Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Rudolph The Subtextual Reindeer

Am I wrong? Did I simply drink too much wine tonight? Have I been watching too much Six Feet Under??

At the risk of sounding like "Dr." James Dobson, after my 35th annual viewing of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, it suddenly struck me that there is an enormous and thinly veiled homoerotic subtext running through the 1964 claymation Christmas special centered around the shiny-nosed buck.

While Rudolph himself has to hide his true self under the cover of a false nose to avoid locker room hazing, and eventually wanders into the wilderness with other outcast boys and men, the true persecuted homo is Hermey, the elf.

Hermey, with his fey grin and golden waves, is unable to keep up with the manly elf tasks like painting toy wagons. His mind wanders off to splendid fantasies about being a dentist! Of course his Macho elfin father-figure just doesn't understand. Now, simply exchange "dentist" for "interior decorator" or "jazz dancer" and the truth of the story becomes clear.

And what do these two misfit boys do? Why, they wander off into the woods with a burly redheaded truck driver. Subtle.

Of course, they all eventually end up on the Island of Misfit Toys, a transparent metaphor for San Francisco in the 1960s. Clever.

And the Bumble? First he opposes them. Then he reveals himself to be one of them. I'm calling him a catholic priest. Perhaps, he, in fact, represents all catholic priests.

Have a holly jolly Christmas, my ass. The funniest thing, pointed out by Mrs. Gin-and-Tonic, is while the message is about tolerance, the story is rampant with narrow-minded sexism. So, make way for the queens, but leave the girls at home.

Dead Hooker

As the dead hooker lay naked at my feet, I tucked my enormous tattooed penis back into my leopard-print jockeys…

See, that’s a hook. That’s the way to lead off a blog entry. That’s how you get readers to read more.

For the better part of an hour, I’ve been surfing blogs. (Blurfing?) (Slurging?) (Splorging?) I’ve been scoping out the competition, lurking in corners, handing candy out to kids, luring others back here to the lounge. I feel like a whore, sort of creepy and dirty, but in a fun way.

Anyway, in my splorfing expedition, I came to a few realizations. The following are a few tips and guidelines, for me and for other bloggers:

1) Never, ever, for any reason, at anytime, use the word “Musings” in, on or around your blog. As soon as I see that word (over-used most often in the blog sub-title) I will know that you are a mindless git with no hope of ever having anything interesting to say, and I will click the back button before reading the next line, which will surely read, “These are the things going on in my life.”

2) Discussing the minute-by-minute play-by-play of Karl Rove’s life for the past 8 years does not constitute political discourse, and certainly does not make you Matt Drudge.

3) While all 12-year-old girls seem to have unimaginable HTML coding and web design skills, they all need to spend a little more time working on their typing skills.

4) Blog in English. Ya, I know, people in other countries speak other languages. However, that just seems silly these days. If it was good enough for Ghandi, it’s good enough for you. Besides, I’m not reading your post if you write it in Swahili or Spanish, or whatever…

5) Blog Porn seems to be particularly good. Keep it up.

6) I don’t want to read a three paragraph activity log of your day at work/home/school. I had my own day at work/home/school and I don’t think yours was any more interesting/boring/traumatizing than mine. So, tell me something interesting. I want to be entertained. Tell us all a story. Or at least show us your boobs.

7) As mentioned above, use a hook. This goes for all writing. If you start off by saying, “Ugh, what a boring day” or “I’m sleepy, I don’t really have anything to say,” you would be better not to write at all. At those times, you would be much better off to post a picture of a scantily clad Christina Ricci.

8) If you are doing a geek-fest blog on something way cool, like the new Battlestar Galactica, remember, discourse is good, spoilers are OK, but Fan Fiction is GAY. And when I say “gay,” I don’t mean “gay” in the perfectly acceptable homosexual way. No, I mean “gay” in that “I’m going to kick your poofy-haired imitation-Jordache-jeans-wearing gay ass after school behind the dairy, you 14-year-old Care-Bear-lunch-box-carrying freak of unholy nature” sort of way.

9) Pictures of your baby are cute. Hell, pictures of my baby are cute. Just, for the love of Pete, don’t give out your baby’s full name. Make up a nickname for internet use, Howler Monkey, for instance. It is good to post a photo and say, “Look at cute little Poopy-Bear.” On the other hand, it is not good to say, “Look at cute little Juan Phillipe DeLagarza of 2355 West Polo Lane, Miami Beach, Florida.”

Oh, and remember to use suspense to bring readers back... Remember to come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you more about the dead hooker…

Monday, November 28, 2005


What would Jesus drive?

Apparently, he would drive a PT Cruiser. Thanks to Mrs. Gin-and-Tonic for this LINK. Somebody, please tell me how tricking-out a shitty car serves the Lord.

