Flinging Poop

Say Goodnight, George

2008-11-20T14:13:00.000-08:00

The Bush II Administration is finally approaching its end, and although I know it to be true, I still can't fully accept it as fact. Much like a hostage kept in a dark cellar for years hesitates to believe they’ve been rescued, I am wary that I will awake from this dream and find that our idiot boy-king is still in charge. Yet despite my difficulty in accepting it, the end of this eight-year nightmare has lifted a weight from my chest that’s been there ever since that deceitful waterhead was first sworn in on a cold, stormy January day in 2001. It wasn't mere coincidence that his Presidency was marked by ugly skies and harsh weather - God certainly knew what was coming, and was trying to warn us with a grim preview of the eight years to come.

From his earliest days, Bush’s treacherous intentions were obvious. He stuffed his cabinet and every available governmental post with reactionary figures that would have been better suited to the interior hallways of the Third Reich. His Presidency reeked with the fetid odor of revenge and retribution, and there was precious little room for people to hide from the jack-boots looking to crack the skulls of those who opposed the machine.

Of everything else he possesses, Bush’s biggest strength is his ability to charm. His mask of the affable (if not too bright) regular guy and the earnest conciliator was a ruse to lull opponents into a false sense of security. It’s far too easy to dismiss him as an incompetent boob, too stupid to comprehend the obvious destruction he and his cadre of cannibalistic zombies brought over the planet. The truth is, Bush may be dumb, but he isn’t stupid. He has an animal cunning about him that makes him as dangerous as a cornered wolverine, and he has the cold, unsympathetic heart of an executioner allowing him to cause unparalleled suffering and devastation without even the slightest twinge of conscience.

Despite the fawning accolades of his followers, Bush’s true legacy reads like an indictment of a soulless sociopath. He convinced himself that he was doing God’s will and persistently refused to acknowledge that perhaps this faith was truly making him blind. When planes hijacked by fanatical murderers slammed into the two towers of the World Trade Center it only served as sharp relief to his inertia sitting in a kindergarten classroom, holding a copy of My Pet Goat. The surreal blossoms of orange flame and black smoke growing from the slate towers contrasted with a dull-grey expression of panic-induced catatonia on an uncomprehending face. This was his defining moment, but instead of serving as a true leader inspiring us all toward greater sacrifice and the creation of a better world, he used it as fodder for lies, fear, and hate, and as a cudgel with which to beat any squeak of dissent into submission. Bush used the tragedy of four planeloads of innocent people being vaporized by savages into justification to launch a savage, unnecessary, and unjust war and as cause to treat both the constitution and basic human rights as toilet paper in the name of fighting “terror.”

Bush is a shining example of all the worst aspects of the American personality: selfish, greedy, uncaring, brutal, savage, and dumb. His line of sight is fixed on his own triumph in a battle against a shadow enemy in a war he created. This laser-focus never lets him see any alternate view, nor does it allow him to see any suffering in the people he was meant to serve. Even Marie Antoinette would have blushed at the callous and heartless way he reacted to the poor and downtrodden as Katrina drowned an entire city and Bush channeled Nero, playing guitar at a fundraiser. He vigorously avoided any responsibility for inaction or lack of empathy to the people left devastated by this tragedy, and though he proclaimed himself a true Christian, he offered no comfort or aid to the ailing. His contempt for regular people is limitless, yet his ability to manipulate them for his own advantage by tapping into his reservoir of lies and fear managed to keep the population dependent upon him, like a perverse mass Stockholm Syndrome.

Being all hat and no cattle, Bush is far less a man than his image suggests. He could look the nation straight in the eye and lie about Iraqi complicity in 9/11, and wield the threat of howling, dark-skinned boogeymen lurking in the shadows like a Hawai’ian war club. He could also stand there like a lobotomized man, with that slack-jawed grin, and tell us how he would not tolerate any sort of dishonorable actions in his administration, while his Vice President engaged in acts of raw depravity and duplicity.

This façade of the village idiot hides the ugly truth that our President is a cheap thug, not above stealing pennies from a blind beggar, or molesting infants. The degree of mendacity and the complete lack of even the tiniest amount of morality or decency in the man is stunning. The same George W Bush who proclaimed himself a “decider” and a “war president” dedicated to protecting the United States oversaw a program of propaganda and disinformation, legalized torture, and gutted fundamental 1^st and 4^th amendment rights in a manner which would even shame the Cosa Nostra.

Bush doesn’t deserve to be admired, or respected. He deserves to be staked down and repeatedly kicked in the nuts. When he finally meets his maker, his body should be wrapped in a biohazard container, incinerated, and the ashes buried under 300 feet of concrete, for fear that the essence of malevolance and corruption residing in him might contaminate someone else. He is the stuff of nightmares; a zombie-boogeyman hybrid spreading fear, death and despair wherever he goes. He is a cold, heartless, rotten-to-the-core mongrel that betrayed our trust and cheapened both the office of President and the country. And even though it will probably take months of constant fumigation to remove the stench and slime he'll leave behind, George W Bush, that greedy, pathetic, semi-literate, malicious old bastard, is finally going to leave office, and I still can't believe it.

Why I no longer blog

2008-11-17T16:00:00.001-08:00

Click to embiggen

And I bet you were expecting something profound.

Insight derived from random associations using mp3 players

2007-12-05T09:49:00.000-08:00

So, there I am. I just finished feeding (and cleaning up after) the dogs, and am about to settle in to watch Stripes on DVD, when I get a wild hair to check me some email. I do that now and again. Check email, I mean – not play with wild hairs (not that there’s anything wrong with that. Actually, it can be a lot of fun, depending on how wild that hair is. One time, when I was in college, this guy we called Barnfart on account of the vague odor of livestock which hung about him like a heavy pea coat, got this stupid idea to Vaseline the doorknobs throughout the dorm. The problem was, none of us had any Vaseline (we used saliva for our needs back then), so we had to improvise. Barnfart, who had already imbibed more than a few bowls of some puro indo, reasoned that there must be grease to lube the workings of the washing machines in the laundry rooms, so he went into one and began to dismantle a machine. Of course, as he was halfway through his destruction, the RA walks in to do a load. She sees Barnfart wedged behind the machine, giggling like a schoolgirl and assumes (rightly) that he’s totally wasted. By now, Barnfart has completely forgotten why he’s taking a washing machine apart, and when he hears the RA calling him, he tries to get out only to discover that he’s now trapped and can’t move. The RA, who is a bit of a hysteric, begins to panic, and in an act of desperation spurred by Barnfart's cries of panic and fear, pulls the fire alarm, figuring this would be the best way to summon help. Of course, this sets off a dorm-wide alarm, and students pour out of their rooms (many half-dressed), running for the fire exits. The sound of the alarm further panics Barnfart, who is now thrashing wildly behind the washing machine, causing damage to both him and it. The RA is pleading with him to remain calm, and that help is on the way, but Barnfart, now in the grips of the paranoia which normally accompanies a good high, thinks she’s narced him out, and that he’s looking at a long prison sentence, so he begins to cry. The RA, thinking he is seriously injured finally acts in desperation, and goes to get a broom to use as a lever. She positions it behind and underneath the washing machine, and, using Barnfart’s prone body as the fulcrum, starts to try and move the washing machine. As she works the broom, Barnfart wails in pain with each depression into his side. Of course, the RA doesn’t realize that the machine is bolted to the wall (to prevent idiot students from screwing around with it), but fortunately, the bracket holding it in place is weak, and after a few more tries (and a few more wails of anguish from Barnfart), she manages to tear the machine loose from the wall, and actually topples it over. At the same time the machine crashes to the floor, the broom handle breaks, and one of the shards grazes Barnfart, scratching him and drawing blood. By this time the Fire Dept arrives and finds Barnfart in a state of near psychotic breakdown, with a bloody scratch on his side, and the RA, sitting next to him, stroking his head and cooing soothing things into his ear. Around them is a broken broom, a few bits of washing machine guts, a machine lying on it’s side, and a wall with a huge gash from where the mounting bracket was bolted. After all was said and done, Barnfart was given a bandage, the RA was severely reprimanded for her performance in the whole matter (and not unexpectedly she wasn’t re-hired for the next quarter), and both Barnfart and the RA were billed for the cost of a new washing machine and the repairs to the wall.). So, I open my email and there is something from someone named Tim. I don’t know any Tim, so my first impulse is to just trash it. But it says Tagged as the subject line. Tagged? What kind of punk would do that? Tag a Monkey? Balls, I tell you. Huge swinging ones. So, I open it, knowing it was a dare. And what do I find? A threat. This swine tells me I have to do this thing where I use my mp3 player to try and bring some random association between song titles and answers to deep, probing philosophical questions.

Well, I’m all about the grand mysteries of life, and how seemingly unrelated and completely random events could often be combined in such a way as to bring clarity and purpose to my existence. It’s how I go about every day. I keep a random number generator in my desk drawer, and use it to determine my actions. It’s complex, but it works for me. Actually, there was a guy I knew when I was a kid whose mom was like that, only it was later found she was mentally ill.

Anyway, this is also grand justification to use the Zune I bought not two weeks ago. Yes, I said Zune. Screw all of you iPod clones. Here’s a bit of a splash of cold water on your ultra-hip attitudes: You can’t be a fiercely individualistic rebel if you have the same toy as millions and millions of other zombies, despite what those Apple commercials want you to think. You’re just another brick in the wall, son. Deal with it.

But I digress. Without any further ado, here are the "rules":

1. Set the mp3 player on Shuffle or Random.
2. Use the titles of the songs that play to answer the questions below.
3. Laugh at how silly some of the answers seem, scratch your head and look stupefied at how completely nonsensical some of the answers seem, and cower in fear and begin to believe in astrological coincidence and the elders of Cthulu at how accurate and prescient some of the answers seem.
4. Find other suckers and ask them to play as well.

=====================
1. IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY” YOU SAY?
My Pal’s Name Is Foot-Foot – The Shaggs

2. WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
The Eton Rifles – The Jam

3. WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Wouldn’t It Be Nice? – Beach Boys

4. HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
El Ayudante – Mariachi Vargas

5. WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
King’s Lead Hat – Brian Eno

6. WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Run Run Away - Slade

7. WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Up on the Sun – Meat Puppets

8. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
Isrealites – Desmond Dekker

9. WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
(Stuck in a Pagoda with) Tricia Toyota – The Dickies

10. WHAT IS 2+2?
Joe’s Garage – Frank Zappa

11. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Limelight - Rush

12. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
My Name Is Michael Caine - Madness

13. WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Bhindi Bagee – Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros

14. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Market Square Heroes - Marillion

15. WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Crawling To The USA – Elvis Costello

16. WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Ruby Soho - Rancid

17. WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Yellow Coat – Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

18. WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Supernova – Liz Phair

19. WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Common People – William Shatner

20. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Once Bitten Twice Shy – Ian Hunter

21. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Zero Hour – The Plimsouls

22. WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?
White Girl - X

Okay, so there it is. My contribution to this communal jerk off. I’m a bit surprised that more Elvis Costello didn’t show up on the list, as I have a considerable amount of his stuff, and very relieved that nothing overtly embarrassing popped up either. Yes, I have Saturday Night by the Bay City Rollers on my machine. Like you don’t have anything un-cool on yours. I do wish Rubber Band Man or Lowrider made it, though. Those songs are cool. But I am glad Slade made it. Gotta love the Noddy.

I’d go ahead and pick other geeks to play, but anyone I’d choose has already been hit by someone else. I don’t have many blogfriends. Come to think of it, I don’t have many real friends, either. Good thing I don’t mind spending my hours alone, in a dark corner of a cold, damp room. Friend! Friend!

Ook ook

Rock Star

2007-08-09T09:24:00.000-07:00

Last night, at around 1AM (PST) there was yet another in what is basically a series of endless earthquakes in the LA area. It was small, short, and one of those that natives and long-time SoCal residents view as more fun than frightening.

It measured 4.5, which means it felt as if someone had bumped into your bed, or your neighbor had his subwoofer turned way up and was listening to some serious bass.

LA Rocks!

However, this is LA, and everything here has to have some over-the-top PR and hype. Seriously. I mean, minor rainfall is breathlessly reported on the news with headlines like “Stormwatch” and other apocalyptic monikers. So, when the gods of the underworld start rumbling and tossing the surface dwellers around, the local media breaks out with some good old fashioned Wagnerian Gotterdammerung stuff. The TV news is filled with images of frightened people describing their terror (“it was so sudden!”) or steps they took to ensure their safety (“we all jumped out of bed and stood under doorways”) and there is the inevitable yokel declaring they are “leaving LA tomorrow.”

Good riddance.

Anyway, sure as night follows day and Bush will blatantly and openly lie next time he speaks, after the sensationalist coverage the news team will turn to their more sober “analyst” to put the quake into perspective. Which means the appearance of my most current crush, Dr. Kate Hutton, seismologist over at Cal Tech.

Kiss me, Kate.

I love love love love me some Dr. Kate. That unapologetic dyke with the premature grey hair and pointy-headed intellectual glasses warms me right up. She is known here as the Earthquake Lady because for close to 20 years, she has been the one to step in front of the cameras and throngs of terrified idiot reporters to tell them that we just had an earthquake.

What I really dig about Dr. Kate is her open and complete revulsion at having to deal with the simpering press. She despises them their stupidity, simplicity, and plasticity. She answers their repetitive and juvenile questions honestly, completely, and concisely, but with a sneer and barely concealed contempt. And with good reason. See, Dr. Kate is an educated, intelligent woman. The press are a pack of telegenic mannequins who would collectively make Ted Baxter look like a Nobel Laureate.

Good night, and good news.

During these conferences the press shouts questions in a state of hysteria, asking the same thing every single time: “Was this the Big One?”

Was this the Big One.

And our intrepid Dr. Kate will look at the reporter with an expression somewhere between pity and disgust, and, as if trying to explain quantum physics to a hillbilly, will calmly say that this, in fact, was not the Big One. She will then explain how the Richter scale works (it’s a logarithmic scale, where every increase in a point equals a tenfold increase in strength), how quakes are measured, basic tectonic theory, and so on. She will use simple words, sort of like someone trying to explain global climate change or Mideast politics to a rabid conservative, and gently calm the reporters who by now are ready to spread Fear and Panic throughout the populace.

Her press conferences serve as sharp relief to those of our Idiot Boy-King: Dr. Kate uses technical and complex words as a matter of everyday discourse. They flow effortlessly and when she speaks, she just assumes you can follow. When Prince George uses complex words they stick awkwardly in his mouth, like he’s trying to eat the rind of a pineapple, and when he says them it’s with a tone of smug undeserved pride commonly associated with a four-year old trying to show off to a mathematician that he can subtract four from seven.

Her mere appearance on the tube will serve as a balm for the terror-stricken rubes, because if Dr. Kate says something, we know it’s true and things are Good. Afterwards, the news anchor (now dripping with relief) will incorrectly summarize what Dr. Kate just told us. That this minor little shake was not the Big One; that quakes of various size happen all along the many faults throughout California every day; and that it was not the high-sign for the Four Horsemen or The Beast to come and feast on our eternal souls.

And Dr. Kate can go back to Cal Tech and do her research and teach. Until the next minor tembler, when once again she will have to come before the cameras and tell the press everything is okay while secretly wishing they would all fall into a very deep and very dark hole, never to be seen again.

I’m with you, Dr. Kate. You rock!

Ook ook

Even better than the real thing

2007-08-07T09:22:00.000-07:00

There’s a saying that holds true – particularly here in Ellay – which goes Perception is Reality.

There are countless variations on this, depending on context. One of them is the Sizzle is more important than the Steak, which is used by soulless Marketing geeks to describe the importance of branding. Branding, of course, means the creation of perception about something that trumps reality. Like Nikes improving your sports performance, BMWs making you a better driver, or Chanel clothing making you sexier. It's why you see so many label whores walking around.

And it’s the axis around which the capitalist world revolves, Skippy. If you don’t like it you can shove off to Cuba to be with the other godless Pinko scumsuckers.

Anyway, given this culture of Branding, it’s not really surprising that a recent study shows kids presented with the exact same foods believe that the ones served in McDonald’s packaging tasted better.

Perception

Yup. The same exact food. Even if kids were served raw carrots or plain milk, they believed the ones decked with McDude’s logos were tastier. I'm lovin' it because they tell me I do.

Reality

Astonished? Then you haven’t been paying attention to life for the past few decades. Particularly not American politics. Nixon was a master at it, though he wasn’t subtle (his Pink Lady smear campaign was a ham-handed bit of slander). LBJ also had an instinctive understanding of it. (Most elegantly expressed in an anecdote from an early, local campaign. Johnson, facing stiff competition, ordered his minions to spread a rumor that his opponent fucks pigs. His staffer replied that no one would believe it, but Johnson, understanding the power of perception, replied, “Yeah, but make him deny it.”) Kennedy, Clinton, Reagan - they all knew it too.

Perception. Packaging. Illusion. Style over substance. Hype. Whatever you want to call it, Americans have pretty much perfected the art of putting lipstick on a pig, or pissing on your shoes while claiming it’s sweet summer rain. I mean, how else can one explain the mad rush and overwhelming public support for our Idiot Boy-King’s invasion of Iraq? It was all sleight-of-hand Marketing manipulation. George Orwell got nothing on Karl Rove. Oceania is at war with Eurasia, and the GOP MiniTruth put out the right branding about Iraq & Saddam. And even though it was plainly evident that everything our government was saying was all bullshit and lies and manipulation, the perception of Iraq's connections to Al Qaeda & 9-11 was more convincing and the rubes continue to believe it to this day. Reality didn't come close to being as real as fantasy. It still isn't. Oceania has always been at war with East Asia, after all.

And so anyone who dares point out the Emperor’s shriveled and vestigial doodle is visible or 2 + 2 = 4 will be considered either a traitor or deluded. Invading Iraq was a legitimate and necessary move in our battle against Al Qaeda. War is Peace. Arbeit will Macht Frei. And those damned carrots do taste better when served in a Mickey-D’s bowl.

God Bless the United States of America

If you can’t see that, well, then the terrorists have already won.

Ook ook

It is a kids' game, after all.

2007-08-03T12:34:00.000-07:00

Every now and then some sort of argument will arise regarding athletes, salaries, and privilege. It's inevitable with every round of new high-power contract negotiations, or whenever some kid announces he's either leaving college after his freshman year to "pursue his dream" or worse, declaring as professional after graduating high-school.

In the US, this phenomenon of kids becoming pros tends to be restricted to the NBA. However, abroad, particularly in Merry Olde England, it's the realm of football. Oh, it's had it's appearance in soccer here in the US, with underage phenom Freddy Adu signing with the DC United at 14. But England is showing us that we, when it comes to speculating in kiddie-athletic prowess, are mere pikers.

Manchester United, the Montreal Canadiens of the Premier League, have signed 9-year old Rhain Davis, to a contract.

Yep. 9. A kid that still cries if he skins his knee, and who believes that crawling completely under his bed covers will protect him from monsters at night.

Oh sure, the kid's got skills. Check out the YouTube video below to see him shred defenses and leave other 9 and 10 year old boys scattered on the pitch, embarrassed, ashamed, and at the mercy of heaps of humiliation at the hands of their over-competetive fathers.

The thing is, while this kid is obviously ahead of the curve, it seems that he merely looks amazing in comparison to kids who are obviously still kind of new to this whole idea of kicking a round ball.

And it makes sense. See, this kid is a Pom living in Oz. Now, soccer is not the big thing in Oz. As my mate from Melbourne tells me, Cricket, Rugby, and Aussie Football are the kings down there. In fact, soccer has only started to gain any real traction as a result of the surprising showing the Socceroos had in Germany last year. So, the chances are most of these kids are in their first or second year playing, while Rhain hails from footy-mad England, and has a father who would run him through dribbling, passing, and shooting drills for hours since the boy could balance on his two feet, and who would withhold both food and clothing, while threatening to force the boy to eat Kidney Pie and other British "cuisine" as punishment for mistakes.*

The punch-line is, this isn't a rare occurrence. According to a Man U spokesman, "[Man U] signs about 40 players of Davis's age every year [to it's developmental academy] and, as is standard, will decide annually whether to renew his contract or release him."

Reports that Davis is better behaved and less prone to tantrums than Wayne Rooney are as yet unconfirmed. Though nobody doubts it.

Ook ook

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* That's just a guess on my part, but having met a few Englishmen, I would venture to say it's probably accurate.

I Love Little Girls

2007-08-03T08:12:00.000-07:00

Q: What's the best thing about taking a shower with a 15 year-old girl?
A: Get her hair wet, slick it back, and she looks 11.

Yeah, I know, kind of creepy. And disconcertingly, there are guys who are even creepier, and who would substitute 10 and 7 for the ages in that joke. In fact, one of them is causing quite a stir in our normally tranquil Ellay.

The guy is Jack McClellan, and for those of you who don't know, he's a proud, self-proclaimed pedophile whose preference is for pre-pubescent girls, and he's been spotted sliming around the greater LA area for a couple of weeks now - everywhere from Santa Monica to Santa Clarita.

Hey little girl, wanna piece of candy?

The thing is, he's not even trying to hide it. He's actively courted publicity by appearing on national news programs; he's started a website in which he rates parks, amusement parks, etc according to the amount and quality of little girls present and posts pictures of those that have given him a chubb; and he has openly defied public sentiment and wrath by not apologizing for himself. The police and courts can't do anything because, well, aside from being almost thoroughly repulsive Ole Jack hasn't actually done anything illegal. His website does not feature pornographic images or fantasy tales of children, and he has not been caught or accused of molestation.

It's a bit of a dilemma for the good people of LA, because they know this guy is a scumbag, but they can't do anything about or to him.

Surprisingly, politicians (who normally shy away from these easy, unequivocal, hot-button publicity-heavy issues) have been very vocal in their condemnation of Jackie-boy, and local community groups have taken to demanding that something be done to stop this guy. Unfortunately, seeing as how there's been no crime, posturing, shouting, and grandstanding are about all that can be done.

Unless some new laws get passed. Which is what some of the more aggressive folks are advocating in order to be sure that guys like Jack are stopped before they start. Now, I'm not convinced it would be double-plus good to start making what a guy thinks or any perversions he holds deep in his bosom a reason to make them an un-person. While the MiniTruth may assure us that only icky guys with icky thoughts would be busted this way, I just get uneasy having to trust O'Brien with the choice of who gets sent to Room 101 and who doesn't.

