Sorry for the Delay

Sorry, folks. I'm experiencing some technical difficulties. Seems as though Time Warner Cable, in their infinite dumbassery, thinks that my new, hot damn, red-head with big knockers and wearing fuck me boots and fishnets...where was I? Oh, right, my new computer. Despite it having 64K worth of RAM, TWC seems to think it has less than 32K. Granted, it's spread over four processors, but still. Dumb fuckers won't let me hook it to the internet. AND TWC is again threatening to take away Nickelodeon and pretty much every other channel I watch.

I'm off to order AT&T wireless for the house. It might be a little slower than road runner, but I'll bet they have better customer service. Oh yeah, and it's an assload cheaper. Eat dick, TWC. If I didn't live at the bottom of a hill, I'd dump your shitty television services, too (although the Big Ten network for $5.00 a month...very nice...I can watch Indiana lose whenever I so desire!)

I hope to be back soon. In the meantime, enjoy the test pattern from above. If you cross your eyes and stare at it long enough, and say "boobies boobies boobies" three times fast, a picture of Leelee Sobieski resolves itself from the colors. Mmmm...boobies...

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

I realize it's four o'clock in the afternoon, so it's a little late, but Merry Christmas to everyone, anyway.

I was busy last night taking care of those fatherly things that one has to do before Christmas morning: setting out the presents, tying bows on scooters, getting all of the parts to a basketball goal out of the box, deciding to set the basketball goal up during the daylight, eating the cookies, drinking the milk, nailing the wife.

Oh, yeah, and watching NOTRE DAME WIN A BOWL GAME FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE I WAS A SENIOR IN HIGH SCHOOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Not that I'm excited, or anything.

Merry Christmas to everyone. Thanks for making this blog such a great place to hang out and to write and everything. I hope you stay around for the rest of the year and on into 2009. I'll try to keep entertaining you (though I'm pretty much tapped out of dating stories that involve girls being sexually harassed by monkeys).

A Pirate Looks at 33

As I was standing in line at Target yesterday, looking to fill yet another prescription to kill the wee beasties (thanks Leeuwenhoek) that had yet again taken up residence in my daughter's lungs, I thought back on the past 33 years. Admittedly, anything much past 28 years ago was a bit fuzzy, but the occasional memory does rise to the surface from time to time.

Here I was, on my birthday, looking to get some medicine for my sick kid. What a joyous way to kick off the day of festivities. I could be at home, being given a sponge bath by a chesty redhead, or I could be lounging gracefully on my couch watching Christmas cartoons. Instead, I was standing there, staring blankly ahead as some vaguely attractive blonde woman was explaining to me what an antibiotic does and how my daughter needs to take it and all the various side effects that comes with an antibiotic and blah blah blah take your shirt off, it's my birthday, dammit!

So then, I thought about my happiest birthday memory, and I think it happened yesterday. See, as I was pulling myself from the warm embrace of that fickle mistress sleep, I heard shuffling footsteps in the hallway outside my door. It was my little boy, and I figured he was doing his usual "Can you make me breakfast?" morning routine. Instead, he ran to my side, throwing his arms wide around me, embracing me in his biggest bear hug. "Happy birthday, daddy!" he said.

And that's why I was standing in line being lectured to about things that I already know by someone who looked a little too much like a cheerleader and less like someone who would know that amoxicillin is a bacterial cell wall inhibitor thanks to its handy-dandy beta-lactam structure. Though I was bored stupid, I can't really fault her too much. She didn't know that I do research in the pharmaceutical field. She was just doing her job, after all, and I was doing mine: making sure that I'd have someone there to hug me in the mornings every time December 22nd rolled around, so that I could keep making brand new happy birthday memories.

However, you don't come here for the happy, sappy stories about my kids. No, you come for my weak attempts at humor. So, let's get back to that.

I've met a few people over the years who share my birthday. There are also a handful of notable public personalities with whom I share a birthday, such as Steve Garvey, Ladybird Johnson and Crissy Moran (I always forget to tell you guys not to look her up at work, as her, ahem, body of work is rather NSFW). I forgot that housewife-cum-jive translator Barbara Billingsly was also born on my birthday, as well as Lord Voldemort, Ralph Fiennes. Also, the Highlander was born on my birthday. I'm not 100% certain, but he was born on winter's day in the Highlands of Scotland, and every so often, the Winter Solstice does fall on my birthday, so there you go.

Recently, I learned that my new internet friend Scope also shares my birthday, but you guys knew that, since he gave me a fantastic birthday post over at his place, despite the fact that it was his birthday, too! What a guy. He did fail to mention that Romania's communist government was overthrown on December 22nd, 1989. This particular historic event was particularly poignant because a friend of mine was in Bucharest watching out of his hotel room while they dragged Ceauşescu's (Chow-chess-cue's) body through the streets. Awesome. I'm sure he said "nuts" right before he was gunned down.

Several other people I've met had the same birthday as me: some nursing student in college that my first room mate drunkenly banged on our first night on campus, one of my teachers in elementary school, this dude Ben who used to have a lake cottage at the same lake as my parents, and two girls I dated in that rebound period after I had my heart ripped out of my chest with my first affianced. I think today would be a good day to tell the tale of these two, because they are prime examples of humanity if I ever met some.


