Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Volume XIII

Hey all, guess what comes in a week? True, an old man with a hooker, but more importantly, The Watchmen movie will be hitting theaters on March 6th. That's in one week! Huzzah!!! Personally, I don't care...I don't care if it sucks, I'm going. Probably more than once. Bait and switch, babies, bait and switch.

What's that? You're accusing me of being a comic geek? Pfft. You're just now catching on? I've written a damned fantasy novel, of course I'm geeked about this comic movie. I'll say it, too. I'm more fired up for this movie than I was for The Dark Knight. It's probably because The Dark Knight got my juices pumped for not just good comic adaptations but just good movies. I mean, the Star Wars prequels, the third X-Men movie...so much potential there...and Indiana Jones all had me pretty down on the whole movie experience. Prior to The Dark Knight, the best movie I had seen in the theaters had been Veggie Tales: The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything. Pretty bad, I know.

I'm re-reading The Watchmen right now. The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca bought me the hardbound anniversary copy of The Watchmen for my birthday. So, I busted that open tonight and I'm going to re-read it this weekend and next week in anticipation of the movie.

Given all that, today's Latin lesson is topical. This quotation is attributed to Latin poet Juvenal, who was an author of a collection of satirical poems aptly called the Satires or The Satires of Juvenal. He lived around the end of the first century and into the beginning of the second century AD. He was questioning who can be trusted with power when he penned this week's Latin Lesson phrase:

"Sed quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

Pronounced: "Said kweese coose-toe-dee-ate eep-sohse coose-toe-daise?"

Rohrschach, the most badass ginger out there (sorry, Mrs. Weasley), has stopped by to provide the translation:


Hint: The translation is also in the picture itself!

It's just a week away, people. Throw this around while waiting in line for popcorn, and the lesser geeks will all bow before you, opening your way to a gallon of cherry coke and a bushel basket of popcorn and the best seats in the theater. Don't be ashamed. While you're at it, feel free to get in touch with your inner geek, just don't go blind over it...

My Interview with Dr. Zibbs

You've probably seen some other people pretending to have interviewed Internet Sensation Dr. Zibbs. Well, I'm here to tell you that they're false. I know, can you believe it? Something you read on the internet not true? The horror! Remember my interview with Notre Dame head football coach Charlie Weis? Remember how I told you I used to be a real, live member of the press? That's right! Well, I used those sweet credentials to score an inside look at the Zibbsatorium, the palatial estate that houses both Dr. Zibbs and serves as the world wide headquarters of That Blue Yak Enterprises, LLC. I was lucky enough to do this interview after an extensive tour of the grounds and the compound itself.

Me: Dr. Zibbs, thank you for letting me into your home for an interview. I am greatly honored by your hospitality, sir.
Zibbs: Perhaps this pamphlet will prove useful.

MJ: Oh, thank you. I'll scan over it later, if that's alright. First, let me ask you a few questions about your blog. Why is it that you started blogging in the first place?
DZ: The generator on the hospital is about to give out. Lives will be lost.

MJ: So, this was a purely altruistic undertaking?
DZ: Well, there's a surgical option, but it's not cheap.

MJ: And the name, That Blue Yak, where did you come up with that?
DZ: Gentlemen, this canary died of natural causes.

MJ: Interesting.
DZ: Well, I don't want to pry into your personal life...

MJ: I thank you for that. Can we switch to a more personal set of questions? I know you're a fan of grilling based on the set-up we've seen of your back deck and the sprawling yard it looks out upon. Is there a delicacy that you are proud of? A certain Zibbs-ian culinary masterpiece?
DZ: You seem to have swallowed a number of shark's eggs.

MJ: Have there ever been any incidents when you were grilling? Trouble of some kind?
DZ: This man's died of beef poisoning! Probably at a different restaurant.

MJ: Oh really? How did you handle that?
DZ: If you want him to live through the night, I suggest you roll him onto his stomach. Remember, I said 'if'.

MJ: I know there's a Mrs. Zibbs. Can you tell us a little about the love you two share for each other?
DZ: Is that the love between a man and a woman? Or the love of a man for a fine Cuban cigar?

MJ: Oh, that's sweet and sincere. How did you meet her? What was your pick-up line? Help the single guys out!
DZ: I'm afraid that leg's going to have to come off. *laughs* Did I say leg? I meant that wet bathing suit.

MJ: Wow, that's quite exciting. I need to cool off for a moment.
DZ: Young man, you've had what we call a 'cardiac episode'.

MJ: I don't know if it was that intense or not, but it sure was thrilling. Well done, sir. I knew you were quite the lady's man. What is your secret?
DZ: The only cure is bed rest. Anything I give you would only be a placebo.

MJ: I also know you work in advertising. What are some of the things that you've designed that you're most proud of?
DZ: A Ford urinating on a Chevrolet.

MJ: That is something. Onto something political, what do you make of this whole case of the woman in California giving birth to octuplets? Can you believe it? Do you think she tampered with the order of nature?
DZ: [Using a calculator] Mmm-hmm. Well that would only account for quintuplets. Did anyone *else* slip this woman fertility drugs?

MJ: And do you think there's any longterm health issues that she'll suffer?
DZ: Well, your cholesterol level is lethally high, but I'm more concerned about your gravy level.

MJ: Finally, Dr. Zibbs--and I want to thank you again for having me into your lovely home and headquarters--is there any last nuggets of wisdom that you'd like to share with us?
DZ: You're wasting thousands of dollars worth of interferon!

It's Ash Wednesday, Y'all!

Typically, on a day like today, I'd break down the history behind the holiday and/or saint's day, interspersed with tiny little nuggets of extraneous information that would make the post slightly more amusing.

Today, I'm not going to do that. Perhaps it's the solemnity of the holiday, perhaps it's just that I'm ass-tired, or perhaps it's because I've been blowing my creative wad on the comments in your blogs. You have to admit, I've been pretty fucking clever this week, making up for last week's dearth of funny and/or pithy comments.

Anyway, I'm going to give up a couple of happy little stories today in honor of Ash Wednesday that are appropriate, given the holiday. Buckle up, bitches, we're going for a ride on the way back machine. Hold me, Mr. Peabody!

First off, we anachronistically arrive in spring of 1998. I'm in the throes of Catholic Conversion, and so I attend the Ash Wednesday mass. My friend Jeff was an alter attendant...or whatever they call the not quite priests doing the priestly duties. Jeff is now an ordained priest of the Society of the Precious Blood order. You should bear that in mind whilst I go through the tale.

There I am, standing in line, heading up toward the alter where I will get the ashes decorated on my head to loudly announce to the world that "I am Catholic, and I went to Mass. Suck it, pagans!" Sure, I wasn't a full member of the church, but you didn't have to be Catholic to get the ashes. You can just come in off the street and get the mark. Pretty keen, eh? The Catholic Church, much like the Catholic Girls, are all inclusive and will let anyone in.

