864-223-1911 Update

UPDATE.

I have continued to get hits and comments on this phone number abuse. I filed complaints with the FCC and the Pennsylvania AG a few weeks ago. I just sent the e-mail below to donotcall@fcc.gov. Keep the pressure on, I guess.

From the looks of this - particularly the "disconnect" message - this guy must be a pure scam. He had what seemed to me an eastern Indian accent. Anyone notice the same or different?

I am amazed that he is overriding the Caller ID system. Who runs that? About halfway down on this page seems to be good information. This is from the mid-1990's:

"5) Can a Caller-ID signal be forged/altered ?

Since the signal is provided by the local Telco switch and the calling party's line is not connected until after the phone is answered, generally the signal cannot be altered from the distant end. Manipulation would have to take place either at the switch or on the called party's line.

"However, the foregoing applies only to a properly designed CNID unit. For instance the Motorola M145447 chip has a "power down" option that wakes the Chip up when the phone rings for just long enough to receive, process, and deliver the CNID signal after which it shuts down until the next call.

"Should this option be disabled, the chip will be in a "listen always" state and it is theoretically possible to "flood" a line making a vulnerable box record successive erroneous numbers.

"I have received a report of a device called "Presto Chango" that can transmit an extra ADSI modem tone after the call has been picked up that will cause a susceptible box to display the later information. It was also reported to me that CNID boxes marketed by US-West as their brand and made by CIDCO have been used to demonstrate the "Presto Chango" box."

So even moreso now, I guess.

Here is my e:

"Folks, I filed a complaint several weeks. I am sending this e-mail because I think I have some unique information.

"Go to my blog, please, and read the comments I have been receiving. Whoever is originating calls from 864-223-1911 is calling all over the nation. They claim to be soliciting for Verizon Wireless, although one of the comments to my posting (linked below, third item in writing) mentions Sprint.

My post.

"The Caller ID comes up an individual – G & S Moore. A reverse lookup gives fuller information – Gary and Scarlett Moore, 115 Carriage Ct., Greenwood, SC 29646. But, most importantly, when you call the number a message comes up saying it is disconnected.

"I do not get a lot of traffic on my blog, but you can see the hits I am getting by looking at the Site meter referrals. You can then select "By location" on the left and see all the places being called.

"This is a scam. Please investigate. Thank you."

Open Letter to Alex Rodriguez (A-Rod)

Hey Alex, true story. My boss (up three levels from me) was in a Philly hotel when you were in town to play the Phillies this summer. Her husband comes out of the Men’s Room and says, “Hey, I think I just took a leak next to Alex Rodriguez!” She said, “Probably. I just saw Derek Jeter!” Small world, eh?

If it’s any consolation, she also said (to me) that the camera adds a lot of pounds to yous guys. She said that you were “chiseled.” Go figure.

So it’s like we know each other, right? Can I give you some advice? Thanks.

First, your wife is a little cranky. You may want to leave her home more often.

OK, enough of that. You are a Yankee. So you go through slumps on the field and at the plate. Compare your stats to the rest of the Majors and you are at the top. If you go to Seattle, then you will be the star – the only star. A great big fish in a little sea. Some of the other guys can hit or maybe field, but no one will do both or in any other way compare to you. It’ll be a great ego boost for you during the regular season, but come playoffs you’ll be stuck with your (cranky) wife.

With the Yankees, you are in the line-up. One guy of many. Nobody seems to be yelling at Giambi to leave town – and we all know he supplemented for at least a few years. You’ve always been clean. (Right?) And didn’t Mickey Mantle go 1 for 24 in some World Series?

Stay for the long haul. Play the first game ever in the new Yankee Stadium. Retire a Yankee. You deserve to own the hot corner on the greatest baseball team ever. They are lesser without you.

I’m glad we had this talk.

UnStar Technology

Get your next vehicle equipped with the unique “UnStar Technology.” You will be one button away from help in the event of an emergency.

These are actual fake calls received from fictitious people that have the unique UnStar Technology installed on their vehicles:

UnStar: “Hello, UnStar. How may I help you?”
Customer: “They got me! Help!”
UnStar: “Who has you, ma’am?”
Customer: “The aliens! They have my car! It’s being sucked into their spaceship!”
UnStar: “I see that the airbag has deployed. Is that correct, ma’am?”
Customer: “Yes.”
State Police: “This is 911 Emergency. What is the nature of your emergency?”
UnStar: “This is UnStar. I have an alien abduction with airbag deployment at Mile Marker 94 on State Route 231.”
State Police: “Have the anal probes begun yet?”
UnStar: “Ma’am, how many people are in the vehicle?”
Customer: “Me and my husband. Two.”
UnStar: “Have the aliens begun probing the anal cavity of you or your husband yet?”
Customer: “They’re going to do that?!?”
UnStar: “I take it that’s a no.”
UnStar: “State police, no anal probing yet on the driver or her single passenger.”
State Police: “Thank you, Unstar. We’re dispatching now.”
UnStar: “Help is on the way, ma’am. Would you like me to stay on the line until they arrive?”
Customer: “Yes, please. Tell me about this anal probe thing again.”
UnStar: “Ma’am, it is standard practice of aliens to …”

Thanks to UnStar’s one-button help feature, the police arrived in time to save this UnStar customer from traveling the cosmos with a four-foot meat thermometer sticking out of her and her husband’s butts.

Think UnStar is only good for intergalactic emergencies? Think again …

UnStar: “Hello, UnStar. How may I help you?”
Customer: “Hey, he done just ripped me off!”
UnStar: “Who just ripped you off, sir?”
Customer: “That dude! Right there! Who do you think I’m talking about?”
UnStar: “Come again, sir?”
Customer: “Listen. I comes into the neighborhood looking for some crack. I sees a dealer. I drives up to him. I asks how much. He says $5 a rock. I gives him a $20. I need a few. And he started walking down the street! I didn’t get no crack! I paid for it!”
UnStar: “Sir, this is UnStar Technologies. We help with vehicle emergencies.”
Customer: “Yeah, well hold on!” (Sound of screeching tires, wind, thump, thud, thud.)
Customer: “Hey, UnStar, you there?”
UnStar: “Yes, sir. How may we help you?”
Customer: “I got some dude under my car. I think he’s all mangled up. I can hear him coughing and shit. Moaning, too. I’m probably gonna need a tow.
UnStar: “Yes, sir. I’ll contact a tow truck right away.”
Customer: “OK, thanks. Hey, see if they gots a power washer, too. I want to wash that clown off my grill before the blood sets.”
UnStar: “Yes, sir.”
UnStar: “ABC Towing? I have a disabled vehicle with possible clown parts located at …”

Another valuable lesson in making the investment today for UnStar Technologies. Do not travel without it!