Big Brother loves you

The problem, however, is that in this age of ambiguous rainbow threat-levels, wild-eyed islamic boogeymen hiding in the shadows, nefarious illegal aliens coming to steal our jobs and destroy our language and cultural heritage, minorities daring to complain about things that offend them, homosexuals wanting to be allowed to marry thereby threatening to subvert our children and convert them to bestiality, and godless liberal traitors working to overthrow our Good and Pure country by not supporting our president during wartime, people are willing to allow laws passed which would criminalize thought. After all, it will help keep us safe, and besides, if you don't have these icky thoughts, you have nothing to fear.

Right?

Ook ook

A Noble Spirit Embiggens the Smallest Man

2007-07-30T11:05:00.000-07:00

I've been a Simpson's fan since their days as ugly line drawings in three-minute shorts on the Tracy Ullman show. I taped every episode since the very first one, bought the action figures, read the books (even the "real" ones like The Simpson and Philosophy, and Planet Simpson), and have devotedly obtained the DVDs.

Yeah, I'm a geek.

So naturally when the opportunity came to see what I would look like as a Springfieldianite, well, how could I refuse. Here is me, Simpsonized:

The Simpsonized Monkey

Now, when I saw this, I didn't think it was right. I always fancied myself as being a bit more ruggedly handsome than this. I mean, this guy looks like a dork. However, when the MonkeyWife saw it she burst out laughing and assured me this was almost frighteningly accurate. My friends agreed. Now, not being our Idiot Boy-King, I don't blindly cling to a belief when all those around me say the opposite, so I have come to embrace my cromlulent, Simpsonized self.

You can do yourself at Simpsonize Me.

Ook ook.

The difference between cats and dogs

2007-07-26T09:10:00.001-07:00

I know, it's an eternal debate with no resolution.

I know, it's completely subjective.

I know, it's an invalid comparison, and only serves to start arguments.

I know, it uses absolutes to discuss nuance.

Still, there is a difference between cats and dogs. Setting aside the oft remarked personality traits of aloof versus social, cunning versus borderline brain-damaged, and regal versus sloppy, there is another difference between cats and dogs.

Evidently, dogs save lives -

Good dog!

While cats take lives.

I is the angel of death

Now, any dog person wouldn't be the least surprised to learn a 5lb speck of a dog would leap to the rescue of a piece of crotchfruit and take rattlesnake bites, but even the most rabid cat-haters would do a bit of a double-take at hearing about a cat moonlighting for the grim reaper. Personally, I never thought of cats as being bloodthirsty killers - I just thought they weren't as much fun as dogs. Now, it seems, they are also far more dangerous. I mean, a Pit Bull has to put in some effort and actually maul someone to kill them, but this cat just has to lay down in bed next to you to bring about the final curtain.

So what's the deal with this cat? Is he in tune with the supernatural realm, or is he the feline incarnation of Ted Bundy? If Oscar were a nurse in this institution he'd be up on mass murder charges and facing a crowd carrying pitchforks and torches screaming for his head. Whatever the case, if I were around him I would be sure to keep as far away as possible. Just having this kitty circle your ankles while purring could mean a broken hip, or a heart attack.

If only there were some way to ship Oscar to the White House and have him sleep with Georgie, Dickie, and Condie ...

Ook ook

It really is the thought that counts

2007-07-21T09:16:00.000-07:00

Evidently, Prince Charles of the ludicrous ears and eternal child's title, presented the love of his life with a rather special and unique birthday gift: two rare sheep, one male one female.

The bleaters were said to have cost 300 Euros each, which I guess is a bit high by sheep standards. And, evidently, Camilla was very happy to receive them. Or, as the British press remarked, "Camilla is in fact, absolutely chuffed to bits."

Camilla being chuffed.

Side note, I have to admit to an almost pathological affinity for these UK colloquialisms: Chuffed, Knackered, etc.

Back to the point, the press goes on to explain that "the royal family have so much already that they don't actually give wildly extravagant presents." In other words, the eternal question finally has an answer. What to you give the person that has everything? Rare sheep. I suppose you can give rare mutton or leg of lamb to the person who has almost everything.

In any event, this has helped me out in a big way. The MonkeyWife's birthday is coming soon, and I have no idea what to get her. However, now I'm thinking a couple of guinea pigs, packaged as "Filigree Hamsters" might do the trick. Maybe she'll be chuffed too.

Filligree Hamsters in the act of chuffing

Ook ook

Beckhamania

2007-07-13T10:43:00.001-07:00

There is a slight buzz of excitement here in LA (though some would call it more a tectonic shift while others a waste of money and effort) as some athlete in an unpopular sport with a funny accent and hot C-List celebrity wife officially announces he will be playing for the LA team. At the press conference he'll mutter a few unmemorable lines about how excited he is to be in SoCal; list the expectations, goals, and plans he has for the team and the sport; deny that this move signals the twilight of his career; and say how much he is looking forward to playing with his new teammates and representing the organization. Then cameras will flash as he holds up the newly re-designed team jersey and smiles, and reporters from all over the world will breathlessly remark in extreme hyperbole about how this is a new beginning for the sport. Critics will be vicious in their condemnation of this move to the backwater of the sport, doubters will openly question the sanity of the money paid to this guy, and fans will faint by the dozens, while the franchise counts the profits from sales of their newly branded souvenirs.

Excuse me if I don't join the parade, but I’ve gone through this before.

About 20 years ago, to be exact. Back in the summer of 1988 it was some skinny geek with a big nose and a goofy smile named Wayne Gretzky announcing his move to the LA Kings. Suddenly everyone around was not only a Kings fan, but a hockey aficionado, willing to offer their unsolicited opinion on every facet of the game even if they didn’t know a fore check from a crosscheck, and looked like a pithed frog if you mentioned two-line pass. LA suddenly became "hockey central" and Kings games, which used to be lucky to see 5,000 fans in the stands, were suddenly the hot commodity. Hipness and style were associated with black and silver, and so-called celebrities were suddenly as much a part of the background of games as protective glass, beer, and foul language.

The Great One's coming out party

Fast forward to today, and it’s some nasaly-voiced pommy bastard with a heroin-chic wife and constantly evolving hair style named David Beckham bringing the media circus to Hollywood. And now, everyone will be a soccer expert, even if they pretend to be temporarily deaf when asked about their opinions about the 4-5-1 vs 4-4-2 formations, or have no idea what constitutes an offside. Soon we'll be seeing wanna-be starlets and tragically hip poseurs sporting the #23 Galaxy replica jerseys, and corporations will hold meetings at the Home Depot center to impress clients.

Becks bending it

Which is fine, I guess. I mean, the Gretzky experiment did result in a huge PR boost for hockey, and was directly responsible for new teams in San Jose, Florida, Tampa Bay and Anaheim, and franchises relocating from Quebec to Denver, Winnipeg to Phoenix, Minnesota to Dallas, and Hartford to Caronlina. But then, Gretz had an easier path of conquest, what with the NHL already being an accepted sport here in the states. Still, there is great hope that Becks can do what Pele, Johan Cruyff, George Best, Georgio Chinaglia, and Franz Beckenbauer couldn’t do back in the 70’s: make soccer popular.

Of course, those poor bastards had a harder field to till. In the 70’s when the NASL was around, soccer was most definitely a fringe game reserved for foreigners with unpronounceable names and ridiculous accents. I know because my dad was one of those foreigners, and we had regular seats to the LA Aztecs. Real Americans were not only openly contemptuous of the game, but at times almost hostile toward it. But the Beckster is coming in during a new era. Soccer, while still ridiculed, is not nearly as much a sport for the outsiders. Real Americans now beginning to watch and play. So maybe he can bring in the next age of the sport.

The only downside is now having to listen to innumerable ignorant dingbats offer their uninformed opinions and having to battle the curiosity seekers and bandwagon fans for tickets. It used to be I only had to put up with this once every four years. Still, if it works, it works.

Ook ook

The Madness of King George

2007-06-28T10:37:00.000-07:00

Prince George and his gang of cheap thugs and felons rejected a subpoena today demanding they turn over documents related to the whole clusterfuck about the fired attorneys in the DOJ. Evidently, our idiot boy-king is claiming "executive privilege" as an excuse to hide the truth.

For real.

The last time we had this sort of culture of omerta in the White House some oily scumbag named Nixon was soiling the rugs and polluting the air. At this point the level of lies, greed, deceit, and complete disdain for almost every basic principle behind the philosophy on which this country is based is just staggering. There is nothing these brutal swine won't do. How they can sleep at night through the collective nightmare of their vile nature is astounding. This sort of lack of conscience is usually only seen in the sort of sociopathic mass-murdering zombies who torture and mutilate victims for years before being caught. It amazes me that the ghouls who haunt our government can even be considered human.

Anyway, I saw this little comic which seems very apropos. It would be quite funny if it weren't so damned depressing.

Ook ook

Fourth and Goal

2007-06-26T10:04:00.001-07:00

Thank god someone in Washington is tackling the big issues. I mean, given the pressure of terrorist blitzes, and the constant fear of being caught flat-footed when our opponents launch a bomb, it's really very reassuring to know that our congress is huddling up to call effective plays.

I think I need to poop.

Ook ook

A pounding on the door in the middle of the night ...

2007-06-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

Hmmm.

Didn't they assure us we didn't have anything to fear from the Domestic spying progam, warrant-less phonetaps, and the PATRIOT Act, and that there would never be any illegal or un-necessary personal information collected by government agencies?

I guess they weren't telling us the entire truth.

Ook ook

iPost

2007-06-12T14:53:00.000-07:00

Others can get away with a post that requires no effort ... why can't I?

Ook ook

The Crimes of Paris

2007-06-08T12:41:00.000-07:00

You know, there’s a reason LA is the entertainment capital of the world. Nobody does sappy and over-the-top melodrama like we can.

New York’s grittiness? Feh. Rome’s history and culture? Bah. London’s sophistication? Dull.

We got a screaming and crying Paris Hilton being dragged back to jail, about 36 hours after being released for some really nebulous reason:

LOS ANGELES (AP) — Paris Hilton was taken from a courtroom screaming and crying on Friday after a judge ordered her returned to jail to serve out her entire 45-day sentence for a parole violation in a reckless driving case.

"It's not right!" shouted the weeping Hilton. "Mom!" she called out to her mother in the audience.

That's hot!

Yeah, baby.

But it got me thinking. Despite the opportunity for orgasmic schadenfreude here, I am actually finding myself almost feeling sorry for our femme fatale. No, strike that. Not sorry, but somewhat sympathetic toward.

Don’t get me wrong, when the judge first smacked her smug, vapid, privileged face (complete with wonky eye, nose more fitting for a swordfish than human, and face long enough to serve as landing strip for small planes), I thought it was good.

That's not

And she deserved it. She seemed to believe that the law didn’t apply to her, as she was caught twice behind the wheel of a car after having her license suspended. And, the 23 days of her initial jail sentence, while on the long end, certainly didn’t seem extreme. I wonder how 45 must feel.

However, what has happened in the last two days is just the stuff of pure mondo bizzarro. And I don’t blame our beloved little Paris at all. If any of us were in her shoes, and our slick, $5000 per hour mouthpiece managed to spring us after only three days, we would jump at it. Nor do I blame her lawyer. That bastard gets his fat salary because he’s good at what he does, and what he does is vigorously and rabidly represent his client.

The blame falls on the Los Angeles County Sherriff’s Department for being so completely stupid as to think no one would care that little miss “that’s hot” would be let out because she didn’t like jail. If anything, the mensa member who concocted her release should be made to serve the 45 days along with our delicate little Paris.

LA Sherriff's spokesman, Steve Whitmore, pissing on our shoes but trying to tell us it's really just rain

This sort of backdoor shenanigans might have flown 10 years ago, but the public, even here in LA, is finally tired of seeing so-called celebrities get away with things. And poor little Paris, perhaps the perfect example of everything wrong about LA (stupid, rich, uncaring, self-absorbed, spoiled, and utterly clueless) was made the metaphorical piñata that we finally were able to beat to a pulp.

Still, I can’t say I’m not grinning at least a little. In a way this is really just a small adjustment, where Karma has finally decided to wake up and take charge. The sad thing is, you know none of this will actually reach the depth (if there is one) of Paris and have the effect of her reconsidering her life and her actions. More than likely she’ll be even more a little brat, and is convinced that all this totally unfair, and is happening not because her actions warranted some sort of punishment, but because everyone else in the world is just jealous of her.

But she’s back in jail, crying and wailing, and wondering why god has abandoned her, and I’m getting ready to enjoy a perfect LA weekend.

Now that’s hot!

Ook ook

When is a sandwich NOT a sandwich?

2007-04-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those rare days I didn’t bring lunch to work. It’s a long and boring story, but the point is when lunch time rolled around, I was sitting here lunchless.

Being lunchless in a lunchy world is no damn fun.

Fortunately, the building in which I work sits next to several fooderies, so I had my selection of places to go and spend $12 or so for some over-salted grub.

The problem was, each of these places were packed lips-to-ass with people. The Daphne’s had a queue stretching well out the door; the Baja Fresh looked like the cowline entering an abbatoir; and the fish place, Pismo Grill, was as packed as a bait-bucket.

I decided to go elsewhere, and took a stroll up the street to the local Quiznos. Now, as franchised sandwich shops under strict corporate guidelines go, Quiznos isn’t bad. I don’t know if it’s their bread dough recipe or that they blend their sandwich dressing with meth, or what, but their sandwiches tend to be the least objectionable.

Anyway, I think the woman working the counter is a little sweet on me. I say that partly because she is really cute and it would do wonders for my ego if it is true, but also because she not only recognized me, but asked if I wanted my “usual.” The reason that stands out is because I haven’t been there in over a month, and at my most frequent, I would go there only once every other week or so.

Now, being me, I had to stop and make a bit of small talk with her. Did I mention that she’s cute? Big brown eyes, long dark hair with some highlights pulled into a darling ponytail, a really gentle smile with these adorable dimples, and her nose crinkles when she gives a playful laugh. Not that I was paying attention to any of that.

So, after my clumsy attempt at flirting (making some self-depreciating jokes and offering a sincere but transparent compliment) I move along to the manager guy to pay. I sensed he was miffed at our little interaction, because when I paid he had this odd look on his face I had never noticed before. The look was one of being torn between wanting to be upset with her for chatting with me and slowing the line (time is money), and one of being pleased that she was excelling at customer service (maintaining loyalty and ensuring repeat business). It was either that or he had some bad seafood recently, and it was coming back on him.

After getting my sandwich I waved goodbye to my new crush (she waved back and smiled), and walked back to the office. Unwrapping the sandwich proved she likes me. She packed that thing with at least double the contents it should contain. So, either she thinks I’m cute, or she thinks I’m not eating enough and is worried about my health. My pudding belly makes the latter highly unlikely.

The problem is, she put like a ton of mushrooms into the mix, and I really hate mushrooms. So, my conundrum is how to tell her this without making it sound like I’m some stuck-up jackhole?

I’d ask the MonkeyWife, but I don’t think she’d really help me out.

Ook ook

Trojans: They're not just condoms any more!

2007-04-27T10:58:00.000-07:00

So, I recently started re-reading The Iliad, because I felt my life required an injection of dactylic hexameter, and nobody gives dactylic hexameter like Homer. I mean, an hour of that and you’re left limp and spent.

Hey big boy ... wanna verse with me?

Actually, this is the first time I am reading the Iliad. I thought I read it in my World Lit class in high school, but as I’ve discovered, I had really only read some heavily edited excerpts. Evidently Homer was too NC-17 for us.

In any case, I’m about halfway through it, and it has not disappointed at all. Loads of blood, lots of immortal lust, treachery, and petty vengeance, and sweaty Greek men engaged in exactly what you’d expect sweaty Greek men to do.

Let's get Greek

Now, I happened to mentioned that I am reading this to an old friend of mine we lovingly call Merlot. We call him that because he tends to whine a lot. I mean a lot. The other thing about Merlot is that he fancies himself a bit of an intellectual. And it gets really annoying. He’s the sort of guy who will quote Fouccault out of context, and who loudly claims that War and Peace is the greatest novel ever written. You know the type – has an opinion on everything whether informed or not.

And he has a very high opinion of his own intellectual capacity. Once, in college, Merlot was reading Paradise Lost for class, and he though he found something completely new that would change the entire meaning of the work. He enthusiastically pointed out to anyone who would pay attention his discovery in the famous quote by Lucifer:

"Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav’n"

I'll be back, baby

Merlot was convinced that what Milton really meant for Lucifer was that he had plans of ruling hell first, then return triumphantly to heaven, contrary to the arrogance usually implied by that quote. See, Merlot believed that generations of Milton scholars had missed this point, and he envisioned his name now proudly placed among the pantheon of academics.

He brought this to the attention of the professor, his chest bursting with pride and self importance. The professor looked at him as if he was a retard about to eat mud and said, “What you’ve discovered is what we in the profession call a typo.”

Anyway, Merlot hears I’m reading the Iliad, and so he has to ask, “Oh, are you reading it in the original Greek?”

Yes, he really asked that.

It's all ... well, you know

So, I looked at him and replied, “Yes I am. Though it’s pretty hard going since I don’t understand Greek.”

He looked at me blankly, so I continued, “I figured I could start to pick it up after about 50 pages, but this alphabet is so bizarre.”

He had the same look on his face after that as he did when the professor killed his buzz all those years ago.

Ook ook

Just another day in America

2007-04-17T08:43:00.000-07:00

Note: I initially wrote this a couple years back, after some insane geek shot up some high school somewhere. I think it was in Kentucky. I can’t remember, since there have been so many of these incidents. Anyway, thankfully it isn’t plagiarism if you re-post your own work.

Ho hum. Another day, another slaughter in America. Come on, can this really still be a surprise?

Look, I am not making a joke of the fact that 31 kids died and a dozen or so more were wounded at Virginia Tech when yet another unbalanced geek with vengeance on his mind opened fire at school, but at this point I am just not surprised anymore. In fact, if a couple of months go by without a report of a disgruntled teen, or disgruntled worker, or disgruntled citizen trying to mow down others -- THEN I am surprised.

So, on April 16 an awkward kid showed up to school with two pistols and began shooting into a crowd of students during class – after first killing his girlfriend and her lover. Just another misfit finally snapping and exacting his revenge on others. We’ll probably learn that this kid was a loner, likely shy and an outcast, possibly even picked on and insulted by his peers, etc etc etc. The same litany of 20-20 hindsight with which we now could recognize him as a maniac while he was still a baby in the cradle. Nothing more to see here. Move along. Just another Monday in America.

Of course, the NRA, the political right, and other gun fetishists and apologists began their spin about this before the last victim gasped their last breath. They trot out the same old stale line that guns are not responsible for this tragedy, and began to dole out the blame to the kid, his parents, his friends, and of course, popular culture, while effectively absolving gun owners, lovers, manufacturers, and users of all guilt. And the gun lobby was quick to shrug their shoulder and wag their fingers in a paternalistic "I told you so." After all, guns don't kill people, people kill people. Not only that, but they’ll patronizingly tell us that the only sure way to avoid this sort of thing from ever happening again is if everyone carried a weapon. Because we know that the safest society is one in which everyone packs heat.

But the gun lover's rhetoric begs a very interesting question. How can we, as a society, point the finger at music, movies, books, and games for the slaughter in schools while the instruments of the slaughter remain beyond blame? Isn't that sort of logic flawed from the start? I mean, the violent aspect of pop culture that the far right continues to blame for these incidents tends to always revere guns as almost holy objects. There is a sick symbiosis at work here. The basic fact of gun existence breeds the sort of elements of pop culture that gun fetishists then claim is the cause of death. Surely, if a video game in which the player gets to use a variety of guns to get rid of virtual enemies is partly responsible, then the weapons that the player uses in the game must also be held to that standard?

Yet we continue to hear that guns are not the problem, sick people are. After all, gun fetishists always remind us how responsible they are with their weapons, and besides (all together now) if guns were outlawed only outlaws will have guns. Yeah, right. Here's a newsflash to gun fetishists: Most tragedies (including the shooting yesterday at Virgnina Tech) are not committed with illegal guns. Most of the workers who snap and go a-shootin' at the old office own their guns legally. The fact that gun fanatics use those tired old excuses day after day is a testament to their myopia.

But the biggest flaw in the old "Guns don't kill, people do" argument is simple. This kid could not have done what he did if he didn't have a gun. The two wild bastards in Columbine could not have done what they did with knives. The kids who shot up Paducah, KY, Conyers, GA, Bethel, AK, San Diego, CA, and others could not have done it without guns. None of the recent massacres could have occurred if the killers could not get their hands on guns. It WAS the guns, Sparky. Guns provide the freedom to kill with only the squeeze of a trigger, and from distance where the target is defenseless. Without guns, this angry boy who went on a killing spree wouldn't have been able to let his rage out and the 31 dead students would likely still be attending classes. This kid wasn't a criminal before he got the gun. He is a criminal BECAUSE he USED a gun.

But nothing will change. Gun fetishists will continue to bombard us with propaganda telling us how guns are not the problem while hypocritically placing culture on trial. There will be more cries for personal responsibility from the NRA, while they side-step the issue of responsibility for promoting a tool whose only purpose is to kill. We'll have another wave of laws and restrictions on the virtual renditions of violence in movies, music, games, and books while the objects that make real violence and shed real blood will continue to be marketed, sold, and loved.

Long live the gun.

Ook ook

PS: The punchline to all this is, of course, the reaction of our idiot boy-king. Not 24 hours after this event he is there attending a memorial service, wearing his concerned face. Yet, it was nearly four days after New Orleans was drowned before this douche flew over the city, and almost another week before he stopped by to have some pictures taken.

Tag: I'm it.

2007-04-11T21:17:00.000-07:00

So, I got “tagged” recently by the mysterious and exotic Miss Lucy of Falling on a Bruise fame (nee Lucy’s View). At first I didn’t have any idea what it meant, and so I just naturally assumed she was flirting with me. Naturally. And who could blame her, eh? I mean, let’s face it, this is some Grade A, US Choice, Prime Monkey Meat sitting here. It's no wonder she wanted to take a bite of Monkey. My charisma and raw animal magnatism penetrates the ether of the internets, and the poor woman just got snared in my musky charms. It's a gift. And a curse.

