Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
Mr. Price was my homeroom teacher, and he also taught social studies. He was a badass (short and bald, but a badass nonetheless) who wore a leather jacket and rode a motorcycle to school. I remember most of the girls got giggly and squishy around him.
Mrs. Bouchard was the matronly math teacher who was born sometime during the Taft administration. She was always going on about "the New Math" and explaining to us how lucky we were because when she was our age, they didn't have numbers and they had to do all their arithmetic with I's, V's, and L's.
And then, there was Miss McCollaugh, the English teacher. Young and perky, with bobbed blonde hair and big blue eyes. She was particularly fond of wearing tight blouses without a bra, which made her inordinately popular with most of the boys. She was stern and bossy, but in the hottest way imaginable. I used to fantasize about being forced to stay after school, but unfortunately she wasn't my homeroom teacher.
Mr. Price was a married man and Miss McCollaugh had a fiance, but the two of them used to hang out together a lot. They ate their meals together, stood near each other while we were at recess, and occasionally left us unattended so they could go converse in the hall. Of course, this gave rise to the rumor that they were having an affair. Hell, we were 5th graders with no understanding of sex, and even WE assumed they were knocking naughty bits.
Every afternoon, around 2:00, all three classes would gather in a common area for story time. Mr. Price never participated, but Mrs. Bouchard and Miss McCollaugh took turns reading chapters to us from their novel of choice.
So one fine spring afternoon, we were all gathered around Miss McCollaugh as she read to us from A Wrinkle in Time. She was an animated reader, really getting into the voices. She was wearing a loose-fitting white sweater with nothing on underneath, and her breasts were bouncing around happily as she regaled us with the tale of... well, hell. I don't really remember what was going on. It involved tesseracts and hobbits or something.
At one particularly exciting moment in the narrative, Miss McCollaugh leaned forward. She took a deep breath, pausing to maximize the dramatic tension... and her left breast popped out!
For several seconds, we all just stared in stunned silence at that lone nipple, peeking at us over the neckline of her sweater. Miss McCollaugh stopped reading and just looked out at us, her cheeks burning bright red. Nobody made a sound.
Then all at once, wild and crazy laughter from all 80 of us. We shrieked and howled and pointed. Miss McCollaugh let out a cry, threw down the book, and bolted out of the classroom. Mr. Price ran after her, which just made us laugh louder. And poor Mrs. Bouchard was left to try and calm us all down.
Somehow, Miss McCollaugh managed to finish out the day. The next morning, she came to school wearing five bras and fourteen sweaters under her heavy winter coat, and no mention was made of the incident. Like I said, she was stern and bossy, and many of us were terrified of incurring her wrath.
But when we were sure she wasn't looking, we'd poke our hands under our shirts and recreate the incident, complete with "Boing!" sound effects. And then we'd giggle like Karl Rove with a freezer full of orphans.
You know how kind kids can be...
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Okay, just kidding. This was the real result, and I guess I wasn't all that terribly surprised...
Monday, February 20, 2006
So what's my point? I'm glad you asked, Winona.
I consider blog links to be a sacred, life-long commitment, like marriage or circumcision. If you linka me like I linka you like we linka both the same...
But I've been going through my blog links lately, and SOME OF YOU HAVE ABANDONED ME! I don't know why. Maybe it was because I use the word "retard" like it's punctuation, or maybe it's because I have a potty mouth, or maybe you just don't find me nearly as funny as I find myself. Personally, I find that hard to believe because I think I'm pretty goddamn fucking funny. And if you can't see that, then you're a retard.
Um, so anyway. To those of you who stopped linking to this blog, you are dead to me. No, don't bother trying to kiss up now. It's too late. The damage is done, and things will never be the same between us again.
You done stepped on my heartAs for those of you who have stood by me and stayed linked to me through thick and thin, all I can say is that I love each and every one of you with the insane passion of Bradgelina. I would marry you if not for all those pesky same-sex/bigamy laws.
And stomped that sucker flat.
I guess you sorta
Squished my aorta.
And finally, if through some terrible series of events far too horrible to contemplate you have linked to me and I have yet to return the favor, please let me know and I will rectify the situation post haste.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
A lot of conservatives seem to have their panties in a knot these days because of all the media attention the Cheney story has been getting. I mean, okay. So our vice president mistook an old man for a bird and shot him IN THE GODDAMN FACE!. What's the big deal? Al Gore used to beat strippers to death and toss them on the White House lawn and nobody seemed to care. But Cheney blasts one old man IN THE GODDAMN FACE with a shotgun, and suddenly it's news.
