So this snake slithers into a bar...
News from the subcontinent of India, a place full of people whose
gods have way too many arms and legs: apparently
snake charmers are holding protests about a twenty year old law
banning the use of real snakes in the snake charmers shows. The cops are ticketing these guys who squat on the sidewalk with their flutes and baskets full of venomous reptilian shudder-inducing slimy death dealers,
and the charmers are pissed.
When I was a kid I lived in
Singapore. Visit there now, it's like Geneva. Clean and spotless. But, back in the mid-60's, it still retained much of its old colonial charm, and that included snake charmers. There was this one guy who used to stake out a place outside our church, and when we'd arrive for Sunday School
he'd be there, luring this gigantic cobra out of his basket by swaying back and forth as he played the flute (the swaying is what does it...snakes can't hear). Scary but fascinating stuff.
I hate me some snakes. But in honor of the snake charmers protest, here now, some pathetic snake jokes for your perusal and amusement:
--"So glad to meet you" said the Hindu politely. "Charmed I'm sure" replied the snake.
--Q: What kind of snake is good at math? A: An adder
--Q: Whaddya give a snake for its headache? A: Asp-irin
Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the veal. Don't forget to tip your waitress...
Global warming trumps Islamic assholes
Sorry, shlubbies, been busy, um. Yes, I found an extraordinarily lovely long-legged gorgeous woman who deigned to provide little old me with favours vis. what you get when you get what you get, and I got what I got, and
I got to do what I looooooooove to do, and so, my jaw and tongue both got a work out, and consequently, I am convalescing.
You can figure it out.
Anyhow, this morning, I'm perusing the paper, as I'm wont to do, and here comes the story about
Hitlery Clinton, a-winging her way to points East as our new Secretary of State, where she described her priorities in talking with China, Japan, Indonesia, and others thusly and in this order:
global warming, climate change, and nuclear proliferation.
What priorities have been wrought by the new administration! Glad to hear that all is well on the Al-Queda, Taliban, douchebag
Muslim kill the Christians and the Jews front all of a sudden, and now we can focus on what really matters, which is off course worrying about how our Kelvinator fridges, cumulatively, are emitting so much shit that in 180 years, there may be an inch or two of ice shaved off of the Arctic shelf. Or then again, maybe not.
Listen, lovelies:
since 1998, the world has been cooling. This is inarguable and
scientifically backed, but then again, who cares?
What matters is that we ensure that
private companies and the nasty capitalistic system they embrace are destroyed, asap. That's the real agenda of all this shit, but if you can't figure out the value of the capitalistic system, I have three words for ya:
buff my scrotum.
Here's the deal. If there was a
REAL demand for all this fucking green shit, don't you think that entrepreneurs world-wide would be falling all over each other, coming up with the best products and most efficient ways to make a TON of money putting it in front of us? But noooooooooo--we have the government here, jumping in, not getting it at all, thinking that the way to make it happen is by
legislating the sonuvabitch.Idiots.
Welcome to the USSR, circa 1951.
US Air--right into the Hudson
Choose your seat, shlubbies!
First class or coach? Or would you like to choose the drowning option, maybe?
Below, a photo of the actual cabin of the actual US Air 1549 that went into the Hudson. The seats are still wet.
Onya, Sully! (Australian for: good on ya, Sully!)
The fucking weather, dammit!
Unsure about the
forecast this weekend? Want an
unbiased view of the potential climactic conditions? By all means, check this out: the
Fucking Weather, dot com. For here, you get the
unvarnished truth. By way of example, consider this, for Atlanta zip code 30324:
Edy's Fruit Bars....oh, yes.
Know what I love? I mean, really love?
Edy's fruit bars. Now, I don't know about you, but the taste, the texture, the feeling of an Edy's Fruit Bar is nonparaleil. As in, you can't compare it. I love them, and wanna roll around with them nightly.
There's something special about Edy's. The pure sensuality of licking the ice; tastes great and mmmmmmmmmm, you immediately anticipate the rest of the experience. And then you bite, gently, and the flavor of the lemon explodes in your mouth.
