Tonight's forecast: hot. Tomorrow: hot. This is hell, baby!
Checking the weather for our "holiday weekend" and I inadvertently (don't know how, don't really care how) ended up looking at the weather forecast for
Dubai, United Arab Emirates. There it was. The 10 day and the month-long.
Every single day, as far as they could predict, the high was going to be 103 with a low of 85. Not one day different. And no rain. None.
So I'm thinking--
what the hell kind of job would it be, being the weather girl on Dubai TV? How tough, ya think? What kind of technical chops would be needed? What kind of schooling, I wonder?
Here, then, a screen-cap from
Al-Jazeera TV, the Arab all-jihad all-the-time TV "news" network. There's lovely
Ashima in her charming burka, pointing out the incredibly wide variances in temperature. Why, in Beirut, it's going to be 101, whereas in Amman, 102. And in Qatar, can you believe it, it'll ALSO be 102. Bahrain checks in with 103, Cairo at 100, Riyahd 101.
No wonder they're all looney, chopping of people's hands and buggering camels and blowing everybody up with bombs. Not enough bloody temperature difference.
Well, I'm off to drink some beer.
Us infidels gotta stay cool, see? Write when you have the time, and while you're at it,
buff my scrotum.
Wyatt Earp, Wyatt Earp, brave, courageous and bold
Hugh O'Brian--remember him? He was ultra cool as
Wyatt Earp back when TV was all in black and white. Kicking bad-guy rear, solving crimes, kissing babes. And no wimp in real life, either: O'Brian was the youngest ever Marine Corps Drill Instructor, at age 17(!). Smart, too--he declined a Naval Academy appointment intending to enter
Yale to study law, ending up in Hollywood solely to raise the funds needed to pay the Yale tuition. Now no longer acting, he's spent the last years
devoted 100% to his youth charity.
A good guy, someone to emulate, no?
So I was crushed to learn that
O'Brian, who's now 81, got married for the first time this past weekend. Can you imagine
screwing up what had up to now been a
perfect life by....getting....married? And at the age of 81? Why? Why? In the name of all that's good and wonderful: why?
Sing this, to the tune of the "Theme from Wyatt Earp":
Wyatt Earp, Wyatt Earp
Brave, courageous and bold!
Now that you're hitched
You'll find you'll be bitched at
Non-stop 'till you're toes-up and cold!
***************************************
(By the by, scrotum-buffers: this blog contains numerous postings relative to my views on marriage and why it sucks the flaming pole of manhood; perhaps the most pithy and all-encompassing can be found here...)
***************************************
Hey, I made the newspaper!!
I hate
my neighbors and
their stupid yard sales and
people who visit their stupid yard sales and those who
park their car on my lawn and at the
bottom of my driveway during stheir stupid yard sales.
So, yesterday I decided to make my feelings known to my charming
neighbor Scott and his lovely wife Felicity and their equally enjoyable children and all those visiting them to buy the
family's used-up junk.
I had some fun...but who knew a reporter would be called?
In retrospect, I must say that the newspaper coverage is gratifying and in truth I'm proud to be
a media darling. I am now anxiously awaiting the call from
Kiran Chetry to appear on
Fox and Friends Weekend. Once there, my plan is to wow her with my brilliant insights into the human condition, so much so that she no longer wants to remain married to that
weatherman Chris Knowles and will run away with me to a hotel room where I will be pleased to provide her the most disappointing 20 seconds of her life.
Enjoy the excerpt from
today's paper. And, do you know any good bail-bondsmen? Dog the Bounty Hunter works only in Honolulu, sad to say.
My ear wax bunny
Damn, I am good looking (me, left, smiling at ya, 'cause I'm a nice guy, and also really really handsome, don't ya think).
The doctor kept hinting so, too. I could just tell, right? Sometimes you just....know. There she was, deep inside my left ear canal, sharp probe propped between thumb and digit; digging away, trying to remove the plug of earwax embedded in there so much so that I couldn't hear a BLAME thing, dammit, hell. She kept saying "Stay still, now, Nigel, please, don't move, as I might end up
inserting this intrument of perlustration deep within your brain." At least, that's what I think she said.
Jeez, was I turned on!
So she's
scraping away in there, and I'm vaguely uncomfortable, because she's so
close to my cerebellum and all. Finally, out comes this gigantic disgusting....glob....of stuff. This...thing...has been
living in my head for at least the last 7 years. Mercy.
The verdict?
Tenir vos espèce de chevaux. After summary
evaluation and careful review of verbatim comments recorded on-site and at the exact moment of foreign matter extrication: no big surprise; it tasted like chicken.
