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Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Volume III

November 28, 2008

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

November 27, 2008

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

November 26, 2008

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 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

November 25, 2008

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.

My Interview With Charlie

November 24, 2008

This weekend, in case you were lying under a rock, sleeping or watching a guy get coconuts dropped on his head, Notre Dame suffered an ignoble defeat at the hands of the mighty Orangemen of Syracuse. Presumably, if you were under that rock, fabricating a lifestyle in preparation for your parents' imminent arrival, you might not know that Syracuse is pretty much the worst team in Division IA football.

Amazingly, though I have very little in the way of press credentials, I was able to secure an interview with the larger-than-life head coach of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish. Stunningly, the coach was very candid in his interview, though I was a bit no-holds-barred in my questions. Thanks for the Sports Information Department at Notre Dame for getting me in with the coach, and allowing me to reprint the interview.

MJenks: Coach, a lot of fans are angry after this loss.

Weis: I'm angry, too.

MJenks: What's caused you to be so angry?

Weis: I can't see my forehead. What's your problem?

MJenks: Well, most of the fans are upset over the lack of running game, development of the offensive line, regression of the quarterback, repeated failures by the defense to stop one of the most anemic offenses in the country...all of this in spite of the number of high-level recruits that you seem to be bringing into the program. Any thoughts?

Weis: What's wrong with you people? Afraid to look ugliness in the face? Well here, look at it! It's ugly, isn't it? Here! You look at it! Look at it! Look at it! Look at it! I want all of you to look at it! I bet there's no line at the snack bar!

MJenks: Do you have any plans for how to address these issues?

Weis: Hmmmm...I'd get an ice cream.

MJenks: One other criticism is that your team seems to make very few halftime adjustments, as was evident during the UNC game through today's game against Syracuse. Are you getting out-thought by the other coaches, are your adjustments just not making a difference, or are the other coaches able to adjust fast enough to counter your adjustments?

Weis: So you mean to say they’ve taken what we thought we think and make us think we thought our thoughts we've been thinking our thoughts we think we thought? I think...

MJenks: Uh...

Weis: You know what the problem is. You've got it set to M for Mini, when it should be set to W for wumbo! I Wumbo, you wumbo, he, she, we, wumbo, wumbo, wumboing, I'll have three wumbo, wumbora, wumbology, the study of wumbo? Its first grade, SpongeBob!

MJenks: Moving took over offensive play calling from Mike Haywood recently and you said you would do it until the end of the year, yet the offense has continued to sputter. Are you going to try and mix things up, perhaps get a little more fancy in your playcalling, put some more air under the ball?

Weis: Do you mean she puts on airs? That's just fancy talk. If you want to be fancy, just put your pinky up in the air like this. The higher you hold it, the fancier you are. Higher! Now that's fancy!

MJenks: Are there going to be any changes to your starters going into the last game of the season and a possible bowl game, or are you going to stick with the same guys who got you here?

Weis: It's for me to know and for you to never find out. You may be an open book, but I'm a bit more complicated than that. The inner machinations of my mind are an enigma.

MJenks: Have you seen the stat line for today's game? I have it right here, in case you don't have a copy.

Weis: Hand over the goods, BoxBandit, and prepare for your most unpleasant pillow fight of your life!

MJenks: I'm sorry, Coach. It shows that you guys only gained 41 yards on the ground, but they [Syracuse] have allowed an average of over 200 yards per game. Is there something wrong with the offensive line?

Weis: Pretty good, SpongeBob, but its lacking basic construction, and your perspective leaves a lot to be desired.

MJenks: It seemed that Syracuse and even Navy, Boston College and Pitt all wanted the games more than you did. Is there any way to try and get the team fired up? Like, maybe a pep talk or a good chewing out?

Weis: Classy sophisticates like us should not stain our lips with cursing.

MJenks: What about a team meeting where you sit down and try to talk about the direction the team is going? Motivate them, maybe?

Weis: I know what that word means! That's one of those sentence enhancers. You just sprinkle it on anything you say, and Wham-O! You've got yourself a spicy sentence sandwich!

MJenks: Switching gears a little bit, what are your plans for this week? Will you be having a Thanksgiving dinner with the players or are you focusing only on the upcoming USC game?

Weis: It’s just all fun and games with you. Nothing really matters. Oh, let’s go jelly fishing! We don’t have any work to do. Life’s just a big bowl of assorted cashews and nobody has anything to dust or to clean or to wipe… or fabricate!