Having sex whilst smacking fat children

CNN has rather dark logic when it comes to airing footage. People jumping from the Trade Towers before they collapse? No. An American being beheaded by terrorists? No. American soldiers being shot by a terrorist sniper? YES!

Where is the straight line? Do not show naked aggression against us by terrorists, unless we can pin dead soldiers on President Bush. How pathetic.

Speaking of Clinton suck ups, this poor guy was just having sex and they arrested him! Where is Bubba’s friends now? This guy is banging his paralegal in a girl’s stall at a Seahawk’s football game and somebody complained. Leave him alone! It’s just sex!

Speaking of sex, you gotta love this Dutch politician. She’s concerned about the Dutch army guys getting cranky whilst on the front. Her solution? Send in the prostitutes! God love her.

Speaking of solving problems, did you know that the cane toad is a problem in Australia? Seems the little guy is an interloper from Hawaii and protects itself with toxins. Also, the ladies have a way of telling other ladies where their egg-laying turf is, and, since no one in the cane-toad world likes competition, the nesting areas spread out father and farther all the time. What is interesting is that the article never tells us why the cane toad is a problem, except that it is not edible in its present form. So they are going to un-toxic them (making them “little hamburgers running around the countryside getting munched up by all the native wildlife," – interesting choice of words) and also send out false “I got laid here” signals from the ladies, all in the hope of wiping out the populations. Poor guys.

Speaking of bad labels, two related articles appearing in the same list of Australian news are interesting: Colour coding, labelling tackle obesity and Wrong labels prompt most recalls. I not sure if it means that fat people will remain fat because of inaccurate nutritional labels or that they will die from mislabeled foods – several of the foods recalled did not list “chemical or biotoxin contamination” in the ingredients. Gotta love those Australian food processing plants – such cut-ups!

Speaking of things in bad taste, isn’t there international copyright treaties? The Aussies have a 60 Minutes show exactly like the US version. Right down to the garbage stories: “Be on 60 Minutes: If you believe smacking your children is the best form of discipline, please contact Glenda for a possible story on 02 9965 4614 or ggaitz@nine.com.au” Typical liberal bias. Amazing. “Smacking” children? Seems a bit of a label already. How about “If you believe that aggressive physical reinforcement of repeatedly ignored requests is the best form of discipline …”? “If you think slapping that wise-ass look off your 12-year old’s face is the best …” “If you think back-handing your kid is better than your first instinct of choking him until he defecates himself is the best …” Now, we’re talking. “Smacking”? Give me a break. No imagination.

Speaking of being a star, here is a casting call for actors and actresses to play roles in a comedic film about a musically inclined janitor and his experiences bonding with his straight-laced nephew. I’m speechless.

OK, looking for other acting jobs got me to Craig’s List, then I started to look at animals for adoption. I’m wandering. Bye.

My daughter's 21st birthday

So a couple three months ago my daughter was 15. She had just told her first potential suitor that the closest he would get to her lips would be the plastic fork with which she just ate dessert and threw into the garbage. When the putz asked her what she ate and was last seen running out the back door of the coffee shop with a bag of garbage, I felt compelled to give her some pointed advice.

Then about two weeks ago, she aged eight years and deftly handled some loser in a bar.

Now she lost a couple years and it is the day after her 21st birthday. We are at a bar together for the first time.

Dad: So, baby, may I buy you your first drink?

Jourdaine: I don’t drink, daddy, you know that.

Dad: But the double potato vodkas, chilled and neat …

Jourd: Dad! That’s two years from now! I don’t start drinking those until I lose my virginity! Whoops! Did I say that out loud?

Dad: It’s ok, baby. Ain’t got nothing to do with me. Better than running away with the circus, I guess.

Jourd: Yeah, I know. Next, eh?

Dad: OK. I’m gonna go drain my lizard. Order me a Tanqueray & Tonic, please. Be right back.

Jourd: Gotcha, daddy.

A few minutes pass and Jourd sits alone at the table. A waiter finally shows up.

Waiter, slightly effeminate with a finely coiffed head, crisp white shirt, and a wristband that reads “Timothy” (his name tag reads, “Randall”): Has someone helped you? Would you like something to drink?

Jourd: Please, thank you. Tanqueray & Tonic, lime. Bring a second one about five minutes after the first – the first one will die quickly.

Waiter: Yes, Ma’am. Anything else?

Jourd, flashing her smile and never seeming offensive even though she is about to ask a very personal question: Who’s “Timothy”?

Waiter, pointing casually with his pencil to the corner of the bar: Him.

Jourd, seeing more clearly what she thought was a bull dyke at first glance: Ah. Been together long?

Waiter: Two years. He still hangs out at the bar to make sure none of the boys hit on me.

Jourd: I am sure he is quite busy. Randall? Randy? Rand? Ra the Sun God?

Waiter: Randall, please. Thank you for asking.

Jourd: You got it, Pacman. One drink then two, remember?

Waiter: On its way. (Randall leaves with a turn that is sure to catch the eye of any interested man.)

Loser Number One, approaching on runway 24E: Well, little lady, I couldn’t help …

Jourd, taking just a moment to respond because she was absorbed in studying Timothy’s face as he scanned the room for competitors as a result of Randall’s shish-sway-hey-hey exit from her table, she turns and icily meets this guy’s eyes: You could help it, pal. Now, put your left hand in your pants and yell out, “Susan, Susan.” Maybe you won’t feel quite so all alone and dirty. Remember that it’s attached so don’t pull too hard. Now, git!!.

Loser Number One, smile gone, eyes unfocused: I, um, I, er … OK.

Jourd, mumbling to herself: Why me? (As she scans the room) Loser, loser, yep loser, loser …

Loser Number Two, noticing the single drink Randall just placed in front of her, approaches on runway 47W: One drink? Mind if I sit?

Jourd: Mind if I fart?

Loser Number Two: A feisty one. I like that.

Jourd, feeling one of her buttons – being called “one” of anything, let alone a “feisty one” – firmly pressed: Sure, pal. Sit. Take your best shot.

Loser Number Two: I bet I can make you …

Jourd: Stop. Is this a sexual reference? Yes or no.

Loser Number Two, smiling broadly, turning his head slightly to the left, and shifting his eyes a little lower then back into full contact with her: Yes.

Jourd: And you were about to place a time limit on it, say, like you could make me do it within three minutes.

Loser Number Two: Ninety seconds tops. Or your money back.

Jourd, tossing the drink she ordered for her dad in his face: It’s Tanqueray. Enjoy it. Now get lost.

