Okay, first things first. Every time I try to google something from my laptop, all the links google comes up with are links to spammy pages. Doesn't happen on the desktop, only on the laptop (it's a standard corporate issue model). What gives?

Next - I was going to write a really good post regarding our current economic conditions. Scratch that. I DID write (what I thought was) a really good post regarding our current economic situation, and it got disappeared away. This is my attempt to reconstruct it.

I'm sitting in my office right now, listening to Ray Charles and thinking about the coming Age of Entitlement. She's a-gonna be a doozie.

If I had to vote right now, I'd vote for Joe The Plumber. Probably won't feel the same on 11/4, though.

I was also thinking, maybe a good way to celebrate November 4th each election cycle would be to vote, then go buy a gun. You know, make it a commemoration of my rights or something.

I was also thinking, if Obama gets elected and starts giving tax handouts to everyone who makes under $250k; I might just take my portion of this re-distributed wealth and donate it to PAC's that support the FairTax, or small government. It would make me laugh to think that entitlement was funding those who would fight against it; because fuck them, that's why.

And rounding it off, is a funny picture:

My day ended sort of shitty yesterday. I got up today feeling like a special kind of prick. Not a duschebaggy sort of prick, but a sort of start-a-meaningless-argument sort of prick. I used that strategy as a catharsis and it didn't really work. Jen and Jim didn't think it was much fun.

So I decided to write something that made me feel better. Which, nicely enough; it did. It probably won't make anyone else feel any better though. Such is blogging. Dealio.

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God I'm so glad it's Friday. My favorite day of the week, without a doubt. And what another week it's been. As I walk into the parking garage I can feel the stress ebbing.

I walk past a convertible M3, and there's that gorgeous DB9. That is just a gorgeuos automobile. Athletic, elegant. Carrera, check. Oh wow, a GT-500. Don't see those often. Mazdaspeed3, nice choice. Quirky, powerful, fuel efficient. Soemtimes there's a Ferrari, but not today. I take the stairs up to the top level, and there's my car.

Before my ass hits the seat, I'm already feeling better. The car is so small and so familiar that I'm practically wearing it; like a swimmer in a speed suit.

Ignition. Windows down, sunroof open. Scroll through the music selection. For the first time today, my body senses the sun, the sky, and the temperature.

Backing out of my spot, I listen to the intake whistle as I tap the throttle. I swear I can feel the machine going through its pre-sprint stretches. Idling down the ramps and out of the parking deck, I'm watching the oil temp gauge. As soon as it warms up I'll know she's ready to run. Gotta get out of the city first.

In the city, we're just going through the motions. Traffic lights, mild early rush-hour congestion, watching for errant drivers crossing the lines, etc. I watch as a couple people run one of the lights and get their pictures taken by the city. Gotta hate that.

I round the bend on Wooster (or is it Dawson), and drive past the old homes and the basketball court. I like this small section of town. There's always people jaywalking and they're never in a hurry. Just hangin' on the block. Millions on welfare depend on me. Then I come to my last redlight of the day. Yes.

I'm sitting at the light before the memorial bridge, and I can feel the slight breeze coming off the river. Just barely there.

GREEN

First gear. 1 - 2 - 3 - 4,000 rpms. Second gear, climbing the bridge, third gear. The river's below me now, and to the south I can see the maritime giants docked at the port, the cranes ferrying their containers. To the north is the riverwalk, restraunts, bars, trendy loft apartments. I cross through the metal cage at the apex of the bridge and look over at the battleship. It's all down hill from here.

I punch it down the backside of the bridge, shift into fourth. Keep drowning the throttle some more, and I'm in fifth. The engine is absolutely singing as I cross through the tidal marshes on the Brunswick side of the river. The highway here is surrounded by marsh on all sides. The sun's shining off the still creeks and streams weaving their way through the high reeds. I cross the Brunswick river and pull into the off ramp.

I wind my way onto 133 and head south. Here the drive gets even more picturesque We're still in the relative marshland, but the highway is only one lane. Looking at the spanish moss hanging off the geriatric live oaks, you can nearly see the rice plantations that stood here hundreds of years ago. I pass a few modest residential neighborhoods, and cross Jackie's Creek. This tidal basin is constantly in flux, and today the water is at low tide; roughly four or five feet below pool. The road bends, and I'm rolling up The Hill to our neighborhood.

This is my favorite turn of the drive home. It's a 90-degree right-hander, wide entry into a narrow exit. I revmatch, downshift to third, and the engine responds with a chorus. 60mph...55mph...no brakesnobrakesnotyet...45mph, revmatch secondgear, initiate turn in, nooooo braaaaaakes...33mph across the apex and pouring on the throttle! YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! We're both screaming at the top of our lungs now! 7,500rpms, third gear, and the speedo blows past 65mph.

Okay, okay buddy. Settle it down, this is a 25mph zone. I back off the throttle and let the transmission bring us back to sanity. I meander past the ponds looking for gators or egrets, turn onto our street, and pull into the garage.

