Where I was...

People, notably my wife, have been asking, "Bert, what happened, where were you?"

I answer is, and will always remain, "I was busy!"

You know those moving sidewalks of Sci-Fi fame, were the closer to the left edge (in America... In England, it's the right edge) of the moving strips, the faster they're going? Well, I got onto the fastest strip and it's a hell of a ride. You can't really keep your balance and you end up laying on the moving strip, hoping your brushed denim shirt and corduroy pants will create enough friction to keep you from sliding off in the turns.

Anyway, some guy came strolling by selling magnetic slippers, so now I can at least stand up. And thanks to my Blackberry and the newly renovated Google-Pack of mobile applications, I can do anything on my Blackberry that I can do on my computer, albeit at a much slower rate, as I have not yet learned touch typing on the Blackberry keyboard.

The curb painting business has exploded for me. What can I say, I hung in there and now I'm reaping the rewards of my long and faithful service. But it's hectic; there's no way I'll reach the level of mendacity, I mean productivity, of my earlier days.

And yes, I have Tony out there hustling his litte ass off.

And also yes, we are still playing as much gold as ever. Proving my attention to the important details of life.

I'm glad to see that all of you are still toiling in the vineyard, or blogyard, of truth, justice and the Terran way.

The Way of All Flesh

Entropy is always going to win, but you shouldn't roll over and play dead. Which is the first thing I thought of when I read this tidbit in the L.A. Times:

"The church was designated a city historic-cultural landmark in 1992. Religious ceremonies were halted there five years later because of a dwindling congregation.

"Earlier this year, a developer announced plans to convert the building into a combination bar, restaurant and church. "

X-Mess & Child Support

The two stories aren't actually related, but it is X-Mess Day so if I tell you the child support story today, they become intertwined...

A very, very rich California man began an affair with a woman. I haven't seen a photo of this woman, but odds are she was a total hottie. Or haughtie... 20 years ago he got her pregnant. 16 years ago he did it again, so that they now have a 19 year old girl and a 15 year old boy. And because this is California and he was very, very rich, he didn't marry her. Wouldn't even live with her, so as to rule out even a palimony claim on her behalf.

They agreed on a child support formula and when she began her lawsuit on the kids' behalf, she was getting $17,000 a month for each kid. That's $34,000 a month, tax free. Think about that, you moms out there... What could you do with $17,000 a month, tax free, for each of your kids?

The law suit is asking 2.2 million dollars a month. Their reasoning? He can afford it. I think they must be Democrats.

It's Almost X-Mess !!

It's almost 9:00 p.m., PDT, on X-Mess Eve. My brain chemistry resists depression. I have the opposite of clinical depression. Lucky me.

The winter solstice is sort of a metaphor for getting over X-Mess; after the solstice the days start to get longer. Longer days stands for coming out from the darkness that are "The Holidays."

I'm not against enjoying myself, and having those around me enjoy themselves. I'm just against being told HOW and WHEN we're all supposed to enjoy ourselves. Even if you loved sushi, wouldn't you feel weird if Christmas Dinner consisted of a grand sushi/sashimi feast? Your cultural instinct would create an aura of inappropriateness.

Cultural imperatives seek to define us. Think about defining yourself.

As the days get longer, may your time in the sunshine be entertaining.

(And yes, the summer solstice (for the Northern Hemi-Engine-sphere) should be greeted with a bit of sadness for the next six months of lessening golf time.)

The Laztheist X-Mess

X-Mess comes but once a year . . .

Here's how Laztheism would solve (and enhance) the X-Mess experience.

On June 01, 2008, the Master Computer that runs the United States will match up every American resident who will be over the age of 18 on 12-24-2008 with another American resident. This will be the only gift each American resident will have to buy for X-Mess, 2008.

Kids under the age of 18 on 12-24-08 will have to suffer the old system, doing the same old Santa-letter writing and begging.

The economy will not suffer. Once you've purchased a decent gift for the name assigned, you can use whatever other money you have to buy yourself "presents." So there will still be plenty of shopping going on. After all, you can't really count on your assigned gift giver to do as good a job as you can do for yourself.

The upside is the lack of pressure to buy gifts for "loved ones" and friends. All that pressure is gone. All that money you spent on your dumb ass family members can go to your kids and yourself. But mostly yourself.

And now, as we Laztheists say at this time of year: Have yourself!

Coming Soon to a Groin near you!

GPS technology is fascinating stuff. The signal that beams up to the triangulating satellites can carry a lot of information. Most people know that the signal carries I.D. information for the GPS unit, needed so that the reverse-stream information, telling you what street you're on and when to turn left. But it can carry up just about any other data that's reducible to 1s and 0s. Like when installed in government vehicles, it can give you gas consumption data, engine maintenance data and tell you how fast you're going, along with where it is you're going so fast. This has lead to government personnel losing their jobs because the data that was being monitored allowed supervisors to discover and prove misfeasance and down-right malfeasance. Like leaving the city yard after lunch and driving like a bat out of hell to a casino in Atlantic City, instead of into downtown Bayonne to inspect electrical wiring at construction sites. And then putting in for overtime because you were on a roll at the craps table...