The only thing that concerned me was that a London – LA affair might be a bit tough to maintain. I mean, with any consistency anyway. But, Lucy … if you’re game I certainly could be persuaded to give it a go. Just the thought of hearing that accent in the throes of passion is enough to get me standing at full attention (ba-zing!). Let’s just keep things stum so the MonkeyWife and any BruiseHubby don’t get wise. Wink wink.

Anyway, as it turns out I was wrong about the message behind the “tag.” Partially anyway. See, this “tag” was actually was her way of asking me to participate in some sort of communal blog thing. The nature of this one is listing 20 songs I would play if I were a program director at some radio station. The catch, I assume, is that they would have to be Punk songs. Evidently it's something started by a radio station called Rage, which I've never actually heard, but I'm sure it totally rocks, man.

Anyway, the Monkey is always game for one of these things, even if I sometimes think they can be a bit silly. But then again, silly isn’t bad.

So, here are my 20 songs. Oh, and I have to actually justify five of these, or something. Anyway, the songs (in no particular order):

The Clash – White Man in Hammersmith Palais: This was tough. I mean, there are so many really great Clash songs; London Calling, Tommy Gun, Magnificent Seven, I'm So Bored With the USA, etc. But any song that manages to integrate a line about picking up Hitler with a limo has got to make this list.
X – Los Angeles: This band not only announced the LA punk scene, but legitimized it and paved the way for such bands as The Blasters and Los Lobos. Plus Billy Zoom was just so freaking cool onstage, and Exene rocks in an ugly way.
Black Randy – I Slept in an Arcade
The Weirdos – Helium Bar: A strange song, full of early energy and nonsense. It was bizarre, fast, and potent. Like a jackhammer. Insatiable. Bob’s Helium Bar, indeed.
Dead Kennedys – California Uber Alles
Black Flag – Rise Above
Circle Jerks – Wild in the Streets
Crass – Big A, Little A: These anarchists made their point pretty clearly in this little ditty. It’s not as ham-handed as Nagasaki Nightmare, but it encompasses the political angst of some punk.
The Clash – London Calling: Perhaps the single best song written in the 80s
Fear – I Don’t Care About You
The Germs – Manimal: Darby ate an Oki Dog and died.
Elvis Costello – Pump It Up: At one time Elvis was considered punk. Really. On account of his glasses, I guess.
The Who – My Generation: Without this song, there would be no punk. The Who is like the drunken, abusive, whoring, absentee father of punk. They're the damned pater familias.
Sex Pistols – God Save the Queen
Bauhaus - Bela Lugosi's Dead: Okay, it's not technically punk, but it is pretty damn cool - and the progenitor of Goth. It's cool anyway.
Generation X – One Hundred Punks
Iggy Pop – Nightclubbing
Rancid – Roots Radicals
Social Distortion – Story of My Life
The Vandals – I Want to be a Cowboy
The Clash – Know Your Rights

So there's the list. Okay, it's 21 songs long, but The Clash do deserve three spots. Screw all of you. Honorable mention to The Gears, The Plasmatics, The Dickies, The Damned, The Toy Dolls, GBH, The Ramones, Nirvana, the Offspring, The Adolescents, and others.

Now the rules say I need to “tag” other bloggers. The problem there is, well, I don’t know that any other bloggers really want to hear from me, much less participate in any of my reindeer games. But, on the off chance they do, I tag Joe, Beelers, O’Tim, and Paula. I don't think you have to do a punk list, but it sure is fun.

Consider yourselves tagged, bitches.

Oh, and Lucy ... call me about our date. You bring the bicycle helmets and billiard balls, and I'll bring the soy sauce. Woof, baby.

Ook ook

A Clockwork Bush

2007-04-11T08:56:00.000-07:00

Gather round, oh my brothers and sisters, so that I, your droog and humble narrator, can govoreet with you about my jeezny, which is to say, my life.

I had all the comforts of a very respectable domy and the love of my very respectable pee and em, that is to say my papapa and mum when I was a wee young malchick growing up. My pee, which is to say my papapa, was some great bolshy chelloveck in the government, and as such had some advantages. I don't need to tell all of you that as a young lad I was also given these advantages and used them as best I could.

Oh, slushy well the slovos that I speak, as my pee, that is to say my papapa, showed me very early on how to use the rookers of the government in a real horrorshow way. I never had want of pretty polly in my carmans, nor suffered from lack of the attention of weeping young devotchkas, nor of having to restrain myself from indulging in tolchocking random malchicks or engaging in a bit of the old ultra-violence. All this was made free to me, and thanks to the job my pee had the millicents never dared lay their vonny rookers on me. And did I ever use every bit of my freedom, oh my brothers!

And it wasn't just in the area of play that I had such freedom. My pee, that is to say my papapa, also made sure that no matter how poorly I did in that grazhny, vonny, malenky skooliwool, I would always be sure to advance higher and higher like. I soon had to itty to a big University with all these vecks who like studied hard and learned all this cal from bookiwooks. At first all these vonny lewdies were all like upset with your humble narrator, creetching like how I was so gloopy and did not deserve to be there with them and how like I must have kupatied my way in. But as soon as they found out who my pee was they stopped govoreeting all their malenky cal, and all wanted to be my droogs and best friends like. I spent my time in University peeting vino and scotchmen, and finding young devotchkas for a bit of the old in-out. I had no need of polly nor fear of millicents. If something happened my pee would make a call, and govoreet with the lewdies in the cantora, and it would be taken care of.

But all this freedom has a price, my brothers. At first I couldn't believe it myself. I thought that not having to worry about the millicents when my droogs and I would peet a bit too much vino, or when we would razrez a ded for some spare cutter, or when we would go tolchocking some malenky sick malchick would make me like tire of all the ultra-violence. But it actually made me want more. The feeling and need had like settled all warm in my guttiwuts, and I soon viddied that I could not satisfy my like new-found lust for the red red kroovy in a regular jeezny, but needed something like my pee, where I could like be in charge of as many vecks as possible. So I thought, oh my brothers. I rabbited my poor old rasoodock and tried to think of what it was I could do to get all that like horrorshow power over lewdies, while still never letting me want for pretty polly.

I then viddied it well and clear. My path like was to follow in my pee's nogas and get a real horrorshow job in the government too. So I called my droogies together and we tried to figure a way to show all the lewdies that I was like a respectable chelloveck, and that they should want me to be their droog and leader. We started small, my brothers. Small, that is, for us. We decided that I should become the main droog in all of Texas. The current leader was this like starry old ptitsa who had been doing a real cally job. She would govoreet about the rights of the malenky vecks what didn't have any polly, or how the millicents needed to be more like kind to the regular lewdies. My droogs took care of that starry devotchka and I was soon like the leader of Texas.

Oh, my brothers, this was a time filled with radostoy and gorgeosity and the like. As the leader, I was able to make sure that many vonny, cally vecks got just what they deserved. I had many malchicks and prestoopnicks thrown in the staja for things that I had done, and less. And I made sure that the plennys knew that I was like in command, and I would have them like oobiyated regularly. I can still see the red red kroovy flow, and see their malenky rots begging for like mercy. I was able to tell the millicents who I wanted tolchocked, and if I needed to go out for a bit of the old horrorshow ultra-violence, or to see about having a bit of the old in-out in-out with a weepy young devotchka, well the millicents wouldn't mind.

But would you believe, oh my droogs, that all that still wasn't enough for your humble narrator? Indeed, even though I had everything a malchick could dream of I still wanted more. My pee, who was by now a starry old moodge, told me that I could have it all and be like the leader of the whole country. He govoreeted a razkazz in that starry old goloss of his, with beautiful slovos so clear that I could like viddy myself standing over the whole of the land like. Me, your droog and humble narrator, as the like leader of the entire world.

Oh, my brothers, this suited me well as I always knew I was destined for greatness. So after some time as the leader of Texas I decided I wanted to have it all. And do you know what? I got it. I became the leader of the whole world. It wasn't easy, as I had to have a lot of help from like friends and other vecks who owed my pee, that is to say my papapa, a lot of like favors and such. I also had to make sure that many vonny lewdies were not able to like vote, but my bratty who was like the leader of Florida helped with that, and leader of the world I became. The first things I did, oh my dear friends, was to like accuse some vonny old bratchny chelloveck what had nothing to do with some reall horrorshow ultra-violence in New York, of being a part, so to speak. And so I told some tales and scared all the lewdies in my land so me and a bunch of starry old moodges could invade this country and crast their oil. Many lewdies were killed and maimed and the red red kroovy flows even today. But even though there are many in the land who are all bezoomy and going gloopy about this, the ultra-violence continues unabated-like.

I've now been like the leader for years and years, and I can viddy my path all clear as crystal-like. There is nothing I can't do now. I can razrez and tolchock and oobiyat whoever I want. I can have the millicents throw anyone into the staja, and I can make sure that my droogies make as much cutter as they can. There is no stopping me now, oh my brothers. I have the whole vonny, malenky world in like my rookers, and there is nothing you, or bog can do about it.

______________

Original artwork created by the Fez Monkey

Peanut Butter Jelly Time

2007-04-06T11:30:00.000-07:00

It's been about two years, and I still can't get enough of this.

Of Wickets, Overs, and Ovals

2007-03-29T10:08:00.000-07:00

I never thought the following words would ever come out of my mouth (nor spring from my fingertips, as the case may be), but here they are:

I am beginning to understand Cricket. The game, not the bug.

Dig it: a Cricket Wicket

I know, I’m kind of frightened by this as well.

But, it’s not my fault. Honestly. See the company for which I work has a lot of employees of Indian descent – almost all of them actually from India who are here on work visas. In fact, of the seven people in my department, four are Indian (the other three being two Caucasians and one Filipino, if you must know).

Workforce to the world

Now, that’s not enough in itself to teach me Cricket. I mean, it’s not like some osmotic process where working day-in and day-out with folks from India magically imbues you with a deeper understanding of their culture (though it does allow for a greater familiarity with, and appreciation of, the lyrical nature of their accents). No, a deeper understanding of culture comes from asking questions. And brother, I am not afraid of asking questions.

But I digress.

See, evidently, the Cricket World Cup is in full swing, with the initial elimination round just ended and the so-called “Super 8” just starting. I had no idea of this, but did notice that for the last two weeks or so, all of the Indian ex-pats in the office were completely abuzz with excitement and discussion. At first I thought they had gotten the order from Delhi and were about to launch their attempt to battle the Chinese for supreme control of the world, so I approached with caution. However, I wasn't really scared because I knew that if India does win the ultimate showdown, they’ll use us white folks as “skilled” labor, and not just send us to the camps. Except the British, that is. Those limeys will get their bill, and be sent straight to the mines.

Start digging

As it turned out, I didn’t need to swear fealty to my new overlords. Yet. They were dropping words like "Overs" and "Wickets" and the like, which I recognized from my close study of H2G2 as being related to this mysterious entity called Cricket.

So, I asked. And they answered.

No, I won’t give you a brief tutorial about the game, nor the ridiculous rules. But now, when I hear one of the guys say “Australia's chasing 152 runs with six wickets” I know what they mean.

Chasing 152 with 6 wickets!

And you don’t.

Nyah.

Ook ook

Muscle-flexing Muslim style

2007-03-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

In case you hadn’t noticed, things are a bit tense in the Middle East. Have been for a while. Close to 1,000 years, actually. You know, what with the Sunni – Shia schism within Islam; a little hoop-de-doo regarding the Crusades; the flood of Mongols; the rise and fall of the Ottomans; little skirmishes involving Hindus; the Russians coming, the Russians coming (Whittaker Walt or no); some fey Englishman leading an Arab revolt; the repatriating of Hebrews; Ayatollahs and Mullahs; Mujahedin and Al Aqsa; more than a little Texas Tea; and so on.

The latest hulaballoo surrounding the 15 British soldiers captured by the Iranians seems to be par for the course. Personally, I blame the movie 300. I mean, it can’t be coincidental that it gets released right when tempers are flaring and emotions are running very tightly wound.

Think about it. This is a movie openly celebrating how a pack of semi-literate, half-naked Greek thugs held the effete, brutal, barbaric Persian hoards at bay for three days, while Jesus rose from the dead to get revenge on all those who use his name in vain and lay with other men.

Wait, sorry, I got my stories mixed up there at the end. But it does beg the question of why the number 3 is held as being so mystical. The Masons consider it the foundation of their damned secret society, and it forms the very core of the religion of baseball (three strikes, three outs, nine players, nine innings, three bases – coincidence?).

What the hell? Baseball? Okay, here’s an important safety tip for you kids: never try to write on three hours sleep and five cups of coffee. It jangles your brains and makes you mutter odd incantations.

So, where was I? Oh yes, Iranians and British. See, I blame Bush for this. Well, he and Rummy. And Cheney. Evil Dick doesn’t get a pass. I’d like to toss Reagan into this mix too, but try as I might I can’t. And Nixon, as evil and scaly as he was, had more than enough sense to not get involved in this sort of idiocy. Yeah, Bushco might be a syndicate with more firepower than the Cosa Nostra and the Russian Mafia combined, but they got less brains than a 1^st grade special ed class. See, this whole “let’s invade Iraq” thing really screwed the pooch for us. At least when Reagan embarked on his ME adventures he had the sense to send a few F-14’s to the coast of Libya and launch some missiles into Tripoli. And even George I knew when to pull up the tent-posts and run. But George II is the idiot-child. Poor thing, he'd be overmatched in a game of Jenga with a spasmodic, and here he is trying to lead a nation.

Anyway, my point is, because of this quixotic endeavor (and yes, I use that term as a perjorative), our military is now basically helpless. If a skirmish suddenly flared up where a pack of drugged up, badge-less Mexican banditos decided to raid a small, dusty Texas town, we’d need to call in the Canadians to help. How sick is that? Relying on Canadians? It’s enough to make you want to shut the lights, lock the door, and crawl into a corner to rock while gently weeping.

And everyone in the world knows it. The North Koreans were jacking our jimmies for a year, playing with their pop-guns and bottle rockets, knowing full well we couldn’t do squat. All they wanted was some cash so their freakshow leader could buy more liquour and whores. And it worked. The bitches are on their way. The Iranians saw this and got pissed they didn’t think of it first. So, they’re upping the ante by not only chasing the atomic wedgie, but also now making like a dime-store gangsta trying to carve out some territory.

Guess what? It’s working. They’re sweating down 15 boys from Manchester, Bristol, Leeds, and Yorkshire, looking to see how far they can go before they get their hands slapped. And like an impotent old fart who promises seven orgasms and three hours of roaring sex to the young hottie with the tramp-stamp, all the US can do is talk a great fuck. We’ve used all our little blue pills trying to impress Miss Baghdad, and now can only make hollow promises to that Tehrani cutie with the big brown eyes, because we can't get our pecker up. Hell, we can't even control our pee on account of our prostate problems, and I think we now have irritable bowel syndrome, too.

It’s just sad. The worst part is those poor little Brit kids. Sure, they’ll be released and get some sort or hero’s welcome. But they’ll never be the same. How can they be? After eating kabobs and loubia and spiced rice and pomegranate infused dishes how will they ever be able to be happy with bangers, mash, and kidney pie?

Ook ook

March Madness for geeks

2007-03-16T13:26:00.000-07:00

Because everyone else is doing it ...

The Monkey picks his flicks

I sure hope you all don't suddenly take a mind to go leaping off any cliffs or anything.

Ook ook

Nicotine Lunch

2007-03-12T15:15:00.000-07:00

Like most workaday swine, I ply my trade in a dull grey cubicle in a dull grey building in a dull grey corporate park. You know these places … a complex of several identical, unimaginative, ugly-yet-functional buildings with ample parking, and within walking distance of several eateries and at least one coffee house. Essentially carbon-copy strip malls each containing the same cloned appearance, shops, and decor. And they always have clever and whimsical names, often recalling some idyllic paradise, or sophisticated locale. They're called Gardens or Parks and have creative pseudo-European spelling such as Pointe. Yet another affront to our lives, where conformity is integrated into every last minute detail, helping keep the drones in line. Soviet Russia aint got nothing on this.

Get used to it, Chico, it’s the shape of the New America. Either climb on board or prepare to be run over. Now is not the time for heroes.

The New America! Love it or the terrorists win.

The Corporate Park in which I spend 9 hours a day is no different. It's called a Garden Centre, managing the rare double of both idyll and Euro. There are four buildings in the Centre, each exactly the same as the other aside from the logos at the top. There are three parking structures, and a little food-court complete with Daphne’s, Baja Fresh, some Chinese place the name of which escapes me, Pismo Grill, and a Coffee Bean so the workers are never without some trendy choice for food or other.

Oh, the owners of the property also just finished construction of a rather extravagant outdoor addition, complete with benches and a few “sculptures” (if you consider a giant cement sphere and a long piece of shale positioned on end to be sculpture), surrounded by grass and some shade trees. The area is in the shape of an oval, and covers close to 100 square yards. The design is sort of maze-like, with bench arrays placed here and there, some at right angles and others almost making a small square. The idea (as near as I can tell) is to provide space for a large number of people (looks like 100 could fit there easily), while maintaining a veneer of intimacy within any little bench grouping. Pretty clever, actually.

Essentially, it seems the ideal place to sit, chow down a couple of tacos, maybe do a bit of reading, and just relax while enjoying the sun.

Me gusta tacos y burritos con salsa picante!

That is, it would have been. See, one thing conspicuously absent in the design and implementation of the new lunch area was ashtrays. The place is totally devoid of them. There is an area on another part of the grounds which serves the smokers – complete with many benches and plenty of ashtrays.

So, where do you think the smokers go?

That sweet Laramie taste!

Yep. They’re climbing all over the new lunch area like ants over a sugar cube. No ashtrays? Well, gee, that must be why god invented pavement. Or grass. Or benches. Or Styrofoam cups with a little bit of coffee remaining into which the butt can be doused and the whole packaged dumped into the nearby trash can. Or, just left on the ground. Or on the bench.

And smokers wonder why they are hated.

Ook ook.

The Monkey as a Wedding Crasher

2007-03-05T10:36:00.000-08:00

So, I attended a wedding this weekend. The groom was a recently graduated MD who is now in residency to become a vascular surgeon, while the bride has an MBA and just launched her own clothing company.

The MonkeyWife and I apparently run in high society.

The wedding ceremony was a typically catholic affair in that there was plenty of standing and sitting; the standard prayers offered to the father, the jesus, the holy ghost, and the mary; a few genuflections; communion; and a boring sermon about the evils of, well, pretty much everything. I did say catholic.

I forgot to mention that I didn’t know a soul there. Not even remotely. I saw a photo of the groom a couple of years back, but that’s as close at it got.

See, the groom worked with the MonkeyWife a few years ago while he was in med school, and evidently they got on pretty well. They must have, because she was the only person from that job he invited. In fact, aside from the two of us, everyone at the wedding was either a close friend or family member of the bride or groom. No other outsiders at all.

Oh, and to add to the awkwardness of the situation the groom and his family were African American, while the bride and hers were Filipino. Now, since the MonkeyWife is Asian she managed to blend. But as it turned out, I was the only white person there (other than the priest), so I tended to stick out. I only mention this because my whiteness underlined the fact that I didn’t know anyone there (and, more importantly, that no one there knew me), so I was pretty easy to spot as an outsider.

But weddings tend to be happy times, so someone strange isn’t automatically singled out - particularly if they are behaving as if they are supposed to be there. And having attended Filipino weddings before, I knew they tended to be very inclusive events. Also, having the MonkeyWife at my side was like having a diplomatic visa, allowing me entry and free movement.

The reception was where the real guests finally got a chance to find out who I was and what I was doing there. Sure enough, it was only moments after arriving at the restaurant hosting the reception that the first person came up to me and asked The Big Question: "So, are you a friend of the bride or groom?" And, not surprisingly, as soon as I explained things, the cautious looks disappeared and the conversation turned to the normal stuff – like sports, weather, the high cost of living, what a jerk Bush is, etc. Since the MonkeyWife was a “friend” of the groom we were assigned a table on his side of the reception hall, and everyone at our table was black. The couple sitting to our left was very pleasant and was visiting from New Jersey, while the couple to our right were locals. At first they thought there was a seating error, since they assumed my wife was with the bridal side (you know, her being Asian and all), but again, the explanations sorted things out.

At one point I was talking with the fellow from New Jersey, asking him questions about life out there and so on. I told him of my family in New York, and he guessed at my ancestry being Italian (there's something about my look, apparently). Eventually I brought up the whole weird feeling I had about being the ultimate outsider in the party. He laughed and remarked that now I could relate to how he felt as the only black guy in his physics department (he was finishing his PhD at Rutgers - something about dark matter and the fate of the universe). “Besides,” he added, “you’re Italian, so you aren’t even really white anyway.”

I couldn't have felt more accepted if he pinned a kinte cloth on me.

Ook ook.

It's not easy being green

2007-02-22T13:46:00.000-08:00

So, I went shopping this past weekend and bought a few shirts. I tend to favor subtle tropical prints, aloha shirts, and the sort of two-tone cabana-type shirts commonly seen on mafiosos and laid back coastal dwellers. Oh, and before you comment, subtle tropical prints is not a contradiction in terms.

Cool shirt for cool guys

Anyway, when I got home the MonkeyWife looked over my selections. She’s not a big fan of tropical prints (regardless of subtlety), aloha, or two-tone cabana-types, so she wasn’t all that impressed. Nonetheless, she indulges my particular fetish for these things. Aside from the disapproving clucks and slight sighs of resignation, she pointed out a curious fact. “All these shirts are green,” she said.

Elvis sang about green shirts

And she was right.

In fact, I realized that an overwhelming majority of the shirts I’ve bought over the past 10 or 12 months are some shade of green or another. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, particularly since girls tend to like green and I look good in green (forest green is better for me in winter, but a lighter lime green definitely looks great on me in the summer when I tan up a bit). Green tends to match my tone and also helps bring out the complex color of my eyes (which are a hazely amalgam of brown, green, and a sort of blue-grey). And, I’ve found that green shirts match whatever pants I might wear on any day, whether they're jeans or those sort of khaki trouser things that are all the rage among non-suit wearing professionals and salespeople at Best Buy.

