One with the Road

The phone rang. It startled me because I was profoundly drunk and just as sure that it had been disconnected months ago for non-payment. I stared at it half-hoping the ringing was just the recurrence of a war injury to my left ear. A dame reached out and touched me. Twice. She liked to play rough. The first time I hit her back. The second time I cried. It really, really hurt. Every once in a while I would hear that ring, more over the last few months than ever. Maybe she was thinking about me. Or maybe the phone had never been disconnected. Damn. I wonder how many jobs I missed. My name is Clyde. I’m a private detective, a private eye, a dick. I run Fryde Clyde Investigations.

The call came in at 1352 on July 21. Hit-and-run at the corner of Third and Washington. Or Assunta and Washington. I don’t remember. Couldn’t read my notes. So I went to both. I stopped on the way and picked up Photo JoeNat. I was going to need pictures and he was the best. I also needed a driver. My 14’ wide driveway seemed to vary in width from a goat path to an eight-lane highway as my mind swam in and out of focus. I sat on my stairs for 30 minutes waiting for traffic to clear only to realize I had been staring at my car. It didn’t matter if Photo Joe was just 11 years old. His feet could reach the pedals. I think. After tossing him the keys, I tossed my cookies and we were on our way.

The crime scene came into view. We were lucky. Some lady and her kid were standing there. Maybe she could drive me home. Gotta love Photo Joe, but he sucked at driving. I told him to take pictures as I threw up clutching the front tire. The warm rubber felt comforting against my gums. See that spot in the road? That was our H&R victim. Gruesome. I was suddenly very glad my stomach was empty. It was going to be a tough job. I made a mental note to increase my fee and promptly forgot what I was thinking about.

I walked up to the victim to assess the damage. Maybe get a feel for the basics –tire marks, degree of flatness, placement of displaced body parts, spew. I would later combine these observations into a Fryde Clyde Splatometer© and calculate direction and speed, and perhaps infer intent and last thoughts.

The victim was thought to be one Rabbit, Peter J. Reported missing several days ago under suspicious circumstances. I approach these matters assuming wrongful death. My inclinations were rewarded at first glance: no cottontail. The puff was sure to show up at Rabbit’s home wrapped in newspaper. A clear sign of a professional hit: Peter sleeps with the sheep. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight as I pictured the murderers cutting off the tail. It didn’t matter if Peter J. was alive or dead at the time. Either act was horrifying. Thinking about cutting off rabbit tails always made me puke. I was on my knees in an instant. The warmth of the pavement against my face was soothing. Time to crawl to my feet and focus.

Photo Joe showed me his work so far. We were sitting in the car with the air conditioning on. Although it was only 70 degrees outside, it was the only way I could sit up and even conceive of focusing. Photo Joe fired up his pics on the laptop. The first image will forever be printed on the inside of my eyelids. There were two hits. A rear hit that caused a forward spew, followed by a front side hit that ensured the head was flat. Notice the dashed line of spew at the bottom of the pic – a clear sign that something round had driven through the wet spew. Each complete cycle of dry and wet added up to the circumference of the wheel. Small. Maybe clowns and tricycles involved. Somehow, Peter J. Rabbit may have run afoul of the Clown Mafia. Few lived to repeat such a mistake.

Equally obvious was that the vehicle was traveling on the wrong side of the road for the initial hit. “Remember that picture of the lady and kid with the victim?” Photo Joe asked me. “From that angle, you were looking right up Peter’s butt.” I tried to digest this information; bile rose in my throat.

I asked Photo Joe if he had any pics on the degree of flatness. “Oh yeah,” he said with a broad grin. He dialed up flatness personified, butt first.



“What do you think,” I asked, “half an inch?”


“Tops out at 3/8’s” Photo Joe said, “except the ear. Maybe he was listening to something?”

“Ear?”

“Yeah, check this out.” He flipped through his pics and zoomed in. “Looks like he was catching a few words. Would’ve been better for him if he listened less and hopped more, eh?”

Photo Joe was always a wise guy at murder scenes. I turned to the window and projectile vomited. I forgot the window was up. It splashed back in my face. “Hopped more, yes,” I said through vomit bubbles.

I needed to use my flip-flops and canvas the area for witnesses. But first I needed a nap. I gave Photo Joe a few quarters and told him to find a candy store. I crawled into the back seat, assumed the fetal position, and rocked myself into unconsciousness.

I woke up after only 15 minutes. I had a cold sweat covering me and my hands were shaking. A quick mirror check confirmed my pasty-white complexion. I figured a good cry would help, so I started blubbering and wailing loudly. Hassidic sounds were coming from me. People walked by but didn’t bother me. Supposed prayer and strangers is like an apple and a doctor.

I looked across the street from the crime scene. A row of houses with backyards and lots of windows. Witness central. I crossed the street and started knocking on doors.

The first stop went well. They thought I was homeless and gave me a nice meal. They were of no use to the case however. The second house, the brown one, had an amazing arsenal that the owner offered to demonstrate to me if I didn’t leave his porch by the count of five. My head already hurt and listening to guns did not sound appealing. With the door slamming, I heard Mr. Gun-nut murmur, “it’s the shot you don’t hear that you have to worry about.” I was compelled to stop after the third stop. Dog. Just an amazing animal. I thought it was a water buffalo at first, which explains my initial lack of a response as it charged at me.

The investigation was getting nowhere. I decided to return to the scene of the crime and look in the other direction. It sounded like a plan. And if anyone asked, I’d tell them that I was proud to be a part of it. Come to think of it, I must’ve beaten the press to the scene. I had better get all my pics in and start thinking about a statement.

I ran back to the scene ahead of the African bison. Photo Joe was sitting on the curb eating candy.