Oh, and on the subject of messiahs and automobiles, as I was sitting in traffic on I-205 the other day, I saw one of those back-window decals showing Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame) kneeling at the foot of a cross, spiky head bent in prayer. Now, call me a puritan, but I sincerely doubt that Bill Waterson ever licensed his Calvin image for any religious-oriented automobile adornment. Which means only one thing, the evangelical pick-up truck driver in front of me violated several federal copyright laws to spread his childish superficial version of the gospel. I'm no theologian, but doesn't God frown upon theft? Just sayin...

Sunday, November 27, 2005


Whether it was toward the original, and superior, Dick York's Darrin Stephens, or whether it was the lesser, but respectable, Dick Sargent's Darrin Stephens; Samantha's mother was consistently evil is her provocative shrewishness. Endora, the arching-blue-eye-shadowed semi-omnipotent disapproving matron of the black arts, was the nemesis, supernatural persecutor and ever-present harpy to poor Derwood through all eight seasons of Bewitched.

Endora was THE mother-in-law, but not just Darrin's mother-in-law. She was America's Mother-in-law, the embodiment of the popular 20th century archetype of all mothers-in-law. Know-it-all. Manipulator. Busy-body. Witch. Not only could she complain that her daughter married a good-for-nothing toad, she could actually turn her daughter's husband into a toad. Endora, a nightmare stereotype, based perhaps on grains of truth.

I, on the other hand, am not Darrin Stephens. Not only have I always been played by the same actor, but my mother-in-law is nothing whatsoever like Darrin's foe.

I came home from a long day at work on Wednesday, after my in-laws had driven in from Idaho, and what did I find waiting for me on my kitchen table? I'll show you what I found. This:

Note, that's not only my favorite gin. No, that's my favorite Scotch right next to it. Are you fucking kidding me?? I haven't had a treat like that since, well, longer than I can remember.

So, here's to the coolest in-laws ever! Wooo hooo! And after a four-day weekend, I still have some left. Yes!

Mandatory Reporting

I am a very bad parent.

Very bad indeed...

Because I Care

The Lounge is nothing, if not about Giving. So folks, it is my deepest desire to give back to the community.

Many of our Lounge guests say to me, "Brian, I just don't know whether I fit in. I feel so inadequate, so maladjusted." Friends, I feel your pain.

So, by popular demand, and out of the goodness of my heart, I am bringing back the Gin-and-Tonic Lounge Breast Evaluation. I will sacrifice my time and provide this service only because I care. As your virtual bartender and friend, I will accept your email-submitted boob pics, and will post my my semi-anonymous review in the comments section below.

As this is a family-oriented blog, no actual boob pics will be posted. Those will be kept safe and secure in my personal photo files at home... Only the evaluation report will be posted. Note, your fun-bags will be evaluated on the following bases: size, shape, perkiness, hairiness, and nipple placement.

You can email your pictures to me HERE

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Leggo My Lego

Glad to see that Hillsboro is making international news. I'll be out at the Washington County Courthouse on Monday. Perhaps this guy can hook me up with an X-Wing Fighter

HILLSBORO, Ore. (AP) — A man accused of stealing massive quantities of Lego sets from Target stores and reselling them on the Internet was indicted on felony theft and attempted theft charges Friday by a Washington County grand jury.

William Swanberg, 40, is being held in the Washington County Jail in lieu of $250,000 bond.
Authorities say Swanberg had been selling the stolen Legos on a Web site called, similar to eBay but used only by buyers and sellers of Lego items.

Records from indicate that Swanberg has sold nearly $600,000 worth of Legos since 2002.

Based on the information from Washington County detectives, the U.S. Postal Inspectors office became involved. Agents served a search warrant in Reno on Swanberg's residence and needed a 20-foot truck to haul away the evidence.

Target estimates its loss at $200,000.

Detectives contend Swanberg devised a way to replace the bar code on expensive sets with ones from less expensive sets. He purchased the Legos at the reduced price and then sold them for close to the retail price. Target says it identified the scam after Swanberg allegedly committed the same crime in Arizona, Utah, Nevada, and California.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

This Day in History

November 24:

380 AD - Emperor Theodosius, the last Roman Emperor to rule a united Roman empire, enters Constantinople and assumes power. Theo immediately decrees that Christianity is the official state religion of the empire, thus guaranteeing 2,000 years of death, torture, war, genocide, ignorance and corruption. Under his rule, church administrators vote to accept all three members of the Trinity as God, setting up Saint Patrick, many years later, to deliver his Shamrock sermon, which forever guaranteed our right to drink green beer on March 17.

