Roar.
I don't actually want you to respond, but could somebody tell me what's up with the chatty devils behind the counters of this fine nation's rapid food establishments. Of today's nine meals seven were consumed at such establishments, and in the process of procuring four of these meals I found myself awkwardly dancing on the edges of conversations with greasy people. They were polite though, and for this I'm grateful. After jiving away a decade's evenings worth of my youth in the food service and retail industries any sort of positive encounter contained by walls of these sorts renders me light-headed, weeping and glowing like a wife after her wedding and/or honeymoon. So when a pudgy mass of indeterminate age or gender remarks as to the fleeting nature of curly fries when one must transport them via automobile to a hungry and waiting mouth, I'm only able to further rubberize my smile and say, "I think I'll be able to make it." Perhaps an elderly woman, working off the payments on her nineteen year old son's tattoos, smiles toothlessy and begins to unravel a five minute yarn on the merits of ordering milk with spicy food. As the yarn descends into talk of milk spoiling in her car one day and how she decided to drink it anyway because it was worth it because she ate a spicy chicken sandwich I excuse myself to use the restroom. An hour's worth of napping later I emerge remarkably unrefreshed and snatch my food from it's perch on the cool metal counter and gorge myself on the most terrible potato and cheese combination this humble American has ever tasted.
The day's other encounters with food service personnel were typical, though I admit it mildly atypical for them to have shared a kite-fly-off as a climax. Won one, lost one. Not bad.
Final words: gemini, arm-smashing machine, Ireland
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
on a fistfight with a shabby rabbi* over an antique cauldron (in pretty good shape though...the cauldron, not the rabbi)
Hey!
It's been a while since I've shoveled my nutritious prose-gruel down your throats, and I won't do that today. Instead I only ask you, with minimal force-feeding-inspired gyrations, to read. So calm down already, assuming you aren't already calm.
I suppose I owe you some explanation for my extended absence. Alas, the story is unbelievable, terrible even; but if you stuck around until the semi-colon then I am forced to conclude I rendered you a kneeling, drool-coated wreck, (in)explicably rapt at the words thundering across your screen. At this point, considering your state, it would be crueller than Sunday dinner with a pack of starving (but still spry) hyenas long past the taste-acquisition phase as it pertains to man-flesh. Much like that hollywood starlet! Right. Whores, sinners, the lot of 'em#. So as you sit there, your waste pooling around you in deference to the attention my words command, mind this: I'm not a cruel master. Not the sort of man/(manbot?) to leave your fingertips eroded to the bone by your never ceasing search of the "Information Routes Internet" and your local library for clues as to the cause of my vacation from giving your eyes something to think about: that thing: treasure maps. Nope, here you go:
OK, I'll get back to that later. The important thing now, you find yourself thinking, is where am I going to be the next couple of days. All you need to know, nosy-britches, is that I won't have access to the city-block-sized mainframe that generates these web-log entries. So rather than set the timer (worse than a VCR, am I right!?), I won't. But that's ok. I suggest rereading a handful of my previous "posts" forever.
*His tunic might as well have been pulled fresh from the sewar after a tobacco-juice-spit rainstorm. Forelock like a coyote with mange.
#I'm sure the majority of starlets, all of 'em even, are nice people. I mean to say, I don't hate women, and this in the face of their endless onslaught of puppy-theft and court orders%#
%#I don't really have any court orders against me. I'm a reasonable fellow^#$.
^#$And you'd do mothereffin well to agree with me there, son!
!No footnoot, just an exclamation mark.
Final words: exclamation, farm, and taxidermy-induced carpal tunnel syndrome
It's been a while since I've shoveled my nutritious prose-gruel down your throats, and I won't do that today. Instead I only ask you, with minimal force-feeding-inspired gyrations, to read. So calm down already, assuming you aren't already calm.
I suppose I owe you some explanation for my extended absence. Alas, the story is unbelievable, terrible even; but if you stuck around until the semi-colon then I am forced to conclude I rendered you a kneeling, drool-coated wreck, (in)explicably rapt at the words thundering across your screen. At this point, considering your state, it would be crueller than Sunday dinner with a pack of starving (but still spry) hyenas long past the taste-acquisition phase as it pertains to man-flesh. Much like that hollywood starlet! Right. Whores, sinners, the lot of 'em#. So as you sit there, your waste pooling around you in deference to the attention my words command, mind this: I'm not a cruel master. Not the sort of man/(manbot?) to leave your fingertips eroded to the bone by your never ceasing search of the "Information Routes Internet" and your local library for clues as to the cause of my vacation from giving your eyes something to think about: that thing: treasure maps. Nope, here you go:
OK, I'll get back to that later. The important thing now, you find yourself thinking, is where am I going to be the next couple of days. All you need to know, nosy-britches, is that I won't have access to the city-block-sized mainframe that generates these web-log entries. So rather than set the timer (worse than a VCR, am I right!?), I won't. But that's ok. I suggest rereading a handful of my previous "posts" forever.