Clutch in, first gear, idle for a second or two. Driving really is a privilege. I turn the key off, the engine warbles into silence, and we both sigh.

That was fun. We should do more of that.

From John Peterson's (R-PA) website, via PJMedia:

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

Completely unrelated, but still awesome? Cars. Namely this one, this one, this one and this one. You mileage may vary. Oho!

Alright people, get out there and have a great weekend. Try not to think about collapsing global economies, LHC-triggered world-imploding black holes, nuclear brinkmanship, or Britney Spears' new album.

Everything's gonna be juuuuuust fiiiiiiiine. Inhale. Exhale.

So I woke up on my livingroom couch at approximately 4:30am this morning; which was highly unsettling, as I distinctly remember falling asleep in my bed last night. WTF.

I mean, I know I went to sleep in my damn bed. The only time I got out of bed was shortly before I fell asleep. The Wife was working the night shift, so I jumped up to check the locks and what not, and returned to bed. I mean, I'm sure I got back in bed. Why wouldn't I return to bed? Why would I get up, check the locks, and go sleep on the couch? And if I did, wouldn't I remember doing that?

That shit is weird, bro. I've never been known to be a sleep-walker; but that's not what worries me. If I did, in fact, get up in the middle of the night and walk out to the couch to sleep, what the fuck else did I do?

What if I walked around the yard once or twice? What do you think the neighbors would think of that shit? Their redneckass neighbor wandering the streets in the middle of the night, wearing his boxers and a smile. What if I'd have left the fridge open, or the stove on? I mean, I'm goddamn lucky I didn't kill myself or destroy something.

Maybe I should have The Wife chain me up each night, like they shackle werewolves and stuff in the movies; so that I don't end up a menace. Then they'd have no choice but to put me down; and we can't be havin' that shizzle my nizzle.

Ah, I love the smell of Friday Blogging in the morning.

A Friday linkeroo from Bristol, with...love. I say go ahead and clear the undergrowth. The worst case scenario is that people get upset; but they'll find another place to get 'er done. The best case scenario is that the outdoor giggity continues, only now it draws viewership. Hell, the park could even start charging a nominal ticket price for people who just want to see the show. No to mention the opportunity for sales dollars from refreshments and memorabilia.

I'm going to honor the traditional Friday pastime and try to leave work early today. I have to go get a part for my weed-whacker today, and the store is in the opposite direction of my house. The upside is that I get to go home and tinker with a gas-powered machine. Nothing soothes the soul quite like that. I guess the other upside is that I'll be able to take the bypass back home, that goes around the city. That'll be a nice drive.

Speaking of driving, I've been getting awesome MPG lately. My car is rated by the EPA at 22/27. I noticed a few months ago that I was getting about 31mpg in mixed driving to and from work each day. I checked the oil, because sometimes a low oil level can drive MPG up. It needed about a quart, so I dropped some in. Then I went to fill up last weekend and it had gone to 32; almost 20% over the highest EPA estimate. Suck it OPEC!

Just finished one of the more stressful weeks of the year at work. We're putting together the expense and FTE budgets for FY09, and as usual, it's been a real bear. We try and project for every expense, and I mean every. CEO approval is required for any and all increases in the budget, and I've had to go to the mat for spends that are less than one one-hundredth of a percent of our gross revenue. I suppose that's a good thing though, to be fiscally responsible; especially when you're in a sector where 2% margins are par for the course. At any rate, work had been a little stressful, and I'm looking forward to a few days to myself.

Hope you enjoy yours too.

Okay, so I was perusing some local news outlets today, and one of the local affiliates had this poll posted:

I'm wondering to myself who the hell that 18% is, and if they're ever heard of the Bill of Rights. There are actually Americans out there who think that we don't have the right to own firearms? WTF!? I guess I shouldn't be surprised though, because I suppose if you think about it; probably 20% of the population also thinks people shouldn't all have the right of free speech. Which is fucking depressing.

What is scarier is that the Supreme Court had an even narrower gap in opinion on the firearms issue. I mean, it clearly says that shit in like, I don't know; the first fucking page of the Constitution. Jesus Christ!

So at 8:30am this morning I read some economic data that I can only describe as fascinating. It's kind of like a jungle gym for your mind. You read the report, and it's a framework that you just sit and mull over.

Okay - so the trade gap is narrowing - which means even though we're still importing more than we export, we've actually begun to import less and/or export more in the last quarter. Which is good, because that will increase our GDP.

So here we are, using less of 'other peoples stuff' to run our economy, and it's still growing. The real interesting part is this:

Imports of industrial supplies fell 3.2% to $61.6 billion, including an 8.9% drop in petroleum imports.
The average price of oil rose to a record $89.85 a barrel, but demand fell 9% to 8.97 million barrels a day.

We're using 10% less energy. Think about that. Then think about the ridiculous increase in oil prices of late. And you wonder if maybe there's an oil bubble expanding, what with Iran floating 28 million barrels of oil.

