Now that that bit of ugliness is behind us, so to speak, I can tell you that yesterday the wife and I went to a "Water 101" class given by the Orange County Water District. We, of course, wanted to see just how many times we could fill our Mr. Turtle kiddie pool every day before we need to start feeling guilty about it. Turns out it's eight times a day, so that might put a damper on the end of summer.

The real highlight of the seminar for me was a video about the Sacramento Delta and the terrible water mismanagement that goes on there. Actually the video was not terribly exciting, but they did show protesters outside a the capitol in Sacramento, one of whom had a sign that read "I PAY TAXES -- FISH DON'T!!"

A couple of thoughts sprang to mind about this sign:

- I hope that the sign carrier had made the sign one morning, after a visionary dream, and had been waiting years for the appropriate opportunity to brandish it angrily. Maybe she had tried her sign at other events, like an Evangelical Christian revival for example, with disappointing results.
- What if fish did start paying taxes? Maybe the California economic difficulties would end. Or maybe some philanthropist, like that Percy Ross guy who used to give away money in the newspaper to needy people on the sole condition that he had to look like a really great guy, could spot the fish some tax money.

But wait! Fish are for the most part unemployable (besides some in middle-management positions), so if they were assigned social security numbers they would undoubtedly turn into welfare cases and get huge tax refunds every year.

Further study is definitely needed.

Seriously, the seminar confirmed that California and indeed much of the country and world, is headed for a big water crisis as the population grows and you, yes you, continue to water your lawn.

After the water seminar, we headed off to the free Mars viewing at the University of California Irvine observatory.

Somehow, I don't think the staff of the observatory anticipated that five thousand people would show up. Traffic was backed up for blocks and we ended up parking about a half-mile away and hiking up to the observatory, where we found thousands of kind of pissed-off looking people in the kind of line that you can grow a beard in. Luckily, there were some amateur astronomers with their own telescopes there, and we had a look through one such device. I think it was Mars I saw, at least. It could really have been any roughly circular off-white object.

It wasn't a real strong telescope.

I'm guessing they probably turned away all the would-be stargazers about midnight, maybe with free passes to Laser Floyd Night or something. One can but dream.

I had a first today.

It was the first time this thought had ever crossed my mind: "Gee, it's ten AM and I've already had a colo-rectal exam." I mean, what can possibly top that?

Yes, I had the first physical of my sheltered existence today. I'll spare you any further details, as this blog refuses to sink to the depths of bottom humor any more than is absolutely necessary, especially when it's my bottom that's in question. Suffice to say that in the subject-predicate paradigm, I now know what it means to be the predicate.

Also, it's difficult to conduct a conversation when the person speaking to you is palpating your testicles.

Come to think of it, I don't think I need to use the word "palpate" again just about ever.

If you haven't already stopped reading, you should probably go and have a nice cup of tea, a shower, and a bit of a lie-down.

They pass, these people from accounting and customer service. The smiling receptionist. Their life force is strong. We sense it in the subtle shift of the wind, this approaching vibrance.

We remember the light.

And we ooze forth from our cubicles of darkness. We joke at them desperately, implore them only to stay. To keep us company in this our long windowless nightmare. We drape ourselves over their youthful forms and cling to their ankles, hoping to wrest some small shard of hope from them, that we may huddle round it later, warming our icy bones.

"Tell us of the light!" we implore them, beseech them.

But they cannot hear us. They hurry past us, turning up collars against an involuntary chill, nervously whistling or remarking to each other that a goose has trodden on their grave.

We are lost, alone in the depths of Purgatory, Inc., under the fluorescents that eat our souls and over the carpet that tells our story in wavering, sickening patterns of grape, mustard and what may very well be periwinkle.

Sometimes, there are doughnuts.

Sorry for the absence between updates here, but some significant things have occurred in the last few days, though not necessarily in this order:

1. I sunburned the hell out of my back.
I was weeding in the back yard on Saturday, and foolishly neglected to wear sunscreen, a hat or a shirt. Now I am paying the price with a back roughly the color of raspberry sherbet.

Having a badly sunburned back is, of course, great fun. You have to try not to wrinkle the skin on your back, because if you do, incredible itching and pain will result. I imagine I looked a little like some demented marionette at work this morning, involuntarily jerking my shoulders in response to the sharp twinges of pain.

I bought Aloe Vera gel at lunch and drove home with it, to soothe my back. Putting it on made it hurt one thousand times worse, and I ran around the house screaming profanities. I actually said "whoremaster!" for some unknown reason. I probably read it in a Stephen King book. My cat would not stop yelling and is lucky I did not behead him.

Also, there are ants everywhere in my house. I killed them with glee and shouted my nastiness at them. They allowed me to externalize my horrific pain.

It sounded kind of like this: "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD! OW! OW! OW! DIE! DIE ANT! OH YES! DIE! DIE! HAHAHAHAHA!" and so on. I believe leading Hellraiser theoreticians would have surmised that I had crossed the line where pain, murder, death and pleasure blend together into a symphony of evil.

Now I am getting twinges that feel like needles poking into my back.

2. Phil Hartman contacted me to tell me I may have been the victim of identity theft.
Obviously, not the Phil Hartman. No, this is a detective in the town where I used to live, who told me that some quality individuals had ransacked my mailbox, along with the mailboxes of other good folk of the C Building. Actually, I don't know if they're good folk or not. They could be chickenfondlers for all I know.

So I went down to the police station to reclaim my mail. I waited for Phil Hartman for a long while, and tried to keep thoughts of guilt out of my mind. As soon as I entered the police station, I felt like The Man was going to spring out from behind the institutional plastic rows of chairs and nab me. This led to subsequent grandiose fantasies involving the breaking of windows, the scaling of trees and the shouting of "You'll never take me alive!"

Anyway, it doesn't seem like the mail thieves actually managed to do anything with the info they gleaned from my cell-phone bill and bank statement, but it's a little disquieting to know that I may not be me. I mean, I thought I was the one eating asparagus salad last night, but maybe it was an identity thief!

Does that mean I have to eat the salad again?

3. There is mouse poo all over my desk.
Self-explanatory, though I should state that this is not the sort of treatment I expect after I make it clear that I would like to rehabilitate you from your life of carefree mouseness, Mr. Work Mouse. I understand that I didn't get the humane trap thing that I was talking about in order to save you from the evil glue-trap setters, but I really did think about it quite seriously.

Isn't that enough for you?

When I have to discipline my hapless lackeys here at Purgatory, Inc., I like to do so in a Jacob Marley "vengeful ghost" type voice. It confuses them and keeps them nice and twitchy.

In fact, whenever I am unable to avoid speaking to them, I select from one of the following voices:

Popeye
Foghorn Leghorn
Yosemite Sam
Henry Kissinger
Carol Anne from Poltergeist

The Aquariass Aquarium Toilet

Seems like a great idea, although it might be a little traumatic for the fish.

Just one of the several neato thingies at Elseware.

So I dropped the wife off at the airport today to fly to a conference, and immediately raced home to do what married guys do when they have a couple of days to themselves:

That's right, I watched Altered States with my cat.

It seemed to go pretty well, and I think it was a good human-feline bonding experience, even if he did express some concerns about the facile nature of Ken Russell's religious imagery. He snorted with derision as Dr. Jessup held out the Bible to his dying father in his hallucination, and made some rather cutting remarks about "fifth-grade level psychedelia", leaving me somewhat ashamed.

I explained that the cheesy effects were representative of technology of the time the film was made, but he seemed nonplussed.

But I think I gained a little knowledge from my cat. Next week he wants to show me Kieslowski's Dekalog, possibly followed by a discussion on whether there is any true morality in a world devoid of divine guidance. But I have to get him the good cat food first. Eukanuba, you know.

Come home soon, honey.

13 Labs Garden springs terror on an unsuspecting world:

IS WANGMATO THE MISUNDERSTOOD FRIEND OF CHILDREN THE WORLD OVER?
Probably not, but anything is possible.

Run!

It is indeed a hard world for little things.

Courtesy of Mr. Plurp:

Patriotic Hermit Crab Shells!

Sure, your neighbors may think they're impressive with their 20-foot high floodlit flagpole in the front yard, but their pathetic fair-weather patriot jaws will drop to their patchy lawn when you spring your little pal in his American Flag shell on them.

"That's nice" you can drawl, "But have you seen my little friend!?" as you brandish your little crab friend proudly.

Incidentally, I think they could score big with middle America if they would make RV and Slipstream Hermit Crab shells.

Here's the whole shebang. Let's all just take a moment and thank the good people at Pet Discounters.com for remembering to humiliate God's little creatures.

We went and saw Tindersticks at the Henry Fonda Theatre in L.A. on Tuesday. This, of course, goes a ways toward explaining my absence from this site. Staying up til 1am on a weekday means I have to pretty much write off the rest of the week, what with being old and decrepit and all. I noticed something at the show (which by the way was great and you should have gone. Yes, you! I know you live in Nebraska. I don't care! Just shut up. I'm not even continuing this conversation).

What did you notice? I hear you cry.

Well let me tell you: I noticed the dancing. Concert dancing is a tricky field to get into. I know because I've been at shows where I find myself doing a little toe-tap head-bob sort of thing a few songs into the show, and next thing I know it's five songs later and I've been doing the exact same toe-tap head-bob thing for five songs in a row! I know, it's unsettling. I'd understand if you want to go to another site right now, and maybe look at pictures of ringtail lemurs for a while.