MJenks: So then, you'll be scheming all through the week to try and find a better game plan. Will you be tapping into some of that renowned Robot Genius?

Weis: But don’t genius live in a lamp?

MJenks: Does that mean you'll be changing things up, and, if so, can you give us a glimpse of what to expect?

Weis: Hmm...Yeah...I've got it! Let's get naked!!

MJenks: Perhaps I'll leave the genius scheming up to you. What about the team's pre-game meal?

Weis: Some chicken, some roast beef, some pizza...

MJenks: And for you?

Weis: Some chicken, some roast beef, some pizza...

MJenks: Doesn't that seem excessive?

Weis: I'm a big man, Sponge. A big, big man!

MJenks: Given the schedule this year and the expectations not being met, are you feeling any heat from the hot seat?

Weis: No...I'm warm.

MJenks: With the results on the field and the fanbase souring toward you and the coaching staff, do you feel any danger of losing your team?

Weis: Hmmm. I sense no danger here. How can they be dangerous? They're covered with free cheese!

MJenks: Have you heard any of the names of other coaches that have been put out there as your possible replacement, guys like Brian Kelly or David Cutcliffe?

Weis: Nobody likes those guys. All they do is blow, blow, blow on their stupid whistles, rub, rub, rub that white stuff on their noses, and show off their grossly misshapen bodies. I'm going to the snack bar.

MJenks: Some have said you're not qualified for the job as you never had head coaching experience before.

Weis: I thought this was Spanish class.

MJenks: Some have speculated that losing to Syracuse like you did could sound the death knell for you and this program. Losing to Syracuse was also the "final straw" for your predecessor. Any thoughts?

Weis: What’s so great about being a big pink loser? Exactly. I was never closer to an award than the minute I started copying you.

MJenks: So, do you think you've improved this program since the day you inherited it?

Weis: You know what's funny? My pickle started out in a jar, and now it's in one again! It's like a pun or something.

MJenks: What would you like most right now in order to help fix this team and set them in the right direction?

Weis: I know, you want olives. Oh, I’m sorry. I was just talking to my old community college buddy, Flats. I bumped into him at the soda store, isn’t that funny? It must have been years since we’ve seen each other. Well, let me get going. He’s got to go back to school soon. He says he’s going to kick somebody’s butt. Hello? Is this Pizza Castle?

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. II

November 21, 2008

See what I did there? Yeah, those are Roman Numerals, bitches. While I know quidquid latine dictum sit, altum sonatur and all, I'm sure the same holds true for things numerated in Latin. Am I right? Of course I am.

Anyway, I thought maybe I'd get back to my roots, no, I'm not munching haggis and gutting uppity Englishmen (as much fun as that may be...), but I'm instead reflecting on the very reason for this blog being here. It was, at the very beginning, a way of tracking my literary endeavors (actually, it was so I could impart my pithy wisdom in the comments sections on Big Willy's blog, and then this just sort of happened). Since the initial work of tracking my word counts and discussing character and plot development, the blog has spiraled down into stories of fuck-me boots, dick jokes and epics centered on raw turkey erotica. Mmmm, classy. My mother would be so proud if only she knew how to follow the link I include in the sig file on my emails...

Sexual humor notwithstanding, it's time to focus on today's Latin phrase. I'm not sure which will offend my good man Noel more, the discussion of my friend's broken gay-dar, or this Latin phrase. My apologies ahead of time, my friend.

Frazz's initial argument shouldn't focus on the meter, but should be this:

Non curo. Si metrum non habet, non est poema.

Pronounced: "Noan cur-oh. See mate-room non hobbit, noan est po-aim-uh."

Remember, translation is in the hovertext.

Fashion Post Fallout

November 20, 2008

Remember last week when I asked, nay, begged for fashion advice for my friend who was going on the blind date with someone who apparently should be titled a "Culinary Wasteland"? Remember how a lot of you talked about how she should wear the right shoes, and then one of you went and made a whole new blogpost about this, rife with comments and not one but two snazzy surveys? Twelve shades of awesome, that.

Anyway, remember what a lot of you were discussing? The fuck-me boots? Yeah, I see that spark of recollection in your eyes. Naughty, naughty. And by "naughty naughty" I mean "The doors at Casa del Jenks are always open for you!"