“I’m expecting the press to be here any minute. Let’s get our pics done. How many you take so far?”

“258.”

“OK. That sounds like enough. Did you get …” and I pointed down the road.

“Yep.”

“Did you get …” and I pointed in and around and through everything in site.

“Yep.” “Yep.” “Yep.” “Yep.” Constantly, “Yep.”

Then I pointed at the sky.

“Uh, no. I didn’t take a picture of the sky.”

“Well, get on it. You’ll never have a chance to photo-document something after you leave the scene.” Geez. These photo jockeys think they know everything. There’s still a trick or two us grey-hairs can teach.

I continued my investigation as Photo Joe took pictures of passing clouds. I thought wishfully, “if only I had a plane and clouds could talk …” I made a mental note to price airplane rides.

The view directly opposite the former-Peter-J.-now-spot-on-the-road was a hedge.

In fact, the hedge ran for quite a distance. No possibility of casual observers. The killers chose well. Perhaps the neighbors across the street are in on it? Maybe that is why they were so nasty? They are hiding something. All except the first family, the ones that fed me. Maybe the food was poisoned? I should throw up just to be sure. That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just look a little to my left and see the road kil--, the road k--, the ro--, oh my god, I’m gonna yammy!

I regained my composure and looked closely at the hedges. See that dark opening on the right? I think it leads some where. A-ha! Now we are getting somewhere! A yard lies behind the hedge. I called over Photo Joe. “Yep,” he said without me asking. I had to think fast. “Yep? Well, I would hope so! Even a green horn would know to shoot that. I just wanted to explain the significance to you. We are re-creating the victim’s last moments. It is entirely probable that the victim was eating grass from this field. Just like this.” I demonstrated the manner in which genus sylvilagus: floridanus consumed its food. Photo Joe’s eyes widened as he observed the intensity with which I approached the case.

I continued. “Then, with the murderers on the other side of the hedge, the accomplices herded the victim to and through that hole!” I ended the explanation with a flourish.

“OK,” was all that Photo Joe could muster. I think the denseness of the moment silenced him. The grass was beginning to churn in my stomach. I knew if I didn’t heave it, then I could expect an incredibly painful bowel movement as it passed through my colon. I gave Photo Joe some more quarters for candy, and hurled as soon as he was out of site.

The case was starting to come into focus. But I had to be overlooking something. That one crucial piece of evidence that caused everything else to make sense. I returned to the scene proper.

I found that lady and asked her if she had any paper currency on her. I told her I needed it to assist in the investigation. She opened her wallet. I saw a couple of ones, a five, and a twenty. I told her it had to be the twenty. I explained to her that it wasn’t the size of the bill that was important – it was the head that mattered. She seemed skeptical. I noted the reluctance to get involved. Did she have something to hide? She handed me the twenty.

I saw Photo Joe walking back. I told him to drop his candy and grab his camera. I started to explain to him the shot I wanted, but kept constant track of the lady. She was starting to take an interest and I wanted to know why. We took a second shot with the bill, this one of the flatness. I got close to Photo Joe so that we couldn’t be overheard.

“That lady is hanging around a crime scene. You’re a pretty good read of character, PJ. What’s your read on her?”

“Um, she’s nice. I like her. She’s my mom. And the kid with her is my little brother, Joshua.”

I couldn’t help myself. As I digested the words, I immediately burst into explosive flatulence. I had been squatting; the force of the rear-end discharge propelled me forward and I landed on my head. My left ear stated to ring.

I righted my position. Instead of talking, I just nodded. So, my investigation had been compromised from the start. I should have known. Photo JoeNat just looked at me, wrinkled his nose, and giggled. I decided to press the issue.

“Excuse me, Ma’am! Can you come here for a moment?” My words were interspersed with more farts. She walked slowly towards me. Her accomplice held onto her leg tighter and tighter as they got closer. I knew I was onto something.

“Ever see roadkill like this, Ma’am?”

“No. No, I haven’t. It isn’t very pleasant. Do they always smell this bad?”

“Let's stay focused, Ma'am. It isn't pleasant. Got that right. Think he had any family, Ma’am?” I wanted to get under her skin. Make her crack.

“I never thought of that.” Her voice trailed off.

“Never thought it, when Ma’am? When did you never think of it?” She looked at me like a criminal caught. This dame was easy. “When you ran him over, Ma’am?!? Is THAT when you never thought of it? Your little boy there looks frightened - he got any affiliations with clowns?”

“Are you retarded?” That was all she could say. I had her. Then she looked at Photo Joe. “C’mon, Joseph, we need to go.”

“Um, my mom says I got to go. See you around.”

“OK. Don't forget your candy,” I said as evenly as I could. I stared at the little boy called Joshua. Yep, he had the killer instinct. I could see it in his eyes.

And off they went. Did she confess? I saw it in every fiber of her being. And she left in such a fright that she never collected the $20 bill I had palmed after the last shot. The true sign of a criminal caught. Another case solved.

I took my car to the Salvation Army Thrift Store and used their hose out back to clean it up. I rummaged through the bags of donations that they hadn’t processed yet, found a shirt and pants, even a new pair of flip-flops, and crossed the street to the bar. I had a brand new $20 bill to liquidate.

It was a good day.

Stupid Clowns through History with a side of Applesauce

People like this clown give robbers a bad name. Just down the road from where I work, Thomas Reyes, 6’1”, 23 years old, gun in hand, enters a small neighborhood grocery store. In a well-planned move, he leaps onto a small freezer, points his gun at the proprietor, and makes his robbery intentions known.

Not so well planned, it seems. Behind our assailant stood Thomas Santana, 5’4”, 66 years old. Mr. Santana, assisted by proprietor Mr. Gomez, pulled the idiot robber off the freezer. Mr. Santana then proceeded to beat the lad about the head with a can of Mott’s applesauce. So confused was the young criminal that between applesauce smacks he shot himself in the head.