The first girl, Carmen, was a year younger than I. She had all the things I required: pulse, use of oxygen, full use of her legs. She also had dark, curly hair. I met her while I was working at the book store. She came in to pick up a book on Titanic, which had been out for a while, but apparently she was just now becoming wicked fascinated with it or had just learned to read or something. I didn't ask. She had seen the movie something like twelve times, which is more times than I have read the Lord of the Rings, and while that didn't send up a red flag, it did unfurl said ruddy drapeau. I picked her up and we were driving to dinner when we passed Best Buy, and she pointed out that she just learned that her biological father worked there and that he owed her 22 years of family discounts, and that if I wanted anything, she could give me the hook up. Nice. Then we passed the gym where I had a membership and she proceeded to tell me about the lawsuit she had brought against them for slipping in the shower or something. At this point I began tuning her out.

After dinner, she asked if I wanted to do anything else, but that we couldn't go back to her apartment because her roommate had custody of his kids for the weekend and they'd be there. So, we decided to go see a movie, but the only decent thing playing was Apt Pupil, so we went. Nothing like a movie about Nazis to really get the sexual juices flowing. After the movie, I asked if she wanted to do anything else. She declined, saying that she had to go to bed (it was 10:00) to be up at work the following morning. So, I took her home, bid her good night, and returned to my car where I sat there for a few moments trying to think of anything enjoyable about the night (other than seeing Apt Pupil and enjoying some good chicken). Regardless, the next day I called her, told her I had a good time, and asked if she wanted to go out again. She said she was just about to run out the door with her roommate and his kids and to call her back later. I said I would and wished her fun at the farm or wherever they were going. That was nine years ago. In my defense, I did lose her number rather than throw it away, but then, I also didn't exactly look real hard for it, either.

The next girl, Katie, was another girl that I met at the bookstore. She was buying Lolita and I chatted her up a little bit. She told me she had heard about it in one of her classes in college (uh huh...heard about it) and was interested in it. I had to check her ID for her credit card, and that's when I noticed she was born on the same day as I. I mentioned it, and we both thought it was a neat coincidence. She was about three hours older than me. We kept talking for like five minutes and finally I popped the question. She said she'd love to go out with me. So, we set up a date for Saturday evening where we'd meet and have dinner. I was having a lovely time with her; I really liked her, and she had met the same prerequisites as the other one: pulse, oxygen, functioning limbs, but she also had a college degree. And a fabulous ass. It was like I just hit the Daily Double. I'll wager it all on doggy style with a healthy bit of ass slapping, Alex.

So, things are going great, we were talking about college and all. She went to Indiana, and since my best friend also went there (along with about twenty other people from my high school), I had been to the campus a few times, so I was asking her about it. I then asked the question about whether she had gone to many basketball games, and she said she didn't really like basketball and wished the school was known more for other things. Egad. Red flag went way up on that one, but I was having such a great time and she had such a great ass that I kept going. The other interesting thing was that she had a degree in biology, so I asked her what kind of jobs she was looking for, since I had a degree in chemistry along with a minor in biology. It was at about this point that the date went south. Way south (this is called foreshadowing).

Turns out, she had just quit her job at the Fort Wayne Children's Zoo. Intrigued, I leaned forward and asked why she would do that, as it seemed like a great place to work if you a) loved animals (like she did) and b) had a degree in biology (like she did). She said the pay kind of sucked, some of the other employees were dicks--both of which are very valid excuses. And then she said, and I quote, "And...there were also the monkeys."

"Monkeys?" I asked, my curiosity aroused.

"Yes," she said, "I had to take care of the monkeys on Monkey Island." Monkey Island was inhabited by a troupe of brown Capuchin monkeys.

Trying to be funny, I offered, "Did they constantly harass you with their little tin cups trying to get some money for the organ grinder?"

Apparently, this was a bad question.

"No," she responded. "They would...attack me."

"Oh wow. They can be vicious little devils, I hear."

"Well, they wouldn't bite or anything. They just kept...grabbing me."
I was too speechless to say anything.

"They would constantly jump up to grab my ass and they'd climb on me to get into my shirt and everything. It was very uncomfortable. I tried to get transferred to a different group of animals."

I sat there, lip aquiver, trying very hard not to laugh aloud. I could feel tears welling in my eyes and my face growing redder and redder. I'm sure she saw it, too. There was no hiding my trying to hide my mirth. Rather coldly, she simply said, "So, I quit."

I steered the conversation away from the zoo immediately. Dinner ended shortly thereafter, but we decided to go see a movie--mostly because we couldn't talk during the movie and I wouldn't mention the whole monkey thing. We went and saw Pleasantville, which is still one of my favorite movies. At the end of the evening, we bid each other farewell and I promised to call her the next day. I did call, and then I called again on Monday to tell her that the book she had ordered came in (it was some Nicholas Sparks piece of drivel). Later that evening, she showed up, and I asked her if she'd like to go out again.

"Well, you're a very nice guy, but I just don't see us dating."

Not one to take rejection lightly, I quipped, "I can't promise I won't slap your ass, but I will promise not to sling poo at you."

She stormed off. I saw her once again, about a week before Christmas, when she came in the store to get something. I assume she was still unemployed, because she was with her mom, and she handed her mom a pile of stuff and then left. Her mom wrote a check, and I had to verify the address. I looked up and said, "Oh, you must be Katie's mom. I went out with your daughter a couple of months ago. She's a very lovely young lady, Mrs. C. As it turns out, we have the same birthday. Tell her Happy Birthday for me."

