"no, johnny, you are not a spermazota, and that is not an egg. johnny?"
"you smell something? oh shit, his tail feathers are showing. let's get out of here. bye johnny ..."
and there stood johnny the ladybug, lips locked in a love grip through eternity with a 60 watt GE Soft White.
I
Me: No, in fact, I don’t know why.
Me: I think you are mistaken.
Me: Yes, I know that, but what you said isn’t accurate.
Me: Yes, I am, actually. Well, used to be. Criminal defense. Now I teach it.
Me: The sign back there reads, “lights,” trooper. It failed to specify which ones. Parking lights are lights, too, just like headlights. My parking lights were on.
Me: I agree, but it is not required.
Me: It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. The sun is bright. The sky is blue.
Me: Thank you for the warning, trooper. I’ll consider putting on my headlights next time through the construction zone.
Me: Yes, sir, you have a nice day, too.
II
Me: We’re twins.
Me: Yes, very different.
Me: Thirteen years. It was a very long labor.
Me: Yeah, a record of some sort I’m sure.
Me: She takes after her mom; me after my dad.
Me: No, totally different parents.
Me: Yes, a very strange labor, too, I guess.
Me: No, I don’t see how our DNA could be similar at all.
Me: Yes, I told you we were.
Me: Go ahead, hit her. I feel her pain. Watch the grimace on my face.
Me: Of course she hit you back! You some kind of idjit?
Me: No, my grimace had nothing to do with where you hit her. It was purely where she hit you.
Me: Yes, I do feel her pain. I apparently feel yours, too.
Me: No, we are not twins. You and me look nothing alike.
III
Me: Yes, of course I remember. How are you? Nice to see you again. (Not a clue. Who the fuck is this? Doesn’t even look like somebody I would ever talk to … think think, think)
Me: Oh, not much. You know, work takes up almost all of my time.
Me: Yes, I am still there. (This doofus knows where I work? Oh shit. Still blank.) You still working (pretend to see someone across the room to stretch out the sentence …) for (c’mon, pal fill in the blank) … yes, Sampson. How’s business? (Now we’re getting somewhere. The guy’s a sales rep, should’ve known. Smells like one.)
Me: That’s great.
Me: What’s that? (Did he say what I think he said?)
Me: Andrew. Yes, he’s doing very well. (He knows my son by name? Is this some fucking stalker?)
Me: (He’s wearing a wedding ring. Let’s go for it …) So, how’s you wife these days? She able to make the trip?
Me: Yes, never fully recovered. I’m sorry to hear that. I remember … (let voice trail off so he can fill the gap. His wife is apparently sick and he’s wearing it for the world to see. Found the button. Cakewalk now.)
Me: Yes. (Is he … is his bottom lip quivering?)
Me: I’m sorry you have to deal with that. (WTF am I doing here?)
Me: Yes. (It’s a fucking hip replacement for wearing high heels her entire life for God’s sakes. Did she have an episiotomy or something? Forty hours of labor? Get sown up for an hour after being torn to High Heaven?)
Me: Mmmm, sounds just stressful, yes. (I am so outta here.)
Me: Yes, I understand. Say, have you met Bob? Hey, Bob, I’d like you to meet someone. His wife had the same procedure you did. Bob, this is … (I am going to pay for this later. There is a special place in Hell for people like me …)
IV
Me: No, you can’t, but thank you for asking.
Me: No, thank you.
Me: Nope, appreciate it.
Me: I’ll find you if I need you.
Me: Pal, you on commission here? Trust me, I’ll find you.
Me: Go away.
Me: I’m serious. Leave me the fuck alone.
Me: Holy shit! You again?
Me: Don’t fucking touch me, buddy, not even to get my attention.
Me: That’s it. Go time. I said don’t … fucking … touch … me.
Me: He was harassing me, Officer. C’mon. He asked for it. Go look at the tapes.
V
Me: Can I be honest with you? I haven’t a clue who you are nor do I care. You do not look like someone I would give a rat’s ass about, and I just want to be left alone. I come here to drink. Maybe get so drunk I’ll let some girl-gone-pro blow me under the bar. If I wanted a social life, I’d get a MySpace account.
Me: Yeah, you, too, asshole.