Also, remember way back when I talked about my anniversary? How I bought my wife a gift card to the shoe store because it's something she'd like? And how awesome I am for getting her something practical, rather than the traditional "bronze and pottery" gift (or better, Bronze Age pottery)?

And, did you guys know my wife reads my blog? Faithfully? And, better yet, she reads the comments that you people make? Oh, I can tell by the look of fear and worry in your eyes that you didn't know that. Hey, it's okay, though. Nothing to fear. If anything had happened, I'd be up in Naperville now, driving up and down the road in a John Deere Green car trying to get someone's attention.

Daydreams and blogcentric fantasies aside, the other day my wife took the kids to school and hung out in Raleigh for the day. Ever the savvy one, she took her gift cards with her and she found just what she was looking for. Making the purchase, she came home and left her booty (heh) on the dining room table. Later, she had to go to work or something like that, and she was like, "Oh hey, I used your gift card today. I left my purchase on the table!" as she was ducking out the front door. I waved good-bye and everything and then went to see what she had picked up.

There, on the table, still in the box resting in the bag, was, you guessed it, a pair of fuck-me boots.


Now...if you'll excuse me, I've got to go limber up.

So, Here's How It Went

November 19, 2008

I was out Monday, but I'll write about that later.

I didn't get back to the lab until Tuesday, and then we had a lecture to attend yesterday morning, so I didn't get the poop until yesterday afternoon. As my computer at home (the one built during the Clinton Administration...I shit you not) is slowly but surely gasping it's final breaths, I didn't write this up last night (I did something else on it last night, but I'll write about that later, as well, and no, it wasn't what you're thinking, pervert). This morning was dominated by attending safety meetings followed by a good bout of herding cats rounding up the lunch bunch (I'm a natural born leader), so that's why you're not getting this until now. That's right, I have altered the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further.

Apparently, Friday night went alright. They had dinner and some drinks, generally had a good time, laughed, joked, punched each other in the know, typical first date stuff. Saturday, the guy (henceforth known as Pepe) texted my friend (whom I was going to refer to as "the black cat with the white stripe painted down her back", but felt that was a mouthful), but she had other plans for that night already, so she declined his offer to go out again.

Sunday afternoon, my friend is doing her typical Sunday routine of laundry, sweeping, delousing and crack when she receives a frantic phone call (might have been a text...that was lost in the subsequent gales of laughter that spilled forth from my torso as more of the story was revealed unto me) and the conversation went something like this:

Pepe: You can cook, right? You said you can cook.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Yeah, I can cook.

Pepe: Okay. Good. I need help. I have a friend coming over and I have a turkey I'm trying to cook and, uh...INEEDHELP!!!

TBCWTWSPDHB: What's wrong?

Pepe: Well, the guy at the store said that I needed to thaw the turkey out for a day before I tried to cook it and that I couldn't cook it frozen, but I thought I'd prove him wrong. friend will be here in a while AND the turkey's not looking so good and I need help. Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease with sugar and honey and crushed up almonds on top?

TBCWTWSPDHB: *sigh* Fine. But if this is just some lame excuse to lure me over to your place, it won't end well for you.

My friend, who is a very accommodating personality (in case you couldn't tell), went over to help this guy out. She walked in and, sure enough, there were candles everywhere and Barry White was crooning something fabulously sexy. And by candles everywhere, I mean that there was smoke billowing from the oven and by Barry White crooning, I mean that there was a moron running around in the middle of the apartment screaming "Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod..." over and over again. So, my friend opens the oven up to assess the situation and finds an 18 pound turkey shoved into a brownie pan sitting in the middle of the oven, the outermost layer of the bird charring and crackling. My friend looks over her shoulder and the following took place:

TBCWTWSPDHB: Have you basted this thing?

Pepe: Uh...what's that mean?

*friend pulls the turkey from the oven and inserts a knife into the carcass; the outermost layer of char peels back instantly and falls away, revealing the frozen inner shell of the turkey*

TBCWTWSPDHB: I'll take that as a 'no.' Hey, where's the pop-up timer?

Pepe: The what now?

TBCWTWSPDHB: The pop-up timer. They put the timer in the turkey so that when it gets done the red button pops up and tells you it's safe to eat.

Pepe: Oh. That thing. I took it out. I didn't know what it was, so I thought I didn't need it.