There. You back? OK.

Yes, the pressure can be intense. You have to mix it up a little bit. You may want to engage in some hands-over-the-head waving action that you saw in that one Motley Crue video that one time when you were cutting Autoshop.

Then there's the "how much am I annoying the guy standing behind me?" factor. If you really, really want to annoy the guy behind you, you can't beat some violent head jerking kind of stuff, making the guy behind you wonder whether your rear cranium is about to shatter the bridge of his nose. And, after all, screw that guy. He knows what he's getting into going to a show, right? You go see a band, you pay your twenty bucks, you have to expect that maybe you're not going to make it out of there without a little sinus damage, and maybe some cartilage trouble. It doesn't matter that this is a Tindersticks show, and you're dancing around like an extra from REM's Stand video to a song that has one beat every ten seconds. Go for it!

And, by all means, yell out stuff between songs. Not only does the band love it, the people around you think you're really, really funny. As a matter of fact, I may have paid $20 to see Tindersticks, but what I really wanted to hear was some yutz yelling in the breaks. Sometimes, when I listen to CDs at home, I yell things myself. I'm glad you have taken care of the yelling for me, yelling guy.

Hmm. Got a little sidetracked there.

Well, the entries have been pouring in for the "Let's imagine Babar, King of the Elephants in unseemly film and literature" contest. Well, it's kind of a contest. The kind of contest where you don't win anything and there's no real criteria for judging. It's like a midway game where a cruel carny gives you a softball that you know can never ever knock down those milk bottles, but you have to try anyway.

And then, against all odds you manage to knock down those bottles, and your heart leaps into your throat and just as you think, just for a moment, for one fleeting second "I am a winner, dammit!", some guy steals your car stereo in the parking lot.

That kind of contest.

Here's the winners, that my wife and I just judged:

JPoulos:
12 Angry Babars
Rosemary's Babar
The Unbearbale Lightness of Babar
The Last Temptation of Babar

Adam:
Faster Babar! Kill! Kill!
The Madness of King Babar

Skot:
A Confederacy of Babars
It Happened to Babar One Night

Trent:
Babar of Nazareth
Conan, The Babarian
Star Trek: The Wrath of Babar

Richard (who has no linkability):
Pier Palo Pasolini's Salo: 120 Days of Babar (alternately, Babar: 120 Days of Sodom)

YHBC:
Babarella, Queen of the Galaxy (It should be noted that this was a multiple entry, with Skot's Babarbarella, Queen of the Galaxy)

Congratulations to all the winners. Years from now, when someone's bothering you in a bar, you can tell them the story of how you thought up the best damn Babar jape ever, and rest assured that they'll leave you alone and possibly notify the authorities.

I'm so glad to see that Arnold Schwarzenegger is running for governor of my home state.

It's good to know that when (I would say if, but it's only a matter of time) a demented supervillain siphons off California's atmosphere, our governor will be untroubled. Sure, his eyes'll bug out a little bit and he'll make some odd Shatneresque grunting sounds, but he'll pull through.

And who else? Who else have we got running? Gary Coleman. And Gallagher. I can't wait for the debates,.

Here's a My Life As An American Gladiator fun game you can play at home:

Imagine Babar, King of the Elephants in decidedly un-Babar films and books.

Thus:

Babar: Portrait of a Serial Killer
The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Babar
Babar Got His Gun
Come Back to the Five and Dime, Babar, Babar
Fear and Loathing and Babar in Las Vegas

Got any good ones? Send 'em in.

I just happened to be perambulating around the web dealy here and happened on aliensandchildren.org, courtesy of Adampsyche.

There's nothing too remarkable there. Just your average aliens bothering the godfearing denizens of our planet, tinfoil hat sales, that sort of thing.

One section particularly drew my attention, though: The Alien Plan for Humans. I've always been curious about just why these aliens want to come down here and mess with people's heads, as they are wont to do if you believe the literature. This passage has all the answers:

"And he's saying to me that, 'You know how you have memories?'

And I'm saying like, 'What do you mean, memories?'

He's saying, 'You know how you remember your father, your mother, your sister, the birthday parties?'

I think he's giving me an example and I'm saying yes.

And he goes, 'Someday people who are like you will not have those memories either. They'll be like me.' Like him meaning.

And I'm saying, 'What do you mean by that?'

He's saying, 'Don't you understand that?'

I said no, or rather, I don't say no, I just shake my head. And then again he tells me to listen.

He says, 'There will be only one purpose for you. You won't have memories like you do now.'

I'm asking him like, 'You mean me?' He goes, 'No, the people who will come after you.'

I don't know what he means by that.

He's asking me, 'Are you understanding?'

I'm shaking my head like I don't. I'm asking him, 'They're not going to take me away, are they?'

And he's saying, 'They don't need to take you away. They will come.'

I don't know what he means by this. Again I ask him what are they doing.

He looks down and he looks up at me again and he lifts his arm up. He is saying something like, 'Do you see this?'

And I say, 'What, your arm?'

He goes, 'Never mind.'

I said, 'No, tell me. Tell me. What are the aliens doing?'

And he's saying all they're interested in, that no matter what happens at all, is that they control."

Now, I'm no tinfoil hat wearing expert, but I think the aliens should really be more selective in their abduction targeting. It's pretty obvious that this guy is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. You can just picture the alien getting more and more frustrated. "My arm? Yeah, I'm talking about my arm, Clem. How many ways do I have to tell you that we're a superintelligent race and you mouth-breathers are in trouble." And then he rolls his almond shaped eyes and says to his colleague "Let's drop this idiot off and try Nebraska again."

There is no situation that could not be worse if one imagines it being a lavish musical production number.

Imagine it. You get laid off. Your wife leaves you. The cat is possessed by a minor demon. You lose your hair in a bizarre rototiller accident, and your eyeballs turn backward into your head.

And just then, just as you are convinced nothing more could possibly happen to make your situation any worse, the music swells. You realize there's a full orchestra behind the potted plants, sequined-leotard wearing dancers spring unbidden from every doorway and out of nowhere someone starts crooning.

Just remember that next time you fall on hard times, my friend.

I had a good day of nonplussing store merchants.

First, I went to Petco (you know, where the pets go? Personally, I think until the pets come up with some cash, they should stop crowding the aisles). There, I went through my usual routine en route to the Giant Bag Of Cat Litter aisle. This consists of first glancing up to see myself on the surveillance screen.

I'm not sure of the strategy behind putting the surveillance monitor right over the door. It is, of course, a good chance to preen in front of a camera, and check for unsightly blemishes, and I recommend trying to spot the camera and approaching it, nostrils flared, in an effort to pindown any unwanted nose detritus. Also, you can make goofy "I'm on the teevee!" faces or caper about the cameras view pretending you are a lovable entertainer whose career will be tragically cut short.

I mean, do they think I'm going to walk out with a schnauzer under my coat or something? Perhaps fill my pockets with those green hamster pellets? Sure, I may have done this once or twice, but I blame society.

After the surveillance antics, I made for the cat section, but on the way I had to stop and moon at the hamsters and rats for a while. Usually just long enough to give them their dark and unholy instructions. Then I hurried past the birds. Who the hell wants birds as pets? They don't even remotely like you, and spend their entire lives pissed off that they're stuck in some filthy cage, plotting their escape or at least the irreparable soiling of your upholstery.

And then I was in the cat section. At least I hoped I was in the cat section. Things move around in Petco. They have a pretty standard offering of ten dollar cat toys that your cat will never play with and two-paycheck cat condos that go a long way toward proving that cats like cardboard boxes, but the Petco people are not satisfied with that.

They like to move everything around, so I can never quite locate the cat litter without first peering down each aisle like some challenged prairie dog, frightening the shy and reclusive cat supply customers, who scatter under my puzzled gaze.

Anyway, I found my jumbo Jonny Cat bag and hauled it to the register, feeling very manly and virile as I toted my 20 pound burden. It made me feel even better that later, the Petco surveillance crew could watch me strolling through the store unaffected by the Herculean weight held firmly in my grip.

The register woman asked me the same question they always ask me in Petco: "How many cats do you have?"

At first, when they asked me this, I thought they were genuinely interested in me and my cat. I thought maybe the conversation would continue to the point where they would be asking me and my cat to appear in some Petco promotional materials. And then I thought, maybe they're trying to offload some kitties on me. They think "Here's a guy buying twenty pounds of cat litter at once...he's not going to be bothered by a few dozen more pairs of tiny unkempt feet around the house."

And then they'd pull out a duffel bag full of kitties and I'd be powerless to resist them.

But after about a hundred times of being asked the "How many cats?" question, I figured out that they were required to say that. Somewhere in the back room of Petco, there's some crazed reeducation effort underway wherein they brainwash these poor souls to ask me how many cats I have.

Tragic, really.

So, I replied "Just one."

The woman made some sort of noncommital sound, making it clear she really didn't care.

"One kind of fat, lazy old cat."

And with that, I had achieved counterperson nonplussedness.