It's so much more than you thought it could be. Wrestling the tastes in your mouth, a combination of sweet and sour...oh, yes. And it doesn't stop there. When you finish, there's a complete sense of satisfaction, Yummy and lovely and oh so good, with the taste of the fruit rolling around your mouth....it's just heaven when you're done.
Get yourself a box and enjoy.
I wanna feel Jerry Springer
So today's UK Telegraph is reporting that
televisions could be fitted into contact lenses within ten years. The sets would be powered by the viewer's body heat. That's weird enough, but how about this:
"emotional viewing" could be another development in television technology, which would involve something called a
"digital tattoo" fitted to the viewer. It would
pick up on the feelings of characters on screen and create impulses causing the viewer to feel the same way.Now, I know what you're thinking. The average perv (like me) immediately jumps to the
porno possibilities here, right? There you'd be, legs akimbo, a-wanking away as you "participate" in the carnal festivities unfolding literally in front of your very eyes--and you're "feeling" it where it counts, too.
Not bad.
But I take this a step further. What I'd like would be to sample an episode of that
treasure trove of trailer trash tumult: the Jerry Springer Show. Wearing these contacts and activating my digital tattoo, I'd be able to truly experience the feelings of whatever fat inbred cross-dressing incestuous toothless redneck who happened to be Jerry's victim of the day. What fun!
Imagine the
emotional gamut you'd run: what it's like to marry your sister, how it feels to chaw on Red Man, the exhilaration experienced when you shoot, gut, and ultimately eat squirrels.
I say, forget the porn, and instead bring on the decline and fall of everything that's good and holy: Jerry Springer.
Idaho potatoes blow dead hippos
So now we have fitness expert Denise Austin endorsing Idaho potatoes. Potatos? How DO you spell that? I know--let's ask Dan Quayle, shall we?
Anyhow, this state, Idaho blows dead hippos. Boise is the big city there, I think, and it's full of douchebag Mormons and ex-Nazi white supremacists. What to make of state whose name is, when you pronounce it, perfect for a streetwalker? I-Da-Ho. Yeah, I say: fuck Idaho. And Denise Austin, too.
My brother, Kent
It
hit me hard this morning, right after I finished up the ironing and was trundling young Nigel Jr. off to see his
Nanna. In the car, we're talking about family and goofy stuff, including Nigel Jr.'s late uncle Kent, and as we were talking I went what's today? and Nigel Jr. told me...turns out that today is the
5th anniversary of his uncle's (my brother's) death. Not only to the date, but to the day.
So that all came flooding back to me.
Five years ago today, Sunday, it was sunny and cold in D.C., where I'd gone to help my brother move. He was selling his Capitol Hill townhouse and was moving in with me, in Atlanta.
The night before, the Saturday, he'd sounded really strange on the phone, complaining about how he felt like he had the flu and that he "couldn't feel his legs." So I decided I was gonna fly up to D.C. and help with the move, given that he was sick and all. I called him back Saturday night but no answer; never mind, I thought I'd surprise him by showing up. Landing on the Sunday morning and calling: no answer. Arrive at his home. No answer.
Banging on the door. Dogs barking inside; his car parked outside...he had to be there...running around the back to see if there's a way in. Nothing.
Finally, break the door down. Kent is dead on the floor, apparently had been for many hours, dogs barking at me, the police come, the D.C. forensic people (who joke and laugh while processing the body for removal, hey, thanks, guys)...I identify him officially by looking at a Polaroid of his dead face, mouth and eyes wide open, yes, that's my little brother...and then it's just me and there's him lying on the floor, waiting for the D.C. mortuary van. They came and went and then it was an empty house and me.
What a fun day. And to make matters worse,
they could never determine the exact cause of death. "Natural causes"--whatever the hell that means.
Here's the thing to understand about my brother.
