A "chief" by any other name is still a "champ."

...But first, a last-minute random thought: I might be stretching my neck out here, but I think Saddam Hussein would be a fun guy to hang around with.

And now for the post:

I've always loved those pre-packaged nicknames you use around the office to address other guys. For example, you shout across cubicles to your buddy at work, “What's up, chief?” Then he may reply with, “Nothing's new, sports fan. How about on your end, cool breeze?” “Nothing new here either. Stay cool, hero.” “Peace out, Rock star.”

I like generic nicknames. They transform everybody into an instant friend. They're great for when you're talking to a guy you remember liking, but you can't remember his freggin' name. That's the cool thing about nicknames: you only give them to people you like. So if somebody rolls up on you and drops a “What's shakin', Kimosabe?” on you, you know you're a friend.

I've been working on a list of new generic nicknames we can use around the office and at the local sports bar. Below is what I've come up with so far. Some nicknames have usage notes annexed:

Bull's eye
Anchorman (not for use on fat guys; feelings may be hurt)
Smokestack (excellent for pot-smoking friends)
Habenero (Do not use on people of Hispanic descent)
Space man
Golf pro
Pepper gun
Slider (for heterosexuals only)
Cold brew
LL Cool (insert person's name here; eg, LL Cool Eugene)
Cold cash
Coon dog (Caucasian friends only, please)
Cold drink
Home plate

A nuance of the nickname game is the vaguely insulting nickname. It's still a term of endearment, but it has a whiff of condescension. Reserve these for people you already know and with whom you've established a friendship:

Cheese whiz
Lube job (heterosexuals only)
Rubber crutch (not for the handicapped)
Wet paint
Decaf latte
Sand trap
Red tape
Square knot
Bean bag
Gag gift
Lug nut



*I'm glad the state of New Mexico got its name before the age of mass marketing. Should New Mexico have attained statehood today, they'd name it “New and Improved Mexico, now with 92% fewer Mexicans.” And the state slogan would be “Move here today and receive a free month of AOL.”

*I think a better name for the Roman Sun God would be “Celsius.”

*Here's an idea for the fast food industry. I call it the Premium Line. Menu items cost a bit more, but reasonably intelligent people take your order and prepare the food. The rejects interact with the people in the cheap line, which is what we stand in today. The franchise pays employees in the Premium Line more money, of course, which is why you pay a premium to use it. But tell me this wouldn't be worth it. No jacked up orders. No missing fries. No foreign bodies in the food. Here's an extra dollar. I'll take a Whopper with cheese, hold the morons.

*Everybody jokes about women who visit public restrooms in pairs. That's fine. In fact, it's downright cute. Often they have to tinkle, refresh their makeup or decide how to divvy up the two guys they just met at the bar. But every once in a while, one of them is visiting the restroom to drop a deuce. Do you ladies still appreciate the company? And what's that conversation like, anyway? “Bear down on that turd, girl. Don't stop 'til you hear a kerplunk.”

*The irony in matching wits with a halfwit is, you usually get outwitted by half.

*I've spent 2 years criticizing TV commercials on this blog. I've learned some things. Although advertisers have a million ways to bullshit us, the message they impart on our subconscious distills to one of five: Buy our shit because: 1) you'll get laid. 2) you'll prove you're smarter and more sophisticated than the average guy. 3) your kids will love you. 4) you pain and fears will go away. 5) it tastes good. But don't hate advertisers. They're a blessing. Nobody understands human motivation better than they do. And if you pay attention to them, you'll learn a lot about people, including yourself. Plus, you'll never run dry of blogging topics.

*Here's a good answer to the trick question, Mr. So-and-So, when did you stop beating your wife? Answer: Before I started, jerkoff.

*When God was fashioning our bones, joints and teeth, He mustn't have yet created the element titanium. He could have saved us a great deal of trouble if He made those parts out of that miraculous metal. Plus we could place magnets on ourselves. Hella cool. Imagine an 80-year-old guy walking around like he's Wolverine from the X-men.

*I just heard a Public Service Announcement by the members of boy band N-Sync. Get this. They're coming out against people who make light of the seizure disorder, epilepsy. That's right. Epilepsy. Are epilepsy-haters really a problem? How many people on the entire planet are cold-hearted enough to poke fun at a guy having a seizure. Hey buddy, I've got to paint my fence. Can you hold this can of paint for a few minutes? Or, Say there fella. Are you impersonating a tuning fork? And Here's another PSA I don't understand: Support Breastfeeding. Huh? Who's against that? Maybe a few guys at the formula plant, but nobody else. Women have been breastfeeding since the dawn of time. Plus there's an outside chance you get to see a boob. These PSA people are self-important douchebags. Why don't they tell us something useful? Remind everybody not to go swimming for an hour after eating a hot dog.


Costco is the reason for the season

Last year I shared an experience at Costco during the Christmas Season. I'm posting it again this year. I hope this tale will become a tradition, in fact. Plus, the crap I just wrote isn't postworthy. So I did a quick cut-and-paste of some Christmas leftovers. So please enjoy it whether it's your first or second time around. Merry Christmas to you, all my darling readers.

Having returned from Costco, I’m happy to report the Christmas Spirit thrives. It hangs thick in the air and infects all who inhale it or imbibe it mixed with an equal portion of liquor. It resonates in the horn-beeps of armed motorists who for a lack of a clean shot stew behind sluggish, wayward motorists in the left lane. It shines in the eyes of the child who gave me the finger on my drive home. Merry Christmas, little fella. I hope Mom and Dad give you the news of divorce this year. And what might that be in your stocking? Are those admission papers to military school? You’re twice blessed, young man.

Retailers hustle all year earning little or no profit merely to survive until the holiday season, where they capture the Spirit along with windfall profits which will keep them afloat until the next year. Likewise, I live for the Christmas Season. It rekindles my heart. It redeems my soul. But most importantly, it moves me to shop at Costco.

My trip began with a gridlock formation in the Costco parking lot. It was the funniest thing. An old man was trying to prove his virility by backing into an empty parking space (the empty space itself was a Christmas Miracle). Had he pulled in, it would have taken a few seconds of everybody’s time. Opting to back in, he exceeded his diminishing driving abilities. It wasn’t long before he found himself in a Christmastime quandary. Through a series of over-corrections, he had wedged himself obliquely between two parked cars. His front end protruded enough to block traffic in both directions. The stationary thoroughfare locked in those Costco patrons trying to back out of their spaces. Several motorists blared their horns in celebration of the Christmas Spirit. Fearing gunplay might accompany the Christmas Horns Medley, I resisted the temptation to join them. I eventually found available parking in the adjacent zip code. The aforementioned driver was ambulanced to St. Joseph’s Medical Center after a road rage battery. Those of you wishing to send a fruitcake can email me for his room number.

I entered the store awash in Christmas Spirit. Several patrons loitered in the entryway while talking on cell phones, rifling through their wallets or attending to other personal matters. They afforded me the opportunity to test my driving skills by maneuvering my shopping cart around a constellation of bovine discount shoppers. Naturally I had to fish my membership card out of my wallet while negotiating the dicey entryway. I had to laugh when the Costco Nazi girl in the Santa hat failed to look at my card as I conspicuously displayed it. Oh, well. It was fun just fumbling for the thing.

As I shopped I encountered several more bovine discount shoppers who in a frenzy of Christmas Spirit cut me off, blocked my forward progress and screened me from whatever merchandise might have taken my interest. They congregated around the food samples and competed for morsels of smoked salmon, potato soup and cheese spread. I can only hope some red and green glass shards found their way into the samples. What are the holidays without the hors d'oeuvres? Merry Christmas.

I finally finished my shopping and proceeded to the checkout lines. I found a short line -- another Christmas Miracle! Well, it was short when I entered it. Fearing I’d be lonely this holiday season, a Marlboro-smoking hag barreled her way in front of me. How thoughtful. But for her, I’d have zipped out of Costco without the opportunity to bask in Christmas cheer. The Marlboro lady didn’t have a cart or any merchandise. Instead she beckoned a son (I assumed after seeing the cart-toting male behind me that a man mustered the courage to copulate with her long enough to reproduce) to insert himself and his wares between me and the cashier. The son initially showed reluctance. He gestured at me. But the Marlboro lady assured him I wasn’t worthy of consideration. After all, I had the nerve to enter the line before she got there. The Christmas Spirit prompted me to yield to the son. I suspected he had enough troubles. I moved along to the next line.

It moved surprisingly fast. Before I knew it I was loading my 9-pack of Duraflame Logs on the conveyor belt along with several food items. The cashier and the bagger both seemed friendly enough. The former uttered a hello before whispering to the latter. It didn’t take long for me to learn that the whispering was about my decision to load the case of logs on the conveyor. Said the bagger “Next time, sir, you can leave the case of logs in the cart. Now Cece has to lift it.” At once I offered to lift the case myself, but it fell on deaf ears. The Christmas Spirit had infected these two like a case of gonorrhea. They wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, they struggled with the case together and placed it back in the cart, all the while flashing me contemptuous looks. I noticed that Cece was wearing a wrist brace. One has to wonder why they’d put a cripple on a warehouse register. Many large and bulky items make there way through checkout. Perhaps a job scrubbing bathroom shitters would prove more befitting an employee in her condition. I made certain to suggest that very thing to the line manager on my way out. Anyway, I wondered whether long hours of cashiering wore her wrist. Perhaps her wrist gave way to the chronic stress of furnishing her boyfriend with hand jobs. But for a possible case carpal-tunnel syndrome, I’d have encouraged her to wipe her ass with her attitude. As a healthcare professional, I couldn’t encourage her to further aggravate her ailment. Conscience got the better of me.

