Monday, January 19, 2009

Even if "Sully" were played by Angelina Jolie, it still might not make money

Given the penchant of the powers that be to race to make movies about 'interesting' real life events, whoever makes the "Miracle on the Hudson" movie is going to be hard pressed to attract viewers.

It's like the dumb ass Valkerie Bertinelli movie with Tom Cruise. Everyone knows how it ends, and without Kate Winslet to lie there nude, who cares about history?

All they can do to try to make "Miracle on the Hudson" interesting is to fictionalize what was going on in the lives of some of the crew and passengers. I don't think they dare make up anything about "Sully" other than to perhaps suggest that he had to go back into the cockpit one last time to retrieve the St. Joseph's bobble head doll he always taped to the yoke. (steering wheel, to the rest of you.)

Screen writers are good at making interesting movies 'based on a true story.' So we can expect a lot of drama in the personal lives of enough crew and passengers so that the eight minutes the actual miracle took can be fortified with 90 minutes of flash back and 10 minutes of expository resolutions. Or they can decide to go with the Al Qeada geese angle.

But really, having "Sully" played by Angelina Jolie, nude, would really, really help.

Rubber Bands, the Real Renewable Energy Source...

Yes, the humble rubber band, known to all of us, is a safe, reliable source of renewable energy. But there is a vast, two wing and all the tail feathers, conspiracy devoted to keeping this knowledge from public promulgation.

Back when I was a kid, even with old fashioned rubber bands, I was able to get almost 60 seconds of powered flight from my rubber-band powered airplane. Think where we could be today if research had not been stifled!

And why do the powers that be stifle rubber-band technology? For the same reason they scuttled the development of the moter that burned ordinary air for fuel. Of course the air-burning engine is a lot more complex than rubber band technology... Almost as complex as the static electric motor.

Had the vast oil-wing conspiracy not put the kibosh on rubber band technology, it could have been that by now home heating, public transportation, electrical production, and a host of other applications would now all be run on rubber band power!

Especially with so many more people in prison, who could spend their days winding rubber bands for use in civilian life. Talk about a renewable resource!! Plus you could convert wind and water power to winding rubber bands! The use of infinitely renewable rubber band power is only limited by the imagination! Here's a list, just off the top of my head, of personal use items that could be switched to rubber band power from electrical battery power... The savings would be enormous!

digital still and movie cameras
cell phones, PDAs, lap tops
golf carts
pace makers

Please, just a small statue of me, commemorating my discovery of the female bosom...

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

A Christian Religion Stopped to say Hello

That's the nice thing about some of the Christian Religions, they're friendly.

And is there anything more entertaining than talking to someone who isn't listening to what you're saying, but rather waiting for you to shut up so they can tell you that you're THIS CLOSE to being saved?

It would really be great if the Scientologists went two by two out into the world to preach the word of L. Ron Hubbard. Or stood in parking lots or by busy intersections handing out autographed photos of Xenu and maps of where their churches are...

Hey, where are their churches and what's at the top of their steeples?

Intent & Intentions

You know how it's said that most of the games men play are substitutes for war? No reason to doubt this, is there? And the intent in war is to win battles, and ultimately to cause the utter defeat of the enemy, drink his blood and date his little sister.

Except for Golf. Sure, golf has winners and losers, but which one you'll be on any given day is always up in the air. There's no finality to the competition. As soon as one round ends, you're arranging the next round. And the competition is actually 'rigged' so as to make it harder for the better of two players to beat the lesser player. It's called the handicap system. It's like if you can run the 400 meters twice as fast as I can, I get to start the race at the 200 meter point. That's obviously not how we run a good war!

Even the rules of golf are designed to remove unintended actions from effecting the outcome. And in the heat of what pitched battle would you expect your opponent to always tell the truth and to call penalties on himself? Yep, just golf.

This post has no hidden meaning or agenda. It's simply in praise of mankind finally finding someway to express his competitive nature in a fashion that is not in similitude to our species' endless wars.

But by no means does should this be construed to mean that a man who does NOT cheat at golf will not cheat in other aspects of his life.

You've been warned.

Thank you and good night.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Bleeding for Bullets

See? That got your attention! You might watch my new show by this title!