He was amazingly smart. His IQ was off the charts; straight A's all through High School and then on to Harvard. He was an athlete, too, swimming and soccer, captain of both teams in high school, and for swimming, was heavily recruited by Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Columbia, the whole Ivy League thing. He
spoke fluent idiomatic Japanese. Business acumen: at a glance he could figure out why a supermarket or food service business wasn't succeeding (this ended up being his specialty), and he made his career this one thing.
Most importantly he was a
sweet, nice man who wouldn't harm a fly, and who had a sense of humor so crazed that, as an example: he used to call me on my 40 minute ride home,
haranguing me in Japanese as if he was a samurai. You know, that thing they do in
Akira Kurosawa movies, where no matter what they're talking about, they're yelling at each other, really
guttural?
Funny as hell. 40 minutes, straight, and not a word in English.
What he couldn't handle was that his wife left him for another...woman. He never got over that, couldn't reconcile it, and it ultimately I believe is what killed him. Died of a broken heart at age 44.
So please tonight, if you can,
raise a glass for my dead brother Kent, who I miss completely and wish every day was around to call me in Japanese. Thanks.
Now I'm REALLY famous!
Lookee here, shlubbies!
I made thesmokinggun.com! Wow! Talk about
national publicity! With this, I can springboard my way to fame and fortune. Now, I don't wanna be weird or anything, but
this could really be the break I've been looking for. After I make bail, that is. (Click on the image to make it larger...this is exciting stuff, eh?)
I'm NOT the sickest bastard on the Internet
Just so you know that
I'm NOT the sickest bastard on the Internet...not by a long shot...I give you a
comment submission from an entry on
Fark.com yesterday.
This was in response to a UPI story about the first First Lady, Martha Washington. Seems they've uncovered evidence that Martha was pretty damn good looking back in the day, versus the general perception (based on paintings made when she was old and fat) that Ms. Washington was a puke inducing troll.
OK. So the discussion thread was about
which First Lady was actually the hottest. The comments were hysterical, for the most part. As you'd expect, Jackie Kennedy yielded a number of mentions, including quite a few naming her "Hottest FL ever" (FL being "First Lady"). And then I ran across this,
in response to a posting from someone named "Royale With Cheese"
referencing Jackie O. The commenter is a charmer named "we_hates" (appropriately named I think).
The sickest bastard on the Internet? Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
My birthday lunch
People have asked: how was your birthday Sunday? Answer: just fine, thanks. Nice and quiet. Without much in the way of plans, and solo, I hied myself in search of the perfect birthday lunch. And I found the perfect place.
I treated myself at my new favorite restaurant here in Atlanta:
The Heart Attack Grill. This magnificent establishment advertises itself as the "Home of the Double By-Pass Burger" and it's positioning statement is "Taste worth dying for!"...so, it's perfect for li'l ol' me.
Instead of the Double By-Pass Burger, I opted for their
"Bad Cholesterol Elevator" daily special. This consisted of 3 greasy, yummy, 1/2 pound each
patties smothered in four kinds of cheese and then baked,
with
french fries included in what amounted to a
huge pile of goo, in a casserole dish. Add four
Guinness Stouts and voila! It's off the to ER for some open heart massage and an extended stay in critical care.
What a great birthday! Wish you could have joined me!
News from the subcontinent of India, a place full of people whose gods have way too many arms and legs: apparently snake charmers are holding protests about a twenty year old law banning the use of real snakes in the snake charmers shows. The cops are ticketing these guys who squat on the sidewalk with their flutes and baskets full of venomous reptilian shudder-inducing slimy death dealers, and the charmers are pissed.
When I was a kid I lived in Singapore. Visit there now, it's like Geneva. Clean and spotless. But, back in the mid-60's, it still retained much of its old colonial charm, and that included snake charmers. There was this one guy who used to stake out a place outside our church, and when we'd arrive for Sunday School he'd be there, luring this gigantic cobra out of his basket by swaying back and forth as he played the flute (the swaying is what does it...snakes can't hear). Scary but fascinating stuff.