Wow.

Attempted murder. Attempted robbery. Too bad being abysmally stupid isn’t a legal defense. What a clown …

I do not endorse products for profit. It’s not that I won’t, I just have never been asked to. Neither do I thoroughly research the products or services that I write about. That would be too much work. Doesn’t seem like fun. And speaking of fun – do you have to have fun, boys and girls?!? Then how about a distance-learning clown school! [Applause][Laugh track]

For a low tuition of $175, you can learn about the history of clowns, the clown look, clown skills, comedy material, the business side, and job opportunities! [Horn sound][Horn sound][Bike bell]

And if you laugh too much, for an additional $20, you can have humor therapy! [Some kind of whirling sound]

A distance-learning clown school. Seems like something for people that don’t play well with others. Should we be encouraging these people to be clowns? [Sigh!]

Regardless, if you want to clown around, here’s a page of links to get you started. [Sound of tricycle riding away]

These are some rather remarkable prints. The attempt is to summarize one major issue onto a single graph – the race to the moon, baseball parks, the Confederate Army, and six more. You can select each one and zoom in off the link. I like the two on American political parties. One view of our country’s history presented for the video-game generation. They could draw heavily on the democrat party history if they wanted to do a new chart of the History of Clowns. [Horn sound][Horn sound][Bike bell]

A student asked me about the history of Thanksgiving and I found this site. It is quite interesting on a few levels.

First, it provides seemingly all of the American history to Thanksgiving. It doesn’t suggest any reason why the concept of a day of thanksgiving was thought appropriate in the later 1600’s. Was it a tradition brought from Europe that after a long period of hard work or discord that was now a period of relative calm and repose that such a day should be proclaimed?

But what I found most interesting was this: they pose an inquiry at the start (Why is Thanksgiving Day officially observed on the fourth Thursday of November?) and besides – because Congress said so – they never answer it.

Oh well. Lots of interesting stuff anyway. Why post this now? Time flies. Thanksgiving is right around the corner. And you’ll be busy in clown school! So read up! [Some kind of whirling sound]

This is the most amazing source for tickets I have ever seen. Every event and every possible seat. Every one out of my price range, but that’s beside the point. It is nice to dream of taking my kids to see Eric Clapton and sitting right in the front. They’ll have their days in the sun, and it’ll be so cool to hear about them. I can’t wait.

Pop quiz! No cheating! Are you stupid? It tells me that I am 4% stupid. Here are my reported scores: “94% scored higher (more stupid), 2% scored the same, and 4% scored lower (less stupid). What does this mean? You are 4% stupid.” It is nice to know that I am not a complete idiot. Did you know that whole milk has 3.7% fat? Close enough to 4%. I guess I am whole-milk stupid. Gotta be better than being regular-beer stupid (5%) or table-wine stupid (14%). God forbid, Kahlua stupid (26.5%)!

If you wander the test site above, they have some jokes. Generally OK. Easy to avoid the filthy ones if you want to. Here’s a kinda sorta funny one: This guy walks into a bar on the top of a very tall building. He sits down, orders a huge beer, chugs it, walks over to the window, and jumps out. Five minutes later, the guy walks into the bar again, orders another huge beer, chugs it, walks over to the window, and jumps out again. Five minutes later, he re-appears and repeats the whole thing. About half an hour later, another guy at the bar stops the first guy and says, "hey, how the heck are you doing that?!" The first guy responds, "oh, it's really simple physics. When you chug the beer, it makes you all warm inside and since warm air rises, if you just hold your breath you become lighter than air and float down to the sidewalk." "WOW!" exclaims the second man, "I gotta try that!" So he orders a huge beer, chugs it, goes over to the window, jumps out, and splats on the sidewalk below. The bartender looks over to the first man and says, "Superman, you're an asshole when you're drunk."

Night …

Too tired to give this a title

Le Papier de Rapport is so cute! A few posts down I compared their future to Gloria Swanson descending the stairs for her close-up. As if on cue, they announce layoffs and restructuring. But it is the arrogance with which they stroke their pen that will be their downfall.

Why cute? The decrease is one-third of their production staff – the people that put ink to paper. Bill Keller, the guy running the show, says two things of interest: “That’s a number that I think we can live with quite comfortably,” and “But this is a much less painful way to go about assuring our economic survival than cutting staff or closing foreign bureaus or retrenching our investigative reporting or diluting the Washington bureau.”

OK, son, let’s figure this – for every three guys on the floor today, one of them goes away. “Comfortable”? Only if you don’t work on the floor. But, no cuts in staff, foreign bureaus, reporters, or WDC? How nice! The beautiful people keep their jobs. Late Friday lunches in the Hamptons. “I was speaking with Secretary …” “Hilary was joking about Al Gore’s problem flatulence again …” “Buffy says to convey her love …” “Terribly warm this year, don’t you think? Boy! Oh boy, refill my glass with fresh ice and be sure it is glacial water ice, unlike the last time. So, Timothy, I was looking at the new Lexus today …”

OK, enough picking of the mentally challenged.

I’ve been really stressed over the number of internet searches on “masterbait” and “my dog.” I’m not sure if the grammarian or ethicist within me is more appalled. I don’t yet have resolution, but I have made progress. If you read this article, it is amazing that the writer uses several measures to determine “what makes a good dog,” (sociability, cooperativeness and empathy, confidence, and so on), and then slides right into another section – using the same measures – entitled, “what makes a perfect date.”

It’s a clue. A terrible, insidious, I-feel-dirty one, but a clue nonetheless.

Things are hopping in Eire. Seems a kangaroo left the circus and is wandering the lush, green hills of Ireland. He should have no problem making a living with pub fights.

