I just threw up last night's buffalo wings. I'd like to mention that Frank's Redhot is actually spicier coming up than it is going down. Halfway through the barfing, my nose got so congested that I could only breathe through my mouth. So there I was barfing and gasping for air. It was quite the scene. My uvula is a swollen, burning mass in the back of my throat, reminding me every time I swallow that existence is pain.

So we have a closet at work; well, it's a small room; that we keep office supplies in. It also houses our refrigerator, coffee maker and associated items, and boxes of...shit I guess. I have no idea what's in them.

In this closet, peculiarly, is a telephone. I'm not talking stored, I'm saying the phone is plugged into the wall and gets a dialtone. Now, I've never seen anyone answer it, or check the voice mailbox; but occasionally the fucker will ring. Of course, me being a curious little monkey, I'm always tempted to answer it:
"Hello, you've reached the closet."
Or maybe:
"This is shank, I'm in the closet. How may I help you?"
I've asked people if it used to be someone's office or something; but the consensus is that the space has in fact been utilized as a closet since the beginning of time. I mean, if it's always been a closet, it seems odd for a phone to be there; hence the intense curiosity about who may be on the other side of the ring.

Maybe it's God; and he just wants to say he loves us. Maybe it's the Commissioner, looking for Batman but accidentally transposing a few numbers. Maybe it's the internal complaint line. Me personally? I think it's a portal in and out of the Matrix. One day, when I have my affairs in order and I'm ready to take the red pill, I will answer the phone and bravely plunge myself into the truth. I hope I get to be The One.

What do nudists do about butt sweat?

I'm not talking about olestra-esque anal seepage or other such nastiness. I'm talking about standard everyday butt sweat. The juicy crack syndrome that occurs on hot days or during intense bouts of physical exercise. Butt sweat hits everybody, old and young, man or woman*. Nudists certainly aren't immune.

For us regular clothes wearing types it can be taken care of with a strategic self administered semi-wedgie. Care being taken, of course, to avoid excessive depth and the track marks that could thereby result. A surreptitious crack swipe followed by a demure cheek shake to release the cotton is all that we norms require. What are the nudists doing?

When it comes down to it they must either embrace the butt sweat or use an alternate means of dealing with it. I can't imagine the first. I mean really - if you ignore the dewy gorge long enough the misting will eventually become genuine precipitation. I can't imagine anybody who could long tolerate butt sweat trickling into their coochie or dripping off their sack of balls like some twisted Japanese water torture. For nudists this would be even worse. Every time they sat down they'd leave a Rorschach test.

So if we eliminate the first option, the second must be true. Nudists are handling the butt sweat with some sort of wedgie alternative**. Do they have towels lying around with needlepoint messages like "Butt Sweat Only" and "If You Only Knew Where I've Been"? Do they make constant trips to the loo? Perhaps they carry around a personal nappy for just this occurrence?

It's mysteries like this that will forever keep nudists as strange and exotic creatures to mundanes like me.

* Don't try to deny it, ladies. If women didn't have butt sweat used panties wouldn't sell for $50 on eBay.
** "Alternative Wedgie" would be an excellent name for a rock band.

I am so incredibly worn out. With all the developments in my personal and professional life lately, I feel like I've aged 10 years in the past ten months. School'll be over in May though; but it seems like an almost uphill battle until then. I did get quite the upper at work today when my director sideled up to me and said "Your promotion is in the works as. We. Speak." If I'd anything in me I'd have passed the fuck out. So, and I hate to bank on it here, it seems that things should work themselves out here in the immediate future. Hmm. I guess once you get the good job, and get married, and finish school - it seems to spool faster and faster. Cuz then there's a house, kids, bigger workload at the office, schools, etc., etc. Holy shit. And I'm already tired.

I don't get personal too often, but I'm going to now.
(I shortened this up, because it was more than I wanted to share)

All you motherfuckers that gave my family shit over the years; can suck my dick. Look where we're at now, and look at you; you fucking broken, dispicable, shams of families. Fucking facades is all you are. And you had the gall to tell us we were doing shit wrong!

We did it our own way, with honesty, and arguing, and ultimately LOVE. You fuckers spent your time and money on keeping up appearances and coddling delinquents. Fuck you. I'm so glad that I can now; freely and without rebuke say to you "Fuck. Off." It's the American dream bitches, and I'm living it.

Wedding Party Entry - 'When I'm 64' by the Beatles
Cake - 'Sugar Sugar' by whoever the fuck that fifties band was
Garter - 'Idiot Boyfriend' by Jimmy Fallon
First Dance - 'All I Ask of You' - Phantom of the Opera Soundtrack (Sarah Brightman version)
Bouqet Toss - 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' by Cyndi Lauper
Mother/Son Dance - 'Simple Man' by Lynyrd Skynyrd or Shinedown (I haven't decided yet)
Last Song - 'Margaritaville' by Jimmy Buffet, or 'Forever Young' by Rod Stewart. Still up in the air.

Misc. genres: Beatles, Bluegrass, Big Band, Jack johnson, O.A.R., Semisonic, Club Jazz.