1859 - Charles Darwin publishes The Origin of the Species. Unfortunately, the book contained too many big words and not enough colorful pop-up pictures, which leads American fundamentalists to stop picking fleas off of each other, put down their bananas, and pound their chests in fury. It then takes these superstitious baboons another 150 years to think up the "theory" of intelligent design, a scientific-sounding doctrine, (it has big words!) that says: "Look, the universe and all of that science stuff is really complicated and hard to understand, so it must have been created by the judeo-christian god." Please believe, W is days away from appropriating funding to "study" this "theory."

1963 - Jack Ruby shoots Lee Harvey Oswald. Five years later, the Mafia, with the help of the CIA and the Cubans, give Ruby cancer to shut him up.

2005 - Tom Cruise announces that he purchased his own ultrasound machine so he can constantly monitor the fetus growing inside of Katie. Surprisingly, Tom also admitted that he does not actually have medical training. You know, while questionably-homosexual Tom was entertaining a few years ago, I'm really enjoying the freaky psycho obsessive slow-decline-into-madness Tom much more.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Sam is Dead

Sam, the world's ugliest dog, died Friday just short of his 15th birthday. Believe it or not, the following photo was taken BEFORE he died.

Goddamn, that was an ugly dog...

Welcome Tanner!

Congratulations to Other-Brian and Mrs. Other-Brian, and welcome to Tanner! 49 hours of labor, 17 pounds 3 ounces... or something like that.

He clearly has his dad's ears and hair line.

On the Boats and On the Planes...

...They're coming to America

Apart from the international humiliation of having George W. Bush as our president, it really mostly doesn’t suck to be an American. (Yes, technically, Mexicans and Canadians are also Americans, but you know what I’m getting at, amber waves of grain and all...) (OK, yes, Canada also has waves grain, but it’s more yellowish than our grain, isn’t it?) Anyway, America, it has been the number-one destination choice for immigrants since 1492. (OK, Yes, Leif Ericson beat Columbus by about 500 years, and, right Christopher C didn’t really even reach the American mainland. Be that as it may, can we just move along?)

Being American kicks ass, mostly for one important reason: We have the BEST fricken holidays. We are the only country on the planet to celebrate the dynamic duo of festivals, the King Kong and Godzilla of state-recognized celebration. I speak, reverentially of course, about Independence Day and Thanksgiving. July 4 and the fourth Thursday of November, It’s hard to say which is my favorite.

July 4, Independence Day, the day we celebrate a marginal military victory over our only remaining political ally. We love the Brits so goddamn much, yet every year we commemorate blasting their red-coated asses into sea (with the help of the French, no less…) Smokey grill, cold beer and Chinese fireworks purchased from Native Americans on the reservation across the river… What’s not to love about this holiday???

Then there’s Thanksgiving, the most American of all holidays. Did the Anglican puritan separatist pilgrims really sit on rough-hewn benches with Pocahontas and her family for a feast of turkey and corn? Who cares? I have three kinds of Cranberry sauce to look forward to on Thursday. Sure, between heaping piles of potatoes and pumpkin pie, I’ll reflect on all that I have to be thankful for. Then I will proceed to stuff myself into near-coma and pass out for the ritual afternoon nap in front of the football game. And then, after the nausea has passed, I will eat a cold turkey sandwich before bed. Holy Hell, It’s a great holiday.

In contrast, at the end of the monsoon season in Bhutan, they will celebrate Thrue-Bab, the festival of new rain. This day of fun begins with a holy breakfast of porridge, and culminates with a cleansing bath at the appointed hour of the day. WOOOOO!!!!

Mexico has its Dia de los Muertos, the day of the dead, which is sort of a holiday, but not really, although everyone kind of celebrates it in Mexico, Brazil, and the Philippines. It started as a pagan rite, which was adopted, in typical fashion by the Roman Catholic Church to coincide with All Saints Day. Some celebrants use the day to drink heavily and set their neighbors’ houses on fire. Others spend the day cherishing the memory of dead ancestors with candles, altars, parades and children begging for candy. No one in Mexico really understands it. It seems to be a bit of a Mexican goat rodeo.

Ramadan and Yom Kipur. Two groups of people who hate each other because they each use a different name for the same god, try to out-misery each other through fasting, prayer, and meditation. Oy…

Christmas and Easter. Two very popular pagan holidays co-opted by Christians to promote commercialism and fairy tales. I haven’t celebrated Easter since the late 80s. I only continue to recognize Christmas, because I m greedy and I like to get presents. Hurray for baby Jesus!

Internationally, there is only one holiday that holds a candle to our Wonder Twins, and that is the Hindu Festival of Diwali, the festival of lights. FIVE DAYS of eating, drinking and walking around the street in your best clothes, setting fires, lighting candles, burning lamps and igniting fire works. Good Golly, someone needs to bring that tradition to these golden shores…

You can keep Boxing Day, whatever the fuck that is. And Guy Fawkes Day? Do you really celebrate the bumbling incompetence of a dimwitted terrorist?