TBCWTWSPDHB: *vein throbs in forehead; left eye twitches furiously* I...see.

At this point, my friend digs through the remains of the turkey, carefully slicing away the parts that seem salvageable, using the one small knife that Pepe owns to do the cleaning, mangling and slicing of the uncharred remains of the turkey. She then puts whatever pieces make the cut down in the pan and opens the cupboard, hoping to find some broth or some soup or something. Instead, much like the barren wastelands of the tundra, she finds nothing. No food stuffs. No Les Stroud. Not even mammoth bones. Nothing.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Do you have any chicken broth or bouillon or anything like that?

Pepe: Uh, why would I need that?

*my friend spends five minutes bashing her head against the nearest appliance, hoping that one of the blows would end her misery then and there*

She drains what little juice is left in the brownie pan along with the hunks of turkey that haven't been tanned into leather yet and pops them back in the oven.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Okay, how much time do we have?

Pepe: Well, my friend Louis (not his real name, but, shit, why not?) will be here in two hours.

TBCWTWSPDHB: I guess that gives us some time. What else are you having?

Pepe: I have this box of instant mashed potatoes.

TBCWTWSPDHB: *sigh* Okay. What do you have to cook them in?

Pepe: I have this bowl...

*my friend fights the urge to rip the hair from her scalp and instead decides to help the guy with the presentation of the "dinner", such as it was*

My friend then discovers that Pepe owns all of four plates, and all of his "silverware" is of the camping variety: aluminum, flimsy, holes drilled in the handles. He had a couple of bowls, which she used for whatever side items she had managed to cobble together for Pepe's meal with Louis. Finally, at the end of the ordeal, my friend is trying to excuse herself so that she could get back to her laundry and crack, but Pepe's trying to let my friend know how much he appreciated her help by pouring on the pathetic telling her how he really needs someone because he can't cook. This revolves around the afternoon of her ducking and weaving out of the way of his clumsy attempts to kiss her, because we all know how romantic raw poultry is. I mean, yeah, I understand, some people like to work food into their *ahem* extracurricular activities, and I know that certain parts of the male anatomy have that "last chicken in the shop" look to them. Seriously, though. Raw turkey is not a turn on.

Needless to say, my friend has decided to let this one go. And by "let this one go", I mean that she's decided to run fast and furious for the hills and avoid him like a plague-ridden, diseased rat carcass.

As my boss pointed out, though, she doesn't need to worry because he'll be dead in a few days from poisoned turkey.

So, thanks to everyone who helped out with the fashion advice. I'll call on you all again if needed. And I'll be sure to tell more happy dating stories as they come to me (and I get permission to recount them here).

Friday Morning Latin Lesson

November 14, 2008

Thanks to all who helped my friend out with her clothing choices. When last I spoke to her, she was planning on wearing a black miniskirt, fishnets, boots, and a tube top. Or an attractive sweater and some very nice black slacks. She does want to thank Zibbs for giving her the okay to rub her ass against his junk, should the evening turn sexy.

Now, today, let's have a little bit of learning, shall we. Today, I'm going to teach you a handy little phrase in Latin. What? It's been dead for 2000 years? This is true, but let me just add that "quidquid latine dictum sit, altum viditur."

I think you see my point.

Here's today's phrase:

"Te audire no possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure."

Pronounced: "Tay oh-deer-ay no poe-sum. Moose-uh sap-ee-en-toom fix-ah est in ore-ay."

And here's Jon Arbuckle*, to show us the phrase in action:

* translation in the hovertext

Ladies, I Need Your Help

November 12, 2008

Well, actually I don't need your help. I'm asking on behalf of a friend. Honest. Okay, fine, don't believe me, but help me out, anyway.

I have a friend who is single and female and is going on a somewhat blind date this Friday evening. She's going to an "upscale casual" restaurant with this guy, and doesn't know what to wear. Like me, she's a chemist, so all of her clothes are of the "if I spill acid on this, I can just throw it away" variety.

So, any suggestions? She reads this blog, so just drop any nuggets of wisdom in the comments section.

In other news, I almost got into a fist fight today at lunch with some douchebag in a DirectTV van. Consider this part of my community service.

A Vote for Pie

November 11, 2008

Because I'm a nosy fuck, I read this article about what the Obamas will do to the menu at the White House. Here's a short excerpt about what President Obama likes:

Obama has said in interviews that his favorite food is chili, though [Walter] Schieb cautioned about disclosing the president's most beloved dish.

