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?