So, I approach my friend Jeff and lean down (I'm taller than he, but about six or eight inches) and I see him working his thumb in the ash tray furiously, like he's trying to smash a bug beneath his thumb and grind its guts to Hell. I catch a fleeting glimpse of the ashed thumb as he raises it toward my head. It's black. Not just dark, sooty gray as one would expect. No, this was a black so pure, so powerful, that light itself was bent around it as it got sucked in by the absorbative properties of the color. "Great," I think, "he's going to put that on like graffiti." I braced myself for impact.

It wasn't just that he was going for darkness; he was going for maximal coverage, as well. Starting at my hairline, he dragged his thumb down my forehead to the bridge of my nose. He then reupped the ashes and started at the hairline of one temple and dragged his thumb across my brow to the hairline of the other temple. At that moment, there were about thirty, maybe fifty (at most) people still behind me in line, plus, I was in a church, so I had to stifle my urge to scream out "Jesus fuck, Jeff, would you like me just to roll in it like a dust bath?" I also, since he had made his intentions well and clear that he was going to enroll in the seminary that fall, couldn't slug him the gut. I mean, the man was going to be a priest and all.

So, I closed my eyes, offered a heavy sigh, and whispered "Amen", then departed to go back to my seat. One of my friends sat down beside me after she got her ashes, looked at my forehead, and burst into fits of giggles that wouldn't subside for a good forty five minutes afterward. I know this, because we went to lunch immediately after. Along the route to the cafe, everyone whom I passed suffered a similar fate. Those with more tact at least were able to twist their mouths up and stifle their laughter until after I passed, and some of them were able to utter a sympathetic "nice".

Let's hop back in the time machine and this time set course for spring of 2000. I'll set the stage for you here: I was young(er), I lived alone in my own apartment, I was currently enrolled in grad school where I was surrounded--pretty much daily--by hordes of nubile, college-aged girls who, when spring arrived, liked wearing very little. I was also recently single and had no steady girlfriend at the time. Got all that? Good, let's proceed.

Back then, I reveled in my Catholicism, and so I'd try to give up something hard. One year I gave up alcohol, another I gave up desserts and snacks. Pretty standard fare. Well, in spring of 2000, for some reason, I got it in my mind that I would give up masturbation. I felt I was doing it too much and too often, and so I decided to just up and quit. I'd be less lusty, my carpal tunnel would clear up, and my clothes would stop reeking of musk.

Now, my friends that I hung out with most of the time were all female. There were three of them with whom I entered the same research lab and to say that they were a little prudish would be an understatement. If I recall correctly, none of them were Catholic (which might explain it), but they simply did not discuss anything that even remotely had to do with sex. Or bodily functions. Or, well, pretty much anything that I would classify as humor. Yeah, I don't get it, either.

So, when Lent rolled around, one of them asked me what I was giving up. Knowing that they wouldn't exactly want to know about my extracurricular activities when at home, or driving back to my apartment, or if I was bored in the computer lab, or even walking past Touchdown Jesus, I blurted out "I'm giving up candy." Seemed logical enough, and it was one of those things that was a fairly common sacrifice.

On Ash Wednesday of that year, I went and got my lunch, and decided that I really wanted a milky way (God's gift to candy, with its perfect proportions of caramel, chocolate and nougat), so I went to the little college store there and bought one. No big deal. I slap it down on my tray for eating after I finished my salad or whatever meatless meal I was enjoying, and one of the girls points to the candy bar and says:

"I thought you were giving candy up for Lent!"

In a mad panic, my eyes go shifty, I break out in a sweat, my face flushes and my heart races. Finally, I managed to calm myself enough to offer a small nod and said, "Yes. Yes, I am." I tossed the snack in my backpack and carried it around with me for the remainder of the day, craving its gooey goodness. When I got home that evening, I pounded down the Milky Way as if my life depended upon it. Then I realized that there's no eating between meals on Ash Wednesday, so that ended up being my dinner. Meatlessness has never tasted so sweet.

I met my wife a couple of weeks after that. When I introduced myself and shook her hand, I couldn't help but notice the twin midget wrestlers fighting for domination in her shirt, and, since the carpal tunnel had been clearing up, my grip was nice and firm, in that sort of "Oh God, I'm staring at a hot redhead's breasts and I can't do a thing about it" way. Two years later, after we were married and when the movie "40 Days and 40 Nights" came out, I confided in her what I had given up that year. All she could say was "Wow."

In case you were wondering, this is my 400th post. I thought about doing something deep and reflective, but instead, I decided to offer up the tales of how my forehead was violated by the thumb of a priest and how I managed to stave off autoerotic pleasures for six and a half weeks. What will the next 100 posts bring? Probably more masturbation stories. Huzzah!

I Need Six Volunteers

Well, I guess I should say, I need "at least" six volunteers.

It's a pretty easy task, too. It's just some clicking. No riddle answering or hoop jumping or anything. Just click click done.

Back story time. Hey, I'm a would-be author. I try to lure you in with the jacket cover blurb and then I have to fill in the gaps before the main meat of the story is entered. Earlier today, my friend Sass (many of you know her, what with the coffee cup and all) typed up a nice little post where she asked her readers to go ahead and make a comment and follow her so that they would automatically be updated as to when she enters yet another brilliant piece of writing. She then proceeded to discuss hanger orgies and promptly told everyone who uses Gain dryer sheets that they smelled of white trash.

Oh, by the way, I use Gain dryer sheets. Wait...what's that noise? Do you hear it? It's the sound of my mullet growing in. Beautiful, lanky, greasy, stunning...business up front and party in the back. Just like my old lady! hee-yuk.

Anyway, hilljackers and sisterfuckers aside, apparently, five people got offended enough by dear Sass', well, sass that they decided to not follow her. Apparently, her blog was being read by the board of directors of Proctor & Gamble.

What I need for you to do (that is, those of you willing to undertake such a feat), is to go over to Sass' blog, Are You Sassified?, and get sassified if you already aren't. Become a follower of the Sass. Trust me, you'll thank me for it, eventually. I figure if six of you can do that, it would offset her losses for the day and even add to the ever-expanding Church of Sass. Hopefully the Pope will give me some kickbacks.

Just remember: you don't have to do it; I'm just asking you as a personal favor to me, the monkey trying to hammer out some Shakespeare.

Why am I doing this? Well, for one, I have a heart of gold. Seriously, it just lays in there like a lump, occasionally beating and helping propargyl amines undergo cyclizations. *hears crickets* Also, I have just figured out how to put up this kick-ass new layout, I've gained two followers of my own, and I've gotten comments from cool new people like Pistols and Cow Guy. And CoolRed38, the only person I've ever met from, visiting, or having set foot on Bahrainian soil.

