Have it Your Way

What in the name of the Whopper is Burger King thinking? Who the fuck is the marketing genius that came up with this train wreck? Have you seen it? The big creepy plastic-headed dead-eyed semi-psychotic fast-food icon, hiding in people's closets, sleeping in their beds, following folks to work...

I mean, what's the strategy there? "OK Mr. Consumer, our food haunts your every waking hour, like a high-cholesterol zombie. You cannot escape! Surrender now to to the dark overlord of charbroiled beef patties!"

Not like I go to Burger King very often as it is, but now I have to boycott the place just on principle. I refuse to reward ill-advised advertising.

Artifacts

When I was 17, my family moved from the ghetto-like hovel of West Covina to a little college town called Claremont, the Eastern-most city in Los Angeles County. We moved into a slightly larger home in a substantially nicer neighborhood. The biggest upgrade in the move, however, was going from 1.5 bathrooms to 2.5 bathrooms.

Having the extra bathroom felt opulent, like swimming in pudding. My sister and I still shared a bathroom, but my parents had their own all to themselves.

Unfortunately, after we moved our existing furniture in to the new place, we realized that our stuff looked stretched. We didn't have enough old stuff to fill up the new space, and in my new bathroom, we didn't really have any stuff at all. So, my mother, being domestic as she is, promptly went out to acquire new stuff to fill in the space.

Returning home from school one day, soon after the move, I trudged upstairs to take a shower. (Really, I was probably going up for some nice after-school masturbation, but that's off-topic.) As I opened the door, I detected the sweet floral scent of potpourri, and noticed new fluffy towels arranged in sets, hanging from the various towel racks. Mom had been shopping.

It wasn't bad, really. It was certainly less-bleak, but then... Then... I saw it.

IT!

Pink and green and blue and mauve, big round googly eyes and pouty cartoon lips. It was the fish. It was a frighteningly garish porcelain fish. It was one of the tackiest things I've ever seen. I do believe that my sister actually screamed when she saw it. We though it was a joke. My mother's feelings were hurt.

So, in one of those odd intra-family gestures, we insisted on keeping it, and thanked her for creating such a pleasant floral-country-under-the-sea atmosphere in which for us to bathe...

It looked something like the picture to the right, only it had more blue and mauve in vertical stripes.

Eventually, I moved away to college. To my surprise, while unpacking my meager belongings, i discovered that the fish had found its way into the suitcase. After some explaining (less than you might think) it became a fixture in my dorm-room bathroom, a sort of good-luck totem.

Then I moved back home. The fish came with me. My sister was irked that not only did it come back, but it went back to its place of honor in our bathroom.

College came and went, Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head, and I left California for Oregon to attend law school. As expected, the fish was found hiding in one of my boxes of things. My new roommate actually thought it was cool. He was odd that way. Roommates changed and the fish came along, presiding from bathroom to bathroom, always giving me that all-knowing googly look.

Then came Mrs. G&T. Of course we didn't get married right away. Shacking up and living in sin for years and years, she graciously acquiesced, and the fish moved along with us. It sat over the cast-iron claw-foot tub in the basement apartment in Salem. It was perched over the sink in Lake Oswego. I took the elevated place of honor on a corner shelf built apparently just for it, in the first house that we purchased. But that was to be its final resting place...

Having delayed the master bathroom upgrade for too long, Karma let us know in no-uncertain terms that it was time to get moving. A leaky pipe in the shower led to hole in the shower wall, which led to the discovery of the carpenter ants. Patches of mold blossomed on the ceiling. Then the fish, taking a nose dive from its shelf, busted the toilet tank into shards. The fish, by the way, was completely unharmed.

In the process of gutting and replacing everything, we discovered that a recess was being created in the wall behind the new medicine cabinet. (You see where this is going...) Offering the fish as a sacrifice to the bathroom gods, we placed it, along with a well-sealed letter of vague explanation, in the crevice, and sealed it behind the sturdy new mirrored fixture to sit for eternity, or at least until the next remodel.

The fish has now become someone else's problem. Perhaps, it shall be discovered one day, perhaps not. The irony is, in the new house, the fish would have gone well with the pink and gray hues of our new guest bathroom...

Double X

Big news from the Southland. In his never-ending quest to be just like me, Tom apparently shoots Xs.

Ella (popular name...) is due in June!

10 fingers, 10 toes, and hopefully, not half-Chinese...

(Not that there's anything wrong with being Chinese, it's just that Tom isn't...)

Ahoy Meaty

If you take a 1.33-pound block of frozen 7%-fat ground beef, sitting in its original styrofoam tray, and hermetically sealed in clear plastic wrapping; and you set it in the sink, with the drain plugged; and you run warm water over the top, letting the water rise up over the sides; you will discover that the total volume of the meat and its container is greater than that of the equal mass of water being displaced. Thus, your meat package will have positive buoyancy, and will start to float..

What you will then have is nothing less than a meat boat. Anchors away!

Patron Saint

My dry cleaner does a lot of business, mostly mine. I take a lot of laundry to him, and he does a pretty good job. If there is a mistake, he takes care of it right away. If I forget my coupon, he still gives me a discount.

The best thing about him, though, is the fact that he took the time to learn my name. Hell, he could charge twice as much, and I would still take my clothes to him. Why? BECAUSE HE LEARNED MY NAME. That is the hallmark of good service, and good service is very important to me.