NYC is such a great town. This 31-year-old guy is interviewing a client in a law firm. First, this next bit doesn’t sit well – the dude is “interviewing a client” but the law firm where he was said that he did “odds-and-ends work.” Meeting with a client, presumably of the law firm, is rather significant. Anyway, the interview must not have been going well. The dude gets up, goes to another office, opens the window, and pitches himself off the 69th floor.
He became one with the the 30th floor landing. Well, all except a leg – that continued to the ground level where a woman in a tourist bus responded quickly with her camera. “So, how was your trip to NYC, Edna? Did you take any pictures?” “Oh, it was lovely. We ate at this wonderful bistro, and I got this picture of a leg. I think it’s a size 9 shoe. What do you think? Lovely argyle sock. The things people throw away in big cities. It’s a real shame.”
Wanna really piss somebody off but not sure who or how? Try the 84th richest man on the world. Seems he was (perhaps still is) constipated. Some whack-job local-whatever-they-call-a-doc-in-Macau literally rammed something up his ass. Are you people, like, retarded? Constipation doesn’t mean there’s a blockage – no matter what the similarity, the colon is not a septic line to an open sewer. Even if there was a blockage, you don’t ram something in there to unblock it.
This text lifted from the article is priceless (I combined three consecutive paragraphs):
"I don't know who was so careless, injuring his rectum when relieving the constipation," it quoted Chan [one of his wives] as saying. Ming Pao Daily News quoted another one of Ho's wives, Angela Leong, as saying Ho was recovering well. "Thanks for your concern. There isn't a problem at all," she said. Ming Pao said its reporter could hear Ho talking loudly in the background.
Talking loudly? Too funny.
So this guy’s wife dies and he robs a sex shop. Apologizes for the interruption to business. Full face on camera. Is he trying to go to prison so that he can become a sex toy himself? Ironic. “OK, now, you are a stewardess. Ask me if I want a pillow. And use that pretty voice or you’ll be squealing like a pig all night long. HEY, JIMBO! Look at this boy’s knees are cut up and swollen. Maybe I should dress him up like a football player so he can have knee pads! Naw, that would be just too weird. OK, boy, now ask me if I want anything else …”
I have to give Darwin a victory on this one. This guy lives in a townhouse with his daughter. He steals his neighbor’s gas dryer. His neighbors? How does that work? They steal appliances from one another? Well, seems our thief didn’t quite know how to hook it up right. Place go boom. Complete with pics. Natural selection: thief and (sadly) daughter both dead.
This guy should be an action figure sold at Kmart. Three o’clock A.M. “Shush, quiet. Are the lights out? Don’t rev the engine!” Back pick-up truck to window. Hammer to window, SMASH! “OK, now! Quick!” They get the chain onto the ATM machine. “I am so into this, Jim Bob! OK, get back in the truck. Pop that clutch, boy!” The machine comes loose. “A little more! Drag it forward a bit!” They manage to get the 300-pound machine on the back of the truck. “Like tossing pigs, ain’a, Billy?” V-V-VROOOOMMMM!, off they drive. “What’s that! Dang-hole, Jim Bob, the po-lice done behind us! Quick, I know where we are. Down this street.” Alas, our hero picked a dead-end street. No worries, just leave the truck and ATM behind. Out the door our hero exists, breaks into a full run to escape the bad law-enforcement personnel. Out the door … full run … escaping … escaping … wait for it … esca--- … then off pops the prosthetic leg! Hate when that happens. ”HEY, JIMBO! Got me a new sex toy. This one’s like a popsicle only he does the licking! Alright, boy, what flavor am I today?"
Oh yeah, that Tomb and Jesus and His Family thing? The one that whatever the director’s name was said that they so carefully researched? Everyone is bailing, including the people quoted in the documentary. Go figure.
Reading tea leaves in politics is so pathetic. Fred Thompson has skin cancer. This article reads, ”Some believe admission he has cancer evidence he'll try for presidency in '08.” Um, I have dry skin in the winter – what can I run for? Does it have a pension plan?
Last word on Don Imus. He is quoted as saying some time ago, ”My goal is to goad people into saying something that ruins their life.” Ironic.
Time for me to go.