"He'll be fed it everywhere he goes for the rest of his life," he quipped.

The president-elect has also been known to favor fish and pistachios -- as well as pumpkin pie.

Chili? Seriously. That gets a thumbs up from me. I'm all about the chili. Also, I'm big on the pumpkin pies (you can read that two different ways). Now, if he'd just knock off this wine bullshit and pick up a taste for some American Pale Ales, I'd begin to believe that the country is headed in the right direction.

Funny story about the pumpkin pie. While in grad school, during those last few months when I was writing experimentals and wondering why God hates me smashing NMR tubes of my compounds on the floor, my buddy and I suddenly found ourselves in the midst of one hellacious pumpkin pie jones. One Friday afternoon, we hopped in the Bobby Boyle Memorial War Wagon and, after stopping off at 7-11 for giant slurpees, we headed out onto the town seeking a pumpkin pie. We hit the farmers market, bakeries, grocery stores, and this big box retailer common in the midwest called Meijer (pronounced "Meyer", not "Me Eye Jer"), all for naught. Seriously, it would have been easier and less time-consuming to just go and get the stuff to make our own pumpkin pies, but being men, we didn't cook much, unless it involved deep frying something and/or "cooking" a frozen pizza. Finally, in an act of not-so-quiet desperation, we hit Wal-Mart. There, in the bakery corner of the megalomart, we found a stack of pies that looked suspiciously like pumpkin pies, but they weren't. While the label said "pumpkin pie", it also had the words "diet" and "sugar free" written on the white sticker. This would not do.

In a moment reminiscent of Bluto Blutarsky going apeshit on the singing hippy's guitar in the stairwell, I dove into the stack of pies, tossing them back and forth looking for something that wasn't this communist version of an American staple. There, at the bottom of the stack, I was rewarded with an actual, honest-to-motherfucking-God pumpkin pie. None of the diet. All of the sugar. It was like some savage had hidden the pie at the bottom of the stack, knowing that he'd come back later to take it home and enjoy the delicacy on his own, probably with the lights turned out and the curtains drawn. My money's on Sean Astin.

We quickly spirited away with the pie, so that the aforementioned pie hider wouldn't see us raiding his hidden cache of non-diet, fully sugarinated pumpkin pie. For good measure, we went and bought cans of Redi-Whip whipped cream...each. We ran through the line, tossed some cash at the one-eyed woman working the check-out, and made for the apartment...with a stop off at the liquor store. What good is revelry if it isn't drunken, right?

We each ate half the pie, shooting whipped cream into our mouths with each bite. Later, we laid in the living room, something on ESPN flickering on the television screen in front of us, he in his chair and me on the couch, both supine, holding our stomachs and groaning. It had been a successful foray into satisfying our need for pumpkin pie. With our stomachs churning and our bodies emanating gas from various orifices, we celebrated in our own not so quiet way: by snoring so loudly it woke up the old woman who lived downstairs.

God bless you, pumpkin pie. You are a force of ultimate good. I'm sure, had He had some on hand, Jesus would have broken you at the last supper instead. Or perhaps that was served at the last dessert.

It's Here, It's Here!!!

November 10, 2008

America, our seven month long national nightmare is over.

I realize I'm 30 minutes late with this, but you know what today is, right?

College basketball officially starts.


November 7, 2008

We all have that person in our office who sends around funny emails to everyone. Sometimes it's a picture, sometimes it's a little movie, sometimes it's a joke. Fortunately for me, the guy in my office who does that has some good taste and so he only sends around the actual funny stuff. Such as today's picture:

Apparently, mommy works at Home Depot, and she's supposedly selling a shovel in this picture. By the looks on everyone's faces, either it's snowed a shit-ton in the past thirty minutes, or mommy sells shovels with her tits hanging out.

Here's a lesson for all the mothers out there: check your child's homework before they trot off to school. Or don't, and be the brunt of internet jokes the world around.

Table for Homina?

