Friday Morning Non-Phoenecian Lesson, Vol. XXVI

Despite how it might appear on the surface, not everything around Casa del Jenks is as harmonious and wonderful as you might imagine. "But Indefatigable One, how can this be?" you might ask. Well, it's true. Despite the fact that my wife has red hair and large cans, occasionally we don't see eye-to-eye. I know, I know...calm yourselves. Even I have moments where small annoyances build up and I might raise my voice a touch.

I once had someone tell me that, sometimes, girls like to pick fights just to induce some make-up sex later. This came as a revelation to me, because up to that point in my life, television and all the women affecting my outlook on reality (read: my aunts and my mother) had pretty much told me that women don't like the sex, they just put up with it in order to keep the species alive. I have since been re-educated.

I thought that, for the Latin lesson this week, I'd work in a little of both of the above scenarios: the fighting and the making up, all in one! You see, around the Jenks household, Latin isn't just a dead language, it's a method of foreplay. Not so much on the pillow talk, as it's difficult to remember the subjunctive conjugations while you are trying to catch your breath and your ears are ringing.

Being that I'm here to help my readership, especially the ladies, here is a phrase you can use the next time you look to make the transition from picking a fight to wanting the make-up sex:

"Aut futue, aut pugnemus!"

Pronounced: "Out foo-too-aye, out poog-nay-moos!"

Translation in the hovertext.

A little note on usage. A couple of weeks ago, I told you about how "to fuck" implies the act of penetration rather than being penetrated. In Ancient Rome, they used the word "fuck" to convey a meaning similar to our meaning for "make love"; "to fuck" implied a loving act between two consenting adults.

Happy Saint Bernard de Menthon Day!

Among the many benefactors celebrated on May 28th by the Catholic Church is Bernard of Menthon (or Bernard of Mountjoux, if you so desire, you saucy little minx, you).

Bernard was the son of a rather prosperous nobleman who had set up a sweet deal of a marriage for him. Bernard, however, balked at the proposition, declaring that he did not like her, that the woman he wanted to marry needed to have a special...something. His father was confused, as the girl he had selected to be his daughter-in-law was beautiful, rich, and had huge...tracts of lands. Apparently, they lived in a swamp and needed all the land they could get.

Undaunted, Bernard's father went ahead with the wedding. Bernard, deciding he'd rather live the rich and prosperous life of a monk, jumped out of his bedroom window, was caught by a pack of angels, and delivered safely on the ground below. Did I mention that he did this a mere handful of hours before he was set to walk down the aisle? Bernard of Menthon is the Patron Saint of Cold Feet.

He grew up in Savoy, which is a region down in the southeast of France near the Italian border. Apparently, Bernard was a man much to my own liking for, when faced with the choice of heading toward the beach or the mountains, he chose the latter and fled toward Italy. There, he joined up with the Benedictine monks. His heart remained in the mountains, however, as he heard that the peoples of the Alps were still largely suffering under the blissful ignorance of Paganism, so he dedicated the remainder of his days to preaching the gospel to those crazy Helveticans.

However, Bernard wasn't done there. A pass through the Alps leading from the area of Switzerland called Valais to the Aosta Valley in northern Italy was a frequently used highway for pilgrims from Germany, France and other points north on the pilgrims' way to and from Rome. The pass is, to say the least, a bit treacherous. Allow me to digress for a moment and remind you that Hannibal's armies were dealt more damage by the weather in the Alps than they ever were by the Roman Legions. Hannibal's route through the mountains weakened the forces from Carthage enough that it probably led to the eventual outcome of the Punic Wars, wherein Rome defeated Carthage, and also for that reason why we have a Friday Morning Latin Lesson and not a Friday Morning Carthaginian Watered-Down Phoenician Dialect Lesson.

Seeing that travel through this particular pass has a history of sucking donkey balls, Bernard oversaw the building of a hospice and monastery at the highest point in the pass so that travelers would have somewhere safe to stop over on their ways to and from Rome. Once he received the blessings from the Pope, Bernard populated the monastery with Augustinian monks and...the local herding dogs, which were much accustomed to the snowy climate. The pass, to this day, still bears his name--Great St. Bernard's Pass. If there's a great, then there must be a little, right? Well, in fact, there is. In another pass--cleverly named Little St. Bernard's Pass--St. Bernard established yet another hospice and monastery, and again gave it over to the Augustinians and their dogs, as well.

St. Bernard of Menthon is symbolized by the mountains and by the herding dogs that also bear his name. He is considered the Patron Saint of Mountaineers, the Alps, and Skiers (see, I wasn't really joking when I said he was the Patron Saint of Cold Feet, per se) as well as big, lovable dogs that dig you out of the snow, pour themselves a drink, and then return to the monastery.

Now, before some asshole points out a fallacy in the story here, I'll add that the St. Bernard breed of dog was never used to transport casks of brandy through the mountains, though they have been used as rescue dogs in a region prone to avalanches (and still, they do not carry brandy with them then, either). However, the monasteries keep small flasks of brandy around so that tourists can take pictures of the dogs with the booze fantasy intact.

So, let's all celebrate St. Bernard of Menthon or Mountjoux or Mount-Joux or wherever the fuck. I think it's only appropriate that you drink brandy today, or fuck a girl named Brandy. Or, hell, get Brandy drunk on brandy before bedding her, though you might want to leave the Meriadoc Brandybuck references at home if you're looking to get laid tonight.

Lucky I Got a Compass in the Stock

Growing up in Indiana, there's two things you need to know how to do: shoot a free throw and shoot a gun.

I'm hopeful, at this point, that you're familiar with my prowess when it comes to the hardwood. Well, at least you know that basketball courses through my veins and drips from my tongue. Ew. Basketball has suddenly taken a turn for the gross, and I'm not even talking about being posterized like Greg "Sweaty Balls on My Chin" Paulus.

In case anyone cares: bounce the ball three times, spin it in my right palm, bend knees, breathe out, shoot, swish.

Did you know that I'm a dead-eye with a rifle? Damn straight. See, my best friend, whom I mentioned in passing during the Decapitated Clown Incident of 1993, lived in the middle of farmin' country. He lived just outside of Majenica, IN, and if that doesn't smack of BFE, then I don't know what does (perhaps living outside of Bippus or Disko, IN...but I'm getting off topic again). Basically, my friend, the Brewing Optometrist, had a huge yard--good for all sorts of mischief--with a barn all the way at the back of the property. Everything else was fields. If it wasn't house, yard, driveway, garage, barn, or field, it was woods. And empty. Lots of space here.

