Blogging Time Out

Hey, all, WC here. Sorry for the silence, but the Big Man has been put in Time Out over his recent string of posts. Oh sure, it was funny and all to belittle the good people of Indiana--I mean, damn, I love a good laugh at the simple ways of backward folk as much as the next guy--but then he started making fun of the fat chicks, and, well, The Wiz has a soft spot for the Plumpies. You see, sometimes the old star and moon robe doesn't wrap around my little ass during those chilly winter nights, and The Wiz needs him an ass to cozy up to in order to keep warm. I'm not ashamed. I'm a whore for a nice, warm, soft ass, despite Bel Biv Devoe warning me to never trust a big butt and a smile.

But then the Big Guy started knocking the Canadians, and that didn't sit too well with the Wiz. You see, I'm a closet acerfoliumophile, so if there's one thing I can't stand, it's insulting the good folks up north (although the Wiz does think your ketchup tastes a little funny--don't get upset, I'm just sayin'). I mean, just because a nation has a bit of a funny accent, screwed up football rules, various places named after moose body parts, and trees--lots and lots of trees--doesn't make them a bad place. I mean, they gave us the Barenaked Ladies and...uh...Avril Lavigne and...er...Alex Trebeck! Okay, so you guys can take that pompous assbag back. We'll keep the nekkid ladies. Wait, what? They're all guys? Horseshit.

Anyway...the other night, the boss kind of lost it. He stormed out of here, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, and tossed me in the Jenksennium Falcon and sped off. I was frightened for a moment before I realized we were headed toward Sonic, where the Big Man got his usual. As for me, he forced me into asking for my dinner in the most degrading of ways. How many times do I have to tell him, I does not talk like dat? Dammit. Anyway, it was an eventful dinner as the Big Man kept muttering something about "what the fuck kind of Communist doesn't like tomatoes on their burgers?". Yeah, I don't know either. If any of you know what's going on, clue me in, alright? Also, he got the chili cheese tots and then preceded to eat the whole thing, not even offering me one! To top it off, after we went to bed, that bastard kept giving me the Dutch Oven all night long! I've already admitted to my love of ass-sleeping--it's a weakness, alright? There, I've said it. But then this bastard goes and ruins it by woofing me under the blankets all night. And then his knowing snicker--that sonuvabitch knew what he was doing and enjoying it. Ugh. The Wiz is disgusted just talking about it again.

So, between the Canuckophobia and chili-cheese-tot ass symphony, the Big Guy's in time out. I'm not letting him near the computer again until he sifts the turds out of my litterbox and buys a pair of those charcoal underpants with that patch that helps filter out the stink. In the mean time, to make sure Zibbs keeps coming back, I thought I'd bust out the mailbag and answer a few nagging questions that have been hanging around.

Way back in June, Frank asked "Are we allowed to ask questions for [Q&A] volume 2? Do you like ice cream? If so, what flavor?"

Well, Frank...easy ones first. Yes, ask all the questions you want and I'll try to get around to answering them quickly, or as quick as a guy without the benefit of opposable thumbs can be, mind. I'll also be quicker on the draw when I've not been rendered loopy by rolling clouds of gas trapped under a duvet.

As for ice cream, I'm not sure if you're directing that at me or the Big Guy. The short answer for both of us is "fuck yeah", and to follow up, the Big Man loves his Moose Tracks (curious, what with the Canada thing as all) and cherry cordial. Both are mighty nice, but on those nights when WC feels like spoiling himself, I usually whip up my own recipe of kipper and catnip. mmmmmm-MMM! My insides are atingle with the mere thought of it now.

Back in July, McGone commented something about Kevin Smith's anal fissures being on Smith's blog and was it in the book. While not a question, I feel as if I should just add that Smith's book "My Boring Ass Life" is just the entries from his blog, gathered together in book form. So, yes, the anal fissure story was there. And, also, yeeeesh! *shudder*

Finally, a couple of day ago, Lisa and her tastrophies asked about an autographed picture of the Wiz. If I could blush, I would. Nah, I'm just kidding. The Wiz loves him some stalkers. All that extra attention is fantastic. If I'm not whoring for warm asses, I'm whoring for attention. The Big Guy will be in contact with you shortly, when I allow him back on the computer. You know, after he sifts mah shit.

