I went to see Umberto Eco on Sunday night!
For the benefit of those of you who might be, no offense, utter Philistines, Umberto Eco is the brilliant Italian author who wrote a bunch of books you've probably never heard of, except maybe The Name of the Rose, which was made into a movie with Sean Connery and Christian Slater. And since it was the 80s, probably Molly Ringwald.
I've been a huge fan of the man since I read Foucault's Pendulum, which was my introduction to the whole goofy Knights Templar/Holy Grail conspiracy theory. Unlike Dan Brown (whose The Da Vinci Code is widely regarded as a historical treatise by people who are too retarded to remember that they found it in the fiction section), Eco approached the subject matter with his tongue firmly in his cheek.
(I've been working on my own novel about the Templars for quite some time now. My research has run the gamut from the historical to the dubious to the downright retarded, but it was Eco's novel that got me hooked in the first place.)
So anyway, Umberto Eco was in town on Sunday night for an interview and some selected readings, to be followed by pedantic questions from the audience. I went with my friends Sean and Silver, who are my comrades in all things pretentious.
I've never heard Professor Eco speak before, but the guy is just astonishingly brilliant. As it turns out, he's also very witty and engaging. At one point, he was asked about his love of mysteries and he responsed that all philosophers read mysteries, even if they won't admit it, because mysteries ask the greatest question that all philosophers face with regards to existence, "Whodunnit?"
Eco also remarked that he'd been disappointed by the movie adaptation of The Name of the Rose, and had decided afterwards that he would never allow another movie to be made from his work. He said he was contacted some time later by a producer who wanted to adapt Foucault's Pendulum and get Stanley Kubrick to direct. Eco declined the offer, but said he began to have second thoughts about it. Unfortunately, Kubrick passed away about that time.
Dammit. That would've rocked.
After the interview and a few selected readings from his new novel, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, it was time for the audience Q&A. Since this presentation was being recorded for radio broadcast on KERA 90.1, a lot of people seemed to view this as their opportunity to audition.
One dufus stood up with a notecard and read some rambling question that I'm sure sounded really clever when he was writing it in the bubble bath. "Professore, I won't ask you to tell a lie about the truth, for that would be a sin in the eyes of God, but rather I'm asking you to tell the truth about a lie because a lie is just the truth when the truth lies like a true in lie that the heart makes when true is true true lie true true that true because lie true with the lie that is true or is truth that is a lie..."
Or something like that. I lost track of the question, and apparently Professor Eco did as well. He turned to the moderator, confused, to ask him what the fuck this jackass was babbling about (only in a much more cultured and sophisticated way, I imagine).
So after meandering through this witty treacle for five minutes, the dork finally concluded weakly with, "Um, so what are your thoughts on that?" Eco then had the man dragged outside and beaten by NPR goons.
Afterwards, we all went out to stand in a long-ass line and get our books signed. I was really hoping for an opportunity to talk to the professor, just to let him know what an impact his work had made on me. I know he probably hears that kind of crap all the time, but still...
Unfortunately, we were at the back of the line. By the time we got to the front, Eco was clearly exhausted and not at his most sociable. People from his entourage were simply grabbing books from us and handing them to him, and he was just signing them as quickly as he could. He handed my copy of The Island of the Day Before to me, and I thanked him, but I don't think he even noticed. He was too busy signing the next one.
Sigh... it's probably just as well. I would've just said something stupid. "Did you know that a lie is just the truth about an untruth but the truth about a lie is not the truth? Um, so what are your thoughts on that?"
--------------------------
During the intermission, I got to talking to a woman named Stephanie who was sitting behind us. She's cute, smart, funny, and ever bit as geeky as my friends and I. She is also, it turns out, a slathering fangirl of our man Eco.
She joined us for dinner afterwards at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant. And while we were all eating, Umberto Eco and his entourage came in.
We chattered excitedly amongst ourselves, wondering what we should do. Should we go talk to him? Should we invite him to sit with us? Should we offer to buy him dinner?
(Silver actually proposed that last suggestion, and then dismissed it because "the man looks like he could eat a lot.")
Anyway, apart from the anticlimatic Eco encounter, dinner was a blast. I was probably a tad more manic than usual because I was showing off for Stephanie. I do that sometimes, because I have the social acumen of a five year old.
But we had fun, and I don't think I scared her *too* badly. We wound up exchanging e-mail addresses and website info because, as I may have mentioned, we're both a tad geeky. I also snuck my phone number into the mix because, dammit, I'm smooooooth!
Just ask the ladies that haven't filed restraining orders, baby!
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
Evil Monogomous Gays Threaten Holy Institution of Marriage!!!
I know there's a huge nature vs. nurture debate with regards to homosexuality, but I've been wondering if it's possible to turn gay simply out of spite. Because if it is, I think I might be just one showtune away...
My grandfather is circulating another e-mail. This one simply reads:
The petition itself is from the American Family Association (AFA), and it's basically a short-bus rant about how "activist liberal judges are intent on destroying the institution of marriage." Apparently, the ENTIRE NATION wants to ban same-sex marriage, but a small group of Democrats in the Senate managed to thwart the gaybashing will of the masses.
Goddamn, those are some powerful Democrats! And here I've been mourning the decline of the Democratic party like an idiot for the past few years. I had no idea our entire nation was at the mercy of these Überliberals! And you can't shoot them, because these bad boys eat bullets and shit filibusters, my brother!!!
But I digress...
One of the problems is the line between church and state gets really blurry when you're talking about marriage. Of course, most people don't feel that "separation of church and state" really applies if it's THEIR church that's getting shoved down the throats of the population, which is why they have no problem supporting a constitutional amendment to preserve the Judeo-Christian definition of marriage.
We've already made the distinction between marriages and civil unions. The problem is, the government has decided to ignore the one over which they actually have jurisdiction and instead focus on the one that is none of their business. If marriage truly is a "God-ordained institution," then the federal government has no business legislating it. Leave that up to the churches to decide. If you're a gay Southern Baptist and the Grand Imperial Wizard says no to same-sex marriage, then look elsewhere. (Of course, without dancing and drinking, that would be one suck-ass wedding anyway. I'm just saying...)
The fact that this is even an issue just goes to show you how retarded our nation can be. Back in 2000, Gore and Bush both stated that they felt the issue of same-sex marriage should be left up to each state. Not an ideal solution, but certainly preferable to our current federal mandate of gaybashing.
So what happened? Well, during the 2004 campaign, Bush kept saying he wanted to run on his record. But things weren't going all that well in Iraq, and the economy and job market were tanking here on the homefront. So somebody (*cough* Karl Rove *cough*) had the brilliant idea of misdirecting the voters by making up an issue.
Bush made his pronouncement that marriage should be between a man and a woman. Kerry concurred. But Bush went on to say there should be a constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage. Kerry disagreed. In fact, so did Cheney. But it didn't matter. By that time, most of Bush's supporters had conveniently forgotten about the real issues and were already yammering on about how Kerry supports gay marriage and Kerry wants to make gay marriage mandatory and how if Kerry has his way, then the next thing you know people will want to marry goats...
So now, depending on who you believe, our nation is either totally polarized by this non-issue (according to the Jew-run liberal media) or we're all united in this fight against all things faaabulous except for a few damn liberal holdouts (according to the AFA). Either way, the line has been drawn and the battle is underway to ensure the survival of hot, wet man/woman nuptials.
I just don't get it. It's not like there's any overlap in these two areas. It's not like hordes of men who would've otherwise married women are going to suddenly turn gay. Banning same-sex marriage accomplishes nothing. It's about as pointless as banning Peanut M&Ms to preserve the sancity of the plain ones.
Thanks for listening. You've been very therapeutic.
My grandfather is circulating another e-mail. This one simply reads:
The God-ordained institution of marriage is under attack in courts across the nation, and your help is needed to save it before the one man-one woman definition of marriage is completely and radically redefined. Go to www.nogaymarriage.com and sign the petition supporting the Marriage Protection Amendment.
The petition itself is from the American Family Association (AFA), and it's basically a short-bus rant about how "activist liberal judges are intent on destroying the institution of marriage." Apparently, the ENTIRE NATION wants to ban same-sex marriage, but a small group of Democrats in the Senate managed to thwart the gaybashing will of the masses.
Goddamn, those are some powerful Democrats! And here I've been mourning the decline of the Democratic party like an idiot for the past few years. I had no idea our entire nation was at the mercy of these Überliberals! And you can't shoot them, because these bad boys eat bullets and shit filibusters, my brother!!!
But I digress...
One of the problems is the line between church and state gets really blurry when you're talking about marriage. Of course, most people don't feel that "separation of church and state" really applies if it's THEIR church that's getting shoved down the throats of the population, which is why they have no problem supporting a constitutional amendment to preserve the Judeo-Christian definition of marriage.
We've already made the distinction between marriages and civil unions. The problem is, the government has decided to ignore the one over which they actually have jurisdiction and instead focus on the one that is none of their business. If marriage truly is a "God-ordained institution," then the federal government has no business legislating it. Leave that up to the churches to decide. If you're a gay Southern Baptist and the Grand Imperial Wizard says no to same-sex marriage, then look elsewhere. (Of course, without dancing and drinking, that would be one suck-ass wedding anyway. I'm just saying...)
The fact that this is even an issue just goes to show you how retarded our nation can be. Back in 2000, Gore and Bush both stated that they felt the issue of same-sex marriage should be left up to each state. Not an ideal solution, but certainly preferable to our current federal mandate of gaybashing.
So what happened? Well, during the 2004 campaign, Bush kept saying he wanted to run on his record. But things weren't going all that well in Iraq, and the economy and job market were tanking here on the homefront. So somebody (*cough* Karl Rove *cough*) had the brilliant idea of misdirecting the voters by making up an issue.