Anyway, out behind my friend's barn was a trash pile. Mostly it was branches and stuff that fell off the trees and various and sundry other collections of yard refuse. It just so happened to be packed solid enough that it would slow a bullet, but not cause the bullet to ricochet. It was our de facto shooting range.

I was out there one day with my trusty .22 bolt-action rifle when my buddy and his brother were like, "Look what we got: lightbulbs!" They had collected about fifty burnt out light bulbs--how long they had horded this many is difficult to fathom, but they had them and I was giddy with desire and the unbridled ecstasy of avarice.

Selecting a particularly delectable 100 watt beauty from the pile, I set it halfway up on the brush pile and returned to the back side of the barn. I loaded the weapon, hearing the bullet slide into the chamber with the cool, steely promise of death. Raising the muzzle of the rifle, I peered down the length of the cold steel barrel.

"Ten bucks says he doesn't hit it," I heard the Brewing Optometrist call to his brother derisively behind me. I put my former best friend out of my mind, focused only on the offending bulb before me. Holding my breath, my thumb clicked off the safety and my finger slowly began to squeeze.

BANG!

There was no sound of shattering glass. I raised my cheek from the stock as I clicked the safety back on, raising the muzzle and popping the bolt action back, spewing a smoking, spent shell somewhere into the withered brown grass at my feet.

The light bulb still stood before me. A .22 caliber hole fired through it so cleanly that only the glass struck by the bullet was displaced. Otherwise, it was perfectly whole.

Not looking at my friend, staring at the trophy before me, I calmly and quietly stated, "I'll take that ten bucks now, bub."

That sonuvabitch never did pay up.

Another Sunday Goofy Word

Well, my in-laws have all left from the grand celebration surrounding my daughter's First Communion. There's a soft, sort of fragile quiet hanging over the house. It's blissful. You might think that, in this case, I'd opt for a word like "palliation" to highlight in this Sunday goofy word thing that I'm striving to work into my writing(s).

Instead, I'm picking a word that I meant to mention last week, but I spent most of the day Sunday laying on the couch, suffering through some malaise or another, which is a moderately poetic way of saying "I didn't feel like it."

Anyway, the word today showed up at Vic's joint, What Were You Thinking? The lovely Vic, in her bounteous and loving heart, adopted a word from SavetheWords.org. It was such a lovely word, I've decided I needed to use it a book somewhere.

Vicambulate: v. to walk about the streets

The word finds its roots in the Latin verb ambulare which means "to travel/to traverse" or "to walk". This root pops up lots of other places, like circumambulate which means "to walk around" or, one of my very favorite Cenozoic creatures, ambulocetus, which is an ancient whale ancestor and literally means "the walking whale". The vic part comes from the Latin vicus which means "a grouping of houses" or "village."
This one is easy. I already worked it in while I was doing a bit of rewriting/revision the other day. The scene here is that the main character, Nathaniel, is returning home after three years away at war. As he returns home, a storm breaks out over the city (oh, symbolism!).

"Nathaniel raced through the streets, despite the sheets of rain slicking the paving stones. Neither the city guards nor the commoners who could normally be seen vicambulating Rock Creek were to be found; even the cutpurses and beggars had sought shelter against the pounding rains of the storm. The only people who could be seen in the streets were Nathaniel and those knights who formed the honorary guard around him."

So, there we go. Three words thus far, and two of them have actually been worked into manuscript form. Working "ambulocetus" into a story may prove to be a touch more difficult.

Busting Six Words Out All Over Your Face

Today is my best friend's birthday. What better way to celebrate than to write a Six Word Saturday post in his honor. So, here you go, chief:

Happy Birthday to the Brewing Optometrist!

My best friend and I did a lot of stupid shit while we were in high school as teenage guys are prone to doing. Trying to pick just one story would do him a severe injustice, but I'm fucking lazy, so I'll tell you one of my favorites. One of the great things about our friendship was that it was a second generation friendship: his father and my pa had been best friends when they were in high school. Plus, he has red hair and big pecs. Hmmm...maybe I shouldn't have told you that last part.

Fortunately, he was about the only person my mom would let me ride in the car with, so he was typically the driver in our misdeeds. One day, we were in the mighty metropolis of Bluffton, IN, up to the normal chivalrous deeds that two high school lads would be up to on a fine day in early June. Such exemplary deeds as: minding our P's and Q's, rescuing kittens from trees, picking up litter, helping old ladies across the street--okay, fine, I admit it. We were buying comic books. There, are you happy? Christ almighty. You people bitch about everything.

Anyway, after we were finished in the den of dorkdom, we loaded back into the car and were pulling back out onto the main drag of the town (there was really only one drag in Bluffton, but I digress). As we were waiting for traffic to clear so that we could turn right on red, we noticed that there was a car wash in the Hardee's parking lot to our right.

Are you guys familiar with the charity car washes, or is this just a midwestern thing? The model for this is brilliant in its simplicity: you line up a bunch of cute girls to volunteer to work at the car wash. This, in turn, nets you a bunch of slovenly guys who pretend to care about charity so that they can hang out with the cute girls. You then make the slovenly males wash the cars while the girls, who are usually wearing bikini tops or white t-shirts that they've tied up in the front so their bellies are exposed, stand around holding signs to "advertise" for the car wash. Perverts Passersby see the girls and thus they decide their vehicles are in desperate need of a wash, so they pull into the parking lot for a very sick and dirty fantasy car wash, only to discover that some squeaky-voiced guy with a half-formed beard from the First Street United Methodist Church Youth Group is asking them for five bucks. Like I said, it's brilliant.

Anyway, there was a car wash next to us, with all the requisite filthy hot teens holding up their signs. But wait, there's more. There was...a clown. The clown, seeing us in our precarious position at the stop light, decided to approach the car. As we're waiting at the light and discussing all the egregious and perverted things we'd do to the high school chicks if we were given the chance Kafka, the clown sticks his head in the driver's side window (my side) and utters his stupid clown giggle. It sounded kind of like if Goofy were being given a prostate exam.

"Hey boys, you want a car wash?" the clown asks after giggling in our space.

Without missing a beat, my best friend leans over me and flips the clown a double bird right in his face. He bellows, "Fuck you, Clown!" as loudly as he can and, without checking traffic, stomps on the accelerator, rocketing us forward and around the curb. One problem: the clown's head was still in the car.

The force of the acceleration carried the clown's head with us, but--and this is rather tragic--the remainder of the clown, well, remained. As we sped away from the scene at--literally--breakneck speed, my gales of mirthful laughter suddenly turned to the terrified shrieks of the damned as something landed in my lap. Staring back at me, with a look of horror and shock on his face with his hollow, haunted eyes staring deep into my soul, was the clown's head.

To say I've never been quite the same since would be an understatement.