The news is full of how GPS devices are improving the efficiency and economy of government vehicle usage. There really is a Big Brother, and he really would like to watch you.

Now comes news of Genital GPS. Yep. Distrustful spouses can wire up their partners with a lockable GPS belt that has sensing monitors on straps that criss-cross critical crotchital hoo-ha's, sending back data regarding blood flow, heat, moisture and muscular spasming.

So it is now official: Nothing is sacred.

P.S.: strip clubs in the South are offering ice packs to their customers who request them.

At Various & Sundry Stores Near You!!

The photo that goes with this 'toy' at Costco shows a 6 year old female Caucasian astride the beast. She appears to be happy.

The photo that goes with this 'toy' at Le Sexxxe Boutique is totally different. Totally, totally different. But happiness is a shared theme.

As you sit and fret about what the economy has in store for you this X-Mess, take heart that there are people out there who are going to buy this for a loved daughter or granddaughter, or for their own personal enjoyment.

Martha Stewart as a Young Field Hockey Player

I think she looks good with black hair.

This photo taken was during Martha's rebel years as an undergraduate at Barnard College. She and two friends formed a club named "Bernie" and all the members called themselves, and each other, "Bernie." This secret society is still an essential part of Ms. Stewart's life and to this day she attends infrequent meetings wearing a black wig.

If you ever find yourself in an elevator with her, get close to her good ear, the right one, and whisper, "Bernie!" and watch her jump!!

America the Iconic

I spent two years in Mexico in the 60s. Six months of it was in Mexico City. If you're in the know, you don't call Mexico City Mexico City, you call it D.F. That's pronounced Deh Eff-eh, three syllables... Now you can impress the next Mexican you meet.

The other 18 months were in small cities: Cuautla, Morelos - Lagos de Moreno, Guanajuato - Leon, Guanajuato - Guanajuato, Guanajuato (home of Las Momias!) - Silao, Guanajuato. Wow, I hadn't realized that so much of my Mission was spent in Guanajuato!

So here's where this all fits in to the here and now... while noodling around on Google, I found a fairly decent photo of my first car:










Yeah, that's right, eat your hearts out, a 1956 Studebaker Skyhawk. This car looms large in the mythology that is the story of my life, as seen on Starz...

Which got me thinking about how Americans are big on icons, on objects that we possessed or worked with that we feel helped define us or make us what we were or are. Well, at least men are this way. But I have to suppose that women have some fondness for the memory of their first Wonder Bra.

Poor people in the interior of Mexico, in the 60's, didn't have much in the way of consumer icons. So, I asked myself, what did they do about icons? But then I remembered all the religious iconography running rampant in Mexico, at least back then. Were religious icons their personal icons? Who needs a car or an iPhone or some other accoutrement of consumerism when you have the Virgin Mary or a Saint around your neck?

I think I've answered my own questions. Humans can be very iconic, we enjoy possessing totems, props, supports and charms; find me a person who doesn't and I'll show you a newborn. It's money and/or position that dictate our selections in this regard. Some of my current defining icons are, in no particular order of importance:

1 my crotchless golf hat
2 my laptop
3 my condom carrier
4 my wind powered roller blades
5 my wind powered dark brown underwear
6 the sun
7 a Dr. Pepper can I watched Bishop Fulton J. Sheen drink from
8 my Blackberry
9 a Y-chromosome I got on Ebay reported to belong to Ghensis Khan

What are some of your icons?

I Sh*t You Not... I may be in trouble!

The first part of the above title was borrowed from Robert Wuhl, and his Assume the Position shows on HBO; really good stuff... The second part is business as usual.

I jokingly (really!) referred to the 2nd Coming an hour or so ago in a post. Then I wondered what people are saying about it seriously. And even for me, who resists being shocked like a well ground lightening rod, I was staggered by what Google revealed to me. There is a person of a religious persuasion who has some very definite 'knowledge' about the soon -to-arrive Messiah. Here's a quote:

"From now until the latter part of 2008, many prophecies are going to begin to be fulfilled, especially the Seven Thunders of the Book of Revelation, which the apostle John saw but was restricted from recording. Those thunders are revealed in this book, as well as detailed accounts of the final three and one-half years of man's self-rule on earth, which are recorded in the account of the Seventh Seal of Revelation.

Some of these prophecies concern the demise of the United States over the next year, which will be followed by man's final world war. This last war will be the result of clashing religions and the governments they sway. Billions will die! This time will far exceed even the very worst times in all human history.

