Laztheism

Frictionless in Gaza...

I revealed the existence of Laztheism in a comment on another blog. I shouldn't have, as Laztheists are not supposed to reveal Laztheism or themselves as Laztheists. The whole point is never to take action! But with the cat out of the bag, I need to make sure the record is straight. So here's the inside story on this remarkable way of life.

Laztheists are non-believers in god, who are too lazy to look for or need explanations about why the universe exists and what part Humanity plays in the Big Picture. It's enough that Laztheists are alive; explanations may be nice, but they are not necessary. After 180,000 years of existence, humanity is what it is. Whether we are doomed or will be Saved, my next meal is still of more importance.

Laztheists never get into religious discussions. Whether or not Laztheists believe in god is irrelevant. What really defines Laztheists is we don't go to church.

If you have to open your big yap and talk about your feelings about god, religion and worship, we just maintain eye contact and nod a lot. Laztheists always take the easy way out when it comes to religion, we have no beliefs, no preferences and no desires. The only need we feel when it comes to religion is to be left alone.

Applied Laztheism is very, very restful and soothing.

Michelle Wie and the Man in the Iron Mask

Tiger Woods marries a pretty girl from the Swedish National Bikini Team and everyone congratulates hm. "Well done," we men all say, drooling over the vision of her serving him a tall Swedish lager. (What do Swedes drink for fun?)

But who will marry Michelle Wie? She could marry a bimbo boy, but the odds are sheMawon't. That way lies madness. If she falls for simple cute, what does she do when a cuter boy toy comes along up? Maybe she'll collect them? But this is not a hobby for the ages.

Nope, if she is sane, she will marry a man of substance. But whom, among we men of substance, will have the moxie to marry her? And don't kid yourself, she'll have to marry a golfer. At least for the second marriage. Just ask Andre Agassi or Bruce Springsteen. They married for looks and then wound up with second wives who were in their respective industries. Andre couldn't make it with Brook Shields and Bruce couldn't make with the tasty morsel he first married.

But good golfers are competitive. No sane male golfer will marry a woman who gives him three a side and still beats him like a Buddhist gong at Christmas.

So who can she marry? Let me think about it and I'll get back to you. If you have any thoughts on the subject, feel free to chime in.

A Freebie for Tinseltown

Coming soon to a screen near you!

Although many may not think it rivals the creation of "Up Cheek Creek" this invention of mine should inspire at least something more than tepid laughter. At least if it's done right. I wouldn't want Tarantino or Oliver Stone trying to transfer this to film. This works best as a flash-back, because otherwise it's too fearsome because you'd wonder if the kids will survive their childhood.

Scene: a middle class neighborhood in the mid west. We can see it's well into autumn; the trees are bare and there are low clouds in the background. It looks cold. The camera moves in on one home, very ordinary looking. As the camera gets closer and closer, a family walks past the house, the kids dressed in Halloween costumes, so we know it's late afternoon on Halloween.

A mini-van veers into the driveway, off the driveway and then back on, coming to rest somewhat askew. The driver gets out. He's a late-30s everyman. He's drunk, he's staggering drunk and we see him wrestling with a grocery bag.

The scene switches and we're looking over the shoulder of a harried housewife as she's looking out the kitchen window of that house, and we see the man, who is close to her age, so we'll assume they are husband and wife, wrestling with the grocery bag and staggering towards the house.

She's joined in the kitchen by three little boys, ages 7, 5 & 3. They are halfway ready for Halloween, sharing among them an assortment of incomplete costumes, too small for the oldest boy and hanging on the three year old. Their chatter is interrupted by their father barging in the back door.

Now from this point on I'll let the script doctors and the director add their personal touches. The event that unfolds is the father announcing, in a drunken slur, that he's brought home pumpkins for the boys to carve. Even the long-suffering wife is cheered by this unexpected twist. But then he tips over the bag and cantelopes come rolling out.

The pathos is gasp-sharp, but not as sharp as the humor, as the father, somewhat aware that he's screwed up yet again, tries to convince the kids that canteloupes are just as good to carve as pumpkins. As we leave the scene the drunken father is waving a big carving knife around, canteloupe guts are starting to fly and he is handing a deadly looking steak knife to the three year old.

I see Eddie Murphy or even Bill Murray. Isn't it weird that Harrison Ford couldn't pull this off? Those of you old enough to remember a young Peter O'toole will know that he would have done it marvelously.

And I'm not even Gay!

Many sayings enter the language having been born as mistakes. I would now like to purposely introduce a new saying, which I accidentally made up, but very much want to see become a part of the language. It satisfies a need to say the right thing while at the same time, satisfying a need to avoid saying the wrong thing!

It would be impolite to use the phrase, "Up shit creek" in many social situations. But having now introduced my NEW phrase into the lexicon, we can get past this cultural bar.