And that, my friends, is enough to make me all about spreading the love.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Okay, let's just say that you're writing a book that's in the realm of historical fantasy. Stay with me here. And let's just say that you're kind of bored with the writing/editing/rewriting schtick, and you decide that what you really want to do is play around with heraldry and make some shields for some of your characters, because you have a bit of an artistic flair. However, you need an outline of a shield for that, right?

What's the thing to do if you need an image of a shield? You search "shield" in google images, right?

Now, let's just say--hypothetically, of course--that you do this. You may want to remember that certain feminine products are known as "panty shields".

With me still? Good.

Now, let's just say that you have your safe search turned off. Again, speaking in hypotheticals. You would do well to remember that there are some sick motherfuckers out there who would take and post pictures of, let's say, panty shields that were not in their pristine, straight-from-the-wrapper condition. And while this is a perfectly natural biological function, sometimes the viewer might need a bit of preparation before finding that upon his--or her--screen.

All hypothetically of course.

Now, while you all make sure your safe search is switched on, I'm going to be pouring bleach into my eyeballs.

Have You Guys Seen This?

I know, I know. I'm a grump. I dislike LOLCatz with the white hot passion of a thousand burning suns, or some other hyperbolic metaphor that comes to mind. Essentially, I want to pick kitteh up and punt his ass over the nearest river, but that's just me.

Oh, sure, I was lured in at first. I thought, "Oh, ha ha, yeah, I guess a cat would talk that way. Oh, look, ceiling cat is watching me masturbate! That cunning little pervert, hiding up there in the ceiling like that." Then, suddenly, I knew what it was like to be one of my love interests, and then things started feeling creepy. Kind of like that time I was wrestling with Uncle Tony.

*ahem*

Anyway, Lou at A Scientist's Life turned me on to the greatness that is ROLCatz. Except the R should be switched around, Toys R Us style, but with less silly stylized, cartoonish giraffes. At first I was like, "Yeah, okay, there's a bear and he's showing us his naughty bits, nice, nice, okay, hugging cats, yeah yeah...ho fucking hum..."

And then I came across this little dandy here:

"Ahhh...pig iron, your musk is that of glorious industry!"

I fucking died. I don't know why. Maybe it just hit me the right way, but it's hit me the right way ever since, every time I log in and look at it. Just like that time when I was wrestling with Uncle Tony.

*ahem*

Of course, there's some douchebag who clogs up the comments section with his "that's not the right translation, it's really 'mmmm...I smell sausages!'" Eff off, douchebag. Didn't you see Red Dawn? I mean, fuck, those bastards snuck up on us, and we still stopped them cold *slams fist on desk* at the Rockies!

Douchebagginess aside, the site is mildly entertaining. There are some good ones in there, and there are some others that are kind of "meh", and then there are some like pig iron kitteh up there that are fucking brilliant. I thought maybe it would bring some enlightenment and entertainment to you this weekend, because I'll be too busy raping the bargain aisles at Circuit City to come up with much else in the way of posts.

I shall reap the failure of the capitalist swine as my cousins harvest wheat upon the Collectives in the Ukraine! Tonight we dine upon borscht, for tomorrow we may rot in Hell!

Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Volume XII

"I hump the wild, because there is no bag limit on happiness."

Do you know who said that? That quotation is attributed to our very special guest, the Motor City Madman himself, Sweaty Teddy Nugent! Wango zee tango!!!

Ted is what you call a Renaissance Man: he's a musician, a songwriter, an avid hunter, entrepreneur, carnivore, and vocal supporter of the Second Amendment. And, they spoke Latin during the Renaissance...or they tried to, anyway, until someone bastardized it into French! It's only logical that a Renaissance Man be here to further educate us in the ways of the Latin language. His piercing voice and guitar riffs have been featured on 31 fucking albums! Nugent averages about 130+ shows a year and just this past year, The Nuge played his 6,000th show--aptly enough--on the Fourth of July. Uncle Ted's come a long way from the Amboy Dukes, I tell you what.

So, it is with great honor that I turn the reins over to Ted Nugent today for the Friday Morning Latin Lesson.

I don't know how you're doing it, Ted, but you sure do it good; I'm glad you're doing it for free.

Cum catapultae proscriptae erunt tum soli proscripti catapultas habebunt!

Pronounced: "Coom cah-tah-pool-tie pro-screep-tie eh-roont toom soul-ee pro-screep-tee cah-tah-pool-tahss hobb-abe-oont!"

Hover your cursor over the picture to find out what Uncle Ted's teaching us today!

Bucket Brigade

Sorry that I've left you guys stuck with that review of Orcs for a couple of days, but I'm fucking wiped out. I don't know what it is, but I'm thinking I need to remove the "iNDefatigable" part from my title. I guess I can't dress like Dr. Jones anymore.

My boss spent the weekend fountaining vomit, and one of my coworkers felt lousy on Monday afternoon and was out Tuesday. Surprisingly, neither of my kids nor my wife are sick. Me? I'm run down and my eyes have that gritty, grainy feeling that you get when you rub them too much because you love that sort of glowing yellow-green torus that appears when you do so. Not even coffee has made me feel my normal perkalicious self; you know something must be wrong if I'm not perkalicious after infusing my bloodstream with the sweet brewiness of Cofea canephora!

I'm hoping that I can sleep it off some more tonight. I'll still slap together the Latin lesson for tomorrow morning, and I swear, as soon as I can, I'll be back here divulging too much information to you all as well as peppering my sentences with f-bombs like they were semicolons.

For now, I think I'm going to go start a hydrogenation. Let's see...flammable solvent, explosive gas, pyrophoric catalysts, forces that convert glassware into grenades. What could possibly go wrong?

Book Review: Orcs

A couple of weeks ago, Fancy Schmancy noted that they could use a weirdo like me over at the Book Nook Club. I checked it out and felt terribly honored to be at least thought of as belonging to this crowd. However, Ms. Schmancy...do you see how often I use the word "fuck" in a post? To quote Mr. Krabs, There ain't nothing fancy about that word.

That being said, let's move on to the review of the first book I read this year (well, completed...I started it in 2008).

You guys know I love me some Tolkien, right? Ever since the Lord of the Rings began making it onto the scene in the 50s and 60s, there's been a whole shit ton of authors trying to recapture the beauty and magnificence of Middle Earth. Without these people, I wouldn't have the inspiration to write my own shit brilliant masterpieces, however, there's a lot of bad fantasy literature out there. There's a lot of good, but there's also a lot of bad.