What, you don't like it?

So, how about we call it "Halitosis and the Crotch of Life"?

Edgy, huh?

It'll probably help if I tell you what the new show is about. Remember, when the network called me, all they said was that I had to have it done by the afternoon, or at the latest, the next afternoon, or evening. They're awfully tough when it comes to laying down the law. The only content restriction was that no kids could be in it because kids cause too much trouble and puberty is a bitch.

So I finally came up with a storyline about an asthmatic Royal Pikeman who returns home to Donkeyshire to find a wife, but he can't seem to get his laptop to log onto the internet, and so his initial plan, to advertise on craigslist, is thwarted and so he visits a bar.

How about "Well, Stick me for Bleedin' Hump"?

Friday, January 09, 2009

Grosse Pointe Blanke, Ae Greate Filme

I only remember that Grosse Pointe Blank is my most favorite Movie of the moment when I'm watching it. I'm like that with women, dogs, sports teams and currency... and women.

What appeals to me, besides the gratuitous violence and sadism, is the reaffirmation that ... 'you can never go home again.' Well, I can't, but my kids have no problems with it, because we don't have locks on the back door.

John Cusack plays Martin Blank, who leaves Minnie Driver (you should always have a spare minnie driver in your golf bag) in the lurch the night of the Senior Prom to run off and join the army where, big surprise, his lack of a moral foundation allows them to train him as a killer, for use by the CIA. After serving his hitch, he civilianizes himself and becomes a private practice hired killer. This makes perfect sense because as a soldier he probably was only making a sergeant's monthly pay for killing people (sure, plus room & board, but still...), while in private practice you've got to figure five figures for each hit. (And it's never clear in the movie how much of his income is taxed. He'd want to declare the minimum so that he'd get some Social Security money later.)

In the meantime, Minnie got married and divorced and is back home at the same house where Martin Blank stood her up on Prom Night. (Her apartment building burned...) And she's a DJ and it's at her radio station where Martin walks back into her life. From this viewer's perspective, they did a great job of portraying this squiffy situation. Remember when you walked back into the life of someone who ten years earlier you were intensely involved with, but suddenly disappeared with no explanation? Yeah, it was just like that!

The back story has one loner assassin, a two man assassin team, and a five man assassin team all gunning for him, as Martin is supposed to be doing a job right there in Grosse Pointe. Only he's so preoccupied with Minnie Driver and his life (as evidenced by his interactions with Alan Arkin as his psychiatrist, that he never opens the assassination assignment file until after the ten year Reunion at the high school, where Martin finds a ten year old mj joint he hid in his locker just before getting into a scuffle with the loner assassin and killing him with a pen one of his classmates had just given him, in case Martin ever needed a lawyer. Minnie Driver pops into the scene just at Martin is withdrawing the pen from the loner assassin's carotid artery, and wouldn't you know it, she forms the wrong impression! Women!

The loner assassin's body is wrapped up in a pep banner and an old school buddy, now in real estate, helps Martin carry the body down to the school furnace, while 99 lufteballon is throbbing in the background. Then the two buddies have a drink and promise (meaninglessly) to stay in touch.

Now thoroughly bummed out, Martin goes back to his motel room and early the next morning finally gets around to opening the assignment file. OMG! The intended target is Minnie Driver's dad! Holy Bats, Shitman!

Martin rushes over and foils the planned while-the-target-is-out-jogging attempt and he and his future F-i-L skidaddle back home, followed by the duo & team assassins. Martin suddenly begins opening up to Minnie emotionally (knowing that this heart-on-his-sleeve approach as he's gunning down men who want to kill her father is bound to soften her flinty heart) and while she initially appears unaffected, after he finishes killing seven men for daddy, she caves in and agrees to marry him. Her father, selfishly dazzled by Martin's life saving prowess, spontaneously announces that Martin has his blessing, while still hunkered down in the bathtub where he was hiding.

There's a jump cut from that scene to the young couple, apparently that same afternoon, riding out of town in Minnie Driver's convertible. Hard to believe since I counted over 400 rounds of ammunition busily making swiss cheese of the five dead bodies and the fine paneling, crown molding, hardwood floors and double pane windows of the Driver residence. One has to imagine that the police would at some point want to do a one or two page report for their files.