Nonplus number two was at MicroCenter, which is a budget computer store. I go there sometimes and gaze at the new games and wonder if my karmic tally is positive enough to allow a fifty dollar outlay. This time, I was buying blank CD-Rs for various nefarious purposes. I took my item to the counter and the girl there rang me up. I paid with my Mastercard, which now requires me to make some childlike scrawl on the computer signature pad.

I should say that my signature is astoundingly variable at the best of times, on your normal paper surface. It's one of those squiggly heiroglyphs that looks like the last missive of a dying man who had a stroke halfway through. These little devices do nothing to help the quality of my signature. I swear to you, there have been times when I 've signed on the electronic pad, only to have written someone else's name entirely. Last time I think it was "Debbie Sue".

And the counterperson asked me "Do you want your name on the receipt?"

I couldn't quite figure that out. Maybe I would want to keep it for a few years. Pull it out and impress my friends. "This is from the time I bought 50 Maxell CD-Rs. You can be sure it's real because my name's on it." As they were struck dumb with awe, I might add in a low voice "Five dollar mail-in rebate*."

Maybe they were trying to get information about me? I am one of those people who will not give their info to stores. I despise the Club Card and I'm certainly not telling Radio Shack my blood type and educational history just to buy some batteries. But what could they do with my name on the receipt?

Puzzling.

So I just said "Why the heck would I want that?"

The girl was kind of stuck, and said "It's just something we're supposed to ask."

And there you have it, double-nonplussed goodness.




* Does anyone ever mail in the rebates? I can imagine the lady with all the coupons at the grocery store doing this, shaking her fist to the sky as she cackles "That's right, Maxell! You didn't think I'd do it, but I got you, you bastards!"

Oh man.

Monday's audience burst into laughter during the seduction scene, when J.Lo spreads her legs for Ben and says, "It's turkey time. Gobble-gobble."

You couldn't make stuff like that up. From the new Ben McDamonFlack and J-Lo debacle "Gigli".

Before work today, I saw some of President Bush's press conference. The first in 5 months.

ALl I could think of was a line that Barry Crimmins had about Dan Quayle's press conferences (to paraphrase): I look at him and I see a teenager trying to get past his parents, drunk at 2 in the morning.

Also, with his halting speech pattern and distracted manner, it seemed like Bush was being fed the responses, perhaps from crafty Rumsfeld hiding in the rose bushes behind him. That would make Rumsfeld the intimidatingly large-nosed Steve Martin and Bush the dopey but cute fireman, trying to win the heart of America, who in this equation would be played by Daryl Hannah. Or maybe Rumsfeld would be Gerard Depardieu.

I'm confused.

But really, the whole ordeal is just depressing. To see this smug figurehead up there at the podium, deflecting important concerns over the blatant lies of his administration by cracking little jokes just seems disgusting.

Calgon, take me away.

Yes, the rumors are true. It is, in fact, My Life As An American Gladiator's 2nd Birthday today.

There will be triscuits and spray cheese in the main lobby.

It's a tradition here at MLAAAG to look back at the past year and name some of the less uninteresting posts. I don't know if you can really call it a tradition, seeing as how this is only the second time, but I'm going to make that leap of faith. I hope you're comfortable with that.

The Story of Elvis and Monkeyboy

The Big Movie Idea

I Can't Catch

Another Big Movie Idea

Jerky

Spider Messiah

Halloween 4

Toobin'

Toilet Training

Salad Horizon Theory

My Neighbor

And my favorite of the year:

Skeleton Warrior Found Dead in Malibu Home

So there you have it. Two years have come and gone, and I feel ready to impart some great wisdom to you.

I just haven't worked out what that wisdom should be yet.

Should it maybe be the thing about brillo? No. Maybe you're not ready for that yet. Or the dire warnings from the future about not making Baked Alaska?

Yes, maybe that should be it. Don't make Baked Alaska unless you're totally prepared for the metaphysical consequences.

And one more thing: Death Race 2000 is probably the greatest movie ever made.

Also, to the person who emailed me yesterday:

No. I can't tell you where to buy Sizzlean. I don't know what it was that made you think that I would be your source for ersatz bacon solutions, or that if I were a bacon substitute middleman, I would share such weighty knowledge with just anyone.

Of course, it could be that they don't make Sizzlean anymore, and for that reason I am hoarding my supply closely, like a greasy, cholesterol-concerned Cerberus.

I guess you'll never know.

It really makes you consider your career choices when the president of the company greets you breathlessly at 8 in the morning and says to you:

"Kafkaesque, can you find me some clip art of hillbillies?"

Also, to the gentleman from Germany who sent me the nice email today:

I am afraid I am no longer in possession of the necessary equipment to return you to your own time and/or plane of existence. I sold them for some shiny beans.

I do, however, have an old toaster-oven that has possiblities. It may not be the Dimensional Warp Generator that you referred to, but it does a real number on sourdough.

A Death Threat to the Arby's Oven Glove

Listen to me, oven glove.

There will come a time, an unspecified time in the future, when a figure will appear out of the darkness and rain down upon you with awesome and holy vengeance.

That figure? It'll be me.

Because I hate you. I hate you perfectly and beautifully, like a poem. Except this poem is about lighting you on fire and putting you out, and then submerging you in a shallow kiddie pool for five minutes at a time before taking you out and alternately cursing at you and crying for about fifteen minutes.

The next stanza of this poem, which is about your death, is about how I would rather listen to a Joseph Conrad novel on tape, read by Snuggle the Fabric Softener Bear, than endure one more thirty second spot featuring your Tom Arnold voice-talent and buggy little eyes. Eyes that will be dealt with in ways that you cannot possibly imagine, pok--

*REST OF POST DELETED IN THE INTEREST OF TASTE*

I haven't checked in for a while on the madcap world of lawn goose clothing, but it does my heart good to know that patriotism is not dead amongst the cement waterfowl of the front yards of this great nation:

In support of the troops

I can only stop in for a minute. My wife is after me.

She's got parsley. She's got broccoli. And yes, she's even got beets.

And she wants me to drink them.

Now, I've long been a proponent of the Juiceman, and have waxed monotonous about it here before. Apart from the really creepy oompah-loompah inventor, the Juiceman is indeed a great invention. You can juice anything in there*.

But I draw the line. Leave the celery in its solid form, I beg you. My one encounter with celery in its liquid form was the subject of song and legend and vomit, Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray Tonic. When I was a humble bagel slinger (working for my pal Julio the Suicidal Bagel Shop Manager, who was so important to my formative years), we would "haze" new employees by making them drink a bottle of the stuff and, most importantly, keep it down for a full hour.

Beets should maybe, and this is even stretching it, be pickled and buried like little purple landmines in an otherwise peaceful salad. Or borscht. Beets can go ahead and be borscht, if that's what they want to do with their little beet selves.

I can't even imagine what sort of heretofore unknown sadistic streak lay dormant in my wife these long years that she could even conceive of juicing broccoli. It's just wrong, and I might add, against God's plan.

I must close now. I smell parsnips coming for me.



* Except beloved household pets. You probably shouldn't juice them.

The Bonsai Potato



Containing the answer to the eternal question: "How can I maintain aesthetic balance in a multi-variety arrangement dominated by a mono-planar asymmetrical alternating branch stalk?"

Thank you, Microsoft Excel, for having the default scroll setting be a bazillion miles per hour, so I get to see my little cells whizzing by, powerless to stop their screaming, hurtling rush, and somehow end up in cell RZ2705.

This is the equivalent of getting in your car to go get a pack of cigarettes from the corner store, and suddenly going Mach 3 and ending up in Zaire by accident.

Matrix Style Ping Pong Action!

[thanks to Chimichanga, whose birthday is tomorrow. If you know who Chimichanga is, I recommend you spend a good portion of the day realizing that you will never have pectoral muscles like his. Also, think about the Bastille for a while.]

You may have noticed that the usual juggernaut output here has slowed to a tiny trickle.

I just want to reassure you that I am giving 25-35% out there, every single damn day. As a matter of fact, last Thursday I got up to 37%, but I got tired and it slipped down to about 18% for the remainder of the day.

So on average, Thursday was about 27.5%.

Now I have to go and return a Sharper Image subwoofer.

I just thought you should know that the new National Geographic has all kinds of pictures of randy and/or humping animals.

I have it on my coffee table.

This is great, because whatever I'm doing at home, I always know that I could just step into the other room and nearly instantaneously be looking at a picture of a lion with its nose in another lion's genitals, or maybe some anacondas doin' it orgy style.

It helps me through my day.

The Octodog!

Make your hot dogs into octopuses! Make other people's hot dogs into octopuses!

[warning: not intended for use in octopus --> dog applications]

Also, when we bought our house, I should have read the fine print on the Privacy Agreement from the Lender. This privacy agreement must have read, in part:

We, the evil and apathetic LOAN BEHEMOTH do hereby promise to sell the UNDERSIGNED's name, address, favorite color and shoe size to anyone and everyone under the sun, especially WINDOW DRESSING COMPANIES, because we think it's funny for you to get all that crap every single day in your mailbox. HA HA. In fact, were it possible, we would learn the arcane arts of ancient magick and craft self-willed, vengeful GOLEMS AND HOMUNCULI from the various humours contained within the body of the UNDERSIGNED just so we could sell the information to them too.

Do not be alarmed!