That's also why I like Don Colorado's, a small Mexican restaurant near my office. The food is good, but the service is better. Plus, they treat me like they know me. They don't actually know my name, but hey recognize me, and they treat me well.

So, I was at Don Colorado's for lunch recently, and I noticed something strange. Most Mexican restaurants, or at least the ones around here, have an icon of St. Martin of Tours hanging over their door. In case you don't know, St. Martin is the patron saint of innkeepers, horses, and protection from poverty. He is always depicted in Roman soldier attire, riding a horse, and handing his cloak to a beggar.

His history has been thoroughly whitewahsed, but basically he was an early Roman Bishop in Gaul. Regardless, his lucky picture hangs in most Mexican restaurants. (Look for him...)

Don't, however, look for him if you have lunch with me at Don Colorado's. He isn't there. It's not that they don't have their own special saint hanging there. They do. He's just not some saint that you'll find on the Roman Catholic Church's index of Saints. No, hanging over the door at my favorite Mexican lunch spot is none other than Poncho Villa.

I knew there was a reason that I liked that place!

Porn

(Hey, the following links are obviously X-rated! Like that's gonna stop you...)

That's right, the time has come. Let's talk about porn. Come on, don't be bashful. Let's just get it out in the open.

Porn is as porn does. The Supreme Court might not know what porn is, but we all know what we like. Perhaps you're not very sexually aware, or maybe you're in denial. In that case, porn may come in the form of food, or perhaps a Pottery barn Catalogue.

Perhaps you are a sex freak, but your twist is more subtle. Perhaps your fantasy life is full and you only need moderate kindling to light the flame.

Maybe you're just an abomination to God. It's OK, really, you are in very good company.

OK, for me, I really enjoy the volume and ease of simple internet porn. There has been much speculation about what sort of devilish titillation lurks about my personal porn list. Well, the time has come, in Willy Wonka-ish fashion, I shall share the bare-bone highlights of my list:

Let's start with the Peeping Moe

This is an old site, with it's roots dating back before the bubble. Do you remember JenniCam, Jennifer Ringly, the semi-pudgy real girl who pioneered real-time web cam technology? One lone college girl, living her entire life in front of a web cam. Everything. EVERYTHING. I remember running off to the computer lab every hour while studying for the bar exam to catch up on Jennifer's life. (No wonder I took the bar exam twice...)

Well, Peeping Moe capitalized on the movement that Jennifer launched. Moe now links hundreds of real-time live cams (most for a fee) for the voyeur in all of us. Do you like to watch? Well, this is the site for you.

But speaking of voyeurs, one of my all time favorites is Voyeur Web.

This is a major international site that collects amateur photo submissions from around the world. It has a hard-core pay site, and an extensive soft-core free site. Photos are sent by the models, or sometimes their husbands. Boyfriends send their girlfriends, and sometimes themselves. This is strictly amateur hour, and you can always find REAL women (and some men). Some are Hot, and some are earnest. If you don't like what you see, hit the back button. You're not going to find a whole lot of airbrushing here.

While this site often serves my prurient needs, I do frequently find it kind of sweet. Often you'll find submissions sent in by some schmuck in Nebraska, showing off pictures of his favorite lady. She might be a little heavy, and certainly not Playboy material, but he's proud of her and he loves her and he wants everyone to see how good he has it. Sure he's spreading naked pictures of his wife around the internet, but I think it's a compliment to the women, in some sick perverted way...

I guess there always has to be rip-offs though. Did you enjoy Voyeur Web? Well, there's still more of the same at the little rip-off site called Free Project Voyeur.

And then there's Ronbo.

Ronbo is a genius. He's a "photographer" and a "film maker" who basically pays hot women to have sex with him while he films it. Ronbo, as you can see, if a shriveled-up ugly old man with a cheesy mustache, and a 10-inch penis. (God bless him.) Ronbo used to have tons of free preview material on his site, but he's tightened-up the buffet in recent years. Still, if you click around long enough, it's quite a show.

Enjoy high-class literate smut? Be sure to check out NERVE.

It used to be a completely-free on-line sexuality magazine. Profit motives have gotten in the way in recent years, but there is still enough free flesh there to have a good time. Read it for the pictures, or read it for the articles. Who cares? You're surfing in the privacy of your own home anyway.

Be sure to check out Tiava.

This is a massive link list recently shared with me by a friend. He's a good friend. Tiava is a good site.

And finally, we come to my very favorite internet porn site: Mad Thumbs.

Maybe you have detected a pattern in my list. I don't like pop-ups. I don't like re-direction. I want a clean-running filthy porn experience. I want it to be free. I want good variety. I absolutely do not want ad-ware or viruses. Mad Thumbs is the place.

It's a thumbnail gallery. You see what you're going to get before you get there. If you find your way into their archive pages, the editor has provided a color code for anti-virus security. If the frame isn't green, don't click on the pic. It's that simple. Thanks Mad Thumbs for protecting me during my porn-surfing safari.

Well, that's it kids. That's my porn list. Do you have favorites that I haven't listed? Well, by all means, share them with your friends here in the Lounge. It takes a village, sometimes, to find the best filth.

Starburst

Starburst candies should not be crunchy.

I believe someone in my office is trying to kill me.