The essence of the movie, beside you can't go home again, is that life, under a very malleable set of various and sundry circumstances, which only the experiencer can judge, is worth living. (The downer obverse is that sometimes you have to let people decide that life isn't worth living. A corollary is that sometimes someone else being alive makes your life not worth living, from which three paths extend, die, kill or do nothing. This would make a good musical!)

About 16 minutes after I hit 'publish post' I'll forget about Grosse Pointe Blank, but eventually I'll see it or one of my other two all time favorites. If it's one of the other two, Thief or Let It Ride, I'll be sure to tell you all about it.

More fun with words!

Most and mostly are used in our vocabulary as limiters, so we don't sound all paranoid or fanatical. Such as, "I enjoy sex most of the time" and, "I mostly don't pay for sex."

Most and mostly are important words in getting across the point that one is reasonable and open minded.

But in playing with words, I've found that one can substitute 'moist' and 'moistly' for the correct words and still make enough sense so that humor is evoked. And as the oldest, longest practitioner (prictitioner!) of Laztheism, I know how important humor is.

Here are some examples:

Sex is great for the moist part!

Moistly sex is fun.

I masturbate alone, moistly.

I hope my readers will moistly join in!

Monday, January 05, 2009

New Tricks for New Times

Whilst admitting to being an old dog, I am delighted to announce that I've learned a new trick!

Curb sign painting has taken a terrible tumble as a viable career in this newly minted era of economic parsimony. So it behooved me to do something with my free time, on those days when no golf was scheduled. (Saturdays & Wednesday for certain, other days optional.)

So I looked around for something my talents were suited for and was pleasantly surprised to find work readily available in the field I actually took my degree in: my BA in Advertising & Public Relations!

The really cool thing is that this is part time employment and I can work it around whatever my real work schedule. Plus they hired me as an independent contractor and they pay me in cash. They asked me for my 1099 information and I gave them totally bogus information. I told the guy, with a perfectly straight face, that my name was Hilary Edmundsir, and he just asked me how to spell it and that was it!

So I'm still outdoors, being the people-person that I am(ham), spreading my gospel of smiles and lies for all the people who flash by my intersection. And once I get an mp3 player, I can even learn to shake my booty!

Friday, December 26, 2008

Christmas, the Season that Finally stops Giving!

Poor Jesus of suburban Nazareth, born in an zoned commercial district in Bethlehem, lo these many years, on a date that will forever be disputed in history. All these parties in His honor and He never gets invited. (Did you know that there was once a calendar year that was 455 days long? They'd forgotten to factor in leap days for a number of decades and so they stuck them all into one year, so how the hell do you figure out birthdays in the years to come; it'd be like having February 29 through February 135. People born February 133, 1208 would never have another birthday in their lives!)

People who are saved through the auspices of the divine Jesus are saved for every day of the year. People who buy other people gifts for opening on 12-25 of each year are simply captive of a fairly recent tradition, artfully engineered by crass commerce.

Like having to buy the bride a diamond engagement ring... Oh, sure, like that's in the Bible! But try to find even a good Christian female who will tell her groom not to buy a stupid, useless diamond (you know what kind of exploitation goes on in getting that diamond ring onto her finger?), and to instead buy her a bread machine, if there's enough left over after he buys a new set of extremely useful and necessary set of golf clubs. You know how many such glorious women exist? You can count such a glorious being on one finger of one hand, my wife! (Hosanna, excelsior!)

So now here it is, the 26th of December. As a Lazthiest, and not a all interested in Salvation, whether it be through Jesus of Nazareth or Tiger of NikeGolf, I'm happy that Christmas Day is behind me. I won't think about Christmas or Jesus, other than intellectually, should someone insist on knowing the exact date of his birth or of having personally met Him, until well into November. And only then to do another rant about X-Me$$.

Blessed be my name, Hey Men, let's golf.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Scum-sucking Republican false advertising ...

Here's a comment to a recent post:

What else could an ordinary, testosterone-driven, hunk 'o male humanity, who happens to think he writes deathless prose do but feel a bit puffed up his pride upon reading this comment?