The thing is, I don’t trust the color green. That’s not to say I dislike green or I find it aesthetically unpleasant. Quite the contrary. But I don’t trust it.

I hear you cry.

Here’s my logic (such as it is). Green, like Orange or Purple, is a color derived from a combination of two of the primary colors (Red, Blue, and Yellow). Green being the spawn of a Blue-Yellow copulation, Orange the result of Red-Yellow breeding, and Purple the unwanted child of Blue-Red.

Lying, cheating color

Are you with me so far?

However, the problem comes with a closer look at the colors. See, if you look at Orange you can easily detect traces of both Red and Yellow present. Similarly, Purple exhibits considerable phenotypes of both Blue and Red. Yet Green, that inscrutable and nefarious bastard, never gives a hint of either Blue or Yellow. It’s as if it’s a primary color unto itself … sort of a rebel striking out to establish a new color foundation. How can anyone trust a color that doesn’t betray it’s progenitors?

But man, I gotta say I do look good in green.

Ook ook

The source of Blogpinions revealed

2007-01-07T14:30:00.000-08:00

This explains sooooooo much.

[sarcasm]Of course, I'm never guilty of this. [/sarcasm]

Ook ook.

PS: Is it only me, or does anyone else notice a frightening resemblence between Brewster and Zapp Branigan?

Oh, Those Wacky Catholics!

2007-01-05T15:55:00.000-08:00

Tonight I am going to finally be finished with my xmas gift swap. I know, it’s late. But there’s a whole thing behind it involving drama, a bitter wife, some innocent mispronounciations of words, pomegranate jelly, questions of inbreeding, the source of the nile, the curse of the jade monkey, and a whole lot of pride. Actually, it's not unlike many bloguments (like that term? I think I created it, so anyone using it has to give me full credit)

Anyway, one of the gifts I am giving to my friend (who is married to the bitter wife mentioned above) is a special rosary which the MonkeyWife and I found at some Catholic supply store in Cambria. Another long story, not worth getting into right now. The rosary itself is actually very nice, with polished beads and a bit of wax from a candle used during a mass said by Pope JP2. That may not seem like a big deal to you, but for firebreathing Catholics (like my friend) it's about as big as it can get. Perhaps the only thing bigger would be a piece of the true cross, or maybe a preserved finger of some saint or other.

My kind of pope!

But I digress. (As an aside, I would never get anything from Pope Benny - nee Ratzhitler – he isn’t my kinda Pontiff).

Not my kind of pope

Anyway, thinking about this gift reminded of the rosary said for my uncle’s funeral, about a month ago.

For those of you who don’t know anything about the bizarre Catholic ritual, here is a very quick and dirty Catechism for you. The rosary (verb) is a special mass usually said when someone dies. It's not a funeral per se, but part of the entire funereal cavalcade of whimsy. The rosary (noun) is a string of beads, with a cross. There are five groups of ten small beads which are separated by a larger bead. The beads are there to keep your place while reciting the various prayers – the Hail Mary’s (small beads) and the Our Father’s (large beads). Each time you say one, you move on to the next bead so you can keep your place, because if you lose count around the 37^th Hail Mary, you damn well don’t want to start over.

Say "Hail Mary" 50 times real fast

So, there we were in this little chapel. The priest begins the recitation of the Hail Mary, saying the first part aloud, followed by those of us in attendance muttering the second part as softly as possible. We aren’t Southern Baptists by a long shot. Anyway, he finishes the first Hail Mary and begins the second. Then the third, etc. By the time he’s on the sixth, the MonkeyWife (who continues to be befuddled by the whole Catholic thing) elbows me in the ribs, and looks at me with a puzzled expression:

Fez Monkey: What’s wrong?
MonkeyWife: Why's he saying this again?
FM: What do you mean?
MW: He’s done this prayer like five times already. Is he stuck?
FM: No, he’s doing the first round of ten.
MW: First round of ten?!?
FM: Yeah.
MW: How many rounds are there?
FM: Five.
MW: Five?
FM: Yeah.
MW: Five rounds of ten?
FM: Yeah.
MW: We have to say this thing 50 times??
FM: For a full rosary, yeah.
MW: Boy, that Mary is a demanding woman.

Ook ook.

Holiday Fog

2006-11-27T15:44:00.000-08:00

The official start of the holiday season has always seemed a bit surreal to me. All those bright lights and obnoxious window displays, compelling you into a festive spirit. Giant inflatable snow-globes perched in front lawns, and small molded plastic santa sleighs (complete with the Rudolph leading the way) on rooftops while outside the sky is blue and the temperature hovers in the low 60's. Fake frost is sprayed on windows in an attempt to make LA seem more traditionally christmasy, even though the first xmas (if one is to believe the Bible) took place in a small, desert village near the sea. Seems if accuracy is important, the folks back east and up north would spray fake sand on their windows, and have giant, inflatable palm trees stuck on their lawns.

The leftover thanksgiving turkey is about finished (and what is left will probably go to the dogs tonight), and the malaise of a 4-day weekend again returns to the mundanity of a 5-day work week. Shopping for xmas gifts now looms as a threat about to be made carried out, and I still have to conjure up and create our xmas cards.

It’s finally time to wear a long-sleeve shirt, and my friends are talking about college football bowl match-ups.

This time of year has always made me a bit unsteady, as if some odd, omnipotent prankster was fucking with me just to see how I’d react to a lateral shift in normality. That feeling is tweaked even more this year, as an “uncle” of mine passed away last week. I use scare quotes because although he was not directly related to me (he was my mom’s sister’s husband’s sister’s husband), he was a fixture in my youth, and in the old country even indirect relationships are considered family.

The news wasn’t totally unexpected, as he was getting along in years, and was recently suffering from declining health. However, even if he were on total life support for a month, his passing would still have packed a pretty good wallop. I mean, no matter how prepared you think you are, a hard punch to the breadbasket is still pretty intense.

This is that odd limbo: the time between the death and the funeral, which adds even more surreality to an already disconcertingly unbalanced season. The funeral is when people get to say their final goodbyes and get closure. It makes the death both real and final. The priest mumbles, the family weeps, the coffin is lowered, and the ceremony is complete. This time, between the two events, is like an emotional version of Schroedinger’s box.

In the mean time, I keep going as always. I get frustrated at the traffic. I play with my dogs. I dread the thought of buying gifts. I try hard not to over-spice the marinara sauce. I silently mock the ignorance and arrogance of the geeks in the marketing department. But it’s all done in a bit more of a fog than is usual.

No wonder I like the summer more.

Ook ook

Disagreement (50)

2006-10-05T10:24:00.000-07:00

“I want to hear it.”

The cold muzzle pressing against his head underscored the threat in the words. “Fuck your mother,” he replied.

“Say it.” The naked, flinty click of the hammer cracked the air. This was serious. Finally he relented.

“Okay,” he admitted, “Kirk would kick Picard’s ass.”

One more 50

2006-09-29T16:05:00.000-07:00

“Jeez, look at that guy!”
“Yeah, he is one really angry son-of-a-bitch.”
“It looks like he’s about to explode.”
“Wow, that guy is really in a rage.”
“His face is purple, his eyes are filled with hate, and he keeps pacing.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I shouldn’t have shot his dog.”

A couple of 50's

2006-09-29T09:10:00.000-07:00

Evidently the new rage is in trying to write little stories in 50 words or so. I'm game. Here are a couple of tries.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
One of my best friend’s daughters got married recently at sunset on the beach of Coronado Island.

There I was: an old, ugly guy in the middle of this crowd of fresh-faced, attractive, young people, on this beautiful beach.

I now feel a bit guilty for ruining their view.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

To the guy with the manicured hair, the designer sunglasses, and the expensive tie in the big, and black, and shiny, and new BMW, that almost hit me as I was crossing the street.

I’m sorry I interrupted your phone call.

A sort of lottery

2006-09-28T08:33:00.000-07:00

The trim blonde
in the short, blue skirt
stepped out of her black VW Jetta
in the Ralph’s parking lot.

She dropped her keys
as she shut her door,
so
she bent over
to pick them up.

As she did,
her skirt
rose high over her hips.

She wasn’t wearing any underwear,
so
I got to look at the face
of God.

Sometimes you get lucky.

Ook ook

Monkey-wrenching

2006-09-27T16:26:00.000-07:00

I answered the call during my drive home from work. It was the MonkeyWife, and I could tell it was trouble because she was speaking in one-word sentences.

Fez Monkey: Hey, MonkeyWife … what’s up?
MonkeyWife: Trouble
FM: Oh? What sort of trouble? Trouble: the house burned down; trouble: we have no beer; trouble: little Timmy O’Toole is stuck down a well?
MW: Sink
FM: Uh oh ... which one?
MW: Bathroom
FM: Is the faucet dripping again? I just changed the entire valve last month.
MW: Clog
FM: Okay, no problem ... I'll get to it after dinner. What is for dinner tonight, by the way?
MW: Food

I was putting a brave front during out talk, but this was going to be worse than I thought. I would be cast in the role of a man, which isn't something I am always good at playing. I'm much better suited for the role of pre-adolescent.

Anyway, when I got home the MonkeyWife was waiting with our snake in her hand. She handed it to me, pointed into the bathroom, and walked away.

The sink was clogged alright, and it smelled. Worse than me, which is saying something (another sad trait of Italians). So, after changing into a tee shirt and some torn shorts, I got to working. Now, running a snake down a drain isn't a big problem. Unless, of course, the drain has a rod running along the diameter. Snakes tend to have a flared head, in order to help grab and shred whatever clog of goo it touches. The flare of the snake was too big to get past this rod. All of this added up to the ugly truth that I would have to go beneath the sink, remove the trap, and run the snake from the slip-point coupling to reach the clog. (Don't be impressed ... I learned these terms online. I call them the curvy pipe and the long straight one).

So, I get our big-ass plumber's wrench - which to this point I have never used other than to wield as a threat against Eggs when his philosophical nonsense becomes too much to take. After much grunting and cursing, I managed to position myself beneath the sink. More grunting and more cursing loosened the top connection of the curvy pipe. How do I know I had loosened it? The flow of icky, smelly water now splattering my hands and hitting the bathroom floor.

Needless to say I didn't anticipate the fact that the water in the sink would have to go somewhere, and so had no bucket or anything to catch the water. Fortunately, MonkeyWife has seen me try and be a man before, and she had one ready. "You might need this," she mentioned once the water began to leak. Yeah, I might at that.

At this point I had a flash of inspiration. There would be no need for me to totally remove the curvy pipe. Since it was below the stopper bar, I could run the snake through it! I felt smarter than Einstein. I bet he never unclogged any sinks. So, in went the snake.

Now, running a snake is a process of starts and stops. You start by feeding the auger line a few inches until you feel resistance, followed by a few shots with the drill (which you connect to the snake to make it do that roto-rooter thing) to rotate it and move it forward, followed by more feeds of the auger line. The thing was, I could only get the snake in about three inches (of course, for some people, three inches is all they can manage, but I digress). Something was wrong, and oddly enough, the damn snake was now stuck. As it turned out, the curvy pipe had rusted through at the bend, and my snake was now poking through it. Yeah, I needed to get a new curvy pipe.

But first thing first. I needed to get at the clog. So, removing the curvy pipe completely, I started the frustrating start-and-stop feeding of the snake, eventually hitting a point where there was some severe resistance, and the drill was laboring to rooter. After a few moments of drilling and back-and-forth snake maeuvering, things finally broke free, and I was doused with a backflush of a considerable amount of icky, smelly water - with chunks of icky, smelly, black goo in in.

I was definitely earning my man-status now.

While I was engaged in this, the MonkeyWife had taken the curvy pipe with her to a local hardware store and bought a replacement. She arrived just in time to hand it to me, as I was using a smelly old dog rag to clean some of the thicker and stickier chunks of icky, smelly black goo from myself.

More grunting and cursing as I installed the new curvy pipe.

Finally, I stood up, my work finished, and turned on the faucet with triumphal theatrics. Water rushed into the sink, there was a small amount of gurgling, followed by the sink rapidly filling with water. The clog was still there.

Whatdidn't make sense was, if the clog was so far along the line (I fed close to 20 feet of snake before I hit paydirt), how could the sink become filled so quickly?

Back under I went, complete with grunts and curses, to once again remove the curvy pipe, only to again be soaked by sink water (at least this time it wasn’t icky and smelly). Yeah, I forgot to put the bucket down.

I removed the cuvy pipe and started to re-snake the line when the MonkeyWife called to me.

MW: Monkey …
FM: (grunting) Yah?
MW: Why are you doing that?
FM: You saw the sink . It’s still clogged. (cussing)
MW: Monkey …
FM: What!!

At this point she tapped me to get my attention. I turned and she showed me the curvy pipe. There was a plastic bag containing instructions and extra connectors shoved inside it.

Hey, I said I wasn’t good at playing the man.

Ook ook

Just an observation ...

2006-09-27T12:18:00.000-07:00

I was taking a little walk today
and I saw a squirrel lying dead
in the gutter.

It looked like it was taking a quick nap
but its pelvis and hind legs had been crushed
by the wheels of a car.

In a tree nearby,
a live squirrel was chattering away
energetically.

And it seemed to be saying:
"Better you than me,
Fucker."

Truth In Advertising

2006-08-16T12:43:00.000-07:00

So there I was, watching TV (don’t ask the show … I was in a serious bout of vegetating), when a seemingly innocuous commercial ran by grabbing my attention as it did. I know, you are about to ask, “Monkey, if you can’t remember the TV show on account of your vegetating, how can you recall the commercial? You must be a filthy liar!”

Ease back, Poncho, let me finish.

At first the commercial didn’t register, as it was just another blur in an already blurry background. But, a few moments after it passed, some odd subliminal ohrworm awoke, snapping me back into this reality, and causing me to sit up.

The commercial was for Hamburger Helper, and after seeing it for a second time, I know why it caused me to snap into consciousness. It was more chilling than anything I’ve seen on TV in a long while.

No, I don’t mean that the concept of HH is chilling (well, it is, but for different sulfite, sodium, and preservative filled reasons), but the semiotics of the commercial itself caused me to genuflect for protection.

It featured a typical working-class, god-fearing, salt-of-the-earth, patriotic American family. You knew this for several reasons:

They spoke with a slight, undefined but noticeable accent that can only be described as a vague amalgam of Appalacian, Southern, and Midwest
They wore the sort of “regular” clothes one stereotypically associates with Red States (think ill-fitting off-brand jeans, frumpy blouse, generic plaid work shirt, and other things you would typically find at a Wal*Mart)
They were all a few steps past portly, as we all expect Red State Americans to be
The kids had fucked-up haircuts that can only be described as unprofessional, likely given by mom or some other close relative
They were white

Anyway, the script for the commercial went on about how great HH is, and mentioned that since both mom and dad work (mom on day shift and dad on night shift), and with a passel of hungry boys, dinner was the only time the entire family could spend together. Luckily, HH not only was something they all loved to eat (yum yum, gimme some!), but it was easy as hell to prepare, was ready lickety-split, filled all of their already distended stomachs with a sickly paste of carbohydrates and gristle, and helped stretch their dollar!

Okay, nothing bad there, right? Gross, maybe, but certainly not frightening.

The images for the commercial were the typical montage of a happy family working, playing, and loving really hard. There were shots of mom fiddling around in her tiny kitchen, of dad and junior playing basketball, of dad hard at work in a fiercely industrial setting, and of the entire family smiling the saccharine smiles of ignorant contentment in the belief that they sleep under a blanket of freedom provided by George W Bush, the General Mills corporation, and God (in that order, by the way).

“So,” you ask, “what is so chilling about that?”

Here it comes.

Since it's inception in 1970, HH has remained a viable option as a bargain food-like product for those on the lower rungs of society's ladder. Now in the past they at least tried to put a happy face on the dismal circumstances preciptating the need for HH by featuring otherwise upscale families (the commercials featured large homes, a stay at home mom, a dad who took a briefcase to work, and attractive children wearing nice clothing) in their commercials, who chose HH for reasons beyond it's low-cost. You know, making the poor folk feel better about buying HH since rich folk were too. But the words and pictures of their latest ad paint a picture of contemporary America in which the norm is to have both parents needing to work at dismal jobs, one on the night-shift, and having to eat HH in order to be able to maintain a standard of living consisting of a small home, cheap clothing, obesity, and haircuts that look as if Floyd the Barber used a butter knife after a very long night of binging on moonshine. This was the new, realistic American dream, and these people, with their contented smiles, were happy with their fate. Evidently, nowadays, there doesn’t seem to be a need for even a façade of hope in commercials, as apparently the American public are so beaten down by constantly diminishing expectations and rewards, that they can show a family of semi-literate rednecks living one paycheck away from a double-wide, and portray it as some sort of idealized version of American nirvana.

And that is what is chilling. That this is the face of contemporary American society. Be happy you're working, Cletus ... the alternative is worse. And don't bother to strive for more, because you sure as hell won't ever reach it. Now shut up, eat your HH, and just count the days til your inevitable heart-attack sends you to the local Free Clinic for some aspirin and a pamphlet on planning a bargain funeral.

At this rate, you have to wonder what is next? A retro-commercial showing scenes lifted from Birth of a Nation meant to placate the nation regarding the plight of black people? Or, possibly (in the not too distant future), a new version of this pseudo-food called Soylent Helper. After all, if American corporations aren’t seeing windfall profits from all that oil, maybe they can squeeze a few pennies out of all them dead Iraqis.

Ook ook

Big Mouth, small mind

2006-08-15T14:51:00.000-07:00

So, three's this guy who just finished reading a book by the Scottish author Irvine Welsh that he enjoyed very much, and he happens to mention it to me and a casual acquaintance, whose ancestry is Scottish (though he, himself, was born here). The acquaintence proclaims that he thought the book was droll, and that the author was a hack. Fair enough, I think, but offer my feeling that the story was quite engaging, and that I found the author’s previous work to also be worthwhile.

The acquaintance then looks at me, and loudly proclaims that I am wrong, that I was a jackass for expressing an opinion contrary to his, and that I simply was incapable of understanding why since I was not Scottish, and that Welsh is considered to be a traitor to real Scots everywhere anyway.

Now, normally I would simply ignore this sort of nonsense, and give the acquaintance the benefit of the doubt, letting him babble his ignorance until he gets tired, except he has done this before … many times, to many people … and I am just tired of his hollow belligerence. So, I mention this to him, pointing out that his accusations of intolerance and name calling are hypocritical, after which he begins to froth-at-the-mouth about how I could dare react that way. His expletive filled rant continues and grows, focusing on how if I can’t take the criticism I should never have dared to express my opinion, and how I should just grow up and be a man.

Which makes me chuckle because once again the acquaintance has not only entirely missed the point, but is developing a rage embolism over a straw-man issue in order to pound his chest and make himself feel somehow superior. He uses the same insipid insults about pride and guts that boys have been throwing around since 2^nd grade (“You won’t eat that bug cause you are a chicken!”), and basically proclaims himself not only the supreme victor, but also the arbiter of taste because he shouted the loudest, all the while questioning both my heritage and sexuality.

Now, I could have opted to continue to squabble with the acquaintance, I suppose. I mean, I don’t mind a good old fashioned row now and again, but there really would be little point, since the acquaintance is too shit-all stupid to understand the nature of the argument. Somehow it has morphed from his saying I can’t comprehend Welsh because of my lack of Scottishness to my fear of engaging in a shouting match. So, while I would point out that his claim that since my Grandpa didn’t wear a kilt I couldn’t understand Scot literature was one of the most ludicrous and condescending things I’ve heard, he would only hear the blood pounding in his ears, and do something childish and ridiculous … like pose holding a gun (to show his potency or incredible macho-ness -- I really haven't figured that silly thing out). His ability to understand the point has been totally obscured by a rapidly encroaching peripheral blindness caused by an internal eruption of hysteria and anger.

What the acquaintance will never understand is that getting into shouting matches with people just for the sake of shouting is just dumb, and my lack of desire to continue in his infantile name-calling and finger pointing isn’t because I am afraid of him at all, but simply it is not worth my time. I mean, why bother arguing with an idiot? In the end you’ll just be out of breath and the idiot will still be an idiot.

So, in the end, the acquaintance walks off happily, patting himself on the back for teaching me a thing or two about being macho and for having the last word in the matter … even though he has no understanding at all of the nature of the initial dust-up, and he has been in a tirade over yet another of his many straw men. Still, if it makes him happy, I suppose it’s fine. I mean, the acquaintance isn’t the only one to use a barrage of volume and insults to compensate for lack of understanding.

Yes, I know ... this post was very subtle.

Ook ook

Funny Is As Funny Does

2006-08-14T12:49:00.000-07:00

The sense of humor is arguably (perhaps right next to the sense of beauty), the most subjective of opinion. I mean, getting a consensus on anything is difficult, from whether modern art is actually art, to how raw a steak should be to qualify as rare. But for some reason, humor is one of those things that has so many subtleties and nuances, that often times even two people who are laughing at the same joke are laughing for different reasons. And there are others who either stand there not understanding the humor, or who just don’t appreciate it.

Fair enough. Just because you laugh at something I don’t and visa versa doesn’t make either of us right. It means we just see things differently.

So, what do you do when some guy goes around insisting that something isn’t funny, and that anyone who disagrees with him is either some sort of dancing fool for the enemy, an idiot, or unable to see with the level of clarity needed because of a different cultural/religious background?

What indeed?

Yeah, this is a not-very-thinly veiled reference to a recent dust-up over at O’Tim’s blog, regarding a post he had on a small article written by Joel Stein. No need to go into the article in depth here, but the long and the short of it is I found Stein’s dry, straight-faced sarcasm to be entertaining, while another guy didn’t. And, for my opinion, it was explained that since I wasn’t jewish I was therefore genetically unable to ever grasp the nuances of what constituted funny from bullshit, and that Stein was a race-traitor anyway.