*His tunic might as well have been pulled fresh from the sewar after a tobacco-juice-spit rainstorm. Forelock like a coyote with mange.
#I'm sure the majority of starlets, all of 'em even, are nice people. I mean to say, I don't hate women, and this in the face of their endless onslaught of puppy-theft and court orders%#
%#I don't really have any court orders against me. I'm a reasonable fellow^#$.
^#$And you'd do mothereffin well to agree with me there, son!
!No footnoot, just an exclamation mark.
Final words: exclamation, farm, and taxidermy-induced carpal tunnel syndrome
Monday, February 25, 2008
on a celebratory congregation of people, some one might presume vain
I'm a lucky guy: I live in a town so prosperous as to contain establishments where, in exchange for legal tender, you may sit in a large room and watch television on a very large screen. Combine their proximity with my untold wealth (I'll tell you about it soon) and I'm liable to attend upwards of twenty thousand movies a year. Strange, but I quite enjoy this process.
Every few years the people responsible for "giant television" gather together to present trophies to the finest perpetrators of these hoaxes on reality. The ceremony is called the "Oskars" and it never fails to be a spectacle. The beginning was typical: Oprah Winfrey auctioned off a peasant girl, script-writers were cordoned off so that they could conduct a "lottery" in which the winner was killed in the belief that it would result in a prosperous harvest, Ron Howard transformed into a two-story-tall robot (lasor overkill-one man's opinion) and argued the merits of the banjo. But after the predictable intro no one could have predicted the extent to which the evening was scripted. Jon Stewart is swell, and near the beginning of a ceremony wherein some of the industry's most powerful folks would present each other with trophies, he said, get this, "Let's all just take a moment to congratulate ourselves." I applaud his wit, unless it's turns out he was being sincere, in which cause I will write a series of harrassing letters bemoaning his obliviousness. Some people just don't get it.
Some people gamble on "Oskar results". I abhor this process, and the people who would bandy money about as if it was a child to be won in a game of blackjack. But if I had gambled on the evening's winners I'd be a moderately more wealthy man: I correctly predicted the winner of every category, though my ballot did take the over on four as it concerns streakers-perhaps a penality would have been leveled.
"No Country for Old Men", or as I hilariously call it: "Country for Mean Men", was extremely enjoyable for me to watch. And though any splatter-graph detailing my history with Tommy Lee Jones would be shotgunned full of dots representing our disputes over the use of his middle name, the entire cast was kissable (if one is of the opinion that an outstanding performance in a movie renders the performer kissable). Daniel Day Lewis's performance as man named Daniel was incredible, so much so that I've pierced by ears, and then found myself mortified at the destruction I'd inflicted on my body. When a winnebago's worth of priests had finally talked me back from the brink of total disregard for convention (How many holes in a body toes it take to send one over the edge into total twinkie-and-couch-cushion oblivion? Answer: 4.) they asked me why I was moaning so loudly. I wasn't able to answer as I still am unable to choke back the hell-hot releases of grief, but I will now reveal the reason my computer is slick with tears: the performance of the old man who asks if he can adopt the young man. I'd like to place a silk hanky against the sad springs on that guy's face. "Hey, let's go get a milkshake." He'd smile and we'd talk about my favorite things. He'd become increasingly uncomfortable with my unwavering stare. I'd talk around his excuses for leaving. When the old-timey milkshake shack closed I'd insist that I drive, "Those dying eyes can't be much good for seeing," I'd smile. Gently insisting that his directions were wrong, I'd take a long time taking him to his house. "We have to do this again sometime," I'd say. He'd leave the car and walk to his door, risking and instantly regretting a look back at me and my thick stare and over-stretched smile. He'd struggle to insert the proper key and I'd call out an offer of my assistance. "No, got it. Good night," he stammer. And still he'd struggle with his keys, the door finally clicking open just as I'm a step away from obtaining his porch, "I could come in," I'd say. It's pretty obvious that he pretends not to hear or see me as he closes the door.
Final words: Ron Howard, igloo, and mortified
Every few years the people responsible for "giant television" gather together to present trophies to the finest perpetrators of these hoaxes on reality. The ceremony is called the "Oskars" and it never fails to be a spectacle. The beginning was typical: Oprah Winfrey auctioned off a peasant girl, script-writers were cordoned off so that they could conduct a "lottery" in which the winner was killed in the belief that it would result in a prosperous harvest, Ron Howard transformed into a two-story-tall robot (lasor overkill-one man's opinion) and argued the merits of the banjo. But after the predictable intro no one could have predicted the extent to which the evening was scripted. Jon Stewart is swell, and near the beginning of a ceremony wherein some of the industry's most powerful folks would present each other with trophies, he said, get this, "Let's all just take a moment to congratulate ourselves." I applaud his wit, unless it's turns out he was being sincere, in which cause I will write a series of harrassing letters bemoaning his obliviousness. Some people just don't get it.