So, here we are, tearing through town with the remains of a freshly decapitated clown on my freaking lap and we have no idea what to do. We can hear sirens, but can't see the pursuit cars yet. We know it would be a bad idea to be pulled over with the clown's head still in our possession. Fortunately, the Wabash River runs through Bluffton, so, as we approached the bridge, I picked up the decollated clown's head and heaved it out the window, over the railing of the bridge and into the murky brown waters below, thus ridding myself of our rather maudlin souvenir from the trip to the comic book shop.

Okay, so, the last few parts might have been a bit embellished. However, everything up to the words "Fuck you, Clown" was true. Oh, and the Brewing Optometrist did floor it to escape the scene because, seriously, clowns are lame and fucking creepy.

And now you know why I chose him to be my daughter's Godfather, which is a fitting way to end this tale because today is also my daughter's First Communion. See what I did there? I took the story full circle. Well, not really, but I kind of distracted you from the decapitated clown story, didn't I?

No? Well, fuck you, I'm not paying for your therapy. Happy Birthday, J!

Have more fun, six words at a time, over at Cate's place!

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Volume XXV

Happy Memorial Day weekend, folks. This weekend is the "unofficial" kick-off to the summer season. Hooray! And by "hooray", I mean, "let's be anally raped by the gas companies a little more."

Summer is a grand time of heat, humidity, bug bites, sun burns, poison ivy, sweat, short skirts, tank tops, tan lines (or lack thereof), lagered beers, fat guys in ugly-ass Hawaiian shirts, sweat, meat sizzling over somewhat contained cauldrons of fire and smoke, "pop up" thunderstorms, sweat, short skirts, bikinis, and skewered pieces of animal roasting over the fire. I think I covered everything. Oh, yeah, sweat. Almost forgot.

What summer means around here is that you better hope to God or any other deity with an ear turned toward your baleful prayers that you don't have to go east on I-40 Friday afternoons. The interstate is packed asshole-to-armpit with assholes (and armpits) making for the beach. Myself, I'm a mountain man, not only because there's a beautiful serenity about the mountains, but also because mountains look like boobs. Heh heh. Boobies.

Traditionally, on Memorial Day weekend, people cook out. Sometimes, they invite friends over. Males of the herd typically stand around the grill, staring at it, offering advice on the best meat-flipping techniques known to modern man. The females gather together with the young, typically bitching about the males standing around the grill, staring at it, and offering advice on the best meat-flipping techniques known to modern man. And, just how fat and sweaty the males are.

So, this weekend, when you're watching a juicy slab of ground beef sizzling away over fiery red coals--or, better yet, a delicious cheddar bratwurst--and you don't want to impart any advice on how best to flip the meat, try this beauty on for size and I guarantee you'll make an impression.

Animadvertistine, ubicumque stes, fumum recta in faciem ferri?
Pronounced: "Ah-nee-mahd-vair-teese-tee-nay, oob-eek-coom-quay staise, foom-oom rake-tah een fahk-ee-aim fair-ree?"

Hovertext has the translation. Happy Memorial Day, everyone!

TMI Thursday: Two for Number Two

So, I've been mulling this over a bit. It's not that I don't have plenty of good, juicy TMI stories. I mean, you've been reading my blog for, what, a couple days now? You realize that there's pretty much nothing about me that says "whoa, too far, I'm not going there."

However, it has occurred to me (read: sunk in through my thick skull) that there are some things most likely better off not said. Mostly these involve times when I've been inside someone, particularly my wife. Along those same lines, since she reads this, I'm sure she doesn't want to know about what I did with my ex-girlfriend in her ancestral bedroom back home while her father was most likely lying in his own bed, hearing us through the walls, and fuming. So, with those types of stories culled from the broad scope of things that I've done in my life that involve bodily functions of one type or another, we're pretty much left with stories about shit.

And, that's what we have today. A shit story. However, I realized that it wasn't all that great of a story, by itself. It's kind of amusing and all, mostly because I'm a dumbass, but it's still nothing grand and glorious. So, I'm giving you two tales of the toilet for the price of one this week.

Oh, don't get too excited. The second one isn't all that great, either.

STORY THE FIRST:

Anyway, about nine months ago, I was at work, calmly synthesizing my little heart out when suddenly I got that heavy feeling 'round back that told me I better find a commode quick or else we'd have a chemical spill of sulfur hydrogen iodine and tellurium. Yes, I know, that's spells "SHITe". Eat me.

So, I strip off my gloves and labcoat and then proceed wander down the way to the sanctum sanctimonium where I spent the next fifteen minutes contemplating what I ate the night before that could produce a smell so pungent and foul that the paint had begun to peel from the walls and the floor tiles slowly curled on themselves. After relieving myself of approximately fifty-three pounds of corn-addled excretia, I turned to behold what I had created. It was anything but good. And worse, with my ass having raised from the seat, I popped the seal over the bowl, and thus I unleashed an unholy and foul nebula into the room that threatened to overwhelm all creatures great and small within a twenty foot radius. Quickly, I wiped, flushed, flushed again, and once more for good measure. With tears streaming down my cheeks from the redolence hanging thick and blue in the air, I washed hastily and dashed from the chamber of secrets, seeking asylum in my office.

It just so happened that mere moments later, a tornado warning was issued for our county.

One of the "severe weather shelters" for our building happens to be...the men's toilet. It also happens to be the nearest shelter for my lab and office suite.

I ran, screaming, from the lab, shoving small children and old women aside. A friend of mine, who worked and sat next to me, made straight for the nearest shelter. I, however, bolted down the hall to one of the back offices, which are also tornado shelters.

A few minutes passed and the tornado warning was lifted. We returned, safely, to our offices and labs. My friend, who had sought refuge in the crapper, asked me, "So, why didn't you come in there with the rest of us?"

Now, honestly, after the tornado rips the building asunder, they're going to look for survivors and corpses among the rubble. Do you really want to be found dead in the privy? No, neither do I. However, I felt this answer would not suffice, nor was it wholly true.

"Well, you see, I know what I did in there twenty minutes before the warning, and I sure as hell wasn't going back in there."

"Ah," said my friend, with a bit of a smile, "well, you'll be glad to know that the smell has cleared...mostly."

STORY THE SECOND:

We had a bit of an odor issue the other day at work.

And, no, smart guy, it wasn't me.

It was a chemical. Somehow, it had gotten loose, and this particular brand of chemical--called an isocyanide, if you must know--is particularly foul. If you can smell it. I, however, cannot. It gives you headaches and causes you to want to vomit and gives you a sore throat. Nasty bastard, to say the least.

Anyway, shortly after arriving at work the other day, the two cups of coffee I had downed while driving the kids to school struck my lower abdomen with a vengeance.