So I have to give a toast at the wedding right, since I'm the groom. My first instinct was "Fuck it. Ceremonial crap is empty." But then it hit me - I will be able to talk, and 150 people will have to listen. Saweeet. So I started formulating a story, a soliloquy, a dirty fucking laundry list of shit that I've wanted to say to people for a long time. I'd say bits and peices of it outloud to the mirror while brushing my teeth or knotting a necktie. I'd lay in bed spending that quietness before my eyes shut running sections of it through my mind. It was to be my masterwork: pithy, funny, poignant, smart.

We were sitting around one day and someone said something like "Damn, the motherfucker really gets on my nerves" about a mutual friend.
"Yeah, I know. I'm so telling him that during my toast too."
"For real?"
"Yeah. Hell yeah. I talk, they listen; if they don't like it they can leave early and spare me the expense of finger sandwiches and beer for one more person at $18 a head."
"Damn. Balls on this one."
The old lady got wind of my plans to hand out peices of my mind while streamlining our wedding budget. She said I shouldn't do that: It was rude, and it would ruin the reception. Unfortunately for me, she was right. And yet, I still feel like I should say something important while I have all that attention. Surely there's something relevant to most or all of those people there, that I can share or say and still be pithy, funny, poignant, smart. I suppose I could adapt one of Paul's legendary shit stories, but then I run the risk of being recognized as a phony, given the number of people who've heard of Paul's shit.

I'm wondering if maybe I should just keep a peice of paper folded up in my pocket, and scribble notes on it as they pop into my head over the coming months. It would come off a little disjointed, sure; but I'm not exactly the world's greatest writer, so it would probably be shoddy no matter what.

What if I write the toast, and then just keep it in my pocket over the next few months and edit it when I have spare time? Maybe that would work better. Jesus, I'm already overextended on the planning phase of this thing anyways. I should just hire some jackass to do it for me.

Don't you hate it when people bother you about shit that doesn't matter? My mom sends me this little notice saying maybe I should be taking in more iodine. It's good for my thyroid.

Firstly, my thyroid is fine. I'll start worrying when I get a goiter or something. Is that even what happens; or is that the pituitary? See - it doesn't matter, because if I woke up without the fucker tomorrow, I wouldn't even know.

Secondly, I've had plenty of iodine in my day. I'm old enough that when I was a kid, people put iodine drops on your fucking scrapes. God, it was like being branded. The pain from iodine was all the encouragement a kid needed to wear skateboard pads. Furthermore, I used it to sterilize water on many a long-term backpacking trip. You'd put a few drops in a bottle of stream water, let it sit in the sun for a few hours, and wa-la; no micro-organisms would be waiting in your water to give you a two-week long bout of the shits. The downside to that is that iodine tastes like 80 different kinds of ass.

Thirdly, before iodine deficiency rots my thyroid away (to some unknown/not-cared-about consequence) I'm sure I will have drank my liver into oblivion, smoked my lungs blacker than tar, been hit by a drunk driver, had my body devoured by some form of cancer, been shot by a lunatic, and maybe - maybe - eaten by a shark. I don't know what the top ten killers in America are, but I bet none of them is a crapped out thyroid.

So Ma, I appreciate the concern, but my dick is going to fall off from beating it too much before my thyroid shits out because I'm not eating enough iodine.

Shank out.

So, still busier than a motherfucker. I did, however, manage to come across something interesting today about Mr. George Galloway. You might remember the British politician and colossal jackass from such hits as 'Even the Labour Party Doesn't Aant My Crazy Ass', "It's All a Pack of Lies", and most recently, 'Okay, So Maybe It Wasn't All A Pack of Lies, But I Dare You to Try Me for Perjury!'. He's also written a book, aptly titled "I'm Not the Only One". I swear to you, that book is real, that's not a joke.

I assume the forward is written by Kofi Annan. Those fuckers. I'mma go get some beer and be right back. WOO!

update: My Rouge Dead Guy Ale, a movie buff if there ever was one, has just informed me that Galloway has signed on to star in a new production this summer; temporarily titled "I'm Going Upstate to Federal Pound-Me-In-The-Ass Prison." Word has it, he'll be co-starring along side Saddam Hussein and "Punk'd" host Aston Kutcher. The latter of whom is apparently "Just along for the free ass-play".

This is shank, over. I was BC'd on an email from my director to the VP, copy. Director supports the consideration of a raise for yours truly, over. I'm dug in behind enemy lines, pinned down by a wave of paperwork on the west and an entire night of school on the east, over. I don't know if I'm going to make it out alive. Haven't heard from Paul, and I fear the worst, over. If anyone gets this message, find him first, he blogs better. We can hold our own here on my end for a few more days, but we'll need reinforcements. I'll keep you posted as long as the batteries hold up and we're all here. Shank out.

UPDATE 10/26 (see extended entry)

'Tis the season for spooks and scares, and some good laughs. Anyone out there have a good story they'd like to share about scaring someone, or being scared by someone? Are you the I-don't-scare type that once flipped out in a haunted house when someone grabbed you? Fondly remembering scaring your little sister so much she wet herself? Were you that little sister that grew up and screamed so loudly during a scary movie that your brother and his popcorn went flying off the sofa? Let's hear your stories!

My stepson jumped three feet off the couch and yelled SHIT! when my wife crept behind him and grabbed his shoulder during the final scene of Carrie.

She made ME jump three feet when she let out a piercing shriek (on purpose, mind you) during the scene in The Hand That Rocked The Cradle when the husband's hand came from behind the stairs and grabbed the wife's ankle.