The pictures of Oyster Billy, El Diablo Jazz and their pals that comfort you through these troubled times have not been lost forever, but are merely being held hostage in some elaborate hosting company coup d'etat that is totally beyond my control and would require something big like a phone call to get to the bottom of. I don't have that kind of time or attention span, so you'll just have to rough it.

I should also note, on the subject of gardening, that our long national nightmare is over: the dark tyranny of the apricots no longer holds sway. They have come and gone through our lives, leaving only a sticky residue that gathers flies.

And pies. We have some pies.

The Kafka Family Garden Menagerie Running Tally:

Gnomes, Plastic: 1
Frogs, Plastic and Marginally Realistic: 1
Frogs, Plastic, Wearing Overalls and Holding a Shovel: 1

You will be updated of further developments.

Apparently, the National Do Not Call List sign up is flooded. Somewhere over half a million people have signed up today.

But not me.

I will be the only person receiving telemarketing calls left in the country. I will sit by my phone 18 hours a day, with only a break for a sensible lunch of maybe tuna salad, and then back at it. I will have banks of phones set up to field every offer I possibly can. I will be the savior of telemarketers. They will have pictures of me up there next to the clock, where the picture of the president used to be when the land was simple and men wore hats more.

It will, of course, get a little complicated being the only telemarketing demographic left. Everything will have to be tailored to me. And if I get annoyed with the telemarketers, I'll say "you know, I'm thinking of signing up for the Do Not Call List."

I bet they'll cry.

And then, after they've cried some, I'll sign up anyway.

For many years, I thought the word "solder" was pronounced "SOUL-DUR" instead of "SAW-TER". I still hold that this makes no sense whatsoever, but there you go.

This mispronunciation really came to haunt me when one day I was walking down the street, lost in thought about the marginalization of Man-At-Arms on the old He-Man series and the loss of meaning inherent in the double-name paradigm, when suddenly a man leapt from the shadows.

"Pronounce this word!" he demanded, and pulled out a tattered piece of brown bag on which he had inscribed the letters S-O-L-D-E-R.

I, of course, said "SOUL-DUR", marking myself as a feeb.

Luckily, though, my assailant was so shocked by my stupidity that he had a brain aneurysm and died almost instantly.

Let that be a lesson to you.

Tindersticks are planning their first American Tour in over 7 years!

Tour Dates

You should go. That's all I'm saying.




I'm also saying "marsupial" a lot too, so that's not really true, the part about "you should go" being all that I'm saying.

Crafty evil-doers have apparently pilfered them pesky WMDs.

[via norm, who is basically a big troublemaker]

Apricots. Dear god, there are so many apricots.

Our new house has a giant apricot tree in the front yard, which so far has yielded about 50 lbs. of fruit. That, my friends, is a whole lot of apricots. Imagine a pie that weighed 50 lbs. But instead of that pie, there would be only apricots. Apricots that stubbornly refuse to be a pie, unless you make with the crust preparation and all that baking stuff. That is what 50 lbs. of apricots is like.

Not easy on the bowels, either. Just a heads-up there for your bowels.This is not to suggest that I ate 50 lbs. of apricots in a sitting or anything. But I did ingest about 25 apricots one rakish Saturday, which ensured a good cumulative hour of quality time later that day. That is, of course, not something you should want to know about.

One exciting feature of having a big apricot tree in your front yard, and living in a neighborhood where there is a lot of walking of an evening, is that people steal your apricots. Frankly, I am more than happy for my neighbors to take a few sweet little morsels from the tree. Hell, they can invite some friends from out of state to drive over and grab a basket full. But the fun thing about it is that our computer room is right next to the tree, so we can see people getting all sneaky with the fruit.

One woman, who for some reason seemed oblivious to the fact that we were mere feet from her, glanced around as if she was planning a diamond heist, and then dove to the ground gathering up the fallen apricot warriors who no longer had a place on the tree. Of course, if she had asked us to pick some fruit, I could have told her not to take the apricots from the lawn, where an exterminator had just liberally sprinkled pesticide granules.

But hey, karma. right?

Just a couple of things:

Firstly, I am grinding gears like a mofo. The kind of mofo that grinds gears, that is. Not the Oedipus kind.

I go happily shifting into second and a pterodactyl-like shriek emanates from the transmission. And I always make the same shocked and sheepish expression, just to let all the other drivers who are busy guffawing at my obvious lack of mad driving skillz (or "differently abled motor vehicle skillset") that yes, I am a goober but that this is obviously not my fault and is indicative of a larger force, most likely entropy.

Secondly, I am seeing lots and lots of British Columbia license plates in the last few days. I'm not saying they're planning anything. But just be aware. I am officially placing the British Columbia Early Warning Color Code System at Yellow. This means you should avoid geese.

Results of the Harvard U.S. Dialect Survey

Find out how people say "pecan" and "humongous"

Really fascinating. Also, it made me realize that I'm just not saying "pecan" or "humongous" as much as I probably should be. I pledge from now on to say "Humongous pecan" at least once every day. If I forget one day, I will allow myself to double up on the "humongous pecan" phrase.

bonus: Humongous Pecan



incidentally, with the amount of times I said "humongous pecan" in this post alone, I can probably go a whole week without saying "humongous pecan".

Nippon Meat Packers: Fun with Meat!

Please, I beg you: Do not make with the erotic meat statues.

[liberated from Plurp!, which probably got it from somewhere else.]

If I was in a slasher movie (and that's not to say that I'm not), I would want to be the creepy old guy that lives down by the swamp. He does some disturbing gardening projects, hangs up dead rabbits outside his shack, and just waits around for the high-schoolers to show up. Then he gets to menace them with a pitchfork and give them the evil eye. He wants to warn the giggling tribe of teens that they should not even consider the humping.

Because he knows what'll happen.

He gets to be twitchy and affect a ridiculous accent that varies between Cajun, Canuck and sometimes Welsh. He doesn't have to spend time worrying about his wardrobe. Just punches the clock, smears a little mud on his chin, and he's ready to go.

The function of the creepy old guy down by the swamp is basically a red herring. But there's something deeper to the creepy old guy too: He's been involved in some way with the murderer. Maybe back in '55 he was there the night the football team pantsed him in front of the whole school, or he witnessed that terrible toaster accident that left the killer scarred and vengeful.

Oh yeah. That's the life for me. Creepy old guy down by the swamp.

I mean, being the killer would be, let's face it, a lot of work. Who has time to go around punishing smoochers. And you've got to have a gimmick, like the hockey mask or a limp. Then you have to remember which leg you're supposed to be limping on. And you always have to be thinking up new ways to rain judgment down on the unworthy. That's a lot of pressure.

Being the jock guy who carries a football or some other such prop around until he is skewered with a fence-post while having a feel-up session with one of the easier cheerleaders? Well, sure, you don't have to remember a lot of dialogue and you do get the feel-up session. But you can be pretty sure you're number is up either immediately before, during, or immediately after your "little death" (and if you're the girl, you get no "little death" at all. Believe me. I actually took film theory classes on this.)

Probably the worst fate of all would be the Survivor Girl. You get harrassed for about 87 minutes, you have to look pensive and troubled a lot, and all that ear-piercing screaming can't be easy on the throat. You know you're going to fall down, and maybe break a minor leg bone in the ultimate or penultimate chase. And then, just when the reassuring music comes up, the killer in whose eye socket you buried a curling iron is going to leap out from somewhere just to annoy you.

And your dog'll die.

Yep. I'll stick to creepy old guy down by the swamp, thanks very much.

I should also add (and I don't know if anyone ever looks at the left hand side over there where I regale you with what I'm reading and viewing, and which I honestly don't update all that frequently, just in case you were worried about my slow reading) that I am thoroughly enjoying Travels with Charley.

I had this thing about Steinbeck for a long time, because he was my parents' favorite author. I thought "I just can't read Steinbeck." And then I'd make little snide comments about "Will there be bunnies?" or The Red Pony or something.

The other day though, I just thought "What the hell am I doing avoiding one of the greatest authors of the last hundred years on some ridiculous notion of rebellion that doesn't even make sense?" After all, I had read Steinbeck's King Arthur tales and really enjoyed them. And Steinbeck was practically from my home town.

So I went out and bought Travels with Charley and it felt really good buying it. I just may move on to Cannery Row after that.

I guess after a while you learn how very foolish you are, denying the very things that made you. The slow becoming is maybe creeping into me as I think of my lawn needing a mow and ponder the upcoming symphony season.

And that's just fine.

When I was small, we had a set of encyclopedias cobbled together from some used classroom book sale my mom had attended.

It was pretty haphazard. There were some World Books, some Britannicas. And they were from many different years, kind of like the Johnny Cash song "One Piece at a Time". And, of course, we didn't have all of the volumes.

So I'd be doing a report on Rhodesia or something, and discover to my chagrin that we had no R. The excuse never seemed to work, though.

I'd like to try that excuse at work, sometimes.

"Kaf" my boss would thunder. "Where is that catalog you weere supposed to have finished in April?!"

"Sorry boss, got no R."

I know, I know...I've been lackadaisical in my posting habits.

It's this house thing. It turns out to be kind of a lot of work.

You've got boxes. You've got painting. You've got a roof that has to be scaled.