Is this an indication of some kind of 'lean' capitalism? Are consumers going from big spenders to keen shoppers? Is this the invisible hand at work here, as lean operations become a response to inflated energy prices?

So I was listening to someone this morning who said that grocery lists are a sure sign of recession. This assertion is, by far, one of the laziest and most inaccurate economic indicators I've ever heard of. How in the hell does one go grocery shopping without a damn list?

Obama can't handle the heat? You know, I've had just about enough of this frickin' n00b. If these debates are wearing you out, do I really want your pussy ass in the White House for four years? I'm surprised that the guy has gotten so much attention anyways, being that he lacks experience and has such a questionable background.

To the Once a Week Blog! The only blog in the sphere where we bring you content once a week! Maybe!

Deal on the house fell through; but it's no skin off my nose. There are hundreds of homes in my area, and I'm in no hurry to run out and grab one.

I don't know if you guys have been following Jim Watson, of Watson and Crick fame (you know, the double helix twins); but he's apparently been saying some off the wall shit. Which, personally, I can't really be incited to do much ranting when a dude who looks like this starts talkin' crazy. He's a three dimensional Grandpa Simpson, okay people? Most of the time, this guy probably thinks he's living in Candyland or something; so if he starts saying weird stuff, just humor him. I mean, when we're all that old, our motor's probably going to knock a little bit too. He probably just needs a nap or his oxegen tank or something.

Secondly, oil is now $90 a barrel, and it's got me thinking. We have oil heat in the house we're renting, right? And we buy oil by the couple hundred gallons or so, which means there's oil left over from last winter in the tank buried in my yard. I have calculated, over the period, that my investment in heating oil last January has outperformed my entire stock portfolio. The really amazing thing is that between January and March I was obviously drawing from my oil tank, while at the same time contributing money to my employer-matched fund; and the oil tank still outperformed my return. Which is exactly why I've decided to cash out both of our retirement funds, and use the money to hoard oil. It means we won't be able to use it to heat the house this winter, but I have an alternative fuel: The Souls of The Innocent. They burn hotter, longer, and cleaner!

It's Friday, oh yeah. In case you forgot, biotch.

So the old man has taken up several hobbies lately, especially for a guy who never really had any. We've been hitting pool halls for the past few months, and last weekend he joined a nine ball league. And just last night he's all "So I got my guitar yesterday."
"Guitar?"
"Yeah, acoustic. Vintage."
This is a dude that I've never even seen in proximity to any kind of musical instrument, let alone actually playing one. I always assumed he wasn't the type. Apparently he had an entire youth I didn't know about where he played guitar. Nobody tells me shit.

Tomorrow night we're going to see Dave Mason. Yeah, that Dave Mason. Should be nice. He said if I paid for my ticket he'd by the brews. Fool!

The Wife and I are putting in an offer on our first home this evening. I love negotiating, and my goal is to rob these people buckass nekkid. I plan on capping the event off by sitting next to the fire (nice weather for that right now) with a few cold ones and some friends. And The Wife's got to work tonight, which means I get to piss in the backyard. Well, without having to listen to her yell at me anyway. Do you have any idea how hard it is to piss when someone's yelling at you? Unsettling.

Speaking of which, Jenelle's balling a geezer, and Al Gore won a Nobel. Hurk.

From the Spinster, since no one reads blogs on Friday anyways.

So I walk into the bathroom at work and someone had just taken an unusually foul poo. Since I was little I always thought that if you smell someone else's shit, the noxious odor got into your body and would someday give you a disease. Call it fecal cancer or whatever. So whenever I walk into a bathroom, I hold my breath so I don't get this disease that I made up. I'm 42 now and I still do the same thing. I'm positive I'll get fecal cancer if I don't hold my breath. And it's really only strangers poo that causes it. That's my rule. Hey, it's my disease so I make the rules.

Speaking of crap, me and the wife have codes for different things. For instance, we were at a party once and there was only one very small half bath downstairs and that's where everyone was supposed to go and relieve themselves. This tiny bathroom is right off the dining room where the food was being served. So this guy named Fred decides he's going to take a big honking stinky in this tiny bathroom. I'm eating some chicken parm, I hear the toilet flush and out comes Fred with all his stink. I almost puked up the parm. So now, in our house, we have a tiny half bath downstairs. And we've made a rule: there is absolutely NO Fredding in the downstairs bath. This guy is now a verb.

Another code - Walt=booger. Me and the wife once temped at the same company. Our boss was named Walt and for the whole 6 months we worked there he had the same honkin' booger in his left nostril. Apparently, no one in his family saw it. Or at least they never told him about it. And neither did anyone at work. Day in and day out, he always had the same booger. So now, whenever either of us has a booger that we aren't aware of, we'll say, "Honey, uh, Walt". That means it's time to go somewhere private with a mirror and start picking your nose.

Happy Memorial Day!

Right now, I'm sitting on my back porch swing, sipping a beer. Sitting only inches from the jasmine, and I cna still smell fragrant garden incense burning, citronella candles, and "...ain't got no woooories, 'cuz I ain't in no hurry..." is playing through the sreen door.