I spent my money and it was time to leave. Costco members know you don’t just stroll out of the building. You have to prove you’re not a shoplifter by presenting your receipt to the Costco Doorman. Usually two lines form -- one for each doorman. Today's group of bovines didn’t understand the “form-a-line” concept. The one doorman was standing there with an idle Sharpie Marker. I saw my chance. I darted past the bovines. Just then the other one -- this one a lady, so what does that make her -- a doorperson? -- shouts “people, we have to form two lines. That’s it. Two lines!” Now I started feeling pangs of guilt. Being as smart as your average kindergartner and knowing how to form a line had put me at an advantage. Consequently I zipped past several patrons who’d arrived before me. I’d be damned if I were going to lie in the moral gutter with the Marlboro lady. So I stopped and gestured several bovines to take cuts. But they didn’t get the message. They just chewed hay and stared. That didn’t stop a lady behind me from thundering past and filling the gap with her big, fat Christmas Spirit. I surmised she had a “Save Tookie” rally to get to. I figured that was more important than my thawing chicken pot pie. I waited my turn. Again.

I eventually made it to the doorman who noticed the Heat Dish in my cart. He disapproved of my purchase. In fact, he questioned my sanity. “All these people are buying these things and it hasn’t even gotten cold yet. Crazy.” He didn’t appreciate the irony that even as he spoke, he was wearing a jacket, snowcap and gloves! I saw he was chock full of Christmas Spirit. So I told him that I hoped Santa would bring him that man-sized penis he’s been hoping for so he can donate the 3rd grader one he currently has to charity.

So ended my trip to Costco and so began my Christmas Season. I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am!

Merry Christmas.


Christmastime in the Aire

Above anything else, my blog's purpose to educate and empower my readers. As the Christmas spirit infects us and we feel the urge to celebrate, let's remember these guidelines for the holiday season:

1) Egg Nog should be referred to as “Non-Viable-Tissue-Mass Nog.”

2) Do not under any circumstances expose the general public to second-hand frankincense or myrrh. Although no scientific evidence suggests either is a carcinogen, both scents have connotations with the Christian holiday of Christmas. Please feel free to burn ganja, celebrate with public nudity or urinate in the snow. These are all nonsecular forms of holiday “art.” Those of you creative types who just drank a Thirstbuster should not be tempted to urinate any Christian symbols in the snow. Please stick to abstract designs or your name and you'll be fine.

3) The mythical figure Santa Claus is a staple of Christmas. Unfortunately people have depicted Santa as a white, heterosexual male slave elf-owner animal abuser who keeps his oppressed wife, Mrs. Claus, at home baking cookies while he takes all the credit for Xmas. From now on, Santa's sleigh will be drawn by high-IQ dolphins who work for a livable wage. Santa will not harness these magnificent creatures with reigns. Rather, the dolphins bump the sleigh across the night sky with their noses. Also, Santa is no longer white or straight. Until further notice, he's a gay Asian man bearing a striking resemblance to the guy who played Sulu on Star Trek.

4) The following names: Mary, Joseph, Christopher, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Jesus (pronounced Hey-Soose), James, Peter, Jude, Titus and the surname Wiseman are all prohibited on all government forms or private forms whose enterprises are all or in part subsidized by the federal government (such as student loan applications and FHA mortgages). If you have one of the above names and need to fill out a government form, please denote your Christian name with an “X,” as in X-Mas, to avoid violating the Separation of Church and State codified in the Constitution (Constitutional scholars: I know what you're going to write) and disqualifying yourself from government aid. These names are fine to speak and use in the privacy of your own home, both during the Xmas holiday and the rest of the year, but not in a public forum where government tax dollars partially fund the event.

4a) All Biblical names prior to the New Testament (eg, Josh, Joel, Zeek, Ike, etc.) are, for the moment, acceptable names to include on government forms or to use in pubic schools; however, pending an investigation by the Muslim Anti-Defamation League, these names may be deemed offensive at any time, in which case these names will be denoted either with an “X,” as above, or with the Star of David. Contact your local chapter of the ACLU for up-to-date information on which names are still non-offensive.

5) The Xmas spirit attracts people to America from all over the world. While “undocumented” aliens are free to cross the border at will, they must renounce Catholicism at the fence, whereupon they're free to vote and attain US credentials such as voter ID and driver license. Just make sure you're spending your days in the fruit fields and not at church, vatos.

6) Xmas carols are part of the holiday season. But please sing only those carols that celebrate the winter season and do not explicitly mention “Christ.” Winter Wonderland is an example of an acceptable carol. Singing Amy Grant songs released prior to her pop cross-over constitutes a Class 3 misdemeanor. Anyone playing Kenny G Xmas CDs audible to public thoroughfare will be beaten to a pulp by municipal peace officers with candy cane nightsticks. When the offender, above, opts for Michael Bolton songs, he will be punished by sodomy with a peppermint stick.


Tag-Meme Thingy

My good friend and sometime-nemesis NWJR tagged me for one of these blog-tag-meme things. I've always ignored them because I couldn't imagine anybody would be interested. But it occurred to me that I LOVE learning personal tidbits about fellow bloggers. I really do. Isn't that strange? We hate when others talk about themselves, but we love when others write about themselves. Anyway, instead of dreaming up a collection of quips or a contrarian essay on why bigotry is a virtue or some such nonsense, I'm going to post a little diary entry as described below:

"Each player of this game starts with the '6 weird things about you'. People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog."

Six Jacked-Up Things about Lightning Bug's Butt

1) I use a Sonicare electric toothbrush. The unit automatically shuts off after 2 minutes. I like to go for more than 2-minutes (the wife would argue with that.) Anyway, I have a compulsion to power down the toothbrush manually before the second 2-minute interval concludes – otherwise I fear I'll develop a terrible disease. I've never failed to remember to turn the Sonicare off in time, and I've used it for 3 years. I realize how irrational this is. I don't really believe a toothbrush timer is going to give me cancer or something. But God forbid I let the thing run and then develop a horrible disease coincidentally. I can't spend the rest of my life – however short it may be – wondering whether I could have prevented it by following the rules.

2) I'm pleased with my image in the mirror, but I'm appalled at most photos of myself. I secretly hope that the mirror is more truthful than the camera. But I doubt it. Everybody else looks as good or better on film than they do in real life. Why would I be any different?

3) I live in constant fear of scorpions. I cannot enter a room until I have adequate light to examine the floors. I violently crush and shake my shoes and slippers before wearing them. Every blemish on the floors and walls that I spot with the corner of my eye is a potential threat. I often wake in a panic having dreamed about scorpions. Sometimes I awake slapping my chest or legs or wherever I dreamed the scorpion to be. It takes me several minutes to convince myself the arachnid isn't real. And get this crap: once I forced myself to step on a blemish in the carpeting, telling myself that it's NEVER a scorpion, so stop obsessing. I was in bare feet. Long story short: it was a goddamn scorpion. The one time in HUNDREDS that I assume everything is all right, it's not. The scorpion didn't sting me. But it didn't die, either. I weigh almost 200 pounds. I had to hunt it down and strike it 3 times with a shoe before it succumbed. Rugged bastards, those scorpions. That event changed my life forever. It taught me that all those little worries that never materialize (so you should just stop worrying) become reality the minute you dare dismiss them. Fucked me up, man. It made me a chronic neurotic.

4) I don't want to die. But sometimes a lack of obligation, consequence, worry and a privation of the senses sounds refreshing. Knowing that it will all end one day is very soothing. It gives me a perverted, smug satisfaction that one day soon, I won't have to give a damn and that I can return to that peaceful, 100-million-year slumber so rudely interrupted in 1971.

5) I stopped maturing at 12. Other than taking an interest in the opposite sex, I haven't changed since childhood. As a teen and then as a young adult, I assumed one day the aging process would instill a decent work ethic and a sense of responsibility. I figured a codified adult mentality would “kick-in” at some point. I'm in my mid-30s and I'm still waiting. My biggest priorities are still: sleeping in, dodging work and responsibility, watching TV, surfing the Net, scoring good meals and dessert, playing games, working out, hanging out, wasting time and doing as little as possible. No joke, people. Honest Indian. Mind you, I don't just long to do these things. I actually DO them. I've worked part-time most of my adult life, including my present job. I still watch cartoons. I still eat candy. I still play with toys. I still contemplate what I want to be when I grow older. Between leisure time and a chance to earn more money, I'll take leisure every damn time. I've tried, but I can't give a damn about adult stuff. Who gives a shit about careers, productivity, mortgages and retirement funds, really? Fuck that shit. In fact, these things bring about the sentiments in #4, above.

6) I hate, HATE loud noises. I despise TV commercials because they raise the volume to obnoxious levels. Go ahead and bullshit me, Mr. Advertiser; just stop screaming at me, jagoff. I hate the sound of a telephone ring. Must it be so loud and ugly? Must it sound so suddenly, without warning? I hate lawnmowers and leaf blowers and car horns and jet planes and popping balloons. I hate anything that makes too much noise. You can always choose what to look at, but you can't choose what to hear. So any unpleasant noise is an invasion of my privacy. Loud noise robs me of my tranquility. Strangely, I enjoy the sound of traffic off in the distance, when it's quiet. In fact, that's my favorite sound.

Tag: All my Blogger Idols (Big Daddy Dave Morris, Latigo Flint, Blog Ho, Tornwordo, Miss Cellania and Rizzle Dizzle Riss).