Naturally, such an individual clicks, post-haste, on her name to visit the profile of this obviously intelligent, well-read, fellow human being with a complimentary set of genitalia and secondary sexual appendages, in order to hopefully beginning establishing 'rapport' ...

Here's what one sees upon clicking through: can kiss my royal brown ass!

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Helpful House full Hints

We have a simple four bedroom house. My mother-in-law, an invalid, lives with us. So we've become accustomed to three people living here, plus 1 dog and 1 cat.

Now it's Christmas vacation, and our two boys are home. But beating them here were Liz's two sisters, one of whom brought a husband. The husband and wife brought their dog, the other sister brought her two cats. Each of the sisters has their kids either here or coming. Last night 14 people slept here. The toilets never stopped flushing!

On Christmas Day the 14 will be joined by five more. Four others had been slated to show up, but have backed out. They showed excellent sense.

Helpful hints? I have none. If I drank alcohol, I might...

If I were an only child (and I am) I would marry an only child! (Obviously I didn't. Who knew?)

It's supposed to rain tomorrow, so golf may be rained out. But we're playing on Friday. And maybe on Saturday, too!

I hate Christmas.

Have a wonderful Winter Solstice Bacchanalia!!

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

The L word, as celebrated in joyous song

I'm in love. Almost without exception, there hasn't been a day in my life when I didn't love myself. Some of the nights were a little hazy, but I'm crystal clear on the fact that in the direct light of a harshly illuminating Sol, I've always loved myself. (I'm a Sol man!)

Which is why I enjoy love songs. Here's some of my favorites:

"I love you more than words can say but I'd love you more if you lit a match after you took a dump just before I have to shower."

"Love is strange but it's got nothing on what you served for dinner last night under the heading of ratatouille."

"I've been drugged by love and been calling in sick to work four days in a row just to keep you from getting dressed."

"Baby, since you left me, my love is like a Black Hole drowning in Dark Matter stuck in 11 dimensions of pain."

"When you said you loved me, at least I didn't faint, like when you told me you were pregnant, two days after we first juiced it up and you climbed down my May Pole."

"Our love will dance the hully gully forever and a day because my grasp on reality is tenuous at best, oh baby."

"Maybe I've never known what love was or what it could do, but Lord, have you got great knockers!"

"Love spurts."

What are some of your favorites?

Monday, December 15, 2008

Itchy, Twitchy Fingers, wanting to have fun...

I've been blogging at another location, under another name, using a completely different personality. It was like compulsive-obsessive behavior, but voluntary. If I could explain it, I wouldn't be writing back here again. But I am. If you have an explanation, I'll be happy to hear it.

My golf game went totally south after I stopped blogging here. Chicken/Egg? I haven't the slightest. But my game has come back, so I am not looking for any explanations.

I recognize that my faithlessness to this blogspot was the result of my involvement in political discussions at yet a third blog site, within a community of people I've been 'linked' with since all the way back to the last century! I just happened to be the only died in the wool, old guard Republican in the bunch and I got all involved in the discussions of who has a bigger dick, a mule or an elephant. We just discussed it amongst ourselves, no one actually went looking for zoological websites.

I won no arguments, convinced none of my foes, changed no hearts and then lost the election. And my game went south.

So now I'm here again, with a great golf game, disgustingly healthy, barely making a living and dreaming of the day Sarah Palin rides to my rescue on her snowmobile. I'll jump on the back, wrap my arms around her middle, up close to her bouncing bosom, and she'll take me to far, far better place. I know that my wife will understand. Not to mention that I'll send for her once I find an apartment I think she'll like.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

PETA and the Breast Pump

PETAns, the genuine ones, give all animals the status normally reserved to humans. Speaking of which, between maybe 1493 and ... now, some White Folk would only give human status to other White Folk. I read just the other day that during the building of the transcontinental Canadian railroad, X number of 'people' died, not counting the Chinese, who when it came to record-keeping, simply weren't tallied. So no one knows how many Chinese workers died in that construction, but none of the guesses are under four figures.