Bush made his pronouncement that marriage should be between a man and a woman. Kerry concurred. But Bush went on to say there should be a constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage. Kerry disagreed. In fact, so did Cheney. But it didn't matter. By that time, most of Bush's supporters had conveniently forgotten about the real issues and were already yammering on about how Kerry supports gay marriage and Kerry wants to make gay marriage mandatory and how if Kerry has his way, then the next thing you know people will want to marry goats...
So now, depending on who you believe, our nation is either totally polarized by this non-issue (according to the Jew-run liberal media) or we're all united in this fight against all things faaabulous except for a few damn liberal holdouts (according to the AFA). Either way, the line has been drawn and the battle is underway to ensure the survival of hot, wet man/woman nuptials.
I just don't get it. It's not like there's any overlap in these two areas. It's not like hordes of men who would've otherwise married women are going to suddenly turn gay. Banning same-sex marriage accomplishes nothing. It's about as pointless as banning Peanut M&Ms to preserve the sancity of the plain ones.
Thanks for listening. You've been very therapeutic.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Let Them Sing It For You
Here's a fun little doohickey that'll allow you to recruit the singing talents of our hottest pop stars, and then bend them to your own sick and twisted agenda. Sort of like "We are the World," with two key differences:
Bonus: Click here to listen to Chris Isaac, Olivia Newton John, and probably REM shilling for my own humble blog. Sing it, you magnificent bastards!!!
- Instead of singing a line apiece, each performer gets a single word.
- The results of this musical bouillabaisse will have little, if any, effect on world hunger.
Okay, so maybe there's only one key difference. But hey! It's still fun, right?
We are the ones who make a brighter day,
So let's start clicking...
Bonus: Click here to listen to Chris Isaac, Olivia Newton John, and probably REM shilling for my own humble blog. Sing it, you magnificent bastards!!!
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Zen and the Art of Comics...
If you've spent any time around me, you know I can't go more than seven seconds without mentioning Generika Adventures (the online comic written by me and illustrated by prodigious man-child Errol "Maximus" Pinto).
The way it works is that I send Maximus this:
----------
Strip #78
The Temple of LMNO Evil – Part I
Panel 1:
We see two doorways within the Temple of LMNO Evil (I’m thinking the Ruins tileset would be about right, but you make the call), divided by a barrier of sorts (fence placeable or sawhorses). GILLETTE, MAYNARD, ELIMAE and GROKKO all stand in the doorway to the left. (If you can manage a turnstile in front of them, that would be great. Otherwise, don’t sweat it). They look slightly worn from standing in line for the past two hours. There are several ADVENTURERS making their way out the door on the right. An Exit sign hangs over the right-hand door.
Caption: The Temple of LMNO Evil…
Gillette: Praise Noehtal. We finally made it through that accursed line.
Panel 2:
The party is walking past a fake PHONETICUS, with a ridiculously cartoony head. He is dressed in a cheesy robe with letters all over it, and he holds a staff with a large A on top of it. We see many ADVENTURERS milling around. GILLETTE looks disgusted by the whole scene.
Phoneticus: Howdy, folks! Welcome to the Temple of LMNO Evil, where adventure is yours for the taking! And don’t forget to visit our gift shop on your way out, for a souvenir of your dungeon-delving derring-do.
Gillette: Disgusting.
Panel 3:
The party is walking past the food court. We can see the SIGNS of several restaurants, plus a BANNER hanging overhead. There are also tables and chairs in the area, and lots of ADVENTURERS milling about (as usual). (Work in as many of the signs as you can, but don’t worry if they won’t all fit.)
Banner: FOOD COURT
Sign: Alphabites!
Sign: Renfru’s Authentic Dwarven Kitchen
Sign: The Eatin’ Ettin
Sign: Burger Khan
Sign: Leaping Lizard Shanks
Gillette: This place is a travesty, a blatant mockery of the fine tradition of adventuring.
Panel 4:
The party is walking past a large courtyard littered with rubble and debris. A number of ADVENTURERS are “exploring” the area. In particular, we see two MEN in modest armor excitedly peering into a barrel. A BANNER hangs overhead.
Banner: ADVENTURE CORNER
Man: Woohooo! There’s 3 gold pieces in this barrel!
Gillette: Nothing but a bunch of poseurs and wannabes, who wouldn’t know a *real* adventure if it sank its considerable fangs into their soft, flabby posteriors.
Panel 5:
The party is walking past a stage, where a bunch of ADVENTURERS are gathered. On the stage is GUNTER, a large and burly man. He is juggling three HALFLINGS. GILLETTE is still ranting on, but the rest of the party has been distracted by the show. A BANNER hangs overhead.
Banner: GUNTER THE HOBBIT JUGGLER
Gillette: It’s truly sad. If my former colleagues could see just what has become of their once noble profession, they’d spin in their crypts.
Panel 6:
GILLETTE is walking alone past a stage with a drawn curtain. A SIGN sits on or near the stage, and a BANNER hangs overhead. A few (not many) ADVENTURERS are milling about the area.
Banner: THE FALL OF THE ALPHABET CULT
A Historical Re-enactment with Hand Puppets
Sign: Next Show – 3:15
Gillette: No respect for tradition. That’s the fault inherent in this whole gaudy affair. These people have absolutely no regard for…
Panel 7:
The same scene as panel 6, only GILLETTE is no longer walking. He has just realized that he’s been abandoned.
Gillette: Um, guys?
Panel 8:
We’re back at the halfling juggling show from panel 5. GILLETTE is standing to the side, glaring angrily at the other three. MAYNARD and GROKKO are watching the show excitedly. ELIMAE is looking at GILLETTE with a huge grin on her face.
Elimae: Aww, come on, Gillette! It’s *hobbit* juggling!
----------
And he then turns it into this:
Anyway, I usually manage to stay a day or two ahead of the schedule, and most of the time, I have at least a vague inkling of where I'm going with the story.
But on Sunday, I swear I got into a zone! I sat down around 9:00 in the evening to knock out a couple of strips. The next thing I knew, it was 3:15 in the morning and I'd churned out 16 of the goddamn things!
I don't want to give too much away. So I'll just say that our intrepid adventurers have faced down some pretty tough adversaries in the past: socially-retarded wizards, alphabet cultists, trolls ("U SUK L4M3R5!!!"), and a fungus demon. However, soon they will find themselves face to face with the most insidious evil in the universe... Ann Coulter!!!
I swear, this shit practically wrote itself. I love it when that happens!
The way it works is that I send Maximus this:
----------
Strip #78
The Temple of LMNO Evil – Part I
Panel 1:
We see two doorways within the Temple of LMNO Evil (I’m thinking the Ruins tileset would be about right, but you make the call), divided by a barrier of sorts (fence placeable or sawhorses). GILLETTE, MAYNARD, ELIMAE and GROKKO all stand in the doorway to the left. (If you can manage a turnstile in front of them, that would be great. Otherwise, don’t sweat it). They look slightly worn from standing in line for the past two hours. There are several ADVENTURERS making their way out the door on the right. An Exit sign hangs over the right-hand door.
Caption: The Temple of LMNO Evil…
Gillette: Praise Noehtal. We finally made it through that accursed line.
Panel 2:
The party is walking past a fake PHONETICUS, with a ridiculously cartoony head. He is dressed in a cheesy robe with letters all over it, and he holds a staff with a large A on top of it. We see many ADVENTURERS milling around. GILLETTE looks disgusted by the whole scene.
Phoneticus: Howdy, folks! Welcome to the Temple of LMNO Evil, where adventure is yours for the taking! And don’t forget to visit our gift shop on your way out, for a souvenir of your dungeon-delving derring-do.
Gillette: Disgusting.
Panel 3:
The party is walking past the food court. We can see the SIGNS of several restaurants, plus a BANNER hanging overhead. There are also tables and chairs in the area, and lots of ADVENTURERS milling about (as usual). (Work in as many of the signs as you can, but don’t worry if they won’t all fit.)
Banner: FOOD COURT
Sign: Alphabites!
Sign: Renfru’s Authentic Dwarven Kitchen
Sign: The Eatin’ Ettin
Sign: Burger Khan
Sign: Leaping Lizard Shanks
Gillette: This place is a travesty, a blatant mockery of the fine tradition of adventuring.
Panel 4:
The party is walking past a large courtyard littered with rubble and debris. A number of ADVENTURERS are “exploring” the area. In particular, we see two MEN in modest armor excitedly peering into a barrel. A BANNER hangs overhead.
Banner: ADVENTURE CORNER
Man: Woohooo! There’s 3 gold pieces in this barrel!
Gillette: Nothing but a bunch of poseurs and wannabes, who wouldn’t know a *real* adventure if it sank its considerable fangs into their soft, flabby posteriors.
Panel 5:
The party is walking past a stage, where a bunch of ADVENTURERS are gathered. On the stage is GUNTER, a large and burly man. He is juggling three HALFLINGS. GILLETTE is still ranting on, but the rest of the party has been distracted by the show. A BANNER hangs overhead.
Banner: GUNTER THE HOBBIT JUGGLER
Gillette: It’s truly sad. If my former colleagues could see just what has become of their once noble profession, they’d spin in their crypts.
Panel 6:
GILLETTE is walking alone past a stage with a drawn curtain. A SIGN sits on or near the stage, and a BANNER hangs overhead. A few (not many) ADVENTURERS are milling about the area.
Banner: THE FALL OF THE ALPHABET CULT
A Historical Re-enactment with Hand Puppets
Sign: Next Show – 3:15
Gillette: No respect for tradition. That’s the fault inherent in this whole gaudy affair. These people have absolutely no regard for…
Panel 7:
The same scene as panel 6, only GILLETTE is no longer walking. He has just realized that he’s been abandoned.
Gillette: Um, guys?
Panel 8:
We’re back at the halfling juggling show from panel 5. GILLETTE is standing to the side, glaring angrily at the other three. MAYNARD and GROKKO are watching the show excitedly. ELIMAE is looking at GILLETTE with a huge grin on her face.