My favorite site for updates on the latest Israeli war Debka. Seems to have a lot of forward information. I love following Israeli wars – well, maybe that is a bit drastic. I do not like it when a single Israeli is wounded or killed; I detest the pain or loss. But it is so funny listening to the Muslims and their hollow threats. Read “The Haj” by Leon Uris to get an insight into the mentality.

Interesting headline: Victims found after Kirkland fire had been stabbed. How does one go about stabbing a fire, and to what end does one so do?

I am reading an interesting article about the twins that now run Poland. it is interesting not just for the novelty of the situation – president and prime minister are twins – but the vitriol in the article. The two appear to be conservative in many of their values (do not support special rights for homosexual, abortion, gay marriage). Easy enough for the enlightened press to frown upon, I guess.

But what has caught my eye, even though I have seen it for years, if the label “homophobic.” Let’s deconstruct.

“Homo” is the genus that includes modern humans and their close relatives.

The term “phobia,” which comes from the Greek word for fear (φόβος, fobos); is technically used to describe irrational, disabling fear.

So “homophobia” is to be irrationally afraid of humans. I don’t think anyone pinned with that label is afraid of humans. So let’s hit the issue directly – the claim is that homophobic people are irrationally afraid of homosexuals.

Afraid? That is rather humorous. Somewhat manipulative in its word choice. I suggest that folks simply do not approve of the lifestyle. They feel that the Bible is very clear on its condemnation of homosexuality. To equate disapproval with fright would suggest that people are don’t-eat-that-12th-donut-you-are-already-huge-phobic, or don’t-fart-in-front-of-the-queen-phobic, or my-god-what-are-you-doing-to-that-dog-phobic.

The Islamic Republic News Agency has a different view of what constitutes news than we do. Their lead story is entitled “President writes to German chancellor.” OK. I bite. Let’s see that the raving lunatic had to say.

The article in its entirety:

“A letter from President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to the German Chancellor Angela Merkel was handed over to a German Embassy official here on Wednesday.

“A report released by the Foreign Ministry Media Department said that in the absence of the German ambassador to Tehran, the letter was submitted to the German charge d'affaires in his meeting with Foreign Minister Manouchehr Mottaki.”

Methinks it is not a slow news day in Iran – they just are weird.

Take oil and natural gas money away from these fools and they’d be chasing camels for sport and sex.

I’m done.

The Russians are Coming

I posted a few times that the gaping hole in the Mideast would be filled by the Russians. Not much Bible reading will instruct you that the Russians will be at Israel's doorstep. And here they come. Most interesting.

Germany Bakdorz

I was doing some blog reading out of Lebanon – very interesting to read the view from people like us – good facts, little camouflaged opinion. Then I start to read the comments on a posting. This spoof is stuck in there. Rather humorous:

The Official Language for the European Union

The European Commission has just announced an agreement whereby English will be the official language of the European Union rather than German, which was the other possibility.

As part of the negotiations, the British Government conceded that English spelling had some room for improvement and has accepted a 5-year phase-in plan that would become known as "Euro-English."

In the first year, "s" will replace the soft "c." Sertainly, this will make the sivil servants jump with joy.

The hard "c" will be dropped in favour of "k." This should klear up konfusion, and keyboards kan have one less letter.

There will be growing publik enthusiasm in the sekond year when the troublesome "ph" will be replaced with "f." This will make words like fotograf 20% shorter.

In the 3rd year, publik akseptanse of the new spelling kan be expekted to reach the stage where! more komplikated changes are possible.

Governments will enkourage the removal of double letters which have always ben a deterent to akurate speling.

Also, al wil agre that the horibl mes of the silent "e" in the languag is disgrasful and it should go away.

By the 4th yer people wil be reseptiv to steps such as replasing "th" with "z" and "w" with "v."

During ze fifz yer, ze unesesary "o" kan be dropd from vords kontaining "ou" and after ziz fifz yer, ve vil hav a reil sensi bl riten styl.

Zer vil be no mor trubl or difikultis and evrivun vil find it ezi tu understand ech oza. Ze drem of a united urop vil finali kum tru.

Und efter ze fifz yer, ve vil al be speking German like zey vunted in ze forst plas.

If zis mad you smil, pleas pas on to oza pepl.

The court blows a camel wearing a party hat

Old and feeble because of the ravages of Parkinson’s Disease? Now you have the chance to be just old. Maybe I am simple, but I think every problem – disease or otherwise – has a complete, straight-forward answer. It is just a matter of looking in the right place. Most promising of this PD treatment is the statement, "There was a profound behavioral effect of the treatment, even after it 'washed out' of the system," Dr. Eckman notes. "This shows that the treatment affects the underlying pathology." Just like a key in a lock. Very cool.

This is an interesting article. First, check the title – Massachusetts court deals blow to same-sex marriage. Gotta love headline writers. One institution blowing another institution. Sorta raises the ante for safe-sex standards: now we need an employee manual, a standing committee, and a really big condom.

But the “blow” dealt is even more interesting: the court said it is OK to let the people of Massachusetts vote on the matter of allowing same-sex marriage in their commonwealth. The tone of the article is that this development is a bad thing. Go figure.

My friend that speaks with angels sent me this site on the early Beatles. Remarkable pictures, many of which I had not seen before. I have e’d with the guy that maintains the site. Very nice. To see all of the details, you need to select a year and then hit one of the hyperlinks on the left – the descriptive text; then you can hit “next” and view dozens and dozens of pages. Hit “home” after the dates along the top, then “References and Links,” and finally drift to the bottom of the page. See the jpegs for links elsewhere? An entire day drifting through the Internet on the breeze of The Beatles. I even found sources to, um, further my bootleg research.