Well, that pretty much closes up the mail bag. Keep the questions coming. Also, because I know you're all dying to know, the Wiz is available for guestbloggery, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm a whore for warm asses, attention, and guestblogging. In the meantime, I feel a big one a-brewin'. I think after I'm done burying it, I'll go cozy up to the Boss and stretch my feet out in his face. It'll be our little joke.

Tongue Twisters, eh

The other night, I decided to cruise around the interstates down here with the family. Really, we were going to dinner because I was too lazy to grill hamburgers (you know, flip, sizzle, done...that's a lot of work), but that's beside the point. Or maybe it is the point, but I don't fucking care. We were out driving.

The buxom and comely Boudicca was telling me about her day. Remember that she works in a certain book store with an Ampersand in the middle of the name (and no 's' on the end, dumbass) and, well, there are some interesting characters that either work there or shop there. For instance, there's the British guy who fills out the log book by likening the 'action' in the music section to the events of Moby Dick. Apparently, it was pretty boring back there, so he wrote "Dusk. There be no sign of the white whale..." and so on (that's what the ellipses implies). British-style hilarity. Also, for some reason, British Guy likes Notre Dame football. He's invited me and the rest of the familial unit over to his place (is that a flat in British terms?) for a barbecue (barby?), a drink (tipple?), and perhaps some games (jolly good times?) on the day of the Notre Dame/Michigan tilt. I had to politely decline because I plan on either being drunk and naked while running around the front yard with my arms out at the sides making airplane noises or drunk and on the floor crying in the fetal position that afternoon (but still naked).

Sorry, I digress.

Anyway, there we were in the car when Boudicca starts in with her tale for the day. Allow me to set the stage. She runs the cash registers, which means that people who feel they're far too important to go to customer service and ask questions come up to the front counter and ask my wife questions. So, there she was as this lady approached and, with a heavy speech impediment, asked: "Dnyou dnyave dnyooks dnyof dnyongue dnyisters?" Yeah, I know. It's like comedy gold. It's like a fat guy asking about books on ballet, just less creepy.

Like a trooper--and with a straight face--Boudicca takes the woman over to the children's section where she might be able to get further help in her quest for a book of tongue twisters. However, when my wife was relating this story to me, she couldn't contain herself and was laughing hysterically at the irony of the situation, which I then pointed out to her was a quick ticket to hell. Unfortunately, I didn't understand what the woman was looking for initially because Boudicca had quoted the woman verbatim, doing her best impression (worst?) of the speech impediment. So, she repeated herself (and the imitation), and this time, through the gales of laughter, I was able to at least comprehend and to get a chuckle out of it myself (thus securing my own ticket to hell).

Finally, we composed ourselves and the laughter ebbed away to a slow trickle. It was at this point that Cookie, from the back seat (remember, this was a family outing) asked loudly, "Mommy, was that lady from Canada?"

Beautiful.

Is There a Copy Editor in the House?

Being a man of larger proportions, I appreciate it when people of considerable size and girth overcome their physical limitations and rise up to greatness.

Imagine the smile it brought to my face this morning when I was perusing the Indianapolis Star website and saw this headline right here.

I'm guessing the rewards snacks after the game were cupcakes. Lots and lots of cupcakes. And after that, snu-snu. Lots and lots of snu-snu.

And how funny would it have been if the other mascot was something other than Titans...although Titans is pretty funny. Are there any Indianapolis-based teams with "Pelvis" for a mascot name? Too bad they weren't playing Frankfort High School, home of the Hot Dogs. Hilarity would have ensued...further.

I suggest a rewrite for the headline: "Husky girls crush stereotypes, score often".

Again, Indiana, I'm looking out for you. You're welcome.