Elimae: Aww, come on, Gillette! It’s *hobbit* juggling!
----------
And he then turns it into this:
Click. Read. Repeat.
Anyway, I usually manage to stay a day or two ahead of the schedule, and most of the time, I have at least a vague inkling of where I'm going with the story.
But on Sunday, I swear I got into a zone! I sat down around 9:00 in the evening to knock out a couple of strips. The next thing I knew, it was 3:15 in the morning and I'd churned out 16 of the goddamn things!
I don't want to give too much away. So I'll just say that our intrepid adventurers have faced down some pretty tough adversaries in the past: socially-retarded wizards, alphabet cultists, trolls ("U SUK L4M3R5!!!"), and a fungus demon. However, soon they will find themselves face to face with the most insidious evil in the universe... Ann Coulter!!!
I swear, this shit practically wrote itself. I love it when that happens!
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Return of the IXes! (Or is that IXii?)
Ego, a.k.a. IX (neither of which is his REAL name, in case you're wondering), and his family got back from their vacation on Friday night. And they were so grateful to me for watching their house and not beating their dog Daisy into a coma with a sockful of oranges that IX's incredibly hot wife agreed to sleep with me.
No, just kidding. But they did take me out to a very nice dinner. And then IX agreed to sleep with me.
Welcome home, guys!
No, just kidding. But they did take me out to a very nice dinner. And then IX agreed to sleep with me.
Welcome home, guys!
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Schrodinger's Scat
Okay, so it's been almost a week since I last posted. I'm happy to report that IX's house is still standing and Daisy is still alive. But only because I'm a loving and forgiving person...
We had a system. Each morning, around 8:00, I'd wake up and feed her. Then, around 8:30 or 9:00, I'd open the back door and she'd run into the back yard. I'd tell her to "Go potty" about three or four times, and she'd trot out onto the grass and do her business.
But apparently we had a tiff on Sunday night. Maybe it's just me. I'm not sensitive to dogs' needs. All I know is, around 3:00 in the morning, she came bounding into the bedroom and jumped into the bed with me. I woke up to that goddamn cold nose jammed in my eye. So I bolted up and shouted, "No! Off!"
It took about ten minutes, but she finally gave up trying to get up on the bed. She went over to her pillow and laid down, but didn't go to sleep. She just sat there, staring at me and whining.
The next morning, she came running when I put her food out, and I assumed everything was back to normal. But when it came time to "Go potty," she simply refused. I'd open the back door, and she'd run into the dining room. I finally coaxed, coerced, and shoved her out back, with her whining the whole time like I was some kind of dog-beating Nazi scum.
But once she was out, she wouldn't go. For about fifteen minutes, I stood there and kept saying "Go potty." And she'd just sit there on the concrete, glaring at me. So I opened the door and she ran back into the house.
I tried four more times over the next three hours to get her to go, but she just refused. In fact, she'd run from me every time I asked her if she needed to go outside. After my last unsuccessful attempt, I just gave up and went to lunch.
I was only gone an hour or so, but when I got back, I could see she'd been busy. There was a huge dog turd in EVERY GODDAMN ROOM OF THE HOUSE! I honestly didn't know you could pack so much shit into one dog! It defied all known physical laws! It was like some kind of quantum poop!
So I opened the door and ordered her out, and she bolted upstairs. I chased her around the house and finally got her out the door, with her yipping and crying like I was coming after her with an axe. And then, I set about the unpleasant task of cleaning up.
Lest you think I'm a dog-hater, or that Daisy's life is in any danger, I should go ahead and tell you that apparently we've made up. Fortunately, dogs have a shorter memory span than most of Bush's supporters and Daisy's back to loving me again.
Of course, that might just be the Snausages talking...
Anyway, words can't possibly convey to you the sheer, god-renouncing, nihlistic horror that I experienced when I got back from lunch on Monday. So I've tried to recapture the moment as best I could through the magic of MS Paint.
We had a system. Each morning, around 8:00, I'd wake up and feed her. Then, around 8:30 or 9:00, I'd open the back door and she'd run into the back yard. I'd tell her to "Go potty" about three or four times, and she'd trot out onto the grass and do her business.
But apparently we had a tiff on Sunday night. Maybe it's just me. I'm not sensitive to dogs' needs. All I know is, around 3:00 in the morning, she came bounding into the bedroom and jumped into the bed with me. I woke up to that goddamn cold nose jammed in my eye. So I bolted up and shouted, "No! Off!"
It took about ten minutes, but she finally gave up trying to get up on the bed. She went over to her pillow and laid down, but didn't go to sleep. She just sat there, staring at me and whining.
The next morning, she came running when I put her food out, and I assumed everything was back to normal. But when it came time to "Go potty," she simply refused. I'd open the back door, and she'd run into the dining room. I finally coaxed, coerced, and shoved her out back, with her whining the whole time like I was some kind of dog-beating Nazi scum.
But once she was out, she wouldn't go. For about fifteen minutes, I stood there and kept saying "Go potty." And she'd just sit there on the concrete, glaring at me. So I opened the door and she ran back into the house.
I tried four more times over the next three hours to get her to go, but she just refused. In fact, she'd run from me every time I asked her if she needed to go outside. After my last unsuccessful attempt, I just gave up and went to lunch.
I was only gone an hour or so, but when I got back, I could see she'd been busy. There was a huge dog turd in EVERY GODDAMN ROOM OF THE HOUSE! I honestly didn't know you could pack so much shit into one dog! It defied all known physical laws! It was like some kind of quantum poop!
So I opened the door and ordered her out, and she bolted upstairs. I chased her around the house and finally got her out the door, with her yipping and crying like I was coming after her with an axe. And then, I set about the unpleasant task of cleaning up.
Lest you think I'm a dog-hater, or that Daisy's life is in any danger, I should go ahead and tell you that apparently we've made up. Fortunately, dogs have a shorter memory span than most of Bush's supporters and Daisy's back to loving me again.
Of course, that might just be the Snausages talking...
Anyway, words can't possibly convey to you the sheer, god-renouncing, nihlistic horror that I experienced when I got back from lunch on Monday. So I've tried to recapture the moment as best I could through the magic of MS Paint.
Daisy, you bitch!
Thursday, May 26, 2005
"When He Sits Around the House..."
So my buddy Ego (a.k.a. IX) took the wife and kids to Florida, and asked me to do some housesitting while they're gone.
I should mention that, as I rule, I don't housesit because of something very traumatic that happened to me years ago. But I remember it as if it were yesterday... yesterday... yesterday... yesterday...
[INSERT WAVY FLASHBACK EFFECT]
Back in the summer of 1998, my aunt and uncle flew to Jordan and left their car in my care. They were gone for two weeks, and during that time, every goddamn thing that could have possibly gone wrong with their car went wrong.
I accidentally left the lights on one night, which drained the battery. No big deal in and of itself, but merely a portent of things to come. (I was used to my car, which cut off the headlights automatically.)
Anyway, later that day, as I was driving to the store, I noticed the driver's side window was down about an inch. I tried to raise it (stupid power windows) but it wasn't working. It lowered fine, but wouldn't go back up. And while I was distracted by that, I plowed into one of those big orange and white barrels that they put up to block lanes. It bounced into the air and nailed the hood of the car, putting a big-ass crease in it.
Well, I was pretty poverty stricken at the time, but was hoping to scrape together enough cash to get the hood fixed before they returned. I drove the car from place to place over the next week, and they all told me the same thing... they couldn't fix the dent, they'd have to replace the hood.
It was somewhere around this time that the air conditioner stopped working.
In the meantime, I was parking the car in the parking garage at my office, because I was worried about rain with the window halfway down. And given my train of bad luck with the car, I was pretty sure it would happen.
So two days before they were set to arrive home, I went down to check on the car and I saw it had been broken into. Fortunately, there wasn't anything in there worth stealing. The hooligans didn't much care for my aunt and uncle's taste in music, so their CDs were scattered on the concrete outside the car. The trunk had been popped open, but nothing was taken.
Finally, the day arrived. And to tell you the truth, I was feeling horrible about the whole thing because I hadn't been able to get the damage fixed. Plus, it was 103 outside and their air conditioning wasn't working. But, at least their window was rolled down...
My sister and her husband agreed to meet me at the airport and be with me when I explained to my aunt and uncle what a shambles I had made of their car. And fortunately, when we helped them carry their luggage out, the car hadn't burst into flames or rolled backwards over a bunch of babies and puppies.
To their credit, they took it in stride. My uncle found somebody a few weeks later to repair the damage, and I paid for it. It's all good. They still love me, and trust me. Nobody harbors any grudges or hard feelings.
But I'm still scarred by the memories of the goddamn evil voodoo car. And every time somebody asks me to be responsible for something that belongs to them, I get all anxious and worried that I'm somehow going to fuck it up. You should've seen me the first time my sister asked me to babysit...
So anyway, back to IX. His family has a beautiful Rhodesian Ridgeback named Daisy who can't bear to be alone. (For those of you who don't know doggies, a Rhodesian Ridgeback is basically Marmaduke with a mohawk.) His usual housesitters/dogsitters bailed on him, so he asked me if I could spend my evenings at his place and make sure Daisy would be okay.
Anytime I need a favor, this guy is always there for me. So despite my neurotic misgivings and irrational fear that I would somehow burn down his house and/or dog, I agreed.
So far, my fears have been for nothing. Daisy's been an absolute angel. (She's lying on the floor next to my chair, noisily working over a Milkbone.) No crises, no explosions, no fires, no gas leaks, no rabid animal attacks, no boils, no rivers of blood, no death of the firstborn...
Only nine more nights to go. Keep your fingers crossed.
I should mention that, as I rule, I don't housesit because of something very traumatic that happened to me years ago. But I remember it as if it were yesterday... yesterday... yesterday... yesterday...