I did in fact spend about six hours on my roof on Sunday, liberating my atrium from the corrugated plastic ceiling the previous owners cruelly installed, turning our little atrium into some bizarre sweat lodge. It had to go.

So I bravely climbed to the roof, armed only with a power socket thingy and my mighty ratchet and entered into battle. Six hours later, scratched and bleeding, pecked by psychotic morning doves within an inch of my life, I had succeeded in freeing half of my atrium from the shackles of plastic suffocation.

OK, I wasn't really pecked by morning doves, but I could well have been. The little jerks have been circling our property, menacing us with their nestward intentions. We made the mistake of allowing morning doves to nest on our balcony a few apartments back and were rewarded by a vast sea of cute little bird feces all over our $39 IKEA patio furniture. And we don't want a repeat of that.

So I plan to spend my weekends shaking various garden tools at the birds, and if that fails, I will get a court order to stop their would-be tenancy.

Let's see how they like Johnny Law.

I just saw the greatest Weekly World News headline of all time:

"DALE EARNHARDT'S GHOST SAVES MARINE'S MOM!"

One can only hope that this won't lead to an outbreak of NASCAR Ghosts troubling the god-fearing populace of our great nation. Not to mention their elderly mothers who, in all likelihood, are not up to the kind of shock they would get should the ectoplasm-drenched spectre of beloved left-turner Dale Earnhardt come materializing in every time they cough.

I think I just like the way they put it: "Dale Earnhardt's Ghost". Like it was the end of a ghost story or something: "And when they finally went to the attic to investigate the noises, it was....DALE EARNHARDT'S GHOST!"

Aaaaaiieee!

But at least Dale Earnhardt's Ghost has something to keep him occupied, what with looking after the mothers of our military fighting death-machines. So good for dead Dale Earnhardt.

So I go into Home Depot and I'm all like "Hey! Who here can help me with whacking!?"

And this dude is like "That is like the most tiredest joke in Home Depot, my man. Get your lame self on out of my Garden Department before I spray on you with the Corry's Snail and Slug Death."

"But dude! I want to go into my front yard and whack and feel proud. I don't want a cord to be dragging around, getting in the way of my whacking!"

This post did not make a lot of sense. But the point is that, in one of the first essential steps to home ownership (way before having any sort of a clue about home repair or anything like that), I did get an EDGE HOG! Because I'm an EDGE HOG ACHIEVER! An EDGE HOG is like a weedwhacker except it has a little cartoon spokesperson which looks kind of like Knuckles the Echidna from the old Sonic games, and that's what I'm really looking for in a yard implement.

The other thing I'm looking for in a yard implement is to be able to brandish or possibly wield it in a menacing fashion.

The New House is ours, but there is one concern: ants! and lots of them.

So I am burning the midnight oil, trying to come up with ways to keep my home ant-free. The camera whirls around me as I feverishly add, subtract and yes even divide, performing complex calculations to best grasp the ant psyche, the better to murder them and dance on their graves, possibly singing. I could create a vast ant Arlington in my own back yard complete with tiny eternal flame.

I have arrived at a few possible plans:

1. The Antchurian Candidate
Kidnap certain key ants, and perform total brainwashing. (Note: Make sure garden party set is totally believable). Later, reinsert these "sleeper" ants into ant society, ready to begin cleansing with the holy fire when a certain trigger object is viewed. Possible downside to plan: There are not that many potential trigger objects ants can realistically come into contact with. A really common trigger object, like dirt for instance, could cause problems. Check to see if ants play cards.

2. Ant Jonestown
Disguise myself as a charismatic ant cult leader. Insinuate myself into ant society and begin to drop little hints to my fellow drones that maybe if we all killed ourselves, there would be mountains of sugar in the next world. After a few days, stage an ant "love-in" in the yard, complete with diamond-vision mega-screens of crumbs and garbage and huge speakers playing soothing New Age rhythms. In the immensity of the moment, tiny cans of Raid will be distributed and the carnage will undoubtedly ensue.

3. Cruel and Unusual
Play Simon & Garfunkel's "Feelin' Groovy" for ten hours straight until ants give themselves up.

That's all I got.

Here's some bonus Danse Macabre stuff which is not relevant to anything:

Danse Macabre Iconography
The Bones Band, who seem to, um, play at Renaissance Faires. Huzzah!
Danse Macabre midi file

There may not be much blog action here in the days to come, as I am hard at work on the final draft of Rumsfeld! The Musical

It could be tough going, as the only lyrics I've really committed to paper so far are:

Rumsfeld!
What are we gonna do about Rumsfeld?
He's creeping around
All over the town!
He's crafting a plan
Like nobody can!
Rumsfeld!


OK, that's as far as I got. The musical plans really hit a snag when I was informed that Lon Chaney was dead, too. I do see a great moment where Rumsfeld does a crazy skeleton-like dance to the Danse Macabre.

Suddenly, and for no good reason, I began to think about Howie Mandel.

I can't even remember quite how it happened. One minute, I was going about my business, and the next thing I knew, there was Howie Mandel, settling into my consciousness like he had never left. He was inflating medical gloves with his nose and doing that shrugging thing and saying "What? What?" as he was once wont to do.

But the important thing here is that for years and years I had gotten away with not giving Howie Mandel so much as a second of my time. He was dead to me. And now he springs back unbidden, like the fetid corpse of Jason springing from the lake and making you spill your popcorn.

I can't stop it now. I'm picturing that terrible movie where he was possessed by a dog or something and I've never even seen that movie! I'm hearing his voice from the Little Bobby cartoon.

Howie Mandel is like some terrible airborne pathogen, lying dormant for years, only to resurface and doom your small intestine. But at least there is some comfort in the fact that I have passed Howie on to you now.

Enjoy!

Yesterday, we finally signed our last Escrow papers after being delayed for many reasons, including a rain of frogs and a truly impressive display of apathy on the part of our loan officer.

Everything went OK, despite the fact that the Escrow place that the house-sellers chose was just astonishingly grubby. When the Escrow person motions you to sit down in a chair that is so deeply stained that you almost wonder if the stain pattern is actually supposed to be there, it may be cause for alarm.

I signed many, many things that day, my friends. I signed the termite report. I signed the "we now have legal title to your gonads" document. I signed all the papers that leave you wondering "Why the hell would any sane institution give me this much money?".

The capper, I felt, was something called "The PUD Covenant". I have no idea what it was, but I signed it.

I asked the Escrow person about my PUD Covenant, but she just giggled.

The other thing I want to discuss is that my hair is turning white. White!

I was looking in the mirror last night, for no reason that I can really think of, and I noticed a white hair over by my temple. It was roughly the thickness and tensile strength of a cat whisker, as I discovered when the wife pulled it out with what I would describe as glee.

I started to paw through my hair like hair like a dachsund digging for a gopher and I discovered many more of these white hairs. It was clearly time to panic.

In the interest of full disclosure I should mention that I am merely 31 years old. Is this the age that Pete Townshend was thinking of when he wrote "I hope I die before I get old"? Is entropy creeping into my follicles? Have I unwittingly seen a spook?

An interesting feeling overcame me, and I realized it was resignation. My grandfather had totally white hair by the time he was forty or something, and I think I'm headed in that direction. Hopefully it'll be a few more years before I start wanting to wear my pants over my stomach and tucking my tie into them. And I'm not looking forward to the tweed jackets either.

But I kid. If I could be anything at all like my grandfather, it would be a good thing.

What really worries me is that the hairs are appearing at the temples only. And that means my future look is more like J. Jonah Jameson of Spiderman fame. Ah well.

First off, let me just say that I wasn't talking about actual babies, as in very young people. I meant "baby" as in what people who listen to Bruce Springsteen call their girlfriends. Are we clear on that? OK.

Finally got the E3 pictures up on Nachtopus.net.

Vidiot straggles in with some baby shooting:

After polishing off a large mushroom & sausage from Domino's, I shot my baby.
Shortly after renting a paddleboat, I shot my baby.
While refinancing my mortgage to take advantage of the new lower rates, I shot my baby.
I delegated, and had my secretary shoot my baby for me.
Instead of walking the dog, I shot my baby.
While waterskiing nude at Cypress Gardens, I shot my baby.
While appearing on "The McLaughlin Group", I shot my baby.

More people are shooting their babies:

After the drive-thru guy at Taco Bell gave me Hot Sauce instead of Atomic, I shot my baby.
When ALF started reappearing in commercials, I shot my baby.
November 2, 2004, I shot my baby.
After stubbing my toe on the coffee table on the third day into trying to quit smoking, I shot my baby.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I shot my baby.
Under the boardwalk, I shot my baby.
As the world crumbled, I shot my baby.
In Baghdad, I was so distraught about not being able to find any WMD but still having to look, I shot my baby.
When they were out of my favorite gin, I shot my baby.
At the office, where I should have been writing in my blog and pretending to work, I shot my baby.
At the Celine Dion concert, I shot my baby, and it thanked me.
Waiting in line for the Port-o-lets, I shot my baby.
From atop the ferris wheel, I shot my baby.
After our romantic dinner at the Cracker Barrel, I shot my baby.
Waiting for a release date for FFTA*, I shot my baby.

Variously from Ufez Jones of Archipelapogo, Aine 42 of czelticgirl.com, Trent of KOTWF, and a reader who is pent up about the release dates of video games.