God, Beans, and Naan

This may come as a revelation but I, well, I'm not very funny. That's right, contrary to popular belief, my sense of humor is really quite shallow and not just a little bit lame. I, therefore, have to rely on gimmicks mostly to make people laugh.

And the quickest gimmick of all? Shock. Better if it's awkward shock, but really any old shock will do.

Just this afternoon, for example, a terrific opportunity arose to throw out a bombshell, and it worked. I achieved exquisite shock in fine detail. Now, the coworker to whom I made my revelation, actually reads this blog (Hi Chip!). Therefore, since she's already heard this part, she can just skip ahead a couple of paragraphs...

So, the dirty little secret was that I used to be quite ridiculously religious. Fundamentalist. Church three times per week. Taught Sunday school. Church camp counselor. Bible college. Strict biblical interpretation. No sex. No alcohol. God, what a jackass I was...

This achieved the appropriate level of raised eyebrows and gaped mouths. I felt a sense of accomplishment in my story telling.

This of course caused me to stop and ponder the varied experiences and adventures that came with attending a large active religious congregation in Southern California, many of which, strangely involved Disneyland in one form or another.

It was on one such Disney-related excursion, on a hot smoggy summer night, that we as a godly group stopped at Del Taco for dinner. Del Taco, for those of you who don't know, is like Taco Bell only it sucks far less.

We were all hungry, having spent the entire day in active worship-like activities with near aerobic fervor. Someone in the red van spied a Del Taco in the distance on Katela Ave., and gestured emphatically, yet in a modest Christian manner, to someone in the gray van behind. Both vans careened into the parking lot and 20 stinking teenagers piled out.

I suppose the meek may inherit the Earth, but until that time, the meek shall remain hungry. We all crowded the counter at the same time jockeying for position to place orders first. It was then that the announcement came: "I'm sorry, we're out of beans."

What?

Out of beans?? "What the HECK??" How is it possible that a major Disney-sphere restaurant from the second largest Mexican food chain in Southern California could run out of FRICKEN BEANS??

No explanation was provided. We all ended up ordering beef/chicken/cheese-oriented items. In retrospect, the lack of beans more-than-likely led to a less-polluted ride home in the vans.

And so, with that little nugget of nostalgia on my mind, I headed off at noon to have a rare mid-day lunch with Mrs. Gin-and-Tonic. She was working in Portland today so we both drove halfway across town to meet at our favorite little Indian buffet on Hawthorne. The place always smells great and has the right balance of color and seedy Spartan surroundings. I loaded my plate with basmati rice, chicken tikka masala, some green spinach based glop, and something else with lentils. OH! and the rice pudding.... mmm... Never forget the rice pudding.

Lastly, I passed the Naan basket. It was empty. Well, it had one piece left, which I took, but that was woefully inadequate. I stood there dumbfounded, holding my plate, peering around for help. The place is small and there is only one waiter, Sahib. (Well, I'm only guessing that's his name, since I don't know any other demeaning Indian names.) I looked at Sahib meaningfully, he glanced at me. I gestured to the EMPTY naan basket. He said nothing.

I looked again at the basket, and then back to Sahib, this time with a pregnant eyebrow. Still nothing. I finally asked, with my best impression of English superiority (I'm mostly Irish BTW): "By the by, good man, might there be more naan on its way from the kitchen?"

"No."

Fucker. I was beginning to think that Pakistan has a point...

No naan. How is that possible in an Indian restaurant?? It's a goddamn conspiracy is what it is. I felt full of righteous indignation. I mean this isn't Lagaan, it's not like we've had a seven-year drought. It's Portland-friggin-Oregon. There's no shortage on flat bread.

I felt that some action was called for. Therefore, in Gandhi-like protest, I stuck my finger in the rice pudding while Sahib had his back turned to me. I suppose the lesson there is, never turn your back on your enemy. Shocking, I know.

A Long Time Ago, In a Galaxy Far Far Away

George Lucas could learn something from These Special Effects

Thanks to Abestis

Royale With Cheese

Holy mother of god, THIS is unbelievable.

It's GENIUS I tell you!

Oh hell, you just need to see THE WHOLE THING yourself...

I blame Tom for this...

Chuck Norris Update

Thanks to Ann for this:

A) Recently, an episode of Walker Texas Ranger was aired in France; the French surrendered to Chuck Norris just to be on the safe side.



B) Chuck Norris died ten years ago, but the Grim Reaper can't get up the courage to tell him.

In My Free Time

Well, we've gone and done it. We've gone and set up another blog.

I've written here many times about the new Battlestar Galactica. After Deadwood, it trully is the best show on televsion. There are already many fan boy sites, but we hope to bring something new to the blogsphere geekapoluza. (For instance, no fan fiction...)

So, it is my pleasure to introduce the newest member of this happy little community:

The Most Beautiful Person on Earth

I really don't find Angelina that attractive. I know 99% of the rest of you do, but I don't. I don't think she's unattractive. She just doesn't float my boat. I'll be the first to admit, though, I can be kinda dumb on occasion.

I guess Brad Pitt's attractive too. Women and gay men tell tell me so. Sure, I guess he's kinda pretty.

So, now they have gone and mated, copulated, achieved reproductive impregnation. Too bad for those other kids that she bought on the third-world market. The first born prince/princess of the pop world is on his/her way. There's nothing like growing up in the shadow of your yet-to-be-naturally-born sibling...