[INSERT WAVY FLASHBACK EFFECT]
Back in the summer of 1998, my aunt and uncle flew to Jordan and left their car in my care. They were gone for two weeks, and during that time, every goddamn thing that could have possibly gone wrong with their car went wrong.
I accidentally left the lights on one night, which drained the battery. No big deal in and of itself, but merely a portent of things to come. (I was used to my car, which cut off the headlights automatically.)
Anyway, later that day, as I was driving to the store, I noticed the driver's side window was down about an inch. I tried to raise it (stupid power windows) but it wasn't working. It lowered fine, but wouldn't go back up. And while I was distracted by that, I plowed into one of those big orange and white barrels that they put up to block lanes. It bounced into the air and nailed the hood of the car, putting a big-ass crease in it.
Well, I was pretty poverty stricken at the time, but was hoping to scrape together enough cash to get the hood fixed before they returned. I drove the car from place to place over the next week, and they all told me the same thing... they couldn't fix the dent, they'd have to replace the hood.
It was somewhere around this time that the air conditioner stopped working.
In the meantime, I was parking the car in the parking garage at my office, because I was worried about rain with the window halfway down. And given my train of bad luck with the car, I was pretty sure it would happen.
So two days before they were set to arrive home, I went down to check on the car and I saw it had been broken into. Fortunately, there wasn't anything in there worth stealing. The hooligans didn't much care for my aunt and uncle's taste in music, so their CDs were scattered on the concrete outside the car. The trunk had been popped open, but nothing was taken.
Finally, the day arrived. And to tell you the truth, I was feeling horrible about the whole thing because I hadn't been able to get the damage fixed. Plus, it was 103 outside and their air conditioning wasn't working. But, at least their window was rolled down...
My sister and her husband agreed to meet me at the airport and be with me when I explained to my aunt and uncle what a shambles I had made of their car. And fortunately, when we helped them carry their luggage out, the car hadn't burst into flames or rolled backwards over a bunch of babies and puppies.
To their credit, they took it in stride. My uncle found somebody a few weeks later to repair the damage, and I paid for it. It's all good. They still love me, and trust me. Nobody harbors any grudges or hard feelings.
But I'm still scarred by the memories of the goddamn evil voodoo car. And every time somebody asks me to be responsible for something that belongs to them, I get all anxious and worried that I'm somehow going to fuck it up. You should've seen me the first time my sister asked me to babysit...
So anyway, back to IX. His family has a beautiful Rhodesian Ridgeback named Daisy who can't bear to be alone. (For those of you who don't know doggies, a Rhodesian Ridgeback is basically Marmaduke with a mohawk.) His usual housesitters/dogsitters bailed on him, so he asked me if I could spend my evenings at his place and make sure Daisy would be okay.
Anytime I need a favor, this guy is always there for me. So despite my neurotic misgivings and irrational fear that I would somehow burn down his house and/or dog, I agreed.
So far, my fears have been for nothing. Daisy's been an absolute angel. (She's lying on the floor next to my chair, noisily working over a Milkbone.) No crises, no explosions, no fires, no gas leaks, no rabid animal attacks, no boils, no rivers of blood, no death of the firstborn...
Only nine more nights to go. Keep your fingers crossed.
It's Baaaaaaaaaack!
After about a 6-month hiatus, my comic strip Generika Adventures (illustrated by the lovely and waiflike Errol "Maximus" Pinto) is back in production. Which means I need to get off my sorry ass and start churning out scripts again!
------------------
On a totally unrelated note, here's a little something I threw together. I don't know if it's funny or offensive, since I long ago lost the ability to distinguish between the two.
------------------
On a totally unrelated note, here's a little something I threw together. I don't know if it's funny or offensive, since I long ago lost the ability to distinguish between the two.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Orange Alert
Note: I wrote the following short story back in 2003. I haven't managed to sell it yet, so I figured I'd just inflict it on you, my faithful readers. Enjoy!
-------------------------
The clock radio snapped on at 6:15, yanking Ben Griswold into reluctant consciousness. A woman's chipper voice droned on cheerfully about the news of the day. "...of Homeland Security has upgraded the threat level from yellow to orange. This means there is a high risk of terrorist attack..."
Ben slapped the clock silent and climbed out of bed. His stomach knotted as he considered the day ahead. It was Monday, which meant he and Mike were supposed to give their weekly update on the network upgrade. Just the thought of that unctuous, ass-kissing bastard this early in the morning was enough to make him taste bile.
Ben and Mike both reported to David "Dutch" Schulz, an obese man who chain-smoked, drank heavily, and occasionally ate an entire bucket of chicken for lunch. After his last heart attack, Dutch had announced that he would be retiring at the end of the year. He had then called Ben and Mike into his office and told them, "Look sharp, boys. One of you is going to have to take my place when I'm gone."
That had been a month ago, and since then Ben and Mike had struggled to one-up each other at every opportunity. When something went well, they both raced to take the credit. And when the inevitable shit hit the fan, neither could shift the blame fast enough.
Ben wanted that promotion, and had decided he would do whatever it took to get it, which is why he was up so early on a Monday morning. He was going to stop and pick up some Krispy Kremes on the way to work.
Dutch loved donuts.
"It's banana nut bread," Mike was saying, holding aloft the saran-wrapped plate. "My wife baked it fresh last night."
Dutch sat at the head of the table, or rather propped his considerable ass on the edge of his chair at the head of the table. His belly pressed against the table edge, and his hands were folded atop it. It wasn't eight yet, but his sleeves were already rolled up and his tie was loosened. Poor Dutch could break a sweat waiting for the elevator.
"That's nice, Mike," Dutch said. "Tell Molly I said thanks."
"Will do, Mr. Schulz," Mike said. He set the plate on the table and took his seat.
Dutch looked up at Ben, and his enormous face split into a gluttonous grin. "Ooh, donuts! Set those down right there!"
Ben ignored Mike's dirty look as he handed the box of donuts to his boss. Dutch tore the lid off and shoved an entire donut into his mouth.
Score one for the Griswold boy, Ben thought as he slid into his chair. He met Mike's angry glare and responded with a quick flash of his finger and thumb. "Loser," he mouthed.
"Okay, boys," Dutch said around a mouthful of pastry. "Where do we stand on the upgrade?"
"We're just about finished, sir," Ben said, beating Mike to the punch. "We were having a little trouble configuring the new DHCP settings, but I figured out how to..."
"Actually," Mike interrupted, "I was looking over Ben's settings and I'm a little concerned about the security of the..."
"The security?" Ben interrupted back. "Name one thing wrong with our security! I'm the one that got the firewall up and running, remember?"
"That's what concerns me," Mike said. "I think you're rushing things just so you can meet your deadline..."
"Our deadline! And I'm not rushing things! That firewall will protect our network from any hacker or any virus that..."
"I'd still feel more comfortable if I could check it myself," Mike said. "After all, I think results are far more important than just making deadlines. Right, Mr. Schulz?"
Dutch nodded and licked the glazed sugar from his fingers. "Better to have it right than have it quick."
"But it is right," Ben said desperately, hearing a defensive edge in his voice. He took a deep breath and said, "If you want to check it, Mike, feel free. But I stand by my work."
"Nobody's criticizing your work, Ben," Dutch said. "But better safe than sorry."
"Exactly!" Mike said with a triumphant grin. "Don't worry, Mr. Schulz. I'll make sure everything is running."
Flustered and frustrated, Ben clenched and unclenched his fists. His mind raced desperately for a way to upstage Mike and recapture the lead, but he couldn't think of anything other than his fervent desire to beat that smirk off of Mike's face with a chair. Just as he was about to give up and regroup for the next meeting, he was struck with inspiration.
"That's a good idea, Mike," Ben said amiably. Mike narrowed his eyes, justifiably suspicious. "Why don't we schedule a meeting to go over it together? How about this afternoon?"
Mike sighed. "I'll be out of the office this afternoon. My daughter has a soccer game." He glanced anxiously toward Dutch, who was on his sixth donut and showed no sign of slowing down. "Um, you remember I cleared that with you, Mr. Schulz?"
"Right, soccer game," Dutch said. "I remember now."
"Oh, that's too bad," Ben said. "Still, I guess family's got to come first, right? Much more important than work."
"We can go over it tomorrow," Mike said through gritted teeth.
"Whenever's convenient for you," Ben replied. "Oh, and while you're out, maybe I should double check your server backups. After all, I'd hate for the company to lose critical data while you were off with your family."
"Good idea, Ben," Dutch said. "Better safe than sorry."
For several seconds, the room was silent except for the sound of Dutch chewing noisily on yet another donut. Mike and Ben stared viciously at one another, each trying through sheer force of will to make the other's head explode.
But behind his poker face, Ben was elated. His heart was pounding with excitement and sheer joy at his masterful handling of the situation. No question about it. He had really shown Mike up this morning. Mike and his pathetic banana bread...
The fluorescent lights flickered and went out, drowning the entire floor in darkness. Blue lights in the ceiling began to flash intermittently, and the fire alarms hiccupped at the sudden loss of power.
The air conditioner was dead, and Ben's ears rang in the abrupt, stuffy silence. A scream came from somewhere down the hall, cut short by the startling burst of gunfire. More screams and angry shouts, and the sound of frantic footsteps echoed down the hallway.
"What the hell is going on?" Ben asked, startled by how loud his voice sounded.
Mike shushed him angrily. "Terrorists," he whispered.
"Terrorists?" Ben shook his head. "That's stupid. Why would terrorists..."
"Didn't you hear the news?" Mike whispered. "We're at Orange Alert."
"Oh crap," Dutch moaned, pressing his hand to his chest. "I'm going to have another heart attack."
"Don't worry, sir," Mike whispered, standing up. "I'll take care of it."
Ben snorted. "Oh, right. And just what are you..."
