Lightning Bug's Butt

I'm throwing myself headlong into Twitter.

2011-07-05T14:10:00.000-07:00

Yeah. That's the way it has to be. I'm dwelling in Twitter nowadays. It's the new boy's room and I'm ditching class and smoking with the cool kids.

I don't even know how to use Twitter yet. I have an account, but I never use it. I created the account a year so that I could follow the wit and wisdom of Dennis Miller and few other first-rate minds. I'll figure it out, though.

My mind manufactures tweet-sized particles -- not essays. My blog, my dear, sweet snoop bloggy blog, feels like work. It's never felt that way before.

Maybe our bite-sized media culture is contagious and I'm afflicted with tweetitis. I don't know. I've been blogging since '04 and it's time for a change.

I hope every last damn one of you will join up with me on Twitter. I'd love to keep in touch and read your brilliant insights (distilled into 140-character blurbs, of course). Please, please -- if you have a Twitter account, add me. If not, create one and then meet me there.

Twitter Name:

VirtualRichV

Also: put your Twitter name in the comments, yo!

Godspeed, bloglidites.

Rich.

Everything I need to know.

2011-06-24T18:20:00.000-07:00

Everything I need to know they taught me in kindergarten. I borrowed that line from somewhere. But it's true.

What better field trip could kindergarten offer the kids than a tour of the local fire station? I remember my trip fondly. One spring day in 1977, the teachers loaded us up in a big yellow bus with "Polish air conditioning." That's what the bus driver called opening the windows. I'm not making this up. Polish air conditioning -- ah the days before political correctness. Anyway, we rode to the fire station where we split into two groups. Both groups got the grand tour of the fire house, one after the other. My group entered first. The fireman tour guide showed us all the components of a fully functional fire station. Fascination struck the group of kids. We ooh-ed and ah-ed as if we were watching fireworks. I felt we could have skipped over the shower room, what account of several showing fireman winking and offering us a chance at "working the hose" and whatnot, but what would I know at the age of six? How dirty could we kids have been anyway?

I had a great day at the firehouse. I learned much. I found the firemen friendly and charming. The trucks, poles, radios and equipment together made one giant adult playground. Heck, one day when I grew up, I might become a fireman myself. It made that big an impression on me. But at the end of the tour came the grand finale: a bag of candy for each tourist! The fireman leading our group gave us kids the candy. What a hero! I found it a nice touch. Classy. Sure, the tour was entertaining. But being able to take something away from the experience, something tangible, delighted me. I love candy.

We dashed to the bus where we were to reconcile with the other group. My group arrived a few minutes early and boarded the bus first. The teacher for the absent group, Mrs. Thomas, boarded the bus and addressed us kids. Get this load of crap:

"I understand you all received bags of candy after the tour. Unfortunately, my kids didn't. There was a mix-up. So you'll all have to share your candy with the students boarding the bus in a minute. Everybody has to share."

Come again. Share? Look lady, I'm sure in adult-land bags of candy fall in your lap all the time, but when you're a kid, it's a damn rare event. I regret learning that the other group didn't get any candy, but I fail to see how that's MY problem. The way I saw it, kindergarten was a ripe age to learn that life isn't always fair. And I was going to teach that lesson to whichever poor bastard child sat in my seat. There was only one problem.

I understand that nowadays the word "retarded" is offensive. So I didn't have a retarded kid sitting next to me. Instead, I had a "learning disabled" kid sitting next to me. His name was Jamie. And like me, he was lucky enough to have been in the candy group. I'm sure you see the problem. If a candy-less kid sits next to me and the retar... learning disabled kid offers his bag of candy for sharing, the new kid could surmise that I, too, had a bag of candy to share. I had to think fast. An idea hit me.

First, my story would be that I was one of the poor children who got gipped out of a bag of candy. Second, I had to make certain my booty was concealed. Third, I had to get the LD to go along with the story. This was a tall order for a kindergartner. I had to marshall all my wits and nerve. And I had to enlist the help of an "LD."

I was confident in my ability to hid my candy and lie convincingly to the Tiny Tim booger-eater begging me to share. But coaching Jamie to play along would require a small miracle. Everybody knows that the slower the kid, the more sincere he is and the more eager to please. God bless our learning disabled. They don't have the faculties for deception. Just the same, Jamie was going to get a crash course in chicanery.

Talking under my breath, I explained to Jamie that our bags of candy were going to lose weight unless we stuck together and cooked up a scam par excellence. We would have to assume the identities of children who were in the latter group, the ones who got screwed. In fact, we were hoping he had some candy to share with us. Of course, Jamie needed to conceal his candy on his person and keep it there until the coast was clear. This is no time to 'tard out on me, Jamie. Focus!

A minute later, sure as tomorrow, some Tiny Tim takes a seat in Jamie's and my booth. The boarding group had been briefed that candy awaited them from those inside the bus. I didn't even wait for this little douche bag to ask. I immediately addressed him: "So, do you have any candy? Because we didn't get any." I turned my head to Jamie and flashed him a look of encouragement. This is your cue, Jamie. I could only hope my instructions remained intact in his short-term memory long enough to pull off the caper. Come on, Jamie. Remember all those after-school specials? You can do it!

Whatever "learning disability" those teachers diagnosed Jamie with, they were full of crap. Jamie delivered. He shrugged his shoulders with all the dejection of a disappointed child and echoed my sentiments. "No candy." Yes! Move over, Al Pacino! You ain't got nothing on Jamie the LD. I studied the new kid for signs of doubt. If he voiced any suspicion, I'd have to snuff him out and blame Jamie. But the little bastard bought our performance. Not a trace of doubt crossed his disappointed face. Who's the slow kid now?

Prologue: Jamie did indeed keep his mouth shut for the duration of the trip. He and I enjoyed every sweet, delicious morsel in our bags. And I believe we both learned a valuable life lesson: if you have anything of value, keep it a secret, because there's always some asshole with a sob story who believes he's entitled to a piece of it.

WWKW

2011-06-22T02:48:00.000-07:00

What is the best or worst pick up line you have ever been given?
What is your most and least favorite day of the week?
How many hours of sleep do you require each night?
Is there a song that takes you back in time? What song is it and what memory is it attached to?
What is your biggest guilty pleasure?

Worst pick-up line: "Congratulations. You've met my minimum standards for attractiveness, earning power and social status. Let's go to my place."

Most/Least favorite days: Fridays suck. Mondays are sublime. (I work weekends). Loverboy claimed "Everybody's Working for the Weekend..." I'm working for the weekend's end. My favorite day of the week used to be Pizza Night -- when I was a kid. Now that I'm a grown-up, every night is Pizza Night if I damn well please. I often mitigate the psychological anguish of Fridays by making it Pizza Night.

How much sleep: Eight-and-a-half. Eight isn't enough. That last thirty minutes have all the rejuvenating power packed inside.

Song that takes you back in time: She's Tight, by Cheap Trick. Man, oh man. Does that song bring back memories. Unfortunately the details exceed the boundaries of good taste and blogger sensibility.

Guilty Pleasure: I have a few. Sometimes I crank call PETA -- I pretend I'm calling a restaurant and ask whether they serve baby seal meat. Other times I read the Finance Page of the newspaper in public and mockingly quip, "What? I thought Obama was supposed to fix that!" Or I'll watch C.S.I.-Whatever and try to guess which suspect the spunk belongs to. Honestly, how many murder mysteries are solved by way of male ejaculate in real life? TV forensic science is 90 percent spunk. Go figure. I don't suspect I'll ever murder somebody. But should I someday yield to the temptation and croak some deserving a-hole, I'm not rubbing one out afterward. That's just uncouth.

WWKW

2011-06-15T14:39:00.000-07:00

WWKW

{1} You have been asked to give a 10 minute speech to teenage girls. What is it about?
{2} Do you have a pet? Tell us about them. No pets? Why?
{3} What is the biggest inconvenience about the place you’re currently living?
{4} What do you think is the single best decision you have made in your life so far?
{5} What are the THREE "nevers" of your life? (things you would never do or have never done)

Answers:

1) Ten-minute speech to girls: Ten minutes isn't a lot of time. So I'd rattle off the following: Don't let the fashionable but false belief that men and women are the same, seduce you. It's bunk. You're different. Embrace it. And if you want to understand how and why, read some layman evolutionary biology. Not only is it fascinating, but it'll give you tremendous insight into women's and men's penchants, behaviors, emotions and sexuality. Also, know that college is the most overrated and overpriced commodity. Don't go 100 grand in debt before you discover that! Women and minorities are particularly vulnerable because we're so damn hot and heavy to outfit them with (always expensive and often useless) college degrees. Don't get me wrong: Education is wonderful. But college is a racket. Take great care when investing in your education.

2) My Pet: I have an adorable puggle named Bella. And if you want to see her, just visit IA for a facsimile. See: Lexi.

3) Inconvenience of living where I live: It's 150-miles away from my job -- the most wonderful hospital in the world! Luckily I only have to commute once per week!

4) My best decision: To be the kind of person who examines things instead of accepting things. I don't know if I decided this or if I was just born this way. Choosing to observe once in a damn while is a good choice. A close second was my decision to keep a weblog.

5) Three never's: 1) I'll never "go green." They might force me one day. But I'll never volunteer. 2) Run for political office. One has to stand back in awe of the wrath the other side spits at their political opponents. 3) Live beyond my means. A couple things I've gleaned from 40 years on this planet: stuff doesn't make you happy; and debt is slavery.

Minds are like parachutes

2011-06-14T15:37:00.000-07:00

I saw a bumper sticker that read, "Minds are like parachutes: they only work when they're open." At the next red light, I rolled my window down and asked the driver whether she yanked the fucking ripcord when she cut me off a half mile back. Based on her driving, her parachute is more like that hydrogen zeppelin that caught fire. Whoever graded her driver's ed test must have had one big, open fucking mind and a parachute the size of Rosie O'Donnell's trousers. Here's an idea I hope she'll meet with an open mind: learn the rules of the road and follow traffic statutes. Then you can impart your unsolicited pearls of wisdom on fellow drivers. I put more stock into people's advice when they're not endangering my life while they chat into their cell phones.

Minds only work when they're open. This is poor counsel. We have too many open-minded people and they're to blame for most of our problems. Before you object, ask yourself whether we have too few or too many gullible people. Remember we are a nation that spends millions on bottled water, Fen Shui consultants, palmistry, and Glade Plug-in air fresheners. Open-mindedness gives rise to gullibility. If you open the cognition valve too far, crap of all sizes squeezes through the pipes. Then your brain becomes a pool of turds and debris and you develop an appetite for “reality” television programming and The Daily Show. So much for open-mindedness.

Sometimes an open-mind is a virtue. I try to keep an open mind whenever I'm at the Chinese buffet. You must force yourself to sample food from this bin and that one if you're to discover new and delicious concoctions of Chinese delicacy. Don't trust your first impression. Much of what you see at a Chinese buffet looks about as appetizing as Chinese water torture. I swear those people butcher food as badly as they butcher the Eeengrish language. But it tastes great. I owe my affinity for ethnic foods to my open mind. But I close it back up again after I read the fortune cookie and pay the bill, because outside the Golden Dragon is an ocean of bullcrap draining into open mental manholes.

Open-mindedness is useful only for subjective matters: art, music, writing, religion, the collective work of Neil Diamond. But many other things aren't subjective. They're objective. They're facts. We don't ask anybody to keep an open mind when adding two and two. We needn't keep an open mind when studying historical records, principles of thermodynamics, biology or the best strategy for Deal or No Deal. Even social and political issues can be objective. When you're watching a documentary on Hitler's Third Reich, should you keep an open mind? Hey, maybe those poor Nazis got a bad rap. Aren't we being awfully judgmental? Nonsense.

The parachute metaphor is bunk, too. Consider what happens if you open your parachute at the wrong time. You get sucked out of the plane prematurely. Your chute tangles in the propeller and your diced corpse plummets to earth. If you'd kept your parachute open from the beginning, you wouldn't have even made it to the plane. You would have suffered death by strangulation after your parachute tangled on the drinking fountain. How's that for an epigram?

Here lies a jumper in his chute, bound.

He never made it off the ground.

He left it open, like his mind.

Propellers diced up his behind.

The way I see it, if an idea is any good, our minds will open up despite our efforts to keep them closed. I can still remember my first fried Twinkie, my first episode of Sex and the City, my mini-Mac, my first toke on a fatty, and my first murder by bare-handed strangulation -- I didn't want to like any of these things. They were rubbish. But the facts chiseled through my rock head and kicked a foot into my mind's doorway. Hey, a mixed metaphor. Cool. Anyway, even if the world is chock full of close-minded people, there's no keeping a witty, sophisticated HBO sit-com featuring four New York women down.

Let me suggest a better metaphor. Minds are like strip bar doormen: They're only as good as their ability to bounce the riffraff.

WWKW

2011-06-08T10:33:00.000-07:00

I've got some dues to pay. So I'll have LAST week's WWKW questions and answers below. But first let me participate in this week's WWKW Q&A:

Everyone seems to have a quirky family situation-- what is something unique about your family dynamic?
What is the most stressful aspect to blogging (aside from the network going down)?
We all end up on a blog at some point in our day, but name your top 3 favorite websites you flock to daily (non blog)!
What’s your sign? Believe in it or not, does any part ring true to you?
IceCream!! ICECREAM!! We all scream for icecream! Name your favorite flavor/brand! (Its hot here, can't help it)

BONUS QUESTIONS if you dare..

A. Name the blog you credit for linking up with us today?

B. Suggest a question you want to see in future WWTK’s!

Answers:

1) Quirky family situation: My brother appears to be half black. Dad's white. Hmmm.

2) Most stressful thing about blogging: Word processing. I hate formating stuff.

3) Three most frequent sites: Drudge Report, YouTube, Facebook. PrematureEjaculatorsAnon.com was a close forth.

4) Sign: Taurus. And yes, it applies; most of what I say is bullcrap.

5) Favorite ice cream: Mint & Chip. Nothing else compares.

A) Blog link for WWKW: IA, now and forever.

B) Future Question: "If you were granted legal impunity and the Lord's forgiveness, which one person would you murder?"

...And now for last week's WWKW:

1). If the blogging world had a talent show, what would your act be?

2). What's the most likely reason you might become famous?

3). What question are you repeatedly asked that you are tired of hearing?

4.) What's the last thing you broke?

5.) Finish this sentence. I can't believe I used to ________.

Answers:

1) Talent show: My one great talent is being mediocre at everything I do. So I could showcase my talent by doing just about anything.

2) Likely to become famous: Either my Snoop Bloggy Blog will propel me to stardom, or if that doesn't happen, I think I hold the world record for lifetime consumption of Diet Coke.

3) Question I'm tired of: "Dude, are you sure you're heterosexual?"

4) Last thing I broke: The Fellowship of the Ring. This pudgy midget gave me a gold ring to hold onto for him, but it didn't fit so I pawned it Sal's Pawn Shop for 150 bucks and a PlayStation 3. Then this old man with a beard and a pointy hat started yelling at me. Chill out, Merlin!

5) I can't believe I used to... be a woman. Wow, that surgery went about as well as I could have hoped. Great job on the plumbing, Dr. Feldstein!

This MAY HELP

2011-06-06T16:44:00.000-07:00

A big political topic nowadays is the “crisis” whereby old people can’t afford medicine. Evidently our seniors must choose between buying food or buying drugs. They can't afford both? When I was a high school senior I bought drugs. I never went hungry. And I was only making minimum wage!

This seniors' prescription drug crisis doesn't pass the smell test. Something isn’t up to snuff. Snuff, incidentally, is among the finest drugs. Sadly, the custom of sniffing snuff has snuffed out the sniffers.

Old people can't afford their medications because they take 23 different pills every day. Who can afford 23 of anything? If I had to eat 23 packs of Ramen Noodles every day I’d go broke -- even with coupons. Thanks to an overambitious medical community and a very seductive pharmaceutical industry, today’s seniors have become a bunch of Charlie Sheens without the YouTube. Not long ago, when somebody chose to buy pills instead of food, we called them “junkies.” Now we call them the “World War II Generation.”

There’s not a problem in the world that a pill won’t fix. Oops! I misspoke (I’ll bet there’s a pill for that, too!) Have you noticed these pills never fix anything. They don’t cure any diseases. They “help prevent” the ailment. They “may aid in the fight against” a disease. They “can reduce the risk” of some condition -- along with a sensible diet and exercise. There’s a reassuring claim! “Golly, Marge. This $17 pill may reduce the risk of my 83 year-old heart exploding -- if I take it twice a day and run half-marathons. Looks like we better put the tuna back on the shelf. No meat this week.”

What’s with all the “may help” stuff the medical community is laying on us? If I’m paying for pills, I want to know they work. This angle would never work on young people. Young fellas, would you date a girl who “may help prevent” blue balls by putting out after dinner? It’s a cinch she’s not getting surf and turf! And dear young ladies, would you become familiar with a man who “may reduce the risk” of premature ejaculation by imagining transmission repair?

Hell, no! Yet we’ll pump ourselves full of pills assuring us of no more than prudes and premature ejaculators. Hey, these pills may help. So prescribe 37 different kinds of them and make sure you specify name-brand stuff. I don’t want generic pills lessening my chances for success. Thanks, Doc.

When you get old, if you ever find yourself having to choose between food and medicine, choose the food. It’ll do exactly what it promises to do: fill you up and make you happy. No “may” or “might” about it!

Evolutionary psychology

2011-06-01T14:10:00.000-07:00

I shoot people through the prism of evolutionary psychology and project their true colors on the wall. It's a hobby. We're all driven to understand others. Social animals from our primitive beginnings, we need to understand our own species. Life and death decisions depended on how well we understood our clan, trading partners, mates, and competitors. Our ancestry bequeathed on us modelling software -- genetically encoded in our brains -- for explaining and predicting others' behavior. It's a handy tool even in the modern age. Look how easily your brain detects the motives and machinations of others, despite their ruses. What an important piece of software! We can even turn the app on ourselves so that we might understand our own puzzling behavior, if we're brave enough. But know this. The only valid model, contrary to a hundred fashionable psychological theories, is primitive man, the hominid, the hairless ape whose brain has evolved and persevered the rigors of 5 million years in the hunter-gatherer lifestyle.

Other models compete for explaining the human condition. You've got your positive psychology movement, behaviorism, the ghost-in-the-machine, the noble savage, socially constructed man, etc. All rubbish. I predicate my model for understanding humans on this simple postulate: 6,ooo years of culture can't compete with 5,000,000 years of biology. In fact, all culture can do -- when it succeeds at all -- is redirect evolutionary forces into civilized channels. This is why socialism always fails and that loathsome system, capitalism, remains the best game in town; we serve our own needs. Forget all that huminist crap. We're just animals with jim-dandy computers inside our heads.

Recently I was trapped in a traffic jam. I wrote about it on my blog. And I've been thinking about it ever since. Driving for 24 years, I've marveled at how angry traffic makes me. At first blush, one inclined to view people through the lens of evolutionary psychology might doubt driving could affect us at all. Automobiles are, from a biological perspective, a brand-new novelty. They've only been around for 100 years -- just a click on the clock in evolutionary terms. Driving doesn't garner us food or shelter or status or sex. It's just a means of travel. So how could driving resonate in our primitive brains with their Serengeti Plain software? Yet it does. Driving taps into the deepest, most fundamental layer of our emotional core -- the lymbic system. I wasn't joking when I described myself as temporarily insane with rage during that traffic jam. For an hour or so, I was no different from the raging primate of my ancestry -- minus some body hair.