Others?

Yesterday, while sitting through a meeting that I can only describe as a boredom marathon, I had an epiphany.

In the real world, that is, outside of blogging, I get asked for advice quite a bit. That’s probably because I give the appearance of a stable, well adjusted person. Not that I am, but I do give the appearance. Since I fear everything I’m always on red alert and that keeps me from making unwise investments, getting involved in ridiculous situations and in general, avoiding the wave of idiocy that many people can’t seem to steer clear of.

Back the point. I often get asked for advice and I rarely dispense it. This makes people crazy. They think I don’t want them to succeed, but that’s not the case at all. I don’t give advice for two reasons.

1. It’s rarely, if ever, heeded
2. Most people don’t want advice, they want someone to blame when things don’t pan out

However, I’m in a charitable mood today, and I’ve got nothing else. Therefore, I offer the following pearls of wisdom:

1. Always sit with your back to the wall.

2. Avoid the herd mentality. If large groups of people are doing something, buying something or behaving a certain way, do the exact opposite.

3. Don’t drink rum or any mixed cocktail with high sugar content for extended periods.

4. Have a sense of honor. Your word should be your bond.

5. Nobody likes a mooch.

6. Shut the fuck up. Sometimes it’s best to listen.

7. If you can’t afford to pay cash for something, you definitely can’t afford it at 14% on your credit card.

8. Learn from the experience of others. Learning the hard way is not mandatory.

9. People will fuck you over if you let them.

10. Abusive relationships should be terminated with extreme prejudice.

11. Marriage vows should mean something. Or why bother.

12. If you don’t have the correct tool, don’t start the job.

13. Life is short, have some fun and don’t fuck it up.

14. When driving, don’t lurk in someone’s blind spot.

15. If you want something done right, be prepared to pay through the nose.

16. If you’ve been getting your hair cut the same way for more than ten years, you probably look like a jackass.

17. Good friends are hard to replace. Preserve those you have.

18. Shitty friends will drag you down with them.

19. Nothing is out of your reach. Don’t be afraid of success.

20. Don’t tailgate others.

21. If in the course of life you make enemies, it is best to keep them near you.

22. If you are severely wronged by someone, the proper payback is at least three times the initial value in cash, pain or inconvenience.

23. Enjoy the arts. Music is good for the soul.

23. Be excellent to each other.

24. Party on dudes!

There was a time not long ago that I could spit out posts like nobody’s business. I don’t mean links or bullshit posts where you talk about having nothing. I mean posts that had a beginning, middle and an end. That had pacing and theme. Posts that told a story.

It would seem they’ve dried up. Maybe I’ve gone to the well too many times. Maybe it’s the fact that most of my stuff revolved around my interaction with other people, which I have been forced to limit, in order to preserve my sanity.

Or maybe my luck has improved. I haven’t scalded the shit out of my mouth with hot napalm-like pizza lately, I haven’t shit myself in a long time…no wonder I’ve got nothing. Today I’ve got a headache. There’s nothing funny about a headache. I’ve got nothing to play off of. It’s not like cramps and the running shits—that’s good stuff. My whole schtick revolved around embarrassment and I’ve had nothing since the underwear incident.

I miss my old ways. Once I was driving down the freeway and I noticed a wasp was in the car. Now I’m a man and all, but there was a fucking wasp in the car. So I rolled down a window to blow it out, but instead of it going out it blew over to my side, and before I knew it the bastard was on my neck and I was swerving all over the road (in a man-like, controlled manner). There was a lot of swatting and wriggling on my part and I’m pretty sure I was screaming pretty loud too before I got the bastard out.

You see, that’s funny, even though it was emotionally stressful at the time. As far as I was concerned I was fighting a fucking dragon…it’s all the same to me. One may be smaller but they’re both trying to kill me.

And speaking of stress, someone needs to explain what pleasure is derived from going to haunted houses/scare fests around Halloween. I’ve done my share as a younger man and I failed to see the charm. You pay money to walk around in the dark while a bunch of assholes wait until you’re most vulnerable and then jump out screaming and scare the living shit out of you. I don’t find that type of anticipation pleasurable. I find it fucking stressful. I’m a nervous wreck after that shit. I also don’t like people yelling in my ear. My natural tendency is to attack someone that yells in my ear, and that tendency is hard to restrain. And often is not. Fear is the mother of violence. If you scare me, I will usually attack you.

I have no idea how to end this travesty. Mordieux…what has become of me?

Here’s a headline from AP this morning:

Wilma Roars Toward Yucatan, Southern Fla.

As of this writing, the fucking thing is wobbling around at seven MPH. Seven MPH is not roaring. It’s also nowhere near Florida, it’s currently not heading towards Florida, and I suspect that these pinheads have no idea where it’s going to end up.

I even have some proof.