"Up cheek creek"

Yep, I invented this phrase. In and of itself, it offers no harm. Substituting "cheek" for "shit" takes all the anti-social invective out of it. A Cardinal could whisper this to the Pope and not worry about his Holiness taking offense. "Oy vey, we're up cheek creek now, your Holiness!"

And then there is the very useful implied meaning of "Up cheek creek." Where does shit come from? From between your ass cheeks, of course! So "up cheek creek" implies an anatomically correct "up shit creek!" So my newly minted phrase, "Up Cheek Creek" can spin off and become an anthem for the gay community! As in, "We go up cheek creek."

Oh, Please, no need to thank me... Well, if you must, in lieu of flowers, I'd rather you donate to your local library in my name. Thank you.

The Roleux Watch

If you have one eye more astute than the other, you may have noticed that "Roleux" is not how Rolex is really spelled. But if you're standing next to the entrance to a dark alley, next to a guy who is furtively looking in both directions down the street you've been walking along in sunny Caracas, Venezuela, you might not have the presence of mind to make this fine distinction.

Add to the mental overload the fact that the gentleman speaking fractured English to you is breathlessly offering to sell you what he declares is a genuine "Roleux" watch (and it is!!!) and you can understand -- and perhaps even forgive -- my former father-in-law's collapse of good sense. This was quite a few years ago, but he should have figured it out that even under the calamity the gentleman said was forcing the sale, that $30 was way too good to be true.

I was presented with the watch as a sort of 'welcome to the family' gift. Obviously it was a harbinger of things to come. The only other thing I remember from this lost in space episode is that this former father-in-law loved baseball and had his heart set on making professional baseball a life time career. But then WWII, Flying Fortresses, a stint in a German POW camp and then marriage put the kibosh on those plans. He'd lump WWII in with the circumstances that kiboshed his deal, but I know it was just marriage. He didn't marry a woman who would have put up with the economic misery of minor league baseball back in the late 40s and early 50s. She wanted the "American Dream." So he went to work for an oil company and got it for her. What a bitch my former mother-in-law was. And yet I grew up to be just like her, vain, prissy, and prone to fainting when I don't get my way.

I don't recall what ever happened to the "Roleux" watch. It pretty much kept time, so it wasn't a complete waste of $30.

Waiting on pins & needles

I get to play golf every Wednesday. Usually we play early in the morning. It's the same bunch of guys and it's been going on for years. But today we're playing at 1:30 p.m. It's 11:00 a.m. right now and I'm having a hard time focusing at work. Of course I ALWAYS have a hard time focusing at work. What did people do before Drudge and Comics.com, etc.? But I never play games on the computer at work. NEVER! Sometimes I do on my PDA, I'll tilt back and play a quick game of Bejeweled, but just to calm down after some strenuous typing or phone-calling. You know, to take the edge off.

But all morning I've been wondering about the heat, how I'll play, if I'll have to wear a glove (Me and Freddie Couples, we don't need no stinkin' gloves!), how many guys will show up, whose team I'll be on, etc., etc. Basically, nothing about me or my life has changed since I was first allowed (encouraged!) to play outside all day. At age two...

Golf is such a polite game. Probably because of the horror we all face in playing it. The degradation that takes place, as one's personality crumbles and the tears of anguish begin to flow and you ask God, "Why me?" So we feel sorry for each other and in defference to how humbling it is, we smile and say things like, "No, I believe I'm away..." and "oh, great shot!" and "rats, another two inches and you would have had a great shot..." and as your fellow competitor's ball sails out of bounds, "I thnk the wind took it..." Naturally you expect the same courtesies when you're in need of some face-saving commentary.

Show me a person who hates golf and I'll show you a person with issues about his/her life. You can be neutral about golf, but if you take the time to hate it, you have a serious problem. I mean besides abject cowardice.

Religion is the Opera of the Masses

Singing a Song for the Ages

Humans are natural joiners. We herd. "Girl, I herd that!"

I believe that as part of our evolution, we turned inter-personal grooming into religious devotion. Which is why women are more in tune with the fine points of religion.

Before we could 'think' or 'reason' we sat around plucking fleas from off each other's backs. Once we found the power to reason, we began plucking dieties to put onto our backs. All that reasoning ability had to go some where. Read up on all the creation myths that exist. Just because we could reason doesn't mean that any of us got it right. I remain partial to the Navajo version, with the earth riding on the back of a turtle. And there are even wilder myths out there! Can you say L. Ron Hubbard, or El Rubbard?

Religion will be the death of the human race. Someone needs to find a cure for it. But I don't think Pres. Bush is likely to fund any research on a cure for religion.

Muslimites of the world, UNITE!

Are they really out to get you?

Yes.

Did you know that there are Muslims who tell the fanatics, "Hey, some of my best friends are infidels!" But then they back down and end up agreeing that the world would be a better place without us infidels. And it's part of their religion to think this way...