Here's how I explain it. Driving isn't just novel travel. It's the 20th century permutation of the herd. And it indeed evokes our herding instincts (or better, our prairie instincts, as we roamed the prairies as hominids). Our cars become our bodies -- extensions of our bodies. Driving puts us in a trance in which our rational minds doze and our instinctive mentalities thrive. We intuit the dangers of lagging. Our hominid sensibilities go on alert when we slow down or grind to a halt. Imagine life on the prairie to understand why traffic jams ping our instincts. We become tempting prey to enemies on the hunt. We're wasting resources, too: loitering on the great plains exposes us to the elements, food scarcities and manifold mishaps. We can't rest, eat or mate on the trail. In the Serengeti, sluggishness spells death. This is why we hate commuting. This is why traffic jams rattle our cages. What irony that within one of our most celebrated technological triumphs, the automobile, we devolve into the apes of our ancient ancestry.

It's just a theory, I guess. Just my model for explaining my behavior. It helps me feel less insane and more normal.

The plane truth

2011-05-31T01:06:00.000-07:00

The airlines have collectively hemorrhaged $30 billion over the last 25 years or so. Anybody who's owned an airline stock has had their portfolio “made love to” in the pooper by a man endowed like a 747. Airline stocks always nose-diving because airlines can't etch out profits unless Uncle Sugar sends them a check.

Consequently, airlines are constantly trying to save money. They cut meal service. They cut employee salaries. They cut numbers of flights and destinations -- whatever they can trim, they trim. Even peanuts and pillows are on the chopping block. But they never cut the stewardesses, and I have to wonder why. Can't they just install a soda fountain and a vending machine in front of the emergency exit? When you board the plane, you'd stop at the soda fountain, pour yourself a cold one and grab a bag of nuts. Maybe they could even have a slushy machine. Who knows? The point is, if airlines installed a soda fountain and a vending machine into the planes, they could kick the stewardesses into the jet stream.

This would save the airlines millions. What does your average plane stooge make per year? About as much as a teacher, plus benefits. Carrying at least 2 stewardesses, each plane costs the airlines about $100 grand per year. That's real savings, people. Remember the plane that had its roof ripped off in mid-flight? Many saw that as a tragedy. But it saved the airlines 100 grand when the 2 stewardesses flew out of the opening. The airlines, of course, pass those savings on to us. Cha-ching! Flight attendants are always striking anyway, in this case, the ground (rimshot!).

Many of you are probably thinking, But LBB, who's going to instruct us how to use the seatbelt, oxygen masks and flotation devices in the event of an emergency. I've already thought of that. Just put the information on a pamphlet. Then give all the passengers the pamphlet. Everything you need to know that's really important would be on the pamphlet. Pamphlets are effective teachers. I learned about puberty, pregnancy, peer pressure, STDs, drugs and alcohol, homosexuality and suicide prevention on pamphlets. And I'm happy to report that I've avoided most of these pitfalls in my life thanks to the information on those pamphlets. All the important lessons in life are printed on pamphlets.

Incidentally, I peeked in the cockpit on my last flight and I saw the pilot reading a pamphlet. It was titled “How to Execute an Emergency Landing While Minimizing Casualties.” I was delighted to see the pilot freshening up his skills during the flight. I never slept so soundly on a plane before.

Soda fountains, vending machines and pamphlets -- an idea that can save the airline industry.

You ask LBB, you get it.

2011-05-25T14:13:00.000-07:00

Look at me! I'm doing another blog meme. Ordinarily I'd hate myself. But the source of this meme is so hip and cool and whatnot that I can't resist the temptation. Why should I? It just makes me a member of the Cool Club. RHOK 4-ever, yo!

Today's questions are the brainchild of Seriously Shawn. And you should take them as seriously as Shawn, herself. Seriously.

1.} What must you do before you go to bed at night?
2.} What is one thing you must snack on at the theater?
3.} Before going on vacation what must you do?
4.} What is one thing you must do every day?
5.} Is there something you do that must be done in a particular order?

1) Before bed: I must inspect under bed and in closet for monsters, wraiths, apparitions, harpies, demons and other undesirables. Also I must employ interdental brush, Oral-B plaque remover and antiseptic mouthwash to maintain healthy teeth and gums. Also load my Droid with the latest Dennis Miller podcast so I can fall asleep while laughing and growing all the wiser.

2) Movie snack: The wife's earlobes. Sometimes I do that after eating a box of DOTS and make them all sticky.

3) Before vacation: Pack a different color Speedo for each day at the pool/beach. Also, forward my phone calls to 800-GO-SCREW.

4) Must do every day: Read RHOK. Drink Diet Coke. Exercise. Upload encrypted message confirming that I'm still alive so that SEAL Team Bravo doesn't execute Operation Charleston. Don't ask questions.

5) Particular order: I MUST use my electric shaver before using a blade. Otherwise my shave is torture. If I do a once-over with the electric, then reconnoiter my jaw with the blade, things work out A-OK. Finally, I rub my chin, nod approvingly and smirk with an air of machismo like the sexy hunks in the shaving commercials do. Gillette -- because you're all man, all the time! Incidentally, what's with those guys in the razor commercials? They act so high and mighty. So you're the cock of the walk, huh? Dude, you shaved your face. You didn't cure cancer. Stop looking so pleased with yourself. Smug a-hole. Congratulations, you did what every 13-year-old boy learns to do in about 5 minutes. Stop admiring yourself in the mirror like you have a Porsche and a 10-inch knob under the towel. Fag.

Overdone

2011-05-24T10:33:00.000-07:00

I’m not a man of moderation. Admittedly, most things I do come out mediocre. But when it comes to remedies and indulgences, I like going to the extreme. I enjoy overdoing things. Especially when I’m deprived for a while, I like a double portion of what I lack. It’s so satisfying. I figure anything worth doing is worth overdoing.

Take, for example, chapped lips. Living in the desert, I sometimes suffer from chapped lips, which often strike when lip balm isn’t handy. I have to wait until I hit the drugstore for relief. So once I get my hands on some lip balm, I drown my lips in it. I want that life-giving moisture to soak in and saturate my lips. Then I want a cake of balm plastered to my lips, at the ready, in case the first layer needs reinforcement. When I get done applying lip balm, I look like I gave a blowjob to a candle factory.

The same thing goes with food. I don’t eat like a normal, healthy person. Most people respond to pangs of hunger by eating a sensible meal. I don’t. I continue to fast. Occasionally I’ll exacerbate my hunger with exercise, watching the Food Network, or ganja. I wait until I’m so hungry, the thought of a tofu hotdog served on a naked Bea Arthur is appetizing. Then, when I can’t wait moment longer, I’ll throw together a meal worthy of Henry the VIII. As I jackhammer food down my gullet, I imagine myself “killing” my hunger. It feels great. Nothing satisfies like a bout of gluttony after fasting for 16 hours.

I rummage for those foods highest in calories. Sometimes when I’m food-deprived, I’ll fantasize about foods that don’t exist in the real world, but only in a theoretical culinary plane where foods boast the highest calorie density in the universe -- something in the way of a bacon-wrapped cheesecake, or beef brisket served between two fried Twinkies, or prosciutto ham that squirts out of a Cheeze-Whiz can. Hunger transforms me into a culinary mad scientist.

I also like overcorrecting with climate. Even in the desert, winters can be cold, especially when you insist on wearing shorts and sandals year-round. I’ll spend a few minutes outdoors, in the cold, knocking back a Circle-K Thristbuster. Once I’m frozen to the bones and my beanbag is cinched up like rawhide, I head for my gymnasium, which has a sauna. I’m so cold, all can think about is the 170-degree closet. I strip down, hop in, and relax for about 7 hours, until I overheat. Sometimes I hallucinate like an Indian on the high planes. I have visions in which I’m a half-wolf hybrid or something. I always come to once I exit the sauna and resume normal body temperature. But while I’m overheating, I relish in overcorrecting what ailed me -- the cold. But now I’m hot. My skin is red. My heart is pounding. I’ve sweat about 40% of my bodyweight out my pores. When I walk out of the sauna, I look like freakin’ Ghandi, or an extra fromSchindler’s List.

The nice thing about the sauna is, I dehydrate. This leads me to my next overcorrection – quenching thirst. Nothing beats going into hypovolemic shock from the sauna and then cruising to Circle-K for a Thirstbuster of diet soda. Say there, my good man. If I by one of those gas cans, can I fill it with Dr. Pepper at the soda fountain? Money is no object. No joke – I typically gain 5 pounds per day from drinking so much diet soda, only to urinate it off during the night. My kidneys appreciate the extra business.

I enjoy oversleeping, too. Everybody’s had a string of days (or weeks!) where they’ve gone with less than enough sleep. It’s a cumulative effect. Eventually, you’re a zombie. When I find myself in this state, I like to convert a day off of work into a daylong slumber. Sure, I’ll awake after 8 or 9 hours. And often I’m well rested. But I’m just getting started. I coax myself back to sleep. While the rest of the world tackles the workaday, I’m deliriously comatose. Sometime in the late afternoon or early evening I’ll awake. My limbs are numb. I can’t think. I have a bad case of “pillow-face,” and I struggle for about 40 minutes remembering what day it is and whether I’ve missed any appointments. Is the rent due? Do I still have my job? Who’s the president nowadays? Is this a sunset or a sunrise? I don’t know! Where’s my compass?

After a 17-hour nap, I don’t recognize my universe or myself. That’s how I know I’ve done it right.

Other ways in which I overcorrect:

*Racing my car after clearing a traffic accident. I figure I’ve got the right to speed until such time that my average velocity rises to that of the posted limit on the highway.

*Taking a long, hot shower after shopping at WalMart.

*When I have a cold and I’m chronically congested, I’ll sniff a little Drain-o. Not enough to kill me, just enough to bore through the snot.

*Double-killing insects that have been bothering me. Sometimes, after spraying the insect with poison, I’ll step on him. Sure, he’s already dead. But I want to hear a crunch.

I'll dip a toe in the water

2011-05-18T02:44:00.000-07:00

I just realized I'm a blogging snob. I've been posting for years and I always write what I damn-well please. I also read the work of many great bloggers. But I never participate. The memes and the linky things and the tag-you're-it stuff -- I've peered down my nose at it. I'm not going to let The Man tell whitey what to write. That, and also I lack the technical savvy to post pictures and link stuff and edit video and whatnot.

But I can hop off my high horse once in a while. I've just read two of the most charming bloggers in da 'sphere, yo: Shawn and IA. They've invited their readers to join in the fun, namely, We Want to Know Wednesday. It's a questionnaire that you post and somehow link to their Snoop Bloggy Blogs. I'm not sure how it works just yet, but I'm going to hook my thumb on the panties and see if the ass lifts up, so to speak. Let's see what's shaking.

Amendment: Shout-out to Mamarazzi. WWKW is her brainchild.

We Want to Know Wednesday (#5)

{1} If you could choose a Super Power, what would it be?
{2} What would be your first frivolous purchase if you were awarded a million dollars tomorrow?
{3} What would be the hardest current luxury for you to give up?
{4} If you were given a choice between being given great wisdom and great wealth, which would you choose?
{5} If you were to be stranded on a deserted island for 100 days what 5 THINGS would you pack?

Answers:

1) Super power -- The power to induce common sense in those who lack it or disregard it. Think Professor Xavier from the X-Men, only I exact telepathic influence on nitwits to be reasonable with decision-making and to behave rationally. And also, throw in a pair of Wolverine claws so's I can gets me 'da ladies!

2) Frivolous purchase -- I always wanted one of those robot sweeper/vacuums. I'd also hire a bodyguard because after an electrical disturbance, the thing might malfunction an kill me in my sleep. Spotless floors and a good night's rest. I'm one step ahead of you, you little Roomba Robot bastard.

3) Luxury item -- The ability to sleep as late as I please on most days. I work weekends. Monday through Friday, I wake up when I want to, not when I have to.

4) Wisdom or wealth -- Wisdom. You can be happy without money. But you can't be happy without being wise.

5) What 5 things to pack...

A grooming kit
My life-sized cardboard cutout of Edward Cullen (Team Edward 4-ever!)
A bottle of Ten High
A manservant with wildlife survival skills and who's 100% not gay at all
A trunk of fireworks for pig roast banquet festivities

Thoughtprints

2011-05-13T22:41:00.000-07:00

Just thought of a new accomplishment for the Dos Equis guy: "Although he prefers beer, he can make a wonderful bathtub margarita by showering with the drain plugged."
Why can't you have your cake and eat it, too? Isn't having it a prerequisite? You have to HAVE it first before you can eat it. Last night I ATE pizza because that's what I HAD for dinner. I don't want to get into a semantic argument. I just want my cliches to make sense. And also, you don't "get what you pay for." If that were true, nobody would get ripped off!
I wish eating burned more calories. In my world, chewing would burn 80% of the food's calories, and swallowing would burn the other 20. So by the time you burned a few more calories straining on the crapper, you'd be losing weight! Now you're in Flavor Country!
Like all fathers, I want my little girl to remain virtuous now that adolescence has arrived. But I'm not the shotgun father type. No lectures or threats. Instead, I've nailed 5x7 pictures of all her dead relatives on the ceiling, over her bed. Work smarter, not harder!
Speaking of beers, have you tried a Navy Seal Beer? It's just regular beer served in a mug, but you have to blow the head off, first. Rimshot!
Sometimes I think "'til DEBT do us part" would be a better wedding vow.
Headline: "Wife sues husband for $12 million for not having sex with her." Man, what a great pick-up line this guy has: "Hey, the last woman I stopped having sex with needs 12 million dollars just to feel whole again."
Headline: "Man dressed as cow steals 26 gallons of milk..." Bull dressed as self mounts man dressed as cow; man hospitalized in colo-rectal ward.
Headline: "Man caught peeing on cough drops in drug store." Later told authorities he was confused by instructions to "moisten lozenge and inhale fumes."
Headline: "Russians deny cosmonauts had sex in space." However, they did admit to several "solo missions," if you get their drift.
Headline: "America's Toughest Sheriff lets public rate mugshots online"... low self-esteem sufferers getting arrested for opportunity to be vindicated with high ratings amid thugs.
Headline: Jail smuggler hid cell phone, an MP3 player, marijuana, tobacco, and $140 in rectum. Guards became suspicious when prison rape played Beyonce song and dialed local Domino's Pizza.
What irony that the latest technological gadget -- the Kindle -- succeeds by resurrecting that hitherto extinct species technology itself killed off, the book reader, Textus Aficionadus. People are relying on technology to deliver them from a technological age.
I saw a bumper sticker that read, "I brake for snakes." Fair enough. I wish I had one that read, "I accelerate for a-holes."
Forty years in art: "Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play..." to "I used to be commander-in-chief of my pimp ship, flying high..."
I've seen the damage drunk-dialing, drunk-texting and drunk-Facebooking can do. From now on when I get the urge, I'm going to go for a long drive and cool off.
I tend to be a victim of my own success -- a risk I side-step by being a total failure.
Failed pick-up line #138: "Congratulations. You've met my minimum standards for attractiveness, earning power and social status."
Can bouncers telecommute? "Put that guy on the phone... Yeah, hey pal. No more booze for you, and I need you to leave quietly. OK, bro? Hold on, I've got another call coming in... some dude with a fake I.D."

V-Log Answers!

2011-05-10T16:15:00.000-07:00

Links to Parts 2 & 3!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWOF2pxDp04

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dh6p6Q18sh4

Everything you always wanted to know but were afraid to ask.

2011-05-06T15:10:00.000-07:00

Something puzzling you? Ask me. It's an LBB ex machina! All questions answered in V-Logs next week. Beware: I'll make you famous (to my 7 readers, anyway).

Looking forward to all your brain-busting questions, fellow bloglidites.

Toy stories

2011-05-03T18:54:00.000-07:00

I got to thinking about toys from my childhood.

My all-time favorite toy was the cap gun. This is how far we've come in a generation. Nowadays, you can't find a toy gun in a toy store anywhere. But when I was a kid, the problem with toy guns was, they weren't convincing enough. So a worker at the toy factory scratched his head and said, "You know, putting fake guns in the hands of children so they can recreate armed robberies, warfare and reenactments of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre is just swell. The problem is, it's just not real enough. Gunplay is noisy. We need our guns to make a bullet-popping sound. A little gun powder ought to do the trick."

And so the toy factory began manufacturing caps -- little packets of TNT to prepare junior for the real thing once he hit puberty. I remember riding my bike to the drug store for my Colombine Starter Kit -- a mock .38 snub-nose and 5 rolls of caps – all for $1.98. I considered opening the package before I got to the register and jacking the drug store with my new toy gun: "Gimme all your jaw breakers, old man. And throw in a roll of caps." But self control got the better of me. It was that clerk's lucky day.

They also made a cap hand grenade for kids. I'm not making this up. The hand grenade was a cast-iron ball with metal fins. It looked like a miniature smart bomb. You'd load the breech with a few caps. Then, you flung it in the air toward a friend. When the iron ball impacted on the ground, the breech would crush the caps. Boom! The only time it failed to detonate was when the iron ball struck kid flesh on account of it couldn't compress with enough impulse. It did, however, leave a nice bruise and a sub-dural hematoma.

Remember the Speak-n-Spell? They should have named it "Speak-n-Swear." This toy could talk (revolutionary toy technology in the 1970s). First it would ask you to spell a word. Then it would speak what you typed, and tell you whether it was right or wrong. For example: "I'm sorry. F-U-C-K is not the correct spelling of ‘Graveyard.' Please try again. I'm sorry. D-O-U-C-H-E is not the correct spelling of ‘Exercise.' Please have your mother wash your mouth out with battery acid." Whoa, watch the attitude, Speak-n-Spell. I've got a cap grenade that just might have your name on it.

When I wasn't simulating gunplay or spelling curse words, I was usually playing catch with my Pitch-Back. The Pitch-Back was an ingenious toy that would throw a baseball back at you. It consisted of an upright aluminum frame and a net with three gradations. Depending where you hit the Pitch-Back, it would ricochet the ball back at you in a line-drive, pop-fly or grounder. At least that was the theory. In reality, no matter where you hit the Pitch-Back, the evil SOB would whip the thing at your beanbag. Steeeeeeee-rike!

Later designs included the "Bowl-Back." You'd roll a bowling ball at the net. It would return the ball in the form of a 16-lb. pop-fly-of-death. This one was real popular with the 37 kids who lived to tell about it.

Hungry Man

2011-04-28T12:43:00.000-07:00

People tell me I fret over little things. I reply that the little things are the big things. Think on that for a while.

I work two 16-hour shifts per week at a hospital. I work in the X-ray department on the weekends with a skeleton crew. The place is a dungeon. Its lead walls seal out sunlight and radio waves. I imagine this is what it's like inside a submarine -- minus all the seaman. Trapped, spinning my wheels all day in my leaded hamster cage, I get hungry. Sure, the hospital has a cafeteria. But the food is dreadful and I refuse to waste calories on crap (if it doesn't taste good, I don't eat it). Besides, I don't just need good food for its own sake; I need something to look forward to on my lonely stretches at work. A morale builder. Chalk up two reasons to stock the break room freezer with Swanson's Hungry Man dinners.

