Personal Failing

If you are familiar with the story of the Odyssey, you might recall that Odysseus plied the waters of the Mediterranean for several years after the end of the Trojan war, sharing in madcap adventures with his crew, getting up to all sorts of antics on the shore, fighting monsters, and sticking his dick in just about anything that he could stick his dick in.  I'm looking at you, Calypso.

As one familiar with the Odyssey, you probably remember the Sirens.  The Sirens were a group of comely young women with beautiful voices who sang across the waters surrounding their island home, promising riches and carnal delights to anyone bold enough and capable enough of plying their waters.  However, when the lusty sailor reached the island of the Sirens, hoping to partake of their sensual delights, the Sirens ripped him apart and ate him, swallowing down his flesh and bone--and not swallowing in the good way, and not the naughty, fun kind of bone, either.

The Sirens' Song has thus come to be connected with anything that carries with it an allure of the forbidden:  we know that it's not a good idea to go visit the Sirens' island, but, damn, look at the ass on that singing demon, would you?  It might be worth having my flesh rent from my bones and my blood staining the waters near the isle if only I could feel the firm curve of her breasts upon my palms...

Along those same lines, we know it's wrong to eat an entire box of Girl Scout cookies, and yet...

Okay, fine.  I caved and went full motherfucking cookie monster on those things.  It's easy; there's like five in a package anymore.  Each packing 7000 calories of sweet, chocolaty (or peanut buttery...or even better, chocolaty peanut buttery!!!) deliciousness, they go down a little too easily.  Sure, I broke my self-imposed cookie ban, but it was worth it.

So.  Fucking.  Worth it.

Though the self-imposed cookie embargo has been broken, I'm still ice cream free, which I consider to be a victory of sorts.  The Girl Scout cookies were just a small blip on the old radar, something that happens once a year.  I can get past this, no problem, and be back on my cookie tee-totaling ways soon enough.

Of course, the sooner I get the last of these things out of the my house, the better.  The most efficient way I know of ridding myself of the Girl Scout cookie menace is to shove entire sleeves of thin mints down my gullet.  Chewing?  That shit's for sissies.  Savoring the Samoa that I just threw into the back of my throat means there's less time for me to start eating the NEXT Samoa in the package.  Or Caramel Delight.  Or whatever the fuck happy sappy slappy name they've hung on the cookies this year.

Eventually, I'll pick the cookie embargo back up, but it won't be until I am without Girl Scout cookies.  Fortunately, the sales are done.  Now we just have finish off the stockpiled wafers of deliciousness and I can get back to life without these sweet, little treats.

Just, let me have one more before we go...

The 700 Club

This, my friends, is my 700th post. Which means I've joined the 700 Club, and while this isn't nearly as satisfying as the Mile High Club nor as sure to get me elected to the Hall of Fame someday as the 30-30 club, it's still something I'm strangely proud of.

Of course, the 700 Club also has those connotations that I'm somehow in league with the kook, Pat Robertson.

Let me make it abundantly clear to all, I do not think, nor am I willing to be swayed on this, that the slave revolt of 1803 in anyway lent any cause to the unfortunate earthquake that hit earlier in the year. Also for the record, I don't think that scandalously-dressed nubile women cause earthquakes. In fact, I fully support scandalously-dressed nubile women--plate tectonics be damned!!!

I salute you, women of Boobquake, and applaud you at the same time! This is the finest thing to come out of Purdue since John Wooden.

So, it is with the utmost respect--and joy--that I salute you, women of the world, for wearing your low-plunging tops, your short skirts, and your thigh-high boots. Wait? That's not part of the deal? Shut up and let me dream, alright. *wistful sigh*

Oh, what, you want some sort of conclusion to this post? Fine.

I'm also not so dumb as to believe that global warming has caused this recent spate of earthquakes. I'm more apt to believe that Sigyn is slow getting back with the cup to hold over Loki's head to stop the poison from dribbling onto him than I am to believe any of these previous postulates on why they earth's crust has suddenly become so violently active.

Oh, sure, global warming is a convenient excuse to dredge up when a series of catastrophes hits, especially if you're looking for more funding from a government grant. And the story sounds good, right? The ice sheets are receding, so the Earth's crust is bouncing back and causing all sorts of tremors and quakes? This makes sense for why the land around the Great Lakes is rising, but not for places such as Haiti or Chile or Indonesia getting earthquakes, since they were never covered in glaciers during the last Ice Age (though I will offer that the mountains near Chile probably were more heavily glaciered during the cold period).

The thing is, there are hundreds of earthquakes, everyday, all around the world. Chile, Haiti, Indonesia, China (and Iceland) are all in very active tectonic zones, where two hunks of the Earth's crust are sliding past one another or diving under one another or pulling away from each other. That's the explanation. That's why things are going apeshit. It's plate tectonics, and it would go on, even if the world was still covered in ice.

Although...I guess that global warming could cause nubile young women to dress more scantily. Of course, if it was warmer, more people would go to the beach to enjoy some time with the wind and the surf and the sun. And perhaps, while dumping out the poison, Sigyn went to the beach to check out shirtless guys. Dammit! It all makes sense now!

But Pat Robertson is still a kook.