"Oh, why thank you," she said. "I'll tell you said so. And wish her a Happy Birthday for you. And Happy Birthday to you."

"Why, thank you, Mrs. C. Could you also pass along something else to her, please?"

"Why, certainly."

"Tell her I said 'ooh ooh ooh, ah ah ah!'" I slapped my head and made a face while doing it. Apparently, her mother had a better sense of humor, because she busted out laughing. And then promised to relay the message. Merry fucking Christmas, Monkey Girl.

Charity: Crappy Gifts for Sick People

My good friend Scope gave me something. No, it's not the Clap. And besides, a little penicillin cleared that right up. No, he gave me one of those chain things that I usually pretend like I didn't see, but since this one was originated by the Internet Sensation that is Dr. Zibbs, I figured I should pass it along. One thing I've learned in my time on the interwebs: nothing boosts blog visitors like suckling at the teat of Zibbs.

So, the story is simple: You pick out a craptacular gift for the ill, pick five other bloggers who would also be altruistic enough to go along with the game, and then praise the Internet Sensation that is Dr. Zibbs by linking back to the original post. Simple, right?

I figure if these people are sick and dying, what better thing to brighten their day than a stuffed representation of what has invited the Grim Reaper to knock upon their door. Or better yet, caused him to saunter slowly up the front sidewalk while you watch from the front windows. Merry Christmas, here's a strange, yellow discharge. Oh, by the way, something's eating your brain. Want some eggnog?

I've opted for Hepatitis C and Sleeping Sickness (caused by the Hepatitis C Virus (HCV) and Trypanosoma brucei, respectively). Oh sure, there are treatments for both, but both will kill you if you don't treat them (and, in the case of T. brucei, the medicine can kill you if the sickness doesn't do it quick enough!), so I thought they were appropriate selections for this game.
These can be found at GIANTmicrobes.com; order yours today!

And now, for the five people I'll meet in Hell pass this along to:

Southern Belle
Susan
Frank
Jidai
Lydia

What are you waiting for, Grinchy? That heart ain't going to swell three sizes today without you doing something about it!

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. V

Oh, it's that time again, kids. It's time we strapped on our togas, headed down to the forum, and buggered each other senseless. Later, we'll stuff ourselves with grape leaves and doormice. Hmmm, well, not much sounded good after the toga part, did it? Ah, forget it. Most of you look really good in a toga. Let's head over the public baths!

If there's one thing in this world I love more than sex, it's basketball. If there's one thing in the world I love as much as sex, it's ice cream. How much do I love ice cream? A whole bunch. Enough so that I find myself loudly proclaiming the following while in the frozen dairy comestibles aisle at the store:

"Clamo, clamatis, omnes clamamus pro glace lactis!"

Which sounds suspiciously like: "clahm-oh, clahm-awt-ees, ohm-nays claw-maw-moose pro glah-say lock-tees!"

Jon Arbuckle from Garfield Minus Garfield will once again provide the translation:

The answer is in the hovertext!

Somebody Needs a Birthday Spanking

In case you didn't know, today is Kari Byron's birthday.



Yep, that pretty much says it all...

On the Married Guy's Perspective

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More Jane Austen Stuff

Yesterday, there was much mention of the travesty that Keira Knightley brought to the role of Elizabeth Bennett in the most recent farce production of Jane Austen's classic Pride & Prejudice. Everyone pretty much panned her portrayal, which is awesome because my wife, the Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca, has the exact same thoughts on the subject, except she tends to work the words "fucking joke" into the mix.

However, one person, whom we shall refer to as McGone, wanted pictures of Keira Knightley posted. Being the attention and blogwhore that I am, I felt it my duty to acquiesce and post a picture of Ms. Knightley. Without further ado:
Dude, I think she's even naked!

Today in History

Jane Austen, beloved English novelist and widely considered among academics as one of the greatest English authors in history, was born on this day in 1775. My wife, the Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca (her epithet just keeps getting longer...) loves her some Jane Austen. In fact, our first DVD purchase was the BBC's version of Pride and Prejudice. When Colin Firth bounds into the scene as Mr. Darcy, she heaves a heady sigh. Since last night she bitched that I post too many pictures of Leelee Sobieski around this joint, this one's for her:
See? I'm a giver. But, it wouldn't be my blog if there wasn't egregious boob pictures, so, in keeping with the moment, here's Firth's co-star in the BBC production, Jennifer Ehle as Elizabeth Bennett.
Okay, so that wasn't too egregious. It's the best I could do on short notice, and remember, I'm using this as an attempt to get laid. Sheesh, you people and your complaints.

Also, in case you're like me and you need some blog reading that involves brain activity and shit in the wake of Mind Diarrhea's big brown blog bubble going pop, check out Mental Poo's post for today. It's brilliant (thanks to Mathdude for turning me onto this guy in the first place).

Shout Outs

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New Music: Apparently, Still Being Made

Liz over at Gingers is the Watchword posted a list of the albums of the year for 2008. Awesome, right? Sadly, I've never even heard of these groups/singers. In fact, it was news to me that new music is still being made.

Well, that is, except for country. Lots of country albums still being cranked out. I guess songs about shootin', dyin', drivin' in circles and blonde girls with big, floppy tits are still popular. To be fair, there's the occasional times when I feel in a "country mood" and will toss in a Garth Brooks CD or get seriously old school with a George album (take your pick, Strait or Jones), but those times are few and far between. Typically, if I'm in need of the equivalent of lyrical suicide notes, I turn to R.E.M.