As a rule, frozen dinners suck. The food itself is fit for prison. And it exits the microwave like a science experiment. Some parts are near absolute zero; others, hot as a plutonium core. One time, after eating semi-frozen peas like crunchy ice, I dove into the apple cobbler dessert, confident it was cool. I tasted sweet gooey lava briefly before it scalded my taste buds numb and melted my fillings. How the hell is that possible from a thermodynamics standpoint? It's like having Pluto and Mercury on the same cardboard plate.

Frozen dinners were worth their weight in garbage. But then Swanson introduced their Hungry Man line. Most of it was still crap, but a few of the meals were really good. Not only did Swanson deliver on quantity (they came 1-pound and, get this: 1&1/2-pound sizes!), but the quality was there, too. The meats were premium cuts that reheated well in the microwave. The sides were tasty. The seasonings and sauces, serviceable. Frozen-food science had reached its zenith. But there was one meal that reigned supreme -- a Michael Jordan of Hungry Man's, if you please. They called it the Beer-Battered Chicken and Cheesy Fries w/Bacon Bits. Bow in awe and cross your hearts. This 4-dollar frozen dinner was bomb, yo. The chicken was all-white meat, never processed -- strips of breast lightly battered in golden brown goodness. And the fries were sublime. The cheese and bacon bits added mellow smoothness and zing to a thick and tender French fry. Imagine happy hour bar food at a fine local pub. That's the caliber of meal I'm recollecting.

So I worked my weekends, ate my Hungry Man's, and all was right in the world.

The fuck, bro? I heated up my Sunday Hungry Man dinner and bit into my first chicken strip. Ugh! What the Sam Hell? Disgusting. I examined the cross-section of chicken strip with the bite taken out and saw... dark meat chicken? This couldn't be happening. Squelching panic, I retrieved the empty package from the trash and read the ingredients. The "white meat chicken" listing had changed to "chicken." What had escaped my notice earlier at the grocer was the absence of the "all-white meat" banner on the front of the box. The bastards at Swanson's dumbed down the recipe to save a buck! Some bean-counter executive douche bag ruined the best frozen dinner on the planet with one stroke of the pen. Did he think we wouldn't notice? Let me assure the cock-knockers at Swanson's that there's a ton of difference between white meat and dark meat chicken which only amplifies under frozen food conditions.

The little things are the big things. And so, with the dumbing down of my Swanson TV dinner, I infer the decay of civilization: scrimping, bamboozling the customer, making the good things mediocre, forgetting what's important, hoping nobody notices, and serving up second-rate product.

Thoughprints

2011-04-22T11:21:00.000-07:00

If three lesbians have sex, is it a menage-a-twat?
When I'm filling out a stack of paperwork, even though I know the date, I can't help looking at my watch every time I have to fill in today's date. What's worse is, every time the paperwork asks me which sex I am, I look down my pants.
Barack Obama needs to create a new cabinet position whose title is Secretary of Blame.
AAA sees 18% increase in roadside callers out of gas; hookers see 1539% increase in requests for roadside hand-jobs.
Recession hits fast-food industry: Burger King changes slogan from "Have it your way" to "We'll take into consideration, A-hole." McDonald's to launch "Every Pickle Costs a Nickel" policy for hamburger sales.
Today is Good Friday, or as the Jews refer to it, "Oops, My Bad -- Day."
Russians deny cosmonauts had sex in space. However, they did admit to several "solo missions," if you get their drift.
Obama's popularity is so low that when he plays basketball, the team captain picks the white kid first.
Suffered a blow to my ego today when I took a picture of my package and send it to my wife via cell phone. The transaction erred out with the message: "Insufficient Data."

Dear diary

2011-04-19T15:29:00.000-07:00

I spent 90 minutes cussing traffic and engaging in fender-fisticuffs as I scrambled off the I-10 yesterday. Later I would learn the police fatally shot a man -- well, one can only assume the shot was fatal; the bullet nudged him off the SR-51 overpass and 30 feet below onto the I-10 -- and closed the highway for 7 hours. Seven hours? Really? Hey, Phoenix PD, I count 50,000 motorists trying to pass. What say we pretend your handiwork is a new speed bump? You can shovel him off the pavement after rush hour. I'll tell you. You have to stand back in awe of the Phoenix traffic jam. It doesn't just slow you down. It strands you. You can spend 2 hours exiting a freeway, at which point you have to plot your way along with thousands of displaced drivers all consulting their GPS's instead of watching the road. You know the brain module that activates at times like this and says, "This is part of the daily commute. Everybody has to deal with it, not just you. Stay calm and deal with it."? Well, I was born without that module. I lack the gene, or my mom dropped me down the stairs, or I ate some mercury or something. I don't have the faculty to deal with aggravations like this. I'm not kidding. The I-10 rendered me temporarily insane, deranged, spewing verbal filth and spittle while purple-faced, until horse and apoplectic. With relief and pleasant surprise I write, exalting in the fact that I'm not in prison just now. For a while yesterday, the big house was a possibility.

My computer monitor has been on the fritz. It finally gave its farewell performance last night. In fact, I discovered it finally died while sitting down to write this blog entry. Off to Target to burn 200 bucks, only to recover my life before the monitor failed. That's the worst feeling -- spending money to stand still. When I part with money, I want to elevate my circumstances, feel a fresh breeze, own a new toy. Nothing's worse than spending money on replacing something you already had -- no improvement. At least upgrade! But my last monitor was 400-dollar humdinger. I can't afford to upgrade. In fact, this one is smaller. It features LED technology though, for what that's worth. By the way, Target was out of stock. That led me to WalMart -- which I believe is one of Dante's early levels of hell. I drove to Target bemoaning the money I would spend. By the time I reached WalMart, I'd have paid somebody 50 bucks just to go in and by the monitor for me. Sometimes I suspect the lure of money is not in the luxury items, but in the option to avoid hassles. Pay somebody else to deal with it!

Wading my way through the WalMart, I hatched a sinister thought: When the hell did the population become so goddamn fat? I don't mean overweight. I don't begrudge our aging population a few extra pounds. What I mean is, so fat that it imposes on the rest of us. So fat that one can neither ambulate at a reasonable pace nor allow others to safely pass. That's when I take obesity personally -- when your girth becomes my problem. I spent 2 hours in a traffic jam yesterday. You're giving me flashbacks, fatty! Man, I lack the patience I had in my youth. Nowadays, faulty electronics, traffic jams and the obese ignite my temper. My anger perverts my thoughts so that I fantasize sinister musings. I hope the guy who caused the traffic jam didn't die, but writhed in pain a bit, for example.

Blogging like this is therapeutic. Usually I have an essay in mind or a few jokes. But today I'm writing a digital diary. It's cool. Those of you who have made it this far, thank you for being my soundboards, my friends, my confidants. What more to write?

I've been spending my free time reading my Kindle. I love reading. I do it while I eat out and then read some more when I return home. Now that the weather is agreeable, I'm reading on my porch. I love filling my brain with stuff and taking mental trips to wherever (just like the Kindle commercials suggest). But what I like most is the quietude. No commercials, no pop-ups, no hysterics or gimmicks or come-ons. Nobody is trying to sell me anything. The whole world shuts up and then an author tells me a story. I love it. Anymore I need it. What irony that the latest technological gadget -- the Kindle -- succeeds by resurrecting that hitherto extinct species that technology itself killed off, the book reader, Textus Aficionadus. People are relying on technology to deliver them from a technological age.

I'll end here. Hope you're all well for a spell.

LBB

If I Were God

2011-04-15T20:55:00.000-07:00

If I were God, I would crumple up hell in my Divine Hands and throw it in the cosmic trash. With all due respect to His Divinity, He's missing the point of hell: to poke fun and humiliate those who were consummate jerkoffs during their time on earth -- and have fun doing it. What fun is condemning people to hell if you're on the other side of the cosmos where you can't watch them squirm? I'd keep the evil souls in heaven. But I wouldn't give them a chance to enjoy it.

For example, take Goliath from the Bible. I'd have a blast vexing him. "Hey, Goliath. What do you say we get stoned and then go to a rock concert?" And then I'd hit a rimshot. I wouldn't just say "rimshot." I'd be God, after all. So I'd miracle a real rimshot sound effect every time I burned one of these little bastards. Screw the fire and brimstone. I'd burn them metaphorically, with my Divine 'Dis. "Ah, you know I'm just kidding, Goliath. Let me make it up to you. Bartender, make my friend here a Singapore Sling." Rimshot!

When people think "evil," they think Adolf Hitler. He's currently doing an after-life sentence in hell. Seems a waste to me. Here's a guy ripe for a roasting, Dean Martin style. I'd keep Adolf on a steady diet of lox and bagels. And I'd make him be the personal manservant of some famous Jewish guy like that Borat fellow or maybe Mel Brooks -- when either finally gets around to dying. Orthodox Christians might comment that Borat and Brooks won't gain admittance into heaven because they haven't accepted Christ as their personal savior. But if I were God, I'd let them slide on that technicality. But first I'd punk them at the gates and make them think they weren't getting in: "You see? They were right about Me after all. You shouldn't have tossed that book aside after you finished the Old Testament, douche bag. The ending is the best part." Then I'd grab the golden lever with the "Hell Chute" sign above it and gesture like I was going to pull it. Finally, I'd let them in on the gag: "You just got punked. I was kidding of course. Make yourself at home, guys. But seriously, if my Kid asks, tell Him I was really hard on you guys."

The Unibomber went to hell. Instead, why not make him the clerk in Heaven's Mailroom? Then, every once in a while, send him a ticking package or an envelop that reads, "Boom." Let him sweat it out, the sick bastard. You've got to get creative with these people.

Saddam's in hell. Remember the mustard gas he launched at those Kurds and Iranians? From now on, everything Saddam eats gets coated in hot spicy mustard. The gag is, I'd first give him a a gastric ulcer and a mustard allergy. Also, I'd switch his jock-itch cream with Bengay. Chemical Warfare.

Michael Jackson? I'd make him have sex with beautiful adult women all day and night. Ironic, isn't it? One man's heaven is another man's hell.

Dear Real God: I hope to Christ You have a sense of humor. Yours in humility and servitude, LBB.

Bowling and gobstoppers

2011-04-12T14:43:00.000-07:00

It was so simple. Could I be wrong? One dollar, take away 30 cents, gives you 70 cents change. What was I missing?

The bowling alley is the Taj Mahal for seven-year-old kids. Just being there meant it was Saturday -- no school -- and that 4 or 5 of your closest friends were present and in league. The fifth friend could actually be an annoyance because he was the castaway who had to rotate into the 5-man team and would displace one of us bowlers each frame. Cause for a beating, but with punches pulled so that each blow and body shot felt as friendly as was the spirit in which it was thrown. Fag.

The bowling alley had a pizza restaurant, arcade and candy store annexed to the west end. Nestled in the southern suburb of Chicago, the pizza place was legendary. But the menu exceeded our candy store budgets. The burgers and dogs were out of reach, too, unless you were that one lucky bastard whose parents were either rich or wayward with a buck. I could never tell which. How could kids with parents that flush know a day's boredom?

I don't understand. It's simple math. One-hundred minus thirty is seventy. If I get it, why doesn't he?

You must wear bowling shoes on the lanes. No exceptions. This is a business. The lanes and the equipment cost a fortune to upkeep. The shoes protect the hardwood lanes. You kids need to remember that: no horseplay and always wear bowling shoes on the lanes. None of us owned bowling shoes so we rented them at the counter, first thing. I always wondered why the balls were free but the shoes came at a fee. Seemed backward in my seven-year-old mind. But so many things did. For instance, the exchange with the shoe-rental clerk. The shoe rental fee was 30 cents. I gave him a dollar. Shouldn't I get...

I never understood the scoring system in bowling. I can add numbers. We'd mastered that a year ago in first grade. But the compounding effect of spares and strikes escaped me. I gleaned from the overhead projected scorecard that they bumped your score quickly, and that it was crucial to score well in those frames immediately after the marks. Somehow in this ethereal magic, a potential 120 pins yielded a score of 300. I also learned that the overhead projectors could broadcast a silhouette middle finger to the entire facility if you had the nerve and stealth to flip off the scorecard while the chaperone's attention was elsewhere. Eff you, Bruinswick!

In retrospect I had good reason to flash the finger to the bowling alley.

I couldn't be wrong. I gave the guy a dollar. Shoes cost 30 cents. That should leave me with 70 cents. Is this guy mental?

Mom gave me a dollar on bowling days just before dropping me off at the alley. Let me assure the reader that was a king's ransom in 1978. Sure, shoe rental came out of your end, but the remainder was yours to blow as you please. Seventy cents, sweet lucre. You couldn't grab a table and dispatch those college boy wastoid rejects to cook you a large sausage and pepperoni, but in terms of candy, you were Donald Trump incarnated into an obnoxious, 7-year-old body. And let's face it. If you're not eating pizza, you may as well reign supreme at the candy counter. Fine by me.

The problem was, on some Saturdays my stash got me much further than others. It depended on the Saturday. Or maybe it was the shoe clerk: When the girl was renting the shoes, I got a ton of change back. I did some grievous damage at the candy counter. But when that one dude was dealing kicks, I walked away with chump change -- barely enough to cover a couple gobstoppers. I didn't understand. The shoe fee wasn't fluctuating week to week. Bowling shoes aren't pork bellies or petroleum. They were 30 cents, period. A dollar minus 30 cents was 70 cents.

Mom found out soon enough. We always needed an adult chaperone to corral us kids, keep score, administrate the aforementioned substitute bowler system, and pretend to lose sight of us when we sought mischief. My mom finally drew the short straw. Her turn. Actually, she didn't mind. She enjoyed watching me bowl with my friends. I think she even found the petty mischief wholesome insofar as she was raising a boy with the requisite social tools for hijinks. But she did not receive the news well when I asked her about my missing change. That it had become a pattern over the previous weeks angered her further. She walked slowly but with all the conviction and purpose of an executioner toward the shoe counter. The paralyzed sales clerk with the face blemished with adolescent patchy stubble and acne knew he had been made. "How long have you been ripping these kids off?" I couldn't follow much of the conversation, or I just can't remember it, or better I couldn't grasp it in all its perverted disputation.

I got all seventy cents the following Saturday.

Flush with change at the bowling alley, I agonized over the missed opportunities of weeks past. Change is candy, and candy is coin of the realm at the alleys. The bowling itself is incidental. All I knew was, hit big on those frames after a mark. Maybe I could break a hundred. Who cares? Hey, Triple Digits, can you kick my ass? What I loved was having a cache of caramels and Dots and gum balls in my pocket. But what ate at my guts was how I let that punk get one over on me every other Saturday. I knew the arithmetic. I could take away 30 from a dollar in my sleep. But an adult (anybody with car keys is an adult in kids' eyes, and this burnout highschooler behind the shoe counter qualified) was giving me back a quarter, give or take. The grown-up had to be right. My mistake. What did I know? Even if I did ask after the missing change, he'd just bulldoze a heap of convolution and minutiae that convinced me of nothing but served its purpose of blunting the point that shoes cost 30 cents and I gave him a dollar.

And sometimes, when I'm susceptible to a bout of cynicism, I swear the whole goddamn world is chock full of adolescent bowling alley clerks trying to rent me a pair of size-13 shoes with a peculiar premium and a story at the ready.

Guest posting at Impulsive Addict

2011-04-05T22:57:00.000-07:00

Guest Posting Today at Impulsive Addict

Good evening, health food and germs

2011-03-25T17:20:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-22T12:33:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-15T00:28:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-03-10T00:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Thoughtprints

2011-03-07T23:28:00.000-08:00

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

2011-03-04T21:11:00.000-08:00

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.

Attention food servers:

2011-02-28T21:00:00.000-08:00

I don't want to come off hostile, here. The truth is, I love food servers. But I also love efficiency. Let me save food servers everywhere thousands of 7-8 second intervals of time -- that time you waste asking questions we both know the answers to.

Yes, I want to super-size, value-size, "go-big" or whatever the hell Da Vinci Cryptex riddle I need to mumble so I get the large fries. I've seen the regular-size fries. I ate bigger appetizers while in the womb. I can cover the 79-cents you're hustling after. Just give me the bigger cup and the large fries. You're a regular Lee Iacocca. You up-sold me 79 cents. Honestly, shouldn't you aim higher? Take that salesmanship where you can make some real money. Hey, why not apply at Grease Monkey and hit me up for the 15-dollar air filter change? It's worth 15 bucks just to shut the guy up before he walks back out with my dirty filter and a new-from-the-factory filter and makes me feel like an abusive jerk.

Attention, restaurants everywhere: revert back to small, medium and large. I know that men especially shun the word "small" because we all fear it's a poker tell for our peckers. And I know everybody with something to sell wants their product to compare favorably to the competition, even though it's the same crap. By the way, ladies. This is why all those 8-inch guys you dated magically became 5-and-change right after they closed the deal. Let me give you the secret formula so you won't suffer from buyer's remorse: Take the number he's quoting you; round down to the nearest integral; then subtract 2 inches. Bingo. That's his longitudinal penile dimension. Prospecting penis size is a lot like signing a cell phone contract in that the numbers will surely change against your favor before you connect to the service. Anyway, every time I order a pizza at a new restaurant, I have to look up "large" in my thesaurus and utter 15 synonyms to get the big pizza. I'll take a colossus pizza, please. That is your largest, right? Oh no? In that case, I'll take the ten-ton colon blocker size with sausage and onion. Whatever you call it, just get the kid smoking weed in the back to slip it in the oven so I don't starve to death eating you "large" pizza which is really your medium, which is the size of a silver dollar.

Here's another unnecessary question: Do you want everything on that? Yes. That is, unless you're going to discount the item for keeping stuff I'm entitled to off of it. I don't care if you're adding plutonium flakes and fiberglass. I'm paying for it. You're adding it. After all, I can always pull or scrape it off. But if you omit it, I feel like a chump. It's a recession, yo. I want what I'm paying for even if I hate it.

Soup or salad? In what universe does it make sense to opt for salad over soup? I have nothing against salads. If they serve it, I'll eat it. But I'm not ordering a salad in lieu of soup because I'm not a masochist! Be rational, people. The waiter is asking whether you'd rather have a bowel of broth with chunks of meat and vegetables, seasoned and suitable as an appetizer or a dip for bread -- or some leaves with dressing. Order the soup. Only a communist or a homosexual chooses salad over soup. Spare me the "But have you had the salad at Olive Garden? It's fabulous!" Yes, I have. Yes, it is. Have you had the spinach potato soup? It'll induce orgasm if you're hungry enough. The salad is good. The soup is sublime.

Do you want more chips and salsa? Well, did you see me spelunking the bowl with a chip fragment for the last 17 minutes? Yes, I'd like more.

Are you ready for the check? Yes. I was ready for it the minute I ordered. Lay the leather billfold thingy on the table. It's not an imposition. You had no problem asking me "how is everything" the second I stuffed my mouth full of complimentary pumpernickel. Lying a piece of paper on the table between drink refills is nothing compared to that. Yes, I'll take the check. And thank you.

LBB, cock fighter.

2011-02-23T11:15:00.000-08:00

If I had it to do all over again, I'd be a professional cockfighter. Man, was my high school guidance counselor was asleep at the wheel when he failed to bring this fine and noble vocation to my attention. I wasted 6 years in college learning about faggy things when I could have been raising and training a backyard full of cocks. I'd spend business hours in the “Cockpit,” which is the cool name I'd give to my backyard, in my wife-beater t-shirt, blinged the fuck out, thumbing my way through a stack of 100-dollar bills -- last weekend's profits. I'd hire a shifty right-hand-man from a questionable background to schedule fights, book the bets and get me the best deals on cell phone service, as I would need to focus my time and energy on training the savage birds.