So, when this Messiah of the movie industry is born under the Hollywood sign, and the three wise studio executives come to offer their gifts of gold, Botox, and a development deal, what will they see? What will this cinematic Kwizatz Haderach look like?

Well, as usual, science has the answer for us. With the assistance of a massively powerful super-computer, used normally by the NSA to read everyone's email, leading scientists from the USC film school and researches from AFI have produced the following DNA-based Topofacioprogenograph of the new Jolie-Pitt baby:

God bless modern science!

Swedish Egil

While waiting for a witness to arrive for a deposition this afternoon, I had an odd conversation with the plaintiff's attorney sitting accross the table from me. What developed was something of a game attributing various cities and counties in California to certain parts of the human body. After a while, however, a problem developed We started to run out of dirty foul-smelling crevices. I mean,there are only a small number of armpits and ass cracks to go around.

That's the problem with California, the whole state is an ass crack.

And let me tell you, growing up there was no picnic. Floods, fires, earthquakes, riots, AIDS, gangs, drugs, traffic, freeway shootings, skin cancer, air pollution, water pollution, hypodermic needles on the beach, water shortages, power shortages, high taxes, high gas prices; the list goes on and on... Now, I don't believe in God, but if I did, it would seem obvious that he hates the shit out of that place.

The one saving grace of that pestilence-ridden Sodom and Gomorrah was a little alternative radio station called KROQ. In the early 80s, it sounded more like an amateur pirate broadcast, but over time it grew to become a world-class idol maker. In a world full of hip hop an heavy metal, KROQ offered an alternative, which has now become a genre in its own right.

Those early pioneers of alternative radio in Los Angeles have, for the most part, grown old and faded away. Richard Blade, Poor Man, Swedish Egil, Freddie Snakeskin, Jed the Fish, Tami Heide, Spacin Scott Mason, and many many others. (OK, Jed is still there, but he's old, very old...)

So, many years have passed since I fled the Southland, and imagine my pleasure and surprise when I discovered Sirius channel 22, First Wave. It's a satellite radio channel devoted to the alternative music of the 80s and 90s, but better still it's hosted by several of the old KROQ jocks. Holy crap! I was cruising by and whammo, I hear a limey accent say: "This is Richard Blade..." Good god, it's the Dickie Blade Show, back from the dead!

So here I sit, listening to the The Cult, Haircut 100, and the Smiths, on a late-night radio show hosted by Swedish Egil. It's like I'm 16 again. Well, 16 and a few more pounds, oh, and a mortgage, and some scotch. Right, and a baby, but 16 nonetheless! (And yes Tom, we all know that you were the first person on Earth to have Sirius. I realize that you were the very first person to have ever discoverd First Wave...)

Damn you, just let me live my retro-juvenile fantasy.

If You Have to Shoot, Shoot - Don't Talk

I've said it before. Mrs Gin-and-Tonic hates gin. Isn't it ironic?

Well, way back when, at the very beginning of our tawdry relationship, before the baby-making, before the mortgage, before the law degrees, before the long nights on the futon laying awake listening to the loud squeaky giggling copulation in the landlord’s bedroom upstairs, there was a pizza party. Not just any pizza party, mind you. As the self-appointed morale officer of the law school, I felt it my duty to break the monotony of finals season, by serving pizza and martinis in the mock-court room, and playing Casablanca on the over-head monitors.

Somehow, pepperoni and mushroom tastes better in a jury box.

Now, I was nothing more than a horny student and semi-suitor at that point, but the future Mrs. G&T was already smitten. As she arrived for the shindig at the appointed time, I handed her an atrociously concocted dry gin martini (not really shaken or stirred, mostly just swirled...), which she accepted with aplomb.

“You can really tell a lot about a guy by the martini he makes,” she said as she batted her eye lashes. She dutifully gagged the first couple of sips down, and quickly trashed the rest while I was looking away. It was OK though. It wasn’t really important anyway, and things obviously worked out.

What was important, however, were her words. They were wrong. Well, not entirely wrong, just not entirely right. See, I’ve learned since, that there are better ways to learn volumes about a person with just a few words and no alcohol at all.

It is part of my job, when a case actually goes to trial, to select a jury. With the very short amount of time that we are allowed, it is critical to gain as much insight into a person’s soul with as few words as possible, and the quickest way to do that, I have learned, is to ask them to identify their favorite movie.

Romantic, practical, aggressive, empathetic, athletic, academic, artistic, mind-less, shallow, geeky, savvy, arrogant, fucker: I can read you from the movies you like. You cannot hide from my all-knowing Gene Siskel-like gaze.

As for me, my number-one favorite, all-time best-liked movie is: The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly. I’m not saying it’s the greatest movie ever made, just my favorite. I can watch it in its entirety on DVD, in widescreen with surround sound, and then channel-surf past it a little later in the evening, and have to stop and watch a little.

So what does the movie say about me?

It is a movie made by a quasi-lunatic cinematic maverick. A rebel. An individual. It reinterpreted an entire genre and an entire historical era. The protagonists were mutually reprehensible jackasses. The antagonist was professionally sadistic. The characters are motivated solely by greed.

All of the characters, from the title roles down to the legless informant, were universally covered in a thin sheen of oil, sweat and dust. Nothing was clean, not even Tuco’s priest-brother, Father Ramirez.