But, to say that there's new music out there...wow. Blow me over, or whatever it is that Popeye mutters shortly before knocking the shit out of Bluto. See, I wouldn't know that, mostly because I have some of the most corporate of corporate radio shoved down my throat, and even then, it's nothing new. Sad, but true. A few years ago, all of the radio stations down here underwent format changes. The good classic rock station got turned to country and they stole my beloved Bob & Tom and replaced them with John Boy and Billy. Now, you might think Bob & Tom suck, and I wouldn't be able to argue with you very passionately or for very long, but Bob & Tom compared to John Boy and Billy is like comparing the collective works of Shakespeare to the contents and RDA information on the side of a box of generic Lucky Charms. Also, I will add here, the classic rock format that it was prior to being switched was actually filled with good music from a by-gone era, as in Elton John did not tickle the airwaves in between thunderous anthems by AC/DC and Black Sabbath.

This, of course, left a void on the airwaves for good to decent music. Unfortunately, we had two radio stations that decided to fill that void. One was a new rock/alternative station, the other was an adult alternative station. The new rock station suddenly became the classic rock station, except not. Everything's watered down now, and every third song is Metallica followed by Ozzie Osborne (gotta cling to the popularity of the reality television series, I guess) followed by more Metallica, I think. I don't know. I actually heard Space Odyssey on there the other day, and while I haven't anything against David Bowie--except maybe that his dick is much bigger than mine--it isn't the sort of thing I want to rock out to when I'm feeling angry, bitter, or just like turning the volume up. For some unknown reason (oh wait...we do know...they're lying to us!), the radio station dubbed themselves "96 Rock: Everything that Rocks!", when really they should be called "96 Suck: Everything that Sucks!" Probably won't sell as many t-shirts that way.

The adult alternative station turned over to a classic rock format, as well, except this one is like pussy classic rock. Lots and lots of Elton John. And Queen. But, not like the good Queen, no, we can't have any of that. It's Bohemian Rhapsody. All. The. Fucking. Time. If it's not Sir Elton or Freddy Mercury, we throw the door wide open and let in a lot of arena rock. *shudders* There's a constant mixture of Yes, Boston and Styx with a healthy injection of ELO playing all the fucking time! Again, not that I have anything against Elton John, but seriously, I can't take anymore Tiny Motherfucking Dancer, alright.

The remainder of the dial is littered with oldies (tolerable), 80s--and not the good 80s, either, mind--country (argh), religious (no thanks), jazz (passable, at times), and classical (soporific). As you can see, it's pretty much a radio wasteland down here. This is why I'm pretty much forced to listen to talk radio and sports talk radio. Even then, I can only take those in small amounts because the sports talk guys around here are pretty much douchebags. The only good sports talk personality down here is Bomani Jones, and he takes over during the lunch hour, so I don't even get the pleasure of listening to him.

This all brings me back to Liz's post. I pretty much have to rely on the rest of the world filling me in on the music scene because I am pretty limited on my music sources. Oh, sure, I could get back on the Pandora radio thing--and I just might, when Santa delivers unto me the new computer--but that would be pro-active. I would just rather you guys do all the work and then I can read about your thoughts on the music and then I can go out and sample these things. See how this is? It's give/take: You give; I take. Simple as that.

One final thought on the paucity of good radio around here: You'd think that, if you're such a badass that your on-air personality that you've createded for yourself is "Bob the Blade", you'd sound more like said badass and less like a fourth grader with allergies. Just a thought.

Geography Prowess

After failing to crack the top 50% of geekitude in the last test, I figured I'd flash some serous prowess when it comes to maps and geography:

117

I ran out of time just as I started cranking through Africa (starting with South Africa/Lesotho/Swaziland), and I didn't get through much of central Asia--especially when it came to a lot of the former Soviet states whose names were too long to make for an efficient list...try spelling Azerbaijan and Tajikistan quickly while moving on to the next country in your mental atlas. It isn't easy, even for a dashingly suave geography sophisticate like myself--especially when spelling is key (for instance, I had to enter the Netherlands thrice before I was able to get the auto-checker to accept it...here's a hint...drop the "the" at the front).

So, there. If you're bored this afternoon because your boss and his boss and his boss are all out of town and you really don't feel like doing anything (like a hydrogenation), time yourself with this little quiz. Or just go back to my old post and stare at the girl dressed as Phoenix/Marvel Girl. Either way, you'll thank me for it.

Here's a Shocker

No, not that kind, perv. Via the Incomprehensible Alaina, I find I'm only 46% geek. Really? Huh.

46% Geek

So, I'm a little confused here. I mean, I can name all thirteen of the Dwarves that traveled with Bilbo, recite the inscription on the Ring of Power, recite the periodic table up to tin (I tend to switch antimony and tellurium), can draw the natural steroisomers of all the amino acids from memory, can recite the taxonomic divisions of life from top to bottom, and I can recite base e to 15 decimal places. That's not geeky? Do all of these "abilities" make me A) a nerd, B) a geek, or C) just devilishly handsome and strangely alluring? Hint: The answer is c.

Tis the Season...I guess

Remember back in April when I pulled that April Fool's Joke, where I said I was so depressed because I kept getting all these failure rejection notices in the mail? Oh, yeah, I had you all going with that. And by "had you all going", I mean to say you were all thinking "Yeah, whatever, jackass. We know what day it is." Good times, good times.

