My Kind of Woman, Obviously
You just gotta love the strong ones . . .
The El Camino. Is it a car, or is it a truck? The mystery deepens . . .
October 29, 2008
October 28, 2008
Taking an Eco Crap
Recently my ancient toilet (cast in the 1920s) finally gave up the ghost — and in a rather spectacular way, don’t ask. Faced with a sight no one was ever meant to face, I set upon a quest to find the perfect home for my bottom. How was I to know the green meanies had wormed their creepy tentacles even into that most private of spheres, the bathroom? I was instructed — by an inexperienced, peach fuzzed, snot nosed know it all with too much familiarity with textbooks and no knowledge of the actual books those texts pretend to describe — I was instructed on the how to and manner in which I was to perform that particular bodily function from now on, in the name of water conservation. Hey, what’s not to like?
So, where is that little shit now that I have a few questions for him? God only knows, but I’ll bet he is on some Peace Corps sabbatical in the third world, barking orders at little brown people because he knows what’s best for them too. Can you imagine how hard those little brown people have to work to keep that insufferable bastard alive in their world? One wonders why they don’t just eat him and save us all a lot of trouble. Please, PLEASE get me invited to the BBQ if they do, ok? The mental image of turning that little turd into a little turd brings new meaning to the phrase, “just desserts”.
Questions you say? Yeah, I’ve got questions, or at least observations. First, the whole point of my new eco crapper is that it has been designed to save water. To save water it uses a smaller bowl. Because it uses a smaller bowl, and therefore a smaller volume of water, the hole all the crap gets flushed down is smaller, to keep the water pressure up during the flow, I assume.
Whether or not my assumption is right, the hole is still smaller, so you can’t flush both toilet paper and the crap at the same time or the new saviour of the environment wonder throne gets clogged beyond description. So, the algorithm flows as follows: 1) park bottom on the glacially frigid plastic seat — the old seat was made of wood and parking your backside on it was not the uncomfortable analog for the birthing process the new seat provides — then; 2) do your stuff; 3) flush while remaining seated and enjoy the cool sensation of a shit spritzer all over your ass; 4) wipe your now soaking bottom with twice the paper you would have otherwise used; 5) flush again; 6) get up and run to the shower to wash your now disgusting caboose.
So . . . how exactly does this thing save water? Oh that’s right, I’m supposed to take it on faith. I’m reminded of a professor I once had, who, when confronted with a politely phrased question she found a bit too revealing of her intellectual perfidy, replied with, “If you want to pass this class, do not dispute the material.” Talk about a load of horse hocky! The entire class started laughing at her, which I suppose meant they saw through her bull too.
Unfortunately the adventure doesn’t end at, ah, the end, if you get my meaning. For some reason (perhaps the small size of the bowl) the new, eco loving pooh festival of a device in MY bathroom somehow manages to make a mess whenever it splashes — er, I meant flushes, of course, only it doesn’t doo that very well — and after my unscheduled shower now I have to clean up the mess (using chemicals and more toilet paper, of course), flush it AGAIN, and then wash my hands, all in the name of saving water.
Tell you what. Next time one of you know it all wunderkind gets a bright idea, I will listen to your little tale of your own wonderfulness and self congratulating superiority if you will A) spend a month on that infernal device you foisted upon my person and then B) stick your pea brain into that device and explain to me how your miracle pooper schluscher failed to flush you, your pea brain and your arrogant little pencil neck down to the very special Hell Dante reserved for all flatterers, even those who only flatter themselves.
October 27, 2008
742
Ever heard of Oregon S. R. 742? It was a bill that would have redefined almost every crime as an act of terrorism. Some of these crimes – like child pornography — are truly horrible, deserving of some pretty severe punishment; however, not a single offense listed in 742 is terrorism if you define terrorism as an act of random violence intended to cause political change. Why would such a technicality matter? Well, is prostitution an act of terrorism? How about burglary? Gambling? Fake ID?
How about writing a hot check?
Had this rule passed, all of these actions would have been redefined as acts of terror, which under the bill would have required a minimum sentence of 25 years to life in a “forest work camp”.