Loyalties are fluid in the film. The protagonists lie and cheat and leave each other for dead more than once. Trust is non-existent. The only character who doesn’t lie is Angel Eyes, but at the beginning of the movie he goes to a man’s house, eats the man’s supper, then shoots the man and the man’s son. (Big Kahuna Burger, anyone?)

Only at the very end is there the merest hint of a shadow of redemption, but only from a great distance away. Blondie spares Tuco’s life and grants him his share of the gold. Tuco thanks Blondie by calling him a sonofabitch. Roll credits.

Goddamn, I do love that movie!

So can you tell anything about me from this movie? I’ll tell you what, go watch it. Then, come back and tell me all about myself. I do know this, no lawyer that ever asks me that question will let me on a jury.

Peat Moss

There's a drink that I crave at the end of each day
There's a dram that I want after work
It nestles the nerves in its its own wicked way
But too much makes me act like a jerk

It's brown, and it's smoth, and it tastes of peat moss
A decanter is what I keep mine in
It's perfect to serve to your dad or your boss
Whether a blend or good Bunnahabhain (BOO-na-Hobbin)

Be your troubles so large that you can't sleep at night
Of one thing you may always be sure
Whether your burden is heavy or rather quite light
There's nothing that Scotch cannot cure

Carcinoma Cattle Call

Nudists, naturists, sun worshipers... God bless them all!

These hairless monkeys have taken the next step in human evolution, casting off the shackles of shame.


The naturist community is a utopia of sorts, stressing a lifestyle of physical fitness and social cooperation. Everything they do, they do as a group.


I'm not exactly clear what the fascination is with water though;

Or net-oriented sports. With all of the racquet swinging, it just seems hazardous...

And always, they bask in the dignity of sportsmanship and the pride that comes from a game well-played. Well played without pants, but well played nonetheless...

Watch the spike!

They are also apparently obsessed with lawn care. Who knew?? (There was a joke in there about keeping the bush trimmed, but I'm just to tired to put it together... Feel free to make up your own jokes.)

Strippers and Booze and Blood, Oh My!

All lawyers would rather be one of two things: author or teacher. I think my wife has dreams of teaching. I, myself, would rather get published.

Unfortunately, between billable hours, babies, blogging, and general domestic obligations, I have no time to write a book. As it is, I struggle to pump out three dazzling paragraphs per night here, let alone my two feeder-blogs at myspace.com and grab.com. I have no idea how I will keep up with the two-person Battlestar blog proposed by one anonymous reader, and the three-person blog in the works with Tom and Dave.

Write a book? Right...

Well, somehow, my pal, Dave, has managed to write songs with his band, maintain two blogs and a personal website, Manage an overseas team of computer geeks, (OH!) and write a goddamn book.

Well, he's finished the book, and is publishing it under a creative commons license on myspace. So far, we've read about strippers, booze, and a suspicious blood stain; and we're only on chapter two! (as of this posting) You should check it out. You'll need a Myspace account to access it, but hell, everyone has one of those...




Click on the Wingman logo to read the book!

Serenity

My Serenity DVD arrived from Amazon today.


Has yours?

Facts About Chuck Norris

Thanks to Ann for this:

1. Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.

2. Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.

3. Chuck Norris does not hunt because the word hunting infers the probability of failure. Chuck Norris goes killing.

4. Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.

5. If you can see Chuck Norris, he can see you. If you can't see Chuck Norris you may be only seconds away from death.

6. The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.

. Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

8. To prove it isn't that big of a deal to beat cancer. Chuck Norris smoked 15 cartons of cigarettes a day for 2 years and aquired 7 different kinds of cancer only to rid them from his body by flexing for 30 minutes. Beat that, Lance Armstrong.

9. Chuck Norris built a time machine and went back in time to stop the JFK assassination. As Oswald shot, Chuck met all three bullets with his beard, deflecting them. JFK's head exploded out of sheer amazement.

10. When the Boogeyman goes to sleep every night he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

11. A blind man once stepped on Chuck Norris' shoe. Chuck replied, "Don't you know who I am? I'm Chuck Norris!" The mere mention of his name cured this man blindness. Sadly the first, last, and only thing this man ever saw, was a fatal roundhouse delivered by Chuck Norris.

12. Chuck Norris always has sex on the first date. Always.

13. When Chuck Norris sends in his taxes, he sends blank forms and includes only a picture of himself, crouched and ready to attack. Chuck Norris has not had to pay taxes ever.

14. According to Einstein's theory of relativity, Chuck Norris can actually roundhouse kick you yesterday.

15. Chuck Norris once ate three 72 oz. steaks in one hour. He spent the first 45 minutes having sex with his waitress.

16. Chuck Norris counted to infinity - twice.

17. A Handicap parking sign does not signify that this spot is for handicapped people. It is actually in fact a warning, that the spot belongs to Chuck Norris and that you will be handicapped if you park there.

18. As a teen Chuck Norris impregnated every nun in a convent tucked away in the hills of Tuscany. Nine months later the nuns gave birth to the 1972 Miami Dolphins, the only undefeated and untied team in professional football history.

19. Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.

20. Chuck Norris is 1/8th Cherokee. This has nothing to do with ancestry, the man ate a fucking Indian.

21. Chuck Norris sleeps with a night light. Not because Chuck Norris is afraid of the dark, but the dark is afraid of Chuck Norris

22. If Chuck Norris is late, time better slow the fuck down.

23. Someone once tried to tell Chuck Norris that roundhouse kicks aren't the best way to kick someone. This has been recorded by historians as the worst mistake anyone has ever made.