Some people gamble on "Oskar results". I abhor this process, and the people who would bandy money about as if it was a child to be won in a game of blackjack. But if I had gambled on the evening's winners I'd be a moderately more wealthy man: I correctly predicted the winner of every category, though my ballot did take the over on four as it concerns streakers-perhaps a penality would have been leveled.
"No Country for Old Men", or as I hilariously call it: "Country for Mean Men", was extremely enjoyable for me to watch. And though any splatter-graph detailing my history with Tommy Lee Jones would be shotgunned full of dots representing our disputes over the use of his middle name, the entire cast was kissable (if one is of the opinion that an outstanding performance in a movie renders the performer kissable). Daniel Day Lewis's performance as man named Daniel was incredible, so much so that I've pierced by ears, and then found myself mortified at the destruction I'd inflicted on my body. When a winnebago's worth of priests had finally talked me back from the brink of total disregard for convention (How many holes in a body toes it take to send one over the edge into total twinkie-and-couch-cushion oblivion? Answer: 4.) they asked me why I was moaning so loudly. I wasn't able to answer as I still am unable to choke back the hell-hot releases of grief, but I will now reveal the reason my computer is slick with tears: the performance of the old man who asks if he can adopt the young man. I'd like to place a silk hanky against the sad springs on that guy's face. "Hey, let's go get a milkshake." He'd smile and we'd talk about my favorite things. He'd become increasingly uncomfortable with my unwavering stare. I'd talk around his excuses for leaving. When the old-timey milkshake shack closed I'd insist that I drive, "Those dying eyes can't be much good for seeing," I'd smile. Gently insisting that his directions were wrong, I'd take a long time taking him to his house. "We have to do this again sometime," I'd say. He'd leave the car and walk to his door, risking and instantly regretting a look back at me and my thick stare and over-stretched smile. He'd struggle to insert the proper key and I'd call out an offer of my assistance. "No, got it. Good night," he stammer. And still he'd struggle with his keys, the door finally clicking open just as I'm a step away from obtaining his porch, "I could come in," I'd say. It's pretty obvious that he pretends not to hear or see me as he closes the door.
Final words: Ron Howard, igloo, and mortified
i WILL mark your forehead with calf's blood
What a day! I ought to file a patent on being exhausted, but that is absurd and I already did it this afternoon. You see, I'm exhausted because I spent the afternoon filing frivolous patent claims. One must do what one can to make life more difficult for the scum that lines the ruby-embossed thrones down at the patent office. I think you'll agree I've done my share, though now that I've put myself out there it will be rather embarrassing if you don't. The pertinent question (I pray you'll agree) is: Have you done your share? The answer is as obvious as the reek of diesel fuel I imagine you emanate. Freaking no. You haven't. Otherwise I don't think the boys down at the patent office would have time to sit around counting bags of rubies and writing slanderous letters concerning repeated incidents of frivolous patents being filed. So join me in the crusade, I promise you, after our inevitable success I will mark your forehead with calf's blood.
Sorry for the rare digression, now, on to politics. My post office box has been flooded (if you can pretend envelopes filled with letters are water) with envelopes filled with letters begging me with a desperation so palpable it brings tears to my eyes and vomit to my mouth to provide them with the correct answer to the question: Who should I vote for? Well, there is no easy answer. (Here's the easy answer: vote for your mother. I bet that would make her feel nice.)
The difficult answer is that you must carefully consider the myriad pertinent issues, and then, should a candidate aligned with your views prove available, storm the alligator-guarded offices of The Diebold Corporation and alter, with the help of a diamond-tipped drill, the results (stored in a olympic-sized pool of chili). To sum it up: consider which potential-president you'd prefer to play board games with on Play Board Games With The President Day, and pick the other one (You're never going to grow as a person if you don't challenge yourself.).
Final words: honored, tempest, and eleven
Sorry for the rare digression, now, on to politics. My post office box has been flooded (if you can pretend envelopes filled with letters are water) with envelopes filled with letters begging me with a desperation so palpable it brings tears to my eyes and vomit to my mouth to provide them with the correct answer to the question: Who should I vote for? Well, there is no easy answer. (Here's the easy answer: vote for your mother. I bet that would make her feel nice.)
The difficult answer is that you must carefully consider the myriad pertinent issues, and then, should a candidate aligned with your views prove available, storm the alligator-guarded offices of The Diebold Corporation and alter, with the help of a diamond-tipped drill, the results (stored in a olympic-sized pool of chili). To sum it up: consider which potential-president you'd prefer to play board games with on Play Board Games With The President Day, and pick the other one (You're never going to grow as a person if you don't challenge yourself.).