Randall, with towel in one hand and second drink in the other: My, girl, that was a quick death!

Jourd: A quick yet noble demise, Randall. Thank you. Say, you got potato vodka back there? Double shot, chilled and neat, please.

Randall: You got it, girlfriend.

Jourd, seeing her dad coming back: What, you got a prostrate problem or something? Where you been? The vermin are out in force tonight.

Dad: I was watching you, princess. Sat next to this bull dyke with an Adam’s apple. I can’t be--

Jourd: His name is Timothy.

Dad: I can’t believe you wasted that drink in some clown’s face. Didn’t I raise you right? Never, ever waste alco---

Jourd: Save it. Momentary lapse of reason. It was worth it, pops.

Dad: Timothy a friend of yours?

Jourd: He’s taken, daddy. Randall. Two years. Possessive. Not my type.

Dad: The possessive or gay part?

Jourd: Both.

Dad: Good girl. Now, promise me something.

Jourd: OK.

Dad, smiling at the joy of his life: Never waste a drink like that again.

Jourd: OK, daddy. Hey, thanks, Randall.

Dad, eyebrow raised at the vodka in front of her: I thought you tossed the losers? How long was I gone?

Jourd: Still intact, daddy. Just figured it was time.

Dad, lifting his drink to hers: Cheers. May you live to watch all your enemies die ugly and your friends die of old age.

Jourd: When you die and have no one left to say good-bye to, you know you’ve won the game.

Dad: That’s my girl.

(The conversation went on for several more hours. Jourd fended off losers up to Number Seventeen. Walks to the ladies room were particularly difficult. She learned much about her father and herself that evening. She learned that she really likes chilled potato vodka, and that her father is neither alone or lonely even when no one is around. Times and relationships change, but Jourd and her dad always seem to have a shared core.)

Stealing fences

There was a Columbo episode many years ago – the several they did when the show made the too brief return – that interlaced mind reading and magicians. It seemed very much that the bad guy could read minds. The military was about to scoot him away for espionage work. But Columbo knew he was the murderer.

A kid was hanging around the magic shop and Columbo sought his advice. The kid made a pivotal statement: “Whatever you do, never forget that it is a trick.” Columbo went on to solve the mind-reading subterfuge and get the bad guy.

I am reading dozens of articles about how the dems will win the House and Senate. Thirty or 40 seats in the House, some say. But standing 12:1 or 15:1 in published words are the quieter articles. “Rove unbelievably upbeat about holding Congress.” Barron Magazine does a race-by-race analysis and finds pubs holding.

But listen to the cacophony. “Speaker Pelosi” likes the ring of the title. Pat Tillman’s brother speaks out against war. Envoy derides stupidity in management of Iraq war. Dems “dare to believe” this is their time.

What happened to the “fire-storm” of Foley’s page problem? All of a sudden nobody is focused on it anymore. I guess too much scrutiny would bring to light the FBI statement that they could find any evidence of physical contact, just the unfortunate IMs that were a prank by the page.

Two things come of these articles. Either they create their own destiny (and the dems thereby squeak out a win) or the narrow holding (remember how typical it is to lose seats in the mid-term elections) is characterized as a weak position by the pubs, and they must accordingly change their agenda to the dems.

Do you all remember this much press leading up to the Clinton mid-terms when Congress actually did change hands?

It is remarkable what one can do when the legacy press is on your side. This is blatant election stealing.

Want more evidence of the bias against Bush’s America (as opposed to the U.N.’s America)? Fences. Let’s talk.

Israel is supported by Bush’s America. Palestinian leaders steal millions of dollars for their personal use and keep the people in economic despair. Fellow Arab countries with their billions of dollars in daily revenue do nothing to alleviate the plight. The Palestinian public schools are no different than Soviet indoctrination programs of the 1950s – students now learn to hate Israel and to blame her for all of their woes.

A generation of human bombs evolves. They walk across the border and blow themselves up in marketplaces, on beaches, and in buses.

What to do? Build a fence. Limit the points of access into Israel. Brilliant! The bombings drop off instantly.

The response of the United Nations? Demands that construction be halted and completed sections of the fence be torn down. Catepillar backhoes and loaders were used in building the fence. UN response? A concerted effort to condemn the private company and suggest they are complicit in human-rights violations.

Next example.

The US has about 10 million illegals at any given time. They come over in amazing numbers everyday from Mexico. I represented a few years ago a guy that transported illegals from Arizona to Kennett Square and someplace in Connecticut. He was an illegal, too. He would go into Mexico and give people the address of a large store, a date, and time. “Be there with your money and I will transport you to a job and place to live.” I asked him about going back and forth across the border: “I’ll stay about two weeks in Mexico this time. Visit with family. I can get back over the border anytime I want to.” It was not bravado speaking, just facts.

So let’s build a fence! Mexico complains, the UN complains … everybody complains! Even Gorbachev! That putz likens the US/Mexico fence to the Berlin Wall! I think I remember clearly, let’s see, wasn’t that the wall where the Soviets shot you if you approached it from the East Germany side? That was the wall that divided into two what used to be one country. What does that have to do with the US/Mexico border?

So Israel builds one to stop bombings and the US to stop illegal migration. Bitch, bitch, bitch. What if, say, China built one between it and North Korea? My, that sounds like a problem!

Oh, but it is not a problem! It is to keep defectors out that are seeking political freedom. If it were to keep out people seeking economic freedom, then it would be a problem. But isn’t North Korea economically depressed vis-à-vis Red China? Doesn’t the US Constitution provide more political freedoms than the Mexico system?

It is so confusing to me that our fence is bad and China’s is OK, that Israel’s is bad and China’s isn’t. Maybe I ain’t nuanced enough. Where is John Kerry when you need him?

Enough. Bye.

Clinton sucked then and now

Got any doubts that the Clinton Legacy slithers into our times? Recall that Clinton wanted to treat the terrorists as criminals, while W wanted to go to war. With Clinton appointees in courts and dem sycophants in Congress, the “criminal” nature of the detentions does not die.

To wit (October 17 post): Attorneys for Salim Ahmed Hamdan, the detainee facing war crimes charges before a "military commission" in the wake of Congress' passage of the new commission bill, on Tuesday asked a federal judge in Washington, D.C., to allow new briefing on the impact of the new commission law on the judge's authority to decide continuing issues in Hamdan's case. His case is back in District Court following the ruling in his favor by the Supreme Court last Term. In the new motion, attorneys for Hamdan said that he continues to have a claim challenging his ongoing detention by the U.S. military. But, he said, the new commission law "puts in question this Court's subject matter jurisdiction" over that claim. That part of the law, the motion argued, is "of doubtful constitutionality." Moreover, it added, "the Constitution provides a right to habeas relief independent of statutory authorization, a privilege that has not been validly suspended." The lawyers suggested that the briefing be done simultaneously on an expedited basis, but did not propose a specific schedule.