EDIT: Sorry, all. I had to dash off this morning to hang with my friend Joe during a two and a half hour meeting, thus leaving this post only partially finished. I mistakenly pushed "publish" instead of save. I apologize for any inconveniences or complete and total lack of hilarity (as opposed to the simple lack of hilarity that I usually bring you). Also, I misspelled "snu-snu". Send your complaints along to Wizard Cat.

Saving Indiana

After my post earlier in the day where I detailed the idiocy of my former home state, I've decided to go on a quest to save the poor pornography-ridden denizens of Hoosierland.

I give you a porn-free wedding photo:

Feel free to hand over the keys to the state, Indiana. I am your wedding photo art savior.

This Just In: Young, Married People Like to Have Sex!!!

I would lay good money that that stupid bitch from Carmel--you know the one who doesn't like the ads in the mall for Victoria's Secret?--and her cohorts are involved in this somehow. Apparently, a lovely photo of a bride and groom hanging at the Indiana State Fair Art Exhibit--which won first prize, by the way--was deemed too racy and taken down from the wall.

Judge for yourself. I swiped the picture from the Indianapolis Star website and posted it here. As you can see, the couple are pressed close together and she has her legs opened and he has her hand on her knee. Some people apparently felt that it was a travesty that you couldn't see his other hand. Let's think about biomechanics here for a moment. Take a look. That's his left hand you see, and his left side is closest to the camera. That means his right side is away from the camera and his right arm is angled behind the bride. What he's probably doing is holding her up so that she doesn't fall over backwards. Oh no! Scandal! On the walls at the Indiana State Fair.

I'm sure that the good name of the children was invoked in order to get this removed. Oh my God! Marriage! Run screaming into the void! Aiiiiiiiiieeeeeee!!!

Look, I love my home state. Nothing makes my heart swell with pride more than thinking of the flat, featureless plains that comprise most of Indiana and the backwards small towns revolving around farm culture that make up its patchwork landscape. However, it always makes me a touch nauseated to see things like this highlighted in the news. I wish we could go back to the days of hearing stories like "John Ryan was arrested Saturday after a brawl at the local bar, The Sippy Hole, broke out. Ryan allegedly started the fracas with local resident Steve William when William loudly proclaimed 'International Harvester could plow rings around John Deere.' In all, five people were treated for minor injuries. The owner of The Sippy Hole, Pete Dan, said that the fight did about $500 in damage, most if it in broken bar stools."

Strangely, Obama seems to think he can pry a few of those voters away from their Red State ways. Good luck, buddy. You might need it.

Number 865,001

I stayed up last night to watch half-man/half-otter Micheal Phelps and his team mates win the 4 x 100 relay, thus securing Phelps' unprecedented eighth gold medal. However, I'm at an interesting crossroads here, in that I don't want to get an email like the one Rider received earlier today, nor do I want my diploma from Notre Dame to be stricken null and void by praising someone from the University of Michigan. Thus, I'll let Tim Buckley do it for me.
Don't you guys love how I'm piggybacking off your posts and simply sticking a cartoon in there to make it amusing, thus allowing me to play more Civ III do housework punish the children continue doing fuck all with my life? Yeah, me too.

Big News

I was going to post this earlier, since I figured out Jidai's big news pretty much from the moment his post hit the blogosphere. Being a father of two, I've been through this before, so I thought I'd offer him some helpful advice. What better way than through the webcomic Ctl+Alt+Del, and what better way than through a webcomic featuring a complete and total lack of bodily control.
It is completely appropriate, no matter how much you love your spouse/girlfriend/companion to react this way. Just make sure she tells you of your grand news while you're standing somewhere tiled or coated in linoleum.

Congrats, man.

Writing Prizes

I think I might try for this some time:

Worst Writing Award 2008 Awarded

The only thing is, I think I'd try to make it more serious, as if it actually were the opening line to a story, unlike the runner ups. Or maybe I'll just take the first line from Twilight and submit that. Hi-yo!