Every once in a while I hear a heavy buzzing, but it's not a bumble bee. It's a hummingbird coming to feed. Me, I wish it was a bee, because it would be pollinating the zucchini and cucumber plants growing in the garden. Don't get me wrong, I totally see the benefits of city life. I can walk to my local grocer and some million-dollar homes in the same outing; but I crave something quieter.

One day, I'm going to have enough dough saved up that I'll be able to buy a small farmhouse on two or so acres in northern Georgia or Arkansas - yeah, the middle of nowhere. And I'll be able to sip a beer on my back porch, listening to a few rows of zucchini, some cukes, 'maters, push sprouts through the black wet dirt. Fuck this working for a living bullshit. I've never understood it, and I never will. Work sucks. I dare you to try and argue the point.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I am happy to report that the state of my prostate is excellent and should be far into the future, barring something like, well, cancer. However, the way this conclusion was reached was less than perfect, I am sorry to say. Before I tell you about the actual exam, I have a simple question? Why is my prostate in my ass? Isn't it for peeing and jizz-shooting? Shouldn't it be in my penis? I don't profess to know what a prostate is or what it really does or what it looks like or even what it feels like, thank God, but I figure a prostate is like real estate - it's all about location, location, location and I think mine is in a very bad neighborhood. Who thought it was a great idea to put it in my ass. I mean really.

That being said, when I went in for my annual checkup, the doctor asked me if a medical student could observe the exam. I, being a man of science and learning, agreed. Because I'm an idiot. I figured he'd send her out of the room when butt-probing time rolled around. Oh no. Not only was she watching when he greased me up and jammed his gloved hand up there, he explained everything he was doing. What he was feeling around for, what he was touching. Everything. I was half expecting him to ask her to grab a glove and join in. "Hey sweetcheeks, wanna give 'er a poke?" And then came the best part - he removed his finger from my ass and told me I could wipe. Spectacular. Have you ever wiped goo out of your ass while two strangers watched? No? Oh, you haven't lived. Good times!

But he did give me a lollipop, so I got that going for me.

Did I ever tell you about the time I almost got my right nut bit off in a freakish dog encounter? It was Friday the 13th about 30 years ago (cue ominous pipe organ music). The sky was black and the winds howled. Actually, it was a pretty sunny afternoon in picturesque Newark, New Jersey. I was playing football with a few friends. Claude, who we used to call Matt, because that was his name, threw me a long pass...

Interesting Aside

Matt (Claude) is the drummer for Ween, not to name drop. I taught him how to drum. Really. Impressed? Why I'm not a famous rock musician, I'll never know. You think he sends me a check every now and then in appreciation for all I did for him? Hell no. He won't even return my calls, the prick. That bastard wouldn't know a drum set if it bit off his right nut if it wasn't for me. Do I get free tickets to his concerts? No. When I try to sneak backstage because "I know the drummer", do I get free food and booze? No, I get kicked in the nads and tossed into the street by one of the Ween goons.

Also, Ween Goons is an excellent name for a rock band.

End Interesting Aside

So the rotten prick throws me a long pass and I make this spectacular, over-the-shoulder catch, keeping both feet barely in bounds. Very Lynn Swann. Maybe we weren't playing football. I don't really remember. What I do remember is dog fangs ripping through my underwear and into my flesh. Okay, I don't really remember that either. But I do remember standing in my neighbors front lawn with my pants in shreds. Then I remember running home in my underwear crying because there was blood all over them. I get home and my mother lays me down, takes off my underwear and does a nut check. Both were there but about a half inch from my right one are teeth marks and ripped flesh. Enough to warrant stitches, which I'd never had before.

My Dad takes me to the doctor who proceeds to give me 4 stitches. Under the watchful eyes of a nurse, who thought that my 8 year old, inch and a half penis was hilarious. As a matter of fact, everyone had a good laugh - the doctor, the nurse and my Dad all thought the whole thing was hilarious. Me and my tiny penis just laid there and endured the laughter and humilation.

Now, every Friday the 13th at about 6pm, I do two shots of tequila while I gently rub my right testicle and sob quietly to myself.

So I planted the garden last weekend. We planted watermelon, lettuce, cucumbers, carrots, zucchini, and three varieties of tomatoes; and fenced the whole thing in with some chicken wire and a few posts. It was kind of fun to make something and all; and if I had to do it again, I'd make it bigger. However, there are some serious drawbacks.

Firstly, chickenwire is some incredibly dangerous shit. It comes in these tightly rolled bundles, secured by a thin wire. When you snip the binding wire, the twenty foot roll of fencing springs open and literally tries to kill you. It's like a reverse bear trap. If I knew building a fence with chicken wire was such a clustefuck, I would have laid brick or something.