I have two Bibles next to my bed, one for detailed study, the other for Sunday-go-to-Meeting. The first is filled with papers of all kinds. I sat in bed last night contemplating my quest for God. I knew I had to clean out the study Bible. Proceed with nothing of the past. I found two writings of interest.
My father wrote his mother’s recipe for biscuits. It is the only writing I have of his. Man of few words, I guess, and the ones he wrote came from others. I always enjoyed reading this recipe. I have never made it because the “milk to make a biscuit” seemed rather loose to me. I wonder what prompted him to add “or Oleo” at a later time.
After he had died, in those couple of days when everyone tries to fulfill the duties of organizing an event with little notice, I was made aware of something he had said during life. He had torn out this “Dear Abby” column (I have the original) and said of it that “no one has the balls to have this read at their funeral. This is the truth.” I had it read at his funeral over the objection of damn near everyone.
So the text isn’t lost in the jpeg, here it is in important part, as quoted from Benjamin Franklin:
“A man is not completely born until he is dead. When then should we grieve that a new child is born among the immortals”
“We are spirits. That bodies should be lent us while that afford us pleasure, assist us in acquiring knowledge or in doing good to our fellow creatures is a kind of benevolent act of God.
“When they become unfit for these purposes, and afford us pain instead of pleasure, instead of an aid become an encumbrance and answer none of these intentions for which they were given, it is equally kind and benevolent that a way is provided by which we get rid of them.
“Death is that way.”
I read James and went to sleep.
I’ve got nothing better to do with my time than blog. That’s not a slight on you all. It’s just that my life has been reduced on a few fronts to non-activity. So here we go …
Don Imus refers to the Rutgers women’s basketball team as a bunch of “nappy-headed hos.” That’s kinda funny, provided you were in the middle of all of them when you were speaking and they therefore had the opportunity to say that they thought you were a doddering buffoon with a family tree shaped like a donut. Instead, he said it on the radio with a bunch of white guys around him, sycophants all.
It is remarkable to me that people like Imus continue to get the microphone. It all returns to political views: if your view is too conservative or too Christian, then you are yanked at the first opportunity. Otherwise, you can step in it, offer your Hail Marys Full of Grace, and march onward to the next complete f—k-up.
I believe Imus would be the first to agree that the day following his death, the only story about him will be … well, nothing. He’ll be as visible as a weight chucked off an ocean-going freighter.
Just how low do you have to stoop that the media look to Rev. Al Sharpton to be your castigator? How embarrassing.
I have a bad back. Actually, just the lower portion. It was weakened many years ago and nothing I have ever done has strengthened it. It bothers me only several times a year. I used to need a cane to walk when it was real bad, and that has been three or four years since I needed that. But I do know that a cane is in my future. They’re kinda cool, actually. But probably more cool if it is just a fashion accessory rather than a medical necessity. Anyway, here is an article from 1901 entitled, “Self-defence with a walking stick”. May come in handy. You never know when the youth of tomorrow may accost that day’s infirm.
I remember as I kid how the older folks could make cool hand shadows. Seems like a lost art. We were poor. Maybe it wasn’t an art, even back then. It’s fun anyway.
Here’s an interesting nine-minute video on how camera lenses are made.
Wanna kill a bit of time piecing together a head? Mr. Picasso Head is for you …
What an amazing collection of spirals in photographs.
This link explains why there are different primary colors depending on if you use the additive or subtractive method. I don’t understand color theory. I’m still trying to grasp the assertion that pink ain’t a color, and the science seems simple on that.
There’s probably more to say, but I’m hungry. Later …
I drove from north-central Pennsylvania to Virginia the other day. Looked like about 3-1/2 to 4 hours. I was too jazzed initially to want the radio talking to me. I turned it on after maybe 30 minutes, having already left my rural radio stations behind. I had no expectations, and was disappointed even then.
I hit scan. I actually heard a clown horn. Scan. “… live remote with the Easter Bunny …” Scan. “So, you going to do that child molestation public-service announcement?” Sigh. Scan.
Fleetwood Mac, The Chain. That’s 30 years old! I saw those aged hippies on that tour in Philadelphia. Thought Mick Fleetwood was an obnoxious egomaniac, and I was on the 30- or 40-yard line! Why do they continue to play this stuff? It just isn’t that good. Scan.