"Hmmmm...must be 9:30," I thought.

I ambled down to my happy place and sat there pondering the ways and the whiles of the world for a bit. Finally, after releasing two very large, very healthy brown trout back to their natural habitats, I cleaned myself, took my leave of the place, washed my hands, and returned to my lab. I sat for a while, checked my email, and then called my wife and spoke to her for about twenty minutes. After I hung up, I worked on my notebook for a bit and then decided that I was thirsty. Oblivious, the entire time, to the fact that my lab had been evacuated until further notice.
See, the order had come down that we were to leave the labs and offices whilst I was in there discussing the pricing options with a man about his big, brown horse. Fortunately, after thirty minutes, I decided to go get some water from the break room. There, I found my labmates and team members, chatting idly about the stink in the lab and how they had to evacuate.

"So glad you could join us," one of them said.

"For what, now?" asked I, joyfully filling my water bottle.

"The smell in the lab. They've told us not to go in until it's resolved."

"Oh," I replied, a tad nonplussed, "Jolly good then."

I joined them at the table, then, suddenly understanding the plight of Charlie-in-the-Box, grape jelly squirt gun, Spotted Elephant and the rest of the Misfit Toys.

Although, I'm fairly certain, given my location when the evac orders came down, even King Moonracer wouldn't have scooped me up and whisked me away to his island kingdom.

For other truly tasteless tales of tawdriness, check out LiLu's joint at Live It, Love It: TMI Thursday.

Review Time: Wolverine

So, I saw X-Men Origins: Wolverine last night.

I should have seen Star Trek.

What a piece of shit. This was bad. I mean, this was Revenge of the Sith bad. This made X-Men: The Last Stand almost palatable. And for those who didn't see the third installment of the X-Men movies, a diarrhea sandwich wouldn't make that X-Abortion palatable.

I realize it's unfair to hold every movie adaptation of a comic to the standards of The Dark Knight, so I decided to go into the movie expecting something akin to Iron Man. Instead, I felt like the camera operator from Zack and Miri Make a Porno. You know what I'm alluding to, so don't pretend that you don't.

Okay, so, it's easier to tell you what I liked about the movie than to list it's many faults. So, here it is, in easy-to-read list form:

1. When Silver Fox lay dying at the end of the movie, her shirt was open a little bit and you could see some side boob.
2. Will.i.am as Kestrel Wraith was pretty sweet. His fight scene with Sabretooth was pretty cool.
3. Wade Wilson was sweet. Obnoxious and mouthy, never shutting up, and deadly with his blades. Notice, I said Wade Wilson.
4. Silver Fox in her white night gown. No panty lines. Awesome.

And...that's it.

Now, for the bad. I won't go into all of the bad, because then I'd be writing a Tolkien-esque tome, and I'd really like to keep this somewhat manageable.

Gambit: My favorite mutant in the X-Universe was Colossus. Unfortunately, in X-Men 3, he lost the Russian accent (you know, the one he didn't have in X-2, either), didn't get huge when he turned metal, and his abilities were still transferable to Rogue. Pretty much, they gutted him. I bring this up because my second favorite mutant is Gambit. I like Gambit because he's a badass, he's shady, he's cocky, and he blows shit up. Unfortunately, this Gambit apparently can't remember if his accent is supposed to be Cajun or Douchebag. The whole time, even while he's sitting in a seedy bar in New Orleans hustling poker players, he's clean-looking. Oh, sure, he had a little stubble and wore a hat briefly. Fortunately, someone remembered that part of his mutant powers was an uncanny acrobatic coordination. Apparently, though, Gambit no longer has to touch objects in order to charge them with kinetic energy. And his staff? It's not supposed to have a jewel on the end of it like he's some kind of pimp out selling whores. It's supposed to be for knocking jaws loose. This is the dude that Rogue's supposed to fall for? Only if she's a drunken sorority chick blowing guys during a kegger. I'm not sure I know what that's supposed to mean, either. They totally fucked up Gambit's eyes, too. Yeah, there was one tiny flash, but part of Gambit's shadowy persona is the dark eyes and the glowing irises. Instead, we get a flash of pink and suddenly things that he gets near are explosive, not what he's held in his hand long enough to charge. So, if you're playing along at home, that's two of my favorite characters that have been completely and totally fucking ruined by the movies. Who says no one bats 1.000?

The Escape from the Island: Pretty much, the whole ending sucked. Did we really need to bring in Emma Frost just for her diamond skin? There's lots of impregnable mutants in the X-Universe. But, we had to go with Emma Frost, who, by the way, just got those powers a few years ago as a secondary mutation. She had always been a telepath before that. But, hey, whatever it takes to put a pretty blonde on the screen in a wife-beater, right?

At this point, I should apologize if any of my fellow theater-goers happen to stumble across this blog. When the voice appeared in Cyclops' head telling them which way to go to get out of the base, I couldn't refrain from groaning "Jesus Christ" out loud. Sorry. Apparently, Professor X decides to recruit Cyclops as he's escaping Three Mile Island rather than at the orphanage, but instead of communicating with the telepath (Emma Frost), he opts for Cyclops. No plot holes here, fellaz! Maybe there was an orphanage on Three Mile Island where Cyclops lived, I'm not sure. But when Professor X walked down from the chopper to greet Cyclops and Emma Frost and the rest of Generation X as they escaped the military complex, I about threw up. But then, it fit in with everything else about the movie that was so very, very wrong.

And Silver Fox's "ability" was that the Weapon X program had given her some of Wolverine's healing factor. Otherwise, she was just a human. Now, she has this "touch people and make them do what she wants" ability. I could understand if she was wearing that white nightie thing throughout the movie, but there's nothing mutant ability about what I'm alluding to.

It was nice to see Jonothon Starsmore held in one of the cages that also housed Emma Frost (the supposed sister of Silver Fox...because so many Native Americans have pretty blonde sisters). However, he never appeared again in any of the escape scenes. I noticed the twins that make up Monet St. Clair were freed, but apparently Jono couldn't make it out. That's fine, though, because I like Chamber and they'd have just fucked up his character, anyway.

Deadpool: Apparently, the Merc with a Mouth needed to have it sewn shut for the fight scene, only to have it magically reappear at the end in the little scene after the credits. I realize that he had a healing power implanted in him, but having him turn into Sylar from Heroes was fucking ridiculous. He teleports not because he has Kestrel's Wraith's ability implanted in him, but because he has a personal teleporter machine. And the whole thing with Cyclops' eyebeams was fucking stupid. I guess we all learned that Adamantium can act like a light saber in deflecting energy blasts back at the origin (despite the fact that Cyclops sheared off one of Wolvy's hands during the Age of Apocolypse story arc...the same beams given to Deadpool). What a fucking joke they made of Deadpool. And not the good kind, like the ones he cracks when, you know, he has a mouth to run incessantly.