From the Mouth of Babes

The other night, I was bored. To alleviate said boredom, I gathered up the brood and headed to Target under the guise of getting some toilet paper or something peripherally important. Really, all I wanted to do was escape the confines of Casa del Jenks and look at movies and video games and such. You know, important stuff.

So, we're in Target and we've moseyed through the toy section because the brood, for some reason, likes the toys. Once they had each picked something out, we moved over to the multimedia section, which offers a fairly sad selection of items, but their prices are moderately nice. Plus, sometimes, Cookie decides she'd like to get a book instead of a toy, and I get it because it offers the illusion to the rest of the world of me being a good father. Score on two fronts: the kid likes me, and the rest of the world respects me. The latter was about to be undone.

While in the section, however, I have what, in polite circles, can be described as a gastroenteral decompression. Unfortunately, my four-year-old son, Tank, heard this and did the polite thing: he excused me. Loudly. And repeatedly. Now, my wee lad has a rather capable set of lungs and, well, he's also quite capable of doing a stageworthy projection with his voice. So, when he bellowed "Excuse you, daddy", it wasn't just to me, it was to the entire store.

"Shhhhhh!" I tried--in vain--to silence him.

"But you pootered, Daddy! Excuse you!"

Embarrassed, I slunk past a handful of people and tried to disappear into automotive. Therein, I tried to describe to my young gentleman that it was proper to excuse one who has had an accidental recto-centric explosion. However, it was not customary for one to perform said pardoning at the top of someone's voice.

Satisfied, we continued through the store where I gathered the supplies I needed for dinner the following night and, doing my best impersonation of a paparazzi-ducking celebrity, I crawled up to the line to check out. Unfortunately, I chose the line poorly and the young lady who scanned my merchandise kept looking at me with a mirthful smile upon her face and unshed tears of unbridled joy and laughter standing in her eyes.

Taking my stuff, I hurried toward the door as quickly as possible, vowing to never enter that Target ever again. Put one more on the list of places from which my ass has banished the rest of my body.

Release the Mob

Get your pitchforks and torches ready, everyone. We're burning stuff again, and this time it has nothing to do with the Dixie Chicks nor France. Shocker, I know. Remember a few days ago when Stephenie Meyer produced her latest Buffy rip-off masterpiece book piece of crap, Breaking Dawn? Remember how everyone has fallen all over themselves, smacking their lips and breathing heavy into the phone over how great this was supposed to be?

Not so fast, chief. Seems as though the book is being returned in record numbers now. It's apparently caused some disgruntled fans to organize a book burning tour just to get rid of the piece of shit from their house. Well done. Well done.

All of this comes on the heels of the stories and articles about how this was so much different than Harry Potter, but I assume those people were talking about how it was better. I guess that it is better than Harry Potter in that Deathly Hallows did not cause people to want to get together and test that whole 451 Fahrenheit thing.

There's an enormous discussion at Amazon.com talking about returning the book rather than burning it, because if you burn it, Meyer still gets royalties off of the book. Frankly, I don't know if I like that, because rationality and commonsense are two things I don't look for in my angry mobs. I guess this is what you get when you crap a book out in six months. I understand it's one thing to try and satisfy your fans as soon as possible...if I had any...but I also understand putting an effort into making the book something you are proud of.

I think worst of all--at least from Meyer's standpoint--is that her fans are ready to abandon her. Even though there were a lot of disappointed fans after Deathly Hallows (myself and the comely and buxom Boudicca are in that camp), I don't remember a lot of people wanting to never read anything by J.K. Rowling ever again. So, I think I'm going to append that list I made a few months ago about what I never want to do when it comes to writing.

The Meyer Syndrome: Cranking out a book so horribly written and so poorly executed with such a weak plot that my readership wholeheartedly abandons not only the book and/or the series, but my writing altogether.

That ought to about do it. Now, I'm off to light some torches.

Something Seldom Seen

I had one of those "writing nights" tonight (more on that later). My wife gave me the evening off and, after hanging out in Target to get my daily fix, I headed over to a bookstore with an ampersand in the name. This is one of my three usual haunts--in case you're stalking me--when I escape the house and decide to do a little dextral lucubrations.