Why would I be a successful cockfighter? What makes me so freggin' great? I'll tell you. I would handle my cocks differently, better. I'd revolutionize cockfight training. I know how to coax the best from my cocks (NOTE: please don't cut-and-paste the previous sentence and post it along with an innuendo. I'm baring my soul here and I need you to take me seriously). I'd tap into the caverns of cock aggression and rage. For instance, I'd say to my cock “See your hen sitting on that egg over there? Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this. That's not your egg. The cock you're fighting tonight, Luigi -- that's his egg. Now go bury your beak in that sancho's chest.” My cock could best a wolverine in battle after some coaxing from me, his loving handler.

That's the essence of a champion cockfighter: you have to tap the primal rage of your cock, then refine it and focus it into a laser beam, and then aim it on the opposing cock. You can have the meanest cock in the world -- meaner than Naomi Campbell on a coke binge. But if you can't conjure the magic on fight night, you'll lose your entire bankroll and get jacked by a gang of street thugs who collectively form the underbelly of the illicit cockfighting circuit. If you lack the virtue of deliberation, don't cockfight. The affable and happy-go-lucky have no place at a cockfight. Go be an architect, a nurse or some other faggy tradesman. Otherwise the real cockfighters will eat you alive and feed your bones to their cocks.

Alleged hen infidelity isn't my only device for conjuring cock rage and aggression. Each cock has a different temperament and a successful handler must discover which style of coaxing motivates the individual cock. Some cocks respond well to gang signs. Others froth up when, just before the fight, you shake their wire cages to and fro. Still others peak in ferocity after you feed them an Atomic Fireball gobstopper. A rare few go into a frenzy when you force them to watch reruns of MASH. Few outside cockfighting circles know that Alan Alda agitates cocks to homicidal state. The latter technique, however, is under scrutiny by PETA and several regulatory agencies as cruel and torturous treatment of animals.

It's moot anyway. My God-given talent for cockfighting remains dormant. It's too late and I'm too old to enter the profession. Instead I've got to work in healthcare like a chump. Healing sick people and comforting the infirm and dying don't deliver the satisfaction of watching your little fella scratch and gnaw into the thorax of the enemy bird, but they'll sustain me. I think I'll go kick the crap out of my guidance counselor.

Too sick...

2011-02-22T13:37:00.001-08:00

to read or write. Miss you all something awful.

More cool things I'd like to do someday

2011-02-17T21:07:00.000-08:00

Make my way into a fancy restaurant without a reservation by brandishing a money clip full of 20's in front of the maitre d'. Ah, yes. I believe we can accommodate you after all, sir.
Escape a situation by taking a tablecloth, towel, leather belt or other textile, slinging it over a telephone line, and sliding to safety. Land in patch of vegetation which cushions fall.
Catch home intruder by assembling likeness of myself under sheets of my bed with pillows and a bowling ball. Bad guy thinks I'm sleeping. He moves in for easy kill, draws back the sheets, discovers decoy. Too late. I've already clocked him with a lamp post. Surprise, bitch.
Retreat from gunfire by ascending fire escape. Bing, bing, bing. Sparks along fire escape. None hit me.
Decapitate venomous snake with a machete just before it bites my unsuspecting wife who's chattering away, oblivious to the danger.
Solve murder mystery dinner party. Explain my brilliant deductions while wearing tuxedo and sipping brandy from a snifter. Draw round of applause from guests. On drive home, other couples' wives remark how clever I am. Disgruntled husbands bark "He's not so damn clever as he thinks" or words to that effect.
Make a temporary repair to failed electronic device by using foil gum wrapper.
Dig up some dirt on a colleague by stealing their notebook and then lightly scribbling a pencil across the page and highlighting the text artifact left by whatever he or she wrote on the page above it.
Locate buried treasure or downed top secret military aircraft using a map found in old library book nobody ever checks out. Outwit native peoples guarding said treasure/aircraft. Publish adventure in Archeology Monthly magazine.
Hot-wire a vehicle for use in an emergency situation, preferably getting woman in labor to hospital.
[This one is unlikely until somebody invents time travel] Travel back in time with friends in makeshift time machine. Arrive in unfamiliar place. A friend asks, Where are we? Then the science buff responds with, Not where -- when are we? Note: I don't want to be the scientist guy who says that. I want to be the guy who punches him in the face. Gaywad.
Take a shortcut that my friends are afraid to take because of the perceived danger. Arrive safely. Wait for them to arrive some time later. Ask them rhetorically, "What took you guys so long?" Alpha male, yo!
Force car salesman to lower price 500 dollars immediately after he quotes me the first price by remaining silent and raising my eyebrow in a "we both know there's room to negotiate here" facial gesture.

LBB, fast-food critic

2011-02-15T10:23:00.000-08:00

The culinary world is void of fast-food critics. That shouldn't be. After all, that's what we eat the most. So I’ve volunteered. I’ve reviewed America’s most popular fast-food franchises and published it for my readers. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed eating it. And more important, I hope it makes you a more informed consumer. Caveat Emptor!

Carl’s Jr.: Huge burgers, so bring your appetite (and a fly swatter).

Filiberto‘s: Good fare, and it qualifies as diet food as you will void it in the form of diarrhea before your intestines have time to assimilate the nutrients. Many people with bowel obstructions find the food at Filiberto’s both delicious and therapeutic.

Mc Donald’s: They must glue the employee smiles in place with the same bonding agent they mix into their shakes.

Taco Bell: Medical researchers have proven Taco Bell’s food “the best agent for absorbing excessive alcohol and alleviating hang-overs in college kids.”

Whataburger: A redneck favorite and rightfully so; if you have a tattoo on your breast, you get 50 cents off a combo-meal of your choice.

Jack-in-the-Box: Come for the food. Stay for the gangland ambience and because the hoodlums working the grill have already stolen your rims. (Say, did you ever notice the one white guy working at Jack-in-the-Box has this desperate look in his eyes like he’s being held hostage: “I can’t talk right now, but please SEND HELP”).

Arby’s: For all you senior citizens who were bilked out of your pension plans and live on a fast-food budget, Arby’s is the place. The average age of their patrons may be 79.5 years, but there’s nothing average about their Big Montana Roast Beef Sandwich.

Wienerschnitzel: They do miracles with a hotdog. Strangely, this franchise enjoys a large gay demographic.

Burger King: They live up to their promise. They do it your way -- as long as “your way” means whatever way the retarded kid working the register pressed the bright, colorful buttons on the metal box thingy.

Subway: If you believe Jared lost 280 pounds eating 12” meatball sandwiches with provolone cheese and marinara sauce, then stop into Subway today and eat one with a side of baked fries and diet soda. Only 2350 calories.

In-N-Out Burger: I went in and out without ordering my food because the place was as crowded as a Justin Biebowitz concert. What's that li'l bastard's name? With the haircut? Biebowitz. That's it. Anyway, why was In-N-Out so crowded? It must have been hand-job day or something.

Thoughtprints

2011-02-10T20:30:00.000-08:00

Headline this week: Pharmacy accidentally gives pregnant woman abortion pill. "Gee, my headache still hurts, but the swelling in my belly is gone!"
A congressman sent a picture of himself with his shirt off to a woman on a Craigslist ad. When confronted, he offered what some say is a flimsy excuse: He was "just producing a visual aid for how Congress is taxing the shirts off our backs."
I was playing an arcade game at the local pizza shop yesterday. Just before the game started a message from the FBI popped up: "Don't use drugs. Only losers use drugs." Hey dudes, I'm a 40-year-old man drinking beer and shooting cartoon zombies in the middle of the day. It's a little late to warn me about becoming a loser.
Michelle Obama insists her husband does NOT dye his hair. She admitted that he does occasionally lighten the Department of the Treasury.
Dallas gives Michael Vick the Key to the City, which is weird because where he's from he couldn't get elected dog catcher.
Why does a 104 degree day feel so lousy when a 140 degree sauna feels so good? I think this is loosely related to the phenomenon where when your mom makes a sandwich it somehow tastes better than when you make it yourself.
When I'm feeling particularly sadistic, I'll bring my laptop into my work's IT department and turn it off before shutting down Windows. It's like fingernails on the chalkboard to those dweebs. Those guys are so high and mighty about shutting Windows down first. But I'll bet they revise their position when they're watching porn and the HR girl walks by.
Here's another way to have fun: when you're in a line where you have to wait for your number to be called, play a word game. Every time the girl calls a number, announce the significance of that number. For instance, "Number 34?" "Walter Peyton!" "Number 2?" "Another term for poop!" "Number 7?" "Number of Police Academy sequels!" "Number 90?" "The length of Mr. Bilbo in centimeters [gesture to your crotch for this one]."
In movies, when a couple is dancing, why can a stranger come up and ask, "Can I cut in?" And the other dude lets him! That would never happen in real life. Can you imagine the balls? "Hey, I know you've got a lot of leg-work invested in this lady, what with the surf-and-turf and cocktails and all. But now that you've got her softened up and drunk, I'd like a shot at her. Do you mind?" Get lost, dude! Here's a 10-spot. Go have the men's room attendant jerk you off. You're not dancing with my date, bro!
When somebody farts, I like to tell them conflatulations. Who wouldn't appreciate a little levity when they've embarrassed themselves? Then I give them a round of applause, which I like to call my "sarcasticlap. Take a bow, Theresa [sarcasticlapping]. Way to convert that protein matter to methane!
Sometimes I worry about the recession. I've found that I can soothe my fears by remembering that I can buy two McDoubles and a bottomless Coke at McDonald's for 3 bucks -- and a bottle of Ten High Whiskey still costs a mere $8.99. Fuck a recession, yo.

LBB Manifesto

2011-02-08T09:38:00.000-08:00

I read this blog called The Chronicles of a College Girl, authored by the charming and witty Penny Lane. I'm not sure how I found her. But I'm glad I did. I hang on every word she writes. Some blogs just have that quality. I'm not sure what it is. You know that quality -- where you click on it the minute you see it update. Anyway, go check her out and start following her immediately. It's great insight into college life for 20-something women.

And get this. She's guest-hosting my post! I've never done this before. I'm so darned excited. So read me right here!

Sixty-five things

2011-02-04T09:55:00.000-08:00

I got caught with my blogging bloomers down. It's already Friday and I haven't written anything. So I lifted this note from my Facebook account. See, FB isn't a waste of time! Enjoy reading 65 useless facts about me.

1. First thing you wash in the shower?
It depends how much time I have.

2. What color is your favorite hoodie?
Yellow.

3. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?
I'd do more than KISS her.

4. Do you plan outfits?
No, I'm just an innocent victim.

5. How are you feeling RIGHT now?
Mournful.

6. What's the closest thing to you that's red?
My sunburn.

7. Tell me about the last dream you remember having?
Spiders and scorpions – the usual stuff. They grow and multiply in the corners of my home and I become more and more terrified until I wake up.

8. Did you meet anybody new today?
Yes. Moi, my new landscaper. Hola, Moi!

9.what are you craving right now?
I'm getting a hankerin' for some Kenny D's.

10. Do you floss?
Yes. I have to floss to feel human.

11. What comes to mind when I say cabbage?
Those cute little dolls from the 1980s.

12. Are you emotional?
I've physically assaulted 4 computer printers, 3 gaming controllers, numerous household appliances, and an unruly DMV clerk. I yell at the TV. I cuss at other drivers, and I weep at Whataburger commercials. I suppose I am.

13. Have you ever counted to 1,000?
I've identified over 1100 personal pet peeves and hatreds.

14. Do you bite into your ice cream or just lick it?
If I'm confident nobody's watching, I'll roll around in it.

15. Do you like your hair?
No. But I'm thankful I still have it.

16. Do you like yourself?
Oh, yeah. Great guy. Gave me the shirt off his own back once.

17. Would you go out to eat with George W. Bush?
Yes. I'm a great admirer of GWB. I would not, however, go hunting with Dick Cheney.

18. What are you listening to right now?
Psychedelic Furs on iTunes.

19. Were your parents strict?
Only when they caught me!

20. Would you go sky diving?
No. I'm not a thrill-seeker.

21. Do you like cottage cheese?
No, which is strange, because I enjoy both cottages and cheese.

22. Have you ever met a celebrity?
Paul McCartney.

23. Do you rent movies often?
Yes. I have a Netflix account.

24. Is there anything sparkly in the room you're in?
Does my personality count?

25. How many countries have you visited?
Mexico.

26. Have you made a prank phone call?
Sometimes I'll call PETA and ask them if they have any good recipes for baby seal meat.

27. Ever been on a train?
Yes. A train of thought.

28. Brown or white eggs?
I dislike eggs.

29.Do you have a cell-phone?
I have a sweet-ass Blackberry Pearl.

30. Do you use chap stick?
I don't even own a pair of chaps.

31. Do you own a gun?
I've got two guns: one on either side of my torso.

32. Can you use chop sticks?
No.

33. Who are you going to be with tonight?
The wife.

34. Are you too forgiving?
No. I keep a mental equivalent of the “permanent file” our teachers threatened us with in school, on each individual in my life. Too many entries in the mental file, you get the axe.

35. Ever been in love?
Yes.

36. What is your best friend doing tomorrow?
She's busy being my wife!

37. Ever have cream puffs?
Heck yeah. I eat them every chance I get.

38. Last time you cried?
The last presidential election.

39. What was the last question you asked?
How much?

40. Favorite time of the year?
Summertime.

41. Do you have any tattoos?
No.

42. Are you sarcastic?
Only in the presence of dishonesty.

43. Have you ever seen The Butterfly Effect?
Yes. It was perhaps the worst movie I've seen. A cheap, unimaginative and immoral steaming pile of cinema.

44. Ever walked into a wall?
That sums up my professional life nicely.

45. Favorite color?
Caucasian. I kid, I kid.

46. Have you ever slapped someone.
Yes.

47. Is your hair curly?
Wavy and unruly.

48. What was the last CD you bought?
Menudo: Their Greatest Hits.

49. Do looks matter?
Yes.

50. Could you ever forgive a cheater?
I'm still trying to get over the Milli Vanilli incident of 1990.

51. Is your phone bill sky high?
No. My electric bill is getting obnoxious, though.

52. Do you like your life right now?
Yes.

53. Do you sleep with the TV on?
Yes.

54. Can you handle the truth?
In small doses, yes.

55. Do you have good vision?
20/15. My vision for the future, however, isn't so good.

56. Do you hate or dislike more than 3 people?
Between Hollywood and U.S. Congress, I hate more than 300 people.

57. How often do you talk on the phone?
As little as possible.

58. The last person you held hands with?
Alicia.

59. What are you wearing?
Running shorts, sweet-ass Pulsar Aviator wristwatch.

60.What is your favorite animal?
Turkey.

61. Where was your default picture taken at?
Cook County Juvenile Detention Center, Mugshot photo, 1976.

62. Can you hula hoop?
No.

63. Do you have a job?
Yes.

64. What was the most recent thing you bought?
I bought Obama's promise that he'd keep unemployment below 8%, not raise taxes on the middle class, not socialize health care, not abandon our allies, not encourage our enemies, not explode the deficit or spend our tax money recklessly. Oops.

65. Have you ever crawled through a window?
I've crawled through several windows of opportunity, but they didn't live up to their promises.

More cool things I'd like to do someday

2011-01-31T14:57:00.000-08:00

Make acrobatic catch at company softball game. Draw applause. Teammate later attempts to reenact my daring catch, but winds up catching softball in groin, racking himself in the process. Collective wince is heard from onlookers.
Approach back alley gambling ring occupied with young toughs shooting dice. Bet them their entire stake. Win. Then let them keep the money, but make magnanimous quip about the folly of gambling which imparts valuable lesson on their youthful minds. Walk away and hope none of them switchblade me in the kidney.
Quiet a barking dog with an old, aboriginal hand gesture that evokes 50,000-year bond between man and wolf.
Remain motionless at thug's attempt to make me flinch by pulling a punch. My mettle proves too much for his delicate psyche. He confesses that insecurity in his manhood prompts him to intimidate others. I explain that the way to enlightenment is through introspection, not competition. He begins crying and then tells me he's gay. Whoa, I'm outta here!
Smell the air. Squat down. Grab a handful of earth. Allow dirt to spill from my hand and observe its motion in the breeze. Make fairly accurate prediction of weather over the next several days based on my observations.
Synchronize watches with my friends and then do something that we agreed to do at the same time. YouTube it.
Show up wearing dashing tuxedo someplace where my wife is waiting for me and worrying. Surprise and relieve her with my arrival. When she asks where I was, retort, "traffic was a bitch" in a glib, debonair manner.
Order obscure vintage wine at restaurant. Waitress says that they don't feature that wine on their wine list, but they do have a case in the cellar. Asks me how I knew. I reply, "Because in my travels, I've learned that the finer restaurants have a case of [whatever vintage wine I ordered] in stock in the rare event a man of taste arrives." Waitress blushes down below.
Pick lock using everyday items; save neighbor costly visit from locksmith. Get apple pie or other baked good as reward the next day.
Write the great American novel -- in German.
Fix something important with a flashlight clenched between my teeth while wearing a wife-beater t-shirt. Wife brings me glass of lemonade. She compliments me on the great job I did. As I swallow lemonade and tart concoction hits my throat, I suck my teeth, nod and say, "It'll do for now."

Thoughtprints

2011-01-27T20:57:00.000-08:00

As a kid I remember adults, teachers and cartoons urging me, cajoling me to eat healthy snacks. I responded with a silent, visceral objection. I thought to myself, Yeah, yeah. I get it. Everything that tastes good is bad; everything that tastes bad is good. Yay! I'm so glad I was born. Love this life thingy. Next thing you're going to tell me is, I can't play with my ding dong when I'm at the park!
People claim they prefer the truth, even if it hurts. I'm cut from different cloth. If it concerns money, by all means, I want the truth. If it's a matter of love, lie all you need to keep me happy.
Everybody wants more tax dollars for schools. We don't need more money. We need innovative teaching ideas. How about we save about 10 grand per student-year by shutting down schools and putting the lessons on iPods? Also, for teen-agers, mix educational videos in with Internet porn. [Insert "divide by pi" algebra joke here].
Earlier I racked myself by stepping on the pedal of my trash can and deploying the lid into my groin. No wonder I flunked out of physics at ASU.
Those little Netflix envelopes are everywhere. Everybody loves when their Netflix envelop arrives. If I were a court server, I'd pack court docs into a little red envelop and hand it to them. "Excuse me, ma'am. I found this by your mailbox... Surprise, beotch! You've been served! Oh, by the way, your copy of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure is in there, too."
I've dropped so many crumbs in my keyboard that when I beat on it at random, it types out the words "Wonder bread." I can't believe the keys can still make a circuit.
Recently they started manufacturing microwave/convection oven combos. These must be for people who still want the expense of cooking with conventional heat along with the rubbery flavor of microwaved food.
A Pennsylvania high school has segregated black students in an effort to boost their academic performance. Vice Principal Gerhard Schultz received press questions for absent Principal Johna Goldberg, who, Schultz informed, was "locked in a railroad box car with the rest of the Jews."
Charlie Sheen was rushed to the hospital this morning with acute abdominal pain. When doctors pumped his stomach, they found enough semen for two and a half men.
I don't always blog, but when I do, I prefer Dos Blogger. Stay literate, my friends.

God, Karma and Jerk-off-itude.