24. Filming on location for Walker: Texas Ranger, Chuck Norris brought a stillborn baby lamb back to life by giving it a prolonged beard rub. Shortly after the farm animal sprang back to life and a crowd had gathered, Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked the animal, breaking its neck, to remind the crew once more that Chuck giveth, and the good Chuck, he taketh away.

25. The quickest way to a man's heart is with Chuck Norris's fist.

26. Chuck Norris is not hung like a horse... horses are hung like Chuck Norris

27. Chuck Norris does not teabag the ladies. He potato-sacks them.

28. Chuck Norris's girlfriend once asked him how much wood a woodchuck could chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. He then shouted, "HOW DARE YOU RHYME IN THE PRESENCE OF CHUCK NORRIS!" and ripped out her throat. Holding his girlfriend's bloody throat in his hand he bellowed, "Don't fuck with Chuck!" Two years and five months later he realized the irony of this statement and laughed so hard that anyone within a hundred mile radius of the blast went deaf.

29. Chuck Norris appeared in the "Street Fighter II" video game, but was removed by Beta Testers because every button caused him to do a roundhouse kick. When asked bout this "glitch," Norris replied, "That's no glitch."

30. If you ask Chuck Norris what time it is, he always says, "Two seconds till." After you ask, "Two seconds to what?" he roundhouse kicks you in the face.

Butter

I used to eat butter as a child. Now, I don't mean that I would add butter in small doses as part of this nutritious breakfast. No. I mean, I would EAT butter.

Take a spoon, and dig into the tub. It's sweet, it's salty, it's smooth and fatty.

When I was small, on Sunday mornings, as a treat, I would occasionally get to go out to brunch with my grandparents and their friends after church. They would always go to the same vintage 1940's diner with moldy colonial wallpaper. They would religiously over-sugar their coffees. Most of the men wore bad ties. Most of the women smelled of cheap perfume.

Back then, their group of church/camping buddies numbered about 20 or 30. Now, many years later, there are only about six of them left. (Must have been the sugary coffee, but I digress...) Anyway, I would regularly wander from one sticky old lady to the next, charming the old bitties while I palmed their paper butter pats. Handfuls, I would horde, and away I would scurry.

Safely back in my seat, following a successful sortie, I would stack like bricks my pilfered pats, waiting for a lull in the conversation. Once the timing was right, and my grandfather was not hogging the spotlight, I would begin to peel the thin layer of wax paper from the butter. Quietly, I would begin to lick the raw butter blocks one by one, scraping the paper squares clean with my teeth. If I kept it up long enough, eventually one of the old women women notice and oblige my craving for attention by shrieking with horror. The others would look and respond with their own obligatory moans of disgust. They were good that way. This went on for years.

I believe that behavior ended sometime before 1984. However, I am certain that it did not occur anytime after that year, and I almost never ate butter again.

It was summer in Los Angeles. The 84 Olympics were in full swing, and Richard Ramirez (the Night Stalker) was gutting women in their beds by the score. It was high time to get out of Dodge. Therefore, the family piled into my grandparents' 1971 chevy van (Later the make-out mobile) and headed for Denver to visit with distant relatives.

It was on that trip that I first discovered the joy of Casa Bonita, but that is another blog to come... (unless I've already blogged about that... Have I mentioned Casa Bonita?) anyway, we were on the road for two weeks and had a local teenage girl house sit and watch our dog for us.

Upon our return, we noticed first that she and her friend were changing the sheets on the beds, quickly. Also our dog looked traumatized. Other than that, the house looked to be in order. A quick check revealed that my toys, absent one storm trooper, were in fine order. All was well.

Until the next morning, that is. Breakfast was eggs and toast, nothing exciting. Orange juice to drink. Butter for the toast. The butter came in one of those big oversized 80s-style buckets. My dad opened the butter and shrieked like a little girl. My mother quickly grabbed the tub and shrieked as well. Being 13 and curious about my dad's peculiar shrieking behavior, I looked also.

There, sitting peacefully in the center in the butter was a long dark pubic hair.

So, I guess the moral to the story is, if you're going to go to a house party, and you decide to fuck the butter, think about trimming the bush first. Thanks.

Time For Bed

I need sleep



Time for bed...

Republicans for Voldemort

I am a Republican. WAIT! Don't go away just yet.

Back when I was a teenager, I was an ass hole. I was also a conservative idealist and a fundamentalist (born again) Christian.

Stop laughing.

I was a juvenile white male, and the God-County-Caucasion calling of the Republican party lured me, like a moth to the flame. I would smirk conspiratorially and nod approvingly each time Rush Limbaugh highlighted the ludicrous hypocrisy of the Political Correctness Movement. It felt like I was on a team, or in a gang. We were rebels, and we were going to kick those anti-American liberals' collective asses!! WOOO HOOOO!! LET'S SMASH THEIR MAILBOXES!!!

Problem is, I grew up, and the various factions of the GOP did not. Most anyone to the right of John Mc Cain seems to be intrinsically unable to avoid acting like a total fucking idiot. It's all about fighting, winning and getting the upper hand. There is no understanding or regard for the rule of law. There is no statesmanship. It's all about (still about) punishing the left for defeating Bush Senior in 1992. It's like a game of kick ball, and all of the illiterate bullies have piled up on the right.

