November 2011 Archives

what does god need with a starship?

In a recently taped video, the White House shooter is certainly long on ambition:

"Please do not take me as a joke or as a deception. I have never felt so sure that I was sent here from God to lead the world to Zion. It's not just a coincidence that I look like Jesus. I am the modern-day Jesus Christ that you all have been waiting for."
He then begs Oprah Winfrey to put him on her show.
"My name is Oscar Ortega from Idaho Falls, Idaho, and I feel like I am the perfect candidate to get cast on your show because not only do I have a solution to make a huge impact on this world with small changes to our daily lives, I also have with me the answer to worldwide peace."
So I have a couple of questions:
  1. What does God need with the Oprah Winfrey Show?
  2. Wouldn't the Almighty know it went off the air in May?

into the male mind

Facebook recommended that I friend a pretty blonde, a friend of a friend. Normally I ignore Facebook's suggestions, but she looked really, really smart, so I clicked her.

Turns out she's a representative to the state legislature. Specifically, she's my representative.

Just how many layers of lame can one guy be?

watch it before the nfl takes it down

And the clutch-peeing award goes to...

Kudos to him if he was able to get a stream going in front of 65,000 people.

Dorkass and I were engaged in a covert op too stupid for me to admit to here, but it involved sneaking into work at night and snooping around the office of my mercurial, on-again/off-again girlfriend. At this point, said girlfriend and I had been off for several months.

I was rummaging for a pilfered article when I found them: prenatal vitamins.

Time stood still. It was like I'd discovered a positive pregnancy test in the trash, only with decidedly less room for interpretation. I stood hunched over the drawer, staring at the bottle. Dorkass wandered over and stared at them too. Then at me. Then at them.

"Ohhhh," she said. "Girls take those to strengthen their nails and hair." Well, that was unusually helpful information. No shot at me or anything? "Really stupid, vain little girls who read nothing but Cosmopolitan." Ah.

thanksgiving weekend

Thanksgiving is pretty much the only holiday that Americans haven't ruined with excess and commercialism. It remains essentially unchanged. Like our Pilgrim forbears, we gather with our families, stuff our faces, and give thanks for the poofy reclining chair in front of the day of televised football.

Bliss. But it can still be tweaked.

Inquiring Spokane friends told I'm spending Thanksgiving in Seattle? Check.

Inquiring Seattle friends told I'm spending it in Spokane? Check.

Family not heard from? Check.

The two best Thanksgiving Day games of my lifetime? Check.

Damn. I should have kenneled the dogs. They'll ruin it.

siri philosphizes




the siri experience

The iPhone's new voice-driven ui is a technological step forward, to be sure, but I still endlessly repeat myself, and it still doesn't comprehend quite a bit. Sometimes Siri ratholes about semantics. And sometimes I feel like Siri's outright blaming me.

This seemed familiar. Really familiar.

Thus did I begin my experiment: is Siri distinguishable from a girlfriend? You tell me. In the interests of a more realistic simulation, I changed my own name in the phone settings.











george lucas' warped priorities

As I have for the last 34 years, I was railing this morning about the following miscarriage of justice:


And then it struck me. George Lucas actually went back and tampered with this very film. He saw fit to make Greedo shoot first, thereby lopping Han Solo's balls off. It was morally imperative that Imperial robots flutter into frame like gnats. And by God, he made sure fake elephant things lumbered into the foreground, completely obscuring the actors.

When Lucas was mucking up the movies, he couldn't give Chewbacca his bloody medal?

adding another lock to my door

Ohio State players get a pin each time they beat Michigan. The pin is a little pair of gold pants. Players recently traded these pins for free tattoos, leading media commentators to morally equate them with Miami players who accepted gifts of whores and subsequent abortions.

I tell you this not because I'm bitter but because this knowledge is needed for today's post. You see, I heard my first Penn State joke.

Q: What's the difference between Ohio State and Penn State?
A: At Ohio State, the scandal is gold pants. At Penn State, it's kids' pants.