Wolverine: I thought Wolverine was supposed to be badass, prone to rage, and deadly. I didn't realize he was whiny and brooding. We don't need depth, people. We need someone with razor-sharp claws coming out of his hands that he uses to gut people. That's all.

But, apparently, adamantium is not only indestructible, but it also doesn't get covered with blood when it's been shoved through someone's body. Oh, and it apparently cauterizes the wounds that it makes so that you don't bleed out of them. The thing I found mind-boggling, though, was that he walked out the lab after telling Silver Fox he was done with her, had made it all the way down several flights of stairs and was well away from the building when Sabretooth grabbed Silver Fox in the lab and threatened to kill her. Miraculously (maybe he borrowed Deadpool's teleporter) he reappears in the lab seconds later, without his leather jacket and shirt (apparently, the teleporter forgot those items), and fights Sabretooth. Awesome, Wolverine's a teleporter now! Nightcrawler, we hardly knew ye.

It's also quite amazing how, with the addition of some adamantium to his skeleton, Wolverine can now beat the shit out of Sabretooth every time, whereas prior to that he lost every single fight!

Also...in the opening montage...did anyone ever wonder "Now, why would a Canadian citizen be fighting in the U.S. Civil War?" And, for some reason Viet-Nam. The Viet-Nam thing made no sense, anyway, as Wolverine should have already been through the Weapon X program by then (he entered it shortly after WWII). But, you know, they didn't exactly follow along with any other part of the X-Men's universe, so why should they start now, eh?

Weapon X: I thought Maverick was German, not Grant Imahara from Mythbusters. Also, shouldn't he be able to absorb the force of the helicopter crash and emerge relatively unscathed? And wasn't he friends with Wolverine? Every time he was sent to kill Wolverine, he botched the mission on purpose. Not so here. And what about all the Alpha Flight members who came out of Weapon X? Where the hell were they? And why was Blob in this? For the fat jokes? Blob served absolutely no purpose to the story; he wasn't ever a member of Weapon X. I guess he was there so he could box Wolverine. Oh, how fantastic.

Okay, that's enough. It's horrible, okay? Don't waste your money on this piece of shit. Aside from the gross misrepresentation of the characters on the screen, the story isn't even compelling. There's some whiny bits in between fight scenes, and despite the fact that these are superhumans with amazing powers, their powers are largely absent from the multitude of fight scenes that pepper the movie. The only one who uses his powers in the fight is Kestrel Wraith, which makes that the best fight in the movie. Unfortunately, it's also one of the shortest. Even the climactic ending left me audibly groaning, despite the fact that I knew it was a comic book story (heavy on the comic part) and I was working my suspension of disbelief hardcore. It was like the director looked at a pile of comics, said "That's nice", wiped his ass on them and set it all to film.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go shoot some adamantium bullets into my brain to try and purge the memories of this travesty from my mind.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Volume XXIV

Ever get fed up with something? Ever really get fed up and want to tell someone exactly how you feel? Well, I know I've never felt this way, but you folks are all a lot more hot-headed than I am. I mean, I haven't punched anyone in the throat in a long time. Like, two days. Or something.

So, yeah, we're telling people what we think of them today. But we're classy sophisticates, so we should spruce our swearing up a little bit by filtering them through a dead language. And as Latin is a Classical Language (as well as dead), then let's trot out this classical way to tell someone off:

Futue te ipsum et caballum tuum!
Pronounced: "Foo-too-aye tay eep-soom et cah-bah-loom too-oom!"

Translation in the hovertext. Yee haw!

Okay, so here's a little bonus Latin lesson for you. The infinitive form for "to fuck" in Latin is futuere (foo-too-air-aye). The Romans were pretty specific about how and where they'd put their dicks, so the term "to fuck" means to penetrate something, rather than the act of being penetrated. So, in Latin, you can't simply say "Fuck me!" You have to say something like "you should fuck" and then you'd throw in the "me". So, "Fuck me" would be something like "Me futuas." Awesome, no?

TMI Thursday: The Sashimi Strikes Back

In case you aren't aware of the goings-on of my internal organs, I've been down one since the fall of 2006. You can read my five-part recounting of the Ordeal, if you'd like. Just know that it involves a lot of sweat and lusting after blond nurses:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

While there are many advantages to not having a gall bladder anymore (not being racked with pain sits right at the top of the list), there are also a few drawbacks. This is a story of one of them.

The gall bladder is a little sac hanging off the liver that stores bile. Bile is used in the processing, handling, and digesting of fatty foods. When fatty foods are ingested, the liver starts kicking out lots of bile in order to help with the digestion of said foods. Normally, excess bile is stored in the gall bladder and released as needed into the gut. However, when there is no gall bladder present, all the bile just gets shunted into the intestines and the body does with it what it will.

Now, the thing about bile is that it, too, is awfully greasy. It has a lot of cholesterol and such in it. So, one thing that you're not supposed to do when you've had your gall bladder removed is eat any particularly greasy, fatty meals. If you do, make sure a toilet is nearby because about 20 minutes after you've finished, you're going to feel the Apocalypse breaking out in your bowels. Once you find the toilet, Armageddon is played out, and then you're relatively fine. Hungry. But fine, nonetheless.

The problem is, I wasn't told all the things that one shouldn't eat. I mean, there are obvious ones, like meatball sandwiches or double-bacon cheeseburgers and fries or shots of olive oil. Apparently, one of the things you shouldn't eat is sushi. I learned this the hard way. Or should I say, "The soft, squishy, brown and redolent way"?

We went to lunch one day at a local sushi joint where a curvy redhead had poured herself in a dress three sizes too small and served as the seating hostess for the day. We ordered our lunch, which was brought to the table in a respectable amount of time and we proceeded to eat what turned out to be a fairly good lunch. I had the "sushi platter", but I don't remember what was on it, so please don't ask. It was very tasty and I thought, "Oh, I should come here more often. The food is good, the price is acceptable, and, well, the hostess doesn't know how to dress."

We finished up our lunch and departed for work. At the time, I worked in the off-the-main-site-facility, so I had ridden over to the restaurant with my friend. About halfway back to the lab, Christ opened the sixth seal, and the tell-tale rumbling began in my lower GI tract, warning me of impending doom.

