I Haz a Happy

Hooray! Green Bay won the Super Bowl. Hat tip to the Steelers fans: I don't hate the Steelers, but I sure as hell did not want them to win last night. In the mean time, let's toss some cheerleaders in the air to celebrate!!!


A word, if I may, to all the Green Bay fans who still would fall on their knees and worship the fucking ground that Favre walks on and have him start this fall, eat dick. Let us never speak his name again.


To the rest of the Packers fanbase, let's not let another quarterback get bigger than the franchise, kthanxbai.

Also, I would be lying if I didn't kind of want the league to be in lock out next season that I can enjoy a Super Bowl title for two years. Selfish, I know, but in a league that prides itself on parity, I might not get to celebrate another two titles in a row. Ever.



Anyone have any word on whether Antawn Randle El has finally shut the fuck up, or is he still yapping about the only two marginally decent plays that he completed in his stellar professional career?

I Heart You, Chemistry

There are not enough creative and inventive uses of the word fuck to amply describe the day I am having. I refuse to go into too much detail here, but it's a strange state of affairs when I actually go into the lab and do reactions in order to calm my murderous rage.

Retreads are Fun, Right?

I'm too lazy to actually write a new post, mostly because the bus didn't show up this morning, so I ended up driving the kids to school and then, on my to work, nearly got collected in two different head-on collisions. I love living here.

That will not deter me from celebrating my second favorite holiday on the calendar, not to mention my revisiting of the desire to nestle myself down between the thighs of one Betsy Hagar for a good six weeks of winter slumber. And by winter slumber I mean fucking until I pass out from exhaustion, waking up and going at it again.

I was a horny little cuss in high school. Horny, and guilty. *sighs*

And, apparently, our plucky, portly little pal, Punxatawny Phil did not see his shadow, which means there will not be six more weeks of winter! Huzzah! I'm sure that makes you guys in the northern tier of the nation feel better, right? That two feet of snow? Didn't happen. Flowers should be blooming any moment now.

Wait.

You guys know what today is, right?

Okay, yeah, sure, it's Groundhog Day. It's the day when we celebrate the prescient powers of Marmota monax, which is a mixture of Latin and Greek meaning "lonely fatass ground squirrel". In case you were curious (and I know that you weren't), if it ends in an -x, it's typically a Greek word.

Today is also Candlemas, which is traditionally viewed as the day that Christ was presented at the Temple. Mary also had to go to the Temple in order to perform rites associated with recovering from childbirth, a sort of purification, if you will. It is observed 40 days after Christmas. Hey, only 324 shopping days left, slackass!

Also, Candlemas is supposed to be the very last day that you're supposed to have your Christmas greenery up. If you happen to be my neighbor and reading this then...*hint*hint*

And how are the two related? I'm glad you asked! Now, sit down, shut up, and listen: back in the old countries, the English and Germans and other various northern European peoples used to believe that, on the 2nd of February (which is halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox), bears, badgers, wolves, and weird uncle Lute would emerge from hibernation to inspect the weather and determine if they should go back to sleep or not--which is very curious, considering wolves don't hibernate...

While settling the New World, the tradition was carried over and, apparently, since black bears just didn't cut it, the settlers adopted...the groundhog...as the midwinter mascot. Isn't that...just...awe-inspiring?

In case your awe isn't inspired enough, one of the nicknames for the groundhog is the "whistle pig".

All of this shit is just filler. Most important of all, today is Betsy Hagar's Birthday!!!

Now, I've mentioned Betsy Hagar in the past on here. Several times. And usually it was with one hand in my lap and the other slowly tapping out words like "whipped cream" and "tall blonde goddess" over the keyboard. Hey, one-handed typing is not easy. I see some of you nodding. Don't think I'm not on to you. *mouths the words 'Call me'*

Some of you might not be up on the list of young women I lusted for during my high school days. Betsy Hagar was at the very top of that list. She is the one about whom I would write long, involved, erotic stories and then, being that I was so turned on by my own lustful creativity, I'd crank one out while still fantasizing about Betsy. Upon climax I would breathlessly begin to feel crushing guilt over my carnal tendencies and I'd take the paper on which I wrote the story and I'd burn it, supposedly (in my sick mind) as a way of burning the lust out of my mind for Betsy and all the other women on the list.