More bullet-ins

*I think I'll open a franchise that competes with Hooters. People know Hooters for the skimpy shorts and tank tops the waitresses wear, thus the innuendo, Hooters. At my restaurant, the girls are going to wear g-strings. I'm calling the place Cooters. Or maybe Butters. Or Hooters, Cooters and Butters. The guys will have to wear the g-strings, too. Just to humiliate them, I'm going to refer to each as a SHORT-order cook.

*Remember the killer whale at Sea World who attacked his trainer? Wouldn't it be fun to pit the whale in a fight with that Tiger who attacked Roy, of Siegfried and Roy? I'd pay 50 bucks for a ticket to see those two in cage match. My money's on the tiger. He's got that killer instinct; he went right for the throat. That whale bit the trainer's foot. Wait. I just Googled Sigflamer and Boy Toy Roy. The article informs the reader that the tiger who put the bash on Roy was "destroyed." That doesn't seem fair to me. The tiger was destroyed but the killer whale gets off with a reprimand and 3 nights with no sardines. Maybe that's because nobody wants to dispose of a 5000-pound corpse. It's easier to scoop up a dead trainer once every few years.

*"Damn you" is the mildest insult involving a swear word. "Damn" was about the only swearing that would make it past broadcast editors until the 1980s. But if you think about it, saying "damn you" is the worst thing you can say. You're entreating the Lord to condemn the person to fiery damnation for eternity. I'd much rather hear a "go fuck yourself" any day. That actually sounds fun! Ironically, if you "fuck yourself" too often, you might be damned to hell. It depends how literally you take the Bible.

*I saw a bumper sticker that read, "I brake for no apparent reason." That's bad news for him and me, because I have a bumper sticker that reads "I sometimes rear-end those who brake unnecessarily." Maybe fate brought us together.

*People joke about office politics, employees at each other's throats, infighting, etc. But if you think about it, work is a big building full of people who all don't want to be there, who dream of quitting one day, who hate most of the people they work for and who are watching the clock with bated breath so they might escape and beat the inevitable traffic jam on the drive home. Suddenly, we all seem heroically well-adjusted. Don't we?

*I don't care what anybody says. Coffee tastes gross. I think that's why Starbucks can charge 5 bucks for a cup. They've earned it -- getting something that gross to taste that good. Until David Copperfield can magically transform a turd into a flank steak, he doesn't have shit on a barista.

*I worked at a hospital once and I asked a patient how he was doing. He replied, "It hurts to breathe." I quipped, "Well then, you should stop doing that." Two minutes later the guy coded on me. Look dude, don't be so literal in your next life. It was a freggin' joke.

*I'm probably not the first person to think of this, but I'd like to see an analogue watch like the Mickey Mouse watches, where the hands are Mickey's arms, only instead, I'd like male porn stars featured on the watch face. Three guesses what the second-hand is.

*I like that expression, shit or get off the pot. I want to start a new one that means basically the same thing: Fuck or get off the sheep.



*I must be shedding my sex appeal as the years advance. I sprayed some Axe Body Spray on my chest and abdomen yesterday. As the commercials depict, this should be the point where several attractive women materialize and grope me. Instead my wife appeared from the kitchen and asked me when the hell I was going to take out the garbage.

*They say “do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life.” That's hogwash. I love doing lots of things, but I wouldn't want to do any of them 40 hours per week. That's too much time to stick with any task or hobby. For instance, I love popping those little plastic bubbles in the packing material. But after a couple of hours of compulsive pinching, I'm ready to set it down. I also love eating buffalo wings and jerking off – sometime simultaneously. But again, after a couple hours, I discard the bones, zip my pants and leave the bus stop. The point is, we need to shorten the workweek.

*There are so many disciplines of martial arts: tae kwon do, jujitsu, judo, karate, Sudoku, etc; they all amount to the same thing: chopping the guy in the throat and kicking him in the bean bag. In fact, I'll bet “tae kwon do” is Chinese for “bruised testicles.”

*Just today I was reading a Gary Larson comic book in a Carl's Jr. I was in a giggly mood and laughing my fool head off. I thought I was keeping my laughter subtle, but evidently I wasn't. Some guy approached my table and said, “Excuse me. My mom over there would love to know what you're reading.” I turned to his mom at the next table and answered, “Mein Kampf.” No, I didn't actually say that. But I wish I would have thought of it then instead of during my drive home.

*Ever notice how many “consultants” are out there? How do they earn their livings? It seems business would be scarce. Do you know anybody who's ever said, "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I'm going to pay somebody else to tell me?" Yeah, sure, my work hires consultants. I always want to ask the consultant, "Hey buddy, how the hell do YOU know how to fix our problems? You don't even work here! If you wanted a sandwich, I'd have to point you to the cafeteria!”


Thanksgiving leftovers

*A girl ballet dancer is called a ballerina. Shouldn't a male ballet dancer be a ballerin-oh? Or how about just a ballerine? Oh, I've got it. How about a “homo?” “Bulgisaurus?” Alright. I'll stop.

*I'm going to apply to be an operator for one of those home security monitor companies. I'd make employee-of-the-month in no time. My customer service would be first-rate. You see, I'd understand that people in emergency situations crave a little levity. I'd lighten the scene with a few harmless jokes before we decided whether I should call the police. Are you sure that's not just the clothes drier alarm? The real crime taking place here, ma'am, is letting a load of cotton whites wrinkle. Or, I'd like to help, but the number nine on my phone is broken. I can't call the police, but I could dial information if you'd like. Or else I could act like it was my first day and I was all confused and flustered and couldn't find the “911” button. Calm down, lady. It's my first day here. Tell that guy breaking through your window to put down the knife and give us a minute. Damn, my computer just froze up...

*Our expenditures are the best index of our values. A casual glance at American spending reveals we spend more on fashion and beauty than on health care. We spend more on cars than on education. And we're all upgrading to flat-screen TVs. Therefore one can conclude we'd rather look good than feel good. And we'd rather look good on the road than on a resume, and we're all desperate to free up 9 cubic feet of space in our living rooms, presumably to provide space for all those damn Glade Plug-ins.

*Future "global warming" disasters are the atheists' version of Revelations. Their "proof" of man-made global warming is proof in the same manner that fish fossils in Kansas are "proof" of the Great Flood. Both groups of people believe that our lifestyles are chock full of such awful deeds that some great force is coming to destroy the planet in retribution. For shame, for shame.

*Drugs dull the mind. They slow it down, inhibit thought. Alcohol lubricates the mind and accelerates it. Under the influence of alcohol, your mind tilts and wobbles a bit, but it glides effortlessly. The message to children is clear: when somebody asks you to try drugs, just say “no.” Then whip out your bottle of hooch.

*I think Hollywood stars make such fools of themselves because they're used to having 23 takes and an editor to get the scene just right. It makes me wonder how many “N-word incidents” are on the cutting room floor, particularly after those Lethal Weapon movies starring Mel Gibson and Danny Glover.

*Everybody hates political correctness, but everybody lives by its creed. I don't care where on the political spectrum you sit, we all resent political correctness. But if that's true, if we all feel that way, how does PC survive and thrive? The PC police are like the monsters in that movie, The Village. They don't really exist, but they terrorize and oppress all of us.

*Teaching is the only profession that commands higher salaries for shoddy work. WalMart is the only retailer that draws the wrath of consumers for offering the lowest prices. Starbucks is the only company that's cool for ripping people off and Bill Maher is the only comic who succeeds by being unfunny.

*Interrogation can chisel the pillars of any great truth and topple it to a pile of rubble and doubt. Zeal can cement a lie into hollow statute of "common knowledge." This is why we're arguing so much. It's also why people are TiVo-ing reality programs.

*I've often claimed that Mac users smoke pot. Something in their anti-establishment attitudes brings on a craving for the weed, brah. But, yeah, Mackies smoke the ganja like Bob Marley's rhythm section. I think those new iMacs come with a USB pop-out bowl for your weed and the remote doubles as a pipe. I'll bet Steve Jobs has a stash that could tranquilize a herd of rhinos.



  • This holiday season marks the beginning of a Thanksgiving death march. Until this November, Thanksgiving remained relatively unscathed by holiday commercialism. Did you notice what they've done? Yep, now stores are open for Christmas shopping on Thanksgiving Night. Thanksgiving is no longer sacred; it's the time to elbow punch fellow shoppers on their way to the last $99 6-megapixel digital camera. One can only hope the post-Thanksgiving meal drowsiness saps parking lot riots ignited by rumors of in-stock PS3s. I gave my wife my nunchucks before setting out for K-Mart last night. Target your opponent's joints, Darling.
  • Do you think that song “All I want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” is more popular in the rural South?
  • I read Mel Gibson is so thankful to Michael Richards that he's finally forgiven the Cosmo Kramer star for collaborating with “that Jew bastard, Seinfeld.” Meanwhile, John McCain denounced Richards' comments, exclaiming, “That's something a gook in a POW camp might say.”
  • That last bullet mark is so politically incorrect I'm thinking of suing myself for violating my own civil rights. In the suit, I plan to go after my Mac-mini. That thing is sweet.
  • I've heard several times now that “the average American gains between 5 and 7 pounds over the holiday season.” If that's true, when the hell do we lose the weight? We must lose it sometime, otherwise we'd gain 5-7 pounds every year. Maybe that's why we have Lent. We sacrifice our favorite food and break even by Easter. This is why religion is important.
  • Many jobs pay their employees differentials for off-hour work and danger premiums for work that involves unusual risk. Fair enough. But how about an “asshole premium?” For each asshole on duty (assholes elected by employee vote), we get an extra 5%. Man, employees at the DMV would clean up!
  • This may be a bit crude, but I believe it's true. The way to know whether you have genuine crush on a girl is this: you wonder how she kisses instead of what she looks like naked. Also, if seeing her thrills you, she's merely attractive. But if you're thrilled just knowing she's around, it's a crush.
  • Soon blogs will wither and die. In their place will be the next generation of personal web pages. They won't feature much writing. Some will have no text at all. It'll be a conglomerate of your taste in music, your favorite foods, your vacation pictures, portraits of your friends and what you look like in your favorite lingerie. We'll present ourselves to the Internet as a collage of thumbnails, video clips and hotlinks. We'll know everything about each other – what we look like, what we drive, where we live, where we traveled, what shows and music we consume – we'll know everything about each other except what we think. On that day my blog will die. It will go extinct and disappear under the ash heap of history – much like Michael Richards' career.


