Wednesday, September 28, 2005


The nail on the big toe of my right foot is sticky. I know not why. I know not the cause, source or identity of the offending tacky substance. It feels simply as if I just received a caramel pedicure.

I know this because I am able to virtually pet my big toe with its over-sized hook-ended neighbor. Subconsciously, I slide the gargantuan index-toe over the thumb-toe in soothing rhythm, like a praying mantis before a meal. This goes on, without thought, all day long, and is only noticed when something goes awry, like the discovery of a hangnail or a mysterious adhesive layer...

It is not just my toes though. All of my digits are sausage-like in their dimensions. This is why my typing often looks as if I was whacking my keyboard with a kielbasa. My fat phalanges were not designed for fine detail, which as far as I can tell is the only reason I don't play the banjo. They also make it difficult to pick my teeth, which is why I maintain an abundant stockpile of toothpicks within reach.

Few things in this world offer me as much pleasure as a fresh sharp toothpick, smelling like a mighty lumber yard, wrapped in its neat little single-serving wrapper. Some taste clean like a Christmas tree. Some taste like mint. Some come with an auxiliary second point for rapid reload in the post-lunch battle against spinach and bits of chicken. Some have only one tip, which I always found to be a statement of product confidence by the manufacturer. Occasionally, you can find the pointy-at-one-end with flat scraper at the other end model. These really look to be high tech, but I suspect are more form than function.

Toothpicks make for a great calorie-free way to satisfy your mid-afternoon oral fixation, or a convenient aid to oral hygiene. It is always advisable to pick one up for your lunch-mate as you leave the restaurant, or if you are a dentist marrying a hygienist, it's entirely right to hand little gift boxes of them out to your guests.

So, I say hurray for the little wooden shards of goodness. Hurray! Go grab one for yourself today!

Joke from Leah

Donald Rumsfeld is giving the president his daily briefing.
He concludes by saying, "And yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers werekilled."
"Oh No!" the President exclaims, "That's terrible!"
His staff is stunned at this display of emotion, and watching nervouslyas the President sits, head in hands.
Finally, the President looks up and asks, "How many is a brazillion?"

Even a registered Republican can smile at this one.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005


I have added a Links field along the left side of the page. There, you will find various goodies and tidbits. I will update it as the spirit moves me.

Sleestak in the Closet

Marshall, Will and Holly
On a routine expedition
Met the greatest earthquake ever known
High on the rapids
It struck their tiny raft
And plunged them down a thousand feet below
To the Land of the Lost
To the Land of the Lost
To the Land of the Lost

I hated The Land of the Lost. I watched it every goddamn day. It was 1970s children's programming, so I felt that I had to watch it, but it was creepy, scary and poorly produced. It was weird, with a capital W, which in my pre-school book of rules, meant Crappy.

I was placed in front of the flickering jittering lights and sounds of the magic living-room box, and I never took my eyes away. I faithfully watched, but passionately hated, all of them, the entire Kroft line up: the post 60's hippie-palooza, better known as HR Pufnstuf, Sigmund the Sea Monster, Lidsville, the Bugaloos, Wonder Bug, and ElectraWoman and Dyna Girl, just to name a few. Holy Christ, all of that psychological horror, how did I never end up in counseling?

Land of the Lost. Good god, 30 years later and I cannot get the theme song out of my head. You want some insight into your pal, gin-boy, well here it is. Here is the secret to the sum of my dysfunction. It's these saliva-sucking green bastards right here. Crapass Sleestak, sons of motherless-whores... all manner of wicked nameless fear and anxiety take the form of these little green devils, deep in the dark pit of my self despair; right down there next to the Oompa Loompas and the lollipop-freakin-gang. And don't get me started on Chaka, that slobbering nitwit monkey boy!