Now, a couple of weeks ago, you all learned about the tensile strength and uncanny coordination of my rectum; I need not repeat it now. It was, however, a good thing, as I sat there in the passenger seat, clenching so tightly that I was sure diamonds would fall out of my ass when I let go. North Carolina roads happen to be shitty, so I'm sitting there, in misery, clenching, feeling the cauldron of my guts bubble bubble toil and trouble away, and on top of all that, we're riding over a stretch of highway that I could have sworn was shelled by the enemy the night before, given the size, frequency and depth of the potholes.

Drive faster, Joe! I screamed in my mind. I don't want to ruin your upholstery!

Finally, we arrive back at work. I slowly make my way across the parking lot--I'm already sweating bullets, but the high heat and humidity and the roasting asphalt of the parking lot are not helping. Finally, I make it into the building and I try--as delicately as possible--to climb the stairs to the second floor where the labs are. I excuse myself and timidly make my way to the restroom. There, I settle into my stall, sitting down, finally unclenching and letting nature run its course.

I unleashed the fury.

Did I mention bile stinks? It does. Badly. Not only that, but it burns. Oh, does it burn. As I unleashed the fury, I'm fairly certain that a plume of flame erupted forth from my ass, burning brightly in the sky for all to see like the triumphant return of Comet Kohoutek. Finally, as my innards disgorged that most unpleasant shit monsoon, I heaved a sigh of relief. Sushi was definitely off the menu.

I got up to clean up, and, because I'm a guy, I checked out my handiwork. Being that I've seen my own shit countless times, I wasn't surprised by that part of what huddled in the bowl. No, it was the oily sheen on the surface of the water that bothered me most. There it was, a rainbow of fish oil, shimmering in the light, misplaced over the bog monster lurking in the depths below. Despite the iridescent glow cloaking the surface of the water, I was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was not a pot of gold at the end of it.

For the first time in my life, I nearly caused myself to vomit with my own poo. Fortunately, I had just shit the contents of my stomach into the bowl, so nothing came up. Unfortunately, the dry heave was powerful enough that it caused me to double over, placing my face within a very uncomfortable proximity to the gleaming surface of the bowl. This is how I am quite certain that bile carries with it a very unpleasant aroma.

Why bring this up now? Well, funny you should ask. Tomorrow, one of my co-workers is leaving the company to go back to graduate school, and she has requested to go to lunch at the very same restaurant where this unsightly and liquid brown adventure began. So, tomorrow, when I set out for lunch, I'll be sure to hitch a ride with whichever one of my friends has the fastest car.

The Harshness of Reality

I was struck by an odd moment of harsh reality this evening while enjoying a bit of dinner conversation with the two children. My son was reciting our ages, and my daughter realized that there's a bit of a gap between me (33) and my wife's (28) ages. She was like "that's five years!"

"I guess I like younger women," I confessed, which in itself is pretty creepy, once I ponder on it for longer than, oh, a second.

Then it struck me. If my son were to follow in Dear Old Dad's footsteps, his future bride would be gestating in the womb of his future mother-in-law right now.

Yeesh. Paging David Wooderson.

Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesdays: Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy

Not much in the way of science today, folks. Just the expansion of a gas as it travels from it's liquid state to the its, uh, gaseous state. If you remember correctly, liquids take up less volume than do gases. So, if you have, say, 20 oz. of a liquid in a sealed vessel and then it warms up to the point that it wants to erupt out of said vessel, you've got yourself an explosion.

But...what happens when that 20 oz vessel is in the middle of a watermelon? Let's find out...one...two-hoo...three (some guy yells out "Holy Shit!" at the end of the video, so turn your volume way up so that the folks in the office know you're not doing any real work):

Max Gallagher, eat your fucking heart out.

The liquified there, I hope you're happy gas in question is liquid nitrogen. Where these strokes got liquid nitrogen, I don't know, but notice that the patsy kid handling the liquid nitrogen has shunned protective eyewear. Notice that his protective gloves are the ones worn while doing dishes. Safety first.

As I learned way back in Physical chemistry (aside from new and mystic methods of torture called "gas laws"), an explosion is nothing more than a gas expanding at a rate greater than the area it is contained in will allow. Kind of sucks the magic out of blowing shit up, doesn't it?

You're right, it doesn't.

Another Goofy Word I've Recently Come Across

I've got another goofy word to hit you with. This one is incredibly odd. Well, maybe I think it's odd because I'm not overly familiar with ancient Greek. Still, it seems like an overly goofy word and the meaning might not be immediately apparent (I had to look a the etymology in order for it to make more sense).

Psychopomp: a conductor or leader of souls to the afterworld. Charon was a psychopomp who carried the souls of the dead across the River Styx into the realm of Hades. Hermes served as a psychopomp when he guided Eurydice's ghost to Orpheus. Psychopomps aren't limited to Greek mythology (Heimdall is a Norse psychopomp), but these are two better known instances that I could think of.

I mean, seriously? We needed a word for this? Apparently so. Given that my BIG BAD EPIC STORY is a fantasy story with gods and shit in it, working this one into a book would probably be easy. The real challenge should be to work into a piece of fiction that isn't a fantasy. Still, I'm going to pop it in somewhere, probably dealing with the God of Death. I've already formulated the scene in my mind. Not having a psychopomp will be one of the reasons why the God of Death has gone mad: he is the one who has to guide the souls of all the deceased to their final realm. It will probably appear in the conversation between one of my main characters and one of the gods, probably the Death God's sister, the Goddess of Life. See how that works? Almost brilliant, eh?

Oh, apparently, "psyche" doesn't pertain just to "mind" in Greek, it is used as the word for "soul". "Pompos" means "sending", so I guess it literally means "one who sends souls" somewhere.

And, by the way, Happy Mother's Day. May your mama--or you, if'n your you're a mama--not meet up with any psychopomps for a good, long while.

Kill the Pig...

...spill its blood, slit its throat.

Nothing like starting off with a good, violent line from a classic piece of literature. However, did William Golding know something we didn't, what with this Swine Flu/Hinee thing running amok through the world's population, leaving death and destruction in its wake? I think he did. Kill the pig, indeed. And not just the fat kid with the glasses. Don't look up, tubby.

To that end, I offer you this to try and make it through your day. Enjoy.



I guess we'll all meet over at Mr. Sanders' joint later for some back bacon and mead.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Volume XXIII

This post is dedicated to Scope.

You know what today is? It's the re-launch of the Star Trek film series. Same story, younger actors. I'm sure there will be those who hate it because it doesn't have William Shatner calling the shots at the helm of the Enterprise. The jury is still out here at Maison de Jenks. Part of me thinks that the original magic of the series can never be captured again; part of me thinks new blood needs to be injected into the story. Hell, they can't do any worse than the Star Wars prequels, right? Right?

*crickets*

Right.

