make the Casserole Combine and mix the corn, the cheese, and the tofu mixture and then pour it into the casserole. Step 5. The Cornmeal Layer Boil the cornmeal, butter, cumin, hot sauce, and cayenne pepper in water until it reaches the consistency of mush, stirring constantly. Pour this over the tofu/corn mixture like a blanket of yummy corn goodness. You can give it some texture if you want. I like to chop at it with a fork so that it has a rough texture that will brown nicely. But do what you want. Also, sprinkle a little more paprika and/or cayenne over the top just to give it a little color. Step 6. Bake it, then Broil it Bake 375o 30 minutes. Broil for ten minutes or until a little brown on top. There’s nothin here that really needs to be cooked so once it’s hot enough inside to serve, broiling browns it quick. And then it’s ready for the table. Yum.

testing

2004-12-21T11:21:00.000-08:00

one, two, three...