Vera, Chuck, and Dave
Sir Paul McCartney turns 64 tomorrow. Of course, the significance of this is due to the Sgt. Pepper song "When I'm 64". Everyone's wondering: how's Paul gunna spend the day? What does it mean to
him, to finally have reached the age he sang about 40 years ago? My guess is, not much, but that won't stop the bloody idiots who run the media. Guaranteed, Sunday morning chat shows on CNN and Fox and the networks will kicker with this story ("kicker"--a TV industry term describing those silly little slice-of-life features used to wind up a newscast while providing the presenters a chance to have a bit of a giggle proving themselves human and normal and all that).
Oh--this post's headline? Where does the "Vera, Chuck, and Dave" come from? If you're a Beatles fan, you know. If not,
check these lyrics.
I myself have a few years to go before I hit 64. When/if I do make it, why, I plan on spending the day (and a good portion of my 401-K) at
Spearmint Rhino in Las Vegas-- there, I'll while away the time planted just beneath the extensive, vast, cantilevered, and surgically enhanced chest of a
certain scrumptiousness named "Jennifer" (she assures me this is her real name, and naturally I believe her)-- a compliant, sweet blond lovely who looked incredible and whose skin was oh so very soft and who smelled like a vase of roses and who made my day, and much of my night, on my last visit to la ville de péché.
Happy birthday, Sir Paul. And Jennifer--look for me in 2022. You'll still be fabulous whereas I, with my face like a pail of writhing maggots, will have only gone further downhill.
Such is life.
"When I get older, losing my hair
You can buff my scrotum."
Birthin' babies the Namibian way
News is that
Louisiana redneck Britney Spears, who's expecting again, is mightily impressed with
Angelina Jolie's having birthed her baby girl in
Namibia. We don't know much about Namibia except what we see in National Geographic. Courtesy of that publication, I learned at an early age that
women there don't wear bras--or actually, much of anything. I discovered that while, er, reading...in the "reading room". Mom's banging on the door, shouting "You alright? What's taking so long?" I'd be as red as
Gus Hall by the time I got out of there....
Digress, digress. Sumi-ma-sen.
So reports say
Spears wants to do the same thing as Jolie. That is, head on over the Atlantic to bring her next little blessed bundle into the world in Namibia.
Meanwhile, in
Namibia: local women want in on this racket. Who can blame them? So, they're now
making noise about coming over to Beverly Hills to birth
their babies! Air conditioning, limos, dinners at the Palm, HBO, refrigeration, hot and cold running water, indoor "reading rooms", mail delivery, fresh food you don't have to hunt and kill to eat....why, the list goes on and on.
Namibian women aren't dumb. Can't say that for Britney or Angelina, though.
Nancy Pelosi is hot
Is it just me, or do you think that when it comes to
good-looking great grandmothers who still have most of their own teeth, you'd have to go a long way to beat
House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi? As far back as the
Great Earthquake of 1906, our Nancy was there, hitting the hustings for the good people of San Francisco.
I took a
poll here at the home and the guys--at least, the ones who were awake--agree that she ranks pretty high on the "I'd like to show her
MY Transamerica Pyramid" scale of things.
But maybe you're not in synch with ol' Nanc' politically? So what? Any red-blooded American male with some life left in him and perhaps a prescription for Viagra would admit he'd trade an
off-year House sponsored Social Security COLA redefinition for maybe 15 minutes with Nancy in the Craftmatic Adjustable.Or maybe it
IS just me? You can
buff my scrotum either way.
Report: Al-Douchebag initially survived bombing, Rumsfeld is blamed
They're now saying that
Al-Slagheap apparently survived the first few minutes or so after F-16 laser-guided 500 pound mega-shmega bombs had their way with him.
You won't be surprised, will you, in my thinking that to be
simply fantastic news.
Hopefully, enough time went by between ka-boom and the arrival of medics for:
• the shock to wear off, and
•
real and actual pain to set in'Tis but a wish.
In related news,
Donald Rumsfeld was blamed. Not sure what for now--but what the hell, everything's his fault, so why not?
World Cup begins; Buddhist monks must remain calm
It's World Cup time. All together now: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!
People around the globe go berserk over this event. It cuts a swath across all nationality/race/ethnicity lines. And according to today's
China Daily, it's even ok for Buddhist monks to watch the games, though they must do so "calmly".
Story here.Based on quotes from
Patriarch Non Nget, it seems clear that the President of Buddhism isn't going to put up with any nonsense from
these cenobites. Expect harsh penalties for yelling, screaming, excitement in general...including betting. For example, Non Nget says: "If I found any monk betting money on a football match....
I might fire him from the pagoda".
So I think it's safe to say that there's to be none of this: pictured at left, enraged
Cambodian Punchen monk Tre Biguen Phudoy preparing to destroy his Trinitron after
Katherine McPhee lost American Idol.
Calling in sick
I'm not coming in to work today, boss. I've got that "not so fresh feeling".