So, Thursday, I’ll be here. Well, technically, I’ll be upstairs in the dining room, surrounded by friends and family. More importantly, however, I’ll be surrounded by piles, mounds, and buckets of food. I will stop at some point between mouthfuls of cranberry sauce to be thankful, then, I’ll get back to eating. God bless America.

Monday, November 21, 2005

Fanning the Flames

Enough already. Enough! Put your pencils down, the test is over. Now, get out.

Look, I know that the world is a big place, and there is really room for everyone. I am especially accepting when it comes to the questionably-kinky or the morally-impaired. Those are really my people. They put the bee in my bonnet, so to speak.

Geeks too. I love you guys. I've always sort of orbited the Geek-sphere. I mostly enjoy the geeky-avocations. I speak geek. I wander casually through the streets of geekopolis, not quite a resident and not quite a tourist.

My problem is, mostly, that I get a chronic case of the screaming heebie jeebies when the two groups cross paths. I am sickened and annoyed by their unholy offspring. I am repulsed by the abomination that is, Fan Fiction. [Cue: dramatic music]

I mean, can I not just enjoy my book, movie or television show without some socially-retarded 38-year-old 350-pound virgin writing their own Penthouse letter about it?? I don’t need to read about Harry’s tender bathe time with Ron. I can live happily without reading about Spock using the Vulcan love-grip on Kirk. I certainly don’t need to read about Commander Adama making sweet love to anything or anyone.

I mean, if you think you have talent, apply for a job as a staff writer. Please, though, enough of the naked-Jedi lightsaber duels, the Buffy-Willow pillow fights, and the Clark-Lex-Lana three-ways. Really, I can’t take it any more!

Why can't these fan-fic-Faulkners target the mediocre family friendly fare out there? Why don't we see amature smut written about CSI, Law and Order, or Martha Stewart! (No, really, why isn't there smut written about Martha?? I'd read it...) Why is the information superhighway littered with these unavoidable bags of shit? All of you fan fic purveyors out there should be coralled into one far-off distant sector of the internet, and abandoned there.

Well, all of you, except that one lonely hairy warthog of a woman, busy writing about Martha pole-dancing for Donald. You can stay.

Alright. Thanks for letting me rant.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Hu You Calling Yellow?

Oh, China, home of General Tso's Chicken and exporter of my nemesis, the finger trap! Curse it! Long has it been an isolated nation, a sort of East Asian China-Town of its own, so to speak. After Mao grabbed the reins in 1949 and instituted the mandatory social homogenization known euphemistically as the Cultural Revolution, the funny little bastards closed up shop and turned their 1.3 billion backs on the West.

Recently, however, something has been brewing. In just the past few months, China has stepped up its exploration of space, and has even announced a kennedy-esque mission to the moon. Where once, Chinese technology and scientific advances were held close and kept hidden from the west, Chinese astronomers have recently been announcing remarkable discoveries in space. Strangest of all has been the recent reversal and official celebration of Albert Einstein, who has long been inexplicably held with contempt and distain by the Chinese Government. (Not sure what he did to piss them off...)

China has also been advancing its position in recent months as an international peace maker and regional mediator. Spokespersons for the PRC have specifically and repeatedly referred to China as a Peacemaker. I just find it odd. Sort of like that meeting in November 1992....

Clinton had just won the election, and G. Bush Sr. was on his way out. Clinton had run partially on a platform of getting tough with China for its many human rights offenses. Clinton showed up at the White House for the first of several transition meetings with the out-going administration. The meeting was supposed to last for one hour. However, Clinton was in the oval office with Bush for over four hours. On his way out of the building, the very first thing Clinton said was, "We need to rethink out position on China." Clinton/Gore then proceeded to collect millions of dollars from China over the following eight years. True story.

What I've always wondered was, what was said in that meeting? Anyway, something's up, I just don't know what it is.

In other news, one of the top Vatican Scientists (a Jesuit astronomer!) declared this week that Intelligent Design is not science and should not be taught as such. Jesus, where was this guy when Galileo needed him?? It's interesting that the Popen-fuhrer's science department is siding with us secular humanists. Perhaps, there is hope for the beatification of Hugh Hefner after all...

Alright, enough about politics and science, let's talk about Harry Potter.

We saw Goblet of Fire today. When I read the book, I tried to figure out how they would squeeze it all into one movie. Well, now I know. They just gut the story. Perfectly solid though. I enjoyed Ralph Fiennes as You-Know-Who, he always plays evil well. The story mostly follows the book. The look and feel of the movie was more similar to Cuaron's vision than that of Chris Columbus.