The nice thing about writing stuff in a bookstore is there's a lot of reference materials available. Being that it's in a bookstore, you can thumb through the info you want while jotting down notes, set it on a table when you're finished, and then wander off whistling innocently and pretending you were never near those books, and someone else will sweep in, pick up the books, and put them away. Tidy. The other nice thing is that other people move in and out of the store and cafe, and there's a lot of booby people watching to be done. If there's something I enjoy doing while pretending to write, it's watching boobies people.

Well, I was scribing a paragraph. When I finished penning that passage of perfect prose, I looked up and there I saw it: two men playing chess at one of the tables in the store.Wow. I was fascinated and amazed and jealous, all at the same time. I was fascinated because, if you watch enough tv and movies, you usually come across the archetype couple of men conversing over a chessboard. I was amazed because it wasn't two old men, it was an old man and a young man--maybe a grandfather and grandson duo. I was jealous because, well, I don't know anyone who plays chess. More, I don't know anyone who would be willing to sit around and play me. Not that I'm terribly good or anything--quite the opposite, to be scathingly honest--but more that I'm terribly annoying. I like to talk, and some people don't like that during a game of chess. Plus, I don't like to lose, which is something I--unfortunately--do a lot in chess. Also, I fart. A lot.

I watched them for a while. The old guy--who was wearing a spectacular teal and aquamarine Hawaiian shirt, I might add--caught my eye once. I nodded to him, and he nodded back. The younger chap turned to look over his shoulder, and I nodded to him, too. After a return nod, the two men returned to their game and I returned to my writing.

Still, I thought it was refreshing that someone--anyone, really--sat down for a bit and played chess. I caught snippets of conversation and they were talking strategy over the game. Awesome. I commend you both, and wish you many happy games into the future.

Mending

The Ex said: "You know what would make you feel better? Leelee Sobieski."
Amazing. I am feeling better.

Emotional Desolation

Oh, hey. How are you doing? Have a long week? Glad that the weekend's here? Yeah, it's supposed to be nice weather. Got any plans? That sounds like fun.

Me? Oh, you know, the usual. A little tired. Was up late last night and all but--fuck you Ted Thompson!

That's right. I'm an emotional wreck because of you and that cheesedick you call a head coach. Mark Murphy, where's the open arms? Huh? Where are they? You know what...here's $25 million. You three go away for ever.

And Brett...you are dead to me, sir. I was all prepared for you to go to the Vikings. I was like, "Hey, I like Purple" and "I used to fuck a girl from Minnesota" and "Now Eric and I can be buddies bffs" and "Man, I 'm going to have to find a hat with horns and some fake blond braids. This will be fun." Then I made that horn sound that the fans in Minnesota blow all the time. You know, the one that sounds like a horny humpback whale out looking for some play? That one.

And then rumors of Tampa Bay abounded and I was like "Hey, that's alright. Jon Gruden has some ties to Notre Dame. That'd be cool" and "Tampa Bay has some hot cheerleaders" and "Heh heh, they're pirates. Farrrrrrrrrrrrrrve. Heh heh."

And someone was even like, "Hey, Dolphins need a quarterback" and after I threw up in my mouth a little, I was like, "Well, my best friend the Eye Doctor is a Dolphins fan...maybe we can comiserate..."

But then it happened. You went to the Jets, Brett. The J E T S Jets Jets Jets. Just End The Season Jets Jets Jets. Dude. Come on. Rip my heart out of my chest and punt it across the room, and then it can slide down the wall and land in the trash can. Thanks Laura Powers Brett.

I even tried to justify it. I was like "Hey, they're green" and "Kevin wore a Jets jacket on the Wonder Years" and "Fucking Jets. Jesus I hate the fucking Jets." Yeah, that didn't work out so well. Don't you remember a few years ago, Brett, when you were poised to go into the playoffs with homefield throughout, and then you rolled into Giants Stadium to play the hapless Jets and they pasted you 41-3 and dropped you to the third seed and you bowed out to Dogslayer Michael Vick? Yeah. You totally just went and made out with Jimbo.