Mike shushed him again and moved silently to stand beside the door. Ben was about to comment once again on how stupid this whole thing was when he saw a flicker of light in the hallway. The light danced upon the carpet and the wall, bouncing in time with the approaching footsteps.
A bearded man in loose-fitting fatigues stalked down the hall, clutching an enormous rifle. Strapped to the barrel with duct tape was a yellow, underwater flashlight. Ben felt his throat tighten and he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. Behind him, he could hear Dutch's labored breathing, even over his own pounding heart.
The soldier stopped at the doorway and shined his light into the meeting room. When he caught Dutch in his bright beam, he shouted something in a foreign tongue and took aim.
Mike leaped from the shadows and grabbed the rifle. The man barely had time to shriek in surprise before Mike smashed him in the face with the butt of his gun. The terrorist fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Mike pressed the barrel of the rifle to the man's head and finished him off with one shot.
"Oh crap," Dutch whispered. "Oh crap oh crap oh crap..."
"It's going to be okay, sir," Mike said in a voice brimming with confidence. He slipped his tie from around his neck and tied it like a bandana around his head. Then he slapped a new clip into the rifle, and slid back the bolt with a metallic snick. "I'll teach these bastards they can't mess with the good ol' U.S. of A."
And with that, Mike bolted off into the darkness. A few minutes later, Ben heard machine gun fire and angry, guttural shouts that turned into dying screams. And above it all, he could hear Mike shouting, "Yeah, you like that? You want some? How about you? Take that, you terrorist bastards!"
Ben took shelter with Dutch under the table, waiting for the end of the threat. He crouched on the floor with his panting, sweating boss and imagined Mike, bloodcaked and grimy, unleashing death on wave after wave of terrorists.
And he sighed. Great, he thought. How in the hell am I ever going to top that?
----------------------
Orange Alert © 2005 by Chris Irby
-------------------------
The clock radio snapped on at 6:15, yanking Ben Griswold into reluctant consciousness. A woman's chipper voice droned on cheerfully about the news of the day. "...of Homeland Security has upgraded the threat level from yellow to orange. This means there is a high risk of terrorist attack..."
Ben slapped the clock silent and climbed out of bed. His stomach knotted as he considered the day ahead. It was Monday, which meant he and Mike were supposed to give their weekly update on the network upgrade. Just the thought of that unctuous, ass-kissing bastard this early in the morning was enough to make him taste bile.
Ben and Mike both reported to David "Dutch" Schulz, an obese man who chain-smoked, drank heavily, and occasionally ate an entire bucket of chicken for lunch. After his last heart attack, Dutch had announced that he would be retiring at the end of the year. He had then called Ben and Mike into his office and told them, "Look sharp, boys. One of you is going to have to take my place when I'm gone."
That had been a month ago, and since then Ben and Mike had struggled to one-up each other at every opportunity. When something went well, they both raced to take the credit. And when the inevitable shit hit the fan, neither could shift the blame fast enough.
Ben wanted that promotion, and had decided he would do whatever it took to get it, which is why he was up so early on a Monday morning. He was going to stop and pick up some Krispy Kremes on the way to work.
Dutch loved donuts.
* * *
"It's banana nut bread," Mike was saying, holding aloft the saran-wrapped plate. "My wife baked it fresh last night."
Dutch sat at the head of the table, or rather propped his considerable ass on the edge of his chair at the head of the table. His belly pressed against the table edge, and his hands were folded atop it. It wasn't eight yet, but his sleeves were already rolled up and his tie was loosened. Poor Dutch could break a sweat waiting for the elevator.
"That's nice, Mike," Dutch said. "Tell Molly I said thanks."
"Will do, Mr. Schulz," Mike said. He set the plate on the table and took his seat.
Dutch looked up at Ben, and his enormous face split into a gluttonous grin. "Ooh, donuts! Set those down right there!"
Ben ignored Mike's dirty look as he handed the box of donuts to his boss. Dutch tore the lid off and shoved an entire donut into his mouth.
Score one for the Griswold boy, Ben thought as he slid into his chair. He met Mike's angry glare and responded with a quick flash of his finger and thumb. "Loser," he mouthed.
"Okay, boys," Dutch said around a mouthful of pastry. "Where do we stand on the upgrade?"
"We're just about finished, sir," Ben said, beating Mike to the punch. "We were having a little trouble configuring the new DHCP settings, but I figured out how to..."
"Actually," Mike interrupted, "I was looking over Ben's settings and I'm a little concerned about the security of the..."
"The security?" Ben interrupted back. "Name one thing wrong with our security! I'm the one that got the firewall up and running, remember?"
"That's what concerns me," Mike said. "I think you're rushing things just so you can meet your deadline..."
"Our deadline! And I'm not rushing things! That firewall will protect our network from any hacker or any virus that..."
"I'd still feel more comfortable if I could check it myself," Mike said. "After all, I think results are far more important than just making deadlines. Right, Mr. Schulz?"
Dutch nodded and licked the glazed sugar from his fingers. "Better to have it right than have it quick."
"But it is right," Ben said desperately, hearing a defensive edge in his voice. He took a deep breath and said, "If you want to check it, Mike, feel free. But I stand by my work."
"Nobody's criticizing your work, Ben," Dutch said. "But better safe than sorry."
"Exactly!" Mike said with a triumphant grin. "Don't worry, Mr. Schulz. I'll make sure everything is running."
Flustered and frustrated, Ben clenched and unclenched his fists. His mind raced desperately for a way to upstage Mike and recapture the lead, but he couldn't think of anything other than his fervent desire to beat that smirk off of Mike's face with a chair. Just as he was about to give up and regroup for the next meeting, he was struck with inspiration.
"That's a good idea, Mike," Ben said amiably. Mike narrowed his eyes, justifiably suspicious. "Why don't we schedule a meeting to go over it together? How about this afternoon?"
Mike sighed. "I'll be out of the office this afternoon. My daughter has a soccer game." He glanced anxiously toward Dutch, who was on his sixth donut and showed no sign of slowing down. "Um, you remember I cleared that with you, Mr. Schulz?"
"Right, soccer game," Dutch said. "I remember now."
"Oh, that's too bad," Ben said. "Still, I guess family's got to come first, right? Much more important than work."
"We can go over it tomorrow," Mike said through gritted teeth.
"Whenever's convenient for you," Ben replied. "Oh, and while you're out, maybe I should double check your server backups. After all, I'd hate for the company to lose critical data while you were off with your family."
"Good idea, Ben," Dutch said. "Better safe than sorry."
For several seconds, the room was silent except for the sound of Dutch chewing noisily on yet another donut. Mike and Ben stared viciously at one another, each trying through sheer force of will to make the other's head explode.
But behind his poker face, Ben was elated. His heart was pounding with excitement and sheer joy at his masterful handling of the situation. No question about it. He had really shown Mike up this morning. Mike and his pathetic banana bread...
* * *
The fluorescent lights flickered and went out, drowning the entire floor in darkness. Blue lights in the ceiling began to flash intermittently, and the fire alarms hiccupped at the sudden loss of power.
The air conditioner was dead, and Ben's ears rang in the abrupt, stuffy silence. A scream came from somewhere down the hall, cut short by the startling burst of gunfire. More screams and angry shouts, and the sound of frantic footsteps echoed down the hallway.
"What the hell is going on?" Ben asked, startled by how loud his voice sounded.
Mike shushed him angrily. "Terrorists," he whispered.
"Terrorists?" Ben shook his head. "That's stupid. Why would terrorists..."
"Didn't you hear the news?" Mike whispered. "We're at Orange Alert."
"Oh crap," Dutch moaned, pressing his hand to his chest. "I'm going to have another heart attack."
"Don't worry, sir," Mike whispered, standing up. "I'll take care of it."
Ben snorted. "Oh, right. And just what are you..."
Mike shushed him again and moved silently to stand beside the door. Ben was about to comment once again on how stupid this whole thing was when he saw a flicker of light in the hallway. The light danced upon the carpet and the wall, bouncing in time with the approaching footsteps.
A bearded man in loose-fitting fatigues stalked down the hall, clutching an enormous rifle. Strapped to the barrel with duct tape was a yellow, underwater flashlight. Ben felt his throat tighten and he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. Behind him, he could hear Dutch's labored breathing, even over his own pounding heart.
The soldier stopped at the doorway and shined his light into the meeting room. When he caught Dutch in his bright beam, he shouted something in a foreign tongue and took aim.
Mike leaped from the shadows and grabbed the rifle. The man barely had time to shriek in surprise before Mike smashed him in the face with the butt of his gun. The terrorist fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Mike pressed the barrel of the rifle to the man's head and finished him off with one shot.
"Oh crap," Dutch whispered. "Oh crap oh crap oh crap..."
"It's going to be okay, sir," Mike said in a voice brimming with confidence. He slipped his tie from around his neck and tied it like a bandana around his head. Then he slapped a new clip into the rifle, and slid back the bolt with a metallic snick. "I'll teach these bastards they can't mess with the good ol' U.S. of A."
And with that, Mike bolted off into the darkness. A few minutes later, Ben heard machine gun fire and angry, guttural shouts that turned into dying screams. And above it all, he could hear Mike shouting, "Yeah, you like that? You want some? How about you? Take that, you terrorist bastards!"
Ben took shelter with Dutch under the table, waiting for the end of the threat. He crouched on the floor with his panting, sweating boss and imagined Mike, bloodcaked and grimy, unleashing death on wave after wave of terrorists.
And he sighed. Great, he thought. How in the hell am I ever going to top that?
----------------------
Orange Alert © 2005 by Chris Irby
Friday, May 20, 2005
Runnin' with the Devil!
Ever since I received that alarming e-mail about how Madalyn Murray O'Hair had risen from the grave to get Touched By an Angel canceled, I've been a nervous wreck. I knew the hoary master of the netherworld was running amok in the new millenium, but I had no idea of the extent of his nefarious reach...
Until now!