For the past three days I’ve heard and seen nothing but one forecast track, the published conglomeration of models interpreted and published by NOAA. Last night’s 5:00PM discussion, which can be found archived here, shows not only the unpredictability of hurricanes, but the ineptitude of forecasters. Witness, then, what happens when they throw their hands into the air:

“AGREEMENT AMONG THE TRACK GUIDANCE MODELS...WHICH HAD BEEN VERY GOOD OVER THE PAST COUPLE OF DAYS...HAS COMPLETELY COLLAPSED TODAY. THE 06Z RUNS OF THE GFS...GFDL...AND NOGAPS MODELS ACCELERATED WILMA RAPIDLY TOWARD NEW ENGLAND UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF A LARGE LOW PRESSURE SYSTEM IN THE GREAT LAKES REGION. ALL THREE OF THESE MODELS HAVE BACKED OFF OF THIS SOLUTION...WITH THE GFDL SHOWING AN EXTREME CHANGE...WITH ITS 5-DAY POSITION SHIFTING A MERE 1650 NMI FROM ITS PREVIOUS POSITION IN MAINE TO THE WESTERN TIP OF CUBA.”

Emphasis mine.

Today they’re back to the old track, most likely because they have no clue and are afraid to say so.

Wouldn’t it be better if they just were honest about it? Just once I’d like to hear them say, “Look, man, this thing’s heading west right now, but we don’t where it’s going or when it’s going to get there. Our educated guess says it hits the Yucatan on Thursday, but after that we just shake the magic eight ball.”

I bet that any one of us could predict where this thing lands with as much accuracy as the National Hurricane Center.

Here’s an amusing article about the search for the best vodka. It’s pretty entertaining.

Are you a fan of Absolut? Here’s what the panel had to say:

“… Panel members noted its "piercing, antiseptic quality," "too-dry taste," "medium burn," and "unremarkable finish" and agreed that midshelf vodkas (again, we only tested premium brands) represented a much better value.”

Go figure. I was never a big fan.

I really enjoyed the critique of this vodka, one I’ve never heard of:

“… The vodka's industrial-strength bouquet reminded one drinker of "burning tires." As for its taste, the panelists declared it "sticky-sweet," "thick," and "gluelike." "I wouldn't use it to fuel my lawn mower," one taster said, bringing the discussion to an end.”

I’ve always wanted to do taste test like this but my friends, as rule, are hard to control when surrounded by a large number of full liquor bottles. It’s not that they’re wild Indians or anything, but maintaining order during a structured event that involves shots seems highly unlikely.

I never tire of reading this post.

"ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. - The author of a new state law that allows felony charges against owners of dangerous dogs was hospitalized over the weekend after his own dog attacked him."

I rarely laugh out loud.

The fiance went to Sam's Club tonight and found this monster bottle of Riesling. I don't know how she managed to drag this Moby Dick of Teutonic wines back to the house in her compact hatchback, but she did, God love 'er. I had my annual evaluation at work today, and things went well - so I deserve to finish this whole bottle. And when I do, so help me sweet Jesus, at about 11 tonight; I think I'll cork it and have it shipped to NOAA on the back of a flatbed towtruck so they can use it as an open ocean weather buoy.

Hey, I'm just givin' back, you know, from my immense bounty.

Update: Holy shit, we just passed 10,000 hits since June! As my two buddies used to say - Thanks for your support.

I can’t help but notice a shitload of spam in the comments. Shank is asleep at the switch.

Most of you are still using the paul@sanitys-edge email address and that will be dead by tomorrow or Wednesday. Please use the alternative. I would post it here but then I’ll be inundated with offers of cheap hard-on pills and penile enlargement doohickeys, neither of which interests me. If anybody knows how to do that thing with the code where your email address is on the page but in the source it looks like Latin vomit, please speak up and make yourself useful.

For some reason I can’t make a decent Bloody Mary. Either too much Worcestershire or not enough. I guess I’ll have to start actually measuring. I like to use Clamato instead of tomato juice and I add few shrimp so that’s kind of like a meal.

I’m debating going home for lunch and afternoon sex. And a Bloody Mary.

Did you know that Worcestershire sauce has a disputed history? You might also be interested knowing what that shit’s made out of, namely, vinegar, molasses, corn syrup, water, chilli peppers, soy sauce, pepper, tamarinds, anchovies, onions, shallots, cloves and garlic.

Lea & Perrins, the most popular brand also has a secret ingredient that purportedly gives it an extra kick. They’ve kept it a secret since 1837 and they’re pretty serious about it. According to their slow-ass loading web page, only three or four people know what the secret and it’s been broken up so that no one knows the whole recipe and it involves a lot of secret code words. It takes up to two years to make a bottle of Lea & Perrins and their website makes it all seem very romantic.

Tell me this ain’t good blogging.

The Bloody Mary itself has a distinguished history.

It was first mixed at Harry’s American Bar in Paris, a notorious Hemingway hangout. It was originally made with gin because back in the 20s vodka was not a very popular spirit. The originator took the recipe back to New York where hearty Americans insisted it was a pussified French drink and insisted on adding Tabasco.

Many speculate the concoction was named after Mary Tudor, daughter of Henry VIII who killed off just a shitload of her Protestant adversaries and became known as “Bloody Mary.” Others speculate it was named after a Chicago whore. Since I doubt that many 1920s bartenders were acquainted with the history of the House of Tudor, I’d have to go with the whore theory.

Regardless, it’s one hell of a versatile cocktail and I’d like to have me one as soon as possible.

When I catch the son of a bitch who used the hood of my car as a pommel horse or to practice his 'Dukes of Hazard' hoodslide or whatever the fuck he thought he was doing - I'm going to string him up by his thumbs and beat him with a spiked bat like some horror show pinata.