And then there's the fantasy story that comes along which defies hyperbole and becomes the literary equivalent of the aftermath of a night of drinking Schlitz Malt Liquor and pounding cheese-and-rice burritos from Taco Bell. Orcs is one of these stories.

Oh, the concept is great: tell a story from the vantage point of a band of Orcs, the typical bad guys in the center of all Tolkien-esque fantasy stories. For some reason, no one ever fights bad elves, it's always Orcs. They're big, they're brutish, they like to fight, they typically die with the faintest brush of a sword blade or arrowhead. Let's turn that shit on its ear and see what makes these big, brutish beasts click. Sounds great, right?

However, much like that night of quaffing Schlitz Malt Liquor and eating burritos, what seems like a good idea ends up failing miserably in the execution--and you spend a lot of time with stomach pains and cold sweats.

This is another boringly typical story about a band of heroes that have to find a mystical, magical item that's been broken into pieces and the heroes must collect and assemble them. It's essentially what I think of as Final Fantasy literature, where everyone gets a different weapon, the characters have different abilities, and the warband can upgrade at each new stop along the way of what turns out to be a predetermined quest route that criss-crosses the map and leads the reader through various side quests along the way. Ho fucking hum. The non-Orc characters are basically created by flipping through a D&D manual and stopping randomly along the way, picking out whatever fey creature has shown up.

And, of course, there's a big, bad, nasty, evil queen, whose also a sorceress. She abuses her underlings, kills her sister magically, and terrifies everyone...oh, and her magic is fading. So, of course, no one just says "Fuck this shit" and kills her during one of her brutal, megalomaniacal sprees. No, they all cower before her.

In order to regain her magic, she must eat the still beating heart of some victim. Here's the catch: it can't be just a regular heart, it has to be one harvested during an orgasm! Isn't that quaint? So, of course, there's awkward sexual scenes scattered throughout followed by brutal slayings and overly descriptive illustrations of the eating of the hearts. Yummy. It also allowed the author, Stan Nicholls, to work in the line "unicorn horn she used as a dildo."

Yes. You read that right. Feel free to reread that, scratch your head and shake your head in disgust. I did. And I read the shit in the first place. Joy.

Couple this with what is very obviously an author's rage against religion, and you've got yourself a neat-and-tidy little piece of tripe. I had a constant sense of deja lu whenever the "Unis"--religious fanatics that worship one God--were on screen. I fully expected to turn the page and find that the leader of the Unis not only wanted to kill all the non-human characters, but that he also wanted to limit research on stem cells, expand faith-based charitable organizations and write a constitutional amendment banning abortion. Ugh. I hate it when political views get worked into fiction literature.

On top of that, subplots aren't just discouraged, they're outright forbidden. Got something that might be interesting? Kill the character. Could maybe someone been giving them a false lead? Never! Soldiers are defecting from the queen's army en masse. Do they stand and fight against her? Perish the thought!!!

The story itself is easy to follow, only because it reads like it was written by a third grader who just learned what the word "copious" means. The plot straightlines to a trite and predictable and utterly unfulfilling ending, which, of course, means that the evil queen will be back just in time for a sequel. Color me thrilled. The simplicity of the writing, coupled with the fact that I hate leaving a story unfinished, and you have the only reasons why I was able to choke my way through to the end of this abortion of literacy. If you enjoy stories that are shallow, poorly-crafted, archetypical and feature little to no character development, this is the book for you--in other words, the next best thing to Twilight! If you're someone who actually enjoys reading, give it a wide berth and pretend that you don't even see it sitting there.

Friend Me if You Like

So, I joined Facebook the other day. Go ahead, go look me up in you like. I'll be sitting right here, wondering what the hell I jabbed up under the nail of my middle finger on my left hand to cause it to sting like this.

Couldn't find me? I'm not surprised. I'm rather unassuming. Also, I deleted my profile within about five minutes.

Here's the thing. I joined Facebook in order to see if I could track down a picture of Betsy Hagar. Not Sammy's wife, but the one to whom I dedicate a post every year on her birthday under the guise of being a Groundhog's Day post. I figured it'd be a great way to sort of bring the whole joke together, to place a face to the words I write every February 2nd. Off to Facebook I went, where I plugged in my high school information and then, lo and behold, there was Betsy. Her last name has changed--it starts with a Z now, in case you care to know--but it was definitely her. There was only one Betsy in my class. I'm not sure what the story was about the picture she used on her profile page--it's either her three children, or it was her and her sister and brother as kids. I don't know if I'll ever know.

See, I went to punch the "send friend request" link...but then I hesitated. The cursor had gone from arrow to finger, as it will when it rolls over a hyperlink, but I didn't push the button. Instead, I sat back, looked at the screen, and then clicked to my profile page.

Now, I had lots of crushes in high school. I could list them all for you if you'd like: Rebecca, Elizabeth, Teryn, Rondelle, Dawn, Beth, Tabbie, Amy, Angela, Olivia, Sarah, Jenny, Carrie, Kathy, Courtnee, Cortney, Larissa, Danielle, Vanessa and two different Tricias. I asked some of them out, I dated a couple of them, some of them were simply crushes--a girl whom I thought was pretty or cool but whom I knew a relationship would not or could not last, if it even ever got started. A couple of weeks later, I'd move along to a new belle and wonder what it was that I saw in that other girl two weeks ago. Such is the fickleness of one's teenage years.

The one constant, however, was my unmitigated and unrequited lust for Betsy Hagar. The biggest problem here was that Betsy was one of my best friends. While Betsy was a brilliant person, I don't think she had even the slightest inkling of the raging hormonal conflagration that coursed through my veins at the very thought of her. Once, innocently enough, around a whole table of friends, we were discussing personal hygiene, and Betsy revealed that every day she took at least one, sometimes two, 11 minute showers! My teenage mind did not in fact spiral downward with this information; my teenage mind plummeted to the depths of my lustful soul and landed with an inelastic thud that disallowed my mind to focus on anything else for the remainder of the day.

Betsy was the physical embodiment of every carnal desire I've ever had or ever would generate. In French class, I learned to conjugate faire, boire and vouloir while staring at her. I spent as much time sitting down during a basketball game watching her patrol the sidelines in her short cheerleader's skirt as I did watching Jimmy Hall run the motion offense. If I had had an art class and was instructed to redraw Botticelli's "Birth of Venus", it would have been Betsy standing in the open scallop shell.

When it comes to lustful machinations, I'm not so big into blondes. True, I was going to marry one, but that's because she had a mouth like a sailor, the appreciation of geekitude like a fangirl, and had the intellectual power and stamina to recite long stretches of Shakespeare--and all that was wrapped in a body of a stripper (fortunately for me, I found the same thing in a different woman...except this one had red hair!). I'm also a fan of large breasts and a shapely ass (again, fortunately, the red haired beauty came with these accoutrements) . Betsy was blonde, small-chested and flat-assed, and still, I wanted her with every shred of my being.