As these events unfold, the world will increasingly become aware of the authenticity of the words in this book and realize that Ronald Weinland has been sent by God as His end-time prophet.

This book is primarily directed to the people of the three major religions of the world (Islam, Judaism and Christianity), whose roots are in the God of Abraham. Ronald Weinland has been sent to all three."

So there ya go. Ronald Weinland, profit(sic) of God. You have to ask yourself, "What does Ron know that I don't know." I have a question: Ron says that the coming times will '...exceed even the very worst time in all human history." Is Ron referring to the Carter Presidency? If not, how would he know when the 'very worst time in all human history was"? Isn't that a very subjective observation?

Anyway, if Ron is correct, I'll see you all in hell.

The 2nd Coming of the Messiah

Christians, a radical sect originating from suspicious origins around three hundred years after the departure from Earth of their Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth and Points East, believe that Jesus will be returning.

The Bible, a tract cobbled together during that same third century post-Jesus of N&PE, is clear on the point that "no man knows the hour of My coming...," but is not clear, much less hinting at, the issue of WHERE He will be 'returning.' Logically there was probably an assumption that He'd be returning from whence He'd departed, the now aptly named Holyland. (isn't it saying something that you've a better chance being Saved at Graceland than in the Holyland?)

There is now significant interest in getting Him to schedule that 2nd Coming for America. The Mormons say He'll be returning to Zion. Zion Prime is in Missouri. Zion Practical is Salt Lake City. The Mormons are nothing if not ego-centric.

Suppose Jesus of N&PE does show up in Salt Lake City at the end of January, 2008? On a Thursday? Sure, there will be any number of people who will want to hear His message. But I foresee that there will be a significant number of people who will not want their evening's favorite TV shows preempted. Many of us don't think Jesus of N&PE has anything to add to the information already being promulgated in His name.

Only two things will pique my interest: Will He strike dead the people I think could use a tiny bit of being struck dead? And will He teach us to turn salt water into gasoline, or provide some other method of transportation that is both free and still requires that we all purchase auto insurance. Oh, yeah... Will the paparazzi stalk Him? Will there be a TMZ.com and a National Inquirer, both ready to buy and publish photos of Jesus without His underwear on?

Not many people take the time to think about what life on Earth, much less life in America, will be like after a 2nd Coming. Are you seeing the potential for a new show on the WB? You'll never see Jesus, but the premise of the show is that He's back and He's cleaning house, and it turns out that speed limits are not in God's plans. The run of the show would be the 1000 years He is set to reign here.

That's right, a thousand years of being good. No sin, no abuse of drugs. No sex outside of marriage, every boy an Eagle Scout, every girl majoring in Child Development & Family Relations. Nothing but pure, clean Happiness. No gambling, nothing of a prurient nature, no crime, no competition, no illness or injury beyond the recuperative powers of prayer and the laying on of hands, no advertising of product and services you don't really need and no television programming not approved by the only channel transmitting, JBS.

Oh yeah!

Tinkle Bomb

My life's work has finally been revealed!

Oh sure, I'm proud of my curb-painting legacy. It's been a worthy effort for a life yoked to the harness of capitalism. But I always thought something was missing. And now I've found it.

Just like the hula hoop, the slinky and the Frisbee, I've come up with a product that will enter the national consciousness and will eventually be my epitaph, if not my epigram or epithet.

America, I give you Bert Bananas' Tinkle Bomb!!!

So simple in concept, so rich in potential.

Tinkle Bomb is a colorless, odorless liquid. Like Coca-Cola and KFC, the ingredients must remain secret. The effect of this liquid, when poured into a toilet bowel, is to create a liquid which when uric acid is added, produces a voluminous quantity of billowing gray smoke whose only effect is, in women to create a nymphomanic euphoria, and in men to create the need to chop wood, literally, not figuratively.

There won't be a college dorm that won't, on probably a daily, find bottles and bottles of Tinkle Bomb in the trash can just outside the women's bathroom. Oh those wacky kids!

No, I don't need investors or distributors. Maybe some product testers and some product testimonials... Let's keep in touch on this.

No Title Fits....

This is more than just a cautionary tale, although on that level alone it should be required reading on all our campuses, cinema centers, malls and gallerias. This tale is also a road map to get you where you need to go. Amen.

Our story starts in a large, small or medium sized city or farm, much like where you live! And just like where you live, the sun comes up in the morning, sashays across the sky, and set in the evening, always at dusk. The sun is like a metronome that keeps time in the same arc. Arc-arc!

A boy was born to a man and a woman, just like where you live. His name was He Don’t Know Shit. Later, because we all somehow stupidly believe that the man in a relationship should be older, a girl was born. Her name was She Was Messed Up. And of course it’s so obvious: they met and married, just like kids do where you live. And because like some of the females you know, She Was Messed Up was messed up, she did the hyphenate thingy with her name and became She Was Messed Up-Don’t Know Shit.