And then, there is our mushroom-headed friend, Pufnstuf; avatar for the golden age of drug-friendly hallucinogenic elementary school entertainment. The whole premise, the whole cast of characters, the theme song, the shiny clothes, the Yoko Ono-inspired set design, Witchy-poo, the golden freaking flute, should never have seen the light of day. And somebody, please explain why everyone on the show has a crappy British-like accent, except for the Gomer Pile-sounding slack-jawed mushroom-headed title character. Why does the walking salad ingredient sound like he's from South Carolina?

Sigmund sucked because it was a rip off of Pufnstuf. I think they just really took a few extra HRP costumes that were laying around, and slathered some seaweed for effect. I recall that there wasn't anything in the way of plot, just a lot of characters running around in giant mushroom costumes slapping each other's asses with kelp.

And yet, I kept watching...

Lidsville. I cannot find words to describe how loathsome this show is in my memory. Ripped off sets and costumes from Pufnstuf. The stories, if you can call them stories, at best, were surreal visual analogies for the hellish narcotic-driven self-destruction of the producers. I mean, Why Hats? What conceivable purpose could be served by making all but three of the characters hats? What possible message could there have been? Just looking at a still from this show, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me, and an uncontrollable urge to look away. I think this show was produced by Satan.

The Bugaloos. Catchy theme song. Annoying fake accents. I have no strong feelings about this one.

Wonder bug. Here's my beef. It was a rip off of a cartoon, which was in turn a rip off of Scooby Doo. Hannah Barbara, arch nemeses of the Krofts, spun their own version of the devil-possessed crime-fighting dune buggy first, with Speed Buggy, from 1973 to 1974. For those of you who don't remember, the director of genius-ideas over at Hanna Barbera took the characters from Scooby Doo, changed their names, scrapped the Shaggin Wagon, and crammed them all into a sassy-mouthed convertible buggy. Then, in 1976, in response to the over-whelming public demand for Star Wars-grade special effects, and talking VW conversions, the Krofts gave us Wonder Bug. Fortunately, the public soon gave it back.

Lastly. I just wanted to touch on Electra Woman and Dyna Girl. These little ladies were two of the earliest proto-feminist icons on children's television. And let me tell you, they were hot! Inspirational, in that they seemed able to produce entire episodes with no more money that what the collective cast and crew had in their pockets, EW and DG brought a new raw sensuality to nylon stockings and leg warmers. And Dyna Girl, with those pigtails, and the lycra... I'm starting to feel the need to be rescued. Maybe she and her dominant disciplinarian matron can come on over save me from the sleestak.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Lounge List

Folks over at Grab seem to be obsessed with quizzes. You know, 73 questions about your favorite color, what your kitty smells like, and how you like your eggs for breakfast... Bah! We in the Lounge have no time for such superfluous sassafras.

However, I would like to know you better, so let's cut to the chase. I present to you the first, and likely last, Lounge List. Please take your time. You may begin.

1) What drink do you order when you are trying to impress a date?

2) Tell us your dirtiest joke. (Not the Aristocrats)

3) What percentage gay would your best friend say you are?

4) Texas Hold'em Tournament: R2D2 v. Data?

5) Dick Cheney is a jackass (This isn't really a question)

Before he tucked his tail and went into hiding, our pal Abestis was posting quizzes. So, I assume this will be irresistible to him. However, I encourage everyone else to join in as well.

Saturday, September 24, 2005

The Oracle of Clackamas

Come closer.
Yes, you.
I'm talking specifically to you.

Please scoot your chair closer.

There, that's better. Now, take a deep breath and clear your mind.
You call that a deep breath? Really now, this is serious. One big deep cleansing breath...

There now. Relax your shoulders, and stretch your neck. Make your mind a peace.

See? There you go. As you know, I have been blessed with the sight, and it's time for me to share my gift with you. Now, this is very important. You must place your hands on either side of your computer monitor.

C'mon, I can see that you're not doing what I have asked. Really, place your hands on the sides of the monitor. That's right. You don't want bad Karma do you???

Good... Good... there you go.