Secondly, no one told me these shits take like three months to grow. We got the lettuce and 'maters as seedlings, but everything else we sowed. I'm going nuts staring at the dirt waiting for a seedling to poke through. Good Lord, how I hate waiting. No wonder people invented grocery stores; fucking waiting until June or July for a bloody watermelon is retarded.

It's one of those days where I'd rather be at home. That being said (which...really has nothing to do with anything), I give you a list of great words and phrases. What makes them great? I don't know. Nothing, and the fact that I think they're nice sounding.

Bonkers - great word. "It was cool until the guy with the tattoo on his neck called Dave's mom a cornerstore hooker. Dave just went fucking bonkers on him."

Milli-fuckit - "The above statement outrageously overstates America's give-a-shit factor when it comes to those two (it's measured in mille-fuckits). "

Hoisted by his own petard - A petard was an explosive device slung over a gate or wall, back in the day (back in the day is industry lingo for 'the 19th century'). Sometimes, if the guy lighting the petard wasn't paying attention, he'd get caught in the rigging, slung over the gate/wall, and subsequently blown to bits. Now people use it instead of saying overused shit like "shot himself in the foot", "fucked himself", or "fucked himself in his own ass".

Got any other suggestions???

I'll never understand why some organizations choose their mascots. A mascot should stir admiration. It should be noble, but at the same time ready to dispatch it's competitors with extreme prejudice. Apparently, there are a few folks out there who didn't get the memo. To wit:

Blue Jays, Cardinals, Ducks, Orioles, and any other bird that is not a bird of prey. There's nothing about any of these creatures that rouses one's competitive spirit. Seriously, what kind of pussy runs onto the field screaming "GOOO RED-BREASTED PLOVERS!!"

Same with Beavers, Terrapins, or Turtles. Are these animals even carnivorous?

Inanimate objects are beyond stupid, and it is in this category that we find the most undeniably idiotic team mascot in the history of organized athletics: The Buckeyes. For a top seded football team, you'd think they might consider opting for a team mascot that's something other than a nut. Like maybe a fire hydrant. At least you could spray the shit out of someone with a fire hydrant. What the hell are you going to do with that nut? Bake some fucking cookies? Same goes for the Syracuse Orange. Seriously, I thought the term Orangemen was in reference to a group of transient northeastern citrus workers known for their ferocity and spirit in battle. Unfortunately, it's just an orange. Christ on a bicycle.

Notice here, that I haven't made mention of odd mascots. You know, the Tennesee Volunteers, the Purdue Boilermakers, the New York Knickerbockers. The thing is, at least these mascots have a locally relevant, historically significant story behind them. Unlike, say, the USC Trojans. Last time I checked, there was no historical record of a band of Trojan warriors settling in the greater Los Angeles area.

Clothing items. Seriously, if all you've got to be proud of are a pair of red or white socks; that's sad.

There's one that I just don't get though. The Crimson Tide. If that's a reference to the algal bloom that occasionally chokes aquatic ecosystems; that's fuckin' harsh. At that rate, it's only a matter of time before we have the Anaheim AIDS or the Cleveland Chlamydia. As sure as I am that everyone in Cleveland probably has chlamydia; I don't think it's something they'd opt to name one of their teams.

God, I'm fucking bored.

Best movie lines?
"Maybe later you can chew the bark off my big fat log."
"Vern, you little sonofawhore you was under the porch!"

Hey, just out of idle curiosity, is buying a house all it's cracked up to be? We're thinking of getting one of those starter homes, you know, one of those patio homes. Probably something less than five years old. But I think we'll only be in this town for another 3-6 years. I mean, Im pretty sure we've got the income to cover mortgage (included taxes and insurance in escrow); but I'm worried there are hidden costs, like bills that you pay when you have a home that aren't usually paid by apartment dwellers. Are there signs I should look for around a house that tell me it's a shithole in disguise?

God, I'm fucking bored. You know what I miss? Chatrooms. They were like the best thing, because you could go in there, and sit and watch or join in - but without the hassle of real people. I mean, it didn't have an annoying speech pattern, it didn't smell funny, and if it was lame you could just leave without having to tell everyone "Oh, why am I leaving? Because you're fucking lame."

Why is it so fucking hot outside? It's too hot to do anything! WTF is with that? If I could go outside, I wouldn't have to sit here and blog as a default way of passing time.

So my buddy grilled some spareribs on the 4th; and there was a bunch of leftovers. Since we hosted the barbecue, I naturally claimed some of said leftovers for myself. Of course, I hadn't had any that day either, so I was eager to try some later. Well, Sunday I heated a half rack up for a late breakfast/early lunch treat. An hour later, I was pissing out my butt.

Let me tell you, bad pork just doesn't fool around any more. I mean, it just wouldn't let up; literally, I was shitting so hard I was sweating. For at least three hours I couldn't be more than a room away from the toilet. Eventually, my butthole was hurting so bad that I just refused the urge to shit anymore. I just clenched it; deciding that I was going to force my body to hold it in until the lower intestine got off it's ass and started absorbing water. I guess I held it for about an hour, when the wife arrived.