Presumably a whole team of the world's brightest humorists slaved all night, wordsmithing that one. More child-rape jokes, please. We can't get enough.

On what planet is this even marginally okay, let alone funny?

i-hate-sports guy

I imagine most of us know that guy. "I hate sports," he makes a point of telling you. "Except for soccer." Always except for soccer. It's never except for hockey/baseball/curling/skeet-shooting. It's always soccer, and more significantly, you never asked.

turtleneck.PNGHe also rails about whatever stadium is being built. That his taxes do not go toward its construction is far beyond his point. He finds its very existence to be invalidating and reprehensible, a monument to all that is wrong with people who are not him. He will not shut the fuck up. Not at gunpoint. I've tried.

Okay, now you're picturing your own version of I-hate-sports-except-for-soccer guy. Is he a little...energized by the Penn State developments?

We're all outraged about the crimes—me, I haven't been saddened like this by something that didn't directly affect me since 9/11. But this guy wants you to know he's more outraged. The Penn State scandal is an affirmation of...something...about which he's particularly indignant. To Twitter! To Facebook! People already in agreement must be educated as to just how awful awful is. And thus does he cluck at straw men and refute arguments no one actually made.

Watch for it. If you know this guy, he's doing it too.

just wow

And in a walk, the most uncomfortable Amazon listing of all time is...


i know it was you, fredo

Fredo, now seven months old and as large as his big sister, has in the last two weeks chewed up my iPhone, my universal remote, all the way through a power cord, and two toilet paper rolls.

Exasperating inconveniences, all. But his pièce de résistance was rooting through my laundry basket and shredding the elastic band in every last pair of underwear I own. It turns out the elastic band is highly functional. Take it from someone whose underwear has been resting in an unruly pile at the crotch of his pants all week.


I don't have much to say about the Paterno situation. He had to go, and I have no problem with how the university handled his firing.


It utterly depresses me how he's become the popular (as opposed to actual) focus of a child-rape investigation. What percentage of the media coverage and of the protesters' bloodlust has been focused on crucifying Paterno, as opposed to, oh, for the sake of argument, the rapist? 95%? Is it that low?

People need to take a long, lingering look at the ugliness in their mirror.

close call

Not an hour after clicking Post on yesterday's diatribe, I was on the ferry heading to Seattle. I headed upstairs to the restrooms, only to find that a pickup truck was parked so closely to the door that no one would be able to pass. "Jesus H.," I said, squinting at the parking job.

And then the truck's window lowered, and a lovely young woman behind the steering wheel apologized. "I botched it," she said, and then she worried she was blocking a handicapped access point. I smiled and told her it's no big deal.

I had other concerns. She isn't rude. She's polite! Not an hour after I ranted about how oblivious Seattle people are to others, I have to issue a bloody retraction? That's so unfair!

As I walked back to my car, a nagging thought made me turn around and take another look at her truck. And there they were:

Canadian plates.

the warmest seatard

Any time I take a personality test—invariably against my will, at work, at the insistence of some preliterate who just attended the latest trendy workshop for managerial twinkies—the tester tells me I'm an introvert.

And then we'll argue about whether I am shy. This diagnosis delights me. I am, of course, nothing of the kind. No, I am contemptuous of people and seek to avoid them. There's a difference. If provoked, I'll extrovert your ass good and proper.

Yep. It's a verb now.

Last night's shopping trip was like any other excursion into Seattle. I tried not to bother people, and they moved mountains to bother me. In any other town in America, if two people's paths intersect and one says "Excuse me," the other will smile and reciprocate. Not so here. The second person looks past you, as if they didn't hear you, as they silently lean out of your way. God forbid they acknowledge a nicety. That would be acknowledging the existence of another human being, and who knows where that might lead.

On the fifth occurrence in 10 minutes' time, I didn't disengage. A woman had parked her cart next to a stand, then examined an adjacent item, thereby blocking the entire aisle. She ignored me as I waited, so I said "Excuse me" and smiled. Nothing. No eye contact, no grunt.