Convinced yet? Here’s a little more: In the detainees' motion for permission to file new briefs on the new law's impact, found here , the attorneys argued that the Act raises a number of new issues: whether the law denies the appeals court authority to decide the pending habeas appeals and, if so, whether that is an unconstitutional suspension of the writ; whether the new law unconstitutionally bars Geneva Conventions claims; whether it unconstitutionally delegates to the Executive branch powers that belong to the courts, and whether the definition of "unlawful enemy combatant" must be interpreted to conform to "the laws of war."

Go ahead, read a little of the motions linked above. These pieces of garbage blow up the Twin Towers, take out planes, make me take my shoes off, and kill our boys and girls in Iraq and Afghanistan then expect to riding our legal system for years? They should have it so good in Bumfoq, Third-Sand-dune-on-the-right, or wherever they’re from.

Thanks, Bubba. First you put me in a position to have my 7-year-old daughter ask all bright eyed and innocently, “Daddy, what’s a blow job?” (Bubba, I still think you are a complete asshole for just that situation), and now you have enemy combatants using our courts. You, Clinton, were and continue to be a loser.

Time to be a-scared

Nobody believed me. They laughed in my face as I showed them document after document proving I was right. I’ve written about clowns plenty – at least 25 different pieces. I even put my life on the line with the mere mention of the clown mafia.

Now, maybe you’ll believe me. A bunch of clowns coming in from Mexico with 500 pounds of cocaine. Nose candy. Columbian Dancing Dust. Bing. Yeyo. Booger Sugar. Five hundred pounds – that’s like eight tonnes metric or something.

Clowns. Dirty rotten drug trafficking clowns. Maybe now you will believe me.

Think I exaggerate the danger? “John” wrote about clown-on-clown violence in 2001. And then disappeared.

I can’t post this photo on my server space at Photobucket. They’ve been good to me, and I don’t want to endanger them. This is a world exclusive and may mean my untimely death. I can now reveal the leader of the clown mafia.

May God protect us all.

Advice to my daughter, follow-up

I gave some advice to my daughter a while back. My, how times flies …

Man with comb-over, white turtleneck under a faux camel hair jacket, white patent leather shoes, approaches my daughter at a bar: Hey you, care to celebrate a special occasion with me?

Jourdaine, now 23 years old (eight years has passed since I wrote the advice column to her a couple of months ago), sitting alone at the bar because her friends are late – she senses immediately that this guy can be easily hooked and dragged through the water: Hey yourself, cowpoke. I mean that as an action verb. What’s the special occasion?

Man: Um, ok. I get it! A verb! Um, ok, ha! Oh yeah, the special occasion is meeting you!

Jourd: Ah, meeting me! What a great line! Does this mean you’re buying me a drink?

Man: Sure, little lady, what’ll you have? A red wine? A Jolly Rancher?

Jourd: Yo, barkeep! Double potato vodka, chilled and neat. This guy’s tab.

Barkeep (whispering as he leans in close to Jourd): Be gentle, ma’am, you’re up against an unarmed man.

Jourd (winking and downing her vodka in one gulp): One more, bud. If any blood is drawn, he’ll be begging for it first, k? Put this second round on his tab. (turning to comb-over) Right?

Man: Um, yes, yes!

Jourd: Thanks! So, come here often?

Man: Yes. Yes, I do. Say, where’s your favorite romantic restaurant?

Jourd: That depends on what I am romancing … (she makes an obvious glance at comb-over’s left hand. At first he recoils, forgetting that he removed his wedding ring in the parking lot. As he remembers, the fingers stretch over his bony knee.)

Man, with beads of sweat forming above his upper lip, he raises his bottom lip in guppy-like fashion and audibly sucks the sweat into his mouth: Well, what if you were romancing, say, me! Where would that restaurant be?

Jourd, thinking that this guy is about as pathetic as they come: You? Well, that would have to be some place lonely and out of the ordinary, just like you.

Man, not grasping the verbal backhand: Yes, like me, lonely and out of the ordinary. (He leans forward to invade Jourd’s personal space, a move he read about in “How to Snare any Woman in Five Minutes.”)

Jourd, always in control of losers: Back up a little, pal. That’ll cost you. Barkeep! (Jourd shakes her empty jigger, looking for a refill. The barkeep smiles, and takes another $5 from in front of comb-over.)

Man, moving quickly back into his own space, and glancing over my f’g daughter’s body you piece of trash keep your eyes to yourself: You want to celebrate a special … oh, sorry, I already asked that.

Jourd: You did, yes. What else you got? I think you need to put another $20 on the bar. Barkeep, keep ‘em coming!

Man: Um, you live around here?

Jourd: No.

Man: Um, you work close by?

Jourd: No.

Man: What do you do for a living?

Jourd: I don’t.

Man: You don’t?

Jourd: I don’t.

Man: Um, what’s your favorite hobby?

Jourd: Hanging out in bars and having fucktards like you buy me drinks for hours.

Man: Ha, ha, ha! You sure have a great sense of humor! I’d like to buy you dinner sometime. Would that be ok?

Jourd: Sure.

Man: Really?

Jourd: No, just messing with you.

Man: There you go again! You are so funny! It’s a gift. Really it is!

Jourd: Barkeep!

Man, looking a tad dazed at this point, like Joe Frazier did in the later rounds of the Thriller in Manila after Ali hit him in the head for the 243rd time: Gee, um, …

Jourd: OK, pal, listen. You want to have dinner with me? First, the comb-over. Gotta go. Shave your head. Trust me. It’ll look great. The clothes have got to change. I want jeans, tight. A white t-shirt and a demin jacket. New, clean converse sneakers. Black high tops. White socks. Got it? I’ll wait here. You got one hour. Leave another $20 for the bar.

Man, breathlessly putting several $20 bills on the bar: One hour. Wait right here!

Jourd: You got it, cowpoke!

Man: A verb! (He yells as he rushes out of the bar.)

Jourd, dialing her late friends on her cell: Hey! You clowns! I’ve been sitting here fending off some greaseball waiting for you! … Yeah, whatever, no excuse is good enough … listen, can you pick up Timothy on the way? Tell him I have a boytoy for him. … Yeah, a newbie.

(One hour later, our formerly combed-over pick-up artist arrives all decked out looking like a groupie for that band that sang Y-M-C-A. Timothy is immediately interested.)