It's unfortunate for their reputation, but there are so many records of how shabbily the British treated all their subjects whose natural skin tone was a shade or two darker than antique white, or that old Crayola color, "flesh". I wonder which country would like to come forward now to admit that it was their ancestors who came up with the phrase, sub-human?

So with that as an intro, I think I have shown that I'm down for the struggle.

But replacing cow's milk in ice cream with human milk, often called breast milk, as if that makes it more special (it does!) is icky. Unless I can somehow wrangle a job as an inspector. But that could very well make me blasé about the female bosom. I really don't want to lose my appreciation for any part of the female form.

So I'm now I've reasoned myself into a position of being totally against PETA cow's milk in frivolous food products with human breast milk. I didn't hear the entire presentation, so I don't know why PETA is promoting this idea, or what PETA expects the cows to do with the extra time they have because they don't have to produce so much milk. Pilates? Blogging? Continuing their education?

But I bet milk from the Swedish Olympic bikini team would be so, so creamy...

Sheila222, if you're reading this, I'm sorry!!

This very nice, warm, cuddly, heterosexual female on another blog site asked if she could read my personal blog. Naturally, because she was heterosexual and breathing, the last thing in the world I wanted was for her to see anything that might take me out of the race for sperm donations to her bank vault. Yes, she lives as close to the Atlantic as I do to the Pacific and yes, we're both happily married, but a person as uncertain about the future as I am doesn't like to too hastily rule things out. If there's one thing one should learn in life, it's that one never knows what one's future holds...

And so, Ms. Sheila222, if perusal of my blog reveals anything that in your mind irredeemably takes me off the table, sexually speaking, I didn't mean it, it was just a joke, it was just me trying to get a rise out of Pistols, but not that kind of rise, because he does nothing, NOTHING, for me sexually.


The same goes for all you skirts... Which I mean in the nicest possible way, because when I was growing up girls had to wear skirts to school. BYU, my alma mater, didn't allow women to wear anything on campus BUT skirts & dresses, and the hem of the skirt had to touch the ground when you were on your knees, which in Mormon-dom, can happen frequently. In my rule book, skirts MUST have at least 1.5 inches of skirt, but if all you want to wear is a belt, that's fine, too.

Thank goodness I took the time to explain things so as to remove all possibility of offending any female over the age of 18! (14 in Utah and Kentucky)

Monday, September 22, 2008

I'm Sure She has a Perfectly Good Explanation

I just can't imagine what it would be...

At least with the guy you can understand his priorities. Not to mention that he's made his dad's life a living hell for however long the marriage lasts, assuming his mother didn't fall over dead at the reception.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008


I was invited to join a new organization and I've been involved in Rush Week activities. It's been a veritable non-stop flow of meetings and parties. I finally heard my first atheist prayer...

Oh, Emptiness, Oh, Great Non-Existent One, Hearer of Nothing we say, don't bother listening to our petition. We are gathered here for reasons of our own, having a good time. Please continue to butt out. This we say in my own name, amen.

I wasn't impressed. Too much fluff.

I'm back. Who knows when I'll get distracted again. I'm prone to flightiness. Once I spent a week in bed with a woman who needed a place to hide from her husband, totally forgetting that I had a job. I lost both. But luckily a new Jack in the Box opened and I got a cushy third shift position. I've kind of always been lucky/unlucky that way.

I didn't join Atheists for Ghawd. It was close, what with the list of rules you don't have to follow. But I hate being pinned down by lists and rules. So I'm still flying solo...

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Rock Concert

Sunday evening all the gathered family drove a couple of miles up Highway 18 to

It cost the males $5 each to get in. The women all got in free. What does this say about which sexual organs are more valuable to commerce? And who am I to disagree?

The concert was bone jarringly, ear drum splittingly, individual-note-discernment impossibly loud. After .7 second of sound check I had begun the process of fashioning ear plugs. It takes a few seconds to make good ones, and I invested the time. Of those over 30 in our group, I was the only one without a headache when the performance was over. And we were way at the back.

All those under 30 had moved up closer so they could hear better.

Our boy seemed happy with his and the band's performance. And you know how it is with parents, we were just happy that he was happy, although I wouldn't have minded my $5 back.