But what struck me was the supreme arrogance of this opinion. There was not a shred of consideration that humor is subjective. The conclusions were definite and clear:

Not only was that essay not funny, but Joel Stein is the equivalent of a Semitic Uncle Tom (would that then be an Uncle Shlomo??)
Anyone who found either that essay or Stein funny is dead wrong because either they are also Uncle Shlomos, or not being Jewish, they are simply incapable of understanding

Of course, this whole degradation into the belief that only True and Decent Jews (i.e. those that are not schande far di goyim) can judge the humor of Stein's work is so incredibly asinine and insulting as to fly in the face of reason. Does that also mean that only the Japanese can tell if the sushi tastes good? What about someone who converts to Judaism? Does the ceremony also confer this ethereal ability to judge the true essence and nature or humor? If a jew decides to leave the fold, do they also forfeit this gift?

I know, the whole thing is compltely ludicrous to the point of being laughable in itself. But then again, I would think that, since not being jewish I obviously don't have the DNA to know from the funny.

Ook ook.

Mel's Culpa

2006-07-31T13:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know, posting about Mel Gibson's getting all shitfaced and then exploding in a venomous anti-Semitic rant it hardly a unique thing to do.

In fact, I bet thousands of these (blog opinions) have popped up on the net since old Mel got busted for drunk driving and showed his true sense of privilege and entitlement - you know, boasting how he owned Malibu and how he was going to make sure he "fucked" the cop who nailed him.

What a great guy! And certainly proof that conservative, Bush-loving, war-supporting Hollywood types can be as annoying, petulant, and immature as those on the left.

But there is more to Mel's meltdown than just that nugget. There was that little matter of a really disgusting barrage of old fashioned Jew-hating. Aside from the repugnant nature of his remarks and the sort of mindset and value system that would allow someone to say those things, Mel's assault on Jews is a great way to throw real anti-Semitism into sharp relief against those who are called anti-Semites by hard-core Israel-supporters simply because they don't follow lock-step behind every single action the Israeli government takes.

Unfortunately, nowadays anyone daring to raise the idea that perhaps (just perhaps) the fact that Israel's bombing the hell out of south Lebanon in response to the kidnapping of two soldiers, killing (up to now) hundreds of innocent women and children in the process might just perhaps be a bit disporportionate is immediately branded by the Israel pimps as being anti-Semitic Nazis who threaten castration, coddle terrorists and ought, therefore, to be shunned, insulted, ignored, and ridiculed (at the very least). And that's on a good day.

The logic seems to follow the pattern that questioning Israel is de facto proof of hatred of Isreal, and thus, Jews as a whole. Israel-supporters will give you the argument that Israel is being proactive agasint the terrorist organization Hezbollah - and on the whole that position is a legitimate one. But, it begs the counter argument of whether those actions are reasonable. This is not a question of whether Israel has the right to defend itself (it does); whether it has the right to exist (it does); or whether its own civilian population has been victimized by horrifying terrorist attacks in the past (it has). However, it is a question of whether the current action is reasonable, viable, and responsible. An opinion saying "Israel has every right to be as brutal in response to the kidnapping because anything less would invite more assaults by the terrorists" is as valid as the counter-opinion that says "Israel's invading Lebanon and escalating the attacks to the point of open warfare just because two soldiers were kidnapped is overkill and will only lead to a much greater and more destructive confilct."

Note, the latter opinion does not (as Mel did) imply Jews are evil, Israel should be eradicated, or anything of that sort. What it does imply is the government of Israel is at fault for conducting an action that is inappropriate, counter-productive, and short sighted. Another way of saying it is by using a machine gun to kill a snake, Israel is screwing the pooch in a big way, and that they should be called out for it.

However, inevitably, those who support Israel, either blindly or not, will point out historical facts ("well, in 1978 ..."), or other so-called relevant points to try and prove that the anti-Israel action opinion is based on incomplete or improper assumptions, and is thus flat out wrong. If the offending opinion is not recanted and changed to whole-heartedly support the current Israeli action, it will quickly degenerate into name calling (usually along the lines of idiot, fucktard, or dumbass), and eventually charges of anti-Semitism.

Which is where Mel comes in. Here is a true anti-Semite. From his thinly veiled (well, not too thinly veiled) swipes at Hebrews in Passion to his re-connection to a sect of Catholicism that makes the Vatican look like the voice of tolerance, Mel has obviously got issues with those that follow the Torah. And when he launched into a slurred, vodka soaked tirade about how "Jews are responsible for every war in the world" and the like, well ... we get a good look at an old fashioned jew hater. The kind who really does believe the Protocols of the Elders of Zion was non-fiction. The sort of guy who should put those of us who do sometimes wonder at the nature of Israel's actions into the proper perspective, and make a distinction between anti-Israel (on certain topics) and anti-Semitic.

However, he won't. Pimps for Israel, like any other idealogue are basically by definition unable to see or acknowledge that distinction. The funny thing is how the most ardent and blind supporters will whip out some trivial incident in which they disagreed with the Israeli government as proof that they are not idealogues. Much like the most die-hard Bushwipes claiming disagreement with dubyas immigration plan is proof that they aren't sycophantic toadies. But all that does is prove how blindly they actually do follow. And, as anyone knows, you can't voice a contrary opinion to someone like that. Not unless what you want is name-calling, disrespect, and shouting.

Me, I just want a cool beer on a hot afternoon.

This is my opinion. Now call me names.

Ook ook

Middle East Discussion

2006-07-27T12:36:00.000-07:00

"Blah blah blah Israel is the bad guy blah blah. "
"Blah blah blah the Arabs are the bad guys blah blah."
"Yadda yadda yadda Israel kills children yadda."
"Yadda yadda yadda Muslim terrorists kill innocent civilians yadda."
"Gibber gibber gibber Israelis think Arabs are subhuman gibber."
"Gibber gibber gibber Arabs want to exterminate Jewish infidels gibber."
"Argue argue argue Jewsish aggression leaves the Palestinians no option argue."
"Argue argue argue Arab hatred doesn't leave Isreal any choice argue."
"Insult insult insult Zionist pig insult."
"Insult insult inuslt anti-Semitic bastard insult."

Sigh.

Forced Patience

2006-07-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

Is it 2008 yet?

Ook ook

Tetra

2006-07-10T08:59:00.000-07:00

Happy Happy -Joy Joy

Anti-climactic seems to be a pretty good (if not somewhat sanitary) word to describe the end of this cup. Or, as I mumbled to my buddies Duende, Eggs, and Oso, it's more like having the most incredible sex with the most beautiful woman for hours, engaging in every act imaginable, and she just knows exactly how to touch, moan, caress, sigh, lick, and nibble you to set each of your pleasure senses burning, then, just a few moments before the most powerful and physically & emotionally satisfying orgasm anyone has ever had, she stops, get's up, and has to answer the phone, leaving you there with your raging chubb and a hand.

Buzzkill. I mean, in the end, you still shoot your goo, but it really just isn't the same.

Yeah. That whole sex thing is a much better description of this final. A world cup final should never be decided by penalty kicks. Ever. Never. When it happened for the first time in 1994, it was a huge letdown. It doesn't feel any different now even though the Azzurri finally managed to come out on top. There is something just fundamentally wrong with this ending. Just like having to manually bring yourself off after being immersed in your dream lover for hours.

At least the good guys won.

Shame on you, Frenchie!

The most bittersweet moment was also the strangest one I've ever seen in any world cup match since the opening kickoff of Spain '82: French icon Zizou turning around, gaining a full head of steam, lowering his melon, and barreling full-bore into the chest of Italian defender Marco Materazzi. It was surreal, and overshadowed a match that, frankly, really needed some sort of spark. Certainly in the afterglow of the game, that was the topic that controlled discussion. As in, "What the fuck happened to cause Zidane to snap?" Duende, who is no fan of the French, simply said, "Good" but now, a day later, it strikes me as just another piece to the whole incredible sex with no happy ending metaphor. Watching one of the best footballers of a generation leave the pitch in disgrace after something as incongruous as that just adds to the entire sense of confusion and hallucination.

El Sexo antes del futbol!

As it is, I've been questioning a lot of yesterday as I sip my morning coffee. Was that really Shakira shaking her perfect ass before the match? Don't get me wrong, if there was ever a woman I would cast in the role for the succubus of my opening paragraph, it would be her, but what the hell was she doing gyrating and grinding before a world cup final?

Still and all, the day ended in an appropriate, if not in a not-fully-satisfying manner. The Azzurri earned the tetra, avenging not only the ghost of the Euro 2000 final (fitting that Trezeguet was the Frenchie that popped the crossbar), but also the 94 cup final.

We're all getting laid by Shakira!

Now I have to settle in to a long, four-year hibernation until South Africa 2010. It sure seems a long time away.

Ook ook

Come On Baby, Light My Fire

2006-06-28T14:59:00.000-07:00

You know that gag people try and pull when they are caught in a lie/unexpected/or otherwise unprepared, and they suddenly feel the need to escape, so they point behind you and, with as much surprise, shock, and fear as they can muster say, “Oh my god! Look at that!” You’re then supposed to turn around to look, distracted by their fear and warning, only to see nothing, and when you turn back, the person is gone.

You know the gag I’m talking about, right?

Sure you do. It never works. I mean, maybe on a five year old kid for the first time, but otherwise, never. Nobody is stupid enough to fall for it.

Or so you’d think.

See, the Republicans have been doing just that to us since the 2^nd tower was reduced to dust, rubble, and bits of FDNY guys. At every possible turn, when anyone dared ask, “Hey, what’s going on?” the Republicans, led by their mighty leader, Prince George, would point behind us and with fake fear exclaim, “Oh my god! Look! A wilde-eyed Islamic boogeyman come to kill us!” And we fell for it every time. In fact, some morons have not yet bothered to turn around, and are still looking for the boogeyman. Hence the unnecessary and unjustified mess in Iraq (but that’s another topic).

The thing is, it isn’t just phantom wilde-eyed Islamic boogeymen that Republicans use to try and distract us (although those “terror alert” warnings every week during the 2004 campaign did make it seem so). They’ve been equally effective at using some non-existent moral high ground (“Oh my god! Look, they’re killing Teri Schiavo even though via videotape we can see she is completely lucid despite the diagnosis of doctors who have seen her in real life!”), or protecting us from the savages of eroding social convention (“Oh my god! Look, two people of the same sex want to proclaim their partnership in a marriage which will somehow mean that not only will bestiality become public school curriculum but that heterosexuals who are married will suddenly all turn into rabid immoral beasts bringing down the destruction of our nation so the wild-eyed Islamic boogeymen can kill us!”).

It’s sad, really. Even sadder that it continues to work. There are others too, most recently the “Oh my god! Look, there are millions of illegal immigrants storming over the border stealing our jobs and sucking the treasury dry even though they help construct our roads/homes/buildings and put the food on our tables, and pay taxes that helps offset the cost of our unjustified and unnecessary war in Iraq to prevent the phantom wild-eyed Islamic boogeymen from killing us!”

Well, they didn’t stop there. You wouldn’t expect them too, would you? Nope. Their last bit was the “Oh my god! Look, those wild leftyloons are lining up to burn the flag which will somehow through a series of Rube Goldberg-esque steps mean the utter destruction of our ability to remain free thus leaving us helpless against the hoards of illegal immigrants who want nothing more than to kill innocent brain-dead women who really are lucid anyway so homosexuals can get married and force our children to have sex with animals which will only result in wild-eyed Islamic boogeymen killing us!”

Thankfully, that last one proved too hard for the Senate to believe … but just by one vote. The oft-attempted amendment to the constitution that would outlaw burning the American flag failed. Again. By the slimmest margin.

The flag is not some sacred symbol, despite what those who wrap themselves tightest with it might want you to believe. In fact, in a truly free society, there can be no sacred symbols. The freedom to desecrate, through word or action, a belief or symbol, no matter how strongly held, must be un-questioned. It’s very easy to be for speech when it’s something with which you agree, but unless this freedom provides complete protection for the other side, it means nothing. And before you start chiming in with the famous exception to the first amendment about not being allowed to shout “fire!” in a crowded theater, it doesn’t apply. That exception singled out speech which would incite to violence or injury. Burning a flag only injures the pieces of cloth which were stitched together in Taiwan (and, maybe the idiot holding it or lighting it). It’s not the same. It is a symbolic act … like a bunch of morons protesting outside the funeral of a soldier killed in Iraq holding signs saying “Burn in Hell” and “God Hates Fags” because of some incomprehensibly perverse philosophy. As ugly, upsetting, tasteless, and offensive as they may be, they are protected, and we have to accept it as payment for our freedom.

Besides, as Sen. Kerry pretty concisely summed it up this way (and I am paraphrasing): “Burning the flag is an act of stupidity, but in this country you have the right to be stupid.” This is most evidently the case, otherwise we wouldn’t keep falling for the Republican tricks of pointing behind us with the intent of distraction.

Ook ook

Who's Surrendering Now?

2006-06-28T08:32:00.000-07:00

I am still digesting the savory meal that was France v Spain in yesterday's WC06 match.

While watching it (thanks to the benevolence of ESPN360, which made its streaming video service available to all), I couldn't help but smile at the play. Jogo bonito may officially refer to Brazilian football (or, futebol), but in this instance, it transcended a team, and applied to the game itself.

It seems that every tournament produces one signature game ... a match for the ages that continues to inspire conversations and exclamations of amazement years after the final whistle ended play. Nobody who saw Italy v Brazil and France v West Germany in Spain '82; France v Brazil and Argentina v England in Mexico '86; or Argentina v Romania in USA '94 will forget the elegance, thrill, determination, and pure joy of those games. Not coincidentally, the names featured in them are also legendary: Zico, Socrates, Rossi, Platini, Rumenigge, Maradonna, Batistuta, and Hagi.

As I was watching France v Spain unfold, I couldn't help but be reminded of these classic matches. Both Spain and France played with abandon, forcing the pace and working for the win. France seemed to have the better of it, but for the fact that Henry continually found himself offside, killing drive after drive. And though Spain struck first on a PK, it was clear that the chances and creativity were being generated by France. Finally, some nice touches through midfield on a French build got the ball to Viera. Henry was alone to the right, but (as usual) in an offside position. Viera deftly changed field and left a nifty service to Ribery, streaking along the left. The ball was perfectly placed to match Ribery's pace, and he carried it through the area, geeking the Spanish goaltender and placing it just past the outstretched legs of Spanish defenders into the net for the equalizer.

The second half was more of the same. Both sides played the entire field, in a wide open display of true jogo bonito, but France continued to dominate the chances and dictate play, despite a consistently offside Henry. All it took was one free kick with Zizou putting the ball at the far post where Viera could tap it in to give France the lead, which was sealed when the old man received a through pass sending him into the area where he faked the goaltender and placed a nifty wrong-foot ball into the net.

It was very satisfying to see Zidane play in this match. He showed himself to have the form of 98 with his passing, ball movement, positioning, and ability to sense play before it happened. Considering this is his last (supposedly) cup, watching him takes a special meaning, and seeing this sort of game really does underscore the entire tournament.

Les Bleus next face Brazil in the Quarterfinals ... as they did in Mexico '86. That match was one of the legendary ones, ending in a 4:3 victory for France after the PK shootout. One can only hope that this one attains the same level

Ook ook

Matilda Waltzes Out of the Cup

2006-06-26T16:00:00.000-07:00

Amazing ... the calcio gods finally decided to smile upon the Azzurri and grace them with a lucky break in a World Cup match.

True, this comes at the expense of the real popular "heart-string" story of the gutty little Socceroos from Oz, but hey, someone has to pay.

Italy, long the team to find themselves at the receiving end of some serious dry-entry, looked like they were going to have yet another hard luck tale to add to a pile that most recently featured the atrocious robbery they suffered against the Koreans in WC02. Only five minutes into the second half, Italy found themselves a man down when the official overreacted and showed Materazzi a red card, sending the defender off and giving Oz a man advantage for at least 40 minutes.

The match to that point was an evenly contested, well-fought 0:0 draw, although Serie A wonder-boy Luca Toni did have at least two very good chances at net. However, with the sending off it looked as if the plucky Socceroos would pull the same miracle the Taeguk Warriors did last time round. However, Italy again showed a resolve and toughness, and repelled wave after wave of Aussie onslaught.

Surprisingly, at times it seemed as if Australia were actually playing for a tie, taking extreme patience in setting up their attack, allowing the defensive minded Italians to regroup and get settled in formation. True, Oz had a few chances at net, but for a side that hadn't made the tournament in a generation, you would have thought they would have shown a bit more desperation and drive.

The second half saw the very rare Italian counter, with one particular drive almost finding paydirt but for Gattusso's service being far too hard and overshooting Del Piero on the far post. Still, Italy took their chances and made the effort. Aging midfield start Francesco Totti came in as a late replacement, showed some of the flair, creativity, and skill that has made him such a fixture for the national team, but it looked as if the match would end regulation time level, and likely make its way into the dreaded shootout.

Then, the miracle happened. The curse which seemed to hover over the Azzurri suddenly dissipated, and through a gutsy and determined run by Grosso, Italy gained a penalty eight seconds from time. True enough, at contact Grosso did his best to embellish the contact, and showed considerable skill in his diving form, but then penalties have been awarded for less. Much maligned Totti placed the ball on the spot, then shot a rocket just beyond the Aussie keeper's reach, and time was called.

Italy won, 1:0.

Now, the question isn't whether the penatly was deserved or not, and despite the howls of frustration and cries of some nefarious plot to see the traditional powers advance, the fact is Australia was not robbed. The penalty may not have been deserved, but Oz failed to win. They played for over 40 minutes with a man advantage, and had many opportunities to gain the goal they needed to claim victory, but couldn't. Rather than sit and whine about how Italy was gifted a win, people should wonder at how Oz couldn't pot a goal, or how Italy was so strong and resolute facing the man advantage.

All indications were that, had the penalty not been called, the match would have ended in extra time with the same 0:0 score it began, and the match would have gone to the shootout. So, why is anyone upset? It happened 30 minutes earlier than it otherwise would have. Italy won. And they get to face the Ukraine in what should be a very boring match.

Australia wasn't robbed. They just couldn't win.

Ook ook

Happy Birthday To Me

2006-06-23T08:57:00.000-07:00

Okay, so, it isn't my birthday, and this particular gift won't arrive until 2008, but still ... this is like one of those completely unexpected bonanzas that puts a smile on your face and a spring in your step. Sort of like getting woken up on a Saturday morning by a blowjob, or finding that hidden beer in the fridge when you were certain you were dry.

The news?

Comedy Central has announced they've agreed with Matt Groening to create a new season of Futurama.

Wow ... having this sort of news come during the middle of the World Cup is almost too much to believe. Now, if I can manage that beer and the hoover at the same time ...

Ook ook

Random thoughts on WC06 and more

2006-06-18T08:34:00.000-07:00

So, it's midway between matches today, and I am still trying to comprehend how Croatia could play so solidly and generate so many scoring opportunities against both Brazil and Japan, and yet still have not been able to find the net.

Certainly it isn't through lack of effort up front. Niko Kranjcar has done a nice job of creating through the middle and distributing balls, and Dado Prso has been a bear in making runs and getting himself available, yet they have not had more than two or three really valid tries on goal.

Is anyone else shocked at how huge Chilavert has become? Good grief!

I've been watching the matches on the Univision feed here in LA, because: 1/ it's nostalgic (the first three cups I watched (Spain 82, Mexico 86, and Italia 90) were all on KMEX); 2/ the American announcers are just no damn good; and 3/ the between-match programming on Univision features many scantily clad and very sexy dollies prancing about and otherwise sending waves of arousal coursing through my body.

The interesting thing is how the Mexican announcers, hosts, etc are so completely in love with Brazil. I can see why ... no, not because they are playing so well (jogo bonito thus far belongs to the albiceleste), but because of the Brazilian woman.

Which reminds me of a trip to Guadalajara I made a while back. (Trust me, there is a thread through all this nonsense). I love Guadalajara if for no other reasons than it is the birthplace and mecca for mariachi, and also because it is right next to the little town of tequila. Nuff said. However, while there, I had dinner one night at this Brazilian restaurant, which featured some entertainment. Essentially meaning women in incredibly skimpy bikinis who would "dance" to an incessant and hypnotic drum beat. I use the scare-quotes (not scarecrows) around dance advisedly, by the way, because the entire dance was less a series of steps and choreographed action, and more simply her vibrating in place. Hell, either way it was next to impossible to look away. The odd thing is, most of the Brazilian women who I've seen either in person or on TV, while magnetic all suffer from the same malady: cuerpo del deseo, cara del pesar. Indeed.

Anyway, the canarinhos are about to tee it up against the socceroos, so I have to be brief.

The US definitely redeemed themselves with a gutsy and passionate effort against the azzurri, but don't come whinging about the two red cards: they were deserved. Eddie Pope is a hack, and Mastroeni went in late and studs high.

Every cup has something that makes it stand out in the "this is so incredibly freaking stupid" way, and this time around it's this really stupid haristyle.

Nike again blows the competition out of the water with their commercials. Having Eric Cantona was genius.

---------------

Well, Brazil managed to dispatch Oz, but in a clumsy and very sloppy manner. Ronaldo looks fat, slow, and uncoordinated (he actually whiffed on an open net), and it really is sad to see. Ronaldinho, Roberto Carlos, and Kaka are carrying the squad, and even though Adriano potted the first goal of the match, he seems outclassed by almost everyone else wearing yellow. Ronaldo was mercifully replaced in the 2nd half by Robinho, who immediately showed himself to be impatient and ready to forget any level of discipline in the excitement of the moment. If Brazil hopes to gain the Hexa this year, they are going to need to do some serious improvement.

Meanwhile, the Cheating Koreans continues to gain points at the hands of poor referreing -this time a horrible call denying France their second goal in the first half. Sure enough, the Cheating Koreans capitalized and managed to draw level with only a few minutes left in the match. France tried furiously to get the go-ahead goal, but in their effort Zidane was booked with a yellow - his second of the tournament, meaning he doesn't play against Togo. Les Bleus aren't out yet, but they are well on their way. It's astounding to think of the luck that continues to favor the Cheating Koreans. One wonders what would happen if an official didn't tilt a game in their favor. Oh, wait ... no need for wondering. Turkey beat them in the 3rd place game in 2002. The evidence is clear: in an even match, the Cheating Koreans lose. How pathetic that they can only acheive success with the help of an official blunder.

Gooooooooooooooooooooooooool!

Cutting close to some bones

2006-06-16T13:07:00.000-07:00

Heh heh heh ...