November 6, 2008

I was standing at Target the other day, and I had that ethical dilemma of "do I stare at the woman in front of me while she purchases her many items, or should I cast my eyes around the store in an attempt to look like I'm not staring daggers at her for arguing over the price of a see-through plastic tote?". I decided to do the latter--in between telling my children they could not have a piece of candy, because, hey, Halloween is in a few days--when my eyes should fall upon the following:
After pushing my goggling eyes back into my head, rolling my tongue back up and putting it in my mouth, and taking a hit off my asthma inhaler to try and curb the panting, I wondered, "Who is Amy Adams?" Not wanting to waste my lustful exuberance, which I had previously reserved for Tiffani, the dark-haired beauty running the check out, I did not pick the magazine up to thumb through it in a quest to sate my libidinous curiosity. Instead, much like if I wanted to find out information about Ron Paul or That Blue Yak, I googled my query. The innernets did not let me down.

Instead, quickly, they caused me to sit in my chair (I had to sit down because the blood rushed elsewhere) and utter "homina homina homina homina..." over and over again. I discovered that Amy Adams was the woman who played the real life princess in Enchanted, and I also quickly rued the fact that I had not taken my daughter to see it when it was on the big screen, thus depriving myself of twenty-foot tall slabs of pure sex appeal and gorgeousness. I mean, here is a woman with red hair, shapely hips, beautiful eyes, gorgeous voice and big, round luscious breasts, and I didn't know about her??? Moreover, you sonsabitches didn't tell me about her. Curse you all. Douche bags.

This has caused a bit of friction at home. I asked my wife--yet another red head with shapely hips, beautiful eyes and big, round luscious breasts--to sing True Love's Kiss rather than our normal sexalicious song, The Theme from Shaft (can you dig it?). While not amused, she accommodated me because she's just that awesome. I mean, it was bad enough when I told her we needed a bigger bed so that Leelee wouldn't be upset by being relegated to the couch. Now this. The Mrs, however, took it all in stride. What a trooper. Unlike Leelee, who went out and tried to make me jealous right away by being pictured with other fellaz. I guess that whole woman scorned thing has a merit of truth to it, eh?

Oh well. Now that we're all done worrying about red states and blue states, we can get back to the real important things: women with red hair. I think both sides of the aisle can appreciate that that is truly change we can all believe in.

Election Reaction, Part Deux

November 5, 2008

I'll preface this by saying I voted for John McCain yesterday.

A heartfelt congratulations to President-elect Barack Obama. This was not, however, a historic election; this was a seminal election. To call it historic is not necessarily a misnomer as it will certainly resonate in history books for generations to come. However, to simply label it as historic conveys a sense of looking back, of not just clinging to the past, but of wallowing in it.

No, I don't think America will be clinging to the past after seeing the election of our first minority President, and if you are to believe Obama's words from this campaign and election season, then you realize that his main focus was on the future. The fact that America has shrugged off centuries of hatred, ignorance and bitterness before any of our culturally and morally superior allies in Europe means something. It means that America is still leading the way in ingenuity, invention and discovery. It means that the American dream is still alive and well and, perhaps, that dream is personified in no better person than the 44th President of the United States.

I describe this as seminal because the results of the election from last night will resonate for as long as there is a United States of America. It will color us. It will influence us. I believe, despite being a McCain supporter, it will better us. The importance of this election should not be seen in shades of blue versus red or even black versus white. The importance of this election should be seen in shades of red, white and blue, because we as a nation have improved our image, and it was much needed. We did not need to improve our image to the rest of the world, but we needed to improve our image of ourselves to ourselves.

I'm not so naive as to believe that racism has been completely eradicated from our nation; the disparity in the exit polls and vote tabulations in Virginia alone are too much to ignore. I will say, however, that the past two years have done more to mend and improve race relations since Martin Luther King, Jr. led the charge for civil rights. Seminal, indeed, for the next four years should do even more than the past two.

As a gracious and, I believe, honest John McCain said last night, the fight is over and though my candidate did not win, it's time to set aside petty differences and work together to unite the country and move it forward into a new era.

I personally may not like the notion of spreading the wealth, and I don't believe that it's patriotic to pay more taxes, but I do think that change is on the horizon, and hopefully that change will be for the better. I think, however, the biggest change that Obama will affect--albeit, perhaps, unintentionally--will be a wholesale change of attitude in the Republican party. Gone should be the days of clinging to the past and holding onto an electorate and hoping that will simply be enough to get you through. It's time for the Republicans to reach out to minority voters. It's time for the Republicans to reach out to female voters. It's time for the Republican party to not fall to the whims of the evangelical right, but to listen to everyone. It's time to realize that "family values" doesn't necessarily mean a mother and a father and passel of children, but that family values should focus on whatever family you have. It's time to embrace the notion of alternative energy sources. It's time to no longer demonize those who speak Spanish. It's time to stop saying that we need to fix social security and welfare and time to sit down and explain why we need to fix those things.