She's a nurse, so she knows a crapton more about how a body works than I could ever pretend to. When she walked into the living room and found me curled into the fetal position biting a wooden spoon and covering my ass with both hands; she advised me to just take some Immodium. Unfortunately, you have to take the pills after having a 'movement'.

(Note: I hate that some professionals and literature refer to them as 'movements'. This word, for me, conjures up maybe a ballet, or a couple minutes of Vivaldi. What I was doing was shitting. Spraying raw sewage out of my butt is neither graceful, beautiful, nor moving - ergo, it is not a movement. Let's not be flowery when describing the decidedly unflowery aspects of the human experience.)

So I crawl back into the bathroom, and release what the flood gates had been holding back. It hurt so bad. By mid evening, my a-hole felt like 100 microscopic miners had been filing away at it with 100 tiny rasps. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand; it was a bad day to be my butthole. After I finished, I went straight into the shower. I mean, six hours of the squirts makes a guy feel a little dirty.

After the shower, I took the meds; and my bowels haven't so much as quivered since. We're talking easily 24 hours without a #2 here; and I've swung to the other side of the panic pendulum. No longer do I worry that I may die on a toilet; I do, however, worry that I may die from poop backup. Of course, compounding this problem is my reluctance to do anything to encourage a deuce; for fear that it may lead to another bout of those uncontrollable, violently powerful, and immensely painful shits.

Yesterday afternoon I was flipping through the channel guide on TV and as I was scrolling down I something caught my eye. CSPAN 2, otherwise known as the Ambien channel, was showing coverage of the fucking Daily Kos convention.

Now I don’t read that shit, nor do I read other political blogs because life is too short and the assholery that goes along with it insults my intelligence. But I couldn’t resist. I had to take a look at this. When I tuned in there was a panel of assholes and some tenured prick was droning on about something, I have no idea what. Then they panned to the audience—Holy Mother of God.

I’ve never met another blogger in real life, but if that’s what bloggers look like I hope I never do. Half of them looked like the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons and the other half looked like leftovers from a Star Trek convention. I’ve never seen so many freaks outside of a circus tent. A couple of them got up to ask insightful questions like, “I don’t think it’s possible, but can you help me hate Bush even more than I already do? Because it’s the focus of my life and I put that before my children.� I couldn’t believe the shit was on CSPAN.

Anyway I’m getting away from what these people looked like, which is the point of this post. I hate to be shallow, but if you look like those people I don’t fucking want you here. For all I know it might rub off like those people who look like their dogs.

Seven minutes of bike crashes; or, "Darwin's Theory of Evolution: The Irrefutable Proof".

Another loser enters the political arena. At least they'll be among peers. Note: PhatFree is an awesome sight, click around; it's hilarious.

And because so many people have expressed interest...

And people say the Internet is a cesspool. Tsk, tsk.

I bought a new car today. Well, not exactly brand new, it's more of a beater. We're going to use it as a beach-mobile because both of our cars are small. I drive a sports coupe and the wife drives an economobile. It's a pain in the ass to try and shoehorn the boards, kayak, cooler, and chairs into either one of them; if not completely impossible. Of course, it was a goddamned sweet deal, 4.0 liters, 4WD, power evertyhing and a nice stereo for only $1,000. Hey, what can I say; I'm a master negotiator. Pics to follow? Have a great Memorial Day weekend!

Okay, in protest to Paul killing Cultural Friday's, I've decided to concieve Smut Friday. Until Paul agrees to re-adopt Cultural Fridays, I will bombard you all with the most useless pointless filler (no, not my typical matierial you asshats) every Friday. And Paul, if you're wanting to play hard ball, I will remind you that there's more smut out there in the digital ether than you can shake a stick at. And we could all be learning about something (faggy as it may be) like wine or the history of French painters. Hell, I could go for the OK Corral thing but noooooo...Paul had to deprive us all of leaarning something. So, instead of blogging that might broaden horizons or expand your knowledge base; for your review, I bring you the first installment of SBD's Smut Friday:

Check it out, a dude drinking an assload of beer...

...In related matters...

...Tips for clearing a room besides busting ass...

...I'd go on, but wading through this shit is like going for a morning swim in Venice. I hope you people are disgusted, because I sure am. And this is only the tip of the iceberg.