The really important thing, however, was how hot the girls were. I mean Emma Watson, Goddamn, when will she turn 18?? And now Bonnie Wright, who plays Ginny Weasly... Please god, let her grow up and get into porn... And the two girls who played the Patil sisters, I'll show them a little something about Bollywood, if you know what I mean.

So, that was my weekend. How was yours?

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Mens Rea

I would like to commit a crime.

Now hold on, I don't mean a violent crime. I'm not going to crawl in through your bedroom window in the middle of the night or anything like that. Well, on second thought, maybe I will. Are you wearing sexy panties?

No no no...

Just a simple property crime. You know, high-tech burglary, with gadgets, and ropes, and tense background music. I could break in, disable the security system, crawl around in the air duct, use fake finger prints to bypass scanner locks, do some computer cracking on the fly and have a fabulous female partner who speaks three languages and has lustrous red hair.

OK, yes, I just wrote myself into an episode of Alias.

Which reminds me, we decided to remove Alias from our DVR recording schedule. We give up. I just cannot bear to watch the Ben-stained gestating heroine prance around in tight pants and high heels 8-months pregnant. It's always sad when you conscioulsy abandon a show. It's like giving up on a friend with cancer, albeit a dim-witted, corny and embarrassingly far-fetched friend, but still, I'm just sayin...

Anyway, I want to commit a crime, carry out a caper, hold a heist. I'd give back whatever I stole. It's not about personal gain. It's about the adventure, and I'm looking for a crew with talent. Now, where can I find a set of window-climbing suction cups??

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

No Tso, You know?

There is a restaurant in Portland, in the heart of China Town, located on the second floor of a building dedicated to retail Asian import detritus. To reach the food, you must climb grime-stained steps past a full-length mirror; behind which you know the Chinese mafia is waiting with guns drawn protecting their horde of opium.

The stairwell smells of a rancid combination between urine, Pine Sol, and chow mein. The place has a name, but I don't know what it is. I've been going there for five years. I do not know what it is called. My friends and I call it simply "Bad Chinese Buffet," or just "Bad Chinese" for short. And it's bad! It sucks, but it's cheap, and it's a buffet. 3 times out of 5, it makes me sick, but those 2 times out of 5 when it doesn't, mmmm... Buffet.... know what I'm saying?

So, time passes, and every once and a while I get a hankerin, deep, deep in my gullet for the bad Chinese, and today was one of those days. I called around, but none of my buddies were available for lunch, so I was left on my own.

Now, Bad Chinese is downtown, and I work all the way out on the outskirts. The drive is only about 12 minutes or so, but on lunch break, that can be an eternity, and without a lunch companion, the drive is barely worth the Har Gow, the Char Siu Bao, or even the Siu Mai. Thus, today, I decided to try something different.

I cracked-open the yellow pages and found another Chinese buffet, not but a stone's throw from my office. Panda Buffet, on Highway 99, in Tigard!

Let me just say, the phrase "Bad Chinese" now has a whole new meaning. How can you make General Tso's Chicken taste like a turkey sandwich? I ask you!! Every pan was either empty or full of something disgusting. I ended up with a plate full of egg rolls, fried pork bits, and red Jell-O. My second helping (hey, I was hungry!) consisted of more re-heated egg rolls and a salad consisting of iceberg lettuce and watered-down ranch dressing.

And cleanliness?? I'm not convinced that the Health Department knows about this place. I certainly doubt that they have ever visited, let alone inspected. I fear I may die.

So, at least the old Bad Chinese Buffet had some redeeming qualities, and I will continue to return, at least until the MSG catches up with me. As for the new place? Well, let's just say if you read about a Chinese restaurant in Tigard getting firebombed, I know nothing about it.

Super Friend

Fuck the Green Lantern...

Aquaman can buddy up with the Son of God, and kick some super-villain ass!

Or maybe he can partner with BDSM Man!

(That one makes me feel a little dirty)

Monday, November 14, 2005

Solsbury Hill

My wife is well trained. Although she is not a fan of Jello, she has come to recognize that the wrong color of wobbly gelatin desert in a buffet line will certainly lead to my utter dismay. Truly, there are right colors and there are wrong ones. Green, for instance, and red are most clearly the right colors for Jello. Whereas, blue, pink, and yellow are not.

I suppose the rule holds true for most things. Black and brown are the right colors for men's shoes and beer. Red is a good color for flags and...

Oh nevermind...

Hey, I heard that the WB is planning a TV series based on Aquaman. I always felt that Aquaman was the crapiest of the Superfriends, but had the coolest set of Underoos.

I'm going to bed.