FOX News attempted to take the high road. Rather than spend day after day reporting on Cheney (who shot an old man IN THE GODDAMN FACE), they decided to spend day after day pointing out the fact that they WEREN'T reporting on Cheney. You know, despite the fact he shot an old man IN THE GODDAMN FACE!
Fortunately, CNN is always there to take up the slack when they're not too busy covering stories about Bradgelina's lawn rakings or how Beyonce doesn't like to be called "Bootylicious." Today, CNN reported on Harry Whittington, the old man who was shot IN THE GODDAMN FACE by Vice President Cheney.
Whittington, wearing a suit and tie, had several bruises on his neck and face, probably because he was shot IN THE GODDAMN FACE! Speaking to reporters outside the hospital where he was treated (for getting shot IN THE GODDAMN FACE), Whittington apologized to Cheney and his family for everything they've been forced to go through this past week.
Yeah, Cheney's had it pretty tough. In a television interview on Wednesday, he said the day of the accident was "one of the worst days of my life." It must have been hard for the poor man. The only thing I could think of that would be worse would be getting shot IN THE GODDAMN FACE!
The Dallas Morning News ran a story about how Cheney didn't even have a tag to hunt quail, and received a bunch of angry letters (probably written in crayon) from people chiding them for not reporting the REAL news. I'm still not sure what the REAL news is, but apparently it's anything else that might be going on whenever somebody in the current administration fucks up.
But they're all missing the silver lining here. Just think... if Cheney had shot a quail without a license, he might have been in some serious trouble. I mean, they fine people for that! But fortunately, all he shot was an old man.
IN THE GODDAMN FACE!
Allah My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight!
So some paper in Denmark printed some comics that mocked the Prophet Mohammed, and a bunch of Muslims in Pakistan responded by rioting. So far, this only qualifies as news the same way that "I dropped something into the water, and it got wet" might.
But now, they're marching on U.S. businesses (like KFC and Citibank) and chanting "Death to America." I mean, come on! For once, we're NOT responsible for what pissed them off in the first place, so why are they coming after us? That's almost as retarded as, say, going to war with Iraq because you're mad at Al Qaeda.
Iran has been showing remarkable restraint in the wake of the whole cartoon jihad. Not a lot of death and carnage so far, although the Ayatollah did put a $1,000,000 price on the cartoonists' heads. Because, hey! It worked so well with Salman Rushdie. Also, one of their papers responded with a contest inviting readers to submit wacky cartoons making fun of the Holocaust. Seriously.
But by far, my favorite story of Muslim protest has been the Iranian bakeries that renamed their danishes to "Roses of the Prophet Mohammed." They were originally going to go with "Freedom Pastries," but of course the idea was voted down because everybody knows how much THOSE DAMN IRANIANS HATE FREEDOM!
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Um, okay. Maybe not. I was confused because the day is named after Saint Valentine, who was obviously a churchgoer of some kind. If I remember correctly, there were a bunch of snakes in Ireland who ate all the potatoes and were about to start on the beer when St. Valentine joined forces with the leprechauns to send them to hell. Or maybe that was St. Patrick. Fuck, I don't know!
Okay, I just checked on Wikipedia and I found out that St. Valentine was likely one of three martyrs who may or may not have helped Roman soldiers get married (but not to each other).
I also learned that St. Valentine's Day first became associated with romantic love sometime in the 14th century in England and France. They chose February 14th, because that's traditionally the day that birds pair off to mate.
But even prior to that, mid February has always been associated with love and fertility. In ancient Greece, the date coincided with the end of the month of Gamelion, during which the marriage of Zeus and Hera was honored by everyone except for Zeus, who apparently spent his every waking moment assuming animal forms and impregnating hapless young virgins. Plus, I think Hera was actually his sister or something.
And in ancient Rome, February 15 was Lupercalia. This was the festival of the fertility god Lupercus, who was traditionally half-naked and dressed in goat skins. His priests would sacrifice goats and drink wine. Then they'd run through the streets of Rome holding bits of goat over their heads and touching them to everyone that came near them. Apparently getting touched by goat pieces was supposed to make you fertile, so young women would run up and take a severed goat udder to the forehead so they could...
God, that's disgusting! I hate you, Rome! And I'm glad your empire crumbled!
So it turns out that this holiday doesn't have much of anything to do with Jesus. We cut out paper hearts and eat boxes of Whitman Samplers in honor of horny birds, pervy Greeks, and those sick fucking Romans.
Oh, and the Catholic Church removed St. Valentine's Day as an official holiday from its calendar back in 1969. I'm not sure why, but I can only hope it had something to do with all those goat bits littering the streets of Vatican City.