Then I'm going to ask him for $70 bucks to pay the paintless dent repair guy. It's just fucking annoying really.

Drudge, who gets more pathetic with each passing day, gives us this:

MADONNA WARNS: ALL WILL GO TO HELL IF DON'T TURN FROM WICKED BEHAVIOR

Not much of a story, really. Three lines about the old trollop turned Nostradamus. He also adds, “Developing.” Yeah, you definitely want to keep your eye on that one.

Twenty seconds of my life, gone the way of the dodo.

Mofo.

After reading this I had an inspired idea on how to improve the show Iron Chef America.

Currently, they have three judges. Two are usually food critics of some sort, and the third is usually some minor celebrity. On my version of the show, they’ll have six judges. Three will be proven food people. The other three? Hobos.

Surely they can find three hobos who can use a hundred bucks and meal. Meanwhile, the entertainment value goes up tenfold. There’s no reason why hobos can’t be food critics and just think of the potential. You’ll have some world class chefs being judged, likely harshly, by bums. Those fragile egos will be put to a serious test.

Maybe they can give the bums each a new suit of clothes, a bath and a shave so that they don’t stink the place up too bad and then let them comment and fill out scorecards like the other judges. It would be interesting and probably hysterically funny to see hobos critique and articulate their views on haute cuisine. I’m telling you, this would be huge, especially if they start hollering and have bad table manners.

The chefs, for they’re part, will have to satisfy both astute food industry people and the hobos.

Maybe I’m just fascinated by hobos put into close contact with “the beautiful people.” Is that wrong? I mean, it’s not like I’m calling them vagrants or anything.

I was in a position to watch a great number of people this weekend, being in a very crowded place, and I’m sorry to report that the incidents of inappropriate attire people don for public display has not lessened.

I witnessed several instances of heavy women wearing low rise jeans or shorts with a skimpy top that bares the midriff. The problem with this particular style of dress on a heavy woman is that when they squeeze into those jeans, the fat gets pushed up and over the waistband creating a “muffin top.” I had no idea there was a specific term for this until my old lady enlightened me whilst pointing one out.

She elaborated.

“The problem is, almost everything is cut to low rise for women nowadays,” she said. “But you have to have a great body to pull off the bare midriff without the muffin top. That’s why a lot of girls wear a top that covers it. As you can see, some people either don’t know or don’t care about the muffin top.”

It was enlightening.

Aside from the muffin tops, I saw a lot of other disturbing attire. Guys wearing Capri pants. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it. Someone needs to explain to me to me how a guy can walk around in Capri pants and not feel like a total dickwad—because the guys I saw looked like total dickwads.

Some people wear what I like to call the “designer costume”. That’s where every piece of clothing they wear has DKNY or Hilfiger stamped all over it. I’m not a fan of obviousness. Guy’s do this more than girls and it makes me cringe.

Then there’s “the juicy chicks.” Women who wear shorts with the word “juicy” written prominently across their ass. While that may work for women in decent shape, the majority of women I saw should really know better than to draw attention to their fat asses by boldly printing slogans across it. Some of these broads could have a whole paragraph written back there. What could they possibly be thinking?

Don’t think I’m against heavy people… that’s not the case at all. I’m against heavy people wearing clothing that’s clearly inappropriate. If I had a big beer gut, I wouldn’t wear tight fitting shirts or take my shirt off at every available opportunity. For some reason fat guys love to take their shirts off.

On the bright side, I saw a hot chick wearing some kind of spandex, half body suit that fit like a second skin. It was black and red and I didn’t see her until my kid pointed and called out, “There’s Mrs. Incredible!” And that’s exactly what she looked like. Yes, one could say it was inappropriate attire, but at least it didn’t repulse me.

The caption contest is complete!

(Click to see the big version.)

Grand Prize: 5 points
Da Plane, Da Plane!
Mo Mo

First runner up: 3 points (selected by the price of tea in China.)
FUCK! That bird just shit in my eye!
The Brat

Second runner up: 2 points (Selected by pirates. Arrrrr!)
The new and improved sneaky eye-pipe-bomb.
pylorns

Third runner up: 1 point (Selected by the duality of man.)
Having criticized her traveling companions for the motes in their eyes, Narjis takes notice the beam in her eye...
Tim Adamec

The following post is somewhat strange. It might lack structure, and kind of half-finish some ideas. Consider it a mental jungle gym; join recess and have some fun. That's why I've got comments.

I miss Bill. His curmudgeonry was legendary, and his absolute contempt for just about everyone around him was an inspiration to the misanthrope community. However, there's something about Bill that he hasn't been telling us. Maybe because he's embarrassed (I know I would be), and maybe because it shows a side of him that others might see as weak. But we're all real people here Bill, and we all have little things about us that make us look stupid.

Below the fold, for the not so faint of heart.

This is your opportunity to complain about the new design and any problems you're having seeing things.

One thing I'll tweak more later is the font situation, but not until I know that everybody can read the blog title and description up there at the top.

Also, Shank and Paul need to decide what they want in the sidebars...I'll make any changes or additions you want.

Yeah, I’ve got nothing. And to make matters worse, Shank’s been poking me with a stick, albeit subtly, to make something happen. He’s becoming Col. Parker and I think he’s afraid I’ll die sitting on the toilet like Elvis.