Anyway, I've recently "gotten serious" about this whole submission thing. And by "gotten serious", I mean that I'm sending out more than one or two query letters at a time. In fact, I just finished another one right now! Can you believe it? Saturday morning and I've already submitted a query to another agency and I'm deftly crafting a blogpost. "Holy Shit!" you might be thinking, "this man is the model of efficiency and hard work! I should pattern my life after him and/or send him boob pictures!" While that's all true, it's not my main reason for being here. Entertaining you is, of course. See how much I give? I know. I'm fucking awesome. Now, make with the pics.

Also, I realize just how much italicized print is up there. Wow. That's a lot. Tis the season for italices, I guess. Or Italians. Or fallacies. Italian fallacies? Italian phallus? Whatever, let's move along.Actually, let's back up. Remember how, in the April Fool's post, I wrote about getting failure rejection notices from lazy agents, where they just wrote "Dear Author" and all that jazz? Yeah, well, I actually got one of those. And here's the kicker! Not only was it a "Dear Author" letter, but the agent (or probably her assistant) didn't even bother to sign the letter. No, there was a crudely scanned copy of the agent's signature printed out with what looked like a dot matrix printer. I actually looked over the letter two or three times, folded it back up and placed it back in the envelope, and thought "You know, maybe getting a rejection from her isn't so bad..."

But then, this past week, I got one that topped that. No "Dear Author", no signature. Just "your work doesn't suit our needs at this time." I don't even think there was a good luck attached to it. Wow. Seriously, you just wasted a piece of paper on this? I'm sure the spotted owls thank you for it. Again, I thought, "I don't want this place representing me anyway." It might sound like a lot of sour grapes, and there might be some truth to that, but I also got another rejection from an agency that was very pleasant. She took the time to use my name and to wish me luck and even threw in a "Happy Holidays". Aside from that time that Jenn Leutzow turned me down for a date in high school because she "didn't know who I was", it was the most pleasant way I've ever been turned down for something. I even wrote back to the person and said as much and wished her well and shot a happy holidays back to her, that's how appreciative I was. Plus, I figure if our paths ever cross again, I will have at least left without burning bridges.

To top it off, I saved the failure rejection notices from those two other agents. I figure once I find an agent, I might have an occasion to be around other agents. If I ever get offered to be represented by these folks, I'll just say no. Petty? Yes. I don't care if they can get me a better deal or let me or my bumpkin friend ride in their corporate helicopter, I'll stay with the people who gave me my first big break and who were pleasant with me. Yeah, guess whose been watching Cars lately?

Anyway, in the past week and a half, I've submitted my stuff to ten different agencies, with one more outstanding. Two have gotten back to me, so there's still nine possibilities out there. I figure after another handful of rejections, I'll send out another batch. The idea is to keep 5 to 12 out at a time. There was this guy at Notre Dame named Doran who asked out every woman he met. Most of the time they said no. Sometimes, one would say yes. We called it "flooding the market". I think this might be my new approach.

At the same time, I'm feeling that passion and desire to write reawaken deep within me. It's either that or my McRib from last night is not sitting well. The funny thing is, my mode of inspiration is kind of...odd. This sudden reawakening might simply be a biorhythmic crest, or it could come from my current read: Kiss me like a Stranger. It's Gene Wilder's autobiography, and dammit, I'm enjoying the hell out of it. There's a part where he discusses how he began learning about directing, and for some reason, this just touched a nerve or made a connection or whatever other ham-fisted metaphor you want me to create here to tell you that I was inspired.

However, as I've said time and time before, my home computer kind of sucks. A jolly fat man stood in line for three hours at Best Buy the day after Thanksgiving--thus rendering him decidedly less jolly--just to secure a new computer for me. That same jolly fat man bought his comely and red-tressed wife a laptop that they both have agreed to share for writing projects. Nice fucking run-on sentence, writer-boy. Anyway, I've decided that I won't restart the writing process until after Christmas, when the current P.O.S. I'm working on is set in the closet as a once very expensive paperweight. I can almost hear taps playing now. Almost.

The moral of the story...if there is one...is don't overuse italics. The other message is that I might not be blogging as much, and by as much, I mean that I might go back to doing somewhat regular updates about the writing process. However, I won't be like some people and abandon things altogether. Sheesh.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Episode IV

Man, I tell ya. People are knocking down the door to get into this thing. Fortunately for me, the Wiz has been handling all the requests to step in and do a celebrity cameo for the Friday Morning Latin Lesson. It's kind of like the Simpsons, except without the thick black lines around everything and humor. I'm sure Seth MacFarlane will be plagiarizing me before long.

Sorry, I just threw up a little in my mouth. Where was I? Oh yes, this week's celebrity. Last week, of course, featured the earthly incarnation of carnal beauty sometimes named "Amy Adams". This week, my friend Tricia's son stops by to help with the Latin Lesson. Tricia also has red hair and large, round...uh...anyway, her son Ethan is here to help with the Latin Lesson.

"Postatem obscuri lateris nescitis!"

"Poe-stah-im obe-scoo-ree lah-tare-ees nays-keet-ees!"

Translation in the Hover Text, Y'all!