So, when I found her profile on Facebook, I was eager to befriend her through the magical electronic wonderland we call the internet. The lustful fires wouldn't burn so brightly when everything was carried on the backs of a few plucky electrons and, besides, those carnal flames would have ebbed with the passage of time, the maturity of my thirties, and the responsibilities built into the job of "husband" and "father." Right?

However, I wanted to keep the old fantasy. I didn't want to know what ravages time had done to this erotic ideal of feminism that I had cooked up in my formative years. Sure, maybe she's colored her hair, perhaps she now has full, round breasts or her ass had developed a pugnacious perkiness that would send a quiver up and down my spine. I didn't want to know. I liked the memories to stay where they were, buried in the recesses of my mind, floating to the surface every year when February 2nd rolls around.

It's fitting that one of my friends for whom I developed an array of carnal fantasies has her birthday on February 2nd. She's like my groundhog: if I don't think of those long, brown legs or that smile built from scarlet lips that were a bit too wide for her face or the iridescent sparkle in her brown eyes, then I'll know that my mind has slipped into a persistent and irreconcilable winter.

Once I found myself back on my profile page, I looked at all the people from my high school whom I could "friend" if I so desired. I went to a high school of 2300+ kids--that was when I graduated. During my four years there, I probably was in contact with just under 5000 other people. Of that five mille, I speak to exactly three of them: my best friend--The Brewing Optometrist--and his wife, and one of the aforementioned Tricias. Occasionally, I'll speak to my cousin, and even more rarely I'll have a conversation with my brother...usually on a holiday. Sure, there are some people with whom I'd like to keep up a discourse, like "What the fuck ever happened to Eric Cotton?" or "Wonder if Jenny Leutzow ever figured out who I was?" Then, I realize...it's not like it's tough to find this blog and shoot me an email. Besides, I have much better friends who mean more to me that I fail to converse with for whatever reasons, despite having a half dozen emails from them in my inbox.

I promptly deleted my account. I washed my hands of my presence on the social networking site and came back here to continue posting away things that are important to me or that I think might make you all smile or laugh or gag a little while you read.

I guess that's what age and maturity does to a person: it makes you appreciate the here and now, the people with whom you've surrounded yourself, and to be thankful for what you have.

Mother of fuck...that's one hellaciously depressing way to end a blog post, no matter how true it is.

Happy Valentine's Day!!!

If you watch Jeopardy like I do, you'll remember that the other night, there was a Final Jeopardy question about the date of a holiday based on it being at the same time of a Roman mating festival or spring festival or something like that. I'll bet the losers are rueful of the fact that they don't read my blog, where they could have learned the answer to the question (or the question to the answer, since it is Jeopardy after all). Ha ha! That's what you get for not reading my blog, losers!

Actually, if I remember correctly, the returning champion that day was pretty effing hot. You're not a loser, baby. Here, let me console you by helping you out of that blouse.

Because of the connection made between Valentine and horny, sex-starved birds made by Chaucer, St. Valentine is the patron saint of birds. He is often symbolized by a bishop holding a rooster. Yes, you read that correctly. St. Valentine is symbolized as a man holding his cock. An erect cock, at that, since the bird is usually standing.

He is also the patron saint of beekeepers. There's nothing sarcastic or snarky to say here. I just thought it was kind of funny. I guess that's why we call each other "Honey" when being cutesy and lovie. Okay, so there's a touch of snark.

As for the iPod situation: thanks to everyone who helped. I ended up following a combination of Gwen and Jidai. I went to the Apple store and set up a meeting at the genius bar. The guy worked on it for 5 or 10 minutes, doing everything I had done to it, except he did it with a Mac. He got the same results I did, so I didn't feel nearly as clueless as I had previously. Turns out, the drive is ruined, so chances are Nimrod didn't want the iPod for whatever reason (as Beckeye suggested). They let me keep it so that I can use it for 10% off a new iPod, which I'll probably get her for her birthday or anniversary or Christmas or Arbor Day or something (so, you know, act surprised when I give it to you). Anyway, many thanks again to everyone who helped, even you people who said they were "no help at all". You gave it the old college try, at least.

Anyway, enjoy yourselves today. My wife has to work tonight, my daughter is having First Reconciliation today, and the Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified and Desperately Exhausted Boudicca will need a nap between holy rites and work.

Here's the conversation that went down about this:

Boudicca: "I realize it's Valentine's day and all, but I switched with someone to work that night so that she could go and get a nice dinner with her boyfriend and get engaged. I'm sorry."
Me: "Don't worry, lovie. We have plenty of clean towels."
Boudicca: *rolls eyes*

I'm pretty sure I just shattered any chance I had of getting some tonight. Happy Valentine's Day. Feel free to come visit me while I'm sleeping in the backyard.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Volume XI

Good morning, all. Since today is the eve of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd call in a special guest to help with the Latin Lesson. Yes, it's Cupido, the God of erotic love and beauty.

Yes, that's true, everyone's favorite diapered dandy has taken a moment out of his busy schedule of smiting others with amorous affection for one another--and trying out to be Timmy Turner's new fairy godparent--just to join in on the Latin fun. You may remember Cupid as being the daughter of Venus, she of the long, flowing red locks standing naked in a scallop shell. Venus got a little frisky with Mars, the god of war, and thus we have Cupid, who wields a bow and arrow to do all his smiting. Lightning bolt! Lightning bolt!

Venus, however, had a fiery temper (all those hot redheads do...trust me), and didn't like it much when everyone else in the land popped a stiffie paid more attention to the fair maiden Psyche than they did to worshipping Venus' alabaster skin and firm, supple breasts. Venus sent Cupid to kill Psyche, however the lustful youth was so taken with Psyche's beauty that he dropped an arrow, hitting himself in the foot and causing him to fall madly in love with the lass. Robin Hood, he wasn't (you know, since he was about six hundred years before England's most famous outlaw).

Anyway, Cupid turned himself invisible (like the Clay Aiken song?) and snuck into Psyche's bedchambers nightly (ah, yes, just like the Clay Aiken song). Apparently, if you're a god, you've got some serious stamina. Apparently, wee Cupid was also well hung because Psyche's sisters got jealous and started spreading nefarious rumors that Cupid was really a monster (C is for Cookie), so Psyche tried to see Cupid by pouring hot wax on him (ah, kinky!), which peeved the little pecker off, so he took his ball(s) and went home. Psyche scoured the world for him, and Jupiter felt sorry enough for her to grant her immortality so as she could be with Cupes forever. She then became the goddess of the soul.