OK. now empty your mind. Very good. Alright... Alright... I'm getting a signal. I can see something... It's... It's an image of some... It's a picture... No, It's a letter. The spirits are giving me a letter. It's the letter... E. I sense that the Letter E means something very important to you. See, I feel that you agree with me. Search your feelings, you know it to be true. Yes, the letter E....

Ok, now, concentrate on the letter E, look deep within yourself and you will find its meaning. When you have found it, please continue to read this important message.

Alright, welcome back. I trust that you have found the meaning of the secret message from the spirits. While you were meditating, I was reading my Hopi Goat Bones for further enlightenment. What I saw startled me with its shocking detail. I saw that you have a rare brilliant-shining starburst aura. This makes you unique and powerful among your friends, family, and business acquaintances. You were born destined for great things. Perhaps you have sensed this to be true. There is an anointing upon your head. Perhaps you've felt this energy within yourself. It is that sense that you have, which tells you that people should listen you, and that your words are a powerful force.

However, in the goat bones, I also saw a pelvic shard clouding the prime tarsal. This means that your path is obstructed. There is adversity preventing you from achieving the fullness of your greatness, an obstacle which must be overcome. Fortunately, the hoary mandible lay athwart the 7th rib, which is the sign of victorious power. The fates are, even now, aligning to gird your way. Victory is within reach, great prosperity and joy are yours for the taking. You must only find the meaning of the Letter E, and then act upon that meaning.

Aaaiiiieee... I am spent. I have no more sight left in me tonight. That will be $20. I do take Paypal... You may go in peace.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Quote of The Day

"It's a puppet. It's not a choice."

-Thanks Ann.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Matthew 7:1

You are a dirty pervert.
Don't deny it.
It's why I like you.

Anyway, you are a perv, and you're afraid that your mom (or kids, or wife, or priest) will find out. Well, guess what, they are dirty perverts too. Well, maybe not your kids. Unless of course they are over the age of 18. Then, it's just a one-way ticket to slutville...

Everyone has that one thing (or several things) held down deep in the dark and sticky recesses of the psyche; kept hidden in the places even Freud feared to tread. These are the bad thoughts that make you grin, or the vivid dreams from which you awake feeling guilty and strangely in need of a shower. Some people choose to keep these untidy tidings quietly to themselves, buried along with the embarrassing memories and imprudent secrets.

On the other hand, there are those who choose to broadcast their obnoxious obsessions via broadband for all the world to read. ( I, by the way, enjoyed Martha's first Apprentice episode.) These are the folks without that pesky nuisance called "shame." While those who vocalize, or act-out on, their hot-button issues may be referred to as "fetishists" (or "specialist," as Swearengen would say), I believe that everyone has some fetish or fantasy just waiting to escape.

Now, normal is as normal does, and I'm not advocating that anyone strive for some knee-jerk notion of what normal might be. I'm not even really criticizing those who conscioulsy choose to disregard social convention. "To each his own," I say. Variety is the spice of life. However, sometimes, too much spice can give you heart burn. Please note, I'm not talking about run-of-the-mill bondage or cliche wife-swapping. No, I'm talking about the really annoying whack-jobs. You know, like the frog swallowers and the tit-lickers. (See Deadwood, Season One.)

Honestly, I'm mostly talking about those individuals, who seem to consciously choose the most melodramatic and non-sexual fetish imaginable just for the sake of being seen, like these fellows for instance, who seem to enjoy dressing up like a bunch of dicks.

Nothing, however, can compare to the Mayor of Fetish Town. That's right folks, you know him as your neighborhood mailman, or maybe your local Jr High Principal. He is quite definitely the shoe salesman at Nordstrom. You guessed it, it's the foot worshipper. This guy can't get enough of the toe-sucking. Which is fine enough, I guess, but what isn't fine is the lesser-known ugly-cousin of the foot worshipper, the Shoe Licker. This poor bastard is just sad. He is the guy who takes you out on a date, and spends the whole night dreaming of that magical moment when he gets to sneak out of bed, after you're asleep, and make out with the mukluks in your closet.