The last panel is definitely true ... moreso for some than others.

Ook ook

Be Careful What You Wish For

2006-06-09T11:10:00.000-07:00

Boy, who knew there was anyone out there that really cared whether I ever posted again or not?

I'm flattered. To borrow a line from a giggly and slighly drunk actress accepting a statuette, "You like me. You really like me."

You poor sods.

Besides, you people couldn't have picked a worse time to try and rouse me from my stupor. And trust me, Skippy, a stupor created from an amalgalm (I like that word, by the way) of pseudo-ephedrine, alcohol, carne asada, and some intensely delicious and wickedly spicy salsa is one hell of a thing from which to be roused. Yep, no prepositions ending that sentence.

The thing is, I am feeling kind of frisky these days, and it isn't because I have again sampled Vanilla Ice Cream. I fear that will not ever be coming back, although I have recently developed a taste for newer flavors. But that is besides the point. Where was I? Oh yes, frisky.

It's the quadrennial even that keeps me from eating a bullet during the three off years that has my pecker up now. And if the opening was any indication, I am in for a month of orgasmic indulgence.

Germany beat Costa Rica in a wide open match, 4-2, which saw Miroslav Klose finally step on to the stage to live up to some of the hype he had in 98 and 02. He netted 2 goals (same as Wanchope for the Ticos), but the story was more the style of play. Up and down, with not the most elegant defense on either side. My Azzurri take the pitch on Monday, which is both good and bad. Good as in it gives me two more days to work into a frenzy, but bad as I will be at work, and unable to watch it until I get home and hit the play button on the VCR. Yes, that is VCR, not TiVo. I am so 1990's.

My big dilemma is whether to tape the ESPN feed, or the Mexican station. I think I'll opt for the Mexican as it will be far more nostalgic.

Oh, don't worry if none of the above made sense to you. It just means you're a provincial American doofus with about as much grasp of world culture as a concussed bee.

What else? Oh, I've found that I like NOFX. They strike me as very similar to the Offspring in that they are basically just a good old punk band.

Will someone please explain to me why there are still morons out there who believe that our invasion of Iraq was in any way jutified by prevailing events or the incessant beat on the 9/11 drum? A non-sequitor, I know, but it still amazes me. The idiots and boneheads who accept the propaganda behind it just amaze me. Though they do tend to help me understand how something like the NSDAP ever reached power. All I have to say to them is: You're an idiot. Endy story. No arguments. You are an idiot. Sell your nonsense to the tourists, because I'm not as dumb as you are to buy it.

So, are all you bitches happy? I've posted. Get off my tits and let me watch more footy.

Ook ook

I Read Dumb People

2006-05-05T13:04:00.000-07:00

It's come to my attention that I've recently been de-listed by a few folks, for reasons which are entirely their own.

Hey, fair fucks to them. I suppose there is a casue for it beyond merely engaging in some sort of juvenile pissing contest, or popularity rankings, but I'm really not 100% sure and I don't really care. Whatever the case may be, it has happened.

My reaction to the whole thing: Oh.

I mean, am I supposed to be upset or insulted by this turn of events? Shall I engage in some sort of vengeance by following suit and removing them (if I have them listed) from my links section? I'll admit to more than a little confusion about the appropriate course of action since blogging is very low on my list of priorities. Right below cleaning excess wax from my ears, and above sweeping behind the refrigerator. So, tell me - what is the proper way to react?

My instinct is to do nothing other ponder the withertos and whyfores. But then again, I really don't care enough to mount anything more than an acknowledgment that at one point someone thought enough of my postings to have a link, but their mind has changed. And I understand that. I really do. I mean, on more than one occasion I've adjusted my link section as well; adding those I find entertaining or thought-provoking while removing those I find insipid, juvenile, self-indulgent or just plain boring. It's not personal, it's just opinion.

I guess blogging really is just another social structure - complete with cliques, ostracizing, alliances, rejection, and the like. And, much like the real world, it seems some folks really do take this far too seriously, and I may fall into that trap as well. Perhaps Snot Rag was right after all, eh?

So, if any of you now feel compelled to delist me, I understand. No hard feelings, etc etc etc. And if you don't see your site in that column on the right of this post, well, it's not you, it's me.

Besides, to paraphrase Groucho, would you really want to belong to a club in which a monkey would want to have you as a member?

Ook ook

Damn Good Coffee ... and Hot!

2006-05-04T12:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, it is pretty self-evident that the true fuel driving modern American corporate life is caffeine.

Screw all that talk of innovation, inspiration, and dedication. You can get all three in spades with enough joe. After your fifth cup in an hour, you’ll be more inspired, dedicated, and innovative than you could ever imagine. Only nitpickers and the types of swine who took jobs as grammar school hall-monitors seriously will care that the fruits of your innovation, dedication, and inspiration are basically useless gibberish.

The golden rule of business has always been throw the shit against the wall and see if it sticks.

Now, I’ve really only been involved in two subdivisions of the corporate ‘verse (yep, I’m a Browncoat): biotech and Internet, so my range of experience is limited. However, I still feel confident enough in the fact that I am smarter than you (much smarter than most of you) to make an engraved-in-stone conclusion. No industry needs caffeine as much as the Internet. Nope, not yours. Nor yours, Skippy.

And the evidence is everywhere. The fact that each desk is populated with at least three well-stained mugs, or that every conference table has so many coffe-stain rings that they look like modern design masterpieces. It is embodied in the pale, yellowish, gaunt zombies that stagger through the hallways, and the three-times-a-week delivery of bulk pre-packaged coffee from a central supplier.

These are folks who embraced the coffee generation sales pitch as if were chisled into tablets and left for some old geezer who refused to ask directions even though he wandered through a desert for 40 years, obstinantly ignoring the constant stream of “Are we there yet?” and “Are you sure we aren’t lost?” questions.

The thing that gets me, however, is the prevalence of these flavored coffees. You know the kind, they are often given clever marketing names hearkening to some exotic or idyllic ideal, such as Hawaiian Hazelnut, Essence of Vanilla, or Smooth Irish Cream. But when push comes to shove, they all have that over-perfumed, sugar-saturated, syrupy taste that strips whatever sense of coffee they once had.

What sort of person drinks these? Coffee is meant to be coffee, not some pseudo-dessert liqueur. If you like your coffee a bit on the sweet side, add that extra teaspoon of sugar. If you like some double-x chromosome flavor (yes, I am calling you a girly-man), then add some of that artificially developed chemical goo. But playing Frankenstein with coffee is just wrong.

You may have a contrary opinion about this. I respect that. But, of course, you are wrong. Accept it, I already have.

Ook ook

The Age of Fear

2006-05-03T11:48:00.000-07:00

So, it’s been a while, eh? I know, you all missed me terribly – at least the two of you who do still occasionally drop by. Thanks for that. Loyalty like yours will be rewarded, but then again it is its own reward, so it doesn’t really mean much.

How can I say something like that? Well, first off, I live in the time of Bush II, where loyalty means compulsory unquestioning obedience and slavish acquiescence to authority. Second, I’ve also worked for several major corporations, where loyalty (at least their loyalty to employees) is essentially a four-letter word.

Yeah, I know a thing or two about loyalty, Scooter. The only loyal thing in life is your dog, and even they can be swayed by a stranger with some particularly aromatic meat.

Mmmm … aromatic meat!

Loyalty, like any other commodity, can be bought and sold – and usually on the cheap. The “what have you done for me lately” school of thought is definitely in swing. Or, maybe rapidly shifting allegiance is due to the fact that people are easily manipulated by slick-talking hucksters who promise that bigger and better is just around the corner. Nah, that can’t be it. If that were the case Prince George wouldn’t be destroying the country with his second term. That slimy bastard won through fear and intimidation. Don’t believe me? Then tell me how many times since the election have we had any announcements of terror alerts changing the color from ochre to mauve.

Yeah, that’s what I thought. The currency of loyalty is fear and horror. You don’t stay at your job because you like it, or because you are being treated so well, you stay because you fear unemployment. If someone came along with an offer paying you 5% more, you’d leave. Andyou idiots voted for Bush because you believed those insipid lies about how the other guy would immediately put us in danger.

Maybe that’s the true legacy of Bush II: bringing us The Age of Fear. Today we compare things on the negative, and go with what or who promises the swiftest, most painless death. The future? Screw the future, we are suffering in the now. How can I worry about how bad it will be tomorrow when I am concerned with surviving today.

No wonder TV is filled with advertisements of pharmaceutical bliss.

Good grief, I need a beer.

Ook ook.

PS: Yeah, I know, this made no sense. So what. Despite the protestations of others who desperately want to believe there is something of substance to blogging, it really is little more than public onanism. So, excuse me for indulging myself.

More Bushit

2006-04-12T16:02:00.000-07:00

ABC News and the Washington post broke this small story about how our idiot boy-king went on Polish television in 2003 and proudly proclaimed that the US had uncovered proof of Iraq’s biological weapon program in the form of a couple of trailers.

The problem was, the trailers weren’t mobile bio-weapons labs. And the folks in the field sent in a report saying as much. Oh, and the idiot boy-king made his brash statement two days after that report had reached Washington.

So, the question is, did Bush lie yet again?

According to his mouthpiece, Scott McClellan, the answer is a resounding no. He claims that our intrepid idiot boy-king was basing his proclamation of proof on some CIA & DIA documents, which were issued by some folks who didn’t really get a chance to look over the trailers.

So, for the moment, let’s assume that McClellan is correct, and that Prince George didn’t knowingly lie. What does that prove?

Well, it certainly confirms Bush is probably one of the most inept and incompetent leaders that ever sat his ass in the oval office. Think about it, he went on TV and triumphantly stated as fact that his fear mongering about Iraq’s WMDs had been vindicated, even if it hadn’t. And he did so (and here is the clincher), before he had all the facts.

Let that sink in. Bush was willing to go in front of the world and start talking about things before he knew whether what he would say was true or not. And it's not like he had to wait all that long - the trailers were being further evaluated as he was inserting foot into mouth.

While that may not be lying, it certainly falls under the umbrella of being misleading. And absolutely irresponsible.

No one in any other job could get away with that sort of shit. Could you, in whatever job you have, be able to tell co-workers, your boss, your customer, stockholders, etc, something as if it were fact before you knew for sure? That is called making an assumption. No mechanic would state as fact that your car’s bad performance of late was due to a burnt out sparkplug before checking. No plumber would say your poor water pressure was due to a cracked pipe before looking. And no banker would approve a loan before doing an account check.

So why is it okay for the president to go off and continually make these embarrassing and costly statements before he has all the facts?

And the worst part is how quick his sycophantic worshippers are to apologize for him.

They must be getting really tired by now.

Ook ook

Two Week Notice

2006-04-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

The conference room in which the meeting was held was small … only able to seat about six comfortably, but that was okay, because there were only two of us present. Well, three, but the third was there via video link from New York.

Technology: it’s an amazing thing.

We were supposed to start at 10am, but it had rained that morning, and as anyone who’s ever tried to drive in LA after/during a rain knows, that means traffic was snarled because of hysteria, panic, and insanity. I guess it’s something in the water falling from the skies. Maybe people think it’s the rapture.

Anyway, even the comfortable 45 minutes I gave myself to make the 20 mile drive now seemed like a gross underestimation. Particularly since I had been in the car for almost 30 minutes, and still had about 15 miles to go. I called the geek in HR, and broke the news to him.

“Phil, it’s The Monkey. I think I may be a bit late.”
”Oh.” Phil had an undertone in his voice that hinted he wanted to say more. More along the lines of: “You asshole. You’ve known about this meeting for a week, and you also know we’re setting up a link with a VP in New York. You expect us all to just accommodate you because you fucked up your commute?”

Instead, he just paused and asked, “How late do you think?”

Oh, did I mention this meeting was an interview for a job? Not a great way to start, calling and telling the Executive VP that you are going to be a little late.

Still, for some reason, I wasn’t flustered. I just told him it would be 15 minutes longer than expected. Good thing I wasn’t on video link, or my crossed fingers and rolling eyes may have worked against me. Besides, what did I care? It wasn’t like I needed this job, since I was already employed.

I arrived, shook hands, did the polite intro, and was hustled into the conference room.

Now, we've all been on job interviews, and know they can be stressful. You feel as if you’re being tested and measured and judged, and with good reason, because you are. You half expect to be asked to show your teeth, have your vertical leap measured, and pee into a cup. But, still, this time I didn’t feel nervous. Almost the opposite. There was a sense of boredom that filled me. Oddly, somewhere between my sending in my resume and being called for the interview, the dynamic had shifted to where I was the one evaluating them. After all, they called me in, which meant there must be something about me they desire.

I knew the job was mine in the first five minutes. The department director began by telling me how impressive my resume was, and how perfectly my skill-set seemed to match their needs. The VP followed by telling me he was blown away by my writing samples. For the next two hours we talked. There were only a few questions regarding my background and experience, with the most intense moment coming when the department director handed me a printout of some of their current web content, asking me to look it over and give my analysis. After a few minutes I handed it back and gave my evaluation:
The page was poorly written, and too verbose. The content flowed poorly, was occasionally confusing, the layout was counterintuitive, and the voice was too formal for the intent.

They were impressed. But hey, it’s what I do. I am, after all, a professional.

From that point most of the questions were better suited for sitting outside having a pitcher of beer and a basket of onion rings.

We talked about sports (the VP was a hockey guy), different parts of the world (they loved my stories about camping in the Baja), and compared fresh vs. salt water fishing. I asked some “big picture” questions regarding the company’s goals and directions, offering opinion and suggestion. I dropped Simpsons references which made the VP laugh. It was just three guys talking, so you know nothing of importance was said.

When I got home, there was a message on my answering machine. It was the geek from HR asking me to call him. I start in two weeks. I will be earning over $10,000 more a year and have a fuller benefits package. My commute will be cut in half.

Now all I have to do is tell my current boss. She doesn’t even know I’ve been looking. That will be fun.

Ook ook

The Latest Cell Phone Accessory

2006-04-06T11:22:00.000-07:00

So, a month ago or so, Swedish researchers apparently discovered a significant link between cell phone use and brain tumors.

The study, which looked at data from over 2,000 patients with brain tumors, found that individuals who "heavily used wireless phones [sic]" had a 240 per cent higher probability of developing a brain tumor on the side of the head where they most often used their phone than those who didn't fall into that cohort.

Hmmm ... heavy cell phone use and brain tumors. That goes a long way toward explaining the jackholes and retards on the roads here in LA.

The thing that caught my attention is how this is presented as somehow a bad thing. Think about this for a moment: which segment of the population tends to use cell phones at an extreme level? Hollywood agents, marketing geeks, prima donnas, Paris Hilton, blabbering fashionistas, idiot teenagers, slick salesmen, and the sort of tragically-hip poseurs and trendsters that developed a market for hair gel and wrinkle cream for men.

Seems to me losing these folks to brain tumors is a fair cop.

Ook ook

The Art of Conversation

2006-03-30T13:19:00.000-08:00

The following is an unexpurgated transcript of email communication between me and Duende, an old friend of mine.

This may explain why I don't have many friends.

Make of these what you will ... I just felt like sharing.

Ook ook

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Fez Monkey
Sent: Thursday, March 23, 2006 11:29 AM
To: Duende; Eggs
Subject: V Showtimes

"V For Vendetta" is playing this Sat at the theater place in beautiful downtown CC -- I figure we can all agree that seeing it there is preferable to battling idiots and swine what have no manners nor common sense at the Bridge.

Sure … the reviews have been tepid at best, but Christ, who are we to let pointy-headed artsnobblers dictate what we watch? The path to revolution starts now. Throw the gauntlet of defiance, and let’s see this damned thing.

Showtimes are: 1, 1:45, 2:15, 4:05, 4:45

The cost is $7.50

Ook ook

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Duende
To: Fez Monkey; Eggs
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 7:31 AM
Subject: RE: V Showtimes

Newsflash:
I have heard rumblings that our chubby little Tex is celebrating another Herpes-filled year on this Earth. As I endeavor to make the wife as miserable as she makes me, I have to be available to brood and despoil any fete she may be invited to (of course I will not be invited, but when did that ever stop your humble narrator) this weekend. When I asked the Magic 8-ball if I will be going to the movies with you this weekend, it said “Answer hazy, ask again later”. I just wanted to keep you in-the-loop, as the Anglos say.

Is my work never done?
BF

*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Fez Monkey
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 9:52 AM
To: Duende; Eggs
Subject: Re: V Showtimes

So, Miri made it through another year? I guess the deleterious effect of STDs are greatly exaggerated – although that oozing boil on the side of her face indicates she may only be drawing breath for another few months. Screw her. Whoring around carries a stiff cost nowadays, and a throbbing, pulsating, pus-filled scab on her cheek is getting off cheap. I hope she tackles you from behind and drips some of her discharge on you.

You're the eternal optimist, you pig. I'm counting you as good as dead for Saturday. Your flowery verse and stupid insistence on searching for a silver lining are nauseating. Strings have been pulled and wheels are in motion. Have fun with the hicks, you traitor. The most to hope for at this point is that you start drinking the moment you wake up, and reach a level of belligerence reminiscent of your wilder, younger days by the time the first of the barefoot hillbillys make their way to this shindig. You’d better be armed as well, honest, god fearing white people aren’t fond of you brown-faces, and it’s a good bet that you’ll be doing a fine jig at the end of a rope before the sun sets. But then it serves you right, for daring to despoil such an event with your colored-ness.

I would weep for you, but I don't find wasting tears on one who makes his own bed to be of any value.

Shalom, you oily bastard.

Ook ook

*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Duende
To: Fez Monkey; Eggs
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 10:36 AM
Subject: RE: V Showtimes

Remember: the Lord Jesus also arose from the dead to save us all – as I may do for you bums.

Pax

*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Fez Monkey
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 11:10 AM
To: Duende; Eggs
Subject: Re: V Showtimes

Isn’t it just like one of you heathens to take the name of our lord and savior in vain, soiling it with your inferiority.

People like you should be hogtied, suspended from a great height, and beaten with sticks like a piñata on general principles. Your continued mockery of the inherent superiority of the white man’s culture is astounding. But you’ll learn. I recommend you practice standing with your back against the wall, as come helter skelter that’s where you’ll be.

Nyam-Mo-Ho-Renge-Kyo

Ook ook

*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Duende
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 2:02 PM
To: Fez Monkey; Eggs
Subject: Re: V Showtimes

Hey – after I vomit on Saturday, will you be free? I figure I will need many beers to wash the taste of all those ignorant crackers out of my mouth. You know how annoying it can be spending too much time with white people. I will have much pent up rage, and will need someone to beat on, and you and our resident semite will do nicely. I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, as it is the time of the people of the sun.

Be prepared for some serious hurt, gabacho.

Si se puede, youse mugs.

The Eyes, They Are A-Changin'

2006-03-27T12:45:00.000-08:00

"Which is better, one or two?"
"Ummmm … two, I think."

God, how many times have I had to go through this dichotomy of choices? It seems as if I’ve been in that chair for close to four hours, even though the hands of the giant clock on the wall indicate that only about 15 minutes have passed.

The thing is, I don’t mind getting my eyes checked. It’s easily the absolute most painless health maintenance procedure any of us will ever have to endure. We get to sit in a very large padded chair, and a gigantic apparatus with lenses of miniscule increments is set in front of our eyes. All we have to do is look and answer “one” or “two” as knobs are rotated and dials twiddled.

"How about now? One or two?"
"They’re about the same."

But, for some reason, I find myself disliking the process more and more. I think it’s my new optometrist. I used to go see this young honey who was kind enough to wear short skirts. She had an enticing smile, a suggestive sense of humor, and was completely aware that a little innocent flirting made time move a little faster. This new guy is pushing toward morbid obesity, is balding, tends to wheeze, and has an odor vaguely reminiscent of turnips.

It’s like that all over, innit? You get used to something pleasant, something that has you looking forward to whatever event with which it’s (they’re) associated, only to find that things have changed and where there was once a woman you’d love to join for a private game of doctor, you now have a guy that looks like nothing more than about 300lbs of tapioca poured into some rumpled clothing.

"Have you noticed any new problems with your vision?"
"Only that it’s getting a bit difficult to focus when going from close to far."

They say change is positive, and in most instances I can see how that would be true. But then again, they just love being right, pompous bastards. But change isn’t always a good thing. I mean, who in their right mind would willingly swap a playful, seductive young woman for a guy who likely breaks a sweat using a remote to change channels?

The worst part is, this isn’t the first time I’ve been on the wrong end of this kind of switch. My old dentist was the type of woman from which shower-fantasies are made. I was going to the dentist for a cleaning so frequently, my insurance company probably thought I was some sort of dental-psychotic. She left last year, to be replaced by a jug-eared dork with an asymmetrical moustache. As if I can trust someone like that to put his hands in my mouth.

"Okay, all we need to do now is the ole glaucoma test, and we’ll pretty much be done."
"Great."

At least this visit would be over soon. I tried to recall in my mind’s eye what my old optometrist looked like, but could only get these vague, ghostly pictures. I tried closing my eyes to remove unnecessary stimuli, allowing my memory to concentrate, but was reminded that this was an eye exam and it would help if I kept mine open. Even in periphery I could see the puffy cheeks and greasy hair of this new guy, killing any chance of evoking the delectable legs that used to cross and uncross intentionally during the exam.

"Okay, we’re all finished. You can pick up your new prescription at the front desk."
"Thanks, everything okay?"
"Just a slight change to the left Rx."
"Great."
"Oh, but I do recommend you get bifocals – your close vision needs some help."
"Huh?"
"Don’t worry. It’s normal for people around your age."

Man, I hate change.

Ook ook

Blogging Defined

2006-03-24T11:11:00.000-08:00

So, Snot Rag comes over the other day. He’s been a friend for a while, and has this mucous condition, if you must know. The MonkeyWife isn’t really fond of him, on account of the bubbling snorts and the high-gloss sheen on his sleeve from countless wipings kinda grosses her out. So, she suddenly had some errands to run.

Me? I brought down a bottle of tequila. Not Three G’s … Snot Rag isn’t nearly worth that. Just some of the cheaper stuff I keep around for the unexpected drop-ins. Don’t give me that look, you do the same thing.