Things You Don't Want to Hear While on the Phone with Your Mom

The following actually happened to my wife, the Comely and Buxom and Easily Terrified Boudicca the other day while discussing a tea pot or some other Jane Austen shit with my mother-in-law.

TC&B&ETB: "Yeah, mom, I thought you had it in the spare bedroom."

Mother-in-Law: "Oh, you're right! Let me put a shirt on and go look for it."

I came home to find her curled up in the fetal position in the corner of the dining room, rocking back and forth, tears slowly leaking down her cheek, far-and-away distant look in her eye, muttering softly over and over again for the bad man to go away.

A Terrifying Tale

I had me one of them there adventures last night.

There I was, sleeping soundly at three o'clock in the morning when, BANG BANG BANG...BANG rousted me from my sweet reveries. The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca also rousted herself (most likely from some equally sweet reveries), and I immediately reached for my beatin' stick.

Now, a couple of months ago, I was upstairs at my computer, the wife was working, and I was typing away on a book. I had just finished a chapter or a paragraph or an adjective or something, and I leaned back to re-read what I had just crafted. That's when I heard a noise what sounded like the back storm door closing. No one should be coming in there, so I immediately went into defensive mode. I grabbed the only weapon at my disposal...which turned out to be a 12-lb dumbbell and crept downstairs to see if my home had been violated. Everything was safely locked up, and no one was around, so I chalked it up to my imagination. But, I decided that I needed a better weapon. Thus, the beatin' stick was born. It's about three feet of solid lumber, 1x1, with the end cut at an angle. It's probably not the most wicked looked thing in the world, but I figure it'll bust someone's scalp open, should I need it to.

Anyway, the wife checks on the kids, and it wasn't either of them that made the noise. So, that meant I had to investigate the downstairs. I crept down the stairs, all Scooby-Doo like. You could almost hear the "doot, doot, doooooooooo, doot-doo-doo" music going as I moved forward. My ears were pricked, listening for any repeating noises or noises of someone deciding they needed to escape, lest they met my wrath and the business end of my cudgel. I first checked the living room, where all the plastic bins that housed the Christmas decorations were stacked, thinking that the perp might have knocked over one of those as the sound was a bit "plasticky" (if you catch my drift). Nothing. I peeped the back door, to make sure it was locked. Still locked tight. I check the front door. Nothing doing. I scope the windows. Nothing. Everything is whole and unscathed.

Then I hear something upstairs. Footsteps. Oh, they're near my family. Time to die, perp!

Only, Boudicca slinks downstairs to tell me Cookie is going to the bathroom, and that I shouldn't run up the stairs, screaming like a battle-enraged, blue-faced warrior with designs on braining her. We together do another security sweep around the perimeter, and find nothing. We wonder if, perhaps, a bat or something flew into our nice, new, awesome window in the kitchen. Shrugging, we decide that's a distinct possibility. Outside lights are on, to scare away the bad guys. We return to bed. The wife turns on the closet light, to make people think that someone is up. The hounds are released. Ninjas stand at the four corners of the house, ready to strike.

The beatin' stick was replaced in its handy location next to my side of the bed. The wife makes me turn off my humidifier, so we can listen. And we do for the next thirty minutes. Every creak and groan of the house causes one or both of us to stir. I stare, wide-eyed, at the doorway to the kids bathroom, thinking it looks somewhat like a figure standing there, knife in hand, waiting for me to sleep. But, I keep my eyelids hooded. When he comes for me, I'll knock his head clean off.

Finally, the alarm goes off. I sit up, dragging my worthless ass out of the bed. Fatigue crushes me, weighing down on me. The night was filled with fitful sleep, tossing and turning, and more listening. Always listening. Always greeted with silence.

I strip down, shuffling naked to the bathroom. Pulling back the shower curtain, I find a bottle of body wash has fallen from the top of the shower and now rests quietly in the basin of the tub. Beside it, guiltily, is the suction-cup fastener to which the bottle had been affixed. Here is my perp. Here is the reason I spent the night wondering when they were coming for me, and could I get to them before they got to my kids.

I grabbed the stick and beat the hell out of the bottle. That'll show that motherfucker to mess with the likes of me.

My New Best Friend

You ever have someone do something for you that was so nice, it brought a tear to your eye? Or it caused some other involuntary visceral response in your physiology (that's a lot of big words deftly arranged as a euphemism for "sprout wood")? No? You never have? Man, sucks to be you.

Anyway, jet on over to Homebrew and Chemistry for a recap of Chemgeek's Thanksgiving Holiday (as a side note, prepare the empathy and sympathy train). Also, click the link for "euphoria". Awesome, isn't it?

When there was the chance that Brett Favre was going to play in Minnesota, I had pondered becoming BFFs with Chemgeek. However, his little buried shoutout and linky-loo with my name behind it cemented it.

So, new best friend, what's in the fridge? Mmmm...beer and pie. God bless America.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Volume III

I'm liking where this is going. So far, we've delved into the seedy underworld of bananas stuck in auricular orifices and the arrogant world of literary criticism. This week, we're going more practical. We're going to analyze a phrase that can be used while out on the town in the bar scene. Or, hell, this might even be utile the next time you're at the forum and especially if you're rocking out at Delta House, smashing guitars, doing it a little bit softer now with Otis Day and the Knights, fooling around with the Dean's wife, or banging thirteen year olds.

And look! This feature has become so popular, I've got a celebrity guest to provide the translation for this week's phrase. Everybody, please welcome the fabulously gorgeous Amy Adams! Ladies, this one is for you:

"Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?"