The law was introduced by State Senator John Minnis, and if you look at his campaign contributers, guess who you find? How about the Oregon Forestry Industries Council ($15,000?)
They wanted slave labor.
Did you learn about this on the news? Of course not, the “news” was too busy filling your life with Anna Nicole, Lindzy what’s her face, Britanny, Britanny, Britanny, and this week’s murder of the century.
To be convicted of terrorism under this law required two witnesses. That includes the two policemen who arrested you.
If this sounds bad, its actually much worse. Read it yourself:
There are people who will understandably say we need such laws to protect us from whoever is threatening us at the time. I understand your position and do not wish to put you down or otherwise characterize you unjustly. I do ask that you consider the following quote, and realize that bad people will go where the power is, even into government. Strong laws equal a strong government, and a strong government equals an irresistible magnet for the corrupt, the mendacious, and the evil among us.
Why, of course, the people don’t want war,” Goering shrugged. “Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece. Naturally, the common people don’t want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship.
There is one difference,” I pointed out. “In a democracy the people have some say in the matter through their elected representatives, and in the United States only Congress can declare wars.
Oh, that is all well and good, but, voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country.
This quote was recorded by Gustave Gilbert, an intelligence officer, who interviewed Hermann Goering at Nuremburg on 18th April, 1946.
October 26, 2008
Under the Rainbow
I found the end of the rainbow.
Actually, it came right up to my feet, and stopped.
Yes, I was sober, but I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.
October 8, 1999, in Nogal Canyon, New Mexico.
There’s a pot of gold there too — its just not the pot of gold you expect it to be.
October 25, 2008
Apropos of Nothing . . . trois
Am I alone in regarding Russian names as unbearably sexy?
Wine in a Box
My middle class friends often tease me for having a box of wine in my fridge. I just pour them another glass and don’t bother to tell them is not only is it cheaper, but that I was advised to do so by several top flight chefs. Did you know that if you take a random sample of people and have them taste several wines, the two in each group who will prefer the same wines will always be the expert and the guy who usually drinks beer?
Can you guess which guy I am?
If you must have your wine in a bottle, here are a few good yet inexpensive suggestions.
Wine that is not shit:
Lanson Black Label Brut NV
$28
***
Dry and refreshing, with snappy acidity and mineral and citrus flavors. (Importer: Caravelle Wine Selections, Avon, Conn.)
Louis de Sacy Brut Grand Cru NV
$27
***
Toasty and full bodied with a creamy texture and persistent flavors. (House of Burgundy, Port Chester, N.Y.)
Paul Goerg Blanc de Blancs NV
$26
***
Yeasty, toasty aromas, with persistent, complex floral and fruit flavors. (U.S.A. Wine Imports, New York)
Pierre Gimmonet & Fils Brut Blanc de Blancs NV
$29
**½
Unusually complex and persistent flavors of apples, minerals and anise. (Michael Skurnik Wines/Terry Theise Estate Selection, Syosset, N.Y.)
Nicolas Feuillatte Brut NV
$24
**½
Bright and substantial, with citrus and floral flavors; not quite bone dry. (Pasternak Wine Imports, Harrison, N.Y.)
Pannier Brut Sélection NV
$25
**½
Rich and full bodied, lively and fresh, with yeasty, floral flavors. (Martin Scott Wines, Lake Success, N.Y.)
Pommery Brut Royal NV
$27
**½
Rich, with mineral aromas and nutlike flavors. (W. J. Deutsch & Sons, White Plains)
Jacquart Mosaïque NV
$27
**
Toasty caramel aromas with creamy, tropical flavors. (Tri-Vin Imports, Mount Vernon, N.Y.)
Deutz Brut Classic NV
$30
**
Straightforward, but lively and refreshing. (Maison Marques & Domaines, Oakland, Calif.)
Charles Lafitte Brut NV
$27
**
Full bodied and fruity with intriguing fruit flavors; slightly sweet. (Vranken America, New York)
October 24, 2008
Martians!
Martians — the other red meat, and so very, very rare.