Perhaps I exaggerate. He sent an email saying, “Hey, what’s up?” But I can read between the lines. He’s thinking that fucker hasn’t been producing. Well, I guess I can’t blame him there.

When this type of situation happens in my professional life, I’m full of articulate responses that generate the required effect even if they’re complete bullshit. Allow me to simulate them here:

Well, Shank, I’m glad to see you’re rallying the team, and it’s quite timely on your part, as I’ve just put together a proposal that I believe will push us over the top. One of my research teams has concluded that the font we’re using currently is not only unappealing, but subliminally conjures the image of complete ineptitude on our part. Furthermore, the blog is an odd color. It’s somewhat black and somewhat gray. It’s floating in the netherworld between these two colors. Again, as you’ll see from their upcoming report, the research team found that among men ages 24-36, 84% found the current background color “half-assed.”

Of women polled from the same age group, 73% found the background to be, in their words, “shitty.” How quickly can we get Design and IT into a meeting about this? Because frankly, I’m getting some calls from the top and I’m not sure how long I can pacify them.

That’s what I usually do at work. Here on the blog I can’t really do that. Here, because of my tenuous position, I must write something. If I don't come up with something soon I'll have to start making shit up about other bloggers and post it with feigned indignance.

Who wants to play How Many Beers?

Glen Reynolds, of Instapundit fame, posted a link to this article at Global Voices.

I find it interesting, becuase it highlights something about the spirit of blogging. Or at least what it has become for many people. I'd be willing to bet that the vast majority of popular blogs out there are politically oriented sites. As a matter of fact, head over to the Truth Laid Bear and check out the top sites for yourself. I guess what I'm saying is that American bloggers have always been proud of the political power a blog or group of bloggers can harness - just ask Dan Rather, the first person to ever lose his job because of a blogger (as opposed to losing your job because you blog).

Well, this blurb points out that blogging is starting to light fires not just in the States, but in other Internet-embracing nations. It's enbaling not only one's freedom of speech, but allows people to gain massive exposure - worldwide in this case. I mean, how many people hit Glen's site everyday? 170-200 thousand? Every day. And this article got that kind of exposure. Blogging is wack. When people consider the real benefits of the Internet, I'd say one of the top two would have to be communication/freedom of information (the second probably being commerce). But this is what people really mean when they talk about the Internet - the ability to not only say it to everyone, but for anyone to have the ability to hear it and pass it on.

Another thing that presents a completely new issue is tackling how blogging brings us together, if at all. Take for instance, Paul and me. I've never met Paul, never seen a photo of the guy, never even talked to him on the phone. But here we are running this site together. My brother, who doesn't really follow the blogosphere, asked "So do you know this guy?" Technically, I guess I don't know Paul because I wouldn't be able to pick him out of a lineup. But we communicate on a fairly regular basis, and I know things about Paul that probably most people who could pick him out of a lineup would know. So, maybe my brother was using the word "know" in the pre-Information Age sense of the word. Becuase now, in the days of free instant international communication, we can know people without ever knowing who they are. This same concept applies to all the bloggers in the blogroll on the right whom I know but don't know; and who know me without knowing who I am.

Fucking odd huh?

Ancilliary to this relationship peice are the problems resulting from the inability to create tone and inflection in text-based conversations. A great illustration of said problem can be found in the comments here, wherein I think I'm alluding to a long-running joke when I'm actually pissing someone off. I completely failed to correctly inflect or create context, mostly because I couldn't use my voice to intone the remark.

So the Internet allows me to communicate with people all over the globe, contact people in a way that, formerly, was only possible by actually seeing them. Unfortunately in the end, not only do I not know who they are, but I've probably spent half of the time pissing them off.

UPDATE: Results in the extended entry.

Another post in such a short time might give Victor and Tiffani a heart attack, but I'm willing to take that chance in my vain efforts to get all of you to dance like trained monkeys for me. That's just the sort of selfless fellow I am.

The trivia: What was the little circle doohickey called that you put in the hole of a 45 to play it on a standard record player spindle?

The payoff: 3 points to the person who knows the answer. Some more to the answer than most makes me giggle like a schoolgirl.

The restriction: No searching.*

* I'll do that when I check for the correct answer since I haven't the slightest clue what that thing is called**. Despite the fact that they were an everyday part of my life for two decades.

** Astute readers will interpret this in one of two ways. Either I've recognized this as a cool odd-ball trivia and am taking advantage of it to give out some points or, since I have to look up the correct answer eventually, I'm using the contest thing as a tool in my continual efforts to procrastinate in order to avoid looking up the answer for as long as humanly possible. It's probably a bit of each.

Bear: Crocodiles are the only living dinosaur.

Bacon: Are they really dinosaurs?

Me: Not quite. But the ancestors of crocodiles lived in the age of the dinosaurs.

Bacon: Oh. But they weren't dragons.

Me: No, definitely not dragons.

Bear: Dragons have poison spit.

Me: I thought they had fiery breath.

Bear: No, Daddy. Those are the story ones. The real ones have poison spit.

Bacon: Yeah. The Komoko dragons.

Me: Oh, right. The saliva of the Komodo dragons have virulent bacteria.