Friday, November 11, 2005


According to the CIA, as of July, 2005, there were approximately 6.5 Billion people on this planet. Scientists estimate that the planet will reach its resource production limit when the total global population reaches 10 Billion. In response to this threat, the Zero Population Growth (ZPG) movement advocates a system whereby reproductive partners limit their replacement offspring to one per partner. Thus, over the course of two to four generations, assuming 100% global compliance, the population would reach a state of equilibrium. With older generations dying off, there would be an equal number of younger family members to take their place.

In most western industrialized nations, there has been a natural movement toward ZPG, and in population-crisis countries like China and India, the governments have gotten involved to stave of disaster. Then, there is my friend, Princes Leah. Princess, who has two perfectly fine children already, felt the need for a spare. While she denied that she was spinning the genetic roulette wheel for the elusive double-X, everyone who knows her knew she was gunning for a girl.

Problem is, Leah is OLD. Very OLD. Soo OLD in fact, that there was just a slight chance that her child might NOT be born with flippers, eleven fingers, or whatnot. It was pretty much a foregone conclusion that #3 was on a one-way road to Tard-ville.

Well, the test results just came back, and sure enough, Princess caught an ace on the river. She is finally having the girl that she always wanted one of her boys to be. What's more surprising is that it's not a total retard. In fact, the test results suggest that it's actually going to be quite normal. So, ya, OK, here's my congratulatory note to mother and flipperless fetus.

(Hey Leah, is that the post you were looking for?)

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Design for Dummies

Would any omnipotent creator choose Pat Robertson as his or her spokesperson? I think not. In fact, Pat's very existence suggests the complete lack whatsoever of any intelligence in the grand design.

Pat Robertson Warns Pa. Town of Disaster (AP)

Religious broadcaster Pat Robertson warned residents of a rural Pennsylvania town Thursday that disaster may strike there because they "voted God out of your city" by ousting school board members who favored teaching intelligent design.

All eight Dover, Pa., school board members up for re-election were defeated Tuesday after trying to introduce "intelligent design" — the belief that the universe is so complex that it must have been created by a higher power — as an alternative to the theory of evolution.

"I'd like to say to the good citizens of Dover: If there is a disaster in your area, don't turn to God. You just rejected him from your city," Robertson said on the Christian Broadcasting Network's "700 Club."

Eight families had sued the district, claiming the policy violates the constitutional separation of church and state. The federal trial concluded days before Tuesday's election, but no ruling has been issued.

Later Thursday, Robertson issued a statement saying he was simply trying to point out that "our spiritual actions have consequences."

"God is tolerant and loving, but we can't keep sticking our finger in his eye forever," Robertson said. "If they have future problems in Dover, I recommend they call on Charles Darwin. Maybe he can help them."

Robertson made headlines this summer when he called on his daily show for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. In October 2003, he suggested that the State Department be blown up with a nuclear device. He has also said that feminism encourages women to "kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians."

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

That's Hot

Paris Hilton is more beautiful than you. It's a sad fact, but you just have to face it. Her life is substantially better than yours in almost every way imaginable. She will always have more money than you. She will always be more popular. She will always have more friends. She will eat better than you, and she will drink better than you. She will see more places than you, and she will always be having more fun than you.

She will have more good sex than you will ever fantasize about. Overall, she will receive more pleasure in more ways than you will ever read, hear, or think about. She will have better medical care than you will ever be able to afford, and will likely live longer than you. She will live in complete splendor and comfort every day for the rest of her unnaturally long life.

And all of this simply because she was born. Well, have a nice day.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Cock Gobbler (by request)

It never ceases to amaze me what people will put in their mouths. There seems to be no limit to the greasy girth of meat, around which good folks will wrap their lips, and slide down their throats. Gag reflex aside, that much sloppy protein must surely have some negative long-term detriment.

I speak, of course, of that obscene flesh-orgy known in southern circles as the mighty Turducken. Yes, the Turducken, the glutinous gastronomic abomination of Dixie.

What? You've never heard of this food-fetish Frankenstein? Well, dear friend, this is why you come to the lounge, a little entertainment, a little education, and a little revulsion.

Classically, the Turducken begins with a Turkey. A big-ass massive bird, the biggest you can buy. Strip the body cavity of giblets and all other manner of superfluous fowl flesh, and coat the inner lining with bread crumbs, cranberries, and spam. Next, insert into said cavity one de-boned whole duck. That’s right, a duck. Shove it right on in there.

Using the business-end of a wooden spoon, caulk any gaps, spaces or visible crevices with the above-mentioned spackle-stuffing. Then, take one whole de-boned chicken and shove it into the ass-end of the duck, all the way in. Use your foot if you have to.

Back in the day, that would constitute the entire sum total of a Turducken. The ubiquitous confederate chicken chef would reverently lower the bird mass into the deep fryer and VOILA, Thanksgiving dinner!