"Help me understand something," I said as I slipped by. "Why do you people pretend that others don't exist?"

Startled, she whirled away from me. "Whaaa? You people?"

"Seattle people."

"This is Lynnwood," she corrected me.

"Not a whole lot of difference, there."

"I got OUT of your WAY. What MORE do you WANT?"

"Not being in the way? Or failing that, the courtesy of an excuse me for your having made me ask you to move?"

"Excuse me," she spat at the asshole who'd dared to hold up a mirror to her face.

Our eyes locked. I knew I was one more sentence away from a restraining order. I sighed and moved on, listening to her curse me under her breath as we went our separate ways.

I gotta get out of this town before I'm permanently damaged.

• • •

From the other side of the globe, Stank troll Peter sends this Seattle anecdote.


bad dream girl, part trois

I hadn't intended for this to become a series. Really.

I don't wonder about the original brown ponytail, Fucking Amy, anymore. I don't have to. There's nothing about her life that I can't guess. That's not arrogance on my part. She's just that bereft of an original thought. Believe me, there's nothing about her life that you can't guess, either.

"There's a picture of her on her husband's Facebook profile," Allie told me. I looked.

"Yep, that's her." Meh.

I felt nothing. Odd, that.

Allie continued. "Did you read his Facebook profile? People that inspire him: Reagan, George Bush, George W. Bush, and Jesus."

Now there's a feeling bubbling up.

Wait. No. That's not a feeling.

• • •

When I break up with someone, I sincerely wish them a life of happiness and love. (Except for the cheaters. I sincerely wish them chlamydia and eye crabs.) That comes naturally to me.

What does one wish for the woman who dumped him, though? All these years later, I'm still not sure what it is. Happiness, yes, but it's more complex than that. He wants it all to have been worthwhile. She should teach at-risk kids. Or become an inspiring travel writer. Or marry a kind single dad, doin' the best he can for his kids. Something positive. Throw me a bone. Give me something I can hang my hurt on, something I can point to and say "Wow. I get it now. It was totally worth it."

"I bet all the kids get a free ride at that fundamentalist private school he teaches at," Allie speculated, oblivious.

bad dream girl, part deux

I need a "shallowness" category.

When I was 27, I met a friend's 18 year old cousin, who immediately seared into my mind as the Single Most Attractive Woman I Ever Met. But there are nine year age differences, and then there are nine year age differences. So I did nothing but secretly marvel at her sparkliness, grace, kindness, brown ponytail, and softball trophies.

hawk-aj-160-2-454.jpg"Nine years?" I thought last night. "That's nothing now! Finally, oldfartedness has a virtue beyond car insurance!" Knowing she would be married, I nonetheless commenced cyber-stalking.

When you have this impulse, do me a favor. Do yourself a favor. Resist. Let him or her remain unsullied by reality in your memory. My dreamgirl now looks approximately like AJ Hawk.

And she named her kid "Heeb." Heeb, people.

bad dream girl

Zooey Deschanel is getting divorced. I'm sure someone is rejoicing—someone pretty delusional, granted—but not me. Never have I tried so hard be attracted to a woman and failed.

zooey.jpgIn a still photo, she shimmers. Put that brunette mane in a high ponytail, and you have my type precisely. And then she acts. Or sings. Or tweets. And the fantasy is shattered, utterly.

It isn't a mere case of "and then she opened her mouth and ruined it." She seems a nice enough, bright enough person. She's just


I defy you to watch The New Girl without hearing the weighty clunk-clunk-clunk of her "wacky" affectations, or that Oz reboot without wanting to throttle her outright. Listening to her sing is an exercise in revisiting that chick you knew in college whose onetime charming "artsiness" devolved over time into "witless pretentiousness." The difference being, of course, that no one threw recording contracts and plum roles and Leno appearances at her. Please stop.

It's like the Venus de Milo statue came to life and turned out to be a lesser Kardashian. Such a waste when by just standing there quietly, like a statue, she attained the perfection of our imaginations.

moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

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