In this movie review (via Instapundit, who else) of 'United 93' James Pinkerton ponders a world where technology enables terrorism. I'm not taking issue with the movie or review itself, but with something James mentions in the peice. He makes use of the following device throughout the article:

BULL. Shit. I have been to a movie theater maybe six times in the past year, and each time was worse than the previous. Richer experience? A collective experience with 'like minded people'? Dude, last weekend the wife and I went to go see Silent Hill, and she almost ended up getting into a fist-fight with these three teenagers in front of us. Three girls who may or may not have even been old enough to be in the show, talking on their cellphones, being generally disruptive.
"Shut up!" hisses the wife.
"O no u di'en."
"Shoo, I wi' come up ova dis chair."
"She don even nu-oh." A chorus of braggadocio typical of the age at which people suffer from 'Idiocy'; or as it's commonly known, adolescence.
The movie ends (an agonizing two hours of gore and hamfisted dialogue. Don't go see the movie, but that's another post), and we collect our things and the two friends seated with us. As we exit the theater, these fucking neanderthals are waiting for her in the hall.
"Bye bitch," says one.
Now, my wife is a bartender. She's not a fighter, but she's also not afraid to call a person's bluff; and she's damn good at it too. I've seen her rattle more than a few drunken idiots right out the back door of her bar. So when this rouster drops the b-bomb on her, she retorts without even breaking stride; "Well, maybe you should learn to shut the fuck up in a movie; instead of talking on your damn cellphone for the first fifteen minutes."

Granted, I wasn't exactly happy that my wife chose to, publicly and without restraint, ride herd on a bunch of kids whose parents obviously failed somewhere along the line; but she was right and she wasn't trying to escalate the situation, so I just kept an eye on things.

Not to mention the seats at just about every movie theater are uncomfortable and the food is a ripoff.

At any rate, the whole premise of going to a movie theater to see a film is so contradictory to the age of technology, that I'm suprised Pinkerton made it such a big part of the article; let alone that it was posted at TCSDaily. I mean, these days I can watch digital quality images on a plasmascreen TV with digital surround sound from the comfort of my own living room; and this tech article is saying that movie-going is "a richer experience than seeing a movie on a little screen"?

Tech Central Station my ass.

Saw this wonderful holiday greeting and just wanted to share it with ya'll as we kick off the Easter weekend.

Yo, I put another story up on the old Protomonkey today. If you've never been over there, check out some of the other stories/authors too. You'll find youself pleasantly entertained.

Additionally, Eddie VanHanel is offically my neighborhood drunk. I'm not kidding, I'd recognize that face anywhere.

I'm blogging from work. Unbelieveable. Hopefully it won't get me booted out the front doors.

Also, I don't know how many of you have ever been to thephatfree.com (probably the whole lot of you bastards, since I'm always the last person to find out about anything. Did you hear we been to the moon? And then some knotheaded numbnut tried to say it was all a hoax. Anyways), but you should check it out. They rank the posts there, and by God, those five that're listed as the funniest are some pretty top-notch shit. I was reading those ones yesterday and damn near pissed the desk.

As for St. Patrick's Day: No holiday complements the NCAA Championship better! There's sports bars that I need to be in, trash talking, half-time beer binges, overtime smokes, and then when the upset comes there's the uproar. Practically a riot. Last night my cinderella team got knocked out because they played like absolute crap when it really fucking mattered. Meh, that's why they're Cinderella's. Fucking barneys is what they are. Anyways, my two favorites are still in it, assuming this "let's all play like absolute crap" thing isn't contagious.

And yes, when I was in Vegas I failed to get in touch with Jen. And yes, it was totally and completely my fault, because I transposed the last two digits of her phone number. However, I doubt she could have handled the lot of us on Saturday night. We were some rowdy drunken bastards, and we were moving right fast. The funny thing is I sent like three text messages and left one voicemail on some other poor girl's phone. And this was at around 11 or so Vegas time, so it was probably right in the middle of the woman's REM state. At any rate, Jen, since you were insulted and all, I suppose I owe it to you to do something nice for you like invite you to the wedding or something. Sooo...

Look, you ever just know something? I mean, when you're in the middle of maybe turning a corner and you decide to stop, because you think someone's coming the other way around the corner; and then BAM sure enough, someone comes around the corner? Or maybe you're playing the shell game with that street crook down on 21st and Nun; you pick a cup just because you know, and bam; you beat the house? Surely, there are some things, sometimes, that each of us all know. We just know 'em. The thing that I 'just know', is that I'm going to live a long damn life. I mean, 90+ years. I've always known this, ever since I was a kid. I can't explain it, but since I've got a blog, I'm gonna try.

Okay, what the fuck is a scallop? I mean, we all can probably describe them; these little white lumps of...nondescript...sea...meat. Truly though, are they fish? Are they plant material? How are they farmed? Where do they come from? I mean, the only thing we know about them is that they're great sauteed in butter. They're the ocean's answer to mystery meat. Plus, they have no distinctive flavor of their own. Scallops.

In unrelated matters, Muslims need to smoke a little more pot. Apparently, they've gone and got their sari's in a twist over a few silly cartoons. They're all upset because some Dane or someone drew a picture of their God, an act violating their religious law. What I don't get it, why they're all so damn bent out of shape about someone outside their religion breaking Islamic law. I mean, most Christians and Jews hold the Ten Commandments as part of their religious law - and yet I can turn on my TV and watch shows about people who violate those laws all the time. I'm not catching any fatwa's in the local church bullitens around here, regarding the organization of a Baptist militia who will fight to have networks apologize to them for such transgression against Baptist 'law'.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, we'll tolerate religion is an much as we will allow you to do your thing. But don't expect us to design our society around it's pillars. Mostly because we're not into the whole stoning of women and owning of slaves.