Satan has infiltrated the Republicans:
The Democrats:
The Rulers of Foreign Lands:
Upstanding members of the Televangelist Community:
Our beloved Celebrities:
And finally, our Superheroes:
And as the tendrils of the nefarious satanic conspiracy continue to make like Bill O'Reilly and reveal themselves, I can't help but wonder if there's anybody left to stand against them. Somebody brave and stalwart enough to kick evil in the nutsack and make it his bitch. Somebody like...
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Until now!
The Sign of Satan, a secret gesture
known only to those who worship the devil
or listen to rock music.
Satan has infiltrated the Republicans:
George W. and Laura Bush
(The W stands for "Wucifer")
Dan Quayle
(He thought he was
selling his soul to Santa)
Tom Ridge
(But only after he took over Home Depot)
The Democrats:
Bill Clinton
(The man has had sex with Monica Lewinsky,
Paula Jones, and [allegedly] Hilary Clinton...
HE NO LONGER FEARS HELL)
John Edwards
(Satan thought he was psychic John Edward...
by the time he realized the mistake,
Crossing Over had already been canceled)
The Rulers of Foreign Lands:
Prince William of Wales
(Seen here using his powers of dark persuasion
to convince his brother Harry to dress like a Nazi)
Yasser Arafat
(Actually, it turns out Arafat was just an avid University of Texas fan)
Upstanding members of the Televangelist Community:
Benny Hinn
(His soul was severely undervalued,
so he also does Satan's lawn on the weekends)
Kenneth Copeland
(Who is not only flashing the devil sign, but is
apparently about to give his congregation the finger)
Our beloved Celebrities:
Randy Jackson
(Originally wanted to call the show American Graven Image)
Liz Taylor
(Perhaps the only one of Satan's minions entitled to a refund)
Amy Grant
("Baby, baby, I'm taken with the notion...
TO FEAST ON YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL!
MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!")
And finally, our Superheroes:
Spiderman
('Nuff said, True Believer!)
And as the tendrils of the nefarious satanic conspiracy continue to make like Bill O'Reilly and reveal themselves, I can't help but wonder if there's anybody left to stand against them. Somebody brave and stalwart enough to kick evil in the nutsack and make it his bitch. Somebody like...
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Fun with Jack Chick #9
I didn't make any changes to this one. I just thought it was funny that this Jack Chick tract was the story of a man reading a Jack Chick tract. But I guess it's that kind of self-promotion that has helped Mr. Chick build his funnybook ministry into a hate-spewing empire...
(Actually, now that I think about it, this makes about as much sense as believing the Bible is the literal and unerring word of God because "it says so, right there in the Bible!")
"Thank You, Ladies and Gentlemen! I'll Be Here Until 2009!"
As most people know, the White House Correspondents' Dinner is an annual event where the President gathers with the press corps to crack jokes about his ineffectual domestic policies and all the people he's gotten killed overseas.
But this year, for a change of pace, Laura Bush delivered a funny (and oddly risque) monologue which featured, among other things, the escapades of Lynne Cheney at Chippendale's and a joke about George W. jacking off a horse.
Even funnier than the First Lady's schtick was the Daily Show's coverage of the event. I don't know what else to say, except that I've watched this about a dozen times and it still makes me giggle like Rumsfeld at an orphan burning.
But this year, for a change of pace, Laura Bush delivered a funny (and oddly risque) monologue which featured, among other things, the escapades of Lynne Cheney at Chippendale's and a joke about George W. jacking off a horse.
Even funnier than the First Lady's schtick was the Daily Show's coverage of the event. I don't know what else to say, except that I've watched this about a dozen times and it still makes me giggle like Rumsfeld at an orphan burning.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Yo, Peep!
My PC is up and running again!
Thanks to the timely intervention and patient help of my dear friend Ego (a.k.a. ix), we were able to bitchslap that misbehaving C: drive into shape.
Ego has listened to me yammer on and on for the past year or so about the amazing therapeutic value of blogging. "I've had this emptiness in my life," I tell him frequently. "I've tried to fill it with family, friends, religion... but those were all just dead ends. But blogging! That's the answer!"
So anyway, Ego finally took the plunge and made himself a blog. Go check it out and say nice things to him. Encourage him to keep on posting. Whisper to him in the darkness. "One of us... one of us... one of us..."
Interesting Ego Facts: Ego's nickname actually comes from his original online alias, AlteredEgo. He and I have been friends since the 5th grade, despite the fact that I got our entire table into trouble by talking without raising my hand. He is an avid online gamer, and is responsible for my shameful addiction to World of Warcraft. And his wife is one of the hottest women I've ever met in real life!
Thanks to the timely intervention and patient help of my dear friend Ego (a.k.a. ix), we were able to bitchslap that misbehaving C: drive into shape.
Ego has listened to me yammer on and on for the past year or so about the amazing therapeutic value of blogging. "I've had this emptiness in my life," I tell him frequently. "I've tried to fill it with family, friends, religion... but those were all just dead ends. But blogging! That's the answer!"
So anyway, Ego finally took the plunge and made himself a blog. Go check it out and say nice things to him. Encourage him to keep on posting. Whisper to him in the darkness. "One of us... one of us... one of us..."
Interesting Ego Facts: Ego's nickname actually comes from his original online alias, AlteredEgo. He and I have been friends since the 5th grade, despite the fact that I got our entire table into trouble by talking without raising my hand. He is an avid online gamer, and is responsible for my shameful addiction to World of Warcraft. And his wife is one of the hottest women I've ever met in real life!
Newsweek Single-Handedly Ruins Peace in the Middle East
On May 9, Newsweek magazine printed a story alleging that American interrogators at Guantanamo Bay put copies of the Quran in the toilet to coerce prisoners to talk. And now, U.S. officials are blaming the Newsweek story as the sole cause of riots and anti-American sentiment in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and every other nation that ends in -istan.
I guess I can see that. I mean, prior to the story's publication, our nation was beloved in the Middle East. Our policy of invading other countries and making up reasons for it after the fact had totally endeared us to the Muslim world. Everything overseas was sunshine, rainbows, and baskets of kittens. And then, those bastards at Newsweek had to come along and make our nation look bad!
Originally Newsweek admitted that their governmental source had recanted his story, and editor Mark Whitaker apologized in print for any part of the story that was wrong. However, it wasn't until the Bush administration called for a full retraction that Newsweek disavowed the article. And in a totally unrelated story, those mysterious dots of red light that were hovering over Whitaker's daughter's forehead have vanished...
But of course, an event like this just wouldn't be complete without some Republican jackass beating his chest and grandstanding about Newsweek's appalling lack of journalistic integrity. In this case, said jackass was White House spokesman Scott McClellan:
My friend Boidy suggested that Newsweek respond with:
In a way, the Newsweek article was a lucky break for Bush and his minions. If it hadn't come out when it did, the administration would have been stuck trying to blame violence in the Middle East on stem cells and gay marriage, which would've been an admittedly harder sell.
When is the damn gay Jew-run liberal media going to learn? Filing a news story based on inaccurate or fradulent information is irresponsibility of the greatest magnitude!
But taking a nation to war based on inaccurate or fradulent information? Well, goddammit, that's just good presidentin'!
I guess I can see that. I mean, prior to the story's publication, our nation was beloved in the Middle East. Our policy of invading other countries and making up reasons for it after the fact had totally endeared us to the Muslim world. Everything overseas was sunshine, rainbows, and baskets of kittens. And then, those bastards at Newsweek had to come along and make our nation look bad!
Protesters in Pakistan burn an American flag,
something that NEVER HAPPENED before May 9!
Originally Newsweek admitted that their governmental source had recanted his story, and editor Mark Whitaker apologized in print for any part of the story that was wrong. However, it wasn't until the Bush administration called for a full retraction that Newsweek disavowed the article. And in a totally unrelated story, those mysterious dots of red light that were hovering over Whitaker's daughter's forehead have vanished...
But of course, an event like this just wouldn't be complete without some Republican jackass beating his chest and grandstanding about Newsweek's appalling lack of journalistic integrity. In this case, said jackass was White House spokesman Scott McClellan:
It's puzzling that while Newsweek now acknowledges that they got the facts wrong, they refused to retract the story. I think there's a certain journalistic standard that should be met and in this instance it was not... The report has had serious consequences. People have lost their lives. The image of the United States abroad has been damaged.
My friend Boidy suggested that Newsweek respond with:
It's puzzling that while the White House now acknowledges that they haven't found WMDs or a link between Al Queda and Iraq, they have refused to retract their claims. I think there's a certain standard of governing that should be met and in this instance it has not. The claims the administration used to send this nation to war have had serious consequences. People have lost their lives. The image of the United States abroad has been damaged.
In a way, the Newsweek article was a lucky break for Bush and his minions. If it hadn't come out when it did, the administration would have been stuck trying to blame violence in the Middle East on stem cells and gay marriage, which would've been an admittedly harder sell.
When is the damn gay Jew-run liberal media going to learn? Filing a news story based on inaccurate or fradulent information is irresponsibility of the greatest magnitude!
But taking a nation to war based on inaccurate or fradulent information? Well, goddammit, that's just good presidentin'!
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Fuzzy Memories and Drug-Induced Flashbacks - Part V
In November of 1982, I was a sophomore in high school.
My first period class that semester was Health. Now this was in the crazy days before we learned about dirty, dirty sex in school, so the entire focus of the class had been the Food Pyramid and how to keep your skin clean. So far, it had been a blow off. The final exam was going to count as 25% of my grade, but I had a 98 average in the class and I wasn't all that worried about it.
The teacher was a woman named Ms. Rothfus, who also coached the girls' volleyball team. She liked me because I was a good student. I paid attention, I took good notes, and I always raised my hand when she asked a question. In other words, I was an insufferable prick. But like I said, I had a 98 average in the class...
