A Solution

So, I've been reading about these fires in Southern California. Did you know about them? Apparently, they've been on the news or something. Well, my friend, Jim lives out there. I get semi-regular updates through our grad school group blog. He says it's hot and smoky. Sounds like a good time to make some barbecue, Jim!

On a more serious note, these fires are pretty damned scary. I know I'd be shittin' and gittin' (ah, local colloquialisms) if the fires of Hell were licking at my doorsteps. That's why I'm putting forth this solution for the people of Southern California. Now, there's A LOT of people in Southern California. Millions, in case you haven't heard. There's also a lot of beer in Southern California. Yes, I think you see where I'm going with this.

Everybody in the area needs to gather together in one place...let's say the Coliseum. They need to get kegs and cases of beer and start drinking like there's no tomorrow...because, there might not be. The key here is to not have portable johns at the Coliseum. Instead, when that natural urge to release the alcohol back into the wild hits, everyone lines up and pisses on the fire. Oh sure, it will stink to high heaven, but what would you rather have? A little piss-on-the-fire stink or charred remains of everything you hold dear? I thought so.

So there you have it. Once again, Homer's words ring true: Ah, alcohol, the cause of, and solution to, all the world's problems.

Ain't Karma a Bitch?

Warning: Some material ahead that people I went to grad school would label "TMI".

You've been warned.

So, I have an unusually long ass-crack. Some people have borne witness to this phenomenon of my backside first hand. For those, I wish you Godspeed in your recovery from going all Oedipus Rex on yourself after witnessing it. Seriously, it's like, mutant long. If I were a member of the X-Men, I'd go by the name 'Crack'. It's bad. Most people's stop halfway or three-quarters of the way up their backside. Mine? Stops somewhere just below my shoulderblades.

As such, I need special jeans. I need the "long rise" jeans, which are hard to find because almost everyone makes "low rise" jeans these days. Low rise jeans are fine, especially for hot young blonde models, preferrably female. Not to say I'm picky. I wouldn't mind them on a brunette or a redhead, either. Anyway, to the point of the story, I have only a couple good pairs of jeans, and the other day I noticed that the pocket area was beginning to fray a little on my favorite jeans. No biggie, I thought. It is almost time for that jolly fat man to slide down my chimney. Perhaps HE could have luck finding me appropriate-length long rise jeans, preferrably in a darker shade of blue. Something in the indigo family. Thanks, fat man.

Alas, Christmas will be coming early this year, at least for my ass.

Turns out that when I was sitting down this morning to work in my notebook, I heard a small ripping sound. Aghast, I reached back and touched me bum, only to find that a large rent had formed in the fabric. Well, it's not so bad, I thought. I can just pull my shirt tail down over it. Plus, I need to be in the lab for most of the day. I can sport my lab coat.

So, I head off to the lab. There, I get some of my work done, only to drop one of my keen Chembark magnets on the floor while tidying up the post-its hanging from my hood. I bend over to reach for it, and there again sounds a mighty rip from my backside! Tenderly, I explore the area to find that a chasm has now opened in my pants. If I keep my shirt pulled low, I can cover most of the offending area. In a panic, I hurry out of the lab (losing the labcoat...safety first) and rush to my desk. I go to sit, and, you guessed it (comedy does, after all, work in threes), one final rip. Now, most of my backside is exposed to the elements. Thusly, I sit here after calling my wife and kindly asking her to bring me a fresh pair of pants from home. I can't help but think that this is all due to me laughing at the False Oz as he tried to stand and walk after his midday nap upon the picnic benches out back.

Ah Karma, you fickle, fickle whore.

Not Quite Sleeping Beauty

This just probably proves that I'm a sadistic bastard (but some of you would have it no other way), but this story is too good to pass up. At least in my quaint little corner of twisted reality.

I was in the lab the other day, waiting for my column to finish running on the Companion. While standing there, I was staring out the windows and noticed a body sprawled across one of the benches of one of the picnic tables outback. I immediately assumed it was someone from one of the companies that has offices and labs on the front side of the building, and I also assumed that it was a certain Chinese guy that works there. Now, before you get upset with me and label me a bigot, I'll just point out that most of the guys who work there are Chinese, AND it's the only company that has no offices on the backside of the building. This guy, though, always throws me off because he looks like a Chinese version of my friend Ozzy. The very first time I saw him, I thought "Shouldn't you be playing catcher for the Dragons?" Ozzy plays semi-professional baseball in the Chicago area, in case you were confused by my thought pattern there.