Year-old turkey

I wrote this just before Thanksgiving last year. Luckily I kept it in one of those "Yellow-and-Blue-Make-Green" Ziplock baggies. It should still be fresh and tasty. I hope all of you have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday and eat way too much delicious food.

Every Thanksgiving I get to thinking about the Indians. I wonder if they celebrate Thanksgiving. I don’t imagine so. The way I see it, Thanksgiving is like their Pearl Harbor Day -- nothing to celebrate. Let’s just hope Indians don’t retaliate with an atomic bomb like we did! Ah, why worry? They’re way to poluted with "fire water" to split an atom. Good luck, Chief Tumbling Dice!

Being a paleface, I love Thanksgiving. I enjoy the way we celebrate with lots of food. Thanksgiving is the time of year I wish I had 4 stomachs, like a cow. That would be great. As long as I had a crapper near by, I could eat non-stop by circulating my four stomachs. Come to think of it, better throw in a couple extra poop shoots. You don’t want to bottleneck the system. If I break off the bigger part of the wishbone, I’m going to wish for that -- and for my enemies to be in pain, and a bigger penis if the wishbone can get around to it.

I love the kinds of food you find at a Thanksgiving feast. Turkey is traditional fare. Cooked correctly, it’s lean, tender and juicy meat. Some people claim an ingredient in turkey acts as a sedative and induces slumber. I’m skeptical. I account the after-meal drowsiness to stuffing one’s gullet with a lawn bag-full of food, and all the hooch in the egg nog. Here’s a tip for this year’s feast: marinating the turkey in Rock Star and seasoning with crushed No-Doze offsets the drowsiness. After all, you’ll need your wits for those inevitable family fights -- another Thanksgiving staple. I always pocket a shard of wishbone in case I have to stab my drunk uncle in the neck and make a quick getaway. That’s another tip I’d like to share.

I love egg nog, too. Eggs, milk, cream, sugar, and your favorite liquor. It’s chock full of calories. I drank two glasses of egg nog last Thanksgiving and didn’t recover my appetite until Cinco De Mayo. It’s filling stuff. We could nourish the entire continent of Africa with a few pints of egg nog. Happy Kwanza, Kunta Kinte. Drink up. Incidentally, I pride myself on being a non-judgmental person. But if Africans celebrated Christmas instead of Kwanza, God wouldn’t let them starve (This is the present LBB from 2006 interrupting. I have to say the previous line was one politically incorrect statement. What the hell was I thinking? Also, I may have written glibly of American Indians in the first paragraph, and for that I'd like to offer a toke on the peace pipe to all my Native American readers. I'm glad I've matured into a more sensitive blogger. Ah, the recklessness of youth.).

After a huge meal, the family has to unbutton their pants to accommodate full bellies, all except my uncle, a Class 2 sex-offender who remains under court-order not to unbutton his pants within 50 feet of a minor. Unbuttoned pants are the hallmark of a good meal, aren’t they? That, or a really good adult website. I can barely move by Thanksgiving evening on account of my alimentary canal being full of food. But who needs to ambulate when you’ve got all those wonderful Christmas specials on TV? Every time I watch Macaulay Culkin get his genitals caught in the food processor while watching himself in the mirror, I laugh my ass off. “Agggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” It just keeps getting funnier every year. Some people think it’s the cologne he applies to his face. Not true. This year, pause your TiVo and look at the bottom of the screen. Freggin’ pervert is copulating with a Proctor Silex Salad Pro (It's LBB again. This entire paragraph is rubbish and I regret publishing it last year. I have no such uncle. He's a figment of my imagination like the Holocaust and "women doctors" Also, the genital munilation stuff with Macaulay is, in retrospect, inappropriate. I'm glad I've mutured beyond genital-mutilation humor and whatnot.).

Anyway, I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving this year. Enjoy, Turkey. (LBB again. This one I really, really mean, even more than last year. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!)


Helping hands

Handedness has always puzzled me. Why are we either right-handed or left-handed? I wonder what evolutionary force gave rise to handedness. Sometime during our ascent from the hominids, Mother Evolution said, “Here. I'm going to give you two hands. The right hand will be coordinated and useful. The left is basically for show, so don't count on it to do much. By the way, once man invents religion, Satan may take possession of your left hand to do his bidding. Be warned.”

My left hand is useless. It basically hangs around and waits for a chance to help my right hand do something productive. Here, let me lend a hand with that. No thanks, Lefty. I've already buttoned my shirt. Please try to stay out of the way. Maybe you can find a baseball mitt to slide into or something.

I almost feel sorry for left hands. On the other hand, at least they don't have to wipe butts or other unpleasant tasks of that nature. If ever there was a time to play the “non-dominant appendage” card, it's after a case of explosive diarrhea. Say, I'll tell you what, Righty. You wipe and I'll flush. Deal? Let's shake on it.

I suppose my left hand isn't completely useless. It makes a good vise. It can hold things that my right hand will then screw, tighten, pound, hammer, cut, file, slice, peel, mold or otherwise manipulate. Also, my left hand can help catch a football or hold a piece of paper while the right hand writes on it. Sometimes I'll let my left hand steer the car, but only when my right hand is engaged in a more important task like dialing a cell phone, holding a soda or flipping an inconsiderate driver the bird.

As long as Mother Nature gave us one good hand and one not-so-good hand, why didn't she throw a couple of extra fingers on the good hand and leave the left to fend for itself? I figure the right hand should get at least 7 or 8 of the ten fingers because it does most of the work. Five-and-five seems a misallocation of resources to me. Why waste a thumb on on a hand that can't butter a slice of toast?

Have you ever tried to throw a ball with your left hand? It's a mini catastrophe. If you try passing a football with your left hand, you'd better wear a helmet and a cup, my friend. Otherwise you risk serious injury. If you tried throwing a ball with your left hand to a chimpanzee, the chimp would think, “This is what 5 million years of evolution has done for you people? And why are we playing catch with this rubber sphere instead of our own poo, as God intended?”

Your left hand at work is like your right hand after you've slept on it for several hours and soaked it in an 80-proof margarita until it was frat-house drunk. And how about when you try writing with your left hand? No wonder people believed the devil worked through the left hand. One time I tried to sign my name lefty and the signature looked like something that kid from The Omen scrawled in blood stains. I didn't know whether to grab the White-Out or call on my local priest for an exorcism.

Ponder this. As helpless as our left hands are, we charge them with the task of playing musical instruments, including the guitar. The left hand gets the hard part: fretting the notes. As if playing the guitar weren't difficult enough. Putting your left hand on the fretboard is like putting the slow kid in charge of your physics homework.

Scientists claim handedness results from one hemisphere of the brain dominating the organism. So, if you're left-brained, you're right-handed. Already I'm confused. But forget about the left-right inversion. Whatever your handedness, why do your legs work equally well? I don't have to concentrate on balancing on my left leg. It doesn't wobble or collapse on me. It walks just as well as the right (and is equally sexy). Likewise, both my left eye and left ear perceive the world as well as their right-sided counterparts. If my left eye worked as poorly as my left hand, everything in my left field of vision would look like one of those jacked-up cubist paintings where you can see both sides of the faces at once. Maybe Picasso had a weird, left-handed eye like that. Poor bastard.

The whole handedness thing is weird and I hope that we can cure it with that stem cell pill they're working on. Hopefully the scientists' left hands won't fuck things up by spilling chemicals or crushing slides on the microscope or whatever.


MLK Memorial

To show my support for the planned MLK memorial, I dug up this old, old post. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Hot off the LBB news wires:

The ACLU has entreated US Congress to repudiate the collective works of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., after discovering King was a deeply religious man whose philosophies derive from Judeo-Christian doctrine.

Wolfgang Lipshitz, an American history scholar who researched King for a dozen years and has recently published a comprehensive paper of his work, unearthed compelling evidence linking civil rights champion King to the Christian faith. Among the most shocking assertions Lipshitz makes is that King was a Reverend. Lipshitz details King’s proclivity for Christian teachings and his habit of daily prayer. The paper also postulates that King sought God for His guidance on matters of public policy.

Commenting on his findings, Lipshitz said, “I was shocked and appalled to learn such a revered civil rights leader would be so religious. I’d expect this from a dolt like George Bush, but the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King? What a shame we in academia must now denounce everything King stood for.”

Already college campuses across the nation are mourning the loss of the crux of their social science curriculums. A sophomore student at U.C. Berkeley expressed dismay for Lipshitz’s thesis:

“Martin Luther King was, like, and idol of mine. I’ve got, like, 9 songs in my I-Pod that celebrate the work of MLK. They’re pretty good tunes, too. Now I have to find them shuffled in 9 Gigs of Coldplay and Dave Mathews and delete those f***ers. This is an outrage. Hey man, is this, like, for real. Did Kurt Loder report this? Or is it just another Fox News scam?”