The pentulimate pet-peeve perversion on my list is unfortunately gaining ground. When I was a child, I had a friend who always wanted to play the side-kick animal in all of our games. She could never understand why it was inappropriate to be an iguana when we were trying to play dodgeball. I have no doubt that this now-grown girl has a vast collection of equipment specifically designed for this diversion.

I speak, of course, about Pony Play. Yes, make-believe horse games. Stop laughing. These people are for real. They even have conventions, which are euphamistically called Derbies. Harness your loved-one up, and go for a spin, or train her to trot! There is nothing wrong with this, I suppose, if you can find someone willing to cart your ass around the yard with a bridle in her mouth. I just, well, I mean, I suppose it's just to hard to get lathered up when you're laughing so hard.

What really gets me, though, is the number one most confounding fetish on my list. Simply stated, it's Furries. I hate them. I am truly sorry if you are one. I mean no offense, and I don't mean to judge. I just hate you. That's all. You build ornate theme-park like costumes, wear them to conventions, act-out sexually behind the safety of your tweedy-bird head, then go back and write amateur fantasy fiction about your adventure. You litter the information super highway with your poorly-written, often inexplicable accounts of fully-costumed hotel orgies. And then, I have to read them! Damn you! You couldn't just keep it a family-friendly costume hobby?? Noooo, you just had to take it to the next level, didn't you?

So that's it. Sorry that it got a little ranty. Perhaps we can all take something away from this and learn to be tolerant and accept others for who they are. Everyone, that is, except for those useless twisted furry freaks. They can just go to hell.

It's Hypnotic, Almost...

What is love
Baby don't hurt me
Don't hurt me
No more

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

The Plan

The Cylons were created by Man.
They Rebelled.
They Evolved.
They Look and Feel Human.
Some are programmed to think they are Human.
There are many copies.
And they have a Plan

The Plan is the glue that holds this story together. It is the Plan that presumably keeps the humans alive. As Adama has noted, they are outnumbered and vastly out-gunned. Without the Plan, there is no reason for the Cylons to allow the humans to remain alive. Maybe it's the child, maybe it's the gods, maybe it's Earth. Who knows. Whatever it is though, the Cylons need the humans for something.

So, why is it that they keep attacking? What would happen if the humans stopped defending themselves? Would the Cylons truly wipe out the fleet, and eradicate their creators? I'm starting to think maybe they wouldn't. I think the attacking is a form of pushing or motivating, but to what end, I do not know. Destination Earth? Maybe.

For the readers who are scratching their heads, Season One with the original miniseries is available now.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Able to Leap Tall Glasses of Gin in a Single Bound

I was awake. It was dark. It was, what? 2:00? 3:00? I was tired, exhausted. Hell, I was probably drunk. I just wanted to drift off to dreams of long houses with many rooms, any one of the recurring settings. I didn't care. Maybe I would find myself in the parking lot of the airport trying to catch a flight to China. Maybe I would walk down the steps of the old lady's house to the basement, under the basement, under the basement, where the demons lived. Maybe I would tour Tijuana Disneyland with the rickety rides and filthy peasants...

Any of them would do, but sleep, that tart temptress, teased and flirted without granting me satisfaction. It was Panic, see? I was robbed of rest by sheer anxiety. I lay there, eyes wide, staring at the fading fluorescent constellations swirling on the ceiling. The sweat began beading on my brow.

Was it work? No.
Was it finances? No.
Was it some harrowing metaphysical conundrum?


It was Vancouver.