*FFTA is, I think, Final Fantasy Tactics or something. Although it sounds more fun if it stands for Freelance Fremen Tentacle Angst

I have all kinds of noises coming out of me today. You, of course, are free to interperet that in any way you see fit.

Specifically, my shoe is making a really unfortunate farty noise, the result of which is that I am hobbling around the office, trying to put weight on other parts of the shoe and avoid the penetrating gazes of coworkers who fear airbiscuits have been floated. So I look like I've got a clubfoot ot something, like I'm some demented gnome creeping around the cube farm and haunting the daydreams of otherwise happy laborers, all in the interest of not making the farty sound.

And my stomach did one of those Airport Intercom Announcements in the middle of a staff meeting. "Any questions?" asked the boss.

Apparently, my stomach had one. "Mr. rrrrrrrrooooooggglloooorrrr, please pick up the White Courtesy Phone!" it cried, followed by some gibberish which I think was Czechoslovakian.

Anyway, I have to go, as I have just been informed that Escrow wants us to get over there RIGHT NOW and sign the Escrow papers for the house. I don't get it. We have a 60 day Escrow and then the sudden rush?

And just what the hell is Escrow? it's like some nebulous super-brainiac mass floating around by Rebulon 12 in a Star Trek episode.

"Escrow will provide. Throw down your weapons. There is peace and serenity in Escrow."

Noone seems to be able to define Escrow adeqately for me, so I'll just have to assume it's not going to eat me and that it's not actually an Earth satellite dispatched to deep space in the late 70s and now worshipped as a God. I just wish it would stop pushing me around, whatever it is.

So cool your damn heels Escrow. We'll be there.

June Carter Cash has passed away. Awful news.

I saw her play a couple of times at Johnny Cash shows, and she had a real gift. You could see the love those two had for each other. I only hope The Man In Black himself can make it through on his own. In his words:

"What June did for me was post signs along the way, lift me when I was weak, encourage me when I was discouraged, and love me when I was alone and felt unlovable. She is the greatest woman I have ever known. Nobody else, except my mother, comes close."

Johnnycash.com
CNN article

And yet more "I shot my baby" ideas:

Crouching beneath the slurpees at Walmart, I shot my baby
While giving Mrs Rumsfeld a wet willie, I shot my baby
Amidst the overripe papayas, I shot my baby
Rectal thermometer clenched between my teeth and sanity-saving Motrin dispenser firmly in hand, I shot my baby
When I dropped my dice collection into my cheetos super-sized funpack, I shot my baby
At the dawn of a new American century, I shot my baby.
In the summertime, when the weather is hot, I shot my baby.
Wearing my pajamas, I shot my baby.

This time from YHBC of Insert Better Name Here, and from my very own sister, who knows a lot about babies, what with chasing my nephew around all day. I would like to make it clear that I in no way endorse shooting of actual babies, especially out of cannons.

Incidentally, this audience participation thing is a lot easier than actually writing anything myself. Who knew?

I am pooped from trudging around E3 all day. A little disappointed that the only Half-Life 2 being shown was in a little theatre preview thing with way too long of a line. Subesquently, I didn't get to see it. But Tron 2.0 looks super-cool, amongst many others.

The "I shot my baby" suggestions are rolling in:

Standing in line at the squat rack, I shot my baby
Under the spreading chestnut tree, I shot my baby, my baby shot me
While cheering on the nitro-burning funny cars, I shot my baby
Eating chinese food with a robot in the attic, I shot my baby
In the Big & Tall store at the mall, I shot my baby.
Deep in David Brinkley's sock drawer, I shot my baby.
Over on the 12th fairway, y'know, the one where if you layup short and get stuck in the trap you'll be lucky to get on the green in four, I shot my baby.
In the engine room of the Starship Enterprise, I shot my baby.
While shopping for vertical blinds at Sears, I shot my baby.

Variously from Adam of Tailorstoday, Jpoulos, and my pal Chimichanga. Let's keep 'em coming.

Also abetted by Steve White of Plurp!

Oh wait, here's another one:

At the French Club Cheese Tasting, I shot my baby

I'm going to open this up for audience participation. If anyone has a good "I shot my baby" idea, by all means email me and I'll collect the best ideas. Your name in lights!

Down by the river, I shot my baby.

These few simple words are of course synonymous with Big Music Fun. You've got a river. You've got your baby. You've got a gun. And did I mention that you're a bad man? You are. You're a bad man.

I would humbly submit, though, that the "shooting your baby down by the river" thing may need updating.

How about:

Waiting in line in the One Hour Photo place, I shot my baby
Down by Orange Julius, I shot my baby
In the Self-Help aisle at Borders, I shot my baby
After a discussion about the helpless duality of man before the prospect of an uncaring universe, I shot my baby
At a taping of Seventh Heaven, I shot my baby

Go read Mimi Smartypants today:

This guy had a boulder (see, the boulders have it in for us I'M TELLING YOU) fall on his leg, and after being unable to free himself he ended up cutting his leg off below the knee with a pocketknife and then somehow driving to the next town for help. Important difference, though: whereas Arm-Severing Guy was trapped for six days, this guy apparently waited only ONE DAY. Okay. He said that there was a snowstorm coming, and that his leg really hurt, and so on, but still: don't you wait a little longer than one day?

Why? Because it's super duper funny today. Only I see that the entry I linked was actually posted on the 9th. So I can't vouch for Mimi Smartypants' particular level of hilarity today. You'll just have to take it as a given.

Operation Strangelove:

On May 14, put on a screening of "Dr. Strangelove" – in your living room, at the local theater, on campus, on your laptop, anywhere you can – and say no to unilateral invasions, to endangering our troops for the sake of oil, to flouting international law and the world community in the name of empire. Follow the film with discussions, forums, debates. Keep talking. Keep acting. Let’s give new meaning to the old Strategic Air Command motto, "Peace Is Our Profession."

And now, a moment with Burning the Crap Out of Your Tongue Theatre:

Coffeeperson: Here you are good sir, the coffee is prepared. Notice how I have left 2 inches of room for cream in the cup, as you specified.
Kafkaesque: Thank you, Coffeeperson. Here is my change as recompense for your "going the extra mile". Also, this change is future insurance that you will not intentionally do anything icky to something I wish to ingest.
Coffeeperson: Thank you! It truly makes my job worthwhile when someone like you, kind sweet Kafkaesque, takes the trouble to recognize my effort.
Kafkaesque: Think nothing of it, Coffeeperson.
Coffeeperson: *sigh*

*proud of his successful coffee transaction, Kafkaesque turns and strides towards the 1/2&1/2 kiosk*

Kafkaesque [aside]: Ah, I remember the halcyon days of my youth, when once I was able to drink my coffee black, instead of sadly neutered by the soft apology of dairy products. How fresh and alive with possibility the world seemed then! The birds all sang to me, and the song was good, not some terrible top 40 thing like Nelly. When the birds sing Nelly, it's a sign of trouble.

takes off glasses, gazes balefully out of window, towards twitchy café denizens

And now, I find myself with this brimming cup of fine black coffee, dare I try to recapture this wild beast? To foist its full fury upon my stomach lining? If I can no longer taste the full import of this sweet nectar, can I truly call myself alive?!

But no! I dare not. I fear the magnitude of jumpiness and heart palpitations would be too much for me, and I would be left a shaking husk, my insides eaten away, a shell of a man suitable only to provide shelter for Nelly-singing birds.

But I must! I cannot give in to the death of youth.

puts cup to lips and fills mouth with pure black coffee

Kafkaesque's Tongue: Aiiiiiiiieee! Hot! Hot! I die! I am slain! I die!

Kafkaesque: Oops.

exeunt

The Real "Saving Private Lynch"

"The most important thing to know is that the Iraqi soldiers and commanders had left the hospital almost two days earlier," Houssona said. "The night they left, a few of the senior medical staff tried to give Jessica back. We carefully moved her out of intensive care and into an ambulance and began to drive to the Americans, who were just one kilometre away. But when the ambulance got within 300 metres, they began to shoot. There wasn't even a chance to tell them `We have Jessica. Take her.'"

An important thing to remember when you see the TV movie in a few months, with the fiendish Iraqi demons putting up ferocious resistance to our heroic boys.

And now I hear on CNN this morning that Private Lynch "has amnesia" and can't remember her captivity or capture. Do you want to scream yet?

[via MetaFilter]

I should mention, as time is ticking down, that today was Mrs Kafkaesque's birthday.

She is truly the greatest wife anyone could wish for, and I've got her. Which makes me very, very happy.

My neighbor rode up from the parking garage in the elevator with me. Yes, we have underground parking. It's not really as cool or safe as it sounds, as the gates are always open.

At any rate, my neighbor did in fact ride up from the parking lot to the fourth floor with me. My neighbor that kind of creeps me out because he talks a LOT like Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. I know, that's a terrible thing to say about anyone. How would you like it if you came into a room and everyone stopped talking except one guy, who hadn't noticed you come in and said too loudly, unable to help himself against the onrush of glacial silence, powerless to stop his own voice, "You know. your name here really does sound like that Silence of the Lambs guy." To say the least, you would probably be upset.