Final words: honored, tempest, and eleven
Friday, February 22, 2008
free meat for sale
Welcome back. You're here to find out about presidents, and I'm here to give you all the links to photographs of a pantless Ron Paul that a healthy constituency can stomach (which, according to my team of scientists and stationary, is 33). By the time voting day stampedes into our lives it will have been a while since the last voting day. About 640 months, if my math is slightly off. But you aren't here to talk about time, you're here for some semi-nude Ron Paul action:
click on this text you glory-hunter
I imagine it's been several hours since you clicked on the above link. Hour glasses have been upended, ties have been loosened, tightened, and tightened some more. Beverages with just a touch too much artificial sweetener have been spilled on your expensive geometry tools. Your children have forgotten you. Dan Akroyd has a beard. It's ok-fine even. Just relax. I'll walk you through the tsunami of reflection necessary to offload the tremendous "feelings" you're experiencing.
1. Have a candy bar! You're not getting any skinnier, might as well embrace the delicious.
2. Refuse to compromise.
3. Carve yourself a tiny Winston Churchill from a bar of heavily-perfumed generic soap. He's your new best friend, sure. But he will betray you if you give him a chance. Make it clear-verbally-that you aren't a pushover.
3. Steal something from a friend or neighbor's home. If they ever notice it's missing remove your least favorite digit from your right hand.
4. Refuse to compromise.
5. Glandular disorders don't carry much weight with the police. Try flattering them with bribe money instead!
6. After the betrayal: pull yourself, legless and half-blind from the outhouse that soap-bust-of -Churchill left you in, and wash yourself with him until he's just a sliver. Then save that sliver to be combined with other slivers. That's how you save money: recycle your soap. It's that fucking simple, you moneyless wretch.
So, I've solved your problems. Yeah, yeah. Just send me a few telegrams or letters crammed with heartfelt thanks, that's really all the thanks I need.
Final words: absolved, Massachusetts, filmy
click on this text you glory-hunter
I imagine it's been several hours since you clicked on the above link. Hour glasses have been upended, ties have been loosened, tightened, and tightened some more. Beverages with just a touch too much artificial sweetener have been spilled on your expensive geometry tools. Your children have forgotten you. Dan Akroyd has a beard. It's ok-fine even. Just relax. I'll walk you through the tsunami of reflection necessary to offload the tremendous "feelings" you're experiencing.
1. Have a candy bar! You're not getting any skinnier, might as well embrace the delicious.
2. Refuse to compromise.
3. Carve yourself a tiny Winston Churchill from a bar of heavily-perfumed generic soap. He's your new best friend, sure. But he will betray you if you give him a chance. Make it clear-verbally-that you aren't a pushover.
3. Steal something from a friend or neighbor's home. If they ever notice it's missing remove your least favorite digit from your right hand.
4. Refuse to compromise.
5. Glandular disorders don't carry much weight with the police. Try flattering them with bribe money instead!
6. After the betrayal: pull yourself, legless and half-blind from the outhouse that soap-bust-of -Churchill left you in, and wash yourself with him until he's just a sliver. Then save that sliver to be combined with other slivers. That's how you save money: recycle your soap. It's that fucking simple, you moneyless wretch.
So, I've solved your problems. Yeah, yeah. Just send me a few telegrams or letters crammed with heartfelt thanks, that's really all the thanks I need.
Final words: absolved, Massachusetts, filmy
Thursday, February 14, 2008
v.d.
That's right politics-people, it's v.d. Hope you've stimulated the economy in a love-inducing fashion on this fine day. Now, on to politics.
If you're a baseball fan then you might be aware that pitchers and catchers reported to spring training today. Spring training is a place is northern Montana where baseball players recite poetry from midnight to dawn in an effort to strengthen their rhyme-schemes in preparation for a grueling schedule including more than just the typical 49 baseball contests all teams must grind through. Minds and bodies must be toughened to a leathery-sheen for all the extra-marital activities such a grind requires. Tolerances to illegal drugs must be built up, acquintances must be made with all the new strip-club faces, and of course one must brace themselves for the dreary conversations and illegitimate-child-related bribes with all the old faces, except bouncers and bartenders. But new cell phone numbers to new premium hookups must be acquired. If you haven't already obtained your steriods and Hgh then should probably start prepping for another season in the minor leagues, where your strip club and drug budget will be laughable compared to the big boys. But it isn't all nudity and drugs, baseballers all over the country have, starting today, begun to do light exercises: up to a dozen toe-touches...brace yourself...in a single morning. In coming weeks batsmen will begin to take late afternoon walks, should the sun not prove too punishing to their hung-over heads. Pitchers (people who throw the ball in baseball games) will throw balls in order to build up the strength needed to engage in fisticuffs with disrespecting night-club patrons. Baseball coaches, or "managers," will play high-stakes poker and smoke thousand-dollar cigars in a mansion hidden by a Florida swamp. Tony La Russa will win their money, and, like every year, burn it in a bbq pit while his peers laugh in their shared dog-ear piercing tone. The men will be seperated from the boys in a lengthy process that consists entirely of moving everyone over the age of eighteen to one side of the room. Spring is in the air?