On the left, however, it's no better. The left is like a gaggle of 13-year-old girls, with the name calling, and backstabbing, and tattle-telling. Democrats like to get into everyone's business and tell them what they are doing wrong. They want daddy's credit card (Mine) so they can go shopping for things they don't need. If they don't get their way, they pout. (Don't believe me? Go watch the Alitto hearings.)

Oh god, and the media, NPR, Air America, Fox News, MSNBC, EIB... They are like the same group of 13-year-old boys and girls identified above, only dumbed-down, and hopped up on raw sugar. Where's the discourse? It's all fingerpointing, screaming and crying. Fuckers.

I just want a little maturity. I just want a calm, patient, intelligent grown-up to run the country. You know who I want to be president? George Washington. That's who. Wise, quiet, deliberate. A leader. He recognized the limitations of the office, and warned us about the dangers of party politics. Can't we just dig up some of his hair and clone him?

So, why am I still a republican? I don't know. I'm definitely more of an amoral secularist libertarian, but I don't want to miss out on the primary election process. Of course, I took the oportunity to write-in Lord Voldemort against W in the 2004 Republican Primary... (Poor Tom Riddle didn't win.)

I'm just annoyed by everyone involved. I'm tired of the childishness and greed. I'm sick of the mean-spiritedness and lack of dignity. I wish someone could just blow the whistle and tell the children that recess is over...

Open Letter to Fat Guy at Albertsons

Dear Fat Man:

You were on your knees in the pasta aisle. Since you were talking loudly to yourself, I discovered that you were looking for a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. I'm not sure what you were expecting me to say when you looked up at me victoriously, having tracked down the cleverly hidden wall of blue and white boxes.

Were you having difficulty locating the mac n' cheese? I realize that most of the boxes were low to the ground, well-below your beltline, but since there was about 6 feet of shelf space dedicated to that one product, I thought maybe it's detection might merit less effort.

Cheers to you, though, fat man for finally finding dinner. Considering your girth, I was surprised one box was enough.

Now, about your singing...

I understand that sometimes you can strike gold with the grocery store Muzac playlist. You're shopping along, hunting for Mac n' cheese, when out of nowhere you hear a soothing instrumental cover of your favorite song. In this case, your favorite song appears to be Jungle Love by Steve Miller Band.

That's nice, but you don't always have to sing along. Yes, you thought you were alone, and you were rocking out with Steve and the boys in front of the flavored pastas-in-a-box. When you noticed me standing right behind you, you did stop singing. I'll give you credit. However, after adjusting to my presence, you went back to singing while you scanned intently for your food.

Now, most people might be a little embarrassed. They might pretend that they were never singing in the first place. But not you, Meatloaf. You cranked it right back up.

Was it because you're just too fat to care any more? Did all sense of self-dignity fly out the door with your tight-fitting sized-56 trousers? I'm sorry, fat man. I'm sorry about your lack of basic shopping skills. I'm sorry that you have no respect for yourself. I'm sorry about the certainty that you never have, and never will, touch a naked woman.

You might be a Joker. You could be a smoker. You may even be a midnight toker, but really, the singing has to stop.

Sincerely,
-Brian

Join the Revolution

While the religious right continues its blitz krieg against civil liberties and such constitutional concepts as freedom of speech, the resistance is mounting. Flying in the face of the fascists at Fox News, and sure to draw the ire of Pat Robertson's morality police, the First Amendment guerilla defenders will have their own virtual Tet offensive on Monday, January 9, 2006.

At 6 A.M. EST and again at 6 A.M. PST The Howard Stern Show shall rise from the ashes, beaming down on its own carrier wave from outer space, and there's not a single goddamn thing the FCC Gestapo can do about it.

I have my Sirius radio. Do you?

You Have to believe Me

I get lied to all day long. I expect to get lied to. It's part of my job.

Witnesses lie to me. Opposing counsel lies to me. Clients lie to me. Friends lie to me. Relatives lie to me. Every body lies. Well, almost everybody. I'm pretty sure that my wife doesn't generally lie.

I don't care. I ignore what most people say anyway.

I even enjoy being lied to sometimes, like when I'm looking at a five-year three-page criminal history for a witness who is, at the same time, testifying under oath that he has never been convicted of ANYTHING...


Human beings are generally dishonest at heart. We are vain, greedy, self-centered cowards. We as a species are capable of monumental obfuscation. Wealth, power, even self-preservation depends on it.

I don't expect the truth, and I won't hold it against you if I catch you in a fib, unless of course you are a greedy filthy plaintiff, and I have you in my sights on the witness stand, punk ass!

True truthfulness is rare, but refreshing. It is also awkward to deal with. Lies are just so much more comfortable.

OK, so, having been the target of so many lies for so long, I've gotten pretty good at reading the tells. Here are just a few tid bits:

1) If you confront someone with a factual inconsistency, and they instantly flash a relaxed smile and laugh like to told a mildly amusing joke, you have just nailed them dead to rights.

2) Raised eyebrows with an exaggerated "What??" is also a sure sign of guilt.

3) Raised eyes, darting left and right, with a rambling story of mismatched facts is a physiological tell-tale sign of creative story telling.

4) If they say: "Trust me," "believe me," or "Would I lie?" Don't trust them or believe them because they are, in fact, lying.