But what I'm saying is that my neighbor rode up from the 2nd subterranean level of parking in the disco-door elevator with me. The doors were just normal stainless steel or whatever, and for a year or so had a crudely scratched graffiti item on the surface of the door, reading "F*CK YOU" (of course, the graffiti artist [though I would hesitate to call such an attempt art, even in a really base interpretation of the word] had not seen fit to swap out the offending vowel and replace it with the pleasing and offense-preventing asterisk. That is merely my gift to you, the sensitive public).

A handyman, or janitor or facilities guy, whatever you call the guys that ride around on little golf carts and clean up after the chuckleheaded litterbugs that live here in the hive collective, had gotten a great idea how to remove the offensive graffiti (and this is not unlike the asterisk I employed only a sentence ago): he took his screwdriver or awl or whatever and changed the letters, so instead of reading "F*CK YOU" it read "BOCK YOU" or "BOOK YOO". It was never really clear. BOCK YOU is kind of nice. It sounds like a little outdoor café where they sell dark German beer, or maybe an Asian market where they've made an endearing spelling mistake in an attempt to reference the exemplary leafy green Bok Choy, without which a stirfry just wouldn't cut it. BOOK YOO could be an edgy bookmobile service that brings the latest "it" novel to your door.

But one day, a few weeks ago, someone went in there with a rotary tool of some sort and made all these little round swirled indentations that make you feel like you're inside a disco ball or maybe that you are a Solid Gold dancer on mild hallucinogens. It was a little disorienting for a while, and there are moments even now when I long for the BOCK YOO simplicity of bygone days. That is, of course, neither here nor there.

The point is that I rode up with my neighbor. He talks a lot. He talks about golf and how all of the other denizens of the apartment (except us) are trollish goatlike protohumans who exist only to keep him awake at night. Another foe is the management of the apartment community, who have apparently had it in for him for over ten years. They raise his rent when it's clear that he is not in favor of such an increase. They run gardening equipment at precisely the moment his full attention is required elsewhere. They don't listen to his labyrinthine plans for complex but ultimately beneficial parking systems.

He is a talker.

You walk with him past his apartment door, as yours is the next one along, carrying your shopping in plastic bags that are cutting off the circulation to your metacarpals, because the bagger at the store put all the mineral water in the same bag. He will sense this, you think, and allow you to hurry back to your kitchen, but no! He is like the phone talker who won't allow you to replace the handset in the cradle. You edge away from him in a series of feints and complicated bluffs, but he is wise to you. He begins on a new tangent and peppers his speech with subtle ploys like "Long story short..." and "I know you have to get in but..." and he goes on. And on.

Finally, the complicated dance is ended when you can no longer indulge the plaintive look in his eye, and you interrupt his tirade with "Uh-huhs" and finish him off with an "OK, bye!", leaving him muttering to himself about how he thinks that the garbage chute is not being tended to in the most efficient manner possible and would you like to see a diagram he has drawn of the entire trash system?.

This time, we got to his door, and I was beginning to get desperate when he glanced from side to side, as if we were being watched, possibly by apartment management secret police, and said confidentially "You know the swallows, right?"

"Um." I said, wondering about the relative length of rambling that would result from either a yes or no answer. "The swallows?"

"The swallows. The ones that wake us up every morning."

I have never once been woken by a swallow, in spite of my relative proximity to San Juan Capistrano, which is mere miles down the coast, and which the cartoons teach us all is the place to which the swallows return year after year to crap on tourists in a silent tribute to the indigenous peoples who were roughed up by Junipero Serra. So I said "Oh yeah. The birds you mean?"

"Yes, the birds. They wake me up every morning. I'm a very light sleeper you know. I have to sleep with ear plugs...." I began to tune him out, imagining him with a deep well dug in his breakfast nook, and a senator's daughter held captive, forced to listen to his diatribes. When I came back to my senses he was saying "I've been researching on the internet, since the apartment people don't seem to want to do anything about the swallows."

"On the internet?" I asked. I wondered what my neighbor was researching. Perhaps he wanted to learn some primitive swallow language, so he could ask them politely to keep it down? Maybe he was researching their little nest-huts, which, while impressive, are undeniably built of bird-barf?

No.

What he said was this: "I'm researching something to give them that will make them go to swallow heaven."

I was frankly a little bamboozled by this. My neighbor wants to kill the birds! I said "NO! You can't kill the swallows! I...I'm a Buddhist!"

The fact is that I am not actually a Buddhist, but I take pains not to kill anything unless I can help it, except ants, who cannot be forgiven for their transgressions into the kitchens of our great and free land, and certain people who appear on Radio Shack commercials who shall remain nameless in the interest of the greater good.

But my neighbor latched on to this. "Oh, the Buddha!" and he began to talk about how had briefly flirted with the notion of Buddhism, until I was forced to run for the shelter of my home.

The really important thing here is that my neighbor wants to kill birds. So, maybe, in some way, he is like the Silence of the Lambs guy. And I'm going to have to find a way to stop him.

As long as it doesn't involve actually talking to him.

Tomorrow is Free Comic Book Day!

Go get yourself some free stuff!

I just did something peculiar.

I was going to make some mashed potatoes, as I am wont to do when the potatoes start to get ideas, and when I took the plastic bag out of the fridge, one of the potatoes rolled out onto the floor and made for the safety of the fridge.

"Hey!" I cried "Don't go under the fridge!"

Then I kind of looked around to see if anyone had seen me talk to a potato*.

These things worry me. I don't want to end up one of those guys you see in Safeway late at night, interrogating a package of pimento loaf.




* Of course, had this been a sentient, Self-Mashing Potato, this would have been perfectly acceptable behavior. Sadly, government funding for the SMP has been reduced to a trickle. The best the magical elves at Kafkaesque Labs have developed to date is a Self-Loathing Brussels Sprout.

I almost forgot: today is Free Ice Cream Day at Baskin Robbins from 6–10pm.

Also, I forgot that Rumsfeld's mouth was hanging open while he was driving too. Not just once. Each time we saw him, his mouth was hanging open. And not like like he was in the middle of a howl or was indulging in a little Tuvan Throat Singing or anything like that. This was like he had just forgotten he had left his mouth open. Maybe later, when he got back to his lair, he would walk by a mirror (though I imagine Rumsfeld has all his mirrors blacked out, like Nosferatu but nowhere near as interesting) and go "Hey! My mouth's open! I wonder how long that's been like that?"

Maybe that would give him a fun idea like trying to see how many grapes he could fit in his gaping maw of evil with it hanging open that way. Because even Rumsfeld deserves to have a little fun every now and then by stuffing his evil mouth full of grapes.

For some unholy reason, someone combined Fatburger and Krispy Kreme, and here is the photo essay.

These are surely the end days.

[via Anil Dash]

Praise: I was staring. You are majestic. You could be a lion and walk in tall grass.

Hilarious eBay Feedback Comments by andy46477

(which will probably be deleted very soon)

The wife and I had a great time camping in Arroyo Seco this weekend with a bunch of friends, a dog, 4 guitars, scattered showers, vegetarian stew, large-mouth bass, poker and beer. Not necessarily in that order. A great time was had by all.

Also, on the way home, driving down The Hell That Is Interstate 5 (maybe that's a little melodramatic) we were harassed by Donald Rumsfeld in a black Toyota Camry. I'm pretty sure it was Donald Rumsfeld. Or at least someone that looked a lot like him. I'd pass him and then he'd speed up and cut me off. This happened repeatedly, or maybe twice. He'd come zooming up the slow lane, when I would considerately slow the Kafkamobile to avoid a deadly interloper like The Really Bad U-Haul Driver, and miss my bumper by mere inches.

The wife and I shook our fists in impotent rage. "Damn Rumsfeld! Get out of the way! Shouldn't you be bombing civilians somewhere?"

The nerve of that Rumsfeld. Out assing around on the interstate again.

Apparently, there may have been some confusion about what a Metatron is, a few posts ago.

The Metatron is the Angel who acts as the voice of God.

The Minaton is a giant, golden Minotaur ordered around by Tom Baker in a Sinbad movie.

I apologize for any confusion.

I went to Target today in spite of the fact that I hate hate hate it* and gazed at camping supplies for our trip tomorrow.

Among the odd Coleman items that seem to have sprung up in great profusion in the last few years was an "Egg Carrier", which was a little plastic suitcase in which you can hold one dozen eggs. I was tempted, but I shied away, fearing that my eggs would be the wrong size for the Egg Carrier. If it was designed for Large eggs, and I had Extra Large eggs, just imagine the chaos that would ensue, and the tragic loss of egg life.

I'd like to bring the Egg Carrier in to meetings at work, because it looks kind of like a miniature attaché case**, the kind that drug cartel overlords routinely transport large sums of loot and cocaine around in. I'd call in all the other Power Players at work, put my Egg Carrier down in the middle of the table, and say "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice. I think you'll all agree we are at a pivotal time for Purgatory, Inc."

They would nod admiringly, some of them eyeing my Egg Carrier anxiously.***

"But first," I would intone, opening the Egg Carrier, upon which I would have installed combination locks and possibly a decal reading Baby on Board. "The eggs."




* Don't bother looking for any specifics as to why I hate hate hate Target. I just do.
** This not even remotely accurate. In fact the Egg Carrier looks like this
*** It is important to note that while this line sounds like it may have been co-opted from a Penthouse Forum letter, it in fact was not.