Several students are organizing protests. Picket signs reading, “Separation of Church and State,” and “Keep your Bible off of my body, MLK!” are popping up on Berkeley’s campus and several other forward-thinking colleges. On one such sign, a student drew a likeness of King with the formula “King + Bible = OPRESSION.”

The NAACP has declined comment, but anonymous inside sources have leaked a covert strategy to segregate MLK’s teachings from the organization’s agenda.

Meanwhile, the Muslim Anti-Defamation League has embraced Lipshitz’s work. Said its spokesperson, “We celebrate this discovery and look forward to the peace MLK’s religious teachings impart on public policy. Perhaps America will one day know the peace the Arab world enjoys thanks to its religious convictions.”


You're just hurting yourself

I hate when I hurt myself. I do it so often, however, that I must wonder whether a part of me enjoys it. I know it's not the "me" typing just now. Maybe the other me, the me who forgets to pay the cable bill, burns the toast and takes a test-sip of milk long past its expiration date when he knows damn good and well it's spoiled. That me is a real jerk. Consider yourself lucky he's not the one typing just now because he'd most likely offend you with a derogatory statement or an ethnic slur. He loves those.

I hurt myself often, as I typed above. Luckily it's never anything life-threatening. Just stupid, little things. That's what angers me the most. They're such petty, careless transgressions that you'd wonder why I'd take the trouble. I wouldn't rise to anger should the injury be grave. Let's say, for example, I leapt from a plane sans my parachute. No anger at all. Plummeting toward earth, I'd feel downright sorry for myself. I'd forgive and forget. On second thought, I wouldn't forget, what with the wind screaming by my ears, the sensation of weightlessness and the view of earth become larger and larger as it approaches. Plummeting to earth is not a subtle event. But one shouldn't be angry with oneself when death arrives, for one will need all the poise and charm one can muster when negotiating entry with St. Peter.

The "jerk me" bides his time for every the least opportunity to inflict pain. Here's an example. Preparing a sandwich, I'll often cut or stab my hand with the cutlery. Son of a bitching bitch. In Boy Scouts I learned to cut away from your hands, but once I earned the merit badge, I tossed that lesson out of mind along with the painful memories of inappropriate touching from the scoutmaster. So I cut my hands a lot. Sometimes I do it making sandwiches. Other times it's household chores. In either case, I usually compound the transgression by immediately reaching into a bag of potato chips. I find salt and vinegar Lay's chips best exploit a fresh laceration on the finger. Once that juice soaks in the wound you're good for about a half an hour. Son of a bitch!

I often whack my head on hard objects. This really chaps me. It infuriates me so much that I often throw a punch at whatever object had the nerve to exist in the same space I was placing my head. You can see the flaw in my reasoning: if the object is hard enough to crack my head, my fist doesn't have a Chinaman's chance at going unscathed. Still, the little bastard must pay, so I'll usually punch it and get on with my life.

Sometimes I'll insert a hot parcel of food in my mouth and scald my tongue and cheek. Son of a bitch! I don't know what it is about food that zaps my patience. You could pour liquid magma on piece of pizza. If I'm hungry, I'm taking a test-bite, at least. I don't care if it is 2000 degrees and glowing red. This is an extra-sausage thin-crust from Rosati's! No, you eat the garlic bread. I'm taking a bite of this baby. Aghhh! Son of a bitching bitch!

Closely related to the above is biting the inside of your mouth. You don't realize how sharp your teeth are nor how forceful your bite is until you jab an incisor into your cheek. With a good swipe you can puncture the mucosal layer and get into the epithelium. That's the perfect opportunity to forget you just bit a hole in your cheek and cram a handful of salt and vinegar Lay's potato chips in your mouth.

Burning yourself may be the thing that angers me the most. I've got a hundred different ways to do it. I don't need to be cooking or operating machinery to give myself a charming red welt on my skin via burn injury. Here's a little maneuver I perfected last summer. I fastened my seatbelt after my car sat in the Arizona sun for about 4 hours. Strangely the clasp didn't feel that hot in my hands. But then the the clasp worked its way between my pants and my tee shirt whence it came to rest on the pubic region, just above the patch. Son of a fuck! The flat surface of super-heated metal seared itself to my abdomen while I was negotiating the local mall's parking lot. And here's the cute part. Grasping for the release button, I managed to scald my fingers, too. It wasn't hot to the touch previously, but now that I desperately needed to escape, the clasp was hotter than Satan's ballsack. In this episode, not only did I discover a new way to burn myself, but I defied the laws of physics as well!

I'd love to continue this essay, but I just pinched my foot between my computer chair's wheel and the hardwood floor. Son of a bitch!



  • I couldn't afford a pick-up truck. I could afford the truck, but I couldn't afford all the crap I'd buy once I had a truck to haul it with. When I think of all the big-ticket items I had to leave at the store, I realize that my Toyota sedan paid for itself. I could afford a big house, too, but I couldn't afford to fill it up with stuff. I think that's why businesses use cubicles. They save millions on office furniture.
  • Remember the stink Boy George raised over his community service obligation? If he's willing to tumble for us, he should be willing to sweep up the trash for us, too. Do you really want to hurt me? No, but I'd love to humiliate you while you perform menial labor in a bright, orange suit and no makeup.
  • Recently I had the chance at a sex orgy with Cher, Susan Sarandon and the lady who played Mrs. Brady. But I added up all their ages and it was like 223 or something. All of the sudden, it seemed like a gross thing to do. Sorry, ladies.
  • Say the word "boner" over and over again while you think about what "boner" means. See if you can do it without laughing. Boner, boner, boner, boner...
  • If I owned a saloon in the Middle East, I'd name it The Seventy-Two Virgins. If I had a second bar, I'd call it Hijacker's. This is just good business sense, people. You have to cater to your customers.
  • A touching and revealing part of American culture is naming alcoholic beverages after disasters. We named a drink after a horrible military tactic the Japanese concocted -- the Kamikaze. We have a forgiving goddamn nature. Don't we? Hurricane, Depth Charge, Earthquake, Mudslide, Death-by-Hanging (Saddam Hussein loves that one!), Stick-in-the-Eye... they're all both tragedies and drinks you can order at TGIF's! Give it a few more years to cool off and we'll have drinks named the World Trade Center, the Flight 93 and the Bo Bice.
  • Remember all those 125% refi mortgages before the real estate market cooled? How did the mafia compete? I imagine they had their own 125% plans. If you didn't pay up, after they broke all your limbs, they'd punch you in the face, too. Hey-ah Paizon, jou pay-ah da mahney you owe us-ah now. Capice?



  • I'm so in the habit of blogging. Today I read a news story and at the end I started looking for the "comment" hotlink.
  • Have you ever used a “soft” cuss word to guard against giving offense, but moderated the safe word with “fucking?” For example, what the fuckin' heck? Fuckin' oops. That defeats the purpose. That's like ordering a cheeseburger with a DIET Coke. You already did the bad thing, so doing the right thing doesn't count anymore.
  • I like to watch those cancer commercials where patient after patient looks into the camera and says something like, "I'm ready to fight my cancer." As they whiz by, I say out loud: "He's dead. She's dead. He's probably dead. Dead. Dead. He might make it; he looks a bit stronger than the others... dead, dead, and... dead. I know they're only actors, but still, some of them will probably get cancer someday.
  • I once told a cop to go "beat a confession" out of his own penis. Yes, I still got the ticket. And a couple bonus tickets, too.
  • I don't know how people decide on which tattoo. Those things are for LIFE. I can't even commit to a screen saver.
  • Men buy women drinks and women buy men greeting cards. We should invert these practices so that both sexes are happier. Dear Attractive Stranger at the End of the Bar: Looking forward to meeting you, getting to know you better and perhaps engaging in intercourse. All My Best, LBB.
  • Right now I'm listening to a 70s hit by Dr. Hook. The lyrics begin, “When you're in love with a beautiful woman, it gets hard. When you're in love with a beautiful woman, you know it's hard.” Well Dr. Hook, I'm sure under the right circumstance, that's true, indeed. Either that or she means nothing to you and it's the first thing in the morning. I'll wonder if Dr. Hook is a urologist.
  • I found this ironic. I was watching The View on television and I longed for a set of TV blinds. There really isn't much of a view. It's more of an eyesore what with that pig, Rosie O'Donnell. The camera zoomed on Rosie and before I thought to censor myself I exclaimed aloud, “Jeez, I'd rather get a “view” up Barbara Walters' dress.” The other shoppers in the Sears Appliance Department decided to ignore me.


Standing in line, or "queueing up" for you in the UK

Standing in line is a real drag. You know how you feel when you step into a long line. OK, honey. I think this is the back of the line. Then you fall in. Hopefully the person in front of you doesn't smell too bad and isn't wearing Spandex. Anyway, you're the last in line. You look down the line and estimate the number of people. Then you take a look behind you and see nobody. That's when you start feeling like a real douche bag. Of all the people in the the demographic "line waiters," you're at the bottom of the list. Everybody outranks you - and only because they had the nerve to enter the line before you arrived. Screw them. As the line moves, you try to gauge the speed of the line and how much time you'll have to wait. It says Express Lane, but it's not expressing itself very quickly, you think. But internal sarcasm won't move things along any faster. You're really screwed. This line is long and it isn't going anywhere fast. You wore your uncomfortable dress shoes today. The person in front of you is wearing Spandex. They've exceeded the maximum items posting and the maximum dosage of Old Spice Aftershave. Drag.