So, Snot Rag accepts a glass of the clear nectar, sees my laptop open, and goes over. He’s not the most tactful sonofabitch, but he’s a mate and all, so I tolerate him. My browser is set on my blog, because I constantly re-read my posts. I have to, because mine are so much more interesting than yours. It’s okay, you can admit it … I have.

Anyway, Snot Rag turns to me and says, “You do this stuff?”
”Yep,” I say, taking a sip of the lovely white liquor.
“How long?”
”Maybe a month or so.”
”Oh. Is there anything good on here?”
“Not really.”

And he starts to read my post about how I’m not a genius.

“This is stupid,” he says
“Yep,” I answer.
"You know, you're really not that funny," he says.
"I know," I answer, taking a small sip of my drink.

He keeps reading.

“Are all blogs as dumb as yours?” he asks.
“Well, I’m sure mine is dumber than most, but yeah, I think so,” I reply.

At that point, he starts to do some surfing, reading a few things here and there, flitting from page to page by clicking at the helpful “next blog” button on the upper right corner of the screen, all the while aspirating a surprising amount of nasal discharge. As he scans, his face begins to take the appearance of someone who has just eaten a very large helping of spoiled seafood.

“So, what’s the point of blogging?” he asks, with genuine curiosity.
“Whaddaya mean?” I answer after another slug of tequila. “It’s just a way for me to pop off. You know, ‘Flinging Poop’ and all.”
“But,” he stammers, unable to process it but still snorting like a steam train trying to overcome it’s stationary inertia. “But, some of it is so … stupid. I mean, this woman here, all she does is post recipes using cheese.”
“Yah,” I opine.
"This girl is babbling about her last date and the clothes she chose."
"Yah," I mention.
"This moron can't spell."
"Yah," I emapthize.
“And this guy, all he does is put up pictures of his kids, with stupid song lyrics. Song Lyrics!”
“Yah,” I offer.
“And this guy is just ranting incoherently about conspiracies and shadow governments.”
“Yah,” I add.
“Have you actually read some of these things!” he said, gesticulating like someone in the early stages of a seizure. “They’re written by half-wits who take themselves way too seriously!”
“Yah,” I nod.
“And anyone with a PC and Internet connection can just throw up a page and start spouting off, no matter how ignorant or illiterate they are?”
”Yah,” I say. “Democracy in action.”
“So, is that really it? Is blogging just a way for any moron to throw up anything they want, whether it makes any sense or needs to be said?”
“Yah,” I concede.
“And people take it seriously?”
"Very,” I say.

Snot Rag sat there for a moment, looking like a neanderthal trying to comprehend an internal combustion engine. "Let me see if I understand this," he finally said, taking a deep breath, and sucking up what sounds like a pint of particularly viscous mucous. "The whole point is to let any idiot publish any garbage?"

"Yah," I reply. "But, just like anything else, each blog is only as good or valid as the person posting at that time. Some stuff is pretty thought provoking, some is damned funny, some is insightful, and some ... well, a lot ... is just stupid. Some don't take it too seriously, and see it as a way to have fun, others get their jollies by being a prick, while others are pretty adamant and almost belligerent about a perceived sanctity of their words. Just like life."

Snot Rag leans back for a moment, then exhales. “Wow,” he concludes, draining the last of his drink, and wagging the empty glass at me for a refill. “Some people have way too much time on their hands.”

Indeed we do.

Ook ook

God Hates Duke

2006-03-23T21:52:00.000-08:00

In an earlier effort (one that sparked a confusing but evidently passionate bit of chest pounding), I had popped off about how absurd I thought the whole athletes and entertainers praising The Jesus is. I then went on to mention that The Jesus must not have much of a jump shot, since his bible-sucking boys from Oral Roberts University got whipped in the opening round game of the NCAA tournament like unrepentant heathens during the Spanish Inquisition.

Nobody Expects It

But, it seems that while The Jesus suffers from white-boy basketball affliction, his dad is a bit of a fan. After all, how else can you explain Duke getting faced in prime time by a pack of barely literate Cajuns from Baton Rouge?

It was sublime. The clean-cut, all-American darlings of the media, lead by JJ Reddick (one of this year’s “great white hopes” for the future of basketball) couldn’t seem to handle the pressure and intensity of a bunch of bumpkins. This was not what people who voted for Nixon were happy to see. Duke is their team, and they are the people who really run the country. Yalies may get elected, but Dukies pull the strings. Seeing their beloved team get tossed aside like a used condom doesn’t sit well. Duke was the overall number one seed – teams like that don’t get upset in the Sweet 16. Especially not by some state school.

Yet there it was, happening before the nations eyes. Dick Vitale was openly weeping, telling anyone who would listen that this was an atrocity. Duke’s coach, that sniveling rat-faced geek, was in a mad panic. As the seconds ticked off the clock, you could see him slowly imploding, face becoming more pinched.

Man or Rat?

You could almost see his incisors lengthen, and whiskers spring from his cheeks. His eyes no longer able to focus, he appeared to be frantically looking for some cheese, no longer interacting with his team. The game was lost, and he had given up.

It was clear that God was tired of Duke and their fans. The hubris that swaggered on the court wearing the white with blue trim was given a harsh slap in the face. Evidently wrath has changed a bit since the old testament. Back then, God would have rained sulfur or engaged in a bit of genocide to show His displeasure. Now he just makes petulant, privileged rich kids cry.

Waaaaaaah!

I may need to search for my rosary, and head back to church.

Ook ook

You have a GOOD day!

2006-03-23T09:55:00.000-08:00

Please excuse the bit of self-indulgence of the following post.

I went to college at the University of California in the mid–80’s. At that time Berkeley was a haven for oddballs, weirdos, and freaks. People who would be considered eccentric by San Francisco standards. And anyone who spent any time at all in San Francisco in the 80’s knows just how extreme that statement is.

Occasionally some of these characters that animated my day-to-day travels around campus and the Southside return in my memory, like a flashback from drinking too much mescal. People like Stoney, the Polkadot Man, the Smartest Man In The World, Rearrrr, Rick Starrr, and others too bizarre to even qualify for names. The memories come in flashes, and are often gone with just as much haste as they appeared.

However, there was one man who transcended all of these characters. His name was Joseph Charles, known as the Waving Guy. He wasn’t one of the campus looneys, or some homeless vagrant with an overblown id, or some manic political activist. He was a retired old man, living in South Berkeley, who would stand on the corner outside his home and greet passersby and motorists every morning.

He was as much a fixture of the Berkeley tapestry as the Campanile, the heroin addicts in Barrington Hall, football losses, or the spaced-out homeless in People’s Park.

Every morning, rain or shine, he would be out on his corner, trademark yellow-gloved hands waving frenetically, shouting to drivers “You have a good day!” His smile seemed immutable, as were his cheer and sincere hopes that everyone he greeted enjoyed their day.

At first, I simply catalogued him as just another weirdo, tossed on the street as one of the many casualties of the Reagan administration's slashing of public funds to help and house the mentally ill. But there was this complete lack of pretension or insanity about him. Mr. Charles loved life, and he wanted to share that feeling with everyone he could – and what better way to try and bring a small amount of cheer than by smiling and waving during the morning commute, when people are angrily battling traffic?

I lived in the Lake Merritt area of Oakland for a year and a half while attending Cal, and my trip to school would bring me past Mr. Charles every day. He became a fixture, as constant as the North Star, standing on his corner, hands a yellow blur, wishing people a good day. The odd times I missed him, whether through taking a different route, going past after the ritual was over, or if he was ill, there seemed to be a hole in the day … like missing that third cup of coffee or not being able to read the paper before class. And, after a day without Mr. Charles, the next sighting would always seem just a bit more fulfilling.

I graduated in 1987 and left Berkeley for good. However, on every return trip, I would make it a point to drive by Mr. Charles’ corner to get my greeting. It was as much a ritual as heading to Kip's for a pitcher and a bowl of fries, or heading to Henry’s for some Golden Bears after the Big Game. A visit to my alma mater would never be complete without seeing him, and getting my greeting.

Berkeley as a whole began to change in the 90’s, losing much of it’s personality and charm to giant mega-corporations and franchise stores. Telegraph Avenue, once a defiant bastion of independent book, music, food, and coffee shops started to be home to places like the Gap, and Borders, and Starbucks. Neon and chrome replaced peeling paint and scribbled signs.

Mr. Charles’ health began to decline in the 90’s, and his morning greetings came seated in a patio chair. The juxtaposition of his starting to slow down and Berkeley losing it's unique vibe seems to be more than a coincidence to me. It's as if the city began to change because Mr. Charles wasn't able to keep it the same. He died in 2002, at the ripe old age of 91.

Today is Mr. Charles' birthday. You all have a good day.

Menso, Redux

2006-03-22T10:07:00.000-08:00

A while back, as you may (or may not) recall, I went on a bit of a tirade about geniuses, and how incredibly annoying they are. Particularly when they insist on telling you about their geniusness.

I mentioned this to a friend of mine, and, between sips of his beer, he casually wondered that since I am basically an arrogant and annoying swine, does that therefore make me a genius.

An Arrogant Genius

The question, I must admit, took be a bit by surprise, and after hitting him in the back of the head with an empty, I thought it deserved a bit of exploration.

Could the Monkey be a genius?

One Smart Monkey

Yeah, I hear you laughing. And I admit, it is kind of funny. But still, it does bear investigation.

After tossing my buddy a small towel to help staunch the flow of blood from his new wound, we ambled over to the computer to try and answer the question by taking one of the many online IQ tests currently available.

Now, a quick disclaimer is in order. I don’t put a huge amount of stock in these tests. Aside from being only somewhat accurate in their assessment of education, they do tend to be both culturally and socio-economically biased. After all, there is nothing in any of them that measures intuitive intelligence, or practical knowledge, or the ability to apply theory to reality.

Okay, enough of that. You want the meat. It’s coming, Pilot, it’s coming. Just hang tight.

The test itself was little more than standardized boilerplate. You know, the typical SAT nonsense such as deciding whether ebullient compares closer to orgiastic or sullen if dyspeptic compares to lacrimose, or the ever present wondering about patterns and which would fit next.

I sat down and answered each question, rewarding myself after each one with some beer, as if I were some chicken getting a pellet for pecking at the correct button after a little buzzer sounded. There were 50 questions in all, so I had my friend wobble over to the fridge twice to ensure I had sufficient reward. All work and no play can make the Monkey quite irritable.

Mmmm ... Pellet!

By the time the test was near the end, however, I was getting a little distracted. Suffering from a subdural hematoma, my friend was beginning to babble incoherently about sunshine and wombats, making it difficult for me to concentrate. It was obvious I would need to use a series of finger jabs and pivot kicks to make sure he didn’t pass out before his brain swelling subsided, and I didn't have a lot of time. This was my friend, after all, and as much fun as it would be to see him in a coma, I felt sorry for the bastard.

Swollen Brain

Fortunately, I ran through the last few questions, about how many houses 30 people could paint in a month and whether kangaroos belonged in a circle jerk with a collection of ruminants.

The result (admit it, that’s what you were all waiting for) is that the Monkey has an IQ of 137. According to the site, that puts me in the “superior intelligence” cohort, but not a genius.

The Monkey Is Not A Genius

So, now you have concrete proof that those tests are worthless. In real life I am not a genius, nor even of “superior” intelligence. Hell, I'm lucky that I remember how to tie my shoes. My arrogance and annoying prickness is not because of any elevated smarts: I am an arrogant and annoying prick because I am an arrogant and annoying prick. Any similarity to uber-nerds, hyper-geeks, eggheads, poindexters, and other assorted brainiacs is purely coincidental.

Ook ook

Jesus Hates You, And You Wear Funny Clothes

2006-03-17T14:18:00.000-08:00

You know … something’s been bugging the Monkey in a big way lately. No, scratch that, not lately, but for quite some time.

What, you ask? Happy to tell you. It’s this: athletes, entertainers, politicians, and other public figures who openly, loudly, obnoxiously, and aggressively attribute every minor increment of their success to The Jesus. And you’ve all heard them. No matter what the question or context of the conversation, at some point these smug pricks have to toss in: “I’d also like to thank my lord and savior, Jesus Christ for this blessing.”

Sanctimonious assholes.

A Sanctimonious Asshole

Sure, this isn’t a new observation, and you’ve heard other, more erudite geeks pop off about it before. In fact, you’re likely so bored by the whole thing you’ve probably already clicked the back button on the browser so you aren’t reading this. I’m all alone here, typing to nothing. I can say anything. Like “turd” or “donkey fart.” It’s kind of liberating to shout in the dark.

Anyway, I’m thinking about this because I’m watching the final few moments of the first round NCAA tournament game between Memphis and Oral Roberts University, and right now, with a minute and some change left, the Fightin’ Fundies are on the wrong end of a vengeful god of the Old Testament style 94 -78 ass-whipping, being beaten like a read-headed stepchild refusing to wash away their sins by agreeing to love the Jesus.

This gives me an amount of glee that makes me wonder how I would have reacted if I were in the stands watching a lion rip some poor xian geek to shreds in Roman times.

A Buffet Of Christians

Would I cheer, turn away in disgust, or chip in by being one of the volunteers poking the true believer with a long, sharp stick? Interesting question, the true answer of which likely would provide deep insight into my psyche.

Anyway, it leads me to wonder: if Jesus can save but can’t hit an open jump shot, what good is he?

Jesus Teasing Fat White Kids

Ook ook

Erin Go Barf - Happy Paddy's Day, Ya Lying Bastards

2006-03-17T12:03:00.000-08:00

I’m not Irish, although I was raised a catholic, so I guess that may make me Irish-ish. Or does that make Irish folks more Monkey-ish?

Where the hell is a philosopher when I need one? You know, there ought to be traveling philosophers, on call to come and resolve issues like this which arise at the most inopportune times. I mean, they’ve got traveling notaries and auto mechanics, and they don’t solve things nearly as mentally aggravating as the whole Irish-ish/Money-ish thing.

Great, now I have a headache. Where the hell was I going with this? Maybe I should just press the eject button before this gets really stupid, or is it too late already? No, I must push on … I’ve made a commitment to post something, and goddamnit I will. Another beer, yeah, that’ll do it … lube up the synapses so they start firing with greater abandon, making more connections and drawing references from wider and wider sources.

So, where was I? The Irish, right. Ya gotta love those bastards. Any culture that gives us Joyce, Guinness, and U2 can’t be bad. Plus, the Irish cuss a lot. World class. Yeah, ya gotta love the Irish. The best part of the Irish is their genetic propensity for mendacity. These boys can lie. Of course, they try and sugarcoat the whole thing by calling it blarney, but you can’t piss on my shoes and make me believe it’s rain. The Irish as a race are natural liars. Worse even than Sicilians or those Finnish swine.

Need proof? Take St. Patrick’s day. Little more than a green-vomit soaked bacchanaliaof drunken brawls, sexual assault, and bravado celebrating some guy ridding Ireland of snakes. A real local hero, that one. Ireland’s most favored son. Erin go brah, and too-ra-loo-ra-loora. Kiss Me, I’m Irish indeed. Not on that mouth, Seamus. The wee fact that these shamrock wearing vermin don’t mention is that Paddy never did drive a single snake off the Emerald Isle. Not one. Nada, zip, zilch. Oh, and that thing about being a saint? Yeah, well, they meant to tell you about that. See, he isn’t one. Seems as if Old Paddy was never canonized by Holy Mother Church, so this saint thing: just another damned Irish lie.

Liar!

The bastards.

And here I was, buying into it all. The green beer. The tasty red-headed Colleens. They had me hook, line and sinker. I believed every bit of it. At least, I did. As you can see, I’m wiser now. Those pug-nosed little scumbags can’t fool me any longer. Want to know what opened my eyes to the treachery and deceit that flows through the veins of every Irishman that ever breathed air? Of course you do.

Corned Beef and Cabbage.

Yah, that. Those potato-eating gremlins want me to believe that boiled meat tastes good. Think about that. Boiled meat! Not roasted then put into a stew, nor grilled before being gently pulled and smothered in a sauce. A hunk of fatty beef tossed in a pot of water to get boiled. As if the thought wasn’t unappealing enough, looking at it is even worse. All the color washed out so the meal looks like a faded Polaroid snapshot circa 1956. Just the thought is making me cringe.

Icky Food

But props to the Irish. Scumbag liars that they are, you still gotta love those geeks. Besides, any race that invented Guinness gets a free pass for life.

Ook ook

An Open Letter to Sen Boxer & Feinstein

2006-03-14T14:43:00.000-08:00

To the Honorable Sens Boxer and Feinstein;

As you know, we the people of the great state of California aren't very fond of President Bush. In fact, most of us think our idiot boy-king is a complete embarrassment, and deserves to be trussed up, stipped naked, shaved clean, and sent on an ice floe into the Arctic Sea.

And, apparently, you do too. At least, it sure does seem like it some times, the way you talk about him.

Well, now's your chance to put your money where your mouths are. You have a stark choice: walk the walk by supporting Sen. Feingold's censure of Bush, or cower in fear like the school nerd at the approach of a gang of jocks looking to do some locker-stuffing.

Prove that the two of you actually posess a spine! I mean, that good speechifying of yours - you know, talking loudly and bravely about how bad Pres. Bush is, and how he must be stopped, etc etc etc - is something someone with conviction, courage, and integrity would do. But, talking is easy (look at me), it's the doing that takes balls.

You know, I had a friend in college once (trust me, this is on topic), who loved to go into great detail about every date on which he'd go. As soon as he got back to the dorm we would gather in his room with a frosty twelve pack of beer, and listen as he would tell us about that night's conquest. He'd describe the cut of her dress, the degree of laciness of her panties, whether she wore hose or not, how soft her skin was, if she was shaved, how she would move as they kissed, if she would go down on him, whether she would moan softly or scream out, how talented she was with her parts ... you get the idea.

Anyway, it was after one particularly lurid description, involving soy sauce and finger puppets, that we found out he had been lying all the time. This master lover was a masturbater. He was still a virgin. The most he had done is french kiss and cop a feel - not even real tit, but bra! One of my other friends summed him up in five words: He Talks A Great Fuck.

Well, unless you support the Feingold censure, that's what you two will be doing, talking a great Fuck. Unfortunately, that just doesn't cut it anymore. As Nixon reportedly told Ike when he was waffling about having him as the running mate in '56, "It's time for you to shit or get off the pot." By supporting Sen Feingold and his move to officially censure the president over the illegal (and immoral) wiretapping of Americans, you will be taking a giant steamer all over those who would sacrifice our civil rights to fearmongers and despots. If not, then you may as well just get back on your knees with your lips puckered, waiting for Prince George to drop trou and present his ass for a good kissing.

Make us proud. Take that shit.

Ook ook

Soccer Is Cool

2006-03-08T21:02:00.000-08:00

One thing you should know about the Monkey – and something that might go a long way toward explaining why I am the way I am, and why you have that vague feeling of indigestion when you read my stuff. Well, those three of you who actually do read my poop. The thing yiz have got to realize about the Monkey is that I am a hardcore, dyed in the wool, no holds barred, ole-ole-ole-ole, Forza Azzurri, get out of my face, wake at 3 AM and fire up the BBQ, gooooooooooool, soccer fan.

I’ve been in the stands to watch Pele, George Best, Franz Beckenbauer, and Johan Cruyff play in the old NASL. I’ve been to international friendlies at the LA Coliseum, Mexican league matches, and LA Galaxy games at both the Rose Bowl, and at the Home Depot Center in Carson. I’ve attended three matches during the 84 Olympics, and three matches during the 94 World Cup, including the finals between Brazil and the Azzurri.

I watched every minute of every World Cup tournament since Spain 82, and every European Cup since 1996.

But I still have a mission in life.

I've never had the chance to experience watching a soccer match in England. For a fan, seeing a game, particularly an international match, in England is like a pilgrimage. It's like watching hockey in the old Montreal Forum, baseball at Yankee Stadium, basketball at the old Boston Garden, or football at Lambeau Field. Well, I've still not seen a match in England, but at least I did the next best thing when England were set to play Germany in the second game of the group stage of Euro2000.

I, along with my friends Duende and Eggs, wanted to watch the game. It promised to be entertaining, as both sides desperately needed a win to keep any hopes of advancing past the initial stage alive. In their first matches England had given up a two-goal lead and lost to Portugal 3-2, while Germany was fortunate to end level with Romania 1-1. This game also had added significance, as England had not beaten a German side since the final of the 1966 World Cup in Wembley Stadium. That 34-year legacy of futility hung around the English neck like a millstone, as there was no one they disliked more than the Germans - except, of course, the French.

Unfortunately, the match was not to be broadcast over network or cable TV, as it was only available via pay-per-view at a ridiculous cost of $20.00 per game. One thing about being a soccer fan in the US, it costs a lot of money. Anyway, our only real option was to try to find a bar that was showing the match and go watch it there. A quick call to one of the local Brit ex-pat pubs confirmed that they would be showing the game, with the helpful suggestion that we get there early, as they were expecting a crowd.

The game was set to start at 11:45 on a Saturday morning. We arrived at at 9:30 only to find the place already packed with representatives from all over the UK. There were Scotsmen, Welshmen, Irishmen, and Englishmen - even a Canadian, and each was proudly wearing their colors, whether they were the National team jersey or that of a club team. The entire pub was a sea of blues, reds, whites, greens and blacks, and the air was filled with competing chants and songs that not only proclaimed the superiority of England, Manchester United, Scotland, Arsenal, Ireland, Leeds, and Wales, but also insulted Germany, France, Italy, Scotland, England, Wales, Ireland, Manchester United, Leeds and Arsenal.

We made our way to the bar through the crowd and shouted our orders over the din. It was at this point that a really fat, red-faced Englishman sat down next to me. He was wearing an England jersey that was far too small for him allowing his world-class gut to show hang like the tongue of an overheated dog. His hair was pale and thinning, and he had the trademarked teeth of British dentistry. He turned toward me, smiled, held out a huge, sweaty, thick-fingered paw and said in a alcohol-slurred accent, "My name's Jocko, mate. What's yours?" For the rest of the day we were to be the best of friends. Over the course of a couple of beers Jocko told us a few dirty jokes, tried to teach us a few disparaging songs about Catholics, and engaged me in a heated discussion over the benefits and drawbacks of catenaccio.

