Good evening, health food and germs

I don't believe health food prevents disease and illness. Think about it.  What is illness?  It's a bunch of microorganisms -- virus or bacteria -- taking a foothold in your body and looking for a place to set up shop.  The little bastards are shopping for biological real estate.  Ideally, they want a place with with a warm climate, a nice view of the liver from the backyard, and located close to a major artery going downtown.  And just between you and me: preferably a neighborhood with no whites -- blood cells, that is.

Given the above, doesn't it make sense to make your body as inhospitable as possible?  If you were a germ, where would you rather hang out?  In a tropical paradise where fresh fruits, vegetables and whole grains nourish a pristine ecosystem?  Or a wasteland composed of hardened Twinkie cream, Slim Jims, chicken wings and cheap tequila?

I don't have any scientific evidence to back this up, but common sense says the germs are going to run like hell from bodies chock full of junk food, and they won't stop running until reach the colon of a health-conscience, vegetarian yoga instructor.  Serves him right.  I hope it hits just when he’s doing is “praying dog” pose.  Whoa, 9 months of pretentious, alternative lifestyle posing down the drain in one inopportune episode of flatulence.  Sorry ladies.  Don't let the pony tail and the Prius fool you.  He's a pig just like the rest of us.  Say, do they make healing crystals for a case of the winds?

You know what food trend I'm hating on?  Energy drinks.  Are people mental?  Hey dude, do you really think you're going to counteract 12 whiskey sours and 19 minutes of sleep with a can of sugar water and ginseng?  Face it, dude.  You're worthless for the rest of the day.  You could drink jet fuel out of the spigot with a blow torch chaser.  You wouldn't have the energy to blow your nose.  You want the energy of a "rock star?"  Stay at home, jerk off and go to bed at a decent hour.  You're a 38-year-old accountant, not Axl Rose.

How about the names they slap on the side of the can to sell this overpriced Kool-Aid:  Rock Star, Monster, Overdrive, Donkey Kick, Dragon Piss, Hulk's Scrotum Sweat...

We get it.  It's loaded with "energy."  You're not getting $3.59 for a glorified soda pop.

I've digressed.  Anyway, in conclusion, screw health food and energy drinks.


On traffic statute infractions and their underlying psychological causes

Every motorist knows the roadway is a chute to the primal rage and hatred of the human psyche.  Driving can turn Mother Theresa into homicidal maniac.  Nobody is immune.  Everybody drives angry.  But why?  Driving infuriates us because it has a clear, concise and comprehensive body of rules -- which we insist on breaking.  Because there's always a rule, there's always a person in the right and another in the wrong.  One feels aggrieved and the other, unfairly persecuted.  Both become angry.  Driving invokes our sense of justice and fair play, and when a fellow motorist treads on these sensibilities, we turn into bloodthirsty vehicular vigilantes who dispense justice in horn blasts, obscenities and finger gestures.  But I'd like the reader to consider that traffic infractions aren't shortcomings in moral turpitude, but rather manifestations of psychological pathology.  That is, bad drivers aren't discourteous.  They're sick.   Examples and analyses follow:

Failure to use turn indicator:  People believe those who fail to use a turn signal are inconsiderate drivers.  This is false.  The truth is, some people feel self-absorbed when signalling.  They think, "Why should others care where I'm going?"  "Why do I feel the need to broadcast every move I plan to make?  Isn't that what Twitter is for?"  Essentially, the person who fails to signal turns suffers from low self-esteem.  So stop hating them and start pitying them.

Tailgating:  You don't need Dr. Freud's help to figure this one out.  Tailgaters are revealing their unconscious, repressed desire for anal sex with another man.  Keep ridin' that bro-dozer on my Toyota's bumper.  That's as close as you're getting, gaymo. 

Disturbing the peace with a car sound system:  Your state likely has a traffic ordinance prohibiting audible music more than 75 feet away.  Two psychological conditions prompt motorists to disobey this law, and we distinguish one from the other by musical taste -- rap or country.  The former mistakenly believes his penis is abnormally large; the latter fears his penis is abnormally small.  The latter is correct.  