"Disorder"? I've got yer "disorder" right here...
Today's news brings word of yet another reason for people not to have to control themselves. Great, just great.
According to the just released latest navel-gazing National Institute of Health (NIH) study of human behavior, flipping someone off as you drive home is not your fault. Neither is tail-gating, cuttting people off, etc., etc. NIH "experts" have "discovered" that road rage isn't you acting like an uncivilized, impatient ass. It seems that, well--you're sick. You suffer from something called "Intermittent Explosive Disorder", or "IED" for short. (Intermittent Explosive Disorder--sounds like something you get after eating too much Mexican food...)
I thought we'd run the gamut of made up and imaginary accountability-avoidance B.S. "syndromes" and "disorders" when I saw the TV ads for "RLS" or "Restless Leg Syndrome". But no, apparently not.
So what happens if I'm in an accident caused by my Restless Leg Syndrome? Say my right leg's bouncing all over the place and I hit the gas instead of the brake, and this causes the guy I hit to go berserk and he tries to beat me up? Because while my RLS caused the accident, his Intermittent Explosive Disorder is making him act like Caryl Chessman with Tourettes Syndrome. Wait. There's another syndrome. Sigh.
When the police arrive, they'll have no one to ticket--because--sing along, Howard Jones fans: no one is to blame. Why, anyone can tell you that it's the RLS and the IED at fault!
Enough with these fake disorders and diseases. Here's wishing a hale and hearty STFU to the NIH for undertaking this pile of crap study. And ultimately: BMS ("buff my scrotum", for you newbie readers).
Two items about spelling--first, the Rechtschreibungsbiene
So the gigantic national spelling bee finals took place this past week, and the winner was young
Kathy Close, of Amboy N.J. (left)--good for her. She correctly spelled "
ursprache", which is German for something to do with talking or speaking or something.
She defeated one Finola Hackett, who had a helluva time trying to spell
"veltschmerz", which is also German for something to do with something.
So as I'm watching I'm thinking:
what's with the goddam German? Isn't it enough that we crushed those militaristic beer-swilling sado-masochistic automatons not once but twice, in the last century? Didn't WE win? So, since when does a
working knowledge of German qualify you as the next USA National Spelling Bee winner?
That's a pile of scheiss.
I wonder:
is it the same in Germany? Do they have to
spell English words to win the National Spelling Bee there (the "Rechtschreibungsbiene", officially)? Do they worry about English grammar? Are they concerned about vowel rules like "I before E except for C"? Has it always been that way?
If we looked back into the deepest darkest Teutonic past, would we find them all sitting around the campfire,
brushing up on their Shakespeare on the off-chance that perhaps, just maybe, someone would ask them to spell, say,
"dictatorship"?
Can someone explain this to me, please?
Hey, Adolf:
Schwabbeln Sie meinen Hodensack (buff my scrotum)!.
Second: correct spelling is for "loosers"
Tis the time of year ('round here) when
up go the graduation congratulations signs on the subdivison entrance gates. Setting aside the whole why-even- bother-doing-this question (honestly--
who's impressed? The Domino's Pizza delivery guy? The trash collection truck driver?), I feel compelled to comment on this particular sign put up by
fully-grown adult morons in a subdivision in my county.
Note the title of the banner: "Your Graduating!". Correctly contracted and of course you already know this but say-it-with-me-all-together-now, it REALLY SHOULD BE:
"You're Graduating!". As in, You Are Graduating, hey hey hey. The apostrophe denotes the contraction and without it the meaning of the banner title is completely different.
When was this covered when you were in school? 3rd grade? 4th grade, tops?
I guarantee that the well meaning but busy-body yenta self-important soccer moms who organize this kind of
feel-good neighborhood mishegoss meant "you're" rather than "your". But given they were likely the product of
government schools--how were they to know they were
making a mistake? See, it's not really their fault, is it? It's someone ELSE'S fault. They're not to blame!
Poor things. Now, jump back into your SUVs quickly, darlings, or you'll be late getting your nails done.
Oh, before I go--another thing: it's LOSER, not LOOSER. THEY'RE, not THEIR (for "they are").
Look, correct spelling is bloody
important. It's a
sign of thoroughness and concern for getting it right and basic
disdain for sloppiness. Those who don't take the time to spell correctly can't be counted on to do other basic things correctly. In my absolutely correct opinion, don't you know.
And if you don't think correct spelling matters: bite my winner.
Or, alternatively, you can buff my scrotum.
Checking the weather for our "holiday weekend" and I inadvertently (don't know how, don't really care how) ended up looking at the weather forecast for Dubai, United Arab Emirates. There it was. The 10 day and the month-long. Every single day, as far as they could predict, the high was going to be 103 with a low of 85. Not one day different. And no rain. None.