If I had $150, I would buy this book (look about half way down the page, red cover). Jonathan Winters is one of my heroes. I remember his comedy in the ‘60s as I grew up. In the 1970’s, I met him in New Hampshire. Saw the depth of his persona. Many people in there. He’s been beat up in his time, yet his quick wit protected him (and I hope still does). His view on life: “Nothing is impossible. Some things are just less likely than others.”

This is something else that I need to do. A relative asked me to get my DNA done for our family genealogy tree. Costs about $250. After I get the book, then I’ll work my up to this. With any luck, I’ll be related to Howard Hughes. Maybe I am Warren Buffet’s love child. I could sue the Gates Foundation for a few billion. That would be fun. Maybe I could get Bill Gates’ autograph. We could do lunch whilst his attorneys chewed me up and I laugh at them as I wear my DNA chart on my head folded like a pirate hat.

“What do you want?” the negotiations would begin.
“A pirate ship!”
“A pirate ship?”
“Yes, just like Captain Jack Sparrow. I haven’t seen the new movie yet. Does he have a ship in it?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Cool, I want one just like that.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Um, a tablet PC! You make those?”
“Sorta, yes”
“OK, I want one. No, TWO! I want two.”
“Is that it?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“OK, what else?”
“Um, let me think. I want Microsoft to make an operating system that can’t be hacked into by Russian monkeys hitting keys randomly. I want customer service to be exactly that – customer first, service second, nothing third like your immediate and putrid management of costs by putting people in CS that have little training and NO product knowledge. I want Publisher to be useable without having to get an advanced degree in illogical programming. And I want the Thesaurus in Word to include more than just root words. I am sick of having to truncate my word in order to get alternatives. Can you do all of that?”
“No. We can’t. We can’t do any of that. ‘User-friendly’ is not in our charter.”
“Oh,” I sighed.
“Sorry.”
“Tzokay! You can do the pirate ship, right?”
“Yes.”
“Deal. Here’s my hat. And your signed nondisclosure form. AAARRRGHHH! That’s pirate for thank you!”
“You’re welcome.”

Need to implode a 20-story building? Or just want to for fun and profit? Here is your how-to article and here is narrative article. Both provide good details and lots of helpful pictures and cool videos. The trick seems to be causing the internal structure to fail, then lower exterior, and finally the roof. Collapse it to its footprint. I can do that. Maybe. Maybe not. But I would like to try.

Ever think you are having a bad run of luck?

Escaping from the psych ward and you find yourself in a plummeting elevator? Lie flat on the floor in the center and cover your head.

You survive the elevator only to be human-slave chained into a eunuch skirt in a harem, you then kill the harem master, collect your testicles in the jar (on the off-chance your doc can reattach then), effect your escape atop a camel and it starts galloping out of control with you on top? Pull the reins to one side and force it to run in a circle.

Your camel ran into circles for so long you find yourself in the middle of sand storm? You need a bandanna over your nose and mouth. Put a little petroleum jelly inside your nostrils to cut the drying (got none? Something oozing out of your camel should work). Get to higher ground.

Ditching your camel, you pull a gun on some dude and boost his car only to find the brakes don’t work? Don’t stop pumping the brake, put in lowest gear, and employ a bit of the emergency brake.

You don’t quite stop in time and you find yourself inside the car teetering over a cliff? Move slowly until you are at a door that opens over land, then get the hell out.

You don’t quite make it but somehow jump free of the car and into a river, only to find yourself heading over a waterfall? Go over feet first. Try to push yourself away from the waterfall just before going over. Start swimming immediately upon hitting the water and get downstream.

Downstream, you feel something nibbling at your toes and you realize that piranhas are all around you? Get to cold, fast moving water. Back upstream? Is it night? Then they are sleeping; no worries. Anyway, only the sick, diseased, and desperately hungry ones eat humans. But then again, they are eating you – bummer.

You sleep at the side of the river, and then wake and head into the woods. You are hopelessly lost. What way is north? MacGyver time. Get a stick and watch. Stick the stick (see what I mean about the Word thesaurus?) straight up in the ground so that it casts a shadow. Line up a watch (with hands on it) close to the stick. Align the shadow and hour hand so they are parallel. Halfway between that place on the watch and 12 is the direction north – if the hour hand is on 2, then north is in the direction of 1. (Don’t ask me; I don’t know how matches work.)

Escape the woods only to find yourself in a minefield? Forget what this link says. Turn around, get lost in the woods again. You went north? Follow the cloud movement – that’s usually east.

You travel east, find a clearing, and aliens abduct you. How to you foil it? You don’t. Shoot yourself before the anal probe begins.

Tired. Goodnight.

Musings, as they say

Time to just write for a bit, without the constraints of news-article links and themes. Forgive me if I bore you; be assured that I bore myself frequently.

Israel is pissed. This will lead to one place – and I’ve written about it twice (google this site on “Russia”) – complete turmoil in Palestine, Lebanon, and Syria. Russia will bring in troops to calm all parties and prevent further bloodshed. How reassuring.

Iran is pushing it, too. They just said that they will pay to fix anything Israel breaks in Lebanon. Arrogance. It is so cute with an insane person gets arrogant. They often tap their feet and purse their lips without knowing it. I think Israel should give Iran a colonic irrigation.

Kinda funny line: A wok is what you throw at a wabbit.

The New York Times has so deeply cast its lot with the devil left that all conservatives and many moderates will never give it credibility again. It is toast. Readership will continue to decrease; it will try to balance things with internet-based revenue. Staff will dwindle. But a core piece of it will survive and carry the face of something resembling a grand newspaper – not unlike Gloria Swanson as she descended the stairs in Sunset Boulevard and said, “I am ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille.”

To know me is to love me: If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is intolerance.