Oh, but never stand in the path of progress. No, never, not when there is a bird carcass crevice to stuff. For you see, in recent years, Turducken pioneers began to experiment with the holy of holies, the inner sanctum, the dark pit at the heart of the smallest bird. And then some guy named Bubba, a virtual Einstein of hillbilly cuisine, discovered that there was in fact another bird compact enough yet to wedge into the Chicken. This bird, of course, was the Cornish game hen.

So, now, the modern Turducken consists of a Turkey, stuffed with a duck, stuffed in turn with a chicken, which is stuffed itself with a game hen. Now, personally, if I were to create one of these carnivals of carnal craving, I may roast it overnight on a bed of apples slathered under a sheath of bacon. However, the current methodology seems to include the masterful employment of a smoker or a deep fryer. It makes one proud, in a way, to be an American. I mean, you never hear of Pierre over in Paris, or Abdul in Azerbaijan, coming up with anything like this…


My globetrotting, shiny, and all-around-swell pal, Mary, maintains a magnificently marvelous personal web site, featuring her cats, the Louvre, and cartwheels. There is something about the cartwheel page that makes me grin. I thought I'd share it with all y'all. It has been added to my Links section, over there--->

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Cult of Jim

I clutched the small crate of tea candles in my left hand as I swung my arms in time with my quick-paced stride. I cruised down the middle avenue, passing red-bull's eye-logo-marked aisles. I hummed the theme song to Saturday Night Fever in my head as I strutted, at least in my mind's eye, like a young John Travolta.

I was on course and within sight of the auto parts sector where I intended to acquire a compact tool kit for my car, when an image caught the corner of my eye. I stopped cold in my tracks. I did a double take, and whispered a little too-loudly, "Holy Shit!" The passing-mother of two small children gave me a very dirty look. I didn't care, the older of the two probably heard worse coming from mommy's bedroom on Friday night...

I was dumbfounded, I was astonished, I was annoyed. There, before me, on display with a none-too-small price tag, sitting on the shelf as if anyone in their right mind would buy it, was the DVD of the single worst movie ever made. SITTING RIGHT THERE!!! I mean, somebody could have actually purchased it and taken it home!! Even I was fooled, a few years back, into actually paying money to see that crapass bucket of swine-vomit in a movie theater, and I’m not an easy person to fool! (Well, Cheney’s minions did fool me into voting for W in 2000, but hey, they were able to fool a near majority of voters as well.)

So, anyway, the movie... Way back in 1995, the missus and I were in law school, and had just started dating. Now, I think it’s fair to say that my wife is not shy when it comes to making rules, mostly for herself. Sometimes, the rules even make sense. One of her best rules, and one that we have come to renew our faith in was, “Johnny Depp can be trusted to choose only worthwhile roles, and it is a safe bet to see any movie that he is in.” Being lawyers, we have devised a number of corollaries and amendments to that rule, but the gist basically holds true.

True, that is, with one glaring exception: Dead Man. No, NOT Dead Man Walking, that was Sean Penn. They came out at the same time, and are often confused. No, Dead Man. DEAD MAN. Remember it. Avoid it.

Dead Man, there it was, on DVD. Somebody wasted calories and breath to put the effort into transferring the image to digital format and assembling a cover sleeve. Dead Man. There’s $8.00 and two hours that I’ll never get back.

Spoiler Alert!! Here’s the movie: Johnny is in the old west. He gets off a train, has a scuffle and gets shot. That’s all in the first five minutes. The entire rest of the never-ending Bataan-death-march-like movie is about Johnny wandering into the woods dying, until at last, he gets in a boat. The End.

Not only did I want to gnaw my arm off sitting there, I wanted to gnaw off the arm of the lady sitting in front of me. I didn’t want to appear to be uncultured to my date, so I sat there biding my time. Unfortunately, my date was thinking and doing the exact same thing. I suppose that’s why we got married.

So, why has this cinematic turd been released on DVD? Because there is a group of people who will buy it, and they are The Cult of Jim. Jim Jarmusch. He’s the real perpetrator, and he has followers. Now, I’ve enjoyed some of his other films. Ghost Dog, the story of a modern samurai, was brilliant, and Night on Earth was quirky fun. To his cult, though, everything Jim does is a masterpiece. Jim is infallible.

You can find these people on IMDB or, slathering this hateful piece of garbage with praise, rating it 5 out of 5 stars, and then apologizing to the proletariat for the seemingly plotless storyline. If they are not apologizing, however, then they are condemning the witless critics for not being “NewYork enough.”