2011-01-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

On God and Karma

I don't believe in karma. I believe in the laws of statistics and probability.

To wit, I don't believe an invisible spirit sits on your shoulder and logs good and bad deeds into a ledger, and then conjures whatever vicissitudes necessary to balance the account. Nor do I believe a supreme being watches from the heveans, rewarding kindness and punishing evil. These are beautiful ideas and I wish they were true. But faith in karma doesn't withstand empiracle testing.

Jerkoffs as Empiracle Proof

Note all the consummate a-holes roaming this planet relatively unscathed. For example, do you have a boss? Is he a jerkoff? Is he being punished? Of course not. At the very least -- he gets to be the boss. If only a little karma existed in this world, most bosses would magically turn into restroom attendents at the local full-nude strip bar. There's the proof that karma doesn't exist: jerkoffs inheret the wind.

But as I wrote, I do believe in statistics. So I believe that if you make a habit of being a jerkoff and pissing in the public punchbowl every chance you get, eventually the odds will catch up to you. Take solace in this. Only a jerkoff believes he can beat the odds forever. But the odds eventaully play out. That's how life evens the score. Statistical probabilities aren't always reliable and they're not always fair. But sometimes the toast does fall butter-side up. Sometimes the lane I'm driving in does move a little faster. Once or twice in your life there is a cop around when you need one. And rest assured, the jerkoff with the chaw, naked-lady mudflaps, and the "No Fear" tee shirt who cut you off in traffic is going to get his pencil dick caught in his zipper. Or he will wrap his truck around a telephone pole and not manage to hurt or mame innocent bystanders. It's a beautiful thing.

Theory

We see somebody get their comeuppance and conclude karma evened the score. The ancient Greeks went so far as to contrive a god, Nemises, whose purpose was to take a divine dump on the jerk who had things too good for too long. That notion survies today in people who rely on karma to make things right. Well, they're wrong. A comeuppance isn't magic. It isn't divine intervention. It happens when one jerkoff crosses the path of an even bigger jerkoff. The latter's jerkoff-itude neutralizes the former's and still has some power left to fuck over the first jerkoff. It's all very scientific. I admit a phenomenon like this has the element of poetic justice and tempts one to believe in karma or God, but it's just probability and statitics playing themselves out.

Few people know that Albert Einstein was theorizing a version of this principle when he died. Incidentally, Einstein? Huge jerkoff. The Smithsonean unearthed a tee-shirt among his personal effects that reads, "Compared to me, you're a fuckin' idiot."

Thoughtprints

2011-01-21T01:11:00.000-08:00

There's a midpoint between earth and heaven. Some call it Purgatory. Think of it as a cosmic weigh-station for the soul. You don't get hot and cold running bliss like you do in heaven, but you do get to recover all the objects you've lost in your earthly life, such as hats, sunglasses and cell phones. They also show you how socks do that trick in which one sock disappears while the other stays behind and creates a distraction.
Bed Head makes a hair care product called Dumb Blonde. I went to the company's website to register my complaint, whereupon I noticed their complete product line, which included Skanky Redhead, Brunette Bimbo, Busybody C*nt -- and for the fellas, Jobless Lying Asshole. As long as they're keeping things fair!
If you smoke 2 joints, do you celebrate 840?
Some people suffer from writer's block. I suffer from writer's cock. I always have something to write, but often I'm too busy jerking off to type.
The success of the Hershey's Kiss surprises me. It doesn't look like kiss so much as a turd -- perhaps something the Nestle Quik Rabbit might leave behind a bush.
The efforts to dissuade or punish drivers using their cell phones puzzles me. Instead, invest the creative energy into an application for driving your car remotely from your cell phone. i-Drive. Problem solved.
The recession is so bad, 50 Cent had to change his name to 3-For-A-Dollar.
I know they're all the rage, but I think of tattoos as graffiti turned inward.
In today's news -- a restaurant in Tucson plans to serve lion meat tacos. Animal rights activist are protesting the exotic menu item. But one group has registered its support: The Gazelles of Zimbabwe.
Also in the news, a 52-year old woman is able to speak again after doctors gave her a voice box transplant. After learning of the surgery's success, her husband checked into the same hospital for a bilateral ear drum removal.
Scientists say that when you look in the mirror, you don't actually see the real you. You see a vertical inversion of yourself, where left is right and right is left. If that's true, then how come when you lie down in front of a mirror, your reflection isn't upside down?
When I was 14 I attended an astronomy club meeting during the last visit of Haley's Comet. This one geek explained to me that we won't see it again for 76 years. I told him, In your case, the same is true for Planet Vagina.

Answers lll

2011-01-19T13:39:00.000-08:00

Bennet asked: What kind of work do you do? Not that I want to pry into you life, just wanted to know for reference sake. Based on your posts I imagine you sitting in a cubical.

A cubical job? Perchance to dream! I'd love 4 walls and a computer while I'm working; I'd feel right at home! I'm an X-ray technician. I appreciate it, but I don't identify with it. I don't know how the hell I wound up in healthcare. But given the economic climate we find ourselves in, I'll hang out. Honestly, I'd like to be a bartender one day. If I have any discernible talent, it's mixing drinks, talking trash and telling jokes. I belong behind bars.

Just Me asked: Why do you hate your dog?

First, I LOVE dogs. They are indeed man's best friend. I had a dog for 16 years -- all through my childhood. She was more of a sibling than a dog, a member of our family. So when I became an adult, we got another dog. A friend gave her two us. I expected this dog to be just like Corky, my first dog. Only she's everything Corky wasn't and nothing she was. This dog is aloof, dim, unaffectionate and disdainful. She prefers to be left alone -- unless I give attention to my newest little dog that I love! Then she barks and becomes obnoxious. Suddenly she cares. I can't stand a dog that doesn't love people. Worse still is an aloof dog who won't let you bond and play with your puppy. Also she's a 128 pound crap factory.

KittyCat asked: Have you ever been caught in a compromising position with women?
And what was your excuse as to why you were in that position.

A few times. I sneaked a girl into my bedroom on Valentine's Day, 1987. My mom caught us before things got too heavy. But it made for some fireworks. My wife and I had a couple cops' flashlights beam through the windshield in our youth. Luckily we had the option to drive away! I suppose everybody rolls the dice with some alfresco sexual activity once in a while. I've been lucky.

Sandra asked: Does your wife realize that some of your blog readers have mad crushes on you and think you're totally hawt?

Does my wife realize it? No. In fact, I can't believe it myself! But you're sweet to think so, Sandra.

ThoughtsAppear asked: What is your favorite Pop-Tart flavor? You'd be surprised how much you can tell about a person by their flavor. No pressure. And, what's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you?

Brown sugar and cinnamon. I love'em. Warmed or straight from the package, they're a treat! My most embarrassing thing? Well, I suppose the "jock strap incident" of 1985. Still laboring to forget that. How the hell was I supposed to know which side was the front?

Mona asked: Does a time machine raise the dead? When does your birthday fall? And what do you mean by "Indian?"

First, good burn, Monita. My birthday falls in May. And when I write about Indians, I mean the ones who tried to steal our land from us poor, innocent European immigrants. Not the ones from India, who are the salt of the earth! Honestly, I love all 1.2 billion of them. First, they gave us Gandhi. Second, they're the only ones on that side of the planet who don't thirst for America's demise! And finally, they make such charming bloggers!

Ask and ye shall re-read (Answers ll)

2011-01-18T11:26:00.000-08:00

Remember: It's not too late to submit a question! Just ask me.

ShabbyGal asked: What is your absolute favorite pastime (besides alcohol)?

Blogging, of course! But for a while, it was first-person shooter video games. That whipped me into a froth. Spending 3 hours a day imaging you were in the theater of war couldn't be healthy. So I quit. Before that, my favorite pastime was popping plastic bubbles in packing material. I still get a boner every time the UPS van drives by.

CB asked: Have you ever torn the ass off a lightning bug and put it on your finger like a light-up ring?

Killing lightning bugs for their glowing parts is a contemptible practice! And yes, I did. But I was young and knew no better.

Jeannie asked: What makes you really laugh?

Anymore, the Finance section of the newspaper! Also, I've noticed that I tend to laugh hysterically at others' anger. You know -- when people vent and let all the hate spill. Anger is funny. It's weird. I've wondered whether that says something about me.

Impulsive Addict asked: I would like to know how you picked your blog name and does your wife read your blog all the time or just sometimes like my darling M?

When I was dreaming up my blog name, I struggled for a metaphor meaning "flashes of insight." Eventually I landed on lightning bugs. From there, all I needed was a dash of obnoxiousness. So it became Lightning Bug's Butt. By the way, when I started blogging, I wrote a blog named "Pontificate or Perish." I was so proud of that name. I've often considered changing this blog's name to Pontificate or Perish. But I can't bring myself to do it. What would I do with that cute li'l pic of the lightning bug on the left?

I read every blog post to my wife when I first publish. If I get a laugh, I know it's good. She never tells me when they stink. She's too sweet. But if she laughs, I hit the target.

Penny Lane asked: So one day I decide that I am going to build you a time machine. I am a genius and know how to do those things so it only takes me a day. I hand it to you and I say "here is this time machine, but you are not allowed to use it to go forward or back in time" what do you use it for?

Well, the first thing I do is see whether I can stick my penis in it. If I can't, then I'll use it as a paperweight.

HeartInHand asks: Do you have a dog?

I have two. I love one to death. The other I hope soon meets with death.

Ask and ye shall re-read (Answers)

2011-01-17T16:43:00.000-08:00

Thanks to those of you who submitted questions -- such good ones, too. I knew you wouldn't disappoint. And to the rest of you: it's not too late to submit a question!

Kitty Cat asked: I can ask anything? About you?
I need more intructions please.

You don't need instructions, KC, just your imagination. And I know you have one of those because I read your blog! Yes, anything. Just know that if you do ask about me, you're likely to be disappointed. I'm painfully boring.

Denise asked: What is your favorite thing about yourself?

This should be easy as I have a short list of things I like about myself.

I believe we're all very much alike, and what distinguishes us from the crowd is how we perceive the world -- the unique way each of us processes what we observe. That's what I like about best about myself: the way I see things.

Summer Rae asks: What do you think the guy who writes this blog is like?

I sympathize with him a tiny bit. I've read a slew of statistics that show that men, for the first time in history, are getting the societal shaft: they die earlier; they work harder, more dangerous jobs; they get anything but justice in family courts; they attend and graduate college at lower rates than women; their health issues are trivial compared to women's heath issues vis a vis funding and charity; boys are far more likely to be diagnosed and drugged as "behaviorally disabled" children; they get far less encouragement in school; etc.

But boycotting women bloggers? That's just crazy talk! They're way too fun! If you refuse to read what women write because a few zealous social activists have tipped the scales, you're just too darn angry. And ignorant, too!

How did you find this blog, anyway?

HeartInHand asked: What's the best thing about your life?
(You can't include booze or dark chocolate.)

The first few answers that zipped through my mind were: my wife, my kid, and my health. But now that I think about it, the best thing about my life is the time and place in which I'm living it. Sometimes I get cynical about my country and about the future. But the truth is, I love modern times and I thank Almighty God I live in America. The things I love wouldn't be possible in another time and place. Consider that as little as 15 years ago, blogging wasn't possible! Twenty years ago the Internet was the stuff of academics and computer nerds, not laymen. Less than a hundred years ago, simple things like warmth in the winter or adequate nourishment were iffy, even in relatively prosperous countries. I could be shivering in a cave or under the crack of a whip or ailing from malaria or fending off a saber-tooth tiger but for the fortune of modern American life. My God, I could have been born in France! Death first!

Not So Simply Single asked: If you had only seven days left to live,what would you do, who would you do it with, and why... Lisa in Maui.

Honestly, NSSS, I'd grab the wife, kid and my credit card and jet to Maui. If I'm checking out in a week, I'm doing it in style: swim trunks, wife in a hula skirt and coconut bra, kid with a sun-kissed face, a sandy beach, the ocean, a Polynesian barbecue and a ridiculous girl drink in my hand. Plus, on my last day, I'd have so many macho ways to end it on my terms. I could para-sail into the ocean, dive off a cliff, surf a deadly wave, wrestle a shark or descend headlong into a volcano.

I'll look you up should I find myself in this situation!

Ask and ye shall re-read.

2011-01-17T10:03:00.000-08:00

Go ahead. Ask LBB.

Ask me something and I'll publish my answer in the next post -- along with your question.

PSA

2011-01-14T12:14:00.000-08:00

Blogs are for more than potty humor, dating advice and song lyrics. They can bring about social change. They can inform the public, stick it to The Man, and help fight the good fight.

Therefore, I'd like to take this opportunity to raise awareness of cruelty to animals, in particular, cruelty to domesticated birds -- the ones that talk. While most bird owners are kind, responsible care-givers, a significant percentage of bird owners deliberately teach unsuspecting birds foul language, slang words and sexual innuendo. A victim of their owners' twisted perversion and their own instinct to repeat sounds in their environment, these birds spend their lifetime uttering profanity. Some owners exploit these birds for juvenile comedic value.

Just how pervasive is this sick, twisted practice? Experts estimate that in 2008, over 9000 cockatoos and parrots learned over 198,000 profane words or expressions and uttered over a 182 million F-Bombs alone. Clearly the practice of bird abuse has reached epidemic proportions. And unlike other varieties of animal abuse which are denounced by the general public, many find a cussing bird "cool." We have a lot of work to do.

Incidents of bird abuse are erupting across the country. In Orlando, Florida, a woman reported a parrot telling her to "go fuck yourself" after revealing a Saltine cracker from her sack lunch. At a Starbucks in San Diego, a cockatoo announced to the clientele that he had "taken a dump in the mocha latte machine," prompting several patrons to vomit and seek medical attention. Before an animal cruelty team could apprehend the offending bird and his owner, the duo victimized a Dunkin' Donuts just blocks away when the same bird announced "kiss my feathered ass, pigs."

Bird abuse will thrive until the public takes a stand against it. It begins with awareness. Please spread the word. And take action against bird abuse. The next time you see somebody with a parrot on his shoulder, offer the bird a pretzel, breath mint, or whatever morsel you might have handy. If the bird utters profanity, stun gun the owner and call the local authorities. Thank you.

Gratitude

2011-01-10T21:53:00.000-08:00

My last couple posts came off caustic. That's the risk I take when I sit down to write while sober. No such risk today, I'm glad to report; I've got a glass of homemade limoncello as my co-pilot. I'm feeling magnanimous just now. So want to write something lighter. Plus I recently read a blog post in which the writer listed the things she's grateful for (I forget which blog, but I remember enjoying it). It prompted me to make a list of some things that I love. Here it is:

The mass of solid ice cream that sinks to the bottom of a chocolate shake mixer cup and that smacks you in the mouth when you attempt to drink the last bit of milkshake by tipping the cup and tapping it.
The beams of sunlight that shine through the window in the afternoon, and within them the dust particles that weave and flow according to the dictates of entropy.
Alcohol. Alcohol is the elixir of love. It's fun. It's a great social lubricant. It makes everything a little more pleasant (except a game of lawn darts; stay sober for that!). Barring abuse, alcohol promotes good health. I love alcohol in all forms: spirits, wine, "girl drinks," Jello shooters -- everything except beer, which tastes like carbonated urine.
The modern personal computer. Sure, they're 90% social networking and porn, which is to say they're wonderful. You have to stand back in awe of computers and how they enrich our lives. Think of how many curiosities you've satisfied with a trip to Wikipedia. Imagine how many times YouTube made you laugh or showed you how to install a new sink. Recall the excitement the last time you brokered a sex date via your smart phone with your spouse or significant other. Anybody who claims we're not making progress is overlooking the glowing, 24" hi-def LCD monitor shining in his face as he laments the world in his blog. Irony.
The one pizza place within driving distance that makes a great pizza. We all have one, even if we need Vasco da Gama, a GPS and a bloodhound to locate it. Good pizza places are hard to find. That's what makes them so special.
The hot tub on a cold night. Bubbles off. I can't stand the noise from the air pump and all those bubbles bursting. No bubbles, just the micro-bubbles that fizz from the hot water return jet. Ahhhhhhhh....
Homemade salsa with thin, crispy tortilla chips. Made correctly, salsa is the champion of appetizers.
The night before a day off work. I exalt in the sense of freedom and possibility. Sure, I wind up sleeping in and giving way to the tug of lethargy. I blow off my plans and waste my precious day off. But the night before is undiluted bliss. It's the sweet spot of the weekend.
That psychological phenomenon by which a piece of music brings you back to a time in your life when you were brimming with love, or in youthful rapture, or tranquility, or a particularly happy interval in your past.
Ripping through hours of your favorite TV series once the new season hits DVD. We did this with the Sopranos, Six Feet Under, Mad Men, Dexter, Weeds, and Sex and the City. Sometimes we'll order a pizza and let the episodes play until our eyes are burning.
The promise of a new book.
The uncanny way that mishaps turn into the most precious of memories: the cancelled flight that forced you to buy an incredible book you otherwise wouldn't have read, the power failure in which my family drove to the neighborhood ice cream shop, or the time my wife and I broke down on Mt. Lemmon and had to coast the car down the mountain and then walk home late at night. That kind of stuff.
Comets, shooting starts and celestial bodies. Also, the smoke trails that jet planes lay across the sky.
The aftereffects of exercise or vigorous physical activity.
My "go-to" clothes -- a collection of shirts and pants that fit me perfectly and always look good, even when the rest of me doesn't. You never know which items of clothing will become your go-to clothes. Most won't. You can never tell at the store or in the dressing room. Only time will reveal which clothes are your go-to's. That's when you wish you'd bought 3 of whatever your go-to clothes are.
Exceeding 300 points in a game of Scrabble.
The Dennis Miller Show. It's a 3-hour daily podcast with no commercials. If the idea of talk radio appeals to you, but the hosts are bombastic and overly partisan, try Dennis Miller.
The sensation of cleanliness after a shower and shave, floss and brush.
A bunch of comments pending publication on my latest blog post. I must admit I love devouring those.
A field at dusk awash in lightning bugs.

Sympathy vs. Empathy

2011-01-07T14:58:00.000-08:00

Nowadays everybody uses the word "empathize." I remember when we used to sympathize. Now we just empathize. We should get back to sympathizing. The world needs more sympathy and less empathy. Let's distinguish the two. Empathy is paying lip-service to whatever cause or hardship without actually giving a damn or doing anything of substance to alleviate it. Politicians and Hollywood A-holes empathize. By contrast, Mother Theresa and Albert Schweitzer sympathized, which is to say, they didn't pose for cameras. They climbed into the gutter and helped people climb out. A good rule of thumb to remember the difference between empathy and sympathy: when you're watching a movie and a guy takes a shot in the grapes and you laugh, you empathize. If you clasp your junk and wince, you sympathize.

I can't empathize with people. I either sympathize with them or I don't. People either deserve sympathy, or they're morally deficient (if you felt a cringe while you read that, consider how politically correct we've become!). For example, if somebody loses their job, I sympathize. It could happen to anybody. It's not easy news to receive and it can temporarily cripple you financially. However, if somebody is still unemployed 27 months later, I don't "empathize" with him, and I sure as hell don't sympathize. I accept that you had a bad stroke of luck. But I sure as fuck don't believe you couldn't find another job in 2 years. Be honest with me. Is the job market that tough? Or do your XBox 360 and your stash of weed have a hand in it? We'd all love to fuck off and bemoan the job market for 2 years while we blaze up and hold out for a management position, but we have bills, yo.