Yes. Vancouver. British Columbia. Canada. I had never been, and had no plans to go. Yet, it is not so far away. As large west coast metropolises go, in fact, it is really quite near. Closer, as the crow flies, to Portland, than San Francisco is. Two million grinning Canucks living in (or around) the city, and I had no idea what the place looked like. I had no sense of the streets, or how they were arranged. I knew nothing of the highways, or where to get gas. Were I to be dropped smack-dab in the heart of the dear old Couv, I would have not the first inkling to where I was, or how to get to any place useful, like a bar, for instance, where I could find gin.

These being the days of the World-Wide-Web's infancy, and having no internet service, I did the only logical thing I could think of. I got up, sauntered to my study and stared at the world map hanging on my wall. Hoping against hope that some inspiration would befall me as I stared at the little black dot just north of the Canadian border, my very tired and somewhat-understanding wife came and found me. I told the tale of my torture , and she promised to take me the very next day to buy a map, and led me then back to bed. Somehow, that promise provided peace, and I was able to drift almost instantly off to dream...

"What the hell kind of blog entry is this?" you may ask. "Good lord, are we friends with a freak?" Just hold your horses, Geronimo, there is a point.

You see, my anxiety came from a sense of vulnerability. Like Clark Kent, writhing with weakness at the sight of certain green rocks, the soft underbelly of my own superpower was exposed. Yes, superpower. No, I do not wear tights, (at least not in public) but I have powers nonetheless. Chief among them, is my internal-OnStar-like capability to find my way, and give directions to others, in every major pacific-coast community from Sea World to the Space Needle. However, as I lay in bed that fearful night, the dark veil of mystery, which had surrounded our neighbors to the North, was lifted, and I knew at once that none of my powers could save me, if ever I crossed the border.

The following day, we bought a map, which I have since studied. Still, though, I have never visited.

For the record, my homing pigeon sense of direction is not my only super power. I also have the ability to make anything (ANYTHING) sound dirty. While my third, and lesser, power is my ability to eat more than most normal human beings, when I put my mind to it. (Or, when I am taunted to do so.) I admit readily that I am nowhere near the nasty-likes of that Japanese kid with the hotdogs, but really, he's just an abomination to nature.

So, what about you? Surely everyone possesses some superpower to larger or lesser degrees. What is yours?

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Speed Blogging

The clock is set at 10 minutes: Go!

Here, I thought I was done. Finished. At the end of the of of the deluge of my household supply of that low-calorie nectar, Pepsi One. Damn them, those Mormons with their Taco Bell and their PepsiCo. Damn the black can and damn Splenda for making that single-calorie cola-taste possible. My Pantry is packed once again. Filled full and bursting with carbonated goodness. Who knew that cola was sold in Volkswagen-sized crates for casual consumption. Well, as it turns out, it is.

Oh, and in order to apparently check-in on the arrival and rate of consumption of the Borg-cube of sugarless refreshment, PepsiCo sent two Mormon agents to my door this evening. The ferocious guard dog, being keenly on alert, first wet himself, then tried to lick Elder Phil. Woulda humped his leg too, had I not slammed the door so quickly.

Ah, in my days of youth, back when I cared, I would have welcomed the white-shirted boys in for a go-around about the lost tribe of Jews coming to America, finding horses and elephants here, and then being cursed by god and turned into Indians, and all of the other fun business found in the Book of Mormon. Now, however, I was simply annoyed that they made me get my lard-ass off the couch, and distracted me from my Miami Vice DVD and my ice-cold Gin and Tonic...

Time is waning. Final note, to all of those smug smirking zealots out there, who know in their heart of hearts that God smote New Orleans because of, oh what, sin or something. Please read Genesis 9. It is there that the god of the bible made a covenant with Noah not to destroy the Earth by flood ever again. SOOOOO, either the flood earlier this month was a god-free random act of nature, in which vast amounts of water followed the rules of physics and ran down-hill, OR your god breaks promises. You choose. Times up.

Fetish Update

Maxin Magazine, October 2005, page 44.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Space Is Kicking My Ass

Nothing worse that a blog that goes nowhere. Three paragraphs in, and it's nothing but pure 100% crapola. So here are the Cliff notes:

A) Hurray for the twin Rovers on Mars!