There was a girl named Sharon who sat in front of me, and she'd been very nice to me for the past six weeks or so. Every morning, I let her copy my homework. And once, during a pop quiz, I had whispered answers to her when Ms. Rothfus wasn't looking.
So the day of the final came, and I was blasting through the multiple choice without breaking a sweat. I had an English final and a World History final later that day, both of which were going to be pretty rough. But at least I'd be able to get through the Health final with no problems.
Then Sharon passed me a note. There was a portion of the exam where we were supposed to list the basic needs of humanity in order, and she couldn't remember what they were. Could I help her?
I looked up and saw Ms. Rothfus looking in our direction. I didn't know if she'd seen Sharon pass the note or not, but I didn't want to take any chances. So I just slipped the note under my exam and ignored it.
Sharon passed me back another note. If she failed this exam, she'd fail the class and her mom would kill her. Please. Just help with this one part. She wouldn't ask me for anything else.
Ms. Rothfus wasn't looking, so I scribbled down the answers and passed them up to Sharon. Sharon was copying them when Ms. Rothfus suddenly stood up and marched over to us. She snatched the cheat sheet from Sharon and beckoned her to the desk up front.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought I was going to faint. I swear, I'd never been this terrified in my entire life. Aside from the occasional detention for tardiness, I'd never gotten in trouble in school before. I kept my head down and kept working on my exam, trying like hell to pretend like whatever was going on didn't concern me.
Ms. Rothfus said to Sharon, "I'm only going to ask you this once. Who gave you these answers?" And Sharon pointed right at me and said, "He did." Ms. Rothfus marched back and snatched up my exam as well. She held the two of us after the bell and informed us that we'd both be receiving a grade of 1 on the final. Not zero, but one.
Despite the overwhelming evidence, I protested my innocence. It was a setup, I proclaimed. I didn't give her any answers. She was only lying to protect the REAL guilty party. But Ms. Rothfus wasn't buying any of it.
Somehow, I made my way through my World History and English final. But all day long, I was just dreading getting home and explaining this whole thing to my mom and stepdad.
I should note at this point that, in 1983, my stepfather J.R. was going through his crazy born-again evangelical Christian phase. He and my mom had been attending Church on the Rock, one of those kinda creepy charismatic churches where people flail their hands in the air and start speaking gibberish. You know, like Jesus commanded.
Anyway, J.R. was on a real demon kick around this time. He was convinced that demons were responsible for EVERY evil in the world, from gayness to headaches.
So I got home and told Mom and J.R. that I'd been accused of cheating, but it was totally false. I was being set up. All Ms. Rothfus had was a piece of paper that sort of looked like it was written in my handwriting, but that didn't prove anything. And it wasn't fair, because she wouldn't even listen to me when I told her I was innocent, blah, blah, blah...
J.R. and Mom didn't get mad, but they didn't believe me. J.R. kept after me, prodding me with questions, until I finally broke down and admitted that I'd cheated. I was in tears by this point, so J.R. hugged me and started praying to Jesus to cast out these demons of lying and cheating that had possessed me.
Once the exorcism was over, J.R. told me to go to Ms. Rothfus the next morning and confess to her. Only then would Jesus truly forgive me my sin.
So I did. I asked her if I could speak to her in the hall outside the classroom, and I worked up my courage and I told her I'd cheated. Ms. Rothfus just snorted and said, "I know you cheated! That's why you got a 1!"
Eventually, the incident blew over. Mom and J.R. were relieved that the my demons had been cast out, and I didn't even get whipped or grounded! I could hardly believe my luck!
Of course, there was the report card to deal with. The final grade was listed there along with the rest of them. Because of the final exam, my 98 average had been dragged down to a 74. And thanks to the no pass/no play rules in Garland I.S.D., I had to endure the scrutiny of a less-than-discreet band director who examined my grades and said in front of the entire South Garland Concert Band, "I don't understand how you ended up with a 74 when... OH MY GOD! YOU GOT A ONE ON YOUR FINAL EXAM?"
But given the severity of the crime, I still feel like I got off relatively lightly. Sharon ended up failing the course. Unfortunately, her mom didn't follow through on her promise to kill her, but she did have to repeat the class.
Sharon dropped out of school the following year, and my buddy Charlie told me that he thought he'd seen her working the drive-thru at Long John Silver's. I don't know if this was true or not, but it would certainly serve her right.
That's what you get for not studying the Food Pyramid, bitch!
My first period class that semester was Health. Now this was in the crazy days before we learned about dirty, dirty sex in school, so the entire focus of the class had been the Food Pyramid and how to keep your skin clean. So far, it had been a blow off. The final exam was going to count as 25% of my grade, but I had a 98 average in the class and I wasn't all that worried about it.
The teacher was a woman named Ms. Rothfus, who also coached the girls' volleyball team. She liked me because I was a good student. I paid attention, I took good notes, and I always raised my hand when she asked a question. In other words, I was an insufferable prick. But like I said, I had a 98 average in the class...
There was a girl named Sharon who sat in front of me, and she'd been very nice to me for the past six weeks or so. Every morning, I let her copy my homework. And once, during a pop quiz, I had whispered answers to her when Ms. Rothfus wasn't looking.
So the day of the final came, and I was blasting through the multiple choice without breaking a sweat. I had an English final and a World History final later that day, both of which were going to be pretty rough. But at least I'd be able to get through the Health final with no problems.
Then Sharon passed me a note. There was a portion of the exam where we were supposed to list the basic needs of humanity in order, and she couldn't remember what they were. Could I help her?
I looked up and saw Ms. Rothfus looking in our direction. I didn't know if she'd seen Sharon pass the note or not, but I didn't want to take any chances. So I just slipped the note under my exam and ignored it.
Sharon passed me back another note. If she failed this exam, she'd fail the class and her mom would kill her. Please. Just help with this one part. She wouldn't ask me for anything else.
Ms. Rothfus wasn't looking, so I scribbled down the answers and passed them up to Sharon. Sharon was copying them when Ms. Rothfus suddenly stood up and marched over to us. She snatched the cheat sheet from Sharon and beckoned her to the desk up front.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought I was going to faint. I swear, I'd never been this terrified in my entire life. Aside from the occasional detention for tardiness, I'd never gotten in trouble in school before. I kept my head down and kept working on my exam, trying like hell to pretend like whatever was going on didn't concern me.
Ms. Rothfus said to Sharon, "I'm only going to ask you this once. Who gave you these answers?" And Sharon pointed right at me and said, "He did." Ms. Rothfus marched back and snatched up my exam as well. She held the two of us after the bell and informed us that we'd both be receiving a grade of 1 on the final. Not zero, but one.
Despite the overwhelming evidence, I protested my innocence. It was a setup, I proclaimed. I didn't give her any answers. She was only lying to protect the REAL guilty party. But Ms. Rothfus wasn't buying any of it.
Somehow, I made my way through my World History and English final. But all day long, I was just dreading getting home and explaining this whole thing to my mom and stepdad.
I should note at this point that, in 1983, my stepfather J.R. was going through his crazy born-again evangelical Christian phase. He and my mom had been attending Church on the Rock, one of those kinda creepy charismatic churches where people flail their hands in the air and start speaking gibberish. You know, like Jesus commanded.
Anyway, J.R. was on a real demon kick around this time. He was convinced that demons were responsible for EVERY evil in the world, from gayness to headaches.
So I got home and told Mom and J.R. that I'd been accused of cheating, but it was totally false. I was being set up. All Ms. Rothfus had was a piece of paper that sort of looked like it was written in my handwriting, but that didn't prove anything. And it wasn't fair, because she wouldn't even listen to me when I told her I was innocent, blah, blah, blah...
J.R. and Mom didn't get mad, but they didn't believe me. J.R. kept after me, prodding me with questions, until I finally broke down and admitted that I'd cheated. I was in tears by this point, so J.R. hugged me and started praying to Jesus to cast out these demons of lying and cheating that had possessed me.
Once the exorcism was over, J.R. told me to go to Ms. Rothfus the next morning and confess to her. Only then would Jesus truly forgive me my sin.
So I did. I asked her if I could speak to her in the hall outside the classroom, and I worked up my courage and I told her I'd cheated. Ms. Rothfus just snorted and said, "I know you cheated! That's why you got a 1!"
Eventually, the incident blew over. Mom and J.R. were relieved that the my demons had been cast out, and I didn't even get whipped or grounded! I could hardly believe my luck!
Of course, there was the report card to deal with. The final grade was listed there along with the rest of them. Because of the final exam, my 98 average had been dragged down to a 74. And thanks to the no pass/no play rules in Garland I.S.D., I had to endure the scrutiny of a less-than-discreet band director who examined my grades and said in front of the entire South Garland Concert Band, "I don't understand how you ended up with a 74 when... OH MY GOD! YOU GOT A ONE ON YOUR FINAL EXAM?"
But given the severity of the crime, I still feel like I got off relatively lightly. Sharon ended up failing the course. Unfortunately, her mom didn't follow through on her promise to kill her, but she did have to repeat the class.
Sharon dropped out of school the following year, and my buddy Charlie told me that he thought he'd seen her working the drive-thru at Long John Silver's. I don't know if this was true or not, but it would certainly serve her right.
That's what you get for not studying the Food Pyramid, bitch!
Saturday, May 14, 2005
My Computer Died... AGAIN!
Back in February, after a particularly nasty storm, my PC blew up.
Literally.
I turned it on, and sparks and smoke came out the back of it. Turns out the power supply had just given up the ghost. So I replaced it, and everything seemed hunky dory.
But now, there's something else wrong. The goddamn thing is stuck in eternal reboot. It gets to the Windows XP loading screen, and then it shuts off and reboots. Again and again and again and again, until I finally pull the fucking plug on it.
So while I try to figure out just what the hell's wrong with it THIS time, I've dragged this archaic Amish piece of shit out of the closet and I'm using it for Internet access and e-mail.