I sympathize with accident victims. Some drivers draw a horrible poker hand for nothing bigger than trespassing the wrong place at the right time. Accidents happen. Sometimes the at-fault driver is reckless or intoxicated. That makes it sting even worse. I sympathize. But other accident victims don't deserve sympathy. They deserve contempt. If you were trying to be the next Evil Knievel on your dirt bike, or the next George St. Pierre in the MMA octagon, or you drank a bottle of Jack and punched a hole through a door because you found pics of some other dude's dong on your girlfriend's cell phone, then you deserve whatever injury chance bequeathed on you, dipshit. [I should disclose to the reader that I work in the emergency room every weekend.]

I sympathize with the sick and infirm. Some of us are born with lemons for bodies. Our bodies don't come with a 100,000-mile wrap-around warranty and you can't trade them in using Obama's Cash-for-Clunkers program. If you're one of the poor bastards roaming the earth in a human version of the Ford Pinto, I sympathize. God issued you a defective body. You're blameless. If a few of my tax dollars can ease your suffering, fine. But, if you've eaten yourself to the size of a Dodge Minivan and you're ailing with bad knees and Type 2 diabetes, go roll yourself off a cliff. I don't feel sorry for you. And spare me the food-is-an-addiction speech. Get yourself addicted to exercise and a healthful lifestyle. You'll be surprised how quickly you become addicted to it when you can see your own pecker without the aid of a mirror.

I'm not surprised to see the word empathy supplant the word sympathy about the same time political correctness shifted into overdrive. Political correctness forces us to stomach the unpalatable. Tolerance and non-judgementalism are the orders of the day. We can't sympathize with the rampant nincompoopery afflicting the masses. So instead, we "empathize," which is to say we affect caring and withhold judgement.

I hope someday we resurrect the word -- and the practice -- of sympathy.

Ravishing Rick Food

2011-01-04T11:15:00.000-08:00

Once in a while I'll read about a cook-off in which chefs make an entrée of record-breaking size. Today, for example, I saw a clip on the biggest burrito (it weighed like a thousand pounds and was capable of inducing 57,000 cubic feet of fart gas according to the scientist on location). I've also read about the biggest omelette, the largest pizza, the longest sub sandwich, the fattest cannole, the tallest cake. You get the idea. You take an ordinary menu item and enlarge it until astronauts can see it from orbit, like the Great Wall of China or our national debt. By the way, do they eat these culinary monstrosities or leave them for the birds, stuff them down the garbage disposal, or call Kirstie Alley?

Reading about record-breaking foods, I get to thinking about the hungry. Starving people don't have access to television, but they read the newspapers before they build their houses out of them. Should they turn to the Lifestyles section, they might read about the World's Biggest Omelette, in which went 15,250 eggs, 1400 pounds of cheese and a truck load of onions and peppers. How charmed they must be. Hey, look at that. The Americans made a breakfast item 37 feet in diameter and used enough ingredients to feed every starving child in our village for a year. Gotta love those Yankees and their can-do spirit. That reminds me, I'm starving. Honey, let's scour the land for grubs in the blazing sun before the warlords arrive with their machetes. Ooh, I know. Let's make the World's Biggest Insect Carcass Pie!

I don't begrudge American culture its excesses. I don't believe, as many do, that our abundance denies other countries their "fair share." Their corrupt governments and failed economic policies do that. But I can see how our love affair with food can be obnoxious to the foreign observer. For example, those huge steak dinners that if you can eat it all, it's free. Think about the statement that makes: if you're a big enough glutton, we'll subsidize your gluttony. It's like a scholarship program for overeaters.

All-you-can-eat buffets tweak the sensibilities of foreigners, too. You plop down 9 bucks and shovel as much inventory down your gullet as the laws of biology allow. The goal of a buffet is to eat yourself miserable enough to know you got your money's worth. The trick is to get one over on The Man. Ha! I ate nine dollars in crab puffs alone. Take that, Mr. Ming's China Buffet!

Frying dessert foods is a uniquely American example of overkill. We should stop doing that. Don't fix what isn't broken. You should fry vegetables. They're gross. You fry them so that they have an outside shot at tasting good. Don't fry Oreos and Twinkies. They don't need any help. It's like giving Dolly Parton a boob job.

Competitive eating melds two American virtues, competition and gluttony, into one grotesque sporting event -- although the Japanese give us a run for our money by boasting their national virtue: efficiency, specifically, packing 62 hotdogs into a 120-pound dude. Only the Japs could use space so efficiently -- and maybe that IKEA guy. You know who should join eating contests? Those African kids you see on the Sally Struthers commercials. They'd clean up. Imagine our spoiled, lard-ass, bowling alley dwellers squaring off against an Ethiopian who hasn't had a meal in 4 months. I know who my money's on. If I so much as skip a meal I can knock back a large pizza and a pack of Oreos. Imagine going a decade or so without food. You and a couple villagers could probably eat one of those record-breaking burritos all by yourselves! Man, we're in trouble if sub-Saharan Africa joins the ranks of competitive eating. There goes our national dignity.

Thoughtprints

2010-12-30T18:43:00.000-08:00

It's embarrassing when you jack up a word spelling so badly that your spell-checker doesn't even know what word to suggest. I right-clicked on a word once and my spell checker flashed the message: "Even if I did know what word you wanted, chances are you don't know what the hell it means, anyway."
I want to market an Irish Wristwatch. It just has various bottles of hooch for all the hours, and the letters "FU" for 2 A.M., last call.
I was at Whataburger reading for 2 hours today. I was working the all-you-can-drink soda bar the entire time. Before I left, I had to visit the men's room. The men's room had one stall and one urinal. Evidently, some handicap guy was using the stall -- because he parked his motorized wheelchair in front of the urinal. I couldn't go. I had to hold it the entire drive home. I don't want to come off bitter or callous, but this handicap guy has balls. For the last 23 years I've been passing over premium parking spaces for him. The least he can do is park his wheelchair away from the pisser. I had half a mind to whiz on the control panel and short out the brakes.
Any medicine can be "maximum strength" if you're willing to take a few extra pills. Once time, in a pinch, I took 22 baby aspirin for a pulled groin muscle. Worked like magic, although I did crawl around, soil myself and suck my thumb for the next 14 hours.
In the headlines today, "Woman saves dog by giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation." Later the paper issued a correction. It turns out it was just Rosie making out with her girlfriend.
I drink so much damn soda that I decided to rename my penis "Dr. Pepper."
Candy canes are cute and sentimental. But why hasn't somebody invented the candy crutch? If we're going to mock the maim around Christmastime, let's do it in style.
Now that the earth has been boasting record low temps every winter, the climate change crowd has contrived a jet stream disturbance theory to augment the global warming claim. Come on, guys. Say what you really mean: America is too prosperous and it needs to kick some hush money around. Global warming advocates remind me of that congressman who got caught being gay in a bathroom stall and claimed he was just trying to borrow some toilet paper!
The Color Purple isn't just a movie. It's what you see everywhere when you search the Playboy Mansion with a blacklight.

My New Year's resolutions for 2011

2010-12-28T15:50:00.000-08:00

Eat only when I'm hungry. Stop eating food on principle, which is to say, stop eating it just because it's there and I have a mouth.
Invent my own pyramid scheme so that I'll already be at the top of the pyramid when it takes off.
Write fad diet book whose gist is reconciling your body with nature, or customizing your diet to your unique biorhythms, or whatever such crap Oprah likes to hear so she'll promote the book and I get rich and famous, just in case the pyramid scheme fails.
Start smoking and then quit, just so I can show smokers that it isn't so hard and that they just lack moral turpitude. "But nicotine is the most addictive substance known to man." No it isn't. Calories are addictive. Alcohol is addictive. Jerking off is addictive. Smoking is just a bad habit.
Stop mocking smokers.
Stop wearing underpants. It's a waste of laundry. Also, throw way all my zipper-fly jeans.
Whenever something annoying happens, repeat the following to myself: "This is not a conspiracy against me; it's just that either the thing is a piece of crap, or the person is an imbecile." Breath deeply and count to 10.
Resist the urge to give the "thank-you wave" to everybody on the road. You're supposed to be courteous. So they let me in the turning lane. Big deal. It's not like they paid off my student loans or something. Thanks for nothing, fellow motorist.
Make those sarcastic, invisible air-quotes with my fingers when I'm speaking with dishonest people. Nothing is more humiliating that being air-quoted and these fuckers need to pay a price in shame. Plus it's funny.
Write a thank-you note to Barack Obama for fixing the economy like he promised. And also for getting us out of Iraq.
Stop organizing betting pools on the date celebrities get divorced. Even though I'm making good money, I fear I'm becoming too cynical.
Find a hobby that doesn't involve drinking.
Stop fantasizing about being a rock star, a race car driver or an astronaut. It looks like those dreams gave me the slip. Keep fingers crossed for exciting opportunity in the food services industry or waste management.
Buy telescope; discover my own planet. Name it Myanus.
Take a scrapbooking class.

Happy Christmas!

2010-12-25T14:16:00.000-08:00

Usually, always, when I sit and start to write, I have a plan. I have a list of things I want to write (rant) about, or a rudimentary essay smoldering in the recesses of my mind, which I fan and spritz to a roaring flame of absurdity.

But today is Christmas. I hadn't planned on writing anything. But I'm reading you guys and drinking a bottle of wine and feeling Christmas cheer and nostalgia like gangbusters. I've got Christmas music blaring from my computer speakers. The guys singing are a fake Beatles group from Norway or Sweden or Denmark or someplace in Europe. And while affecting their best Beatles personae, they're covering traditional Christmas songs. I love it. The winter sun is streaming through my office window. The sun will be setting in an hour, leaving in its path a soft, purple winter sunset, and I'll drink it in with equal portions of white zinfidel and get to reminiscing about Christmases past. That's what I love most about Christmas. I lack the religious convictions that make Christmas a spiritually significant event. For me, it's all about tradition, nostalgia: toys and food and snow and Christmas breaks and, once I reached the teenage years, girlfriends.

I'm going to let iTunes run through the playlist of Christmas songs and keep drinking this wine. That's how I'm going to spend this Christmas. The wife and kids left to celebrate with her side of the family, so I'm alone. Back in the days before the RIAA insinuated itself into the Internet, I downloaded many 1000s of songs, including 100s of Christmas songs. So I can let it rip all night long and never hear a repeat. You younger readers may not remember the golden age of downloading. Napster and a few me-too's ran all day and night with impunity. It was so fun. I left my computer wide open to the Internet, 24/7. Broadband, baby. Digital legs akimbo! Disclaimer: I wouldn't DARE share copy-written music files. Why, that would be unlawful. But it was a great way to discover the all the wonderful and obscure music available, including Christmas music. So my collection is spectacular. Every pop artist who recorded a song is in my playlist. Have you ever heard Billy Squire's Christmas Is The Time to Say, I Love You? Sublime.

Wow, I'm buzzed. Pointer Sisters are playing just now. I took a break from blogging. I didn't write a thing for a year and a half. What happened was, I got hooked on first-person shooter gaming, specifically, Call of Duty. When I found some free time it became a choice between writing and playing video games. Blogging went extinct. But a couple years later I asked myself, Is this the best way to spend your time? Getting fired up and angry at a video game? And I thought, yeah, I could blog once in a while, if anybody's still doing that. It turns out, all the cool kids are doing it! I've quit playing COD because I don't like the guy I become when I play it.

I'm rambling. I shutter to think how this will read once I sober up. I should tell you how excited I am to be blogging again. I have all these new bloggers to get to know. I love reading you guys. It's so much more fun than the news. Isn't it peculiar how a bunch of amateur bloggers writing as a hobby are more captivating than professional blow-hards who think they have something important to publish? Screw them. If I read one more AP wire story, I'm going to puke. Yet I hang on every word of a recipe or some girl ranting about her thoughtless boyfriend, or a dude ranting about the vicissitudes of modern life, or a mom talking about her daily life raising kids. Weird. All I know is, I love ripping through the Blogger reading wire. Thanks for inventing that, Google! It's so nice to be able to have all the recently updated blogs, front and center. Whoever invented that deserves a medal. For that matter, so does the guy who fermented wine.

Sweet, the Ramones singing Merry Christmas, I Don't Want to Fight Tonight.

Anyway, I hope all of you are having a Merry Christmas, eating too much and drinking too much and enjoying the company of friends and loved ones, or else basking in the peace and solitude of a Christmas evening by yourself, awash in holiday nostalgia and fine memories. I hope all of you share some New Year's resolutions. What better way to get to know somebody than to read their aspirations? Maybe I'll draft a few of my own.

I'm off to watch the last half of Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. Later, skaters. And Merry Christmas!

Next time, at least buy me dinner

2010-12-21T17:25:00.000-08:00

I realized something. Everybody is trying to slip their hands up my financial skirt. It's no longer sufficient to be financially prudent. You have to ward off the financial peeping toms, ass-grabbers and serial rapists, too. In high school, you take sex-ed to learn about the pitfalls of sex. You should have to take finance-ed, also, to inform future consumers about the tactics of financial predators. The crooks are everywhere.

Example: whenever you enter into contract, half a dozen fees find their way into the monthly bill. You didn't agree to them. They just showed up. It reminds me of my college days when by way of brandishing a bottle of Ten High, 8 guests I didn't recognize jammed paper cups in my face. Beat it, free loaders. Go beer-run a case of Keystone; earn your buzz. Contractors all want their turn fucking you. I refinanced my house last year and I felt like the girl who drank herself unconscious at a frat party. Everybody took a turn while the getting was good. By the time I came to, the damage had been done. I had 17 distinct DNA specimens on my person. Why am I paying a guy 500 bucks to rubber stamp my title? And when did Xerox fees start going for 30 bucks? I tell you what, Mr. Banker. Give me the papers. I'll run to Kinkos and do it myself for 48 cents. I'll even throw in a photocopy of my ass that you're welcome to kiss.

Recently my wife's cell phone went through the washing machine. I bought a new phone on eBay for cheap, but Verizon charged me 15 bucks to transfer the data (contacts and ringtones) from the old phone to the new one. One would think if the memory chip survived the spin cycle, the rest of the phone's innards would, too. Conspiracy, I say! They know your phone will drop into a body of water eventually. Why not make just the memory chip water-tight so we can make another 15 bucks when you sit on the crapper at the Xmas party and dunk your phone, Captain Egg Nog? Basically I spent 15 bucks so my wife could salvage the 172 pictures of my junk that I sent to her cell phone. Those are replaceable.

Home repairs are another racket. Have you ever replaced your garage door spring? I've replaced 2 in the last decade at 400 dollars apiece. Four hundred dollars for what amounts to a high-tension Slinky. I could have saved 396 dollars by going to Toys-R-Us.

Retail stores are in on the racket, too. Why does every checkout line end with "Would you like donate a dollar to [insert charity here]?" This happened to me at Target yesterday. Lady, I just used a credit card to finance my kid's Trapper Keeper. Do you really think I can afford to donate a dollar to fight prostate cancer? If you're so worried about it, why don't you jam a finger up me right here and make sure I'm OK?

When did we start tipping for take-out food? Have you noticed the tip jars and debit card receipts asking for tips? What am I tipping you for, exactly? You're the human interface cable between me and the cash register. Here's a tip: go to college! Do you really expect to get the same tip as the person refilling my drinks, serving my food, corralling my obnoxious child, explaining the specials of the day and fake-laughing at my obnoxious, margarita-fueled jokes? If you want a tip, pull a pair of shiny orange shorts over your fat ass and grab me a complimentary bread basket. One day I'm going to have to tip my airline pilot. Here's a five-spot, Captain. Keep us above the horizon!

Two dollars for ATM service? I have a better idea. How about you credit my account 2 dollars for not affixing my chewed gum to the deposit envelop, scumbag? Try to remember I'm your customer and I already keep all my money in your building. I don't charge my kid 2 bucks every time she raids my wallet for Twilight tickets. I do it for free because Bella is the only role model young girls have who isn't naked and hanging from the chandelier by the second act. Twilight may be corny. But at least the message to pubescent girls isn't to fuck every dude with a Trans Am and a barbed wire tattoo.

When did restaurants start getting $2.39 for a soda? Unless they're adding a shot of whiskey, this is too much. I can get a Circle-K 64oz. pants-wetter for 89 cents. Restaurant sodas should cost a buck. It's a soda, not an appetizer. And speaking of drinks, alcoholic beverages are approaching -- and often exceed -- the ten-dollar mark. Does anybody else note the irony that you can't afford to drink the agony of the recession away at the bar? They charge the same for a drink as the entire bottle of booze. That's like a hooker charging as much as the divorce lawyer.

Anyway, I wish all of you luck protecting yourself from the financial predators this Christmas season. And in case we don't talk again before it passes....

Merry Christmas!

Costco is the reason for the season

2010-12-16T15:52:00.000-08:00

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.

More cool things I'd like to do someday

2010-12-13T20:14:00.000-08:00

I had loads of fun last week listing some cool things I'd like to do. This week I realized I have some more cool things I'd like to do, and with New Year's resolutions to write, I thought it apropos to list them here. Take a gander at some more cool things I want to do:

*Punch an electronic device on the fritz and restore it to perfect working order.

*Talk a suicidal man away from the edge of the roof by assuring him we're in this together and then regaling him with gym locker room talk from the good old days, which shows him that life has value after all. Tell joke that we'll share a beer at Sizzler, but that he'll have to drink through a straw because he'll be in a straight jacket.

*Get stuck in elevator with a crowd of people. Diffuse wave of panic by assuring everyone that I've been in this situation before and that panic is the enemy. Get a boost from biggest guy in elevator; pop tile off of elevator roof; climb up elevator shaft to nearest door; push button on higher floor to get elevator running again and be there when the doors open to greet fretful passengers. Applause.

*Deliver a baby in a cab. Kid gets named after me.

*Inadvertently get thrown on a dance floor by drunken buddies and dance an impromptu tango with exotic strange woman. Execute steps so well that the father of my dance parter -- a very powerful dignitary in a foreign country -- toasts to me, invites me to his table, and cautions me against breaking his daughter's heart because he killed the last man who did so.

*Extinguish a fire with my parka before it gets out of hand.

*Take a college economics course. Ask poignant question which throws starchy, know-it-all professor off balance. Give impromptu speech that rouses the classroom and appeals to common sense in lieu of academic pretentiousness. Garner applause from classmates. Starchy professor sneers and organizes papers on desk.

*Successfully hide from bad guys by hiding underwater and using a stick of bamboo to breathe.

*Reconcile with wife after a fight (the result of a comic misunderstanding) by appearing on stage with a ukulele and singing a sweet ballad in her honor that neither she nor the audience can resist. Kiss to applause.

*Turn off a machine threatening the life and limb of an innocent victim by throwing an everyday object at the power button mere seconds before disaster strikes.

*Employ an explosion as a distraction to rescue hostages and then use a snowmobile to make a daring escape.

*Remedy an electrical short by using makeshift conductor.

*Be the best man at a wedding and throw such an outrageous bachelor party that I jeopardize the marriage with all the crazy antics the bride-to-be discovers. Then I come to the rescue by making moving and romantic toast to the couple after easing tension by dancing a jig with cute little 4-year-old girl.

*Successfully land plane after pilot gets sick and passes out from spoiled seafood.

*Join double-dutch jump rope in ghetto streets and transcend race/culture barrier. Go to McDonald's afterward and laugh with neighborhood girls while eating. McDonald's makes whole thing into a commercial.