Bear: And if they bite you, you'll be dead in a day.

Bacon: And you have to be careful because they'll spit on you with their poison spit.

Me: Komodo dragons don't really spit. They just have saliva that's very poisonous.

Bear: Yeah, they don't spit poison spit.

Bacon: Oh.

Bear: You're probably thinking of Howard Dean.

I might make politics an off topic at the dinner table.

I rarely bring up politics or world events, but I may have stumbled on to something quite by accident.

From here:

“A man holds a woman by the hand and dances with her in front of everyone. Does that serve the national interest?”

Who gives a shit? Nothing these assholes do serves any real national interests. I think the reason these people are so full of hate is because they’re not getting laid. They’re so repressed by Stone Age beliefs that they probably need to be taught masturbation.

After controversies when a Hamas-led council halted a dance festival and Islamist gunmen stopped a rap band performing in Gaza, Dr Zahar defended the enforcement of a strict interpretation of Islam.

Okay, so they’re not into hip-hop. I can’t fault their judgment on that, but they need to loosen up. Let’s face it, we’ve seen this all before. Remember Footloose? Kevin Bacon wasn’t having any of that no dancing bullshit, and he taught that town a valuable lesson.

Don’t you think these people want to make out? I mean, if a guy’s got his arm around a chick and he’s trying to get his other hand up under there it’s hard to hold to a rifle. If given a choice between making a bomb or maybe getting to third base with some chick at a party, who the hell would choose the bomb? I think what the majority of these people want is a six pack of beer and a box of rubbers. Kevin Bacon may be the answer to this entire problem.

Added a few blogs to the blogroll becuase I visit them on a daily basis. Firstly A Small Victory. Michele runs an entertaining pop culture joint over there, but don't get her wrong. She used to be a pretty political blogger, and has quite a wit about her. Of the bloggers I'd screw, she'd be one of them. If she weren't married to some stud half her age. What a sexy bitch!

Secondly, Outer Life; a supremely written, interesting blog. The guy brings you right into his mind. If I could communicate like that, I'd have you bitches begging me for more.

I have a feeling that most of the people who come by here don't listen to the same music I do. I don't know why, I could be completely wrong. But in an effort to serve the IntarWeb it's purpose, here are my favorite bands/musicians:

Sublime
O.A.R.
Fiend Without a Face
Classic Jazz - Charlie Parker and Duke Ellington, Dizzie Gillespie, Jellyroll Morton (I'll tell you the story of the phrase 'that Jellyroll Morton shit' sometime, just remind me), even the big band stuff. Mmm-mmm!
Acoustic Syndicate
Less Than Jake

There are a multitude of generes I listen to, and I tried to stay away from them, but I had to add the classic jazz. It's different from modern jazz. Mostly because I hung out with Winton Marsalis one night, and he was a prick. Prick!

Sometimes, I wish she'd open her mouth a little more often. No Bane, not for that. You sick bastard. And if you ever even remotely hit on my sister again, I will ekick you in the enuts.

I spend lots of time at work on the Internet.
I left early today, and I'm not going back tomorrow.
People tell me I do good work, and I don't know why. It's easy.
I'm drinking now, I might stay and close the bar tonight. Tomorrow I sleep like the dead.
I don't like most people. They tend to suck the life out of me.
That's why I like the web. I can talk when I want.
I mainly posted this because I like symmetry.

It's like poetry for people who can't read. No. No it's not. That is stupid. It's like...fuckit; I'll stick to poetry for blind people. Just take it at face value and roll with it. Has anyone seen Bill? He's not really dead is he?

Jim has posted twice in one day! Granted, it's neither your usual bloggy goodness nor your usual bloggy gayness, but for right now, I'm happy with baby steps.

Did Microsoft release Sign Generator XP or something? Get a load of this beauty that's up in front of our office building right now.

Anybody care to posit the two word phrase that would be superior to this verbose and wandering phraseology?

Write a caption for this picture over at Momo's place. Win fabulous prizes!*

The contest will be open until some time next week. Comment here or over there.

* Best caption gets 5 points with another handful thrown around to the rest of the best.

Phin has bbq'd Frank.

Mmmmm....North Carolina pulled pork. I bet if we ask real nice, and offer him a case of beer, Phin'd give us his vinegar sauce recipe.

As if the world needed it, here's yet another reason to hate the French. Here in the South, that kind of behavior is reprehensible, consider most of us prefer the company of a Black Lab or a Redbone Hound to that of just about any person. But damn, those French fishermen are fucked up.

I spent most of Friday night and the wee hours of Saturday morning sitting on the porch with a beer in hand, telling stories with friends while Ray Charles did his thing in the background. It was a helluva time, but it left me a little worse for the wear when I got up the next morning.

Usually, a crisp shower helps me regain something resembling composure, so I headed off towards the bathroom. Eyes barely open, I hobble in to the tub, pull the curtain, and start the water. I reached up to tilt the showerhead and point the stream of water further towards the back of the shower. Apparently, I am in such awesome physical condition, that with a mere flick of my wrist I can snap shit in two - because that's exactly what the shower head did. The collar that twists onto the pipe coming out of the wall just cracked from end to end. I muster the kind of garbled, incoherent swearing stereotypically attributed to someone suffering from a hangover.