Since I had nothing better to do than make sure my column didn't over pressurize, I kept an eye on the figure. Finally, after about fifteen minutes (I had changed to a new column at this point), he stirred, sitting up and confirming that it was, indeed, the False Oz. However, my delight at pinpointing the guy from an educated guess was amplified when he tried to stand and, evidently, did not realize that his legs were numb. CRASH! to the ground he crumbled, eliciting a tumult of giggles from my oh-so-mature throat. Pulling himself to his feet, he tried to walk again and BOOM! to the ground he fell. I'm chortling with delight at this point. Finally, he pulls himself up onto the bench and sits for another five minutes, bouncing his legs to work feeling back into them. Finally, he stands and, slowly, begins to walk with the shambling gait of a bog zombie or a newborn calf. He manages to make his way across the road to the building and from there, he disappears from my sight.

Having been thoroughly entertained for a good twenty to thirty minutes (give or take), I return my vigilent watch to the column. When it's done, I clean everything up and decide to make a restroom run (I've been drinking a lot of water of late...more on this later). As I complete said task, I wash up, leave the bathroom and make my usual jaunt through the lobby area where I see the False Oz just now getting up the steps and making his way over to his work.

Wow. Now, I'm not exactly a ball of fire on most days, but even I draw the line at napping on park benches during the day. No sir, I always take my naps on the toilet (after waltzing in around ten a.m., googling my own name for two hours, and then taking a donut break...unfortunately, I yelled this out while making love to my wife one night, so she's onto me).

"People better enjoy it now, have their fun now."

You've talked the talk, Charlie.

Now walk the walk.

A Note to Mike McCarthy

If you have your foot on someone's throat, don't pick your foot up. If you rack up 340 yards of offense against someone with a banged up secondary you go with the pass more. You don't give a steady diet of draws and end arounds that the defense constantly sniffs out. Your painfully conservative playcalling in the second half and clock mismanagement in both halves was positively Willinghamian. You're a moron. You won four in a row to start the season by unleashing Favre's arm. Mixing in the run was nice, but when the run didn't work, don't be effing bullheaded and keep going back to it when it doesn't work!

And for the NFL: Teach your damned referees to count to twelve already.

Oh yeah, fuckin' Cubs.

FINALLY!!!

Oh God, do you hear that? Someone's shaking down the thunder. Someone's waking up the echoes. Someone is channeling the ghost of George Gipp.

Finally, FINALLY, Notre Dame won one this season. All the gimmickery and sparkle was taken off and the defense went out, played a hard-nosed game. I don't know about the offense because, you see, only people in South Bend/Mishawaka and along the Pacific Coast got to watch the game. The rest of us were saddled with a very boring beat down of Purdue by Ohio State (well, not that any beat down of Purdue is ever a bad thing). I do know the defense came up stout from the few highlights ESPNews parsimoniously handed out.

Now, let's do the same thing next week to Boston College. They've effed us over so many times, ruining perfect seasons. It's about time to return the favor.

P.S. Fuckin' Cubs.

...

My friend Pat, of Notre Dame fame, had a room mate in college named Gerard. Gerard was from Jersey, and as such, he was a fan of the Jets. Of course, it's not easy being a fan of the Jets, so whenever they (the guys living with Pat and Gerard) were watching Sportscenter or something, win or lose, whenever the Jets score came on the screen, Gerard would shake his head and simply say, "Fuckin' Jets."

I've adopted this with my own sort of twist to it.

Being a Cubs fan is not unlike being a Jets fan. No matter what, no matter how much love or disdain you give them, they end up breaking your heart in the end.

That's why I've started muttering under my breath "Fuckin' Cubs" whenever I watch the games or see the scores at the bottom of the screen. Win or lose, it's always "Fuckin' Cubs" (when my children are around, it gets censored to "Stinkin', lousy Cubs").

Here's an aside: The other day, while I was watching the Cubs put together a perfect season against the Marlins (9 games played, 9 losses), I dropped my head when Jacque Jones struck out with the bases loaded and the Marlins' relief pitcher unable to find the strike zone. I muttered "Stinkin', lousy Cubs". My daughter (the six-year old) Cookie (pseudonym; a clever person will be able to figure it out) said to me, "Daddy, when are you going to stop being whiney about the Cubs?"

Yep, that daughter of mine is one Smart Cookie (that's not the reference, but it fits).

I stayed up to watch the game last night (knowing full well the outcome well before the first pitch was thrown). I had to retreat to the upstairs because my mother-in-law is here for a visit, and I didn't want to have her overhear my habitual swearing. However, all I have to say about the game is this:

"Fuckin' Cubs".