Jesus never said anything about killing for Him or for the His religion. We Christians came up with killing for Him on our own, throwing opposing knights in full armor into a lake and calling it their baptism and final rites all rolled up into one ceremony.

Islam has wiping out the infidel as a fundamental building block of the religion. Jihad. Those who reject the Truth deserve, and will be given, death. And dying while engaged in Jihad insures the faithful Muslimite of Salvation and never having to suffer blue balls ever again.

They aren't going to give up. You won't be able to reason with them. That's what being a fanatic is all about. So you better start thinking about being a fanatic when it comes to staying alive. Do something tomorrow about that particular goal, like buying another box of ammo or a 50 pound bag of pinto beans. Think of your future!!

My Friend was working a broad...

Another Excersice in silliness

To tell you the truth, I did have a cousin who worked a couple of broads. He'd drive them to Vegas on holiday weekends and he'd rent a room, but never use it. He'd sit and play poker, before poker was a televised sport, all day and night, and when he got too sleepy he'd go sleep in the car. Then the weekend would be over and he and his ladies would drive back to LA. He died in his late 20s in an auto accident. I can only imagine the mischief I missed getting into with him, although I don't mind admitting that he never was able to talk me into smoking weed. For awhile he was married to a girl who stood over 6 feet tall. They had a kid, who'd be an adult now!, and that kind was over 6 feet when he was 12. So he's probably the tallest person in the world with my surname. One tall Banana...

All about Nothing

A tour of where I go when I have no place to go...

Putting one foot in front of the other, or on the gas and then the brake, I go through life never getting very far from where I started.

There are tables you can consult in old books and your nearest major library that show, conclusively, that in the 13th Century the serfs of Western Europe, or at least 94% of them, never traveled farther than a day's journey from the spot they were born. And a day's travel, 800 years ago, amounted to perhaps six to ten miles, if the weather was agreeable.

So in the past 20 years I have traveled back in time 800 years. In the sense that I haven't been farther than a day's travel from my bedroom. And like my Serfing Safari compatriots must have felt, it doesn't bother me. After all, no matter how far I go, I'm still there, at the center of the universe. As far as the eye can see, no matter where I am, the universe continues to revolve, sedately, around me.

I don't get, nor do I miss, Frequent Flyer miles.

Driving Miss Dizzy

All I want for Christmas is a Tank of Gas

I'm old enough to remember gassing up for 19.9 cents a gallon. This is a terrible memory to retain, as it only adds to the pain.

I gassed up on Saturday and drove to Garden Grove. I ended up going right by Disneyland. Then Monday I drove to Newport Beach and Laguna Beach. All on the same tank of gas. That's a lot of mileage and I credit the seeming increase in mileage endurance to moderating my driving. I only went over 80 mph a couple of times. I mostly kept the cruise control pegged at 70 mph. I'm sure I made the Auto Club proud of me.

Gas costs are artificially high. Speculators drive up the price of gas, and at a time when production is as high as it's ever been. In the US, inventories are the highest they've ever been. So in a time when production is not only uninterrupted, but setting records, the price goes up only because some people with money WANT world events to send the price of a barrel of oil to over the magical $100 a barrel target so that the gas they've just paid for can be resold for a huge profit. I wonder if speculators and profiteers reveal themselves in childhood?

Division of Labor

Where do you fit in?

Culturally we are creating a three-way divsion, in terms of what role you have to fill in life:

1. Talent

2. Behind-the-Camera / Craft Services

3. Audience

99.99% of us start our lives as Audience. And for the most part, the huge majority of us are content to be audience. After all, the other two groups only exist to cater to us.

I have no experiece as Talent. I can build a case for feeling sorry for talent, but Talent could care less, I think.

If you're in the number two group, which basically can be called talent-support, I'm glad you've found something to do besides just sit and watch.

A Wildfire as Al Gorey

Global Cooling Heats Up!


Many parts of Southern California cooled off during the current heatwave because two huge wildfires produced so much smoke that the sun was hidden and temperatures (away from the fires) plummeted.

The situation in the Middle East, heating up as it is, offers more hope for cooling, should things really get out of control. Nuclear holocaust, while involving short term upward temperature spikes, are followed by dust-in-the-atmosphere cool downs. There is speculation that the cool down follows geometric progression, rather than simple arithmetic projection, based on an increasing number of detonations.

Now would be a good time to finish buying that list of "Must Have" songs from the iTunes store. That and a nice parka, one that sets your eyes off.

Degrees of Irony

π hit in the face by a man!

I am not adept at irony. I like irony on the menu, but overpriced.

Here's an example of what is acceptable as irony in my world: The Story of the Christian Whore.