Final words: men, ribald, and telephone
If you're a baseball fan then you might be aware that pitchers and catchers reported to spring training today. Spring training is a place is northern Montana where baseball players recite poetry from midnight to dawn in an effort to strengthen their rhyme-schemes in preparation for a grueling schedule including more than just the typical 49 baseball contests all teams must grind through. Minds and bodies must be toughened to a leathery-sheen for all the extra-marital activities such a grind requires. Tolerances to illegal drugs must be built up, acquintances must be made with all the new strip-club faces, and of course one must brace themselves for the dreary conversations and illegitimate-child-related bribes with all the old faces, except bouncers and bartenders. But new cell phone numbers to new premium hookups must be acquired. If you haven't already obtained your steriods and Hgh then should probably start prepping for another season in the minor leagues, where your strip club and drug budget will be laughable compared to the big boys. But it isn't all nudity and drugs, baseballers all over the country have, starting today, begun to do light exercises: up to a dozen toe-touches...brace yourself...in a single morning. In coming weeks batsmen will begin to take late afternoon walks, should the sun not prove too punishing to their hung-over heads. Pitchers (people who throw the ball in baseball games) will throw balls in order to build up the strength needed to engage in fisticuffs with disrespecting night-club patrons. Baseball coaches, or "managers," will play high-stakes poker and smoke thousand-dollar cigars in a mansion hidden by a Florida swamp. Tony La Russa will win their money, and, like every year, burn it in a bbq pit while his peers laugh in their shared dog-ear piercing tone. The men will be seperated from the boys in a lengthy process that consists entirely of moving everyone over the age of eighteen to one side of the room. Spring is in the air?
Final words: men, ribald, and telephone
Friday, February 08, 2008
lawn-chair accessible
Can you believe this weather? I've left near a dozen clocks on the lawn and all of em stop running quick as you can say "unplugged". As a man with much reverence for time this frustrates me. I don't dilly-dally with......well, anything. You can take that to the bank, but it will do you little good, as you'll be offered not much more than confused expressions slowly shifting to a knowing pity-riddled disgust. It's hard to get around in this world.
Which brings me to lawn-ornaments. Let's talk about voting. Here, in your, as you'd have me call it, country, 1 in 4,136, 739 people wake up on "Voting Day", grab a jar, write the name of their favorite presidential-candidate on a maple leaf, kiss the leaf like it's their longlost infant, place it in the jar, place a lable on the jar reading "Snow Tires", and bury the jar in a comic-book derived compost heap in the backyard. After the thaw has broken in an unnamed Tennessee town and the sky is flooded with magpies nationwide people without vowels in their names retrieve the jars and burn them. Then money exchanges hands, coyotes are sacrificed to innumerable cruel gods and voila, you have a president! I can't vouch for the process, but the results vouch for themselves.
Final words: chrysanthemum, armistice, and vouch
Which brings me to lawn-ornaments. Let's talk about voting. Here, in your, as you'd have me call it, country, 1 in 4,136, 739 people wake up on "Voting Day", grab a jar, write the name of their favorite presidential-candidate on a maple leaf, kiss the leaf like it's their longlost infant, place it in the jar, place a lable on the jar reading "Snow Tires", and bury the jar in a comic-book derived compost heap in the backyard. After the thaw has broken in an unnamed Tennessee town and the sky is flooded with magpies nationwide people without vowels in their names retrieve the jars and burn them. Then money exchanges hands, coyotes are sacrificed to innumerable cruel gods and voila, you have a president! I can't vouch for the process, but the results vouch for themselves.
Final words: chrysanthemum, armistice, and vouch
Thursday, February 07, 2008
the executive gist
I just fed my cats, hurrah for me, I know. But really it's not that big of deal, cats have to eat, or just like any other animal, and even humans, they'll die. So I feel a bit silly making a big deal about it. So, anywho, I thought you avid readers of random blogs might like to know a little bit about myself. So, here goes:
I am not a park ranger. I don't spend all my time shuffling through the woods and grinding discovered berries into a fine paste for some hypethetical "Uncle Linus's Best Darned Mystery Jelly Super Stuff", nor do I condone senseless murder. I think you should think about me while you learn a musical instrument. I don't tear through magazines searching for the perfume samples and then feast on the bounty. I could not beat a lion in a fight. I don't understand "complex issues". Actually, I'm really freaking modest. It might be the most impressive personality trait you'll ever encounter. I don't construct basketball goals from ceiling fan parts and dominate the post in three on three basketball tournaments comprised of myself and some ironically old child-star and the sickest kids local hospitals have to offer. Nor do I fashion an elaborate trophy from sugary foodstuffs and devour it after the championship game right in front of the hungry faces of my opponents and teammates. I have a "cell phone". As ridiculous as it might sound, even if I had gills I probably wouldn't live in a giant aquarium. I concede I might visit one. I've never been fond of a "good jabbing". I could live without a rocket car, I've been doing it all my life. I refuse to reveal even the slightest portion of a detail from my life that could, by the most twisted turns of thought through the darkest mind, be construed as even remotely embarrassing. I'd pick the cat hair from a piece of pizza and pretend I didn't see that flake of litter on the crust.* I don't belong to a gym, but you'd be surprised just how obvious it is, I mean, I said it just before the first comma in this sentence. When guests arrive I don't swab them with house paint and declare them a masterpiece before admonishing them for their taste in grapefruit. I'm not sure I'd make it as a cowboy, and frankly I don't want to try. I might be inclined to "jive" "the night away" or whatever the poets are calling it. I think lemonade smells fine.