Water begins spraying all over the place - on the walls and ceiling over the showerhead, in my face, over the curtain rod, everywhere. I'm still swearing, something like "Shitshitshitahhhfuckshitshit etc., and I've got my hands wrapped around the threaded collar to prevent it from spraying everywhere, but I realize immediately that it's exacerbating the situation. Not only can I NOT turn off the water (since both hands are on the leaking head) but the tiny gaps between my fingers and palms are only providing more holes for the damn water to spray out of. Good thing for me, this morning my brain is working as deftly as my rippling, PVC plastic wrending muscles. I lift my right foot up to the shower knob on the wall and try to push the nob down into the 'Off' position. I get my foot up there, and apply gentle pressure to the knob while my hands are wrapped over the shower head above. My left foot slips on the wet bathtub floor and I go airborne.

I guess the pressure I was applying to the knob couldn't be countered by the single foot I was standing on at the time. My left foot slipped forward, and the right foot that was pushing against the shower wall propels me backwards. My grip on the shower head turns the crack in the collar into a shatter, and the entire assembly comes off. We have one of those massage showerheads on a length of hose, so there's quite a lot of debris flying around at this point. When I realize I'm about to knock myself out on the tub floor and drown in my own bathwater, I do what only comes naturally - I reach out for the shower curtain to my left.

I'd like to take a moment here and just say: Yes, I know that was dumb. The second I reached out for the damn thing, I knew it was a dumb move. But I figured it was better than just enjoying the ride.

The curtain rod holds for a split second, my decent stalls, and the curtain in my fist swings just a little further left. Before it snaps. You know how shower curtain rods are - they're held in place by friction basically, braced against the bathroom wall. Well, I guess that slight swing to the left was enough to pull one of the ends out, and I finish the homestretch of my little morning decent. The rod comes clanging down, my ribcage its the rim of the tub, and I damn near knock my gord on the toilet seat. The pipe where the showerhead used to be is still spraying cold water, and the showerhead itself is wrapped around my arm. I groan. I just wanted a shower.

Saturday morning I took the kid to play in her first soccer game. It was much worse than I ever imagined.

First of all she’s only five. Neither she nor I had any great expectations. I never cared for the sport, personally. The kid has no clue about the game at all, but insisted she join a team anyway. She’s a social creature.

So we get there and it’s worse than I expect by a long shot. Every caricature of a sports parent that you could ever imagine was incarnated on this field. So I tell the kid to go have fun and I sit down away from the other parents. As the kids are warming up I notice that most parents aren’t speaking English. Portuguese and Spanish are dominant. Some of the fathers are kicking a ball around off to the side, completely overdoing it, hamming it up and causing a general scene by yelping loudly in their native tongues. They are all grossly overweight and out of shape. Within minutes it comes to a grinding halt, with one guy holding his hand over his heart and panting like a dog. Adios Mio! This guy’s going to die here in the grass, I thought. I don’t have time for this today.

Instead he slowly got up and walked back to the rest of his family and collapsed on a bench. His family consisted of at least nine adults and a passel of poorly-mannered kids of all ages. Their normal speaking voices were deafening. They all yelled at each other for the entire game.

Meanwhile I turned my attention back to my kid. The game was about to start and I was fairly certain she didn’t even know the basic rules of the game. The whistle blows and the game begins. Every player from both teams swarm the ball and it resembles a rugby scrum. No one plays defense. Even the goalies are in the scrum. Eventually the ball squirts out of the clump with a child or two chasing it while the rest of them just stand there watching. Less than a minute in, most of the kids have already had enough. Two of them were crying.

To make a long story short, it works like this. The kids chase the ball in a big clump. If one of them actually manages to kick it, it goes out of bounds. This continues until it’s time to go home, or enough children are crying that they have to call a time out. Within the first ten minutes most of the parents were chasing their kids around the field yelling instructions at them. The coach sees the hopelessness of all this and bans the parents from the field.

Meanwhile, I realize that the fat bastard who thought he was having a heart attack stole my two bottles of water. Now my kid’s got nothing to drink and it’s hot out. I went over to the guy and pointed out his error, but one bottle was already gone and he was drinking out of the other one. As I’m talking to him I hear a great commotion coming from his family. They’re all screaming, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”

The guy I’m talking to dashes off to the sideline along with his giant extended family. On the field there’s a kid that looks a lot older than the others. These kids are supposed to be between three and five years old and this kid looks like he’s ten. He’s dribbling the ball downfield all by himself, the rest of both teams either crying or sitting down on the field. The big kid is approaching the net and there is no goalie in sight. With a flourish the kid kicks the ball into the open goal and throws his hands into the air. Instantly, the giant family of Portuguese people run onto the field and lift the kid up onto their shoulders cheering, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”

It was surreal. The coach, who had had quite enough, was trying to restore order, but it was hopeless. I looked around trying to find my kid and saw her and another little girl sitting in the grass chatting. They were nonplussed.

When the whole ordeal was over and we were walking to our car through the sea of minivans, I asked if she had fun.

“It’s too hot out.”

“I know, Sweetie, but did you like it?”

“I would like it better if it was inside.”

“You don’t want to come anymore?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I don’t blame you. “

As I buckled her into the car I could still hear little Carlos’s family going at it. I looked up just in time to see the fat father kick a soccer ball into the side of someone’s van.