In short, it's time to modernize. It's time to change. Images by Ashleigh has a good post up about the current political climate, and it was made before the election. While I don't think we get anywhere if we become one big happy familial political party (in fact, I think more parties would benefit our political system), I do think she raises a good point about how we need to set aside our differences long enough to better this great nation of ours.

This country--and our world--has suddenly changed. In the past few months, not only have we seen a minority candidate run, be nominated and win the Presidential election, but we have also seen two women challenge for the two most powerful jobs in the world. Whether you like Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin or not, the contributions they gave to the political machine in this country will be invaluable for years to come. Change is upon us, and whether you agree or disagree with the new administration's doctrines, you have to agree that we will all benefit from the changes that have occurred.

Congratulations, President Obama. You've just been elected to the most thankless job in the world (that doesn't involve diagramming defenses and/or pitching changes), and no matter what, someone is going to be disappointed with the job you do. Good luck, God bless, and make the most of it. For better or for worse, we'll all be watching you.

Election Reaction

In case things go south, I just wanted everyone to know where I stand:

It's Election Day

November 4, 2008

I fully endorse the Lando Calrissian and Chewbacca ticket. Don't let the A-Wing fighters dissuade you. Although, for some reason, I do fear that Calrissian will sell out our country in the end.

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

Lando promises to switch our economy away from petroleum-based fuels and focus more on tibanna gas.
Lando is pro-floating city.
Lando firmly believes in listing Sasquatch as an endangered species.
Lando understands the need for more time. Sometimes, things don't go according to schedule. Just give them more time.
Lando gives two thumbs up to engaging issues at point blank range.

Vote today. And vote Calrissian/Chewbacca, for a better future.

Can I Go Home Yet?

November 3, 2008

Today is the first day at work under these new "daylight savings time" rules, and things have not gone as swimmingly as I might have liked. I'm always reminded of how much I dislike this whole daylight savings time thing when it rolls around, mostly because half the time I'm frustrated and confused by what the clock is telling me. Oh, sure, there's the inconvenience of setting the clocks back, or forward, or ahead by 42 minutes if you just wanna fuck with someone, but today is that day that I'm really reminded of just how inconvenient this whole thing is.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this to any of you, but I grew up in the great state of Indiana, where we didn't have such things as daylight savings time or hobbies other than shooting and plowing. When I moved to North Carolina in the fall of 2002, I got my first taste of this crazy semi-annual event and it was then that I realized it left a sour, terrible taste in my mouth.

See, currently, it's 4:32 pm, but my finely tuned internal clock is telling me that it's 5:32 pm, and that means food and SpongeBob time. My brain is telling that precision instrument inside my body that, no, it's set up two more Suzuki reactions and update your notebook time. Well, perhaps my brain isn't saying this, but the clock on the wall, my computer and phone are saying this. More importantly, the clock on the wall, the computer and the phone are telling my boss that it's set up two more Suzuki reactions and update the notebook time. This causes me to sigh wistfully and wonder just what that plucky little poriferan would be up to now, had the world that suddenly jolted on its axis and stopped time momentarily, thus causing the world's clocks to lapse by an hour.

This happens at several times during the day for the first few painful penetrations days of daylight savings time, but it always seems to be exacerbated by the first day at work after we've changed the clocks. I get hungry during the midmorning hours, I don't get sleepy until the hour grows to an obscene lateness that all but ensures that the following day will be met with listlessness and fatigue, and I wake up an hour early, wondering why the hell I can't get back to sleep, despite the fact that it's pitch dark outside and no one is screaming that a passing aircraft has terrified them from their otherwise peaceful slumber.

I guess the only silver lining in this whole thing is that President Bush--rather than doing the intelligent thing and abolishing this madcapped, crazy scenario designed to save candles--shortened the duration of "standard time." It means that, in five months, we'll be switching back to "daylight time," and that finely tuned, precision crafted hourglass in my head can get back to getting hungry at noon, rather than 1pm. Or, wait, if I'm eating at noon, now, does that make it 11 am, or when we switch it up, will 11 am be 1 pm?

Oh, fuck it all, I'm going to get a drink and watch cartoons.