* I wouldn't really eat such a tainted slice, I'm actually quite fastidious about my food.
The Second Part of This post
Let's adjourn to the darkest recesses of that terrible castle with bricks of bone mortared with blood and shit, buried in the thick liquid fire of our earth's core and talk* about politics: I'm a fan. So you'd do well to adopt my stances as we traipse through the likely limb-shattering minefield of "issues". Issues: I'm not a fan. That was a joke. Of course I like issues, it's what we're here to talk** about. I'm firmly on the side of owning pets. I think immigration is overrated. I think this platform would make me a candidate to get behind, though not in a literal sense as I get a bit uncomfortable when someone's standing over my back. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, I'm not qualified to be president, I can admit that. Of course, sometimes the voice of the people becomes an earth-encompassing thunder-storm, in which case even the most "dangerously unqualified" person has no choice but to listen, as ignoring the storm would only lead to becoming very wet and possibly Thunderstruck! The presidential election is in November 2008 so I would have to get started with my campaign (or "cam-pain" really, right?) by late summer, or October if I really needed more time to get my stuff together. And even then my chances would be slim. Yeah, seriously. It takes a lot of effort to get elected. You can't just drink your way through college and enlist a professional baseball team as henchmen in a needless-to-say-diabolical coup on the margarine industry. A president has to be able to look into the presidential looking-glass***, which in itself is pretty easy because it's just a looking glass in a conveniently located and smallish room in the white House. I'd say being president offers a bounty not worth the price more than any other occupation, but that's simply not true, far from it.
*I can't actually hear you.
**I can't actually hear you.
***A device whose origins are rumoured to be the calloused thorns of the devil's hands, and which is capable of seeing deep into the future and rendering the decision process easy and, because the glorious outcomes of all decisions are known, infallible.
Final words: regional, fastidious, and purple
I am not a park ranger. I don't spend all my time shuffling through the woods and grinding discovered berries into a fine paste for some hypethetical "Uncle Linus's Best Darned Mystery Jelly Super Stuff", nor do I condone senseless murder. I think you should think about me while you learn a musical instrument. I don't tear through magazines searching for the perfume samples and then feast on the bounty. I could not beat a lion in a fight. I don't understand "complex issues". Actually, I'm really freaking modest. It might be the most impressive personality trait you'll ever encounter. I don't construct basketball goals from ceiling fan parts and dominate the post in three on three basketball tournaments comprised of myself and some ironically old child-star and the sickest kids local hospitals have to offer. Nor do I fashion an elaborate trophy from sugary foodstuffs and devour it after the championship game right in front of the hungry faces of my opponents and teammates. I have a "cell phone". As ridiculous as it might sound, even if I had gills I probably wouldn't live in a giant aquarium. I concede I might visit one. I've never been fond of a "good jabbing". I could live without a rocket car, I've been doing it all my life. I refuse to reveal even the slightest portion of a detail from my life that could, by the most twisted turns of thought through the darkest mind, be construed as even remotely embarrassing. I'd pick the cat hair from a piece of pizza and pretend I didn't see that flake of litter on the crust.* I don't belong to a gym, but you'd be surprised just how obvious it is, I mean, I said it just before the first comma in this sentence. When guests arrive I don't swab them with house paint and declare them a masterpiece before admonishing them for their taste in grapefruit. I'm not sure I'd make it as a cowboy, and frankly I don't want to try. I might be inclined to "jive" "the night away" or whatever the poets are calling it. I think lemonade smells fine.
* I wouldn't really eat such a tainted slice, I'm actually quite fastidious about my food.