Unsafe lane change (cutting off):  Some drivers insist on making abrupt lane changes before establishing safe following distance from the car in the destination lane (usually while failing to signal). These drivers fear being what Spaniards refer to as cabrons  -- men whose wives are fucking the pool boy.  Compulsive lane changing and cutting off other drivers are subconscious "cock-blocks" in which the perpetrator satisfies the urge to thwart other motorists in lieu of obstructing other penises from his wife's vagina.  

Excessive speeding:  Understand this is not the 5-over speeder most of us are or with whom we sympathize.  This is the maniac who barrels down Broadway at 70 mph in a 40-zone, even as he sees the red light ahead.  While it's possible he's a dipshit who watched Fast & Furious too many times, the more likely diagnosis is an acute case of diarrhea threatening the custom leather interior.   

Fluctuating speed: likely indicates a premature ejaculator whose condition conjures cognitive dissonance with steady speed and frequency.  He has compulsions to abruptly slow or halt progress until he can recover his composure, whereupon he scrambles to make up for lost time by jolting forward.  The cycle repeats itself multiple times until everyone around him is disappointed.   

The guy who doesn't pull all the way up to the light or to the car in front of him at a red light:  You know this guy, right?  But I'll bet you didn't know the reason --- he's a compulsive masturbator trying to conceal his habit by avoiding side-to-side alignment with onlookers.

Swerving:  This driver frequently drifts to the border of his lane and straddles it for miles, prompting other drivers to take evasive action against an unsafe lane change.  This habit is the tell of a man struggling to make a major life change.  It could be whether to subscribe to that Time-Life Books of the Supernatural series, or whether to join Team Edward or Team Jacob.  Another and more likely explanation is fighting to get in touch with his gayness and/or transvestitism. 

Single passenger driving in car pool lane: indicates multiple personality disorder (alternate personalities are likely queer).

Driving too slow while in passing lane:  No psychological pathology.  This guy's just an imbecile.  Feel free to hate on him with impunity.


Headline news

Headline:  Gadhafi vows to crush "Mad Max" rebels.  Mel Gibson responds, "Hey, why me?  I beat women and hate the Jews just like you do."

Headline:  At least 20 motorists hit body on L.A. freeway.  Eighteen reported recognizing body as Ryan Secreast beforehand. 

Headline:  World's sixth mass extinction underway according to scientists.  However, it won't claim as my species.  So far, only two-and-a-half men have died.

Headline:  Gang member tortures victims by placing head in bag of sliced onions.  Judge sentences assailant to jalapeño suppository.  You have to love that creative sentencing program!

Headline:  Judge awards homeless father custody of child.  However, court declares cardboard box he was living in "community property;"  must tear in half and share with ex-.

Headline:  Psychologists discover cure for chronically low self-esteem.  Advice to sufferers -- stop being a piece of garbage.

Headline:  89-year-old man lights self on fire inside church.  Children's chorus breaks out in rendition of This Little Light of Mine.

Headline:  Royal Caribbean rolls out all-you-can-drink cruise packages:  Ad features fine-print excluding Charlie Sheen, Lindsay Lohan and anybody whose last name begins with "Mc."

Headline:  Dan Quayle says of Obama, "I'm glad he's out there playing golfe." 

Movie Review:  Latest Shrek movie released.  It shrucked.   