Back in 1991, while traveling through the Florida panhandle, working on creating a Cracker alphabet, I was talking to a Deputy Sheriff in a small town. I was gassing up and he'd pulled up behind my cheerfully decorated van. I hadn't decorated it; it had come that way, handed down to me by my Uncle Ricardo in a fit of gallows humor, but that's an entirely different story.

The Deputy, whom I figured wasn't there to gas up, came right to the point, after coming up and invading my personal space. "You in town for long, or are you smart enough to see that your kind ain't welcome here?"

Slipping into my well practiced Scottish brogue, I replied, but only after inhaling sharply and making a face. "Aye, laddie, I'll be making for the road just as fast as the good lard lets me. I ken that this no be a spot on which I should tarry."

Much to my surprise, not to mention my delight, the Deputy laughed. "Ha ha," he chortled. "Yer all right, son! Hey, on yer way out, stop here and worship." With this cryptic remark he fished into a breast pocket on his crisp uniform jacket and handed me a business card.

SISTER SATISFIED
CHRISTIAN CHARITY
AT YOUR SERVICE
211 Hoffman Ave.
Crackerbarrell, FL
Turn North at the Water Tower

Without thinking I asked, "What's this?" in my normal voice.

"About 25% of our local economy. Go try it out." Pointing along the street he continued, "Head on up three blocks and turn right. Have a good day." And with that he whirled and got back in his patrol car. He didn't give me another look as he backed out and regained the street.

(to be continued when the boss goes to lunch...)

After concluding my business with the gas pump, I followed the Deputy's directions and soon found myself in front of one of those barn-like churches, it was a big building, with a steeple and two steps up to the main entrance. The only sign was over the door: "Christian Charity"

I pushed through the front door and found myself in what for all the world looked like a doctor's waiting room. It was a small room, with only a sofa and two folding chairs. There was a door at the far wall, with a window in the wall next to to it. I heard footsteps behind the door and so when it opened I was standing there, waiting.

"Hi, I'm Sister Satisfied! What your name?" She looked to be in her mid to late 20s. She was pretty in a farm-girl sort of way, very healthy looking. I mumbled something about the gas station, the Deputy and fumbling, handed her the business card.

From that point on details grow hazy. But to bring this to moral tale to a close, I'll explain that Sis. Satisfied was a whore. A Christian whore. She and her fellow Sister Satisfieds, (Sister Christian having been trademarked by Night Ranger) charged money for holy acts of sexual gratification that did not involve intercourse, vaginal or anal. They were all virgins or church-married. And my particular Sis. Satisfied was certainly adept at giving pleasure without endangering either herself or my eternal soul.

So there you have it. Christian Whores, devoted to God but addicted to mammon. I left satisfied and she remained unsullied. I am VERY surprised that there isn't a nationwide chain of Christian Charity.

88 bloggles of beer . . .

According to a guy who acts like he knows that the organization he quotes ought to know, there are over 88 million websites as of 7-01-06. Probably 86 million are blogs. And 32% of those blog sites belong to that guy Justin...

So now I have a purpose in life. I'm going to write down the names of each URL. I bought a pack of yellow, lined, legal pads at Costco. Not your standard, wimpy 8½ x 11, uh-uh. I got the humungo 8½ x 14. You should always make sure you get the right tools for the job you're doing. Plus I'll write small.

And please, don't bother to offer to help. And don't send me your URL hoping to get an early listing. I'm going to be fair about this and just list them as I encounter them. The chips will fall where they may, I'll take'm as I find'em and devil take the hindmost.

There IS such a thing as a free lunch!

Meet me at Costco...

It worked so well yesterday that I went back today. To Costco... Yesterday I ate lunch there, for free. See, they apparently not only allow, but encourage food firms to offer free samples! Oh, of course there is no such thing as a free lunch... someone is paying for it, just that this time it's not me. Yesterday, Saturday, I piggied out on bite size tidbits of turkey breast and chips & salsa and fruit bits and some kind of vegetable soup. I had a cart and I had some things in it and I pushed it around and around, in this loop, grabbing the free samples as I looped by each station.

Today it was bratwurst, cherries, some kind of hearts of palm dip on crackers and these great Tyson Teriyaki chicked breast slices that are pre-grilled. They were so good I good a bag of them! But I don't think that actually takes the shine of the free lunch thing.

I'm thinking that if my wife ever kicks me out, I can live okay just eating at Costco. And the price will be about all I'd be able to afford, what with the alimony, an' stuff...

Love

Love in the time of collar... uh...

First, know that love is a crutch, used by people who aren't viewed as "superior." Cruel, huh?

Superior types don't have to bother with love. They get the kind of action that we 'inferiors" only dream about. We have to find a matching inferior and babble on about love and devotion and we were made for each other. Babble babble...

That's all. Just wanted to point out that love is a tool used by those of us who are impaired by our inferiority. Nature would rather we didn't reproduce, but we out-foxed Nature. Good for us.