I've always been more of a Star Wars man, myself. I like my Space Westerns to have a lot more action, which is why only about half of the Dune books appeal to me. However, while the history of the Star Wars galaxy seems fluid with a healthy mind to how many more action figures can we sell, the Star Trek galaxy has a more definite story and, if more action figures are needed, a new civilization is created. Personally, the one thing I liked most about Star Trek is that they built civilizations rather than just cool aliens to shoot. Plus, the civilizations in Star Trek make a lot more sense, unlike Star Wars, which features Gungans. Proof that Gene Roddenberry wasn't a self-servicing, unctuous bearded cocksmack.

Okay, enough geeky prattling. Let's get to the lessons. That's right. Lessons. It's a double shot today, meus amicus. Mostly because I have two appropriate phrases, and I couldn't settle on either. Plus, this post is done up in Scope's honor, and he deserves a little extra after I plasticized his genitals a couple of weeks ago.

The first is useful if you find yourself stranded on an alien planet:

Me transmitte sursum, Caledoni!
Pronounced: "May trahns-meet-aye soor-soom, Cahl-ay-doan-ee!"

Translation in the hovertext
Like I said last week, I love a good pun so early in the day!

This next one you might find a touch more useful around the house. Got a hubby lying on the couch, claiming that he can't overcome his downward inertia, but the lawn desperately needs some attention? Here you go. Got a kid who refuses to go to bed so that you can knock boots with the missus? Here you go. Got a cat that doesn't want to get spayed or neutered and is clinging to the draperies in a desperate attempt to stave off a trip to the vet for the unkindest cut? Here you go.

Resistere irritum est.
Pronounced: "Ray-seese-tare-aye ear-eat-toom est."

You're right, Jeri. I give up. Do with me what you will. Don't be gentle.

Stuff

I have a bit of a dirty secret that I'm now going to share with you. For the past couple of weeks, I've been cheating on you. I know, I know. Where's the trust, eh, blogosphere? It's just that, every so often, I come across your chest a blog that is spectacular enough, I become--for the lack of a better term--infatuated. I read. And then I get bored because the author only updates once a day, yet the author drips with such a profound exceptionality that I want, nay, need more. The only way to get said fix is to dig through the archives.

This has happened recently.

People, I want you to meet Kristine. She's over there, waiting in the van. Now, originally, I caught a glimpse of her in someone's comments and thought "Holy shit! That looks like my attractive friend, Kristine! I better check this shizz out." Well, it turns out that she isn't my attractive friend Kristine. However, she's now my new attractive friend Kristine! She's smart, she's funny, she puts stuff on her kids' heads and takes pictures, she hates her asshole cats, and, like me, she is a MASTER--or will be someday soon. Unlike me, she will be a MASTER in a field where she can get a job in ten years, whereas I'll be living under a bridge, reciting the periodic table and cursing the far east.

While she's as sarcastic and foul-mouthed as they come *dreamy sigh*, apparently her former blog is even more foul-mouthed, even more sarcastic, and even funnier. Alas, it remains hidden, and since I at least pay lip service to people's desires to remain as anonymous as the internet allows, I have gone looking for it. However, I'm sure it was fantastic, like the Lord of the Rings acted out by ninjas and stuff.

Because awesome oozes from every pore on her body, she's recognized the content and character of this blog with a fabulous award. Behold, the James Frey Award!
She's right, you know. 95% of the stuff here is bullshit. The other 5% is dick jokes and Leelee Sobieski pictures.

So, join Kristine in her van. She drives it around, wanted by the government, and serving as a soldier of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find her, maybe you can hire Kristine to put shit on your kids' heads and take pictures.

Now, Gwentabulous over at Everything I Like Causes Cancer, posted a picture of her naughties yesterday. I'd say "unmentionables", but since I provided a link to the story, that pretty much supersedes "unmentioning", doesn't it?

Anyway, her challenge for today was to not tell a story revolving around shit, semen, sex or something else gross that starts with 's' (hooray alliteration!). Jesus, Gwen, you just knocked out 95% of my arsenal. Good thing I was planning on publically felating Kristine. Wait...

Gwen's challenge was to have us post pictures of our favorite sleeping shirts. I received mine rather recently. So recent, in fact, that it still carries the sweet, sweet smell of victory. Behold, the TRIVIA SHIRT!

Oh, oh, that's not the TRIVIA SHIRT you were expecting, is it? No, my friends. See, I won this shirt the other night when I went to Trivia Night at a local bar with the Comely and Buxom and Ailurophobic Boudicca and her friends from work. See, they had a three-round trivia contest (we placed third), but in between the contests were special mini contests. Do you want to know the question I answered correctly and quickly?

"What disease takes it's name from the Latin for 'bad air;?"

The answer, of course, is "malaria". I emboldened a couple of parts. Since you're here every Friday morning learning conjugations and shit, you know I'm all about the Latin. However, you probably didn't know that I'm all about the tropical diseases. It's true. I work on a "neglected disease" program at my company. I don't want to brag too much--especially since none of my compounds have done shit to the parasite--but we've pretty much taken Sleeping Sickness by the balls, swung it around the room a couple of times, kicked it in the grundle, and then, for good measure, while it's lying there on the floor, we've whipped it out and pissed right in its battered and beaten face. AWESOME!!!

Also, the person who introduced me to Yuengling, that sweet, nectarous lager from Eastern Pennsylvania, reads this blog and I wanted to taunt him with my victory. I'm expecting an email shortly that will read something like "Bastard."

Death from Above!

I've detailed it several times before, about how truly awful and terrible our weather forecasters are down here in North By God Carolina. Usually, my gripes surround the inability to predict winter weather, typically because a snowy day--or the mere mention of snow--is enough to bring businesses and schools to a halt. I then get a free day off. I think we'll all agree that any day I get off is a good day.

*ahem*

I learned this past weekend that the weather forecasters are equally inept when it comes to predicting rain events. The forecast for this past weekend was originally supposed to feature highs in the upper 80s and storms all weekend long. The weather turned out to be a balmy 82 with cloudless skies for the better part of the weekend. A few places perhaps on the fringe of the "forecast area" saw some rain. And by a few, I mean one. The rest of us basked in glorious spring weather.

Not that I'm necessarily complaining, mind. Weather like this causes the skirts to go higher and the tops to not only plunge lower, but to also become strappier. This makes trips to the local Target, which is conveniently wedged between two large universities, more tolerable, if not pleasurable.

However, I'm thinking I should expand my bubble of disdain toward climactic precognizance to include the higher-ups on the weatherman totem pole. Now, I will preface this by saying that the forecast for tonight did mention the threat of rain, with slight chance of spawning a rumble of thunder or two. Neat. I love a good evening thunderstorm.