And it was quite an extensive list...

But, Betsy was different. As I mentioned here, there was a lot of crushes that came and went during my high school years, but the one constant throughout the time was my seething desire to part Betsy's thighs. Despite how badly I wanted her, my mind invariably forgets about her until Groundhog's Day/her birthday rolls around. She's kind of my portal to the "good old days", when things seemed a lot simpler, and I didn't have so many fucking bills to pay. Yep, less debt and long, sexy, gorgeous legs. That's what thinking of Betsy Hagar reminds me of.

So, Happy Groundhog's Day. Let's hope that lonely little Whistle Pig enjoys his day in the sun. And Happy Birthday, Betsy Hagar: you fill me full to the brim with lust and nostalgia.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. XCVII

I grew up Methodist. Or, actually, I grew up United Methodist. There's some very fine hairs that need splitting when discussing the various wings of the various Protestant religions. As a youth, I was very active within my church. I made a lot of friends, attended nearly every week, volunteered, spent time around the church, blahblahblah.

As with most people in the Protestant wings of the Christian Kingdom, the United Methodists like to look upon the Catholic church with a wary eye. Not an evil eye, of course, because that would just be inviting the devil in. However, the United Methodist church likes to intimate that the Catholic church is really just a thinly-veiled disguise for the Devil's minions.

This sure didn't stop them from rooting for Notre Dame on Saturdays, though, I would like to point out.

As the Catholic church had a long history of holding masses in Latin as well as writing and translating sacred texts into Latin, this meant that Latin was akin to the black tongue itself. This was not just merely insinuated; it was actually brought up at a Youth Group meeting once.

One night, we were discussing the merits of the various foreign languages offered at my high school: French, Spanish, German and (for many of the people in my backwards slice of the world), English. If enough people were interested, they offered Russian. There was no Latin, though one of the neighboring school systems offered it.

When the debate, which was about as lively as a debate centered upon foreign language courses could get, died down, my youth pastor, Chuck, offered a story about how we needed to be careful of foreign languages and why he was glad that my high school did not offer Latin. It seems as though one of his seminary friends was doing some research in order to get her degree, and was sitting in the library, alone, at night, flipping through a book of spells from the forbidden section text of some sort when she came across..."something in Latin". As Friend-of-Chuck wrote down the..."something in Latin"...for her research paper, she read the words out loud.

Suddenly, as she finished transliterating and speaking the words aloud, she got up from the desk and ran through a window! She doesn't remember anything until she woke up in the hospital much, much later (a week, a month, seventeen years...I don't remember the duration). It was a valuable lesson never to recite anything that we didn't understand or could translate when it comes to a foreign language.

Now, allow me to put my Mask of Disbelief on for just a second...

I'm not sure where to start with this one. How about...if she didn't understand what she was translating, how could she have pronounced the words correctly for the possession or the spell or whatever brush with evil she had just endured to have been fulfilled? If you can pronounce Latin correctly, chances are you're going to have a fairly decent grasp of the meaning of the words. Hell, you can surmise what most of the meanings of the words are based on familiar strings of letters that show up in modern English.

Second, just why the hell would it make any sense at all that Satan or Beelzebub or Lucifer or the Devil or Old Scratch or whatever the hell name he's going by this week would speak Latin? If I have my Biblical history correct, then Lucifer rose up against God thousands of years prior to the creation of the universe. Right? Because once God got to creatin', he didn't stop in order to stave off a usurper and his cronies, and the serpent was in the Garden by the time Adam and Eve began gallivanting around. Therefore, the language in Heaven (and Hell, if Lucifer took it with him after the fall) wouldn't be a language that wasn't developed until thousands of years after the creation of Man, right?

But, then again, this is religion, and logic doesn't always have a place in the sacred texts. So, apparently, Latin is spoken all over Hell, no matter how little sense that makes. With that in mind, here's a little phrase that is sure to come in handy:

Diabolus fecit, ut id facerem!
Pronounced: "Dee-ah-boh-loose feh-kit, oot id fah-kay-rehm!"