Van Morrison is going to be at the Greek Theatre in September. I saw the Grateful Dead there over 20 years ago. I brought Kool-Aid. Plain Kool-Aid. In case I got thirsty. The guy taking tickets told me it was electric. Something about LSD being dissolved in it. Grateful Dead, acid, go figure.

Words to live by: Never take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same evening.

I think it is rather humorous that Martha Stewart is “back on top.” Like she would ever assume the missionary position. I am still waiting for the legacy press to label the felon with the truth: she was guilty of insider trading whilst she was a sitting Governor on the Board of the NYSE. Slut.

Society’s view: Four out of five people think the fifth is an idiot.

I continue to be undecided about the gaping hole in my education, namely the classics. Classic anything – literature, music, art (am I missing something?). I have sat for decades and listened to people make casual references to Homer (not Simpson), negative space on Impressionist paintings, and some music guy other than Mozart and Beethoven. I am not commenting negatively upon them; they are generally nice people that I like. I’ve nodded politely and tried quickly to make sense of their reference. I am quite good at it now. But so much is new to me still. At 47, I’ve come to accept that I was simply born to a lower class, and regardless of how I rise or fall socially or economically, I will always belong to that class. It is comfortable for me. I have learned some things through the years, but I use that knowledge differently than other knowledge. I like the street, the farm, dirt. I’m not made to prosper – just survive. There is comfort in such knowledge. I prefer more salt, I guess.

Last impartation of fragmented intellect: I have a friend that feels without touching; that hears the silent ones; and that sees inside of me. She talks with angels.

Advice for my daughter

So my daughter got asked on a date for the first time and promptly said “no.” I am so proud of her. I figure now it is time to have “the talk.” I am nowhere near man enough to do it face-to-face, so I will do it here.

There comes a time, dear, when boys are no longer satisfied with, um, touching themselves. They want to, um, well, touch you. As your first reaction to any reach of a physical nature, dear, that is the time when you use the gun that I bought for you. Usually, just a flash of the shiny nickel-plate is enough to get your message across. But don’t hesitate to pistol-whip him into submission, and as you stare into his blood-spurting face, put the barrel next to his mayonnaise cannon and say, “Next!” and look around with that wild-eyed face you used to get when you were three and went soft-shell snail hunting in California. Guaranteed to end the reach.

A little more complicated situation is when the reach is verbal. You see, dear, the physical reach is clear – it happened or it didn’t happen. Even if you misread his intentions on a physical movement, that’s fine, too. The boy will just be more circumspect in the future. You may be saving him a pistol whipping or some other violent reaction to his wandering hands. Verbal reaches, dear, are different and need more discussion.

I have consulted various websites and compiled a list of “one liners” that boys use. You should read and think about each one. Place yourself mentally in the situation and feel you reciting my response and absorbing my advice. I love you, baby.

The first site I found was called Get Girls. It gave situations and lines that boys could use as a prelude to the physical reach (see gun discussion above).

The first bit from Get Girls: Bars and nightclubs - "Do you want to dance?" If she says no, whatever you do, don't just walk away. Follow up with, "If you don't want to dance, do you mind if I join you for some conversation?"

This situation can be disposed of with relative ease. When you decline his invitation to dance, he will either walk away or the putz will use his back-up position as suggested above – the conversation ploy. Your best bet is not to be polite but to humiliate him. When he asks for conversation, laugh in his face and grab the first man or woman you see and begin dancing. Don’t worry about the brief dance. You can projectile vomit on him (or shake her hand and thank her) and be done in an instant.

Get Girls 2: Nightclubs with "live" music - "What do you think of the band?"

“I think,” you share, “that the lead’s G is about a half octave off, the bassist needs to set timing and not follow it, and the only reason they sound like they are on the same stage is because the drummer knows 4/4 and, apparently, only 4/4. You?” They usually shut-up when a chick knows more than they do.

Get Girl 3: Restaurants - "This is my first time here. What's good on the menu?" Another one you could use is, "Would you like to go have a drink after dinner?"

Let’s take these one at a time. “What’s good on the menu?” “I couldn’t tell you, pal. I had my stomach stapled precisely to avoid losers like you asking me questions like that.” A drink after dinner? “I am eating, a-hole. Leave me alone or I call the cops.”

Get Girl 4: Supermarkets - "Excuse me, which steak looks better to you?" or "How do you tell which one of these cantaloupes is ripe?"

“A steak? You eat that crap? Had a high colonic lately? You’d be shocked at what is breeding up there.” The cantaloupe line is easy – “are you a retard or something?” When he sees your hand raising the mace towards his face, he'll be out of produce in an instant.

Get Girl 5: Laundromats - "Would you like to go have a cup of coffee while we're waiting for our clothes?" or "Could you tell me if I should wash these clothes in hot or cold water?"

This is the easiest, dear. What are you doing in a laundromat?!? You know what I told you about Laundromats. Never go alone, never talk to anyone. If the dude can’t afford a washer and dryer, you don’t want anything to do with him. If you must speak, tell him “there ain’t no such thing as ‘our’ clothes here,” and “here’s a quarter, loser, go call mommy.”

Our next source is called Don Diebel: 15 Surefire Opening Lines When Meeting Single Women. The first problem is that the “opening lines” are numbered. One through 16. Ut-oh. Let’s see what Don has to share.

1. If you're with two women, ask them how did they get to know each other? First, Don, just because your statement begins with the word “if” doesn’t make it a question. Grammar, buddy, c’mon. We need it. Anyway … back to you, princess. How do you respond? “We met at a Dykes on Bykes convention. Julie just got out of prison for manslaughter. Caught her last girlfriend in bed with a man, if you can believe that. How gross, eh?”