Pronounced "Est-nay woe-loo-men in toe-gah, an sow-loom tee-bee lee-bet may vee-dare-ay?"

*Once again, translation in the hovertext...try to focus on the words, pervy*

Happy Thanksgiving

Like most of the blogging world, I'm shoving pie in my gob today. Like most of the blogging world, I'm too fucking lazy to post. Like most of the blogging world, I'm relying on a scene from WKRP in Cincinnati, one of the shows I fondly remember from my youth, and their brilliant Thanksgiving special, which will go down in TV lore probably forever. Especially thanks to the internet.

Turkeys are hitting the ground like bags of wet cement. As God as my witness...I thought turkeys could fly.



From my family to yours...or just to you, you lonely, unlovable loser...Happy Thanksgiving. Now, go have some pie.

The Apple Hasn't Fallen Far

Okay, enough with insulting arrogant fat men for a while. In case anyone needs further explanation of the previous two posts, I'm a little pissed at Fat Charlie, the head coach at Notre Dame, who continues to not coach his team and live up to the standards he set for himself. Losing the Syracuse, which has been and still is one of the worst teams in all Division 1A college football (and has been in a close race with Duke for worst in the BCS schools), was inexcusable. I began to fall off the Charlie Bandwagon after he failed to make any adjustments at halftime during the UNC game and then backed that up by doing the exact same fucking thing during the Pitt game. I didn't get to see the Navy game, otherwise these posts might have popped up earlier. So, what you have read the past two days has been me striking out with as much fanatic vitriol as possible, but at the same time, I tried to make it funny. In Monday's post, the "interview" with Weis was me asking questions and him responding entirely in quotations by Patrick Star from Spongebob Squarepants. Yesterday's post was a recreation of the scenes where Luke Skywalker goes to rescue Han, Leia and the droids from Jabba the Hutt in Return of the Jedi, but Charlie played the part of Jabba and Jack Swarbrick--the new Athletic Director at Notre Dame--played the roll of Luke. Again, I thought it was amusing and I knew only a small subset of you loyal readers would probably enjoy it and/or even get what I was talking about. My aim was for a little jockularity.

So, there. That's what I was aiming for. I was trying to bitch and moan about the lack of results on the field (again) in a way that people who don't follow college football would still find amusing. I'm just pleased that I didn't get the half-dozen requisite "I don't like sports blogs" whines. It probably helped that this is Thanksgiving week.

Anyway, let's go with something less fat...er...sporty...shall we?

If you've read this blog for long, or you've seen my comments on your blogs, you might know that I'm a big fan of the pun. It's a beautiful thing that we in the English-speaking world have to add to our comedy repertoire. No other languages utilize the pun quite like we do, whether for clever advertisements or jokes that make you groan and roll your eyes when you finally get them. I mean, in French, you'd have to sit there and stew for a few minutes wondering which word ending in "ay" did he just say and how is it to be construed and what the hell was he even talking about. But not English. Which is probably why more and more places are moving to speak it, not so much for its simplicity, but just for the ability to make puns in your speeches.

Where the fuck was I? Oh, right. I was talking about how much I love the pun. In all the twists and turns of prose writing, I believe the pun (for me at least) to be the busty red-head sitting at the end of the bar wearing her fishnets and fuck-me boots--I love it just that much. Whenever my wife tells a story, I always try to work in a pun as a response. She does the same to me. We both have the same response in that we try to refuse to acknowledge the other's comment.

So, the other night at the dinner table, my wife was telling about how the new manager at the Ampersand (it's British Guy, you know, the one who writes in the log mimicking classic pieces of literature and who, inexplicably, loves Notre Dame football and college basketball) sent around a little memo asking for people's staff recommendations for the holidays. The hing was, he added a bunch of questions to it to get people to think about their picks so that they could pick books that would really suck the reader in and avoid Twilight, which would just suck for the reader.

So, one of the questions, as she was relating to me, was "If you were stuck on a remote island with cannibals, what piece of literature would you want with you that's not the Bible or Shakespeare?" I mulled this over some wine for a moment. Whilst thinking, my daughter, Cookie, pipes up, "You'd want a book about tv controllers."

My wife and I ignore her and I make some suggestion about a cook book or something, you know, so that you could teach the cannibals to cook food other than you. Unfazed, Cookie again pipes up with "What about a book about tv controllers?"

Again, we ignore her, and my wife offers up some suggestion, and I think it over and nod. Cookie once more says, this time a little more emphatically, "A book about tv controllers!"

Finally, my wife takes the bait. "What are you talking about," the fabulously sexalicious Boudicca asks Cookie.

"It's a remote island."

That's my girl.

Revenge of the AD

The main doors to the Notre Dame football offices open, bathing the darkened internal hallway with bright, white light from outside. A cowled figure is silhouetted against the light streaming in from outside as he walks boldly, confidently down the hallway. Two assistants approach, barring the way. With a wave of his hand, the cowled figure pushes the assistants to the side and continues on his path.

Out of the gloom appears three time Heisman winner and current quarterbacks coach Ron Powlus. Powlus utters something that the cowled figure ignores. Pushing past Powlus, the figure continues on, causing Powlus to scurry behind him. Guttural noises continue to issue forth from the Quarterbacks Coach, until finally the figure stops and looks toward Powlus.