Thoughtprints

2010-12-10T16:23:00.000-08:00

Society is turning queer. Twenty-five years ago, I watched a show called the A-Team. It was about four fugitives who drove around in a bad-ass black van looking for an excuse to blow shit up. Now my wife and kid clog my DVR full of Glee episodes. Glee? If I want to watch kids running around campus singing and dancing, I'll watch my Girls Gone Wild videos.
Some birds navigate via mapping the stars relative to the earth's axis. If birds are that smart, why go to all that trouble? Can't they just dive-bomb on a popcorn ball in a Chuck E. Cheese parking lot? Look birds, you're flying like 12,000 miles in hopes of finding some grubs and meal worms where you land. You didn't see a Howard Johnson's along the way? And if you're heading there to mate, just go fuck in the park like the high school kids do.
The people who want us to switch to fluorescent bulbs are the same people who want us to plug a station wagon into our garage outlets. How about I continue to drive my current car and just turn up the A/C, refrigerator, my oven and a blow drier? Let them all duke it out.
People get angry when a slow driver is using his cell phone. People are caring too much by half. Check yo-self, hata! I see an absentminded driver on his cell phone, I cut him slack. Think about it. It's not the cell phone. It's his driving that's ruining your day. But if I have a good reason why he's going 30 in the left lane, I calm down. Oh, he's texting? That's cool. Probably just brokering a booty call or scoring a dime bag. You know who I despise? The guy driving that slow with no excuse. Hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, dick in his pants -- just a dipshit in his Buick Skylark doing 30 miles per hour and believing he still has the right to live in my universe.
We've become so obsessed with fairness that we won't be happy until it's equally unfair for everybody, which is only fair.
Some kids burn ants with a magnifying glass. I use a telescope, only I turn it backwards and freeze them to death. It seems more humane.
They shouldn't call them political "parties." They're more like political gangs. They're going all Turbo and Ozone and shit. Wouldn't Obama make a good Ozone? No, YOU'RE the racist because you thought, "because they're both black, right?" Wrong! I mean because they're both good dancers. You need to examine yourself and purge your hidden racism!
Digital watches have created complete dependence. I literally cannot remember today's date -- ever. I mastered this task when I was a kid. I always knew the date. But now I need my watch. Same with porn. Since it's gone digital, I can't remember what naked girls look like on my own. I have to keep a window of porn constantly running in the background so I'll remember to bang my wife.
People tell me I need to work on my anger issues. I already do! I work on them by drinking until I laugh at the things that were pissing me off when I was sober. Mission accomplished. They should make a whiskey called "Anger Management." Distilled and bottled with pride in Bourbon, Kentucky.

Service with a smile

2010-12-07T11:53:00.000-08:00

I want to revolutionize the customer service industry. Right now, it's dreadful. But I can fix that. My idea would improve efficiency and performance by maximizing job satisfaction. Everybody wins. How do you maximize job satisfaction in an industry whose purpose is dealing with people who tend to suck? I'm glad you asked. Customer service jobs need to assign tasks to its employees by way of an auction. Use a bidding system!

Here's how it works. The customers have a seat in a lobby which the employees can view through one-way glass. After surveying the herd, employees bid on the customers just as they would other livestock. For example, if you're a waiter, your experienced eyes could spot a WalMart- shopping no-tipper by his polyester pants and Lynyrd Skynyrd tee shirt. Your employer would bid the job to the wait staff, where the lowest bidder would seat the lowlife guest and serve him his grilled cheese, fries and malt liquor. Sure, you're going to get stiffed, but you bid an acceptable price to wait on the guy up front.

Those of you in service jobs already see how wonderful this system is. You can eyeball somebody and size them up in milliseconds. Contrary to political correctness doctrine, you can judge someone by their appearance. It stands to reason. Remember, the clothing people wear, the way they do their hair, jewelry, tattoos, complexion, gestures and mannerisms -- these aren't random events that just happened to people. They're choices. And what is character but the sum of the choices we make? When you look at somebody, you see how they choose to present themselves to the world. And that tells you quite a bit about their character. Fat people are lazy, yo. And if you have 19 visible piercings and a comic book's worth of artwork tattooed on your arms and neck, then guess what: you crave attention. That's what that says about you. Also, if you color-tip your hair, you're wicked queer. And any Tap Out logos tip people off that you're a douche bag.

Let's return to bidding auctions for service jobs. This time, let's take healthcare as an example. Every healthcare practitioner knows that some patients are less desirable than others. So, the more fat, gross, old and disgusting patients drive the bidding higher until the practitioner holds his nose and takes the plunge. "Alright, I'll go 150 on the 72 year-old blimp in the wheelchair with acute hemorrhoids and a bowel obstruction." Going once, going twice... sold to the nurse in the teal scrubs. Imagine healthcare workers choosing whom to care for instead of falling victim to whatever piece of garbage comes through the door. Before, you were shackled to a duty of care. Now, every patient becomes a choice and every service he requires is a fee you negotiated. Free will, free enterprise and the freedom to control your workplace experience -- that's a winning combination. Maybe then half of nurses in America wouldn't be contemplating hari kari 4 times per shift.

Phone service jobs could bid from their cubicals. Wouldn't it be nice to hold out for top dollar on a drunk native American customer who's currently on hold, waiting to buy car insurance? He just bought a 30 thousand dollar Ram truck, but he has no checking account and lives in a tipi whose address is "30 paces down river from Old Coyote Rock." Or a computer technician who can bid on a 74 year-old grandmother whose kids thought it would be a great idea to get Gam-Gam online for email and pictures of the family, and now the same lady who never figured out how to program a VCR is trying to format a POP3 email account to her ISP server. "What is this blue "E" thingamabob for?" Shit, I'd bid just to be able to listen in on that call (why is so damn funny to watch your coworkers dealing with infuriating customers?).

The point is, customers suck. And the people in service jobs know it. They approach their work with a sense of drudgery, and the result is second-rate service. Installing an employee-to-customer bidding system invokes the spirit of free enterprise and unleashes the power of competition. Now, the customers aren't dolts, cheapskates and perverts. They're projects. The employee won the bid and the opportunity to do the job. So he's happy. The employer knows he contracted the job at the lowest market price. So he's happy, too. And as long as the bidding remains confidential, the customer feels like royalty. Everybody wins!

Thoughtprints

2010-12-02T11:33:00.000-08:00

I saw a commercial saying I can save a kid's life for "less than a cup of coffee per day." So I cut out the middleman and started shipping a 30-case of Folgers Crystals to the kid every month. The commercial said he'd write me letters and whatnot. Finally the kid writes me and the card says, Do you know how hard it is to find cream and sugar in Ethiopia, asshole?
Have you used Window's "safe mode?" Nothing safe about Windows. Having unprotected sex with the Octomom is safer than Windows. Going down on Courtney Love while you have a canker sore is safer than Windows. Sharing a hotel room with Charley Sheen is safer than Windows.
I went shopping in a Guess clothing store. I saw my reflection in the mirror. Then I bought a 20 dollar hat. Actually, the hat cost 40 dollars, but it was worth at least 20 just that nobody would see my train wreck of a hairdo for the rest of the day.
How does the new trend of "skinny jeans" sell when all our kids are little tubbos? The only skinny kids left are those Olsen twins and they share each other's pants.
My dog knows when I'm drinking. He never begs for food when I'm sober because there's no point. I won't budge. But when I'm drinking, we usually go in halves on a pizza. Sometimes, if I really hit the bottle, I'll have him accept delivery. Make sure he doesn't stiff us on the garlic bread this time. And don't tip so damn much. It's 10-percent for delivery, Maxwell. I stay sober long enough to order the pizza. Otherwise I wind up with half pepperoni, half kibble.
When I was in high school, a Carmex craze hit. Kids were caking Carmex on their lips every 20 minutes. It looked like they were giving fellatio to a candlestick.
I drove through a construction site and there was only one guy working. One guy. The recession, I guess. I felt so bad for him. He was trying to drink 17 cups of coffee all at once.
In the news today, a white man carried out 6 robberies while disguised as a black man. Police were tipped off when security footage showed him failing to jump over a janitor bucket on his way out the door and face-planted the sidewalk.

Wikileaks

2010-11-29T23:13:00.000-08:00

People are up in arms over the Wikileaks documents. Many believe Wiki is committing espionage -- perhaps treason! That's just pundit melodrama. I see the leaked State Department documents as reality programming, Washington style. We shouldn't be surprised that a media outlet is publishing our government's communiques. It's an eventuality of the reality programming craze. I've spent the last couple years watching dagos wax and tan their "garbagio" on MTV. I've seen fat people losing weight, Fat Tuesday romps, fat-assed Kardashians, a fat gay fella who won a survivor game and then stiffed the IRS out of its share, and a slew of self-centered, disillusioned posers living together in a contrived home setting, all waiting to launch into an angry soliloquy on roommate etiquette. Reality TV programing is everywhere. It was only a matter of time before it infected government.

I wonder what the secret documents reveal. I hope they capture our State Department officers at their most candid (and a little drunk). Maybe those inner-office emails show them cracking wise at world leaders' expense: Hillary Clinton speculating on the "shortcomings" of Kim Jong-il's pecker. Barney Frank quipping that Ahmadinejad's suit is so gay that it makes him (the pickle puffer Barney Frank, himself) look like John Wayne. And someone please tell me upper echelon State officials are dumping all over France. There's a hanging curve ball. Where will the intelligentsia go with the frogs? Body odor, loose morals, their propensity to surrender? Hell, France needs its own Friars Club Roast to cover all its foibles. Have you seen all the goatees in France? But enough about the women...

I'll bet the State Department takes an occasional shot at the president when they think nobody's listening. Did you hear somebody socked Obama in the mouth during a pickup basketball game and gave him a fat lip? Good. At least now he'll have to stop kissing Arabia's collective ass for a few weeks! Or how about this: Obama's lip was so fat that his ears briefly appeared to be normal size. The State Department isn't above a cheap shot.

Politicians are too wrinkled and homely to star in bedroom spy-cams or nightclubbing jaunts. So we're reduced to prying into their emails and top secret documents for entertainment. It's either that or watching Charles Rangel fry breakfast sausage in his boxer shorts while watching the Weather Channel. Or maybe Nancy Pelosi preparing for bed by unscrewing the C-clamps that pull her face around the back of her vapid head. Instead, we opt for classified documents whose publication compromises national security. Bargain of the century!

Admittedly it might be fun to watch a herd of Washington bureaucrats waddle through the nightclub scene a la reality TV. Popping bottles and stuffing our tax dollars into waitresses' cleavage. After all, we've been funding their parties for decades. Let's at least get a voyeuristic thrill for our money.

Annual Thanksgiving Post.

2010-11-24T13:32:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

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? The closest they'll come to splitting an atom is spilling fire-water from their canteens to the campfire. Send my regards to Chief Stumbled Steps.

Being a paleface, I love Thanksgiving. I love a holiday with food as its raison d'etre.  Thanksgiving is the time of year I wish I had 4 stomachs, like a cow. That would be great. I could eat non-stop. Come to think of it, better throw in a couple extra colons. 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 food at a Thanksgiving feast. Turkey is traditional fare. Some people claim an ingredient in turkey acts as a sedative that induces slumber. I’m skeptical. I attribute the post-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.

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 yourTiVo and look at the bottom of the screen. Freggin’ pervert is copulating with a Proctor Silex Salad Pro. You have to watch the director's cut to see it, though.

Anyway, I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving this year!  Enjoy, Turkey.

Limoncello, armadillo!

2010-11-22T21:49:00.000-08:00

Everything tastes better when it's homemade.

I recently learned how to make my own limoncello. I was delighted to learn one can make his own liqueur. I figured you had to be a gnome or a hunchback Italian guy exiled to Sicily. Ooh, you know who else might make a good liqueur? Uncle Jessie of Dukes of Hazzard fame. He already distills moonshine of county-wide repute. Were Daisy inclined to zest some lemons and the Duke boys could stop humping each other long enough to bottle and market the concoction, Hazzard County would boast the finest Limoncello in the world. That little dago Danny Devito had better watch his back.

Making limoncello is that easy, folks. Let me walk you through the recipe. You begin with grain alcohol. I don't know how to make that. I think God Himself takes a chunk of stupid and wrings it into a bottle. Luckily you can buy it at your local liquor store. Avoid stepping in the consolidated vomit pits on your way in, and keep some spare change handy for the local vagrant loitering the anteroom, lest he become a nuisance. Locate the grain alcohol section and pick your poison. I stick with Everclear because a sip of it is like a mule kick to your brain. It's flavorless. It's cheap. And it doubles as floor stripper if you're in a pinch. Any grain alcohol will do. Vodka, which by definition is flavorless, will also do. But it lacks the punch of grain alcohols. So if you're a girl or a homosexual, vodka may be your choice. Man the fuck up and buy Everclear, already.

Now you need some lemons. Bear in mind that you'll be zesting the lemons to impart a lemon flavor into the grain alcohol. So select those lemons with a thick, electric-yellow rind. You'll likely find the best lemons at those hippie, whole-foods stores. Buy 10 to 12 lemons. Rinse them and zest them. I bought a zesting tool at my liquor store and it works like gang-busters. Some of you may be tempted to peel the lemons and that's fine. But remember that if you add pith to the alcohol, the final product will be bitter and undrinkable. You want the yellow zest from the lemon's rind -- not the white pith just beneath it. Don't learn the hard way.

You can add the lemon zest to the bottle of alcohol. That's what I do. Or you can add the alcohol and zest into a jug. Just as you please. But zest those lemons right, soldier: all zest, no pith. Roger, dodger. Now I have some bad news. You have to wait 3 weeks for the mixture to steep. I know. Waiting sucks. If we liked waiting, we'd date Catholic girls. Am I right? But with limoncello, you don't have a choice. You have to wait for the lemon oil to diffuse into the liquor, and that takes time. Store your bottle in a cool, dry place and fight the cravings for 21 days.

You're almost there! After you've steeped the liquor, you make simple syrup. Relax. You don't have to hike into the woods and tap a fir tree, Grizzly Adams. All you have to do is boil a cup of water and add an equal volume of granulated sugar. Mix until the sugar dissolves into the water. Allow the fluid to cool to room temperature. Strain the grain alcohol into a container (a mason jar works; so does an empty liquor bottle, and don't pretend you don't have one handy, you lushes!). You can use a coffee filter to strain the zest from the alcohol. Then combine equal parts of the lemony liquor with your (cooled!) simple syrup. Put the concoction into the freezer (it won't freeze due to the alcohol content). After it reaches freezing temperature, pour a few ounces into a snifter and enjoy. Make sure you have bail money handy! Are you ready to blast off, cosmonaut? 3-2-1, ignition! We're in flavor country now, bitches.

You can enjoy it straight or add it to cranberry juice, Mountain Dew, seltzer or lemonade. The possibilities are endless. Sip it after dinner or on the porch in the evening. Bring a flask to work and take a nip on your restroom breaks. Drink it straight while watching Monday Night Football or reality TV programming. Keep it at the ready during the holidays and bottle it for gifts to those you love. When you give limoncello, you give love. And yes, if you must know, I'm drinking some right now.

As long as I'm cocked off my ass on limoncello, I should tell you all that I'm thrilled to be blogging again, and to have such a charming readership, and to have all these fresh, vibrant blogs a mouse-click away. Know this: If I'm reading you, it's because I love your writing. Enjoy your limoncello in good health and with those you love. And know that while I'm drinking mine, I'll be thinking of you all (and surfing homemade porn. Remember, if it's homemade, it's better!).

Later in the week I'll repost my annual Thanksgiving Day essay. I hope you enjoy it. And should I miss the chance to tell you, Happy Thanksgiving!

Too cool for school

2010-11-18T23:44:00.000-08:00

List of cool things I want to do:

*Hurl a knife at a guy such that the knife sticks into the wall inches above his head, and then shimmies back and forth, and even though I don't have the knife anymore, he knows not to mess with me because if I can throw a knife like that, then who knows what else I can do?

*Discern the precise depth of a gorge by dropping a stone and listening for the report of the stone when it strikes the ground. Then having my friend doubt my estimate because "that's impossible." Then later, we Google it and it turns out I was right. Steak dinner!

*Tame a wild animal threatening a campsite using my body language to communicate that I'm indeed the alpha male, yet I mean him no harm. When all the campers rush to thank me, I pose humble and explain that I learned it watching Discovery Channel, and that they're the real heroes.

*Be the first on the scene at a traffic hazard and direct traffic. People gather from my demeanor that I'm in charge -- so no horn blasts and no little kids giving me the finger from the back seat.

*Pop open the hood of a disabled vehicle, jiggle the right wires, hoses and components so that the car suddenly starts up. Admittedly, this is probably the most unlikely of all my goals listed here. Unless the car ran out of gas and there's a 7-Eleven in sight, no way I'm getting the car to start!

*Tackle a purse thief in mid-thievery. Come to learn that the old lady victim had Christmas money in her purse for grandkids which they will get, thanks to me. Humbly decline invite to Christmas dinner.

*Be the guy who scales the wall, goes around and unlocks the door from the other side for the others to get into wherever we're trying to get into.

*Successfully navigate a hike using a makeshift compass needle, noting the position of celestial bodies and tree moss, and drawing on my experience as a cub scout -- even though we could have taken the easy way out and used my Droid's GPS.

*Join in a doo-wop group singing around a barrel fire, slip right in with the harmonies, take over the lead and end the song with a hoo-OOO-ooo-waaahhhhhhhh. Shake hands with the guys and then keep walking while the leader of the group asks the other guys, who was that cool cat? -- or words to that effect.

*Get drafted by a group of guys playing football at the park because their friend got hurt and now they're a man short. Catch the winning touchdown and lead team to a come-from-behind victory. Guys are almost glad their friend got hurt. Other team clamors for a rematch, but I look at my watch and say I have to go.

*Spear a fish with a stick of bamboo. Cook it rotisserie style on a sandy beach.

*Successfully negotiate my party's way out of a foreign jail cell with my considerable charm and also by besting the guardsmen at cards, chess or whatever their pastime is while on the job.

*After learning we're flooded in for the night, whip up a 7-course meal using whatever ingredients I can find in the cabin kitchen. Wow fellow travelers.

*Hit a ridiculously high hand in blackjack and catch a small card, giving me 21 and making the dealer sneer. Then giving a knowing look to the attractive lady across the table.

*Flip a bunch of burgers on the grill at just the right time so that they only have one set of parallel grill markings on each side. Serve them by pointing to each guy with the spatula and saying "you wanted yours medium-well, right?"