2. "Where do you like to shop for clothes?" “Other people’s homes. I watch a neighborhood for a few months, check out the women and effeminate men. After I catch their routines, I break in and take what I like. You look kinda gay – men’s size 38 blazer?”

3. "Where do you like to go on vacation?" “Prison. Every winter. I save on my heating bill, catch up with friends and sex. You?”

4. "What's your favorite romantic restaurant...Where is it located?" (Later you can ask her to meet you there for a lunch or dinner for your first date). “There is nothing romantic about the systematic slaughter of animals only to plate them with a thin gravy and spring of parsley. I eat only to stave off death.”

5. "What kind of man are you attracted to?" (Her answer can give you a clue on how to act around her to get her interested in you). Pathetic question, eh, baby? Just look at him and describe the opposite, like, “someone who doesn’t have to ask what I am attracted to.”

6. "Where did you attend school?" “Leave me alone! Who sent you? Why are you asking about my past? It was him wasn’t it? What is he paying you? I oughta plug your sorry ass right here!” One timely flash of your gun, and you are assured of being left alone.

7. "Have you been to any good concerts lately?' (Also, find out who her favorite groups are so you can ask her out when they come to your area). “Define good,” and then toy with his fragile intellect until he either starts to cry or wets himself. When one occurs, stand up, point and laugh, call over other people, and then walk away.

8. "Have you been to any good movies lately?" See 7 above.

9. "I love your hair, where do you have it done?" “House fire. 5th and Maple. I think it’s out now. But if you get a scanner …”

10. "I love your lips, they look so soft and kissable." “Kiss this,” and shove the barrel of Mr. .45 into his mouth.

11. Skipped – stupid.

12. Skipped – stupid.

13. Skipped – stupid.

14. "Would you care to celebrate a special occasion?" She will ask, "What's the occasion?" You reply, "Meeting a special lady like you." How to respond? Simple, love. Lean forward, warm your eyes a little, flash that smile that makes daddy give you anything you want, and vomit in his lap.

15. "You have one of the nicest smiles I've ever seen." See 14 above.

16. "You make my heart melt like hot fudge on a sundae." Simple physics. “Pal, hot fudge is hot. It is like your heart. Thumpedty-thumpedty-thump. Got it? Pre-existing hot. You then bring the hot fudge to the ice cream – just like you bring your heart to me. The hot fudge then loses much of its heat as it comes into contact with the frozen cream – just like, you are saying, your heart cools down as it comes to me. I think, buddy, you got your similes a bit mixed up. Go home. Study. Try again with some other lucky girl. Go now. Before I call the cops. Bye.”

Third in our parade of one-liners is Best Opening Line For "Out of Your League" Women. Really. That’s what it is called. Talk about a guy accepting his loser status. How sad.

This is what they say – I am not kidding: Question 1: "What's the best opening line?" A. According to a University of Chicago study, the word "hi" is the best opening line there is, followed by "how do you like the band?" (but only if a band is, in fact, playing).

Wow. Strategic planning. Mention the band only if one is playing. That’s a good start. But, you know, I think a guy who asks you how you like the band that is playing inside his head can be infinitely more interesting.

This next bit of advice is long. Let me give it with as few edits as possible:

Question 2: "But the woman I want to say hi to isn't anywhere near me -- I'd have to go up to her. What should I do?"

A. Try the "goodbye introduction." Imagine you are at the gym, and you see a woman who is really attractive to you. But she's busy lifting weights, and it seems like your gym is not such a friendly place, anyway.

The opportunity is this: time your leaving the gym for when she is between sets, or stretching. Then on your way out, introduce yourself like this (smile while you do it!): "Hi, I'm just leaving, but before I do, I really wanted to introduce myself to the woman who has such wonderful form. My name is Ron."

She says something back, like "Oh hi, my name is Tracy," then you say something like "I hope to see you here again." Then you leave. This creates an opening for you to talk to her next time you see her -- "Hi Tracy, how are you?" It also gives you a way of interacting with her for the first time without there being much risk -- since you tell her up front you are leaving, she's less likely to be afraid of you wasting lots of her time.

It also builds your esteem, and teaches your nervous system that you can actually survive talking to beautiful women, which makes it more likely you'll do it again, and again, and again....

Do you see how insidious this is? Verbal, verbal, then physical! Wow. Men will stop at nothing, dear. They are all pigs. Never forget. And stay out of gyms. They are meat stores where everything is marked down for quick sale.

Now, keep up on your pistol range – once a week. Remember to wear the fake wedding ring in the supermarket. Go out with your clearly bull-dyke friends occasionally. And don’t ever let a man touch you.

I love you, baby.

Paris does hot Al with EVOO

A familiar political refrains goes, “when your opponent is heading for a cliff, get out of his way.” A less familiar but just as universally true one goes, “Al Gore is an idiot.”

The boy is spouting day and night about the exigencies of global warming. We’re the warmest in a long time. Oh. Something like centuries. So, Al, what was the cause then? Too many camels? Campfires? Not enough Beano to aid in digestion? You know, the population was a lot smaller and their per capita consumption of carbon-based fuels was less, but I’ll give you this – something about bathing only when you get caught in the rain, eating varmints on unleavened bread, and not even having a newspaper to wipe your ass because the Gutenberg press hasn’t been invented yet does make me think flatulence would have been particularly vile due to higher concentrations of methane. Maybe that warmed the Earth, eh, Al?

But it looks like other people are finally catching on, too. About time. Some guy in Canada has told Al-boy to shut up. Al-child says lots of natural gas and landscape is being torn up to get oil in Alberta. OK. The Canada guy has trouble getting to his final point, but at last does – “We are a carbon-based economy.” He also suggested that Al-baby is taking the easy way out by criticizing but not solving.