Anyway, today's Latin phrase is short and sweet, but terribly appropriate given this weekend's activities:

"Carpe fascium!"

Pronounced: "Kar-pay foss-key-oom!

And here's Cupid with the translation in the hovertext:


Ugh, no wonder he kept showing up at Psyche's while invisible. *shudder*

I Need Someone, Not Just Anyone

Okay, I need some help from you happy folk. I don't care if you're not happy, I still need some help. This is dire and, without your assistance, I might not be able to have sex this weekend. Somewhere, a towel just shed a single tear.

Anyway, let me give you the story here.

My wife works for a bookstore that has an ampersand in the middle of the name (and no S on the end, dipshit). People leave shit there all the time, like harmonicas and lipstick tubes and half drunk lattes and little cars and children. All of these things get chucked into a box (except the children; they get sold to witches in the Black Forest of Germany) cleverly called "Lost and Found". Once a month, or so, they go through the box and shitcan things that have been in there for a while--usually something like three months. If it's something grand and glorious (like, say, a quarter), the employees lay claim to it and if, after the three-month grace period is up, no one claims it, the employee with first dibs on it gets to keep the grand and glorious loot.

Well, a few months ago, some nimrod left his iPod at the store. His 30-gig iPod. I think you can see where I'm going with this, but the public schools have left us all drooling, simpering idiots, so I better spell it out for you, just in case.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca is all woman, trust me. I've inspected. Several times. Thoroughly. However, when she saw this sweet 30-gig iPod in the box, she popped a boner. Right there, in the middle of her shift, in the store. Very awkward, as you can imagine, but that's a story for another day. My wife put her name on the 30-gig iPod that Nimrod had left behind while jetting off for some general douchebag activity, I'm sure. Right after Christmas, the three-month period was up, and my wife came home, happy as a clam at high tide, sporting her treasure. I haven't seen her so happy since the doctor told me I shouldn't have sex for about two weeks after my gall bladder surgery.

I can tell that Nimrod was a douchebag because of his musical selections. Plus, the 30-gig iPod had video capability and photo storage, and yet not one hint of pornography could be found. Not that I checked. Several times. Or anything. Anyway, the point here is that Nimrod's musical tastes are pretty...fucking lousy. Who the hell puts Alan Jackson and Snoop on the same iPod? This poor electronic device needed to be purged of the shit that had been thrust upon it.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca had bought adapters and cords to be able to begin the purging of said iPod. We downloaded the iTunes bullshit. We couldn't clean the thing off. I went and bought a different program that was "guaranteed" to fix everything on my iPod. It doesn't work, either.

I spent a good hour and a half last night trying to clean the iPod off and load all of her CDs and some of my CDs that she likes onto her iPod as a Valentine's Day gift. You know like, "Look, I took the time to do something sweet and romantic and kind for you. Doesn't that moisten you right up?" Or something to that effect. The problem was, despite having charged the iPod and connecting it via the cords she bought, the computer would not recognize the device. I kept getting an error message saying that no iPod could be found, despite using every single trick I knew in order to get the computer to talk with the little bastard machine.

Pay attention; this is where you come in. I beseech you, good folks (see, it sounds more dire with the big, fancy word): Is there a trick that I'm missing here? Or could it be that Nimrod left this thing in the store on purpose because it was fucked up? Also, I've heard that you can exchange an iPod if it breaks or malfunctions or joins al-Qaeda or something; I've heard that they'll even exchange it if it's been soaked in a base bath. Is this true? Can anyone confirm this malicious rumor for me?

And, finally, does anyone have any other advice for how to work this device? Or am I doomed to listen to "Summertime Blues" and "Who Am I?" for the remainder of my days?

I realize that this pretty much ruins the surprise I had in mind, so any thoughts of autolubrication that I had fantasized about once I presented her with an iPod loaded with Barenaked Ladies, Harry Connick, Jr., and Ben Folds is pretty much out the window. Still, any help would be appreciated.

The well-being of my towels are at stake here, people. Help a brother out.

I Love Me Some Meese

Some people are cat people. Some people are dog people. Some people defy all logic and are bird people. Well, not like the Chicken Lady from Kids in the Hall, but these strange people prefer the company of birds--those winged shitbags of disease and filth. My neighbor back home, who was a completely contemptible douchebag, was a bird person. He had a cockatoo named Shithead. His bird's name was about this guy's only redeeming quality.

A lot of things in the universe confuse the hell out of me. The bird person is the one that confuses me most. I mean, I understand liking dogs and cats: they keep you warm at night and are sometimes excited to see you (dogs moreso than cats). I even understand fish people; if you kill fish, you flush the carcass, maybe fire off a chaser, and then go spend another $0.86 on some feeder guppies and move along with your merry life. Birds, however, are entrees. I'm sure with enough lemon pepper seasoning and some hickory chips, Shithead would have cooked up succulently.

When it comes to animals, however, I'm none of these. My favorite animal is the Moose. Yes, that's right, the Moose. Those big, lumbering, gigantic creatures of the northern woods who are constantly on the move searching for food in order to sustain their massive body weight.

No, not that kind of moose. The kind with antlers and an unhealthy obsession with flying squirrels. I'm not sure why I find the moose to be so appealing, but it certainly is. Tragically, I've never seen a live moose--not even in a zoo--but I have plenty of moose things around me. I have on right now my moose-patterned pajama pants. Even better than the moose pants (if you can believe such a thing exists), are my genuine, hand-stitched moose moccasins, fabricated from supple moose leather. Oh, moose flesh, you are buttery soft and you keep my toes so, so warm.

Apparently, moose are some of Canada's most dangerous animals, especially during the rut. I completely understand this. I mean, I know what I'm like when the desire hits. I can imagine what a 2000 pound creature will do--pretty much whatever it wants, and you'll like it, bitch. Take heart, though. I'm sure the moose would be kind enough to call you in the morning.

My favorite president of all time was Theodore "Teddy" Roosevelt. Not only because he thwarted an assassin's bullet by deflecting it with his rippling pectoral muscles, not only because his diplomatic model was to "speak softly and carry a big ass stick", not only because he was an avid hunter, not only because he charged up San Juan hill, but also because he said "Fuck it all!" to the political system and broke off to join with the progressive party and called it the Bull Moose Party. Fucking awesome.

Back in my college days, the thing I longed for more than Jenn Price's big boobies was a helmet with moose antlers mounted on the temples. A football helmet or a viking helmet--I really didn't care which, so long as it had antlers. I just thought it would be badass to own something like that, to sit there drinking beer from a great chalice or a brown paper bag or a shoe I found in the hallway, wearing my antler helmet upon my head. I figure everything looks either more badass or more funny with antlers on it--especially me, drunk. That's when it struck me. The reason why I love moose so much is because they all have massive racks, and nothing makes me happier than a big rack.