(Yeah, OK, we don’t need a line-by-line recitation of what happened. Formerly comb-over thinks that Jourd invited another couple to double date. After a couple of hours of drinking on formerly comb-over’s tab, Jourd and her girlfriend leave Timothy and his new boyfriend at the bar. Six months later, formerly comb-over has left his wife and moved to a gay commune on Fire Island. He writes Jourd occasionally.)

Making music with frying pans

My latest fun page is Project Gutenberg. Everything is free. But it has led me to an even more enjoyable set of pages.

I drive about two hours each way to work. It feels like when my father told me he had to walk five miles everyday to school, and that it was uphill coming and going. There is only so much music to which I can listen. So now I have joined the geekish world of audio books.

I thought I had to wear sweater vests or have “Radio Shack Sales Associate” on my resume to listen. Besides the highly unorthodox bit torrent sources for current books, through Gutenberg I have found a few sources that do not have me wondering whether the DOJ will be doing a house invasion to execute a search warrant to inspect my CD collection. These books are all public domain.

Audio Books for Free dot com has a collection of just under 800 books that are categorized well. I haven’t downloaded from them yet. The download is free, but they do offer to make the CDs for you for a fee.

LibriVox is a cool site. Lots of books that you can listen to on-line or download. To download, right click on the file and hit “Save target As.” I got the unabridged Tom Sawyer in maybe 30 minutes tops. Files came without a hitch.

I haven’t hit this third place yet – LiteralSystems dot org. I am sure that the three sources overlap in their offerings, and this last site doesn’t have much to offer yet. A lot of the books are for kids. Overall, the design is nice and I am sure that the catalogue will expand over time.

There are a lot of Mark Twain books and essays on the three sites. I wonder if he was as cool as history paints him to be. Either he was real street people, fun and easy to be around, or he was a complete pompous ass. Seems to me that the middle ground is not apropos. Since Karl Marx completely missed the concept of a middle class, the single defining element of developed societies, why do these sites have the Communist Manifesto? The man was a buffoon, a social and political liberal … oh, yeah, got it. Sorry. Now I understand.

I saw Robin Trower last night in Allentown at the Crocodile Rock Cafe. It was amazing. A complete flashback 30 years. Robin is 61 – born the same day as my daughter, March 9, but 46 years earlier. He looks like he needs a blood transfusion to shock his anemia into remission. But can he play! I remember listening to Bridge of Sighs when it first came out (1974). And listening. And listening. I had it all inside my head. Every note. Perhaps a third of his song list was from that album. He has the same lead singer as he did then, too. An elongated leprechaun that seems to want to break into that Irish step dancing thing all the time but knows he can’t because Robin is English and would kick his Irish ass. The bassist was Dave Bronze. I can’t judge quality on a bass, but if he is good enough to play with Robin and Eric Clapton, then I can’t argue. The drum kit was very cool, and the guy whacking them (Pete Thompson) was great.

I was interested to watch myself regress to some of my earliest memories. Age 15 is about as young as I care to reflect upon. I watched my hands move as they did back then. I saw my mind go isoelectric to all but the music. That singularity is rarely achieved in my life. The only other time I achieve that is when I feel completely safe and relaxed. Safety was not at hand last night, but perhaps it was the music that supplanted it. Music from a long time ago.

The venue was good in that it was small; better because we were leaning on the stage. My boy got dizzy at one point, and I walked him towards the side. A staff member came up and was incredibly helpful. The staff were friendly throughout the place. I was impressed. Too bad most of their music is just noise.

One key element was missing last night, one that would have made the night complete. But more on that another time.

When murdering your spouse or live-in significant other, it is always important to be aware of how the cops will view your actions. Statistics are always good to know. Here is a good article on methods used in domestic homicides.

Blunt objects are used only about 2% of the time. To me, that suggests an opportunity to view a death as non-wrongful if the modus operandi is fatal whacking with such an object. The first issue is to create an environment within which a blunt object, such as the frying pan discussed in the article, could be airborne with the appropriate direction and velocity. (The former subsumes victim location is a given.) The point of impact, presumably, would need to be the head. An alibi, in this instance a location different than the point of origination of fatal launching, is also needed. This requirement suggests either a remote launching or a static design waiting to be tripped.

So how could one launch a frying pan in such a fashion? I like suspended pan racks. The fatal movement would then be downward, able to add the 16 feet per second force added by gravity. The rack could also be located behind the stovetop, thus adding the critical piece of victim location. The two issues of remote launching and alibi could be aided by a cheap computer camera viewed over the internet from a public library.

I could go into more details, but I think you should work it yourself. I do not want you to be angry with me when you get 20 years to life for screwing it up.

Old teeth are weird. Took them right out of his mouth, or what was left of it after 200 years.

I’ve been reading this blog lately. I think she’s pretty funny.

I was going to write more, but just realized what time it is. I gotta go to bed. Up at 430AM. Night.

Don't bogart that joint, my friend

Pothead One: Yo, dude, check this out!

Pothead Two: Oh, too many words. What’s it saying, dude? Hey, don’t bogart that doobie, man.

One: It says something like pot makes you smarter.

Two: Yeah, well, we knew that, bro. Hey, you got your bong here, man? I want to flame this roach big time.

One: Yeah, it’s in the closet, under the mail.

Two: You keep your mail in the closet? I’m hungry. Your mom make anything good lately?

One: Yeah, the mail guy brings all this stuff that says I have to respond within five days and stuff. I’m seeing what happens if I don’t. It’s like a sociological experiment.

Two: You’re smart, man. You must smoke a lot of weed.

One: Yeah. There’s some food in there, too. I think some pudding. So this article says THC helps the brain not go Reagan on you. That’s pretty cool. Does hash have THC? I thought so. Let’s burn some.

Two: Oh, this pudding is so good. Thanks. What’s that smell in there, gonzo?

One: Oh, that’s that college kid across the street. Some chick sends him letters doused in perfume. So I steal them out of his box and put them in there. It’s like an air refreshener.

Two: Wow, you do smoke a lot of weed. You’re like that guy in the wheelchair that talks funny. You got everything figured out like Black Holes and stuff. I feel smart being around you.

One: Yeah. Did you know that Black Holes aren’t really black and that they ain’t even holes?

Two: Awesome! Hey, want happens if we stash our weed in one of them? Can we go get it?

One: Well, the problem is finding the hole to begin with, dude. Then, like, when you find it, you need to get there. They’re usually really far away, like the other side of Aurora, Ohio.

Two: Dude, you know everything!

One: Yeah. Hey, remember those commercials that said, “Weed Kills”? I guess maybe they should re-do them, eh? “Weed. The Smart Food.”