Diabolical translation in the hovertext

The word "devil" actually comes from Greek diabolos, which means "slanderer, accuser", ultimately coming from "one who throws something across". "Demon" also comes from Greek, daimon, which means "lesser deity", and picked up its negative connotation thanks to an old root "da-" meaning "divider". It gradually came to be known as anything that divided the believer's attention from God (it was used as a translation of the Hebrew word for idols).

"Lucifer" means "light carrier" and was used as the name for the Morning Star. Biblically, at least, Lucifer was actually a reference to a King of Babylon who fell from Grace, but Christians believed that any fall had to be a reference to the Devil, and so decided that Lucifer was his proper name. Finally, "Satan" comes to us from Hebrew--the Greeks adopted it, gave it to the Romans, and then it was passed off into English, all with very little change. It's actually a Hebrew word meaning "adversary" and was used as a reference for angels sent by God to block human activity.

So...with all this information...what is the Devil's real name, and what language does he speak?

In Which Our Hero Becomes an Unintentional Stalker

It all started with a dream.

Well, er, sort of. The other night, I had a dream about a girl that I had a huge crush on back in high school. It wasn't a sexy time dream; it simply featured her on some talking tour and she happened to be coming through North Carolina, so I met up with her and had lunch.

Not much of a dream, I know. There were no flying monkeys or pork knights or lusty babes in it. Except for her. She pretty much still is a babe. She was a babe back in high school, and, according to her profile on the Book of Faces (I looked just to verify and stuff *shifty-eyed*), she's still Babe-a-licious. Schwing!!!

Anyway, this girl's name was Elizabeth and I had a major thing for her in high school. She was blonde and had a killer body; she played soccer and she was very good at it. Good enough to be invited to the US tryouts. I would have paid really good money to see her score a goal and rip her shirt off in celebration. Schwing!!!

Okay, enough with the Wayne's World references. Party on.

To make a long story short, I asked her out, she said no, and we went on our separate ways happily ever after. The end.

Not so fast, my friend. Since Elizabeth was pretty smart, we ended up in a lot of the same classes, which is kind of how I got the crush for her in the first place. We had English, Trig/Pre-Calc and French together, and I think we had a semester of typing together. The way she worked that keyboard was mesmerizing. And that was all mostly in our Junior year, the year in which I had asked her out and was met with derisive laughter and finger pointing a gentle rejection with a sweet, soft smile.

And then, our senior year arrived.

As I was hellbent on getting into college, I was taking all the courses necessary to both graduate and look good for college application: calculus, physics, AP English, Government and Econ. I threw in French IV and Drama for shits and giggles (but mostly shits). It was a pretty good little schedule, if I do say so myself. I had Calculus and physics in the morning, and then wrapped up the day with English (which you might have noticed is one of my better subjects) and Drama.

The best part of all this?

Elizabeth had the exact. same. schedule.

Except she had government first semester when I was taking economics, and she took economics second semester when I had government. Everything else was exactly the same. Calculus, Physics, French, Econ/Government, English and Drama.

As the first day of senior year progressed, I found it amusing that we were in the first three classes together. By the end of the day, I wondered what sick-and-twisted master of the universe had done this to me? Here was the object of my desire dangled in front of me, sweet fruits tantalizingly out of my reach, and there she was in every class of the day. Since our class schedule was the same, our lunches also coincided. Fortunately, she didn't live near me, otherwise we would have ridden the same bus together.

Yes, I was a loser who rode the bus all four years of high school.

I imagine that Elizabeth had the same reaction as I did: what sick-and-twisted master of the universe decided to put this goofball mooning over me all day in each of my classes? I'd file a restraining order if I could.

And that's when I realized that I had become a stalker...but not just a stalker. I had somehow unknowingly, unwittingly, unintentionally transcended mere stalking and made an entire new art form out of it. And I had nothing but the Huntington County School Corporation to thank for it. It was almost like I was beyond a stalker...like a ninja stalker or something. Yeah, I like that. Ninja stalker.

Wanna see my katana?