Boobah!

An impassioned plea:

Why must this bread taste like cake?

Bakers of earth, hear me! Stop making bread that tastes like cake! There is enough cake in this world. Leave the bread alone.

The bread has no voice to speak for itself, so I must be its representative on earth. The spokesman of the bread, giving voice to each kernel of wheaty goodness. If the bread was God, I would be the Metatron. And my rumbling voice would ring from the mountaintops: "No more cake-bread!"

Here ends the impassioned plea.

So I have been feverish and congested and basically miserable the last couple of days. That means I spent all of today lying on the couch watching sports, which is of course just fine.

One thing I did manage to see that was only vaguely sports-like was "Most Extreme Elimination Challenge" on "The New TNN". The New TNN is basically the old TNN but with more wrestling and Star Trek and less Dukes of Hazzard and fishing shows.

Anyway, "Most Extreme Elimination Challenge" interested me mainly because I saw on the promos that it was hosted by Takeshi "Beat" Kitano, director and star of vaguely surreal yakuza films like "Gonin" and "Brother", and the cute but still weird "Kikujiro".

Basically, this show was bits of the Japanese game show "Takeshi's Castle" in which various contestants try to do goofy video game-like challenges and end up hurting themselves (French site with images of the wackiness). In a word, it's hilarious. But what's disappointing about the TNN version of the show is that they dubbed the voices nonsensically a la "What's Up Tiger Lily?". Not only are the new lines not funny, they're pretty offensive. Kind of along the lines of "Oh look at the silly Asians". It's clear that the show would have been great if they had just straight dubbed it or subtitled it. Instead we get sub-Beavis and Butthead cracks from the voice talent.

Anyway, watch the show, but turn the sound off. And Takeshi Kitano's movies are good, so see some of them. Even if they kind of freak you out in spots, which they may.

I think I still have a fever.

The Anguish (of Michael Landon and a squid)

From the very nice Brandon Bird site. Brandon is apparently a fellow UCSC Banana Slug and likes Reese's Pieces.

Strangely, professionally cool Bungee Benji sent me the King of the Cage picture last week, which depicts Lincoln beating the tar out of someone.

Also, Dukes of Hazzard Cave Painting.

I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in cling-film. The pleasure is unexampled.

Ulli's Roy Orbison In Clingfilm Website

Just one of many delights at Michael Kelly's Page of Misery

[via MetaFilter]

Oh. Also this last little while, while I was not here and was instead somewhere else, I had some chinese food. Namely Moo Shu Duck.

Moo Shu Duck is, of course, just fine, but it was the particular presentation of the dish that was so spectacular [readers of a weak constitution may wish to forgo the following passage and do something else. Maybe you could go for a stroll. Meet the neighbors. Maybe they'll give you pie. Then, after the pie, you could all go and fly kites together. I bet they have one of those bitchin' black kites with the spooky eyes. Doesn't that sound like fun?]:

The duck meat was laid out on a plate, with the drumsticks and the skin and all, but then, the coup de grace: the actual-and-not-fake duckhead itself was perched on the side of the plate, cooked and beakless.

That is some traumatic food right there.

I was with people of good breeding, so I was not able to indulge in a little whirling lazy-susan action with the cooked and beakless duckhead. It's really a good plan to figure out who gets to pick up the check: after the meal (presuming no-one has eaten the actual-and-not-fake duckhead*) you spin the lazy susan** thing in the middle of the table, and whoever the actual-and-not-fake duckhead lands on gets to pay. This could result in some sort of ritualized duckhead volleyball or "hot potato" type game in which the actual-and-not-fake duckhead is batted back and forth by frugal restaurant attendees***.



*I'm not saying there's anything wrong with eating a duckhead. If you really want to do that, you go ahead.

**Is that what you call the rotating circular portion in the middle of Chinese restaurant tables? I have no idea.

***I am certainly not condoning this sort of behavior. Volleyball with actual-and-not-fake cooked and beakless duckheads is probably wrong on multiple levels and against God's plan.

Hey! Look at the links I stole from 13 Labs today!

Possibly the ginchiest car commercial ever.

Ladies of The Evil Dead

(Apparently I also stole Johnny 13's mad typing skills because I made about 7 typos on these few words.)

Wings of Desire Special Edition DVD! Yay!

Not until July! Boo!

[DVD information courtesy of the wise and somewhat ethereal jpoulos]

I know.

I've been gone for a while.

I'm sorry. But you have to stop calling. And the gifts, while nice, are getting a little embarrassing. I mean, who can eat that many peanuts?

What really happened was that I was off continuing my life's work of collecting a bottle of Vicks Vap-o-Rub from every country on the globe. Let's see...with Mauritania out of the way, there's only 58 to go. I'm looking at Fiji next.

OK, none of that is really true (except for the Fiji part). What happened was that my sister got married to a wonderful woman and I was out of town attending. With such chaos in the world today, it was a little moment of brightness. Here's some people who have the right idea.

I'm so proud of you both. Here's to you!

When is the exact moment when a salad ceases to be good for you?

There exists a theoretical double-curve you can use to figure out such worrying salad problems. On one curve, you can plot the inclusion of such treats as grated cheddar cheese, hard boiled egg, salami, BacOs and really excessive items like half a can of Crisco or a ham hock. The other curve plots nutritional value and is therefore buoyed up by things like bell pepper, beets and radishes. Non-commital items like celery and the pleasing but sadly non-physique-enhancing iceberg lettuce have no effect. I will not sully these proceedings with the inclusion of ridiculous salad interlopers like edible flowers. If you're putting flowers on your salads, you are clearly not interested in the salad sciences and need a nice lie-down.

The magical meeting of these two curves is the singular moment where your salad has achieved perfect balance. This is also known as the Salad Horizon Theory*.

I would like to believe that my salads dance upon the Salad Horizon, toeing the line between healthy and unhealthy in a beautiful dance of calories and fiber not unlike the eerie rotation of a gyroscope, but frankly I am unsure.




*"Event Horizon" is a movie which honestly could have used some leafy greens. Also, not having Sam Neill in it would have helped.

Captain's Log, Supplemental: Is it maneuver or manouevre? Obviously, this is a word that needs to get its story straight.

Oh man. Daylight savings.

My least favorite day of the year.

I had originally planned to try to hold off on setting my clock ahead, and just see if I could get away with it until Fall. I think if I could swing it for the first three months, the rest would be gravy. Sadly though, my scheme did not last long, as the wife set the clocks and the cat told me in no uncertain terms to "get with the program".

So I am at work with that fairly crunchy state of mind that comes from not sleeping all that well, and experiencing the crushing self-doubt that comes from the knowledge that one little hour of sleep can mess your shit up but good.

The My Life As An American Gladiator Fun Quiz That Is In Fact Only One Question Long:

Q: How many accidents will be caused today by people trying to reset their car stereo clocks while they are driving?
A: A lot.

We need to adopt some sort of world-wide standard for car stereo clock setting. I try to ignore the clock being wrong for as long as I can, but sooner or later, someone's going to get in your car and freak out on you. "ELEVEN?!" they'll say. "That's like, not right."

Of course, you don't want that sort of dramatic scene taking place in your car, so you have to attempt clock setting procedures. If your car stereo is like mine, chances are you will be faced with a faceplate that has lots of buttons whose meanings are ridiculously cryptic. I even have a button that says APN on it. What the hell kind of an acronym is that? I don't know what that button does. Frankly, I'm a little afraid to press it and find out. It could be Antimatter Potato Nibbler or something.

When I'm faced with an array of enigmatic high technology, I regress into "primitve man throwing rocks at the sun" mode and just wail away on the buttons. This is a similar strategy to the one I adopt when playing a "Fighting" video game like Street Fighter 2 or Microsoft Access: press all the buttons at once and hope things work out for the best.

Of course, I was stymied after five minutes working with the stereo. I saw some good results by pressing APN, APN, DISP + FM, but the wife informed me this was only a Foot Sweep and I would have to do better. I held all the buttons down for about a second and a half, then performed an elaborate manoeuvre in which I tapped the EJECT button repeatedly while alternating between the CD and AM buttons.

I am pleased to report that not only did I set the time correctly but I pulled off the rare Flying Dragon Kick, knocking my car stereo off the crumbling bridge, where it ended up impaled on the spikes below.

"Now we can say that it attains a size larger than the giant squid. Giant squid is no longer the largest squid that's out there. We've got something that's even larger, and not just larger but an order of magnitude meaner."

Giant ornery Super Squid pulled out of stygian depths!

[via Brian Kane Online]

So I had an advertising rep from a magazine visit me at work today, and try to sell me on their bitchin' advertising plan for Purgatory Inc.

Proudly, he brandished his laptop, and started his PowerPoint presentation "Advertising Themes and Strategies in the 80s, 90s and 00s".

With a sparkle in his eye he said "I even have some music on this presentation," as some eerily familiar notes rang from his tinny laptop speaker. It was Piano Man.

"I tried to think" he grinned. "Who's been at the top of music in every decade since the 80s? Billy Joel!"

Billy freakin' Joel.

If there's one thing that can make a tedious bullet-point PowerPoint presentation even more enjoyable for me, it's got to be the dulcet tones of Billy Joel.

God help me.