B) From Mars, Earth looks small. I feel even smaller, but not as small as you.

C) Scientists today observed an explosion in space that occurred 13 billion years ago. However, the universe is only about 13.7 billion years old, which means that at the time of the explosion, the universe at the most, could have only been .7 billion light years across. So, how did We out- run the light from that explosion all this time, and why is it now catching up with us? And, if we are moving away from the relative position of the explosion at something just-less than the speed of light, are the images approaching us in something like slow motion? Like bullet-time in the Matrix?

D) Which leads me to question images of the Milky Way galaxy. Our own galaxy is 100,000 light years across, which means that any image we have of the far side of our galaxy has a lag time of 100,000 years. Which means, at best we only have a blurry lag-time estimate of the current state of our own neighborhood. Like reading the local newspaper from the 1850s.

E) Oh, did I mention the voracious black hole at the center of our own galaxy?

F) Our sun is going to explode in 5 billion years, give or take. That sort of saps the enthusiasm out of going to work in the morning... I mean you can write your name in titanium, dip it in molten lead, seal it in Tupperware and bury it under 10 miles of concrete. It's not going to matter one bit after Ol' Sparky-in-the-Sky goes boom.

G) Hurray for Voyager I and II, 28 years on the job, and still sending radio signals. Voyager I is the furthest man-made object from Earth, and is passing through the final edge of the solar system on its way to inter-stellar space. (Just in time to be gobbled up by aliens and shot back to Earth to mind-meld with Spock...)

That is all.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Such Stuff as Dreams are Made

Greetings from the road. We are in the quaint hamlet of Ashland, home of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. We drove through a bit of a tempest to get here, but all is well. We hope to be home by Monday at the latest, the twelfth night of September.

We have a lovely room here at the beautiful Windsor Inn, and let me tell you, my wife is quite merry to be here. Ashland seems to be an international destination for the cultured traveler, and just last night we met two very nice gentlemen from Verona.

Dinner last night was at a local brew pub. Parking was tight, but we squeezed in next to an Alpha Romeo. Our waitress, Julie, was a bit of a shrew, but the Caesar salad that she served tamed my hunger. I had an Italian sausage burger with grilled peppers (no pepperocinis) for dinner. The amber ale, brewed on-site had a hint of citrus, and was fantastic. They also made much ado about their unfiltered IPA, but it was really nothing.

Due to the poor service, we passed on dessert. However, on the way back to the car, we passed a chocolate shop that had giant Granny Smith caramel apples in the window. Once inside, I discovered that they sold a caramel apple rolled in cinnamon and graham cracker, called the Apple Pie. Measure for measure, that apple was probably the best thing I have ever tasted. So, all's well that ends well.

This morning, while the missus was in a conference, the howler monkey and I attempted to use the public library's internet service to post a blog, which was witty and pithy, just as you like it. However the blog was lost in transmission and my session ended, so my ever-loving labor was lost. Following that comedy of errors, however, I was finally able to use my wifes lap-top and complete this blog from our room. The only question that remains is whether I will return for another dreamy caramel apple this mid-September's night...

Wednesday, September 07, 2005


The sweet Italian pepper. It is everywhere, yet no one knows what the hell to call it. Typically pickled, it is often called the Tuscan Pepper or the Golden Greek Pepper. I simply call it yummy. It has many variations in pronunciation:
"Pepper O'Cheeny"
"Pepper O'Seeny"
I have even heard one unfortunate individual call it:
Once and for all, however, I shall dispense with all the nonsense. From heretofore, the happy little pickled pepper shall be known by its rightful name: Pepper-Cheeny. If you don't like it, you are invited to go stuff yourself.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Crapass Morass

I played my favorite game tonight.

Pin the tip on the stripper? No.
Tandem ferret legging? No.
Taste the penny?? No no no!