So, I should turn back to my old team, right? Oh fuck that. The collection of bumblefuckery that is the front office down to the head coach in Green Bay deserves my scorn and disdain. I hope you've got your resumes brushed off and updated, fellas, because the first losing season (or the end of this one), you'll either be run out of town on a rail or your heads will be served on a silver platter, Salome-style.

Ugh, so here I wander, teamless, the wide plains of Gorgoroth stretching out around me. The wind is bitter and bleak. Tiny grains of sand pelt my skin, raising knobby red whelts in their wake. To whom do I turn? I guess the easy answer would be the Colts, since I grew up in Indiana, but they've always been more like that second team to root for, that kid in class who tries real hard but never gets it right, but you still pat them on the head and say "Nice job, Jimmy." Plus, they don't fully articulate my disdain for the Bears--though with the Sex Cannon at the helm...or the Neckbeard--take your pick--hating the Bears is akin to disliking a Pop Warner league team.

I'm distraught, and it's all your fault, Ted Thompson. Hitch your wagon to the Titanic (sorry Hap, that was beautifully put, so I'm thieving it) or Charon's ferry or a dog turd laying in the sun drying up and getting hard. The Packers are dead to me, too. At least until Aaron Rogers gets hurt and Brian Brohm takes over (week three?). Ugh. At least college football starts soon. Oh, Jesus, that's right. Well, how long until basketball season? Fuck.

I Poop On You

This pretty much says it all:

You Are a Colon

You are very orderly and fact driven. You aren't concerned much with theories or dreams... only what's true or untrue. You are brilliant and incredibly learned. Anything you know is well researched. You like to make lists and sort through things step by step. You aren't subject to whim or emotions. Your friends see you as a constant source of knowledge and advice. (But they are a little sick of you being right all of the time!) You excel in: Leadership positions You get along best with: The Semi-Colon

Yes, the punctuation mark that I ended up being is homophonic with the part of your body that compacts fecal material and delivers it to the rectum for further delivery into your comments section into the privy. There's something deep and meaningful in that: namely, that I'm full of shit.

I stole the idea from The Incomprehensible Alaina, who stole it from someone named Jen.

What are you waiting for, take the damned test yourself!
When you're done, tell me what you are.

Everyone back to your regularly scheduled frivolity.

Dawn Broke

Sorry, all, tax-free weekend around here. I spent an hour and a half in line getting Cookie's uniform stuff taken care of Saturday afternoon. Oh, wait, did I mention the building had no air conditioning, was probably crowded well over fire code, and featured hundreds of screaming brats and a pair of middle-aged heartthrobs making out in the line in front of me? Pleasant, to say the least.

Anyway, the reason why I was there and why I didn't dispatch Boudicca to take care of this task was because she was recovering from the Breaking Dawn event at her bookstore. Here's an article telling you all about it. Sadly for you, they didn't post her picture along with the article. Apparently, too much cleavage or something. The keen thing here is that my wife's store was the only one in the area with a cool party, where the staff dressed up and people enjoyed themselves, rather than sitting around waiting for a book like the other stores. I brag only because my wife planned the thing. She even had people clamoring for her decorations and such. Sucks to be you, chump, as she's keeping them for the next event.

Anyway, despite the lack of pictures of my wife's breasts (and finely coifed hair, I'll admit), I posted the article because one of the people mentioned in the article shares her name with one of the main female charactes in my book...or the books in the Hundred Kings Saga. That's awesome. I'd offer a prize up to anyone who guessed it correctly, but I have nothing to give. Want a signed copy of a manuscript? Yeah, that'll fit right on your bookshelf, or prop your bedroom door open. Or, more appropriately, you can set it next to the toilet and use it as you see fit.

I promise better content later in the day. For now, however, I think I'm going to go do something crazy, like my job. Ta.