Anyway, Happy Valentine's Day.
I've been doing contract tech support for Netherland, Sewell & Associates, a petroleum consulting firm here in Dallas. Originally it was just supposed to be a one month gig, but they kept extending my contract and I kept signing on for another month or two.
But my boss just told me that, when my current contract expires at the end of March, they won't be needing me anymore. Their busy season ends in March, and she just can't justify keeping me on the payroll during the slow months.
She said she'd be flexible about my hours, so I could look for something else. She also said that I could take off before March 31st if something better came along. All in all, she's being a real mensch.
I can't say I'm surprised. I mean, it's the nature of contract work. And what was supposed to be a one month job did stretch out to seven, so the last six months have pretty much been a bonus.
I'm not even all that worried about finding something else. I turned down several contract jobs while this one was going on, so once I start looking again, I'm sure something will turn up.
But still, I am a little disappointed. I like this company, and I've really come to like the people. I've made a lot of friends here, and I'm going to miss working with them every day. The work was fun, the hours were great, and the pay was... well, it was a living, anyway.
Oh, well. C'est la vie. Que sera sera. Shit happens.
Speaking of March 31st, my play (originally slated for the end of March) has been moved to July 7th. It seems the Pocket Sandwich Theatre had somebody in mind to direct it, but he won't be available until sometime in May.
But they've listed the play and they've scheduled auditions. And I'm still giddy as hell about the whole thing.
Now if I could just write 250 of these things a year, I wouldn't need another job!
Monday, February 13, 2006
The recipient of Cheney's 28-gauge largesse was 78-year old Harry Whittington, who contributed to Bush's 2000 and 2004 campaigns. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Republican contribution system, $1,000 will buy you a seat at one of the president's dinners. For $2,000, you get to personally shake the president's hand and read him a heartfelt greeting scripted by Scott McLellan. And for contributions of $3,000 or more, the vice president himself will SHOOT YOU IN THE FUCKING FACE!!!
Actually, authorities are calling the shooting an accident, since Vice President Cheney mistook the charging geriatric for one of those elusive Iraqi Al Qaeda terrorists. "As soon as I shot him, and he didn't cry out to Allah in that goddamn Moon Man language they talk in, I realized my mistake," the vice president told reporters on Sunday. He then added, "Go fuck yourself."
Some Democrats are questioning the decision of the vice president's office to wait a day before releasing any information on the shooting. "The incident happened early Saturday evening," Senator Ted Kennedy said, "and yet, we heard nothing about it until sometime late Sunday morning. There is absolutely no excuse for waiting that long before... um, I mean... er... anyone want a drink?"
Dr. Bill Frist said that Whittington was doing well and should be released from the hospital in a day or two. He also announced that Terry Schiavo was in stable condition, and he was optimistic that Coretta Scott King would be making a full recovery.
President Bush was available for comment but, as usual, the senior staff decided it would be best if he didn't speak.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
So first, the good news. The state of our union is... STRONG! Yes, that's right. In spite of the prodigious quantities of shit still raining down on the fan, Bush has assured us that everything is swell. I'm not sure who gathers the criteria for that decision, but I suspect it might be Dr. Bill Frist.
(In a related story, Terry Schiavo is still as active and alert as she ever was. Brilliant diagnosis there, Bones.)
Anyway, things are sunshine and rainbows and baskets of kittens here in the U.S. Plus, it seems that democracy is all the rage in the Middle East these days! Even the Palestinians recently held elections, although I notice Bush sort of forgot to mention them...
However, it appears there may be some darkness on the horizon. After telling us about how spying on us was good for the country and how every American president since Benjamin Franklin had done it, and his grand plans to cut the deficit in half by 2009 through prayer and magic, and his scheme to wean America off of its oil addiction by gradually making the move to switch grass... wh... what?... Bush finally zeroed in on the true threat.
Turns out, it's not terrorists. It's not liberals. It's not even monogamous gays! No, the danger we all face as Americans is... wait for it... animal/human hybrids!!!
Yep. Manimals. Chimeras. Unholy, unstoppable monkeyman killing machines who eat bullets and shit wholesale destruction! And then fling it at you!!!
Bush apparently became quite concerned about this issue after watching the documentary Thundercats, and has now decided to nip it in the bud lest we face a nightmarish, Orwellian future of beastmen infiltrating our culture, taking away jobs from hard-working Indian contractors and demanding the vote.
So, to recap: The union is strong. Democracy is good, unless you're a Palestinian. Spying is good. Switch grass is better than oil. Manimals are bad! BAAAD!!!!
And, most likely, liberal.