If you peer down the line, you'll see some people up front looking back at you. They have a look of pity on their faces, along with the smug, self-satisfaction that typically occasions those with greater fortunes (and also people who drive hybrids). Up yours, frontie. What makes you so freggin' great? What, so you'll get closer seats at the Justin Timberlake concert. There's plenty of seats for all of us. And with JT, there's not a bad seat in the house. I'm bringin' sexy back...Yeah!

Sometimes you have to take a number before you wait in line. Then you can sit anywhere you like. You're just waiting for your number to be called. I don't think they should dispense the numbers in order. They should spit out at random. Put some entertainment into waiting in line. Everybody enjoys playing the lottery. Imagine waltzing by some poor schmuck who's been waiting for an hour for his pain pills at the pharmacy. Sweet! I drew a three. I just got here and I'm next. Ha! Eat that, you gimpy bastard. Say, I'll tell ya what. You look like you're in a lot of pain. I'll trade you my low number for your crutches. We gotta deal?

Jumping into a long line sucks. But with time, your disposition improves. Suddenly you glance back to find that there are those more pathetic than you. You're moving up in the world. You've made your mark. Sure, you've still got some time to kill. But at least you're not one of those douche bags back there. You're achieving rank and status. By the time you approach the front of the line you feel like royalty. Those adolescents working the line are merely your subjects. Sir, would you like the front seat of the coaster, or the back? I shall assume the throne in front, my good man, and here's a little something for you. Sir, you can't bring the life-sized stuffed gorilla on the roller coaster. Here's your dollar back. Step down, you insubordinate peon. I insist that Mr. Bubbles rides with me. Sir, I'm going to have to ask you... Aside! Kneel and bow. Ah, here come the guards. Guards, seize him. Wait, unhand me you fools. I'll have your heads for this. This is an outrage...

I hold line-jumpers beneath contempt. Scourge of the earth, these line-jumpers. They think they're so sly and you won't notice. What they don't realize is, you've got nothing else to do but scrutinize of the line. Of course I'll notice you taking cuts, jerkoff. I've been standing in this line for an hour. I know who's in it and who wasn't. I don't know what the law says, but you should be allowed to Taser line-jumpers into unconsciousness. Imagine a whole line of people at the DMV Tasering some punk who tried to give them the slip. That would make the wait a little less tedious. Once, I watched helplessly as two teen-aged punks took cuts in front of me at Disneyland. I would have loved to Taser them. Zap! It's a small, small world, mother fucker.

That's settles it. I'm buying a Taser and going to Disneyland. I hope there isn't a line at the sporting goods store.



  • The workforce: companies paying just enough for employees to show up and employees doing just enough work not to get fired. Then some Employee-of-the-Year comes along and upsets the equilibrium we've all worked so hard to achieve.
  • The best thing about being better looking would be that you could spend less time grooming yourself and still look as good as you did before, when you were less attractive. If I were Brad Pitt, I wouldn't even take a bath.
  • Dear Apple: you included software to edit and create movies, maintain my schedule, file my music library, organize my photos, superintend my mail accounts, video conference on the web, customize my system to the nth degree, create comics, draw stuff, network wirelessly and play with my widgets. But a fucking word processing program was out of the question? Even Microsoft throws in a stripped-down word processor. And let's face it. They suck.
  • There's a psychology test that asks clients which animal they'd want to be if they had to be an animal. Men typically answer with various hunting cats and women usually elect to be a bird of some kind. Based on your reasons for choosing whichever animal, the test supposedly reveals your psyche. Myself, I'd choose a monkey for no other reason than, as far as I can figure, they're the only animal that can jerk off. I'm not trying to be crass here, folks. Seriously, what good is being king of the jungle if you can't pull your own pud?
  • If I were an insect, I'd find a dead bug, pull off a couple of its legs and stick them on my own body. Then if a spider crept up and tried to eat me, I'd gesture to my fake legs and say, “Hey, look. I'm one of you guys. Same team, amigo. Eight legs. Count'em if you don't believe me.”
  • I wonder why we still have to stick a box on top of our TVs to receive cable. In fact, why even have cable at all? Just transmit cable programming into our antennas like the old days. Or Bluetooth that shit in. Wireless cable. Wait. Forget it. That's an oxymoron.


Dog is "God" spelled backwards

If I owned a business, it would be a business that has a dog hanging around the storefront. We've all walked into proprietorships that have a dog hanging around. Aren't they the best? If you were to take these businesses as a class (those with a dog mascott) you'd find they were the nicest, friendliest and most value-packed merchants of the lot. Also, they'd probably have the worst carpeting. No mystery there. Still, any business with a dog is a business you can trust. WalMart should have an old labrador retriever at the entrance instead of a bitter old person for whom Social Security isn't enough for food AND prescription drugs, and so for whom working in the "golden years" is a humiliating necessity. Imagine walking into a WalMart and instead of meeting the aforementioned senior citizen greeter, you spot the wagging tail of an old, trusty dog. Say, Fido, on what aisle are you keeping the trash bags? And don't take this personally, but I've got to pick up a shock collar for a 40-lb. dog. Do you stock those here? I'll bet WalMart wouldn't have so many haters if they kept mascot dogs on the sales floor. I don't care how big of an anti-corporate prick you are. You'd melt if you saw a dog in a blue WalMart smock.

Like I wrote above, my business would have a dog. The regular customers would know his name and give him a pet hello. At first, I'd have my dog hang out near the entrance and greet people. Eventaully I'd train him to work the register. I had a dog that would press her nose against her leash when she wanted to go for a walk. So I figure I could train a dog to press the digits on a cash register. Even if my dog didn't get the hang of our base-10 numeric system, he'd still be smart enough to work a laser scanner with his muzzle. Just take the merchandise into your mouth and drag it along the laser window, Fido. You'll be tempted to eat the candy bars and beef jerky. But don't. You'll lose your job and then I'll euthanize you. I'm just kidding, of course. I wouldn't euthanize my mascot dog for swiping a customer's Snickers bar. Jeez. He's working for free after all.

Check out this sign I'd post on the cash register:

All transactions in doggie dollars. To calculate your bill, multiply your total by seven.

Tell me that wouldn't be the cutest thing you ever saw. I don't know if it would be worth paying 9 dollars for a roll of paper towels and $27 for a gallon of milk. Imagine the profit margins if you could pull that off.

Let's say you owned a shop. Everybody knows that shoplifting is a huge financial risk for retail shops. But if you had a dog watching the sales floor, you wouldn't have to worry. The dog would either identify the crook in the manner of a search dog, or savage the crook in the manner of Cujo on a crack binge. It would depend on the size and temperament of the dog and how you train him. Either way, that waistoid teenager isn't making it to the door with those stolen Zig Zag rolling papers. Good boy, Fido. I hope you don't get a contact buzz from biting into that waistoid's flesh.

Shoplifting deterrence is one of a myriad of advantages of having a mascot dog for your business. Here's a list of others:
  • No more "wet mop" clean-ups. Fido will lap up that broken bottle of Gatorade.
  • Canine garbage disposal for outdated and spoiled inventory.
  • Doubles as security system.
  • Companionship during long hours and 7-day workweek.
  • Pooper-scooper and Milk Bones are now tax-deductable business expenses.
  • Kids love'em.
  • Customers more willing to spend once they learn you're a dog lover because they'll trust you more. A dog mascot is better than an endorsement from the Better Business Bureau.
Pretty big list, eh? If you're a business owner, get yourself a dog. Not only are dogs cool. They're great employees, too.


Some more bullets

  • Imagine the lives we'd live if we endeavored to do two things: never underestimate ourselves and never overestimate ourselves. And if we never mis-underestimated ourselves, we could grow up to be president.
  • As long as I'm doing it, it's OK. For example, if I miss some dialogue on the TV because I'm talking, I don't miss it. But if my wife talks during my favorite sit-coms, I may have to go spousal. While driving, too, I find that when I'm the guy holding up the passing lane it's not so bad. After all, I have a few minutes to spare. I wouldn't want to miss my turn. Those guys behind me will just have to wait. But when somebody else is doing it, I'm fumbling about the glove compartment for my revolver. Incidentally, Bono and Wesley Snipes feel the same way about avoiding income taxes.
  • Applying makeup seems a waste of time. Women need assembly line efficiency for this daily ritual. How about a rubber mask that matches the contours of your face? First you paint the make-up into the mask, then you plunge your face in that thing after your morning shower. Or, find a life-size face on the cover of Cosmo, push Silly Putty against it, then mush the Putty on your face. And don't forget to Xerox the "How to Give a Better Blow-Job" article starting on page 37. I hope that lipstick is weather-proof.
  • It must have been tough being an atheist during ancient times. You had like 130 gods gunning for you all at once. Zeus was hurling lightning bolts at you. Apollo was dehydrating your crops. Venus gives you a wicked case of the crabs. That little Gazoo dude from the Flintstones was being a real pain in the ass right when you needed it the least. Plus people were really into gods back then. It's not like you could go on the Donahue Show and announce your atheism to all of Mesopotamia. That was a good way to be the guest of honor at a stone-throwing party. Say, I don't think Poseidon had anything to do with last night's rain. Burn him at the stake! You know who must have really had it tough, though, were the believers. Just think how hard it is keeping one god happy -- and He's got only 10 rules. Ancient people had to keep track of 130 gods' whims, commandments, aphorisms, rules-of-thumb, suggestions, protocols, laws, verses, maxims, pointers and tips. Monotheism is definitely the way to go if you're going to be religious.
  • If female dogs are called bitches, what do they call male dogs? Assholes? Where are the feminists on this one? Imagine the TV commentary for dog shows. "Look that this asshole take the the field. What form, what gate, what breeding. This asshole is a fine specimen. Consummate asshole. He may win Asshole of the Year."
  • Sometimes I look at my watch but I forget to read what time it is. So I have to look again. But I've never forgotten to take a squeegee when I sit on the crapper. For this I'm thankful.
  • Sometimes I'll look at a Blackberry and think to myself, I remember when the most technologically advanced communication device on earth was the Sports Illustrated Football Phone. Yep folks. Twenty years ago they sold magazine subscriptions with a regular old phone that looked like a football. Nowadays you can watch the freggin' football game on your phone!
  • If I published a dictionary, under the word "dictionary," it would read, The thing you're looking at right now. Duh.
  • Inner-thougths of Costco shoppers: "Will you move your fucking cart out of the way already?" "Why are there so many people driving these damn motorized scooters? They were able to walk in. Why can't they walk through?" "Jeez. They really should open more check-out lines." "Now I remember why I hate people so much." "Move it, asshole. I've got ice cream in here." "I just blew two months' rent on frozen foods and batteries." "What the hell am I going to do with a 150-pack of fluorescent light bulbs?" "Why do you check my cart every time I try to leave. I don't have any dignity in there for you, schmuck."