Nestled snuggly in a vale of Viagra ads, credit card solicitations, and the other bits of various hoo-hah, with which my cavern-like mail box is daily padded, I discovered my long-anticipated annual guide to practical prognostication. Yes, it had arrived, in all of it's shiny mind-numbing splendor.

The monkey child, temporarily entranced in her post-commute coma, grew increasingly more curious about the object that elicited the "ooh!" from Daddy. However, before the newly arrived treasure could receive the slobber-of-approval, I baited my unsuspecting progeny with a ring of rattling bobbles, and concealed my prize within the waistband cargo-hold of my pants.

What object, you may ask, could generate such glee? Why it's TV Guide's 2005 Fall Preview of course. It is the debutante ball for all young and desperate television shows, hoping to catch the eye of a strapping audience suitor, with the network marketing departments laying out their wares for all to see.

With the tot tucked away, and adult beverages doled out, the missus reads each pitch from the Guide, giving me the culpable network and allotted timeslot. Conjuring my Jovian power to foretell the fate of network television, one by one, I decree whether each new show will last a half season, full season, or will be granted the rare and highly coveted "Renew."

Yearly, I face this task with some trepidation, for disappointment abounds. In truth, my task is akin to that of the Reaper, scythe in hand, separating the chaff from the, uh, (what's worse than chaff?) Anyway, you get the picture. Unfortunately, this year is no better, and actually may be a whole lot worse. To risk a RANT, I will say simply that there seem to be more actors playing lawyers than there are lawyers. Since I do not find watching television shows about people doing what I do all day at work to be relaxing, I will not be watching these.

What I will be watching, though, is The Apprentice: Martha Stewart. Albeit, generally, I disdain unscripted programming, and have nothing more than slight annoyance for the Donald, I freely confess my undying love for Martha. I think she's hot, but I'm not talking about soft-lighted cupcake-slinging Matron Martha. No. No, I'm in love with axe-wielding corporate raider multi-billion dollar Empress Martha. Hero-Martha, who took the hit for the team. Jack-booted thug Martha, who could kick my ass and take my name.

It is hard to take intimidation from the Donald seriously, what with the comb-over and the pouty lips. But Martha... Oh, Martha, with the trimly tailored business suits and the creme brulee-charring laser beam glare. When she says, with oh-so-polite grace, "you're fired," trust me, you'll believe it.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

I have more DVDs than God. Or, at least, more DVDs than Tom. Not that Tom is God-like. No, Tom is a bit more Kathryn Hepburn-like, but with DVDs - But I digress...

Having 6 pearly white chompers, and further having recently deciphered the mystic art of crawling, the howler monkey has now mastered the ever-pleasing game of "Eat Daddy's DVDs!" Her favorite, and apparently the best tasting of the collection, is of course Daddy's DVD of the Sci Fi Channel's re-imagined Battlestar Galactica Miniseries. I am beginning to suspect the toddler of being a Cylon.

Thus, off to the strip mall O'pleanty we headed this fine Sunday-morn, passing packed churches to slake our retail thirst, like the gaggle of pagans we are. In short, our quest was successful, and I came away with the necessary block-and-tackle to construct a more-than adequate baby-proof DVD restraint system.

However, as these things go, I came away with something else. Much to Strider's delight, we returned home with a large bag bearing the Petco logo, weighted down with a heavily misshapen parcel. Having unshipped the cargo, and making grand gestures while doing so, I presented to the dog what might very well be the largest, and certainly most obscene, rawhide monstrosity known to dog-kind.

Never has a dog known more happiness. Admittedly, he was a bit intimidated by the bull-cock-sized inanimate object at first, but now, some two hours later, he has already managed to sever and consume the first hide knot. I fully anticipate the whole to be history by the run of the weekend. Good Dog!