More cool things I'd like to do someday

  • Pour soda into glass with reckless abandon while onlookers panic from threat of overflow.  Fizz bulges over and stops progress just before point of no return.  Whew!   Affect look of "what the problem is?"
  • Intercept popcorn from friend who has tossed kernels in air and plans to catch with mouth.  Baffled friend thanks me when I gesture to "slow" concession stand clerk with finger up nose. 
  • Break tension at stuffy cocktail party by spelling out dirty joke to hostess (an eccentric séance enthusiast) on the Ouija board.  Terrified onlookers break into laughter as the "spirits" -- through my hands -- guide the pointer to the final letter, "K." 
  • Escape captivity by picking lock using everyday item I palmed while being apprehended.
  • While in pursuit of fugitive, jump my Toyota safely into a tractor-trailer or a river-faring barge.  Passenger in Toyota exclaims "I'm getting too old for this shit!" or words to that effect.  Also, it would be really cool if aforementioned passenger were African-American who was exasperated by my crazy antics.  But it's not necessary.
  • Extinguish candle flame with precision karate chop.  Father McMahon casts disapproving look from across church.  Toss wad of cash in collection plate.  Father McMahon nods in approval. 
  • Disentangle self from guy who shakes hands way too hard by executing judo move where you roll onto your back and kick the guy over you and then send him hurling into a garbage dumpster.  Stand up, dust self off, and explain to mesmerized female onlooker that I "simply used his own bodyweight against him."
  • Handstand vault over chain-link fence on my way to a street fight, a la Patrick Swayze in Outsiders.  Or if that proves too dangerous, introduce dancing to teen demographic in small, socially conservative town, a la Kevin Bacon.
  • Hold on a minute.... Let's DAAAANNNCCCCEEEE!!!!!
  • Fight a man gladiator style.  Subdue him with cunning move; prepare for coup de grace; look at gang leader, who signals "kill him" by dragging his index finger across his throat.  Then refuse.  Discard weapon and help opponent to his feat.  Crowd boos, gang leader sneers.  But leader's female companion observes my act of mercy curiously while blushing down below.
  • Elicit secret password to foreign military database by posing as millionaire man-about-town and romancing secret agent.  Become toast of CIA and several other intelligence agencies by preventing nuclear arms deal.
  • PS, aforementioned secret agent is a chick -- not a dude.  If it were a dude, I'd best him in a high stakes poker game and then forgive his debt in exchange for the password.  But that's moot because it's not a  dude.  It's a hot chick in an evening gown who just had her hair done.
  • Finally get my high school diploma so I can get the assistant supervisor position at Red Lobster.


Next of Kin(dle)

Aw, jeez.  Suddenly I'm one of those a-holes who monopolizes every conversation with how incredible his Palm Pilot is -- only the Kindle is this decade's Palm Pilot.  Yes, it's another Kindle post.  I wonder how Google will find room in its archive for the 8-sextillionth Kindle post.

But first, let me take a metaphorical crap on it: my Kindle, the one I blogged about last week, broke!  Can you believe that?  Somebody needs to make sure those Indonesian kids aren't dehydrating at the workbench.  They're pumping out faulty units.  Anyway, after falling head-over-heels for my Kindle, she stranded me at the drive-in with a stiffy.  The Kindle couldn't start.  It repeatedly froze while booting and nothing in the trouble-shooting guide or the Internet helped.  Admittedly, while researching on the Internet I mostly looked at naked ladies and Charlie Sheen videos.  Anyway, I thundered my way to Target and swapped out for another Kindle.  This time, I think the Indonesian kids were fresh on the beginning of their 18-hour shift because my Kindle's in perfect working order.  Take the rest of the day off, you cute little bastards.

The Kindle simulates an ink-on-paper surface that promotes facile reading.  It's a pleasure to use.  The text is customizable for size, font and spacing.  It has quick and convenient search utilities and an online dictionary.  It renders pictures in striking clarity and detail, albeit in black and white.  The e-ink technology is perfect for a dedicated text reader.  And the sleek, compact design melts into your hands, stays out of the way and lets you enjoy reading.  At 139 bucks, it's a bargain.

Amazon's Kindle has the same elusive quality as Apple, Inc.: exuberance for the product, a cult-like following and the conviction that you're a cut above those who settle for lesser brands.  In fact, now that I'm a Kindle owner, you should feel lucky I'm still talking to you paperbacker rubes.  I kid, I kid.  Who am I take a superior attitude?   I don't even have a fancy-schmancy webcam like the rest of you.

I've been Kindling every day.  You may as well get used to that term, Kindling, because it's going to become a household term.  It'll be synonymous with reading.  The only Kindle shortcoming is the absence of back light.  Kindle projects ink on a screen (imagine a high-precision Etch-a-Sketch), but emits no light.  So, just like a book, you need a light source.  As luck would have it, Target was willing to deprive me of 25 dollars for an LED clip-on light designed for e-readers like Kindle.  Twenty-five dollars for a flashlight!  Well played, Target.  I guess the "target" was on my backside because that's where you stuck it in.  It was worth it, though.  The light works well and stays out of the way.  It conjures the nostalgia and romance of reading a book under the covers at night, and by "book," I mean your old man's Playboy.