5) If they are quick to offer a confession, you can be sure the truth is much much worse...

So, there you go. Use these tips to trap your boyfriend, or better yet, practice avoiding these pit falls and be a better liar.

Down on the Bayou

Ever see a vertical pillar of ice on a dead-headed rose stem? I have. Two years ago. Portland was hit by a ridiculously obnoxious double ice storm. First, we had a thin layer of ice, followed by a layer of snow, which was quickly sandwiched under a second slightly-thicker layer of ice.

I took a single step onto my driveway and slid on my ass down to the street. We were iced in. There was no way to get to the store. So, the next several days required a high degree of creativity to make meals out of the meager inventory found in the cupboards. It became a game. It was kind of fun.

We now have bigger cupboards, and we haven't seen Ice like that since then, but occasionally we play the "what's in the cupboard" game just for shits and giggles.

Last night was one of those nights. Mrs. G&T was getting a hair cut, so the tot and I were left to fend for the family. I strapped the monkey into her high chair for safety, and placated her with various styles of oat-based cereals. The dog took his station beneath her to catch the cast-offs.

I approached the pantry with confidence, swinging the double doors wide. I scanned the boxes, bags and cans of prefab food stuffs. The box of dry Jambalaya rice caught my eye. I scanned the back of the box for basic directions. "For extra zest, add meat!" read the directions. Meat... Oh yes, there would be meat.

From the freezer came the chicken breast, the hot Italian sausage and the remains of a previously opened package of semi-crappy vegetarian sun dried tomato sausage. The semi-crappy sausage didn't concern me, as I had planned to "zest" things up a bit on my own.

Into the pot went all manner of ingredients far above and beyond anything contemplated by the witless jack off who penned the script on the back of the rice box. To say that I diverged from the recipe would be to say that the Rose Bowl Wednesday night was "interesting."

By the time the wife got home, the house smelled of Cajun spice, garlic, and cheesy biscuits (which were baking in the oven). My mouth watered as the steaming heaps of goodness were ladled into my bowl. Thick chunks of glistening sausage baited my taste buds as I carefully carried my meal to the table.

"Crap." The first bite was a chunk of the crappy veggie-sausage, which had not actually absorbed any of the swirling goodness.

"Fuck!" So was the second bite.

Bit after bit, chunk after chunk, I found that my bowl was filled with nothing but rice and the sad synthetic link nuggets. While the missus appeared to have struck the jackpot with all of the good Italian sausage in her bowl, I dejectedly sorted through mine to at least pick out the edible chicken niblets.

The howler monkey and, by extension, the dog enjoyed the rice. The cheesy biscuits turned out OK. However, I was really quite saddened by the sausage. Oh well… I suppose that's the risk you take when you spin the wheel of pantry roulette.

One More Thing

TIME Magazine is never wrong.

#1, Baby!!

Oh, and I've added a new link in my links section. Go waste time at YTMND. Most of the goody is in their Hall of Fame. Don't forget to wait for the sound to load on each link. Tom Cruise Kills Oprah is brilliant!!

Oh, and thanks to Kris for this:

Battlestar Update

A) Thanks to Mrs. Gin-and-Tonic (who, by the way, doesn't actually like gin...) for the best birthday present of the year: A Cylon-Eye T-Shirt from Cafe Press.

B) I have it on good authority that Abestis has been converted, and is desperately trying to catch up before the second half of season 2 resumes.

C) Holy Christ Almighty, Abestis better hurry his ass up, Season two resumes with new episodes THIS FRIDAY at 10:00!!!

Heal Your Gout, Five Dollars

It's official. I am now an ordained minister with the Universal Life Church, legal in all 50 states to perform weddings, funerals, and faith healing.



Pastor Brian welcomes you to his flock. Grape juice and crackers are free.

Take My Hand, Off to Never-Never Land

You can't be held responsible for your dreams, right? They're just your subconscious on auto-pilot, rummaging around and repackaging the crates of crap packed up from the day. Dreams are like the puppet show in Hamlet, a micro-replay of your daily dreads and desires.

It's all a psychological metaphor, right? Dancing equals sex. Sex equals craving. Flying equals achievement. Your mother equals guilt. Sleep equals death, and so forth...

So, we've all had those dreams we wish we hadn't, right? Those dreams that leave us with an urgent need to take a shower: romantic interlude with your mother, passenger in a crashing plane, basement possessed by demons, gay sex with your best friend, and (my favorite) showing up 12 years late for a math test, naked, without your pencil, unsure where the classroom is...

So, I shouldn't be blamed if I've had a couple of unusual kissing dreams lately, right? The first dream was about making out with the wife of someone I know. (And right now, each of you is thinking, "MY wife??" Well, for one of you, the answer is "yes." For the rest, sorry, no.) It wasn't really so much making out, as it was gearing up for one big kiss, with lot's of theatrical dodging and weaving. The problem is, when I see this person now, I feel awkward, but she has NO idea...

Then, there is the other dream. Pretty simple. I was making out with a co-worker, someone I work with. The only odd thing was that her lips felt like they had a tight band of surgical tubing running through them, kinda like calamari. Otherwise, it was perfectly pleasant. Unfortunately, now, when I talk to her at work, I keep thinking about the calamari sensation.

Well, it's getting late. Off to bed for me. I wonder who or what my sad little brain will cook up tonight...