The Second Part of This post
Let's adjourn to the darkest recesses of that terrible castle with bricks of bone mortared with blood and shit, buried in the thick liquid fire of our earth's core and talk* about politics: I'm a fan. So you'd do well to adopt my stances as we traipse through the likely limb-shattering minefield of "issues". Issues: I'm not a fan. That was a joke. Of course I like issues, it's what we're here to talk** about. I'm firmly on the side of owning pets. I think immigration is overrated. I think this platform would make me a candidate to get behind, though not in a literal sense as I get a bit uncomfortable when someone's standing over my back. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, I'm not qualified to be president, I can admit that. Of course, sometimes the voice of the people becomes an earth-encompassing thunder-storm, in which case even the most "dangerously unqualified" person has no choice but to listen, as ignoring the storm would only lead to becoming very wet and possibly Thunderstruck! The presidential election is in November 2008 so I would have to get started with my campaign (or "cam-pain" really, right?) by late summer, or October if I really needed more time to get my stuff together. And even then my chances would be slim. Yeah, seriously. It takes a lot of effort to get elected. You can't just drink your way through college and enlist a professional baseball team as henchmen in a needless-to-say-diabolical coup on the margarine industry. A president has to be able to look into the presidential looking-glass***, which in itself is pretty easy because it's just a looking glass in a conveniently located and smallish room in the white House. I'd say being president offers a bounty not worth the price more than any other occupation, but that's simply not true, far from it.
*I can't actually hear you.
**I can't actually hear you.
***A device whose origins are rumoured to be the calloused thorns of the devil's hands, and which is capable of seeing deep into the future and rendering the decision process easy and, because the glorious outcomes of all decisions are known, infallible.
Final words: regional, fastidious, and purple
splish-splash I'm making a light dinner
Three Cheers. I get so sick of that show. An hour and a half-I get it, it's alcohol.
But if you'll permit me a dash of whimsy, I'd much like to slip into my flower-print ensemble.
There, slipped in.
Now, if you like politics, then you like the process by which people make decisions. And you like this blog: President Watch 2009: an observation of who's going to be making the decisions that might modestly impact the minor and infrequent problems that such a person might encounter: that person: the President of America.
If I had the money to buy a house I would like to buy a house that would provide sufficient shelter. But those liberals/neo-cons are too busy labeling people to throw even the slightest drunken effort to the cause of correcting our wiley housing market. I've had it up to here. (I'm holding my hand about breast-high, an indication that I'm not quite fed up with the whole ordeal, but certainly slowly approaching that point. ETA: April 18, 2010.)
You're here to form an opinion about presidents, and others who aspire to be judged cruelly by history. So let's edit out that sermon about shaving my cats' faces.
My cats' faces would look so weird without hair. I'm not sure about razor selection, of course There, sermon eradicated. Let's talk presidents/politics. As I'm sure you know by know politics is the process by which people make decisions, and presidents are the lords of a crude but sexy feudal system known as U.S.A. of America. The cats won't like being shaved. This much I know intuitively. But will they thank me later? I speculate the chances for this are dubious. In America the president lives in a white house. During the winter the house is made of ivory sheened from the world's best pianos and elephants. During the summer the hoCatuse is made out of mysteriously white popsicles. The summer-composition, as you can imagine, requires occasional maintenance. But if the social security and credit card numbers I suck out of your computer whenever you click on this site are any indication, you didn't come here to have your gullett or storage areas crammed with facts. Fact: Of this site's 78 million daily viewers, I've made them all up.
Goodnight. So who do you want to be president? Think. Wrong answer, I assume.
You wish we could throw a suit on an elderly German Shephard with bowel troubles. Well sidle up tight to the screen hombre, you can't go solving all your problems with scotch tape and whiskey. I've got the right idea. Let's take the journey together.
Final Words: violin, Cormac McCarthy, sauce
But if you'll permit me a dash of whimsy, I'd much like to slip into my flower-print ensemble.
There, slipped in.
Now, if you like politics, then you like the process by which people make decisions. And you like this blog: President Watch 2009: an observation of who's going to be making the decisions that might modestly impact the minor and infrequent problems that such a person might encounter: that person: the President of America.
If I had the money to buy a house I would like to buy a house that would provide sufficient shelter. But those liberals/neo-cons are too busy labeling people to throw even the slightest drunken effort to the cause of correcting our wiley housing market. I've had it up to here. (I'm holding my hand about breast-high, an indication that I'm not quite fed up with the whole ordeal, but certainly slowly approaching that point. ETA: April 18, 2010.)
You're here to form an opinion about presidents, and others who aspire to be judged cruelly by history. So let's edit out that sermon about shaving my cats' faces.
My cats' faces would look so weird without hair. I'm not sure about razor selection, of course There, sermon eradicated. Let's talk presidents/politics. As I'm sure you know by know politics is the process by which people make decisions, and presidents are the lords of a crude but sexy feudal system known as U.S.A. of America. The cats won't like being shaved. This much I know intuitively. But will they thank me later? I speculate the chances for this are dubious. In America the president lives in a white house. During the winter the house is made of ivory sheened from the world's best pianos and elephants. During the summer the hoCatuse is made out of mysteriously white popsicles. The summer-composition, as you can imagine, requires occasional maintenance. But if the social security and credit card numbers I suck out of your computer whenever you click on this site are any indication, you didn't come here to have your gullett or storage areas crammed with facts. Fact: Of this site's 78 million daily viewers, I've made them all up.