Saturday, September 03, 2005

My friend Mitch once said, "Never watch movies about women, unless the women are in prison. Likewise, never watch movies about animals, unless they are in prison with the women..." Smart guy, Mitch. It may have also been Mitch (although it could have been Aristotle) who said, "Never discuss politics or religion in polite company." And we here in the Lounge are nothing if not polite company. Right?

Well, anyway, Rehnquist is dead. For those of you who look to this blog as your first (or only) source of news and information, SURPRISE!! This means that W will have the historic footnote of having named, simultaneously, a Chief and an Associate justice. Jesus! How many historical footnotes can this jackass fall into?? (Disclaimer: I was duped by Cheney's media stooges and voted for said jackass in 2000. Bilingual moderate, my ass!)

Ten bucks (the cost of ten cans of Mandarin Oranges) says, Cheney resigns, and strong-arms his way into the gold-striped robe...

Nonsequitur side note: The Blogger spell check feature doesn't recognize the word Blog.

Friday, September 02, 2005

Stephen Sommers must have suffered as a child. He certainly holds some sort of sadistic grudge against his dad. As the closing credits cascade, we read that Mr. Sommers has dedicated his Opus to the memory of his father. Ears still ringing, and mind still mulling over who would fund such a craptastic catastrophe, we come across the dedication and feel genuine pity for the deceased.

Van Helsing (2004), the greatest cinematic rip-off since Star Wars, manages to rip off even Star Wars itself. Beyond the obvious pilfered premise; Vampire slayer fights Drac, Frank, and Wolfie; the production team seemed unable to develop a single original idea. To say that I was disappointed by this film would be to say that New Orleans is wet.

Eventually, I stopped tracking the plot-like story, and just started calling out the titles of the plagiarized originals as they occurred, which would then startle and awaken the snoozing missus. By the time they got around to lifting lines from Tuco in the Good the Bad, and the Ugly, I was actually shouting angrily at the TV. This of course did nothing for my wife's attempts to nap, and troubled the dog greatly...

On the upside, I received this bag-O-crap from Netflix. So, I don't have to pay one pinched pfarthing for it. PLUS, I get to give it a negative rating!

Hugh Jackman as a wolf-like human: now there's some inspired casting...

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Vanilla is a flavor. Vanilla is a damn good flavor. Vanilla is not plain. Plain is plain. Plain, by definition, is not a flavor.

Vanilla, like chocolate, is a flavor that comes from a tropical bean. Vanilla does not occur in nature with colored sprinkles, marshmallows, or cashews. Vanilla, as a flavor extract, is a simple clear syrup.

Vanilla is not white. The mighty cabal of ice cream manufacturers have decided that Vanilla is white, but that's just marketing. These are the same people that made you believe that fruits were not vegetables, that two parties make a democracy, and that caramel-brown was a good color for a refreshing beverage. Had they so ordained, Vanilla could be chartreuse.

-This is a non-sequitur, and completely off topic, but I saw a bottle of Banana Ketchup (Bananas are not fruits by the way, but tomatoes are) the other day. Adventurous though I may be, I did not taste it. I felt it was a trap.-

Anyway, Vanilla, next to porn and cheap liqueur, may be man's best friend. Use it as a base, or use it as a garnish; use it for desert, or use it in the main course; just never ever call it plain.

One dear reader called my attention to the fact that I haven't posted any pictures. So, here you go. Here's a picture. It's one of my favorites. I have no idea who these guys are, But I enjoy sniggering at their unfortunate appearance.

See? Don't you feel better about yourself knowing that you don't look like this? Kinda makes you feel superior, doesn't it? Hurray for you, king and/or queen of the world!

Of course, I guess I am making the assumption that you look better than this. Perhaps you don't. Well, my condolences then. You must be awfully lonely. Does your mother even love you? Right, I didn't think so.

Some world religions would suggest that these guys acted poorly in a past life. Other world religions would suggest that they acted poorly in this life. I would personally suggest that their mother was impregnated by a close relative ( or perhaps a llama.) Who knows.

Well I hope you enjoyed this little session of picture sharing.