Thoughtprints

2010-11-17T00:26:00.000-08:00

The wife bought me a box of Mint Fudge Oreo cookies. Nabisco covered the Oreo we all know and love with a layer of mint-flavored fudge. This is too much decadence. It's baroque and sinful. Nabisco is no longer baking; it's tapping into the occult. I'm afraid that when I look in the box, the Light of Christ will obliterate me like it did the Nazi's when they peered into the Ark of the Covenant in the first Indiana Jones movie.
I think sites like MySpace and Facebook did weblogs a favor by siphoning off the lightweights and posers. Left in their wake is a high concentration of first-rate writers. It feels so good to be blogging again. You people are so much more interesting than the social networking sites and so much less depressing than the daily news.
I ate a carne asada bake at Costco the other day. Evidently "carne asada" is Spanish for "flavorless prison food." That bake was so bland it could have hosted a show on NPR.
"Your most unhappy customers are your greatest source of learning." -- Bill Gates. "In that case, you're the wisest em effer on the planet." -- LBB.
TV ads should come with a disclaimer: "Best possible scenario depicted." Advertisers don't lie. They're just showing you the rare occasion when the piece of crap actually does what it's supposed to do.
You know what word processors need? A "stop trying to fucking help me" button. Also, when importing text via the clipboard, a "don't retain the jacked-up, ass-backwards font from the source page" button. These programs have become too smart for their own good.
Airport security is patting down toddlers. Remember the good ole days when frisking a kid at the airport got you 15-to-life in prison? Nowadays, they give you an Employee of the Month pin. Hey, Captain, this one's trying to smuggle a couple of Milk Duds and a Twizzler.... uh, oops. False alarm. Sorry kid.
People are up in arms over airport body scan images leaked onto the Internet. Yeah, because millions of teenage boys are discarding gigabytes of hi-def Internet porn so they can pop one out to a 32-bit grey-scale image of your cocktail wiener and middle-age traveling salesman ass. Incidentally, it must be awfully cold in those scanners.
A woman has recently become the first transgender judge -- giving rise to the phrase, Your Hon-Or-Off.
In the news today, a fisherman found a human head in his bucket, but at first mistook it for a fish. It turns out, somebody decapitated Steve Buscemi.

A clean slate

2010-11-12T09:26:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I have to clean stuff. I'm a messy person by nature. And I like to drink. So I tend to soil things, and then my neatness-freak mentality erupts. I get the compulsion to clean whatever I messed. Usually my computer desk, mouse and keyboard take most of the shrapnel when I'm eating and computing at the same time. It's a bad habit, but I love it. I could feed a family for a week on the crumbs in my keyboard.

Murphy's Law is everywhere you look, and the world of cleaning is no exception. Whatever cleaning agent you need is the one you don't have. So if you're like me, you fumble for a substitution or concoct your own formula using those chemicals on offer in your utility room. I fancy myself a bit of an alchemist. I can whip up a cleaning agent for just about any mess.

My go-to cleaning agent is glass cleaner. Rationale: If it cleans glass, it'll clean anything. You'll find glass cleaner is a serviceable all-purpose cleaner. Just keep spraying and rubbing until the gunk disappears. It'll handle all but the most stubborn stains. Glass cleaner is the booty-call of cleaning agents: it'll do when you can't find exactly what you're looking for. So keep it handy.

Sometimes I'll mix two or more chemicals together in hopes of formulating a miracle cleaner. The idea is to maximize the probability that your concoction will have the desired effect. It's guesswork. Sometimes I miss the mark. I mixed an ammonia product with bleach and woke up in a puddle of my own drool 17 hours later. For the next 4 days I soiled myself every 20 minutes and labored under the delusion that I was Mr. Clean. I even shaved my head and hid out in my neighbor lady's cupboards until she needed to clean her tile floor. Surprise, bitch! But my toilet gleamed like it did on the showroom floor.

Every cleaning product has this vaguely threatening federal law on the label: "Using this product for purposes other than those indicated may violate federal laws." I ignore this warning. It's my constitutional right to mix and match these substances as I please as long as I'm not making crank. Most of us agree that we want the government out of our bedroom. Stay out of our bathrooms, too. Unless you're going to clean it, Uncle Sam.

I've had other laboratory mishaps. One time I mixed Draino, Simple Green and Pledge Furniture Polish and created a radioactive goo in my bathtub. I had a China Syndrome situation going on. Think fast, LBB! I grabbed some baking soda from the pantry and neutralized the goo before it reached critical mass. A few burns, some mild hair loss and a Silkwood shower later, everything was copesetic. My tub was gleaming. Plus I saved myself a trip to Target.

If you read the cleaning agent's ingredient list, you'll notice that the active ingredient -- the stuff that actually makes it work -- is some microscopically small percentage of the product, like .05%. The rest of the bottle is just water and buffers and other useless stuff. I'm getting fleeced! Look, I'll pay extra, but I want the full-strength shit. Whatever chemical is making the product work, just fill the bottle with that and sell it to me. Let me worry about diluting it if I have to. But I probably won't. Whatever cleaning produce I use, I want to hear it sizzle. I want to pack the firepower, yo.

Sometimes things are clean, but you need to kill a bug. Again, Murphy's Law applies -- now you're out of Raid. I swear those little bastard bugs know when I'm out of Raid. Suddenly it's a regular Boston Bug-athon across my kitchen floors. Double dumbass on you, bugs! I may not have bug poison, but I can find something useful in the cupboard! That's when I rifle through the shelves and search for the most poisonous cleaning agent I can spray. Let's see. What would make the most potent nerve agent? Ah, Comet powder! Or maybe 409. The way I see it, even if the chemical doesn't induce an acute fatality, it'll give the bug cancer. Bug won't be much of a problem on chemo and bed-ridden.

Here's a free alchemy tip from LBB: Don't use Pam on your toilet seat. You may slip off and become "familiar with" the business end of a plunger. Also, don't use household bug poisons to clean it, unless you want a red ring of irritated/gangrenous skin encircling your ass for a week. In retrospect, I should have anticipated these risks. But once I get to cleaning, I attack with the fervor and single-mindedness of other great scientists.

Happy cleaning and best of luck.

Thoughtprints

2010-11-08T20:24:00.000-08:00

Environmentalists forget that man makes the most beautiful things. Look at at city skyline or a modern marvel of architecture.
I went into a Dick's Sporting Goods. Not a single jock strap for sale. Ironic.
If cars were cheap to fix, traffic jams would be fun! Imagine not having to worry about fender-benders! Every commute to work would become the A-hole 500.
Curiosity is the essence of intelligence. If you really want to know, you'll figure it out. If you don't, you'll come off like a dunce.
People praise the virtue of patience. But the way I see it, patience is just tolerance for what's wrong.
TV ads should come with a disclaimer: "Best possible scenario depicted." Advertisers don't lie. They're showing you the rare occasion when the piece of crap actually does what it's supposed to do. I bought one of those clapper vegetable choppers because after watching the commercial I realized my life was worthless without one. The thing is great at almost chopping vegetables. It's perfect for those occasions where you need a checkerboard of tomato held together by a membrane of tomato skin.
I'm much more inclined to believe salesmen with accents. If they have an accent, they must be telling the truth. A pitchman from Australia convinced me there's a magical cloth called a shammy that will soak up any quantity of fluid, retain it within its water-tight textiles, and with a wring over the sink, spill its contents down the drain. If he were American, I'd know he was full of crap and just buy more paper towels. But the accent proves he's sincere. The next time I call in sick for work, I'm doing it in my best Chinese accent. "Soddy fo sick. No wok today. I stay home an surf innet pawn."
If you always seem to say the wrong thing, you might just be talking to the wrong person.
When I'm at a restaurant, I'll wait however long it takes for them to bring my meal. I don't mind waiting. I'll enjoy the ambiance and my company. But if the waiter forgets the complimentary bread, I panic. If he's more than one minute late with the bread basket, I pull the fire alarm.
Dogs lack the ability to wonder. I'll walk into a room and flip the light switch. The light goes on and my dog can see where he once was blind. The only thing is, he doesn't know about electricity or light bulbs. So shouldn't he see that as a miracle? Imagine being blind and then for no discernible reason, suddenly you can see. That would be a miracle, right? And whoever walked in the room just before it happened would be a messiah. Yet my dog just wags his tail at me and takes another nap.
The bad economy is turning me into a real prick. Nowadays, when I walk into a store, I expect to be treated like royalty. As if I don't spend my precious money at their store, the employees will be sucking cock for beer money. But things really aren't that bad.
Feminine fashion appears to be in a state of flux. I'm not sure quite how to describe my preferences: somewhere between shaved bald and the illusion that Gary Coleman is taking a nap in your lap -- if you please.
If we shouldn't worry what others think of us, why should we worry what other countries think of us? What is a country but a collection of people (who all eat the same kind of food)?
There's a cute little electronic gadget that plays 20-Questions, and then does an excellent job of telling you what you were thinking about. They should make one for which country you're thinking about. "Do you prefer football or soccer?" "Does your diet consist mostly of rice and beans?" "If you get caught stealing, will they saw your hand off? "Does your country feature TV shows that show fat people struggling to lose weight in a competitive environment."
I don't mean to appear insensitive to starving people, but I wonder how anybody goes hungry in America. Why not go into a fine restaurant, sit down, and kill off a few baskets of complimentary bread? After you get your fill, tell the waiter that the wine list is unacceptable and march out indignantly. But don't forget to visit the men's room first, and get a free spritz of fine cologne from the restroom attendant to negate the sewer smell of your soiled clothing, you piece of garbage!
I've never met somebody who needed something to eat. But I've met many who've needed something to drink.
The best way I figure we can fight terrorism is stuff millions of cute, stuffed toy camels with nanny-cams and ship them to toy stores in the Middle East. Why should a terrorist enjoy more privacy rights than an au pair?
How do blind people stop themselves from falling asleep when they're tired?
The best thing about the latest Batman film is that the bat suit didn't have nipples. That was worth the $9.50 right there. Every costume department should have at least one heterosexual to stop things from getting out of hand.
Police do have a tough job. Nobody is happy to see you. Everybody wants you out of their rear view mirror and their life as soon as possible. Everybody hates the job you're doing. Nobody can relate to that, except maybe Whoopi Goldberg.
My idea for USB-connected computer dildo: the iBeam.
I can't decide whether to continue investing in the stock market, or just go to the ATM teller every week day, withdraw 40 bucks and light it on fire.
Do you know the anxious feeling you get when you roll out into an intersection to make a left-hand turn, and then you realize there's no green arrow, and now you're just hanging out in an intersection with a guy behind you who took your spot and a few oncoming a-holes trying to blow throw the yellow light? That's how I feel about the future of this country: can't go back; and moving forward is scary as hell.
Why don't people who talk a lot get repetitive stress disorder in their jaw? Wouldn't that be nice?
When I was younger, I'd get ready in the mirror and I'd try to look hip, cool and sexy. Now I just try to achieve whatever look won't embarrass me too much.
I envy those people who snack on fruit. I wish I could satisfy my cravings with fruit. I need a couple Pop Tarts or a row of Girl Scout Thin Mints or fudge brownie sundae. Who snacks on fruit, anyway? "Gee, I'm craving something sweet right now. I'm so in the mood for a.... cumkwat. Mmmmmmm... that would hit the spot." You freakin' weirdo!
We're such a self-loathing culture. We don't even give ourselves credit when we do something right -- like when you snack on fruit. It doesn't count unless it's organic. See, it's not enough that you chose broccoli over a Three Musketeers Bar. It has to be grown without pesticides and hormones -- otherwise you're eating what The Man wants you to. If I eat legumes, I want credit, dammit. I don't care if they grew them in plutonium.

Fat chance they sell molcajetes

2010-11-04T03:03:00.000-07:00

I wonder whether I've become too angry. Then I squelch my wonder for fear that I can't help it, anyway. Why ponder what one can't change? Oh, for the power to choose those things that enrage or delight us!

I love homemade salsa. I'm still searching for the perfect recipe. Although I've made some whiz-bang salsas, I have yet to unlock the perfect combination of vegetables, spices and blending technique. My salsas are always good -- not great. But I'm getting closer. Salsa is a strange and magical food. When you nail it, as a few local restaurants do, it's the most delicious dish on the planet – particularly odd when one remembers it's composed of vegetables, a notoriously unsatisfying and often disgusting food group. Barring salsa, I haven't eaten a vegetable since I was 12, and then only under protest. But I never met a salsa I didn't like.

I recently learned about an ancient food processing tool called a molcajete. It's a mortar and pestle made of ceramic, marble or lava rock. Its two components are a large, rugged bowl standing on 3 legs, and a blunt club for pulverizing foodstuff. Cooks process herbs and spices in them, or mix sauces and pesto. Salsas, too, are a traditional food whipped up in the molcajete. Legend has it molcajetes make the best salsas because they release the flavors of the peppers in a way food processors can't. We'll see.

What does the above have to do with anger? I'm glad you asked. I had to buy a molcajete, which brought me to the local Crate & Barrel, where one can find novel kitchen items. Anxious to learn whether I would find a molcajete, I burst through the entrance. To my horror, I see a tall, pear-shaped fat man hobbling with a cane and clogging the aisle. Imagine Paul Bunyan aged another 30 years and having swallowed his ox whole. Bingo.

The reader should know the store files patrons through an “in” and “out” aisle. So I can't sidestep this gimpy rhinoceros and get along with my shopping. I have to deal with him. By now I observed him moving at roughly the speed of moss and with the nimbleness of an anesthetized koala bear. Aw, jeez! I'll never get by! Even when I do, I'll be bouncing into this behemoth for the length of my visit. God forbid I have to double back to the stoneware section or something. I'll need a springboard, rocket boots and a climbing pick to scale over him. Jesus, you're fat!

See all the anger, above? Please know I was as appalled as you at my internal dialogue. Yikes, that's harsh! I had a moment of clarity just then in the Crate & Barrel. I observed myself hating on this guy, fantasizing the number of ways I'd assail him, saying a little prayer asking God to condemn him to hell (which for him would surely be a grocery store devoid of Hostess products). Suddenly I wanted to punch myself in the face. What had I become? What gave rise to my rage? Why am I such an impatient jerk? Why am I so angry at this?

Just as the self-awareness struck, I dissected my thoughts: It's unfair. I feel cheated somehow. His very presence is an imposition... But that imposition was really just 10 or 15 seconds of my time until he waddled this way or that, and I could pass. Fifteen seconds? How could that matter? It's trivial. After all, I had the day off. I needed to kill some time. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful store. I might just as easily have yielded 15 seconds to the food sample clerk or the lovely recipe book display. So if not the brief time he threatened to steal from me, then what?

It had to be the moral implications of being fat. Somehow, indulging his appetite to the point where he became a human barricade – that offended me. I don't begrudge a man a few extra pounds. But how dare he grow so big that he clogs a thoroughfare? That's the precise moment a fat person becomes offensive – when he blocks your passage. Take stock of yourself. You're blocking passersby. You're a one-man fire code violation. Stop being so complacent and bow your head in shame, you blimp.

Here's the rub. I don't want to be that angry. I don't want to be a cauldron of hate that boils over at the slightest offense. Instead, I want to be one of those a-holes with the “Life's a Beach” t-shirt and the live-and-let-live attitude. On second thought, fuck that guy. But still, I don't want to hate obese, wayward shoppers! The fat guy's only crimes were bumping Pizza Hut's stock a few points and having the metabolism of a zygote. I should let it go, right?

I would, but I just don't know how to change. How do you stop anger from getting the best of you? It sure as hell isn't positive thinking. I've tried that stuff and it just pisses me off. Once I caught myself getting angry in a traffic jam. So I went to the positive thinking. “LBB, aren't you glad you weren't one of the unfortunate people involved in the accident ahead. You're lucky that for you, it's just a delay and not something more serious...” “Bullshit! These Stevie Wonders cost me 20 minutes because they don't know how to drive. I'd better see a torso in the ditch!”

You see? Positive thinking failed me. My negativity only redoubles its efforts and squashes the positive thinking. Plus I hate myself a little bit for being disingenuous. So now I'm worse than when I started Thanks a lot, positive thinking. I knew you wouldn't work!

Back to the anger and its causes. I think it's evolutionary. Hating pathetic people is encoded in our genes. Elsewhere in the animal kingdom, stuff like this happens. I've watched it on the Discovery Channel. Chimpanzees and lions will ostracize or even attack one of their own kind should he exhibit a conspicuous flaw like a crooked tail or a deformed appendage. It's Mother Nature's way of purifying the gene pool – or at least for filtering out the fat guy in the Speedo wading around in it. We've retained the millions-of-years old instinct to eliminate the weak before they bring harm to the herd. It may be in our higher nature to accept and love those with genetic anomalies, but our primitive brains invoke the emotional circuitry of hostility. And so it is that I could feel two opposing emotions for the fat guy: antipathy and compassion (yes, I left the store feeling compassion for the fat guy once I calmed down). I also felt concerned about my mental well-being, what with the glaring anger issue. But neither sentiment lasted long. It turns out the Crate & Barrel had molcajetes! I was off to the neighboring grocer to buy fresh vegetable for my salsa sublime. Incidentally, it turned out to be the best salsa I've ever made. Thanks for not eating all the vegetables before I got there, fat guy!

Cereal numbers

2009-04-01T01:01:00.000-07:00

When I'm eating a bowl of cereal, the information on the cereal box becomes both fascinating and terribly important. Whatever the boys at Kellog's have to say, I need to know. The anecdotes about wheat farming and home-style recipes still in use at the cereal factory are compelling. Likewise with the quick-fix snack recipe that calls for the cereal I'm currently crunching. Maybe I'll make it someday! Of course, the nutritional info is the most important information. During breakfast, my wife may try to ask me a question or give me a kiss goodbye. Dammit, honey. Not now. I need to know how much riboflavin I'm getting here.

Eating cereal is addictive. That's probably why they call it "cereal." It's like those serial killers -- they can't stop doing it once they start. The serving size for cereal is one cup. But I eat 3 or 4 bowls. So I'll read the vitamin chart on the side of the box and start worrying. Is it possible to overdose on this stuff? By my calculations, I just ate the equivalent of 42 Flintstone pills. God, I hope my liver doesn't shut down.

That would make for an embarrassing share-session at the rehab clinic. "Hi, my name is Rich and I'm a Froot Loopahalic. [Hi, Rich] I knew I hit rock-bottom when I developed Shredded Wheat induced bowel obstruction and I was free-basing Total with Calcium through a crack pipe. This one time, I aspirated the toy prize. Bad times, man."

Speaking of which, do you think serial rapists like to spoon their victims?

A few thoughts...

2009-03-24T21:14:00.000-07:00

If I were Michael Phelps, I wouldn't worry about incriminating pictures of me smoking marijana. I'd be like, "You want to ban me from Olympic sports? Oh well, I guess I'll take my 14 gold medals and build a fort with them, maybe have a few left over to make into ninja throwing stars or something. And I can do it, too, because I'm a multi-millionaire. The only recession I worry about is my swim trunks crawling up my ass crack!" Then I'd suck a huge bong hit and blow it right in Mark Spitz's face. Stuff that down your Speedo, Mark!

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Wouldn't it be nice if people who talked a lot got repetative stress disorder in their jaws? Oh, I'm sorry to hear about your jaw bone, Bill. You know what helps that? Rub some Bengay on your jowls and shut the hell up for the rest of the week.

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I'm lowering my fashion standards as I age. When I was young, I wanted to look cool, hip, and sexy. Now I walk up to the mirror and think, Hey, this isn't too embarrassing. I can get away with this look. That's what fashion becomes as you get older -- a quest not to embarrass yourself. The best possible scenario is that you blend in.

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Mental health therapists recommend that when you're angry with somebody, you should write an angry letter to that person. In that letter, let all your grievances hang out. But once you're finished, don't mail it. Destroy it. I take this advice, only I don't destroy something I spent so much time writing. Instead, I tape it to a large rock and send it crashing through their kitchen window. The experts are right! It's very therapeutic.

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Sometime during my lifespan, I became dependent on entertainment at all hours. For example, I literally need the television to fall asleep. That flickering noise box is a sleep aid. How patholgocial is that? And what's more, I have to find something good to watch before I can fall asleep. Honey, give me the remote. There's a special on the Discovery Channel I'd like to completely ignore and fall unconscious to.