Remember the “Phoenix Lights”, the big UFO sighting there during the nineties? I was driving through Phoenix that night, with Art Bell on the radio, when the reports started coming in, including reports of jet fighters streaking across the city to intercept the “UFOs”.
I tuned my scanner to the air frequencies and got . . . nada.
A few Air National Guard units on routine practice missions, talking to ATC.
No mention of anything unusual. A few miles further I saw the lights they were talking about — which were later shown on TV as “proof” — and I’m sorry but they were military flares. Seen ‘em a hundred times before and they were flares.
Some months later I saw a lovely meteor just as I was crossing into northern New Mexico from the Texas panhandle, it lit up the whole sky as it streaked, yellow and green, from directly overhead into the west. You could actually see its shape, and it was, without question, a very big rock. The next day it was seriously classified as a UFO by the ninnies who classify things as UFOs, and it was even claimed that, “It simply cannot be anything else.” Sorry, I saw it, and it was a rock.
Look at the fuss Richard Hoagland has been making — to CONGRESS, who in their scientific illiteracy associate that jerk with people who support NASA and private space exploration — about what he imagines he is seeing on Mars. I once indulged the idio . . . er, man, and went to his web site.
The “artifacts” he writes about are rocks! How does he see this stuff? Then I saw the that his “Enterprise Mission” was actually seeking contributions . . . ah, now I get it: maybe he isn’t such an idiot after all (wink wink nod nod.) Fraudulent premise perhaps, but an “enterprising” mission nonetheless.
Its sad that so many people don’t know enough not to equate amateur astronomy with UFOs or for that matter, astrology. Often I’ll set up my telescope on the sidewalk in my front yard so the neighborhood kids can look through it, and more than once I’ve been sneered at by passersby because they think I’m looking for UFOs. How some people can’t be bothered to even look up amazes me. The kids on the other hand, love the view and keep coming back over and over: “Show me Saturn again!” Far brighter than adults, I think. Perhaps school hasn’t ruined them yet.
Apropos of nothing . . . part deux
Apropos of nothing, how do you spell the sound of flatulence?
October 23, 2008
Roger’s Rules
Ranger Units first appeared in continental America in the early 1600s and Ranger units today still carry on the legacy of those early units: small, light infantry, using improvised and unconventional tactics, operating deep in enemy territory to conduct reconnaissance and swift attacks. Roger’s Rules — the fictional version below was still memorized by Rangers as recently as 1982 — are part of the reason why:
Don’t forget nothing. Have your musket clean as a whistle, hatchet scoured, sixty rounds powder and ball, and be ready to march at a minute’s warning. When you’re on the march, act the way you would if you was sneaking up on a deer. See the enemy first. Tell the truth about what you see and what you do. There is an army depending on us for correct information. You can lie all you please when you tell other folks about the Rangers, but don’t never lie to a Ranger or officer. Don’t never take a chance you don’t have to. When we’re on the march we march single file, far enough apart so one shot can’t go through two men. If we strike swamps, or soft ground, we spread out abreast, so it’s hard to track us. When we march, we keep moving till dark, so as to give the enemy the least possible chance at us. When we camp, half the party stays awake while the other half sleeps. If we take prisoners, we keep ‘em separate till we have had time to examine them, so they can’t cook up a story between ‘em. Don’t ever march home the same way. Take a different route so you won’t be ambushed. No matter whether we travel in big parties or little ones, each party has to keep a scout 20 yards ahead, 20 yards on each flank, and 20 yards in the rear so the main body can’t be surprised and wiped out. Every night you’ll be told where to meet if surrounded by a superior force. Don’t sit down to eat without posting sentries. Don’t sleep beyond dawn. Dawn’s when the French and Indians attack. Don’t cross a river by a regular ford. If somebody’s trailing you, make a circle, come back onto your own tracks, and ambush the folks that aim to ambush you. Don’t stand up when the enemy’s coming against you. Kneel down, lie down, hide behind a tree. Let the enemy come till he’s almost close enough to touch, then let him have it and jump out and finish him up with your hatchet.
The real rules are much more precise but contain essentially the same information.