Let He Who Is Without Geekiness...

I've admitted it before, but I'll go ahead and say it again: I enjoy playing video games. And not the socially-acceptable games like Guitar Hero and Halo; no, I play things like Civilization and Final Fantasy and Dragon Quest VIII and such.

Also, I don't cry tears of gold, so I tend to buy my games used. As such, I saw the benefit of getting a membership to the used video game store, which gives me 10% off purchases and I get coupons through the email and all sorts of good stuff like that. Along with these perks, I get a "free" subscription to a gaming magazine; I say "free" because the subscription price is built into the membership costs. The biggest advantage of this is that it provides me something, once a month, to flip through and read whilst firing off shit missiles in the privvy.

Anyway, this mag has a calendar section in which they highlight all the best stuff coming out in the coming month: new games, movies, DVDs, comic books and such. You know, typical "nerd" fare.

Now, Coraline was released in theatres last night. It's a stop-motion animation adaptation of a children's story by Neil Gaiman. If you're not familiar with Gaiman's material, well, you should be. Not only is he an incredibly gifted writer, but he's also a pretty decent human being. If you saw the movie Stardust, that was an adaptation of one of Gaiman's works. He's also the guy referred to in the lyric "If you need me/ me and Neil'll be/ hanging out with the dream king/ Neil says 'hi' by the way" in Tori Amos' song Tear in Your Hand.

Now, I don't know how highly anticipated the release of Coraline was; I doubt I'll take my kids because the story is probably a little too dark for them. My daughter might be able to handle it, but probably not the little boy. I'll just get a copy later when they're old enough to watch it.

However, check out what the morons in my gaming mag had to say about the release of Coraline for this month:

"Coraline might look like a children's movie, but you can be sure that it will be packed with the worst kind of nerds: comic fans who revere Neil Gaiman as a god, think stop-motion animation is better than CG, and can recite the lyrics to every They Might be Giants song. You'll also see a few people in the crowd who are there just to listen to Dakota 'Too Old to be a Child Actor' Fanning. We'll be there to mock all these people."

Really now.

Perhaps, before setting out to the theatre to point fingers and make jest, you guys should pause between smearing Proactiv on your faces and take a good, long look in the mirror. You write for a magazine that focuses on video gaming. You're not exactly gods among men yourselves. Maybe you should save your taunts and jests for the anonymity of your XBOX Live accounts rather than dealing with other people face-to-face.

Actually, you know what, no, go out to the theatre and start some trouble with the "worst kind of nerds". Just call me ahead of time, because I'd really like to see what kind of slap-and-tickle nerd brawl shapes up when the "nerds" recognize your wan complexions and complete lack of social skills means that you're just as low on the feeding chain as they are.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. X

Well, here we are, the tenth chapter in this glorius libelli Latinae that we've been constructing together. Okay, so maybe not together, per se, but we've all contributed something. It's more like me doing all the typing and translating, and you telling me how funny/great/brilliant it is. All except for you. Yeah, you, the one who asks how to translate vaguely relevant phrases and clauses into Latin. You know who you are. Vigilo vos!

Anyway, this is a pretty special day, since this is our tenth Latin lesson. What's so special about ten? I dunno. Blame whomever decided to base our method of counting on a decanumeric system. Well, it is the first double digit number by our standing, and it is X by the Roman system, so...

Hey, speaking of good things being in doubled and X, guess who is here to help with the lesson this week? Yes, it's Oscar-nominated hotbox, Amy Adams. To celebrate lesson number ten, she's brought me a copy of Psycho Beach Party and told me to pay special attention to the beach scene with her. She also gave me a towel. I'm not sure I understand the connection, but I'm grateful.

Anyway, here's our magestic phrase for the tenth edition of the Friday Morning Latin Lesson:

Si quid videtis quo delectamini, agite, capite sine mora!

Pronounced: "See queed wee-day-teess qhoh day-lake-tah-mee-nee, ah-gee-tay, cah-pee-tay seen-aye more-uh!"

Now, you guys go ahead and look at the hovertext for the translation. I'll be watching the beach scene over and over again on an endless loop until I either burn a trench in the DVD or succumb to carpal tunnel. Enjoy.


Bonus rounds:
libelli Latinae = "little Latin book" or "little book of Latin"
per se: = "by itself" or "by themselves"
Vigilo vos! = "I'm watching you." I'm not sure, but "specto te!" might be a better translation.

There's Something About Boudicca

So, my mother-in-law was here last weekend for a quick visit. She came in because it was grandparents' day at Tank's school last Thursday. She stuck around until Monday morning and then headed back down to Atlanta. My wife's brother and his wife had their first baby about a week and a half ago, and my mother-in-law is headed down to help out.

Anyway, my daughter had a birthday party on Saturday afternoon that I took her to, and my wife and my mother-in-law and I (along with the kids) decided to meet for dinner Saturday night. Due to the party running a little late and the fact that I don't own a cell phone (a fact of which I'm proud, truth be told), we coasted in late to dinner, my daughter and I, and I slipped into my seat next to my wife.

After chatting for a little bit, explaining why I was late and talking about how we got lost on the way to the party and how I ran over a bum begging for handouts at the exit off I-40 blah blah blah...my wife was sitting there adjusting her hair, running her fingers through her shiny, sleek, and gorgeous red tresses, when she makes the comment that her hair smells like the aftermath of our sexual adventures. This causes me to chuckle aloud.

As you might imagine, when one's mother-in-law is about, the sexual misadventures grind to a halt. There's something about a wife not wanting her mother to hear "harder, harder, harder, oh, God, yes, harder, oh, God, yes, Mike Rowe, you're such a dirty, dirty man!" and "alright, fine, but just keep it out of my eyes" and "seriously, do I have to be Little Bo Peep again???" Oh, sure, we could close the door, but even then, my mother-in-law would suspect something was up when she heard the braying of a zebra.

Have any of you thrown up in your mouth yet?

During the week last week, we were busy cleaning and working and preparing for my mother-in-law's visit, so there was still no time for sexual congress to take place, so by the time Friday night rolled around, I needed an outlet. So, I did the laundry by hand, if you get what I'm saying. And if you don't, you're really stupid and probably should cull yourself from the gene pool right now. Go on. We'll wait. Better? Thanks.

After rubbing one out, things were...messy, to say the least. I went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel to clean up and thought, "Hmmm, I'll just toss this on the floor near these dirty clothes." A logical place, right? The dirtiest of towels on the floor with the dirty clothes? No one picks a towel up off the floor to dry themselves off with, right? I thought so, too.

