Thursday, January 24, 2008

site meter follies followed by ramblings

Answer: In this order, ABC News, the FBI, an NPR piece, Wikipedia, Jihad Watch, the Saudi Embassy, me.

Question: What is google’s top seven for “wanted terrorist from yemen”? Returned with july 2005 archive.

Yeah, that’s me, terrorist-hunting superhero. Even more fun, following me is Fox News, CNN, and the NYT. I also come in 20th! I wonder if I could sell my page rankings … CNN can use all the help it can get.

The internet is such a dangerous place to get information.

Seems our sitemeter follies a couple two tree posts below missed one cc: on Poindexter’s e: Talisman Energy, Calgary. Dat boy dun shard are storey un stoopud tings! If’n I had a momma I’d bea telling ‘er! Dang!

Answer: In this order, Food Timeline, What’s Cooking America, Motts, me.

Question: What is Google’s top four for the history of applesauce? Return with stupid clowns with a side of applesauce.

I am the authority on the history of applesauce immediately following Motts? You guys are in trouble!

Answer: I didn’t want to sound offensive, so I googled insensitive penis.

Question: What do I do with this limp dick with which I live?

Good advice inspired by one of my hero’s in this life.

Answer: That right there is my e.a.merkel double barrel rabbit ear shotgun.

Question: What the fuck is a rabbit ear shotgun?

This sounds dangerous, and I think the person who googled such a thing is probably way too into weaponry.

Answer: It removes the need to discuss jock itch sweat and detergents.

Question: What are bunched panties?

I understand googling “jock itch and detergent.” The little buddies can be sensitive sometimes, particularly in the summer months. The addition of “sweat” throws me. I fail to see the nexus to detergent. Sweat is a function of aeration, heat, and exertion. The detergent I use doesn’t make me sweat. I might get hives. I can see that. Sweat? Um, no.

I’m working on a theory here. If I ridicule enough people that visit my site, maybe I can achieve singularity. That point of infinite density the other side of which is completely unknown to science. Is it a worm hole to another part of me? Do I burst forward into something later catalogued as Big Bang Clyde, and through this dispersion of my matter form little galaxies that float around me like a herd of mosquitoes? Am I expanding or contracting? If you look at me with a really powerful telescope, will you see me when I was younger?

What will be my last thought as I lay dying? I suspect something about what I was going to do next like the laundry, or something I wanted to do like rinse my dinner plate. I think the profound thoughts will come in the hours before, provided I am not so cranked up on morphine that I am just watching the walls melt. Will I be alone? I think I will have a dog, so I better use big bowls in case I am not found for a few days.

My Great Aunt Nana was afraid of hospitals and she died in one. That always bothered me. My second cousin Craig lived a year after his fatal diagnosis and no one told me. That continues to piss me off.

My father told my brother and me that if his “dick sill worked” he “would have divorced your mother a long time ago.” I was saddened that he didn’t live until Viagra came on the market or that the whole poker tournament thing came after his death. He was an excellent card player. The last time I saw him alive was at a card game we both played in. I remember finally figuring out his game that night. I guess it was time.

I am getting ready to enter the next phase of my life. I think it will be my last. Will it last 30 years or more?

I just got T.Rex’s Dandy in the Underworld. Marc Bolan and the band were on tour when it came out on March 11, 1977. Six months later he was dead at age 30. I don’t understand why people die so young. He had an exceptionally good time while he was here, but don’t we all?

My skin gets dry in the winter. I started to use this soap I put on a scrungee thing. Seems to be helping. But I reach around to itch my lower back, and I feel hair there. Makes me wonder if I have hair on my ass. I am afraid to look. I am not going to itch there except through clothes to ensure that I gather no information. It is just something I don’t want to know.

Does everyone write poetry at some time in their life?

I lot of us have some perpetual fuck-up we know that makes our life look not so bad. Do those perpetual fuck-ups have someone they know even more fucked up? Is there no bottom to the pit?

I love old pennies. Wouldn’t it be cool to know precisely every story associated with a particular coin from its first use to the present? I pick up every penny I find. I save them. Remind me of my twin.

Time to transit …

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