Rod Stewart. Throat cancer with a mic. I wonder how many set musicians over the years have run from the studio vomiting as Rod the Mod coughed up yet another chunk of lung. Scan.
End of music. Male and female DJs discussing … discussing … wait for it … discussing American Idol and Dancing with the Stars. Seems some girl, in real life, has gone on a hunger strike until some person gets voted out of Idol. Wow. A hunger strike? Get some balls, girl! Commit to not eating until your body fat drops to single digits. Loser. The “Dancing” discussion is whether Paul McCartney’s one-legged soon-to-be-ex-Mrs.-Paul will start dancing with, um, two legs and end with, um, one. Now I am the one vomiting. Scan.
Eagles. Peaceful Easy Feeling. 1977 again. WTF?!? Scan.
Fleetwood Mac? Again? Am I in some sort of time warp? My colon is starting to percolate. Scan.
Hank, Jr. “ … they get on me wanna know Hank / why do you drink? / (Hank) why do you roll smoke? / Why must you live out the songs that you wrote? / over and over everybody made my prediction / so if i get stoned / I'm just carryin' on an old family tradition.” I do remember that song. I always liked Hank, Jr. I listened to his dad like it was my religion when I was very young. Then Hank, Jr., sang a “Country Boy Can Survive.” That song gave me permission to be apart from others; a permission I still have not relinquished. Alas, it is still a country station. Scan.
The muthaf—king BEE GEES! How Deep is Your Love?!? Oh, the tasteless replies are flowing. I cannot fathom this music is still being played. Stand back – SCAN!
Peter Frampton Live! Why is everything I am hearing from my high-school years? At least this album was during a period of intense solitude for me. I remember countless hours in the woods with this album playing in my head. Yeah, I grew up when you had to have a really long extension cord to listen to an album in the woods. I decided to listen for a while.
I just passed the connection with Interstate 78 (oh yeah, I am traveling on I-81 South). Harrisburg is in front of me. The trucks from New Jersey have joined us now and the level of aggression is markedly increased. They change lanes like teenagers, with the added bonus of a trailer sashaying behind.
The sign reads, “Shiremantown.” Isn’t a “shire” a town? So, townman town. Everybody from here be from a town. Was that before they moved there? Is it like a rule? “Only experienced townspeople need apply”? Or is this some drugged-out hippie enclave? “Where you from?” “Town, man, town.” Hmm, got anymore of what you need smoking, Mr. Fleetwood? “Um, I don’t have any I can give you, but I can sell you some.”
US Route 15 South, 40 miles from Maryland. A pink baby stroller on the side of the road. Yahoo Dad probably strapped his fishing rods in real good. “Oh, baby girl, it’ll be fine. Dolly wanted to be carried around all the time anyway. Hey, Darlene Sue! Get the f—k over here and comfort this pisspot! Darlene! ‘N get me a couple, two, tree Buds on your way!”
I cross into Maryland, and see the first leaves, flowers, and those yellow bushes. Pretty. South the Mason-Dixon Line. What is that calmness that just washed over me? I can see her. She just flashed through my mind.
Hey, JMG 1140 (Virginia plate)! You got a really big head. Really. I thought you were in the back seat.
Some of my favorite lyrics: Davis Bowie, “Put on your red shoes and dance the blues / under the moonlight / the serious moonlight.”
The Edge, that odd-looking lead guitarist from U2, is auctioning a guitar for charity. Bad move. Who will get it? One of the beautiful people. And the money raised will be LESS than if he … if he … wait for it … if he invested a little organization and sold raffle tickets for $5 each. Do it through MTV or some such mindless outlet. Do you think 100,000 tickets is out of reach? Is some smuck gonna grease a half-million for a guitar? Raffles are the common man’s way to contribute to society.