Nine points of light

• The organ of the imagination must reside in one's stomach. I ate some old pizza on Monday and it poisoned my innards. The nausea lingered for two days, during which time I couldn't conjure a single idea. I now know that creative writing requires tranquility of the stomach -- and poisoning of the mind.

• My dog hates me. In a house full of easy-to-clean tile and hardwood, she plops one out on the rug. I'm never around to catch her in the act, but I suspect while she's squatting, she's growling, "Take that, you Milkbone-rationing biped."

• Dogs must really be confused by leashes. In a dog's mind, it doesn't add up. They don't know from leash laws, speeding cars, coyotes or other perils of their environment from which a leash protects them. They just think their leash is cruel and unusual. "Let me get this straight. I can drink from the toilet, lounge on every piece of furniture in the house, eat anything I can reach with my muzzle, crap all over the yard, but I can't wander more than 5 feet from you without being choked?"

• Missouri's state flag should have a picture of an out-of-wedlock pregnant teenager on it. Either that or a banjo. You know, that Gateway Arch isn't an abstract. It's a 100x scale model of a Missourian girl's legs after Billy Bob wined-and-dined her at the local Sizzler.

• Factories should have a sign telling passers-by what the factory builds. I drive by factories, glance at the tanks, study the smokestacks, trace the paths of ladders, pipes, scaffoldings and power-lines with my eyes, sample the smells, etc, but I never figure out what the hell the factory is making. This vexes me. That's why people don't like factories in their neighborhoods. Not knowing drives us crazy. We're not good at not knowing. I'm often tempted to pull into the factory, walk up to the door, knock, and when the guy answers, poke my head in and take a look around. "Hey Slick, what's in the oven?" Hey, I just thought of something. Do you suppose the factory that makes Liquid Smoke has chimneys? After all, they don't want to waste any product. And where do they get the smoke? If I was the factory foreman, I'd just run some pipe from Willie Nelson's tour bus into the bottles. Cha-ching. Liquid Smoke, now in 3 new flavors: Ganja, Crank Menthol and Pearl Jam Concert.

• After listening to some of their lyrics, I think we should rename System of a Down, System of a Douche Bag.

• I saw a film on YouTube featuring a Japanese game show where you have to recite tongue-twisters flawlessly or else -- I'm NOT making this up -- a machine smacks you in the groin. One would think failure to recite a tongue twister would earn you a titty twister. Maybe that's too smart by half. On second thought, a mechanical slap in the marbles makes the most sense. You've got to give credit to the Japanese. First they dominate the auto industry. Now they've set their sights on game shows. Hey, I just thought of something. You know how you squint when you aim a gun? How does a Japanese guy shoot a gun? He's already squinting. If he squints any tighter he'll be shooting in the fuckin' dark. Show yoself, you round-eye cah-wad. Who tun out lights?

• After I see a spider on television, every blemish on the wall, every piece of yarn on the carpet and every tickle on my skin -- they all become spiders. Oh God -- is that a... no, it's just a clump of dog hair. Sweet Jesus, is that a black widow? No, it's just an old pinto bean. But no matter how much pornography you watch on TV, you don't start mistaking stuff for boobs and cooters. Holy cow, look at the naked lady.. awww! It's just a couple of melons and a scrub pad.

• Good news. DDT is making a comeback. It took 35 years of bickering, but everybody finally agreed that 2 million malaria deaths every year were a bigger tragedy than thinner bird-egg shells. Yay for humans!


I talk to inanimate objects

Do you ever talk to inanimate objects? I do. I carry on entire conversations with inanimate objects. They're mostly one-sided. It's usually when I'm angry.

Now that I think about it, all my conversations with inanimate objects are when I'm angry. I need to express to them just how they make me feel. It's unhealthy to keep anger inside. And communication is the foundation of thriving relationships. Take my piece-of-crap ex-computer, for example. He and I had many hostile conversations. What a conversationalist! Ah, the names and epithets I hurled at that old PC. Poor bastard. I called him every name imaginable. What do you mean the program is not responding, you fuckin' jag-off? Your mother was a Celeron whore.

I just get so angry sometimes.

I confess that on occasion my heated words escalate to physical assaults. Computer equipment in particular can enrage me to the point where someone (or something) must pay. I'm gonna kick some Western Digital ass up in this mother fucker. I have a Canon printer currently seeking a restraining order against me. The court petition recounts an incident where the printer allegedly "kept streaking fucking lines through the text" and the defendant "swung the petitioner (Canon Bubble Jet) around by a USB cable resulting in collision with the monitor and catastrophic failure of the cartridge driving mechanism." What a fucking cry baby, huh? Anyway, verbal and physical abuse of one's computer equipment falls under new domestic violence statutes (thanks a million, OJ Simpson!). So I have to remain 50 feet from that printer. My pleasure.

I kicked a Pentium tower a couple of years ago. He was provoking me. Bastard wouldn't listen to reason. I spent 19 minutes downloading the newest version of Windows Media Player. Then I discovered I need a special Active X plug-in (put the plug-in in the fucking install.exe, schmuck!). Finally, this cock-smoker computer informs me that I have to reboot for the system changes to take effect. That's his ass, right there. Don't judge me, folks. Look, if you keep me waiting 4 extra minutes for a reboot because you can't handle a Java app, it's coming out of your ass. I don't give a shit whether it's made of flesh or silicon; I'm taking my pound of flesh. Or silicon. Whatever. Anyway, I kicked that tower in the chips so hard, the lab technicians at Intel doubled over. Good. Those little space-suit-wearirng fucks deserved it for manufacturing such crap. I recently bought a Mac. Peace at last. Although this wiseass is telling me he can't read Word.doc files. Maybe he needs a Crack-intosh. Rimshot.

I converse with other inanimate objects, too, not just computer stuff. My old clunker car, for example, bore the brunt of my one-sided soliloquies. How about this little hesitation thing your car likes to pull when you're pulling into speeding traffic? Last month I had a tow-truck speeding toward the intersection and as soon as my car lurched into the lane, it sputtered. It never sputtered before. Now I'm taping the floorboard like Sammy Davis, Jr. trying to find a pedal that will get things moving before I get an ass-ful of engine hoist and naked lady mud flaps. Boy, I had a few choice words for my car the last time that happened. We'll see how hesitant you are with my foot in your dashboard!

Again, sometimes I do more than just talk. I've often fantasized about lighting my car on fire, or ditching it on the south side and letting the vatos locos on 6th street jack the shit out of it for parts. I'd enjoy watching that after my second $500 fuel pump in 18-months(!) failed and left me stranded on I-10. Great timing, you shit-box of a Chevy. You couldn't crap out in the garage where I could wait for Triple-A from the comfort of my own home. Instead, you run perfectly until we've driven into the countryside set from Deliverance. Then you strand my ass 20 miles away from Billy Bob's Auto Repair and City-boy-Ass-Raper, the only mechanic within towing distance. You six-cylinder cunt! If I were in pushing distance of a railroad crossing, I'd have rolled that bitch onto the rails, bought a bag of popcorn from Circle-K and waited for the Ol' Number 9 to arrive. No such luck, however. In the end, self-control got the better of me and I gave it to my step-daughter for her birthday.

Sometimes people who care about me explain that yelling at inanimate objects is juvenile, counter-productive and psychotic. I appreciate their counsel, but mostly I wish they were a car part, a tool or a computer component so I could kick the shit out of them without committing a felony. They just don't understand. These objects must pay for their transgressions. And as judge, jury and executioner, I square accounts in pain. But I'm not some hothead despot who demands death upon the first offense. I reserve harsh language and smack-downs for repeat offenses. Anybody can make a mistake. Perhaps it was just a misunderstanding. But when these computers, appliances and cars pull the same shit over and over again, they're doing it on purpose. They're provoking me. I need to show them who's the boss. I'm Tony Danza up in this mother fucker, motherfucker. I'm Ike and your faulty ass is Tina Turner, you warranty-expired-last-week-son-of-a-bitch.

I'd love to continue, but I have to go rip a fire alarm that won't stop chirping off the wall and "reason" with it. Honey, get me my ball-pein hammer. I'm going to show the fire alarm how to really make some noise.