Apparently, when my wife went to dry herself off Saturday morning after her shower, instead of grabbing the towel tossed over the towel bar above the tub or the two hanging over the towel rack on the wall, she went right for the dirty of dirties on the floor, dried herself off, and then wrapped her hair in preparation for drying it.

This, of course, just caused me to laugh and ask why she went for the towel on the floor. She asked why I didn't just wake her up, and I played the loving husband card and said that I thought I'd just let her sleep, since she was so tired and had to get up in the morning and go to work. I'm just that caring.

So, we sat there at our table, whispering and giggling over the scenario and how she smelled my musk throughout the day. I'm sure my mother-in-law could overhear us, or could logic out what we were saying from the giggling and such, but if she did, she was kind enough not to say anything. We continued on, making plans for after my mother-in-law left and me making hair countless hair gel jokes until our food finally showed up.

And then Brett Favre walked into the restaurant.

Unintentional Double Entendres

An actual headline culled from Yahoo! news just now:

US Seamen are Being Trained to Fend off Pirates

Apparently, the US Navy isn't aware of pirate stereotypes. To better educate themselves, might I suggest Real Ultimate Power?

I Wonder if the Mirror Says It, Too

You guys know about my on-going quest to belittle and insult the people of my home state of Indiana, right? Well, maybe it's not exactly quest material--I'm not chucking anything into a volcano or anything--but it sure as hell does amuse me.

First we had that dumb bitch from Carmel who complained that the models at the local mall's Victoria's Secret were forcing children to have sex. Next were the dumb bitches from Indianapolis who thought that a picture of a young bride and her husband was trashy because...well...I never exactly figured out why.

Anyway, now comes the dumb bitch who heard her daughter's doll say "Islam is the light." Apparently, now the daughter's Nintendo DS is also saying it. I think we're seeing a pattern here. Before long, the cat, the sofa and her coochie will also be saying "Islam is the light." At some point, two and two are going to add up to four and this broad will finally figure out that it's her own batshit craziness shining through, and not the followers of Islam trying desperately to subvert her children. At least, probably.

And, seriously...Islam has how many followers? 1.8 billion? I'm pretty sure they don't need to take out advertising space in talking dolls and shitty Nintendo DS games. They might be able to afford a billboard or something like that. Seriously, someone needs to smack this bitch upside the head--perhaps with a Massive Pork Log--and tell her to stop seeing things where there isn't any.

She should get some EVP work done at her house. I'll guarantee right here that she'll find a ghost there saying that "Islam is the light."

Groundhog's Day Is Finally Here!

Did you know America has only one rodentocentric holiday on the calendar, and it's happening today? Shouldn't there be a Flying Squirrel Day or a Vole Day or something? Seriously, why do the groundhogs get all the glory? Today is also the day you should ask yourself, "Would Chuck chuck wood because we don't call them woodchucks?" God, I'm clever.

See, this is what not watching football does for a person. They get up and make puns about rodents and guys named Charles. Life doesn't get much better than this.

Not only that, but it's Betsy Hagar's 33rd birthday! That's right, all six foot one of the blonde goddess is preparing herself for cake, ice cream, and maybe a luxurious soak in a hot tub. Okay, maybe not in her mind, but in mind, she sure as hell is. Strangely enough, there's also a lot of whipped cream involved in my version. Wonder where that came from...

No, I don't really wonder. I'm a freaking perv.

I digress, but with the bloodflow diverted, these things happen. I mean, it's Betsy Effing Hagar! Funny I should mention her--aside from the fact that it's her birthday and I spent the time between August 1990 and June 1994 locked in a perpetual fantasy about her and her long, smooth brown legs. Crap, am I digressing again? I'd say I'm sorry, but you and I both know that I'm not. Unless "you" happen to be married to me, and then I'm sorry. Very very sorry. Ignore the blonde wig and requests to stand on your tiptoes.

Anyway, since I posted about Betsy's 31st birthday two years ago, Betsy Hagar has been my number one search item as to how people stumbled upon this little corner o'the internet. Awesome, right?

Not so fast, my friend. Turns out, Sammy Hagar--the Red Rocker--is married to a woman named Betsy. So, people mostly come here looking for pictures of that Betsy Hagar. Who am I to slow them down?
Oh, yeah, and today is also St. Cornelius' day. He was converted to Christianity by Simon Peter himself and later went on to become the bishop of Caesarea or Scepsis...no one's certain. He's also the patron saint of corned beef and bad puns.

Anyway, someone go shine a light on Punxitawny Phil's hole, would you? I want another French Toast holiday. And let's go back to thinking about Betsy and crafting clever word games using homonyms of "wood" and the nickname for guys named Charles, shall we?

Is There Room for One More on the Bandwagon?

Hey, I hear there's some kind of big football game tonight...Liverpool vs. Chelsea. It's the Beatles vs Bill Clinton's daughter???

Okay, okay...I know it's the Super Bowl--and besides, that game was played last night--and all week long, you've all been like "Indefatigable One, now that both your favorite college basketball teams suck ass, who are you rooting for in the Big Game?"
I've thought about it...some. Maybe. Here's a secret about yours truly: I played Dragon Quest VIII last year instead of watching the Giants upset the Patriots. Part of it was because I was so pissed that Green Bay wasn't in the game that I avoided it. Better to leave the dagger hanging in the wound rather than twisting it around, know what I'm saying? The other reason was that I really had no interest in either team.

Same goes for tonight, but since you people are threatening to rouse some rabble, I figured I'd make a choice. So, I'm pulling for Arizona.

What? Didn't I root for Pittsburgh when they played Seattle? Yes, yes I did. I think Pittsburgh is a fine organization and that Mike Tomlin is a fantastic coach. I'm a little jealous that he is in Pittsburgh and not Green Bay--oh sure, he was never a candidate for the job, but a fellow can dream, right?

Yes, I realize that Arizona employs Matt Leinart, he who crushed my dreams in 2003 when he was illegally pushed into the endzone and all. However, I do root for the underdogs every so often (unless they beat my favorite team in order to get to the Super Bowl--screw you, Eli Manning), so I figure why not throw my fanship behind the Cardinals, who haven't won a championship since they were in Chicago in 1947. Wait...a team from Chicago that hasn't won a championship in forever? Perish the thought.

Anyway, the real reason why I'm rooting for Arizona over Pittsburgh is simple: Arizona has more former Notre Dame players on their roster (2 to 0) than does Pittsburgh. It's that simple. Plus, Mathdude--professed lover of the Cardinals, best team ever...yeah, yeah, yeah--is one of my blog followers and Beckeye--the only person who regularly comments that is a Steelers fan (that I know of)--isn't. Yep. I'm complicated like that.

There's a term for people like me. What is it? Oh, right. Whore.