Two: So, like, weed brownies are like vitamins, ain’a? Maybe they can like change the school lunch program. “Here’s your pizza burger, your vanilla pudding, your bread stick, and your joint!”

One: See? You’re getting smart, too!

Two: Wow. I always thought I was stupid.

One: So did I.

Two: Yeah. Like that time I swallowed marbles and jumped up and down thinking I was gonna sound like a spray-paint can.

One: Yeah, that was like real bonehead.

Two: Yeah. Man, they hurt popping out the other end. But it was so funny! Remember when that one come out when I farted? You held the lighter to my butt and the flame went for like a foot and out of came this marble like out of a cannon? That was so cool! I am like so into it that we got that on tape. You see how many hits it got on You Tube? My butt is like a celebrity.

One: That was so funny! Here, de-seed this bud, man, and roll us another vitamin stick.

Two: You got it, Einstein.

Union members like to touch themselves

Oh, god love ‘em! Those Iranians dufuses (dufi?) are so funny. They got this putative leader that they refer to as the “supreme leader.” I think he’s the top priest or what Mohammad (PBUH) people call their guys in hats. (I don’t know how to spell that. You say, “Mohammad,” I say, “Mohamed,” let’s call the whole thing off!)

Well, praise be to Mo (PBUH), the Supreme Leader’s got a website! Look at the right side, “Newly Asked Questions.” I think W might consider something like this. Let’s look inside!

I can’t link to individual questions, so I’ll repeat as much language as necessary.

Under Marriage & Divorce:

“A Wife’s right to Sexual Intercourse with Her Husband. Q: I got married 10 days ago. I do everything to make my husband happy and he loves me but he neglects to have sex with me for a long time, say two years or even more. For this reason I have not any baby and people blame me for this but I cannot tell them the truth. My husband refuses to seek a medical advice for this problem. Is he allowed to do so, i.e. not to have sexual relationship with me? Knowing that I fulfill all my domestic responsibilities and even appear beautiful in front of him and encourage him but it comes to nothing. Please, what can I do? A: It is the wife’s right to have sexual intercourse with her husband at least once every four months. Thus, if the husband refuses to provide her with this right, she is allowed to file a complaint in a shar‘ī court of law to bind the husband to provide his wife’s right.

It’s those funny Iranian math calcs again (see Japan deal post a couple three days ago)! Got married “10 days ago” but the dude won’t bang me for like, “two years.” I just don’t understand new math. Anyway, here’s your first clue, lady – you’ve had no sex for two years and you married him anyway just ten goes ago? Can you spell g-a-y?

So, the guy’s got a “medical problem.” Maybe the next question should be whether the Grand Pu-bah will allow the little blue pill (if erections last longer than four hours, seek medical advice immediately as this may be indicative of a serious medical condition. As an immediate precaution, wrap that rascal in duct tape in case it goes off like a Roman Candle.)

I find the answer just amazing. Dear Frustrated, you’ve got a right to do the doggy thang no less than three times a year. If’n that boy won’t oblige, then WE’LL make him. No worries. You file a complaint in court and he’ll be spanking bo-bo in preparation for you in no time.

But you know how long it takes to resolve a court case? This girl needs a ride now! Let’s see if another question may help us …

OK. It’s under “Fasting” and seems to apply to guys, but maybe it’ll work for her.

To Masturbate While Fasting. Q: If somebody masturbates during the month of Ramadan but without any discharge, is his fasting invalidated? A: if he do not intend masturbation and discharging semen and nothing is discharged, his fasting is correct even though he has done a ḥarām act. But, if he intends masturbation or he knows that he usually discharges semen by this process and semen really comes out, it is a ḥarām intentional breaking fasting.

It seems, from a plain reading of the text, that yanking on bo-bo is not a problem as long as you don’t chuck the yogurt during Ramadan. So, I feel confident in telling our girl to ride the wave. It won’t give her a kid, but should make the wait a little more tolerable.

OK, whew! I feel better. Let’s see what else the guy in the moosehead hat has to share.

Under Purity Versus Najasah, is a question about crushing the body of a dead cat with care tires. Something about water or no water. Seems it’s important that the cat was already dead as opposed to wasting fluffy on an I’m-gonna-catch-that-rat-street-crossing adventure. These people are weird. You people think I’m gonna worry about roadkill? Unless you religion surfaced post-Henry Ford, I doubt there is any discussion in your book concerning vulcanized rubber and cat remnants.

Alright, I’m bored with these clowns.

Speaking of clowns, the junkyard-dog dems are back at it. No links; won’t dignify the comments. Three-thumbs Dean says this Foley-page thing is a “firestorm.” Nancy “somebody-wipe-my-butt-I-can’t-reach-it” Pelosi says the pubs are “imploding.” It is amazing that these people get their talking points and repeat them as regular as Pavlov’s dogs drooled. Isn’t it embarrassing to be so predictable? Mommy, when I grow up I want to be a puppet! OK, one link to clarify what the hell I am talking about in the event you could not care less.

Speaking of puppets, I’m kinda bored, so I googled “unions suck” and read a little. Funny. Then I remember a big construction project across the road from a place I used to teach. The project was 70-some restaurants and shops. The project didn’t hire some union, so the idiots erected – day after day – some blow up group of rats with the label “Rat City.” It was the same bunch of losers standing in front for months. Pathetic socialists not men enough to join organized crime.

See these? I wrote the descriptions. Quick impressions became words. The art is my best buddy’s work. You should buy one. I’ll get her to autograph a baseball for you, and will include it for free.

Here is the permanent repository for SCOTUS argument transcripts. You can get all of their opinions through a button on top of the page.

Abbey Road Studios – Studio 2 is available for booking. It’s the one The Beatles always used. Those pics you see can be viewed larger; just click on them. You can also view the equipment and microphones. They have a Summit Dual Compressor/Limiter DCL-200 Dynamic Processor, whatever the hell that is. I don’t understand any of it, but the lists look impressive. I’d rent the place just to have a picnic lunch on the floor and tape some primal-scream stuff. Number 9, number 9, number 9.

Something free. Fill out this survey before the end of January 2007, and receive a free Glenfiddich hip flash. Kinda cool.

See ya …………

The ventilator is running

UPDATE on 864-223-1911.

In college, I stepped onto the car port roof and promptly sliced my foot on a piece of glass. It was my left foot, inside, just short of my heel. A beautiful, deep gash from which blood spurted. It didn’t ooze or run. It spurted. I sat down and patiently stopped the blood loss over an untracked length of time. I forgot to think about pain.

It was about two weeks before I walked with unthinking pressure on that foot again. I walked without shoes or socks back onto the car port. Step. Slice. Spurt.