When the game started the entire pub became energized. There was barely room to turn around, and the atmosphere was electric. A non-stop stream of chants, songs and jingoistic comments came from the crowd for the entire first half, although neither team scored and the play was sloppy. An acrobatic save by the German keeper of an Owen header from a cross by Phil Neville injected new vigor into the songs by the crowd, but when the half-time whistle came and the score was still level, things entered that weird space of unfulfilled expectation.

With the start of the second half, the crowd seemed to have grown not only in size, but in aggression as well. It was getting ugly. The curses rained upon the Germans became much more personal and offensive, and included a surprising number of references to World War II. The crowd was angry, and the air was thick with a frightening weirdness. I looked at the bartender, and he had a strange expression on his face. He'd seen this before, and was frightened. He had the look of someone who had previously experienced a sudden explosion of vicious destruction, and recognized the potential here. In anticipation the staff had begun quietly collecting bottles and replacing mugs and pint glasses with plastic cups near the end of the first half, so if things did go bad, the crowd would have fewer potentially harmful weapons within immediate grasp.

There was only one thing that would diffuse the increasing tension, and it came when England wünderkind David Beckham took a beautiful free-kick, placing the ball right at the feet of captain Alan Shearer, who deftly put in the back of the German net.

One - nil to England, and the place erupted.

Half eaten breakfasts of eggs and bangers, congealing kippers, molested burgers, greasy chips, and a lot of beer was immediately airborne, and people were high-fiving and hugging each other in a genuine display of raw emotion and love. Jocko grabbed me and squeezed as if he thought I was an Obie doll, saying over and over again, “Brilliant. Bloody brilliant." The bartender was so relieved that he offered a round on the house, which meant another one for me.

The remainder of the game consisted of the Germans trying to come up with an equalizer, but it was England's day. As the last minutes ticked off the clock, the crowd inside the pub began to acknowledge the fact of the win, and sang triumphant songs about the virility and honor of England. Jocko bought me two more beers.

The referee finally blew the whistle signaling the end of the game, which was greeted with another explosion from the crowd. This one was less physical than before, but the emotion was more intense. The men were drained. A combination of poor ventilation, large quantities of alcohol, and having their nerves on a razor's edge for near 90 minutes had taken its toll. These same hard, savage men who looked ready to spill blood only minutes before were now crying unabashedly. In a far corner several men gathered together to attempt a celebratory dance, although their lack of rhythm and elevated blood-alcohol content made their effort look more like five spastics trying to kill a roach. Even Jocko let the moment get the better of him. In a surprising display of agility and coordination he pulled himself onto a table (which protested loudly under his weight), and tried to lead the crowd into a spirited version of God Save the Queen. Evidently, when happy and drunk, the British feel compelled to sing.

As I watched the perverse deluge of pride flowing around me, the totality of the day finally hit home. I was spent. I looked over at Duende, and I could tell he was also drained. We nodded at each other, and he left to go to the phone. Eggs and I continued to sit dumbstruck in our seats, watching the bacchanalia around us. We were drenched in a combination of beer and sweat - much of both Jocko's. As Duende made his way back through the self-congratulatory crowd music began to play in the pub. At first I couldn't make it out, but then I recognized it, and I started to laugh. It was Vera Lynn singing the World War II spirit-lifting anthem White Cliffs of Dover. The really funny thing was that gradually, all of the lads in the pub began to sing along. That parallelism was just too weird.

It was time for the three of us decided to leave. It felt voyeuristic being there -- this was their moment, not ours. Besides, the combination of liquour and heat was starting to make me hallucinate. We said our goodbyes to Jocko and Gilly, who were now joined by more of their mates. They insisted that we stay and celebrate with the lads, but when Jocko turned his head and nonchalantly vomited, I knew it was time. We left the pub, went outside into the too-bright daylight and waited for our ride to take us home.

Fear and Loathing, Again

2006-03-06T10:56:00.000-08:00

So, there was this post on a blog by a fellow going by the name of Archer, in which he speculates that not only will Hillary Clinton gain the Democratic nomination in 2008, but that she will be roundly beaten like a drum by a more moderate, and thoughtful Republican candidate because of Bush’s complete and utter failures as a person, politician, leader, and tactician. His logic goes something like this: the next GOP candidate will be one that will be a reaction to the gross incompetence, hubris, and malevolence of Bush, thus soothing any hurt feelings, and making Hillary look like a bad choice in comparison.

I beg to differ.

Not because I don’t think Sen. Clinton would be a good president, or a viable candidate. But for two reasons: first, I'm convinced Hill will peak too soon, allowing another challenger to gain momentum in the primaries; and second, because the GOP is now the exclusive playground of the far right, they'll never allow anyone even approaching moderation, such as John McCain, to gain power. The only way for that to ever come about is if the extreme-reactionary led GOP suffers a humiliating defeat in both the upcoming ’06 off-year election, and the ’08 election. Until and unless that happens, extreme fanatic Christian hatred, and bizarre neo-conservative lunacy will rule the GOP landscape. People like Ralph Reed, James Dobson, Karl Rove, and Ken Mehlman are far too avaricious and greedy to even consider moderating the vision for their party. If anything, their pendulum is still moving right, and only a sudden jolt can cause it to return to the center.

Good lord, what am I doing? After the coup of 2000 I promised myself I wouldn’t get drawn into political handicapping again. The way the Republicans strong-armed and openly cheated then was such that it would make the Cosa Nostra blush to even consider. The blatant openness of the fix was so brutal and complete that it made professional wrestling look sanitized, and made even someone as jaded as me turn to gambling on college sports for salvation. 2000 was Poppy’s revenge, written in bold, bloody letters over the corpse of Clinton-Gore: the sort of grisly warning to would be challengers last seen when the Ottoman Empire ravaged Christian villages in the Balkans, displaying the rotting and defiled corpses outside city walls as a reminder of Who Was In Charge.

Ho ho! Who Is In Charge, indeed! Make no mistake, Republicans may be evil, duplicitous, soulless swine, but they aren’t stupid. After Ronnie’s pummeling of Mondale in '84, the GOP started to get soft, only managing to get up the hateful Willie Horton ad in '88 as any sort of homage to the days when Nixon won campaigns through outright libel and slander, painting any opponent he faced with a pink brush, while simultaneously singing the aria of the innocent victim. Nixon was the best, there's no doubt about that. And it must've killed him to see how far his party had degenerated through sloth by the end of the 80’s.

The low point for the GOP came in 1992, when an inbred Cajun assassin by the name of James Carville turned the tables on them and took some sex-addicted hillbilly from the Ozarks to the White House by stomping Bush I like a fat cockroach, using the same tactics Republicans had honed to the sharpness of a razor. Carville was a ruthless and bloodthirsty predator, and was so efficient at leaving the gutted remains of opponents discarded on the side of the road to be ravaged by packs of scavangers, he even earned Nixon's respect. Clinton’s unceremonious procession over the bones of Poppy taught the GOP a hard lesson: gaining power is hard, but keeping it is harder.

It's a lesson the Democrats have yet to fully learn.

Which brings me back to 2008. The Clintons have earned a special place of pure, white-hot hate in the hearts of evil, vengeful, psychotic, hateful conservatives throughout the land. And if Hillary does manage to get the nomination, the machine set up by Rove & Co which brought such disgusting slime as showing decorated hero and Senator from Georgia, Max Cleland, palling around with Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden, will launch an assault against her that will make the Swift Boat thing look like a love letter. No matter how much a veteran of political battles she may be, she hasn’t had to face the full force of the national Republican machine. These are the sort of people who fight with the tenacity and morals of a rabid wolverine, and for whom the ends justify any means necessary.

Politics is the roughest game around, Bubba, and the Presidency is the biggest prize. Not only are there never any gloves, there aren’t any rules or mercy. The firebombing of Dresden pales in comparison to the sort of malice and destruction involved in a general campaign. There’s a reason the candidates who emerge from the primaries are almost entirely distasteful, dishonest, and disgusting – those are the only ones that can survive. Nice guys get eaten. The system is gamed so that the ones that move on do so not by being a better person than their opponent, but by being worse. It’s the only way to win. The strategy of allowing your opponent to say you eat live puppies for breakfast because you have a picture of him eating them with a side helping of babies is the only way to the top.

In an election year, no one can hear you scream.

Ook ook

Cell Hell

2006-03-03T15:23:00.000-08:00

So, here’s the deal.

My old man, the Monkeydad, is the sort of guy who likes gadgets. Really likes them. Pops chubb over them.

Which is fine, because, let’s face it, gadgets are cool.

The problem is, he can never understand how to work them. Oh, I guess that isn’t all that surprising, what with him being an older generation simian and all. But there are some things that you would expect could translate even to those who still recall outhouses, oil-lamps, and having to manually pump water from a well.

So, while I wouldn’t expect Monkeydad to have an instinctive comprehension of, say, the latest handheld, multimedia, wireless entertainment system, I was at least hoping he could get his head around a very basic cell phone. And when I say basic, I mean no camera, no games, no ringtones, no IM, no MP3 player. Just a keypad, a green “go” key and a red “stop” key. You know, a home phone that is smaller and fits in your pocket.

I may as well have wished for a synthetic go-go dancer sexbot to be beamed into my shower every morning for a little pre-breakfast workout.

See, I got the absolute simplest phone I could find for Monkeydad’s birthday last month. It wasn’t even a flip-phone. Before giving it to him I activated it, set up his account, his voice mail, and even entered relevant phone numbers. I tested the phone to see that it could both call out and receive calls (it could), and that the voice mail worked (it did).

Once I was certain that it did everything it should, I sat down with him to go over the operation.

Not before having about three shots of tequila, of course. When dealing with Monkeydad it always helps to self-medicate.

So, we began.

Fez Monkey: Okay, so, let's just go over how the phone works, and …
Monkeydad: I know how to use a phone.
FM: Yeah, I know that, but there are some …
MD: What? You think I'm stupid?
FM: What? No! It’s not that at all, it’s just that there are …
MD: How can you think I don’t know how to use a phone?
FM: I know you know how to use a phone, I just …
MD: I’m not senile you know. I did call you just yesterday.
FM: Yes, but …
MD: Who do you think dialed? A magical fairy?
FM: No, but …
MD (sarcastically): Oh, what is this magical device you have that lets me hear voices!
FM: Okay, look, I didn’t mean …
MD (sarcastically): How can a senile old man like me understand such magic?
FM: Look, can you stop with the magic, already?
MD (sarcastically): You bring great magic, Oh wizard!
FM: Fine.

So I leave. Three more shots of tequila are about right to numb the growing frustration. I know going back won’t achieve anything, but I'm stupid, and I feel have to give it a try.

FM: Look, are you sure you don’t need me to …
MD: After you teach me to use the phone, can you show me how to go potty?
FM: Fine.

When I get home I see a message on my answering machine. I press “play” and hear Monkeydads’s voice:

”(silence) …What? … (long silence) … hello? … (long silence) … what the hell? How does this stupid thing work? … (silence) … Who’s there? … (speaking to someone in the room with him) I don’t know how this thing works, I pick it up and there is some noise and then nothing on the other end. How do I know who is calling me? What the fu …”

Message ends.

I opened the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of tequila.

Ook ook

Bushit

2006-03-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

Well, the poop has hit the fan now. Some treacherous geek in government leaked a video to the commie press showing Prince George getting briefed about the potential of a major disaster in Nyawlins, including specific warnings of levee breaches, well before the storm hit land.

Now, having video of a president getting advance information on a potential tragedy should be a good thing: it shows that he is on top of the situation, and is very much concerned about the safety and security of the country.

Ho ho. But not when that video proves the president lied like a whipped hubby facing charges of solicitation when, five days after landfall, he tells the country he had no idea that the levees he was warned about would actually fail!

To be fair, however, it may be that Prince George didn’t lie after all. Watching him during the briefing shows that he had the same dumb look of total lack of comprehension as a retard being shown higher calculus, so maybe he just didn’t understand what “high probability of failure” meant.

Still, it points to a really disturbing pattern of behavior in our idiot-boy king. No, not the ease and well-practiced manner of lying with which this swine is capable (not that that isn’t disturbing), but the complete failure of leadership he continually displays.

I mean, while people were drowning like rats with plague, Prince George was out playing guitar, swapping gags with some of his good-ole boy cronies at a party, and collecting bags of cash. Of course, it wasn’t like he had any way of knowing what was happening, like the news running 24 hour constant coverage of the storm or anything.

Then, when it became obvious that it would be nice of the president to take a break from his play to at least acknowledge that America’s #1 party town was being flushed into the Gulf of Mexico like a giant turd, he goes and flies over the area. You know, to look at it and stuff. His comment: “It’s totally devastated.” Such subtle and insightful commentary is rare. It’s only after the entire bayou looked more like Calcutta in the 1900’s than a modern, first-world city that this greedy waterhead goes on TV, says that by golly we had a pretty bad storm, but that he didn’t know it could get that bad.

The transparency of the whole CYA element of this was disgusting, but what is worse is the fact that we’ve seen this sort of thing before. My Pet Goat, anyone? The astounding lack of leadership on 9/11 was baffling. Hours and hours of nothing from the top … not even a brief statement acknowledging the horror, and then, nearly 10 hours afterwards, some piffling gibberish and incoherent rambling before a pathetic plea for divine intervention. That isn’t leadership … that's catatonia.

Any other president would have been dragged out of the White House by his ankles, stripped naked, tied to a fence, and been assaulted with cattle prods for something like this – and it would have been less than he deserved. For fiddling while Rome burned, Nero has become a historical goat, yet at least he acknowledged the destruction. Bush was out reliving his kegmeister days.

And yet, Bushwipes and other assorted mentally handicapped individuals and true believers point to this administration's “leadership” (and I use the scare-quotes here with as much sardonic sarcasm as possible) as its strong point. These people aren't leaders - they're a collection of bumbling, cartoonish super-villains taken directly from the old Adam West Batman series.

Then again, maybe I am wrong. Maybe the flag-suckers and Bushwipes are right, if by leadership they really mean spinning lies to start a war, bankrupting the nation, condoning torture, operating "black sites," eroding our civil rights, and subverting the constitutional right to due process, then yeah … the gang of cheap thugs in power are strong leaders. Of course, it could just be that, in a moment of unexpected and unfamiliar stark honesty they mean that, compared to everything else this administration has done, leadership is their strong suit. I guess I can agree with that, too.

So, is it just me, or does anyone else miss the hoo-haa about blowjobs?

Ook ook

Menso

2006-02-28T16:12:00.000-08:00

None of you need to say it (and judging by the number of hits I get, none is an accurate count of my readers), because I know it already: I am an idiot. You’ll never get an argument from me about that. I am not smart. Mensa wouldn’t even allow me to clean the puddles of piss on the floor of their bathrooms.

What’s frightening, however, isn’t that I am a dumbass, but that there are people who are greater dumbasses than me. A lot of them. Quite probably numbering in the multiple millions. And that isn’t even counting christians.

Even more scary are those who aren’t dumber than me. The so-called geniuses and 150+ IQ types. I know these people, because the dull grey building in which I work is apparently populated with a lot of them. I also had the considerable misfortune of being surrounded by them at school.

So, how do I know for certain that these people were/are poindexters? Simple: they never let an opportunity to tell me about it pass. In fact, an iron-clad absolute characteristic … one you can hang your hat on as being 100% dead-on balls accurate is the fact that so-called geniuses love to tell you that they are geniuses.

Patronizing cunts.

Don’t get me wrong. I have all the respect in the world for people who can pontificate endlessly about the intricacies of string theory, or who grasp the subtle complexities of Riemann Sums, but I have never heard any of these self-proclaimed uber-brains actually discuss these things. Instead, these loudmouth eggheads seem to want to go on and on about themselves, and how smart they are, or how they chose their current life, even though they could have picked any profession.

So, it started me wondering. Why are these people, who make it a point to go out of their way to tell me just how smart they are, the biggest social retards? I mean, they stand too close when they talk. They constantly interrupt while someone else is speaking (or just don’t bother to listen). They blame others (non-genius types) for their own errors. They will constantly talk about something, then add a remark implying that everyone else is too estupid to understand. They are inconsiderate, obnoxious, arrogant bastards.

And then it hit me. These guys aren’t really the smarty-pantses they claim they are. Sure, they got some brains, but for the most part, the guys that have to keep reminding everyone about how advanced they are really aren’t. It’s just that they need to be for their own pathetic little competitive streak. Some guys compensate for internal deficiency by driving Hummers or BMWs, some by ordering invasions of countries based on lies, and yet others by writing snarky blogs. These wanna-be Einsteins do it by bellyaching about how dumb the rest of us are.

Well, fair fucks to them I guess. If that is what it takes to make them feel content, then I guess it’s a small price to pay. Besides, let the babies have their bottle. Me? I’ll just keep being an ignorant monkey. Anyway, those super-genius guys tend to think things like vanilla ice cream are dull and flavorless. Which is good, because I like vanilla ice cream. I like it a lot, and if they don’t want it, I’ll be happy to have their share.

Ook ook.

There's Nothing Nietzsche Couldn't Teach Ya 'Bout the Raising of the Wrist ...

2006-02-28T10:18:00.000-08:00

Traffic in ellay is a mugs game. A never-ending grudge match against the idiots in SUVs, Westside richbitches applying makeup, and jackholes in BMWs just being their normal jackhole selves. Add a little rain, and things go from aggravating to incendiary in no time. Only the strong will survive, son. The slightest drizzle has the roads looking like the aftermath of Armageddon, with people weeping openly at the carnage strewn about them.

Yeah, driving in ellay is most definitely is a Nietzschian thing. You know what I mean, right?

Well, maybe you don’t. Pointy-headed German intellectuals whose philosophy tends to justify complete avoidance of personal and communal responsibility aren’t exactly fodder for pop-culture. Particularly one in which poker is a nationally televised sport.

But nihilism aside, it makes me wonder whether Nietzsche’s proclamation regarding the relationship between survival and strength is as immutable as people think. I mean, social Darwinists probably achieve climax thinking about it, as it does tends to prop-up their misanthropic view of life (it’s easy to make casual comments on the inherent value of some ethereal superiority of one's ancestry and genetic makeup when it’s some other geek that has to eat rats to survive).

But is it true? Does anything that doesn’t leave us cold and on a slab make us stronger?

Obviously what he meant was that life experiences that test us in some way (intellectually, physically, or so forth) serve to help us grow into more reasonable, wise, and complete human beings, and not that putting a gun to our head, pulling the trigger, and surviving because the bullet miraculously lobotomized only unnecessary tissue suddenly gives us super powers. He was wrong, of course. The more I think about it, the less I believe it. I mean, take that douchebag Texan lawyer (oh, sorry, using the term douchebag with either Texan or lawyer is redundant, isn’t it?) that got shot in the face by the Dick. Do you think that experience made him stronger or wiser in any way? I bet if the Dick calls him up for another round of murdering cage-raised fowl, he’ll saddle up and bring the beer.

But think about it. Tragedy strikes, or some sort of sudden conflagration or challenge to culture/heritage/religion/way of life erupts and what happens? Those who are unlucky get moved into the next plane, while those who emerge from the brouhaha do what? Do they say, “Gee, that was a great learning experience that has strengthened my character and made me much wiser in direct proportion to the difficulty I just encountered.” No. What the jugheads living through some sort of bump in their daily lives will inevitably do is chalk their survival up to divine intervention. Oh, the poor slobs that did't make it through? Well, I guess not only did god not die (another of Nietzsche's things), but he hated the poor losers so much he whacked them.

Am I rambling? Hell yes, I am. A good bout of traffic does that to me, Chachi. Especially when I am dosed up on caffeine, anti-histamines, and tequila. Just sit down, strap in, and shut up. I’m talking here.

The thing is, Nietzsche never had to drive in ellay traffic. If he did, that pompous egghead would never have come up with the sort of simpering nonsense about what makes people stronger. In traffic, no one can hear you scream, Bubba.

Ook ook.

Say Hello to the Monkey

2006-02-27T14:43:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had the experience of letting curiosity cloud your better judgment and just walk into an oddly threatening room? One that was just a bit too dim to allow you to make out fine shapes and details, and which had a thin, but vaguely obscene odor? Yet, even when it became frightfully obvious that you had made a mistake by ever crossing the transom, you stayed, and continued your exploration?

Welcome to my world. That's exactly the situation I face every stinking morning when I wake up. My daytime life is that poorly-lit, smelly room, and like a masochist who simply can not get enough of his controller's sweet, sweet pain, I continue to get out of bed every morning and stoke the flames of my consciousness with caffeine. Mmmmm ... caffeine.

No, that metaphor isn't entirely accurate. I'm not some disgusting masochist craving more agony at the hand of my sadistic partner. I'm more like an idiot who keeps sticking his hand into flame well after it's little more than a charred stump.

Yeah, charred stump. Now that's real good writing. Mighty good. Bet you wish you'd come up with that, dontcha, Spanky?

Excuse me while I pat myself on the back.

So, I asks myself, I asks: "Self, why start a blog? I mean, everyone and their grandma has one by now. It is so freaking passe. And since when are you a joiner? You're a rebel, Monkey, you take no prisoners and never have. You mock the poseurs and dilletantes who blog. They are your inferiors."

I gotta admit, I ask some pretty damn good questions. And there's some serious truth in that, too. You are inferior to me. Accept it, I have.

But I digress.

So, I sits back and contemplate this, scratching myself, as my distinct musky scent settles about me in an aerosolized, lime-green mist.

Like a coroner engaged in fine dissection of pancreatic tissue searching for subtle abnormalities, I needed to gently tease apart the fibrous cohesion of why I should start a blog. There needs to be a reason, something that can justify my doing this.

"To point out the obvious absurdities of modern life!" I offer. But no, others do that much better than I can ever hope to.

"As a means of expressing my innermost thoughts, and giving life to my muse." Not hardly -- my muse died long ago from starvation and abuse.

Then the answer hits me, like a shovel in the back of the head. Why start a blog? Because like most every other fuckwit, my ego is grand enough to make me believe that people will actually want to read what I write.

There is my justification! I mean, if semi-literate NASCAR fans can blog, then surely an almost housebroken monkey can as well.

So, here I am.

Hide the women and send the kids to grandma's: the Monkey is here to pollute your drinking water.

Ook ook, bitches.