In an even further unrelated matter, my car should finally come out of the shop next week. It'll be the culmination of easily 8 weeks of waiting and working. The motor came hand built all the way from Honda's factory in Saitama, Japan. It's gonna be sick.

Hey, hey, hey, it's muthafuckin' Friday! All across America, people are fleeing the workplace as the five o'clock whistle blows. In Miami, they're probably heading out the beachfront for drinks and dinner. In LA, they're trying to kill eachother in rush hour traffic. In Duluth, some lonely farmhand is picking out his ewe for the night. Hey, everyone celebrates in their own little way. Me personally? Went to Blockbuster (Oh yeah baby, we still rent DVD's the old fashioned way around here) and rented "The Aristocrats", "Transporter 2", and "Dark Water". A nice bit of mindless entertainment that will mix well with the American lager, the bottle of zinfandel, or the pinot grigio we got at the store. Mmm-Mmm. See, no matter how bad your week was, you're almost always glad when Friday comes around.

Unless, maybe - you're this poor little bastard...

shank being The King of Curious is wondering what ever happened to that lost lonely girl who's heart he broke back in high school. He then invited contributors to submit a profile of what my old classmate's love muffin's life is like now.

I gotta tell ya folks, the truth is stranger than fiction and after a bit of digging there are some N-V-T-S nuts out there. I found shank's long lost love on one of the interweb dating sites. Her profile is of course presented in the extended entry for your viewing pleasure.

I’m old enough to remember when office Christmas parties were actually fun. Most people would get themselves all liquored up and do incredibly stupid things. Like make out with coworkers, vomit in front of the VPs and blurt out inappropriate comments about all kinds of stuff they'd later reget. Unfortunately, those days are over.

“Gone are the nights of photocopying one's bare buttocks, groping interns and hauling home a gift bag full of goodies.�

Five days ago I quit smoking. I can’t adequately describe the discomfort, both mental and physical, that accompanies this endeavor. It really ratchets up the pressure. Last night I had a huge fight with my wife and demanded we start divorce proceedings. In the end I decided to just pick up my socks and put them in the hamper, which started the whole thing. I wish I was exaggerating. I’ve got an uncomfortable patch on my ass that does absolutely nothing to stop the cravings.

I’m thinking heroin might be a good substitute for nicotine at this point. At least heroin addicts get methadone.

On another note, I’m anti-Podcast. All of a sudden everybody’s David Sedaris. Personally, I could never do it, even if I had something to say. In my case it would just be me reading my posts off a sheet of paper. Hemingway would never have gone in for that crap. Then again, he put his brains to the wall with a twelve gauge.

I’ve listened to a few bloggers Podcast and it was universally depressing. Nothing to say, no style and no charisma. They were doing it simply because they could. Secondly, once I heard their voice it was over for me. Too squeaky. Too flat. Too slow or too fast. A dull monotone with no dynamics. It completely destroyed my image of them and put me off their writing. (I’m not talking about you.) I know that’s wrong, but it’s true.

Maybe I’m too old-fashioned. Or just too old. When I was growing up Abercrombie & Fitch sold fly fishing equipment. They sold clothes too, of course, but it was nice stuff. Kind of out-doorsy business casual clothes, but with more class than the khaki pants “uniform� most people are wearing now. I still have some nice ties from there. Now it caters almost exclusively to the FWRA (Future White Rappers of America) and I’m afraid to go in there without knowing the proper gang signs. Not that I would ever wear anything they’ve got nowadays. I’ve moved over to Brooks Brothers. I’ve got suits or Levi’s and not much in between.

I was thinking last night, as I convulsed from nicotine withdrawal, that some people have really fucked up haircuts. Donald Trump comes to mind. Here’s a guy who’s got more gold than the Vatican and he can’t get a decent haircut. Imagine going into a hair salon and saying, “I’ll have the Trump!�

“One Trump, coming up!�

“How much will that cost?�

“$15 for the cut and $46 for the hairspray.�

And while we’re on the topic of Trump, I think he’d be less of a dickhole if he took a few bong hits once in while. I haven’t hit a bong in fifteen years, but if memory serves, it was the great equalizer. I’d love to see that guy take his coat off, mess up his hair and lay into a pound of fudge.

The crap is hitting the fan for the Oil for Food scammers. Sheesh. The UN are such a bunch of numbnuts.

Also, Jim's wife reviews Snooze's new bloggers:
"Seems like some male-macho kabaza with not much sense to it."
She goes on, but read the whole thing. She really loves us.

Recently, the White House has begun a pushback campaign, a series of press releases targeting Democrats who've issued grievances with the war in Iraq. It seems, the Republicans are calling them out into the front yard, as it were, for a little game of 'Put Your Name Where Your Mouth Is.' Goldstein called it a day or so ago. I'm just surpised the Republicans, after taking so much garbage, are finally entering the fray. Hmph. We'll see how it goes.