Another storm of bullets

• Everybody's talking about the page who fell victim to Congressman Foley and his masturbatory fantasies. As the infighting ensues, I have to wonder whether all the pages will stick together (rimshot!)
• I'd like to train a police dog to attack at the sound of a ringing cell phone. Then I'd like to give the dog a couple of Red Bull's and release him someplace fun, like a rave.
• Sometime after the advent of blogging, the word "said" replaced "aforementioned." I miss "aforementioned." "Said" is too cutesy, like that punk Jon Stewart.
• I want to try to open a Netflix account under the name Ted Kaczynski. I'll bet that would make those envelope-stuffers sweat.
• There's risk involved in jerking off to pornography -- not the risk of getting caught; we all know about that risk. There's another risk. You know that other risk: ejaculating at the precise moment the camera pans to the guy's butt. Aghhhhh! But what can you do about it? Once you pop the top off a can of cream soda, the fizz is going to shoot. You can't undo it. Back in my teens this happened to me like 4 times in a row. I started wondering whether I was queer. I found myself in a metaphysical chicken-or-the-egg dilemma on my sexual orientation. Was the guy's butt popping up when I blasted off, or was I blasting off because of the guy's butt? Finally I cranked one out to a Sears Hanes-Her-Way commercial and I knew I'd turn out OK.
• Everybody knows American drivers become confused when driving in England, where motorists keep to the left. I think it would be loads more fun if in England, green meant STOP and red meant GO. Think of all the blooper clips on YouTube you'd have. Step on the gas, you bloody American stooge. Also I think it would be great if "lift" didn't mean elevator, but rather, "old lady." This lift can handle no more than 20 riders at a time. I wouldn't want England to change "fag," however. What's funnier than having the urge to smoke a fag?
• Why do they put those signs on the road that identify the beginning and end of bridges? Is that just in case you have a compulsion to jerk your car off the road at that precise moment and go 4-wheeling? I figure if the bridge is so small it needs markers to identify it, you don't need to know about it.
• I'd like to commission a study on sewer workers to learn whether they have lower self-esteem than the control group. Who applies for a job working in sewers? After your interview, do you sit at the phone and pray the boss calls you back with an offer? Is that the kind of interview you buy a new suit for? I want to look my best, honey. Can you iron my red tie? If I nail this, I'll rummage in human filth 40 hours a week and we'll have a great dental plan. Also, when you're on the job, do you take a bathroom break, or do you just pull your pants down and plop one out on the "showroom floor?" Hey look, Hank. I just added 3% to our inventory. What are the qualifications for a sewer worker? Applicant's ass must not exceed dimensions of manhole cover.


Indignation -- the vice of our generation

Lately my attention has fixed on a fascinating human disposition: indignation. In my last post I expressed my longing for an effective hate-word for white people. I mused that "honkey" and "cracker" were both fashionable slang. They sound hip and cool; therefore they are ineffective as they fail to elicit the desired response -- indignation. Even as I was snapping the next bullet mark, my mind was churning over honkeys and crackers. Why don't they give offense? That's their intent. When you make a wrong turn, wind up driving down Harlem Avenue and hear a roadside projects resident yell "you crachah-ass honkey," he's not paying you a compliment. Believe it or not, he's expressing hostility (and registering his complaint on the off-chance you're the banker who repossessed his family's farm home.) So a word desinged to offend is failing to disgruntle its target audience. What's happening here?

An important idea resided in that bulleted quip. And this cracker was going to get to the bottom of it, right after he called his broker, mailed a birthday card to The Man, and smeared some more mayonnaise on the sandwich he was eating.

At once the answer struck me. White people simply decided not to find the term offensive -- regardless of its intent. We didn't all sit down together and have a formal meeting on the matter. Independently we all decided that these terms don't rise to the level of offense. Some of us went a step further and decided to find these terms fashionable. In doing so we rendered the epithets harmless. We defanged them. Whites have effectively immunized themselves to epithets by resolving not to take offense. Could it be that simple? Can people simply decide not to take offense to offensive behavior? Could renouncing indignation go beyond epithets and into other points of conflict? If so, what are the implications? Could resolving not to take offense be the foundation of world peace? Of inner-peace?

Forget about epithets for a moment and take a macro-view. Look at entire cultures. It's fair to say that the more indignant the culture -- that is, the more likely it is to take offense -- the bigger the pain in the ass it is to the rest of the planet. Tip-toeing around indignant people is exhausting, painstaking work that rarely succeeds in keeping the peace. That's the disconcerting thing about indignant cultures: the more you yield to their sensibilities, the more sensitive they become, so that pin drops cause earthquakes. That's why America is having such trouble getting into the rest of the world's good graces. By merely wearing tennis shoes, eating Big Macs and giving our movies happy endings we've pissed off three-forths of Europe. And I don't need to enumerate the number of ways the successful sit-com Will and Grace agitates the Middle East. The Food Network alone has most of the countries in Africa frothed. We've got like 2 countries on the planet who don't hate us yet -- Canada and Australia. And we're one mocking "eh" away from Canada beating us to a pulp with their hockey sticks and snow shoes. As far as Australia goes, let's just thank our lucky stars that sting ray wasn't an American citizen. Anyway, there's so much indignation out there, we can hardly degrade the ozone layer without somebody planning our demise. Just what are we supposed to do?

If indignation is a threat to foreign affairs, it's cancer to personal relationships. The more indignant the person is, the more annoying he is. You know whom I'm talking about. This is the person who throws a shit-fit because the guy in front of him ordered his Whopper with no onions (Have it YOUR way, mother fucker! Not the douche-bag-behind-you's way!). Indignant people suck. Conversely, whom do you admire most? Whoever he is, he's forgiving, even magnanimous, bigger then the petty offensive bullshit the rest of us fret over. He doesn't have the patience to nurture indignation over stupid shit like whether somebody was talking on a cell phone when he cut him off in traffic, or whether Clay Aiken met with more success in the music industry than Bo Bice. [I'll just have to get over it. That twerp Clay Aiken is selling millions of records an swimming balls-deep in adolescent cooter. Bo Bice is going down on the landlord for a week's rent. You got such pretty long hair, Bo. Now suck it before I have you evicted.]

Indignation is an encumbrance. You're forever having to become angry, to fight the good fight, to defend the honor of this and that. For instance, you have to declare your moral outrage every time someone at work takes a second bagel "before everybody has had a chance to get one." Relax, Denise. I'm eating the onion bagel. Nobody ever wants the onion bagel, you busy-bodied twat. I'm not suggesting that feeling anger from time to time is detrimental. You naturally feel anger when you rack your head on a shelf, learn your car battery is dead or clog the shitter. It's indignation -- anger with the component of perceived injustice -- that's detrimental to one's relationships with others and to one's own mental health.

The more indignant one is, the more vulnerable to manipulation one is. After all, what's more tempting than annoying somebody? When somebody gives you the power to annoy them, it obligates you to seize the opportunity. Remember the one neighbor who posted a KEEP OFF THE GRASS sign on his lawn? Remember how you would make a point of playing Smear the Queer with seven of your buddies on his lawn just because of that sign? Case in point. Did you ever ding-dong-ditch the house belonging to the easy-going hippie? No. You hit the cranky old lady at the end of the street who was always shooing you off her segment of the sidewalk. She's the one who got the flaming bag of poo on Halloween, or was it Christmas Eve? Ah, I remember now. It was both. Looks like Comet left you a flaming bag of his own Christmas sentiment, Mrs. Anderson.

For both personal and geo-political reasons, we must renounce indignation. But refusing to become indignant doesn't mean becoming others' punching bag. During the Second World War, we had a problem with the Germans. We didn't become indignant and lather ourselves into a righteous frenzy over their ambitions to conquer the region and persecute millions of Jews. We simply recognized that Germany had become the boisterous drunk at the end of the bar and we needed to kick his ass to sober him up. In fact, if we immobilized ourselves with indignation, wringing our hands over "the injustice of it all," we may have lost the war. Instead, our attitude was , Yep, looks like we need to go over there and kick the shit out of them. During the entire Atlantic campaign, American soldiers were known for their cheerful dispositions. Contrast this with French soldiers who became so indignant over German occupation that they could barely muster any contempt for American liberating forces dying to recapture French freedom. American soldiers' ability to maintain their sense of humor under the most miserable of circumstances was the key to their success. I think it was Buddha who said, If you can laugh while you're kicking the crap out of somebody, you're a truly enlightened being. Amen.

I believe the heaping pile of indignation Christianity carried around for so long gave rise to the contempt many have for it nowadays. Christianity damns a lot of normal, harmless behavior and does so in righteous indignation. For a long time, this was a pain in the butt to everyday folks, who felt moved to question the Church. Martin Luther had to meet the Pope in the Thunderdome just to back the Church off. Two Christians enter; one Christian leaves. But Christianity is relaxing its indignation. Take Catholics for example. Many non-Cathoilcs denounce the entire doctrine of Catholicism because 1/100 of one percent of priests may have victimized children. Forget the wonderful virtues Catholicism teaches. Forget the millions of Catholics who live virtuous lives, care for their neighbors, give generously to those less fortunate, and have the good sense to whip their children with wooden spoons when they sass the parents. Father O'Reilly touched a kid's pecker. So screw the lot of them. Catholics appear to be taking the criticism in stride. No crusades the last time I checked. They're learning to let go of indignation. Meanwhile, if you sneeze on the Koran you could start a holy war. So with organized religion, too, we need to tone down the sense of indignation.

Let's do our best to squelch indignation from our collective psyche. How dare you not agree?