Well, poor little me. With seven years of higher education, a staggeringly impressive DVD collection, and a brain the size of a goddamn pumpkin; I guess I just ain’t smart enough about these here moving pictures to have a legitimate opinion…

Once bitten, twice shy. You can keep your stinking DVD. I hope whichever studio executive that decided to release it dies horribly, with pus-filled boils.

Mini Tom

Congratulations to Tom and Mrs. Tom for successfully completing the act of coitus, and achieving ovum-fertilization with uterine-implantation. Mother and fetus are doing well.

As all of Tom's friends happen to be named Brian, we are all expecting the Spawn-of-Tom to also be named Brian, whether it is a boy or a girl.

Oh, and, has anyone heard whether the other Brian, Dentist Brian, has had his kid yet? Hey Brian, are you out there? Hello? What news?

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Takin Care O' Business

It's a fact. Sometimes, you just have to take care of business. Some folks will tell you that it's better to sit back and take a hands-off approach. They will tell you to delegate the tasks at hand to others.

However, when the pressure starts to build, and your business interests are heading for a total liquidation, you will need to take matters into your own hands. Sometimes, you have to work at the problem, and work at it, and work at it, but there will always be a payoff in the end.

They say that success is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. So, your business may require direct stimulation, but then watch as the inspiration grows. Follow up with a lot of sweat and hard work. Eventually, everything will come together, and you will be able to sit back and relax with a clear mind.

Don't Panic

Chinese Scientists (who knew they had scientists...) recently announced that they have calculated the size of the super-massive black hole at the center of our very own Milky Way Galaxy. And the results? Right, the diameter of the black hole, from which no matter or light is able to escape, happens to be equal to the distance from Earth to the center of the sun. Did you get that? The diameter (distance from side to side) of the voracious black orb, around which our galaxy orbits, is equal to the radius of our planet's own orbit around the sun.

Still not getting it? Here let me draw you a picture. Let's say you are the Earth. Then, the Black hole would be an 8-Ball roughly the size of Australia, rolling directly toward you at about a million miles per hour.

We're doomed.

That having been said, and after much consideration, I have decided to fuck it all. I quit. I give up. I surrender. I'm buying a minivan and an entire wardrobe of velour sweat pants and sweatshirts. No more work. No more paying taxes. No more Social Security. All of those helpless elderly government-tit suckers can kiss my apocalyptically hedonistic ass.

I'm going to live in a tree house in the woods.

I'm going to subsist on a strict diet of massaman curry, General Tso's Chicken, negisaba rolls, mandarin oranges, and beer. (Oh wait, I already do that.)

I'm going to watch nothing but really filthy hardcore porn all day, everyday, in the tree house.

I'm going to drink Scotch all day long too. Good scotch, like Oban or Bunnahabhain. I'm going to carry it around with me in a recycled McDonald’s soft drink cup. I'm going to drink it with a straw.

No more showers, no more haircuts, no more shaving, no more laundry. I will live in a bathrobe and moccasin slippers.

I will increase my tobacco habit to three cigars per day and smoke a pipe in between.

Come and get me Universe! Here I am Mr. Black Hole! You can have my crystal scotch decanter when you pry it from my cold dead hands, you super-massive quantum singularity son-of-a-bitch. I don't fear you!

OK, actually I do.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Gin and Tonic Big Tent Revival

I often tinker with the idea of starting my own religion.

I fundamentally believe that if you give people relatively easy-to-understand answers which are, in some way, tied to emotional reflexes, they will believe ANYTHING you tell them. Most people have questions, and want answers, but they are academically lazy. They will actually appreciate someone else doing the thinking for them, telling them how things are, what the rules are, making the universe make sense.

Emotional manipulation accounts for a lot: politics, religion, marketing, patriotism, war, art, entertainment, car dealerships, everything really. I try to resist it. I keep a vigil watch out for it, but I know that I succumb. A simple trip to the grocery store can be a manipulation overload. (Oh god, the mandarin oranges...)

I try to at least be aware of who it is is that is manipulating me. So, who's manipulating you? What do you do (or not do) because of guilt? Because of fear? Because of greed? Because of pride? Because of love? Because of hunger? Because of anger? Because of insecurity??

Who's doing the thinking for you? Why do you trust them? Should you really trust them? Really??

So, anyway, I think about employing my own manipulation at times. I figure a little cold reading mixed in with some pop-psychology and Eastern-sounding philosobabble ought to do the trick. I'll set unattainable goals for my followers. I'll make them fear the unknown. I'll make them dependent on me for the Answers. I'll shame them against looking elsewhere, or questioning my truth. I'll reward them for their dependence upon me.

And in the end, if I'm successful, I will have legions of followers who will joyfully send me their money, and pictures of their (or their wife's) boobs. Amen.

hmmm.. I think I still have some mandarin oranges in the pantry...