  • I wanted to watch Mary Lou Retton's world renowned Olympic vault.  So I did a Yahoo search for "perfect-10 woman mounts horse."  Man, I wound up in a totally different universe than gymnastics.  Somebody call PETA.  
  • I tend to be a victim of my own success.  I side-step this pitfall by being a total failure. 
  • You know who hates their fellow man?  Subway "sandwich architects."  If you want to observe undiluted hatred, go to Subway and watch the hoagie minions.  Can you imagine having to cater to every a-hole's culinary whim?  "OK, I want onions, but not a lot... but not a little.  And I don't want red ones, or green ones.  I want the yellow ones.  But diced, not cut.  Umm... do you have any jalapeño cheese bread freshly baked?  If it's not fresh, then Italian bread..."  I was in line for 3 minutes and I wanted to murder the customers.   Subway has to be the worst fast food employer.  At least at burger joints you can work the grill in peace.  Subway's customers watch your every move through the sneeze guard, barking orders all the way.  Lady, I'm making your sandwich, not planning your wedding.  Shut the fuck up and eat it.  I swear, I'd jump the counter and shove a 12-inch wheat bread in somebody's mouth after a lunch rush of condiment demands.  I would jack 7-Elevens for a living before I took a job at Subway. 
  • I struggle for amusing one-liners and jokes.   But today I heard Charlie Sheen tell his recently deceased pug, "So long.  Kick ass in the next dimension, Betty."   I will never say anything more cool than that no matter how long or hard I try.  Why does God waste talent on douche bags?  Charlie, you're a douche bag and a genius.  Is there a word for that?  Douchenius?  Yes, that's it:  douchenius.
  • If we want to reduce the national deficit, why don't we pay our congressmen according to what they save, and penalize them in proportion to what they overspend?  If my bank can whack me 25 bucks for overdraft "protection," why can't I penalize those fools in Washington?  Reap it, Murphy.
  • I've always wondered how I can type effectively, having memorized the fingering to over 50 characters and keystrokes, yet I can't work the timer on the microwave.  The other day I put a Hot Pocket in the microwave, hit a one-touch cook button, and then went away.  Seventeen minutes later I've got a China Syndrome situation in my kitchen.  The earth's core is now 72% iron, 17 % nickel, and .0000852% ham and cheese.
  • In today's economy, a lot of kids are studying to get their Bachelor of Arts in Unemployment.   Then they're off to grad school for a Masters in Perpetual Education Debt. 
  • I don't understand why a donut at the bakery turns into concrete after 1 day, but a donut in a Hostess bag stays pillow-soft for 18 months.  Do we have any scientists in our blog circle who can explain this miracle to a layman?  Also, how do magnets work?  How does a magnet "know" which way north is?  How does it get it right every time, even in the dark?  And why would the magnet care, anyway?  There's nothing up there of interest -- just a bunch of Canadians.  They should call a compass a Canadiass.


Kindle fever

I bought a Kindle.

It's not a toy.  It's not a gadget.  It's not a gizmo.  My Kindle is the organ of my imagination -- an outpost of my brain.  My Kindle and I will be together forever.

You know what I like about my Kindle?  It's quiet.  It doesn't shout at me.  Brass ensembles don't blare music while people bark, "buy this, now, and be happy at last!"  It has no pop-up windows that conceal the webpage I'm trying to read, no trick online quizzes or free iPad offers.  Nobody can implant a neurosis in my mind and then blow on the embers of anxiety: identify theft, allergies, termite infestation, burglary, engine wear, arthritis, grey hair, kids who don't love me because I didn't buy Sunny-D -- all that snuffs out.  My world is calm, quiet, content.  Somebody finally made a device that shuts these obnoxious peddlers out.

It's amazing.  Just pure, untainted entertainment.  I'm sure one day it will end, but for right now, no marketing firm has figured out how to inject advertisement into a Kindle.

And yes, I'm aware of the irony that I LOVE Kindle commercials, which feature music soundtracks and people ramming the product down my throat.  So don't bother bringing it to my attention.

I may never watch TV again.