Imagine my confusion, then, when I heard that there was a tornado warning for the counties east of Raleigh. Naturally, my kids freaked when they heard this, despite my calm and curmudgeony reassurances that they were under no immediate danger. We made it home and I switched on the weather to find that there were two separate tornado warnings, both east of Raleigh.

Huh, I thought, internally mocking the powers that forecast the weather, sounds like a little more than a rumble of thunder or two.

As the evening wore on, there were more tornadoes. More warnings. And then, while a tornado bore down on the capital city of Raleigh, with another two off to the east, the National Weather System suddenly decided that they should issue the dreaded Tornado Watch for the area. This was hours after the first tornado had already been sighted, reported, and storm-chased. Brilliantly done, fellows! Why don't you follow up with something else, like how we shouldn't trust this Hitler guy or that Christopher Columbus is about to find something! We'll definitely know that you guys have your fingers on the collective pulse of society then.

I realize that this isn't Oklahoma, where they are pretty much under a tornado watch twenty-four hours a day. However, you'd think they'd press the button on the all-powerful weather machine--you know, the one that (inaccurately) predicts the Atlantic Hurricane season and says that drought-stricken parts of the country are going to remain abnormally dry, only to find northern Florida and Houston both flooded a week later--and use it to, oh, I don't know, issue a tornado watch in a more timely manner.

Perhaps that's too much to ask. After all, this is the same group of people who just recently picked up on that warming trend that started 11,000 years ago.

Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesdays: Building Go Bye-Bye

I don't really feel like putting a lot of effort into this week's blowing shit up entry. So, I figure what I lack in quality, I'll make up for in quantity. Thus, I give you a short movie filled with imploding buildings. I like the first one, especially, because it looks like everyone misjudged the amount of dust and debris that would be generated, and you can tell pretty much the exact moment when everyone in the shot is like "Oh shit!"

Basically, I'm a simple creature, and I like seeing things blow up. Or down, or in, or whatever preposition applies here. Rather than go for some Hollywood contrived piece of crap explosion, I've gone for the beautiful melding of explosives and gravity.

Somewhere in the middle--I think, I'm not sure--is where they took down one of the buildings in downtown Raleigh a few years back. I can't be sure, but it does look familiar, at the very least.

So, there you have it. No science lessons or chemical equations or anything. Just good, old-fashioned ingenuity and civil de-engineering!

Also, I quite enjoy the Nine Inch Nails song that accompanies the footage. Too bad the footage and the song don't exactly sync up, but I still like it.

Oh, and go check out Scope's entry into the fray. All I can say is, "Thar she blows!"

Glaringly Obvious

I saw this today on CNN. From a so-called "expert":

No shit, Sherlock.

I suppose this is just CNN's method of clinging to this "news" about the Swine flu for a while longer. Hysteria sells ad space, I guess.

Here's a few other things that experts can tell us:

"Water, it can be wet most of the time."
"The Day-moon would rather be called 'The Sun!'"
"Woolly Mammoths are dead and gone...but not forgotten!"
"Eating lots of fats and not exercising can lead to obesity!"
"Poop: A lot of times it's brown and most of the time it stinks!"

Goofy Words I Want to Work into a Book

I don't know if this will become a somewhat regularly appearing feature or not; we'll see. Being that I'm, you know, doing that whole whoring myself to any literary agent willing to listen...or at least read their email...I've started back into writing. Slowly, to be sure, because it's been a bit painful. I'm currently reworking some of my chapters in the BIG BAD EPIC STORY so that they, you know, don't suck. A lot of shit I'm redoing I worked on while still in college, so it's not...good. I mean, it conveys the story, but it's not where I am now as a writer (you know, with dick jokes every other paragraph).

Anyway, I've come across a few words in my reading (in that whole trying to become a better writer game I've been playing with myself) that I think "Wow, that shit's goofy enough that I should work it into my book somewhere."

And I have. A couple, at least. And I was mighty proud of it, too. Even now, when I re-read this shit and I come across your face the word that I slipped into the writing, it makes me smile.

The first of these words--surprise!--has a heavily Latin influence:

uxorious: characterized as being excessively fond of or submissive to a wife.

It comes from the Latin uxor, which means "wife".

And here's a sample:

"Count Alsace was a small and uxorious man, with beady eyes, a balding pate and a propensity toward twitching his upper lip. He spoke softly and stepped quickly and was exceedingly deferential to anyone who asked anything of him, as if he had spent his entire life bowing and scraping before another, despite his noble station in life."

As you can see, I chose the latter part of the definition, where poor Count Alsace was submissive to his boorish wife. Strangely enough, we never meet her in the course of the story. It's for the better, I'm sure; my inheritance rests on Countess Alsace not making an appearance in the story.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Volume XXII

Oh what a long and horrible week we have endured. We could not close our eyes without feeling the pestilent fingers of disease crawling over our skin and hearing the thousands of squealing voices of disease-free pigs being slaughtered at the behest of a government reacting to media sensationalism. Woe that Haven Peck did not die yesterday rather than today.

Ever one to turn a grim situation into a positive one, I've decided we should have ourselves a lovely little Swine Flu based Latin lesson this week. Gaudeamus!

Since Swine flu is such a big deal, I figure that we should have a big lesson. First off, again, I'm here to help you ladies. Should you find yourself in a situation this weekend where some douchebag with a popped-collar and horrible breath is violating your personal space, feel free to slap this out there at them. It's guaranteed to scare them away.

"Habeo porcum volantem!"
Pronounced: "Hob-aye-oh pore-coom woe-lawn-tem!"

I love the smell of a terrible pun in the morning!
Put the cursor on the flying piggy to get the translation
Whenever something blindsides us like this, we always wonder how this could have happened. Fortunately, we have a crack team of scientists ready, waiting and willing to track down the source of this vile plague and figure out it's origins. Once again, science saves the day, and the source of this vile Swine flu has been indentified:

Hic incepit pestis!
Pronounced: "Heek een-kay-peet paste-ees!"

I'm sure more than just the H1N1 virus lives in there. *shudder*
Finally, as Gwen pointed out, the government of Egypt, in a move that can only be described as "ignorantly rash and reactive", decided to slaughter all of the pigs in the country. Well played, sirs, well played. Sure, you can't catch Swine flu from pigs, but who needs facts when you can just follow your gut? What to do with all those carcasses lying about. Shout this from the rooftops for the surest and wisest solution:

"Occidamus et coquamus porcellis! Qualis reges edent, talis edemus!"
Pronounced: "Ock-ee-dah-moose ate coh-kwah-moose poor-kay-lees! Quah-lees ray-gays aid-ent, tah-lees aye-day-moose!"

No amount of scrubbing is going to unburn this image from your retinas. You're welcome.