"I must speak with Charlie," the figure says.

Powlus stops, utters something, and shakes his head. The cowled figure raises his hand.

"You will take me to Charlie now," the figure says.

"I will take you to Charlie now," Powlus says, turning and leading the way down the hallway.

"You serve your master well."

"I serve my master well," Powlus responds.

"And you will be rewarded."

Powlus leads the figure into the head coach's office. Charlie is asleep at his desk before a flickering television revealing an endless loop of Tom Brady highlight films. Jimmy Clausen is on the ground before him, chained to Charlie's desk, wearing a slave's outfit. Former Notre Dame head coach and current homer Lou Holtz is standing behind Charlie.

"At last, Master Swarbrick is here to rescue us!" Holtz sputters loudly.

Powlus slinks up beside the dozing head coach and touches him lightly on the cheek.

"Master," he says, causing the head coach to jump. Powlus motions toward the cowled figure now standing before Charlie. "Jack Swarbrick, Athletic Director," Powlus says, introducing the cowled figure swathed in black.

"I told you not to allow him!" Charlie bellows, swiping at Powlus. Powlus ducks and motions to throw the ball four rows deep into the stands.

"I must be allowed to speak," Swarbrick says, stepping forward. Powlus, with a dazed look in his eye, turns to Charlie.

"He must be allowed to speak."

Charlie roars again, smacking Powlus, sending him sprawling on the ground. Powlus whines about a late hit, but slinks off into the shadows.

"You weak minded fool! He's using an old athletic director mind trick on you!" Charlie roars.

Swarbrick stares intently at Charlie. "You will return control of the program to me."

"Your mind tricks will not work on me, boy!"

"Nevertheless, I am going to take the program and its friends: Touchdown Jesus, Notre Dame Stadium, the pride and tradition of the nation's second most winningest program! You can either profit by this...or be destroyed. It's your choice, but I warn you, do not underestimate my powers."

Charlie laughs, loud and mean. Holtz pops up, waving his arms meagerly behind Charlie.

"There will be no bargain!" Charlie bellows.

"Master Swarbrick, watch out, you're standing on..." Holtz begins, but is cut off as the floor falls away below Master Swarbrick. He reaches out to try and steady himself, but his hands grab John Latina, the Offensive Line Coach for Notre Dame.

Swarbrick is dumped into a chamber inhabited by the hulking ghost of Knute Rockne. A small scuffle ensues in which Latina is swallowed whole by Rockne's ghost. Swarbrick appeases the ghost with a cigar and a shot of whiskey and promises to set right what once went wrong. Rockne fades into the background. Rob Ianello, draped in banners commemorating Notre Dame's 11 National Championships over his shoulder, comes in and whimpers at the missing ghost. Corwin Brown and Jon Tenuta--Notre Dame's co-defensive co-ordinators--issue into the room, grabbing Swarbrick and pulling him from the dungeon.

"Bring me the honor and tradition of this once fine program!" Charlie bellows. "Bring me Tyrone Willingham, so that I can use him as a scapegoat once more."

The scene shifts to the Grotto at Notre Dame. Charlie is sitting on his golf cart. Powlus stands at his left hand side, Holtz to his right. Clausen is still chained to Charlie. Swarbrick stands before them, along with Touchdown Jesus, Fair Catch Corby and We're Number 1 Moses. Holtz steps forward.

"Oh dear," he sputters, "His High Exaltedness, Charlie the Robot Genius, has decreed that you are to be terminated immediately. You will therefore be cast into the Grotto, where you will slowly burn over a thousand years with the hundreds of candles that people light on football saturdays."

"You should have bargained, Charlie," Swarbrick says, a bit cocky. "That's the last mistake you'll ever make."

Charlie laughs and points toward the Grotto. "Put him in!"

Swarbrick jumps, but suddenly grabs onto the ledge over the Grotto and hurls himself into the air, spinning, and catching a golden helmet from midair. A host of Charlie Apologists issue forth from behind the head coach, but are quickly knocked into the grotto by Swarbrick's mastery with the golden helmet. Bill Belichick steps forward, raises his hand to shoot Swarbrick, hesitates, and then turns and fades back into the chaos, returning to the NFL.

In the chaos, Jimmy Clausen suddenly heaves on the chain, looping it around Charlie's massive throat and pulling it tight. Charlie grabs at the chain and tries to pull it away from his throat, but Clausen is too strong. Finally, Charlie's eyes goggle and he slumps forward, causing the golf cart to lurch. Swarbrick smashes the chain with his helmet, and Clausen is freed. The golf cart continues to move forward until it topples into the Grotto, flipping end over end and landing with a meaty thud at the bottom. Clausen, Holtz and Swarbrick stand on the edge of the Grotto, triumphantly looking down into the Grotto.

"Come on, let's go," Swarbrick says, "And don't forget the history and winning tradition." Swarbrick begins to walk away.

"Where are we going?" Clausen asks.

"To find a new coach. I don't care if we have to resurrect Knute Rockne himself, we're finally going to find the man to fix this broken program." He hesitates, looking at Holtz, who is beaming. "And who isn't ancient."

Looking hurt, Holtz's face falls. "When 800 years old you reach, look as good, you will not, hmmm?"

Laughing, Swarbrick and Clausen begin the long march back across the campus. The scene ends with the lowering sun gleaming off the Golden Dome standing proudly over Notre Dame's campus.