Maryland plate: L8R GTR. Audi convertible. Blonde with a high-set ponytail in the passenger seat. Must be an “i” on the end of her name – Muffi, Brandi, Kimmi. Hey, Muff! Did you know that your dad blew his brains out in direct response to your announcement that you and Reginald were getting married? He created that Rube Goldberg machine in the garage, set it to be noise-activated, then strapped himself in. When Reggi (!!) open the garage door, and said, “Dad, Mr. Muffi’s Dad, I mean, is that a rubber ball in your mouth? Why are you wearing those leather straps?” As Reg was processing the smell of vinegar used by Dad to tightened the straps, and tears began to flow over Reg’s quivering upper lip, he failed to notice the series of marbles rolling down the series of alleys and the boot that kicked the cage and freed the mouse who ate the cheese and tipped the water from one glass into another and changed the marbles from rolling away to accumulating to the cup that weighed more and pulled the string a little and weighed even more and pulled a little more until … until … wait for it … {BANG!}
And little bits of Mr. Muffi’s Dad went all over the back wall. Yes, Reginald, he was staring at you the entire time. Yes, it was a sense of relief you saw as the mouse ate enough cheese to set in motion the last cycle.
Now I am 20 or 30 minutes outside of WDC. A car with diplomatic plates passes me doing at least 90 MPH and crosses three lanes of traffic to exit. Tell me, my fake emergency-laden person, do you feel pretty or dirty?
Two miles from the Inner Beltway. “Cabin John” Parkway? Is that a tribute to a toilet?
End of recollection.
UPDATE - at long last, I found the culprit - RegSeeker. It's a program that takes the crap out of your registry. It also killed my Flash everytime. I did a standalone install from the link below, and Flash is back. I returned the favor to RegSeeker and killed it.
ey aina 2 smaurt. Butt ey fixeded sumtin dat mi IT gies cudnit. Its ben a proablim fir munts. Wen ey useded ie7, my flash stupded wurkin. Wudnit wurkded in firefox edder. Ie7 wud saa ey gotsta dunlode flash agin. Sos ey didit. Lyke 50 millun timesa. Nuttin. ey gottsa reel maad n sheet.
ey goesed two IT. Deys set dis n dat. Re-re-rebuuts mi cumpuutr. “hunh,” dey seys, “it dunt wurk.” “kno sheet,” metinks.
ey luks all ovr da net. Tride pantlode of tings. ey luks in tools-options on ie7. sett big tiim surts of stuffses. Nuttin.
Sos kno ey fixeded it. ey didded too tings.
Won. Ie7. tools-options-security-custom level-display and animation on a webpage that does not use external media-enable
Too. ey went to this webpage and did a standalone installation of flash.
ey dunt no y zit big tiim wurkded butt it dided.
Yur wellcum. Tank u. havided a niic dae.
What would you do if you found a partially decomposed body in a remote area?
A good friend of mine told me that she would first check the hips, the larynx, and shoes to determine gender. Then she would steal anything of value. Then she would pray for the people that caused the body to be there. Then she would kick the decedent to see if it would become a little decedent here, a little decedent there. Then she would call the cops. She said she would not take hair or body parts with her – too close to voodoo shit; scary. She would leave a gun untouched.
What if the shoes were the same size that you wore and they were nicer – would you take them?
I didn’t ask about dental fillings. That is kinda gross. Even if they were available, it is only 10k gold – good and hard, but not as valuable as the gold in jewelry.
Life is funny. I was just writing the above and letting that relationship sink deeply into me. Felt very comforting. Then that very relationship got yanked out ugly. Yeah, life is funny.
Watched the opening day for the Yankees: Winning, losing, won. Good day. Am watching the opening day for Red Sox now: Winning, losing, losing by a lot. Great day.
When is doubt about life, lose yourself in sports. It’s like a replacement for reality. That’s why there are so many statistics to keep track of – makes sure you can’t let even a smidgen of your real life seep in. 6 – 1 KC over BoSox, Bottom 7th, 2 outs, count 1-2. The line 1-5-0; 6-10-0. See? Ten-mile stare. No reality. It works!
Onward.
Here’s a book I will read someday. Anchored In Love: An Intimate Portrait of June Carter Cash, by her son, John Carter Cash. It’s due out June 5, 2007.
Gotta go. Reality seeping back in …
Thoughtful: Ransom Note Generator.
Cold: Stealing a wheelchair.
Finally: Corporeal punishment works.
Amazing: Coffee meets milk.
Loser: Wanna play pool?
True: OMG! WTF! LOL!
Peeing: Girl be man.
Space: That be big.
Staring: Lotsa blue balls.
Whoops: Drunk, nekkid, unemployed.
Fun: I dated her.
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