I didn’t simply reopen the old wound. How do I know? Although it seemed to be the exact same place and blood splatter, I removed the new piece of glass from the wound. Damn. This time I remembered to feel pain.

One of my roommates gave to me a small jar of orange salve. He said his grandmother gathered roots and flowers, and made the salve herself. He was from Caribou, Maine – so far north I suspect the caribou migrate south for the winter.

I applied the salve and it seemed to advance the healing rapidly. I used the salve for many years and hardly dented the amount in the jar. I had it until several years ago when someone threw it away without my knowledge or permission. I’m still a little cranky about losing it.

I started thinking about that salve because of what must be a change in FCC regs or broader statutory requirements. Whenever a drug commercial comes on, the not-a-real-sick-person-taking-our-drug-but-a-crack-abusing-actor-being-paid-to-say-what-we-write tells us how much better their stomach acid is because of taking the whatever-color-you-want pill. But, they helpfully add and downplay it through dismissive body language, “my doctor tells me that certain side effects may occur including explosive diarrhea, severe dehydration, cardiac arrhythmias, and, in documented but rare cases, spontaneous combustion. I should also tell my doctor what other medications I am taking and whether or not I vote regularly.”

I think I would rather the stomach acid. I’ll just avoid the moo-shoo pork.

Office Depot has a hard drive with a rebate. No need to link. Don’t feel like it. The drive is 100GB retailing for $80; the rebate is $60. To qualify you have to purchase the drive between October 1 and 7 inclusive. Today is October 3. Early in the rebate period, eh? So I add it to my shopping cart. Insufficient stock. One. Too many. Do I want to back order? Dunno – you gonna give me the rebate? I call 800/go-depot. “Good question. I will direct you to the rebate center at 866---.” I call. I’m an amiable dunce like that. Easily led. 1 for English. 2 for question on a rebate. 2 to speak with someone. “Because of exceptionally high call volume, you may have to wait up to five minutes to speak with a customer service representative.” OK. The nose ring is firmly in place. I’ll wai--- “We’re call, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again.” I go back to 800/go-depot. “Yes, you are right. Back orders are typically received in 5 to 7 business days after placing your order. We cannot guaranty that you will receive this product in time to qualify for the rebate.”

In the 3d day of a 7 day rebate, they are bailing on the customer. Office Depot sucks.

OK. Last bitch, I promise. About a week ago I got a call. On my caller id it reads, “G & S Moore. 864-223-1911.” I don’t know them, but I don’t mind telling people they misdialed. I answered. Now, I am not just unlisted but private. I am on the do-not-call lists for Pennsylvania, federal, and inter-galactic. I detest unsolicited sales calls on par with crotch itch.

Yep, you guessed it. Sales call. Verizon Wireless. “I would like to tell you about …” No. Not interested. Pal, it’s 8 o’clock in the morning. On a Saturday. “But won’t you just listen to …” No. You are about to violate federal law (I had no idea). “OK. Thank you very much.”

But where did I go wrong? G&S Moore to Verizon Wireless? I reverse lookup the number. Gary and Scarlett Moore, 115 Carriage Ct., Greenwood, SC 29646. Odd. Seems like a private listing. Verizon is masking their origin to get through solicitation blocks? Seems unethical.

So last night the phone rings twice then stops. G&S Moore. Wow. I call back immediately. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.” Wow.

There ought to be a law against such blatant manipulation of the phone system.

Enough. Bye

Advice for the Weary from the Helpful One

Dear Helpful One:

I haven’t written for advice to anyone before, so this is all new to me. Forgive me if I ramble. When I read your response to Wicked in Kansas, I just knew I had to write to you. (Readers, our writer is referring to this, “Dear Wicked, strenuous filing and an acid bath just can’t guaranty the complete removal of a serial number from a gun. You need to buy a clean weapon that can’t be traced to you. The difference is a bucket load of insurance money versus a pant load of bodily fluids from a sexually confused and dangerous cellmate. Spend the money and get the clean gun. Happy shooting! Aim true and smile when you pull the trigger, Helpful One”),

I have been living with this lard ass for 23 years. He wakes up and stumbles around the house like a blind three-toed sloth. His coffee has to be room temperature or he reacts like a deranged child with a finger slammed in a door. Although he works in a true sweat shop as the maintenance guy, he bathes only twice a month – the day before payday. That way he can look “appropriate if’n the bossman needs to discuss a wage adjustment wit me.”

The raise never comes and he drowns his pathetic status in the cheapest beer known to human history. Thereafter, his bowel movements increase in both frequency and stench. I usually visit with my sister Gloria for a few days. I can tell the coast is clear when the flies are airborne again.

One day, I finally got fed up with his sexual urges. When he did his slovenly excuse for foreplay and then crawled on top, I slipped him into a wet sock instead of me. It worked. He’s been banging Spalding sweat socks for eight years now.

If he were just an unfortunate slob with an insensitive penis, Helpful One, I wouldn’t be writing for your advice. But now he is an unfortunate slob with an insensitive penis AND a large life insurance policy. You see, I play the scratch-offs and actually won $7,000. I debated what to do with it, and then realized that I could parlay the money upward. I bought a $2,000,000 life insurance policy almost ten months ago. I got 60 days left to kill him.

I tried messing with his car. I cut his brakes lines but some dufus tow truck just so happened to be there and helped him safely pull over to the side. I but a bomb under it but connected it to the wrong wire, so it just sat there attached for a week. I had even taken my best colored-sand-filled coke bottles off the window ledge so they wouldn’t get damaged in the explosion. But wouldn’t you know it, the damn thing just fell off and was run over by a beer truck. My gum-head husband sees it in his rearview mirror and goes back – not to help, but to fill his trunk with beer. Poison just caused rancid farts. Loose stairs just twisted my ankle and almost killed me!

I can’t do this anymore, Helpful One. Time is running short. I am starting to bathe 20 times a day like I did in the bad days. I talk to the dishes when I wash them and they tell me what it felt like to hold his food. I’ve let the dirty socks build up and I hold back vomit whenever I picture them under the bed. HELP!!! Signed, 60 days and counting.

Dear 60,

On my, you are in quite a pickle! You’ve come to the right place, though, so relax. Take a couple of deep breathes (make sure you go outside first!) and let calm enter your body.

OK. Let’s assess the situation. His body seems to be rotten to the core. He absorbs and processes poison. That is probably from the years of drinking rock-gut beer, which destroyed him from the inside out, and not bathing, which allowed heavy metals pushed out through sweat to be reabsorbed by the body. In a medical sense, your pudding head is probably closer to a Superfund-listed toxic waste site than a human. He has probably been this way for years – that would explain why the wet sock trick works. (BTW, we had our intern, Brad, go humpity-hump with one of the general manager’s socks. No sparks. Unless you count the GM’s wife that walked in and was very curious as to what her husband’s custom embroidered sock was doing wet and wrapped around Brad’s ying-yang.) Pudding Head is also exceptionally lucky (tow truck, car bomb).