Goodnight. So who do you want to be president? Think. Wrong answer, I assume.
You wish we could throw a suit on an elderly German Shephard with bowel troubles. Well sidle up tight to the screen hombre, you can't go solving all your problems with scotch tape and whiskey. I've got the right idea. Let's take the journey together.
Final Words: violin, Cormac McCarthy, sauce
pliers slipped out of my hand and blinded my deaf cat
Don't worry about my cat. She's a lamp, and so is fine as long as I buy a new bulb (non-eco friendly variety) every once in a while.
I figured it's time to buckle down and let you know you can take a breather. I've got two handfulls of crap to say, and so let's get cutting?
First: Politics:
Is it just me, or did those damned wigs come back to fashion. Every time I fantasize about spending a chilly weekend in a courtroom circa 1880 I see the things on all the best judges' heads. I'm no arbiter of cool, I simply decide what's cool. So you'll excuse me if I find the whole powdery mess supremely unappetizing.
Second: Who Gets My Vote? (Politics Part 2):
Due to the frantic scrubbing of my knotty-kneed grandmother of a lawyer it appears I've been granted (along with only a few dozen other citizens) the right to determine this nation's next president. I like that one guy, the one with the legs of a gopher and the head of a hammer. But he lives in my kitchen and I'm not sure he's got the gumption, or the desire for "change", so clearly craved by this nation of fornicators. Next: I guess if someone wants my vote they're going to have to start pandering to me.
Third: What I like for Dessert (Politics Part 3):
(Note: My glasses, which are much too strong for me perfect eyes and therefore leave me nearly blind when wearing them, are fogging up and I'm not sure if I'm typing right now or performing hasty and unnecessary surgery on my hat-headed cousin. Don't worry! He's a robot. And not even my first-cousin. (Sorry for screaming.)) !
I try to skip dessert (the Olympics approach and I have a lot of snacking to do while I watch people swim), but I'm no superhero (despite the spiderwebs so menacingly draped over the bulk of my body), and so, two or three times a day, I indulge. Maybe six or seven nice strips of bacon to sweeten up the palate after a strenous meal. Tip: Make a stack of candybars and jump on them and you'll get crap all over your feet: End-Tip.
Fourth: Politics (Politics Part 4)
I'm a person with a computer. So don't get any ideas. You might have seen my around: I read a bunch of stuff on the computer. There's three or four pretty good websites out there. Look around, you'll see. I don't mean to sound ominous.
Final words: umbridge, calypso, and space-cadet
I figured it's time to buckle down and let you know you can take a breather. I've got two handfulls of crap to say, and so let's get cutting?
First: Politics:
Is it just me, or did those damned wigs come back to fashion. Every time I fantasize about spending a chilly weekend in a courtroom circa 1880 I see the things on all the best judges' heads. I'm no arbiter of cool, I simply decide what's cool. So you'll excuse me if I find the whole powdery mess supremely unappetizing.
Second: Who Gets My Vote? (Politics Part 2):
Due to the frantic scrubbing of my knotty-kneed grandmother of a lawyer it appears I've been granted (along with only a few dozen other citizens) the right to determine this nation's next president. I like that one guy, the one with the legs of a gopher and the head of a hammer. But he lives in my kitchen and I'm not sure he's got the gumption, or the desire for "change", so clearly craved by this nation of fornicators. Next: I guess if someone wants my vote they're going to have to start pandering to me.
Third: What I like for Dessert (Politics Part 3):
(Note: My glasses, which are much too strong for me perfect eyes and therefore leave me nearly blind when wearing them, are fogging up and I'm not sure if I'm typing right now or performing hasty and unnecessary surgery on my hat-headed cousin. Don't worry! He's a robot. And not even my first-cousin. (Sorry for screaming.)) !
I try to skip dessert (the Olympics approach and I have a lot of snacking to do while I watch people swim), but I'm no superhero (despite the spiderwebs so menacingly draped over the bulk of my body), and so, two or three times a day, I indulge. Maybe six or seven nice strips of bacon to sweeten up the palate after a strenous meal. Tip: Make a stack of candybars and jump on them and you'll get crap all over your feet: End-Tip.
Fourth: Politics (Politics Part 4)
I'm a person with a computer. So don't get any ideas. You might have seen my around: I read a bunch of stuff on the computer. There's three or four pretty good websites out there. Look around, you'll see. I don't mean to sound ominous.
Final words: umbridge, calypso, and space-cadet
let's put those notions on a t-shirt and wear it twice a week
Thunderstruck!
Final Words: salt-scoured, macadam, pistol-whipped
Final Words: salt-scoured, macadam, pistol-whipped
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