God, it's painful. This PC is so hideously out of date that it keeps insisting it needs to download 20 meg of updates. Unfortunately, it can't seem to get past 211K without hanging up.
For some reason, this PC is also incapable of loading an entire web page. It always gets down to 1 or 2 items remaining, and then it just sits there helplessly, like Bush in a goddamn spelling bee. I've been waiting 30 minutes for it to load the tabs at the top of this page, so I can switch back and forth between HTML and the WYSIWYG editor. But no. Apparently http://www.blogger.com/img/bg-subnav.jpg is something that this computer will NEVER be able to download, no matter how hard it tries.
Sigh...
Anyway, in case anybody's wondering, that's why I've been offline all week. Thanks to those of you who called to make sure I wasn't dead and rotting in my apartment.
Thanks for listening. You've been very therapeutic.
Literally.
I turned it on, and sparks and smoke came out the back of it. Turns out the power supply had just given up the ghost. So I replaced it, and everything seemed hunky dory.
But now, there's something else wrong. The goddamn thing is stuck in eternal reboot. It gets to the Windows XP loading screen, and then it shuts off and reboots. Again and again and again and again, until I finally pull the fucking plug on it.
So while I try to figure out just what the hell's wrong with it THIS time, I've dragged this archaic Amish piece of shit out of the closet and I'm using it for Internet access and e-mail.
God, it's painful. This PC is so hideously out of date that it keeps insisting it needs to download 20 meg of updates. Unfortunately, it can't seem to get past 211K without hanging up.
For some reason, this PC is also incapable of loading an entire web page. It always gets down to 1 or 2 items remaining, and then it just sits there helplessly, like Bush in a goddamn spelling bee. I've been waiting 30 minutes for it to load the tabs at the top of this page, so I can switch back and forth between HTML and the WYSIWYG editor. But no. Apparently http://www.blogger.com/img/bg-subnav.jpg is something that this computer will NEVER be able to download, no matter how hard it tries.
Sigh...
Anyway, in case anybody's wondering, that's why I've been offline all week. Thanks to those of you who called to make sure I wasn't dead and rotting in my apartment.
Thanks for listening. You've been very therapeutic.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Put Them All Together, They Spell MOTHER...
Well, it's Mother's Day weekend. In about an hour, I'll be hitting the road for Winnsboro, Texas (population 3,584... SAAAAALUTE!!!) to spend the weekend with my mom, grandmother, and great-grandmother.
Yes, my great-grandmother. Although, to be honest, I guess she's actually my STEP-great-grandmother. (She's my grandfather's stepmother, and she's actually only eight years older than him. Great-granddad was robbin' the cradle!)
As I do every Mother's Day, I'll be setting foot inside the First Baptist Church on Sunday morning, despite the fact that holy scriptures usually cause my skin to blister.
Mother's Day turnout is always huge at First Baptist in Winnsboro (even bigger than Easter!) because they always go through this ceremony of recognizing the mothers and giving them carnations. Then they go through and give special recognition to the oldest mother and the mother with the most children present. These ladies get roses.
(I've heard that they used to give an award to the youngest mother as well, but they stopped after a 14 year old girl won it one year.)
There's one old woman who only shows up for church on that one day, because she's 94, which makes her a shoe-in for oldest mother. As you might imagine, this really pisses off my great-grandmother, who's 92 and shows up for church every week.
Anyway, as cynical as I pretend to be about most things, I love these ladies dearly and I'm glad I'll get to spend Mother's Day with them. I'm also glad they still don't know about this blog, because if they had any idea how often I use the f-word, the three of them would tackle me and cram a bar of Lifebuoy down my throat.
So before I make like a baby and head out, I'd just like to take this opportunity to say Happy Mother's Day to SJ and Boidy and the rest of the MILFs* who frequent this blog!
Happy Mother's Day, gals!
-------------------------------
*Just kidding. Sort of.
Yes, my great-grandmother. Although, to be honest, I guess she's actually my STEP-great-grandmother. (She's my grandfather's stepmother, and she's actually only eight years older than him. Great-granddad was robbin' the cradle!)
As I do every Mother's Day, I'll be setting foot inside the First Baptist Church on Sunday morning, despite the fact that holy scriptures usually cause my skin to blister.
Mother's Day turnout is always huge at First Baptist in Winnsboro (even bigger than Easter!) because they always go through this ceremony of recognizing the mothers and giving them carnations. Then they go through and give special recognition to the oldest mother and the mother with the most children present. These ladies get roses.
(I've heard that they used to give an award to the youngest mother as well, but they stopped after a 14 year old girl won it one year.)
There's one old woman who only shows up for church on that one day, because she's 94, which makes her a shoe-in for oldest mother. As you might imagine, this really pisses off my great-grandmother, who's 92 and shows up for church every week.
Anyway, as cynical as I pretend to be about most things, I love these ladies dearly and I'm glad I'll get to spend Mother's Day with them. I'm also glad they still don't know about this blog, because if they had any idea how often I use the f-word, the three of them would tackle me and cram a bar of Lifebuoy down my throat.
So before I make like a baby and head out, I'd just like to take this opportunity to say Happy Mother's Day to SJ and Boidy and the rest of the MILFs* who frequent this blog!
Happy Mother's Day, gals!
-------------------------------
*Just kidding. Sort of.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Hopped Up on Claritin and Nyquil...
I'm sick.
Actually, I'm pretty sure it's allergies. I don't get them often, but apparently the pollen count in Dallas is somewhere in the neighborhood of A ZILLION, which is why I've been reduced to this decrepit, sad shell of a man you see before you.
I've been sneezing and hacking for three days straight. My nose is running like Bush from a Gay Pride parade, and my head is more stuffed than a Florida ballot box.
(Yeah, I know. But I've gone an entire week without referring to our president as a retard, so I'm just making up for lost time.)
So anyway, I'm sick.
I'm always a little sensitive about admitting that, because I come from a long line of hypochondriacs. My grandmother was the worst. I can't remember a phone conversation with her that didn't involve the phrase "Oh, Mamaw's aneurism is acting up a bit."
(My grandmother constantly referred to herself in the third person. And she apparently wasn't too clear on the whole aneurism concept. But I digress...)
After my dad's sixth (I think... I sorta lost count) divorce, he moved back in with my grandparents. He'd had a heart attack the previous year, which provided all kinds of exciting and new hypochondriacal avenues. I actually once had the following conversation with my grandmother:
Many of my friends are no better. I seem to be surrounded by people who don't get headaches, they get migraines. They're not hungry, they're hypoglycemic. They don't get colds, they get the flu. They don't have dry skin, they have leprosy.
(I have one friend who gets honest-to-god migraines, and they're debilitating. When she gets one, all she can do is lie in a dark, quiet room with a wet rag on her face until it finally passes. I can only imagine how annoyed she gets when somebody else in our group rubs their head melodramatically and says, "Can you turn the TV down a little bit? I'm getting a migraine." But again, I digress...)
So that's it. I'm sick. Or suffering from allergies, if you want to be a stickler for details. Either way, I'm sure it's hardly a blip on the illness radar for my migraine-suffering, hypoclycemic, flu-ridden leprous friends.
So if anyone asks, I'll probably just tell them it's Anthrax.
Actually, I'm pretty sure it's allergies. I don't get them often, but apparently the pollen count in Dallas is somewhere in the neighborhood of A ZILLION, which is why I've been reduced to this decrepit, sad shell of a man you see before you.
I've been sneezing and hacking for three days straight. My nose is running like Bush from a Gay Pride parade, and my head is more stuffed than a Florida ballot box.
(Yeah, I know. But I've gone an entire week without referring to our president as a retard, so I'm just making up for lost time.)
So anyway, I'm sick.
I'm always a little sensitive about admitting that, because I come from a long line of hypochondriacs. My grandmother was the worst. I can't remember a phone conversation with her that didn't involve the phrase "Oh, Mamaw's aneurism is acting up a bit."
(My grandmother constantly referred to herself in the third person. And she apparently wasn't too clear on the whole aneurism concept. But I digress...)
After my dad's sixth (I think... I sorta lost count) divorce, he moved back in with my grandparents. He'd had a heart attack the previous year, which provided all kinds of exciting and new hypochondriacal avenues. I actually once had the following conversation with my grandmother:
Me: So, is Dad around?
Mamaw: Oh sugar, your daddy's lying down right now. He was mowing the yard this afternoon and he had another heart attack.
Me: What?
Mamaw: Oh, it's okay. He gets them all the time. He just has to lay down for a while and they'll pass.
Me: But... I mean, did you take him to the hospital?
Mamaw: Oh, those idiot doctors don't know shit, sweetheart. They'd just tell him it was indigestion and send him home.
Me: Are you sure it isn't indigestion?
Mamaw: I think your daddy's smart enough to know whether or not he's
having a heart attack!
Me: Um, okay. Can you have him call me after he... you know...
recovers?
Mamaw: Okay, sweetheart.
Me: So, how are you doing?
Mamaw: Oh, Mamaw's doing fine, sugar. But her aneurism's acting up a little...
Many of my friends are no better. I seem to be surrounded by people who don't get headaches, they get migraines. They're not hungry, they're hypoglycemic. They don't get colds, they get the flu. They don't have dry skin, they have leprosy.
(I have one friend who gets honest-to-god migraines, and they're debilitating. When she gets one, all she can do is lie in a dark, quiet room with a wet rag on her face until it finally passes. I can only imagine how annoyed she gets when somebody else in our group rubs their head melodramatically and says, "Can you turn the TV down a little bit? I'm getting a migraine." But again, I digress...)
So that's it. I'm sick. Or suffering from allergies, if you want to be a stickler for details. Either way, I'm sure it's hardly a blip on the illness radar for my migraine-suffering, hypoclycemic, flu-ridden leprous friends.
So if anyone asks, I'll probably just tell them it's Anthrax.
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