There seems to be nothing left but the unconventional. I’ve got two options for you.

First, one that’s been used by a lot of readers over the year (and you may be familiar with this) is the razor-blade coated concrete bucket. Refer to earlier columns for the construction tips and tricks. I suggest you go down to his place of employment and try to find a likely crime scene. Maintenance guys usually have small, cramped offices. All you need is four lineal feet for gravity to do its thing and wonk! right to the back of the head and you’ve got $2,000,000!

The second approach is a bit more unconventional. Think of physics for a moment. You know the whole matter-antimatter argument? They meet and poof! there goes the universe? Then they find out that anti-this and anti-that are colliding with this and that all over the place and the universe is still here. So – follow me, 60 – it turns out that the only thing going poof! is on an atomic level. Now, I suggest that Pudding Head is like one big walking anti-health-proton-neuron thingey just looking for its counterpart in the universe.

Break out the wok and stir fry some veges with a little organic tamari. Add in some line-caught wild salmon and a handful of tofu cubes. A little glass of red wine on the side. Get him to eat seconds. Blow him if you have to, girl, just keep him eating (think of it as a $2,000,000 green lollipop)! Then take him for a leisurely walk full of fresh air. I guaranty, my dear 60, that the walk will end soon enough in a cataclysmic event. Bring your rain slicker! You don’t want Pudding Head all over you!

Now get shopping, and remember our motto: You ain’t got nuttin’, copper!

Helpful One

Sweaty rarebit haunts clueless students

I am watching the Yankees Batting Practice Show. They are interviewing Brian Cashman, General Manager. Either the audio and visual are slightly off or I am having a stroke. Oh well. I love baseball. Would be funny to die on the last day of this season – typical cruelty of life depriving me of a post-season in which we have the home-field advantage throughout.

Thinking of things with big egos, albeit in the following instance without the testicular gravitas to warrant it, that Venezuelan sweat gland claims that he defeated an assassination attempt. Seems some squirrel hunter was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Poor guy was just hungry and out varmint hunting. And now he is a “sniper with a long-range gun and a motorcycle to escape on” who “had planned to shoot him as he exited a helicopter on a recent trip to western Venezuela.” Poor bastard. With little Juan and Julio left at home wondering when papa will bring home the stringy meat from which they will add a turnip and slice of onion for a thin stew one tablespoon of which they will gently pour onto their mama’s grave, our hunter will now face days of torture to extract a Spanish Inquisition confession followed within hours by a public execution.

I like the concept of carnivals on the internet - all sorts of special interest stuff. I used to follow the Carnival of Recipes frequently. Need a recipe? OK.

I’ve only had Welsh Rarebit a couple of times in my life. It’s a closet favorite of mine.

2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup porter beer
3/4 cup heavy cream
6 ounces (approximately 1 1/2 cups) shredded Cheddar
2 drops hot sauce
4 slices toasted rye bread

In a medium saucepan over low heat, melt the butter and whisk in the flour. Cook, whisking constantly for 2 to 3 minutes, being careful not to brown the flour. Whisk in mustard, Worcestershire sauce, salt, and pepper until smooth. Add beer and whisk to combine. Pour in cream and whisk until well combined and smooth. Gradually add cheese, stirring constantly, until cheese melts and sauce is smooth; this will take 4 to 5 minutes. Add hot sauce. Pour over toast and serve immediately.

Speaking of things hidden, this commercial for insurance is playing dozens of times. Some young couple with a baby got screwed on their premium. It is quite telling. The young wife, off camera, shrieks “WHAT?!?” into the phone when told the real price. Real witch. Then she is all peaches and cream on camera, holding her baby while dufus husband stammers his way through breathing without forgetting to blink. She tells us how hard it is to make ends meet with a new baby. We are supposed to feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for him. You got to know he’s dodged many a flying object in his brief marriage. It’s only going to get worse, pal. Sorry. It’ll be easier if you learn to stitch closed your own wounds. You avoid the insurance deductible, the wasted time in ER, and the lies you have to tell hospital staff. Here is your primer on stitching yourself. Just shut-up and read it. It’s not as bad as it seems.

Intelligent humor is about done, or maybe the internet is just a pathetic resource. I wind up on this page and read, “Q: Why do ducks have webbed feet? A: To stamp out forest fires!” I don’t get it. I picture roast duck, probably overdone, and a real bitch to serve with the feathers still intact.

Here is a couple of good facts: Homicides, suspicious deaths, and deaths of hit-and-run victims, prison inmates, and public transportation drivers require autopsies; in contact wounds, both the bullet and propellant gases enter the body, producing a star-shaped wound as the skin is split.

Here’s a car with a bit of a concept problem.

I think these guys are so funny. Soul Trackers is a bunch of liberal Subaru owners that watch too much Scooby Doo. They investigate some house in Chester County, PA, and find … a bird.

Listen, guys, I understand the whole life-after-death fascination. Someone is killed in a horrible fashion and they hang out all angry and stuff. Warm bodies (as they like to call us) move in, and, in acts of unmitigated fury, the soul trapped in this grisly murder scene flips the light switch a couple of times a month. Chilling. But all of this is premised on a human brain – the most developed organ on the planet (save John Holmes’ club). But a bird brain? Tweety the Parakeet has the residual wrath to haunt a Philly suburb? Is the after-life filled with animals? Am I going to be tormented by the roadkill I have flatten over the years? Fish, how about fish? I’ve not only killed a lot of fish over the years – but have eaten them, too. Is this going to – literally – come back to haunt me?

Thanks to Soul Trackers, I have a whole new reason to be neurotic. Thanks, guys.

Speaking of happy stuff that means nothing in the long run, here’s some plans for free dog agility equipment. But first you need to find a dog you can make agile. If your dog ain’t a border collie, all you got is a dog.

Pennsylvania is finally getting its informational act together on court dockets. You can look up cases civil and criminal. I remember walking down the hall and a couple of non-CJ students asked me how to look up Philly’s Most Wanted. I helped them a bit, and then one of them asked me to search for his name. I raised an eyebrow and pulled him aside. Turns out he missed a court hearing and was wondering if a bench warrant had been issued. I searched the dockets. “No warrant entered into this system. It may be elsewhere, though. But, really, you thought a bench warrant would rank you ‘most wanted’? You’re too funny.”

Gotta go. Bye.