You want to know how useless the legacy press is? Naw, forget it. Like shooting fish in a barrel. Sorry. Lost interest.

Want a recipe? I kinda made this up after reviewing a bunch of recipes. I bought a tube-thing of garlic and sun dried tomato polenta. Cut it into slices about three-quarters of an inch thick. Got twelve slices. While they rested on a paper towel for a moment, I put some spaghetti sauce (half a jar?) to warm and sliced cheese (I used Swiss because the Mozzarella had hair on it; btw, I used bottled sauce because my homemade was a different color than when I first made it). Returning to my original task, I dunked the slices into oil olive to coat both sides and then put them on the grill. Be sure to coat the grill first because they do stick a bit. After I flipped and had both sides marked up nicely, I put the cheese on each slice and let it melt. I used a two or three layers on each piece. Then I plated by stacking two slices and topping with a bit of sauce. I think a fresh sauce would be nice, maybe fresh basil on top, a little Parmesan Reggiano … it seems to me that this is a good base from which to make a memorable appetizer.

How about a fashion show? Instead of our prison girls, let’s do the Paris Fashion Show. These are the beautiful people with which Al Gore rubs his elbows. Different world than us ugly people live in. Hang on. (Think I am making this stuff up? It is to laugh, says I .)

Our first entry is thoroughly pissed off in a pink something with what looks like a tree root stuck on her head. The cheap looking fringe is somehow consistent with this thoroughly pathetic outfit. I am going to re-think my position on assisted suicide. Wow, such fashion!

The next gal is of equal good humor in this lobster motif reminiscent of chum tossed off a boat to attract sharks. I am sure the thought of being shark food is a step up from how this girl feels. Nice eye shadow – your eyebrows surgically raised?

Um, nice face? I grew up in a time when real people dressed like real people and cartoon people dressed like cartoon people. The closet we got to overlapping was when the carnival people came winter with us. This is fashion or the bearded lady?

Our first entry in drag is a welcomed changed. This dude is fooling no one. He is swinging left as sure as Elton John changes butt plugs between sets. It must be a tough industry to make money in if the models accept this type of behavior. “Look, Daddy, I’m somebody!!”

The birthday party is about to launch, and then this thing shows up asking for the child to be brought to her. It isn’t just the Bette Davis mug, but the unmistakable knowledge that the hat covers a horn.

This poor girl is still cranked from the heriod they shoved in her arm to get her onto the runway. ”You look, fab-u-lous, bab-bee!” comes the male voice with a tap on the butt. The orange and red bring out the bloodshot in your eyes, girl. It highlights the needle tracks in your arms. The green draws the viewers attention away from your I’m-about-to-projectile-vomit concerted look. Fashion is so flattering!

So what about the men, besides the ones in drag? Glad you asked. Check this, um, gentleman out. Two buttons – “69” “I {heart} Sex.” Make me puke. The only “69” you’re gonna see is with your German Shepard.

This is just all too gross. I have to bail.

Dat Winkler Gal Be Dumm

Pert near tree munts agin now, I writ up sumptin sayzen dat dat preacher lady dun gone and shot up her hubby, the preacher. I sezs sumtin like der a gonna be “quite a story behind this sad situation,” and “police know the motive. Infidelity has been identified; abuse has received no comment.”

Well, now dem police boys be a talking plenty! They’z undiggeded the motive I tells ya. Here it is – muny. It’z always muny, ain’t it? The rut of a bunch of evil.

Seems she wuz in a hole and still digging. Quite challenzd in budgiten, she wuz. Her husband, that preacher feller, didn’t take much of a shinin to her figurin. So’s she went en got sum Nigerian Internet I’m-the-imprisoned-wife-of-former-President-Nubibi scam thing and sends dem a hole gad of muny. Her good checks in return for ther bad ones. Muny goes away like that road runner funny when dat coyote chases it. Her figurin goes haywire like a bucket of bull piss on the lectric panel. Thez be in debt now!

Hubby finds out. They talk. Next mornin? She shoots him right in bed. Uses his own shotgun on em. Dat’s cold. He looks up, all shot up and bleedin, sezs, “Why?” She sezs she’s sorry and all, then leaves him to bleed out like a stuck pig.

Why’d she shot em? Sezs she knewed she be cot. I tinks sumptin else is lurkin under the surface. Sure, dis story bout Africans and Internet scams sounz gud. Maybe even tru. But me tinks sumptin else be der. The little girls asks about daddy – he’s been hurt, let’s leave the house; he’s in the hospital, so we’re going to the beach! Lacks gud sense. Me radar’s up. Daddy wuzn’t none too close to these girls e-moe-shun-all-lee.

Premeditated? Got dat right! Notice the fone was unpluggeded. Dat girl gonna hang! She make a box of rocks look like that Einstein fella.

She’s so dumb she thinks a quarterback is a refund.
She’s so dumb she thinks Iceberg is a Yiddish name.
She’s so dumb that she makes you feel stoopider (or sumptin).
She’s so dumb she thinks July the Fourth is a monarch somewhere.
She’s so dumb she thinks Sherlock Holmes is a subdivision.
She’s so dumb she thinks a brothel is soup kitchen.
She’s so dumb she thinks a root beer float is an entry in the Macy’s Parade.
She’s so dumb she thinks an innuendo is an Italian suppository.
She’s so dumb she sold her car for gas money.
She’s so dumb her ears rub together.
She’s so dumb she puts stamps on her faxes.
She’s so dumb she studied for her Pap test.
She’s so dumb she thinks TuPac Shakur is a Jewish Holiday.

She’s so ugly she’d make a mule back away from an oat bin.
OK, let’s not go there. We’ll leave it to that weight-pill commercial …

Final thought: I want to die in my sleep like my grandfather, not screaming and panicked like the passengers in his car.