Life lived itself, just like where you live, and when He Don’t Know Shit was 80 and She Was Messed Up-Don’t Know Shit was 79, some of their friends, two of whom had known them all their lives, got together to compile a list of accomplishments by the couple, He & She Don’t Know Shit. It turned out that all the couple had done, their entire lives, was live up to their names.

So there you go, and now you know: The rebels in our society, the ones who are for the most part completely happy, want the rest of us to come to the realization that society’s rules are meant to be twisted, bent, splayed, torn, mangled, gouged, shredded, chopped, basted, baked in a 300° oven and served over a bed of rice pilaf, but in a nice way, a way that promotes family values and good scouting, but no cheap wine, get the good stuff...

Here’s a clue: break all the speed limit laws you want, but do it sober. And if you’re pulled over, and the cop says you were doing 80, smile, and make it a genuinely happy smile, with a twinkle in your eyes (metaphorically speaking because we all know you can’t read a gall-darn thing in a human eye) and tell him his radar may need recalibrating because you had your cruise control pegged at 85. Hold the smile, hold the smile.... Sign the ticket, hold the smile...

Wrap your mind around this and pretty soon no one will think you're a Don’t Know Shit. And that’s a good thing.

You know what? I may be preaching to the choir... Carry on...

The Mother AND FATHER! of all Memes!!

If you've read this far, you're tagged! ha-HA!

Here's the meme: You must now live your life as if you had not been tagged. You must be your own ordinary, normal self, doing and saying all the things you would normally do and say; there must be no thoughts and no actions that would reveal to an unsuspecting world that you are no longer you, but that you've become Meme You.

If at any time you feel the urge to confess that it isn't you anymore, but Meme You, you will keep that urge bottled up inside. On pain of whatever you find painful, but not in a sexual way.

Even on your death bed, with your adoring loved ones and creditors gathered round, you must NOT confess that after reading this and being tagged, that the real you ceased to exist and it was the Meme You whose life and accounts payable they are there celebrating. You will take this tag to the grave, incinerator, New Jersey swamp or landfill of whomever's choice.

And the rest of you: no finking!

Now go out and take on the day...

Wherein I am Reminded of a Favorite Novella

Drudge had this link to an "article" in London's Daily Mail. I don't predict the future, I just live the future, and the future is... NOW! Oops, I mean it's NOW! Dang, it keeps becoming the present... Double dang, "now" it's the past! I don't want to scare you, but it's never NOW!!

Anyway, here's the first paragraph:

The human race will one day split into two separate species, an attractive, intelligent ruling elite and an underclass of dim-witted, ugly goblin-like creatures, according to a top scientist.

(What about the dim-witted, attractive offspring of the ruling elite? I have begun a screenplay: Paris Hilton meets superbly hung goblin who sprays Lemon Pledge in his armpits. They fall madly in love and run off to a Goblin-like cave in the Superstition Mountains and Mom & Dad Hilton send David Spade to retrieve her.)

There are already some very marked divisions within homo sapiens. I see it as very limiting to suggest that there will only be two separate species. I see clumpings of beings all along the continuum from the intelligent ruling elite at one end, to the dim-witted, ugly goblin-like creatures I used to date before I met my ruling class wife, at the other end.

An already existing postulation in this vein is Cyril M. Kornbluth's sci-fi novella, The Marching Morons. The basic premise of which was that people of 'lower' classes breed beyond their ability to 'provide' adequately for their offspring. So the numbers of these 'lower' classes grow much, much faster than the 'elite' classes, who start later and temper their productivity. By the time the book opens, a few hundred years in our future, there are billions of morons and only a few million elites, who are running themselves ragged trying to keep order in the world.

Sometimes when I read the Guv's stories about her life in the corporate world, I think about how she's an elite, trapped in a Marching Moron hell, trying to keep order. Guv, you'd love the solution that the elites are handed by a visitor from their past...

Thank you, Jana

Jana sent me this one-liner. I enjoyed the sentiment. But I felt as if I were reading over El Pistolero's shoulder as he penned a new screed. Doesn't this somehow make you think of him?

Speculative adaptation of situational ethics: Some people are like a slinkie: not really good for anything but they bring a smile to your face when you push them down a staircase.

But I can totally assure you that I would NEVER do such a thing if I thought someone was watching.

Eat a gum drop, go to jail

There's a story on Drudge about a guy who was arrested for petty theft after being video taped "sampling" raspberry flavored jelly beans. (gum drops sounded more mellifluous than jelly beans for titling purposes...)

The arrestee said that he'd been shopping at Albertson's for 30 years and was just seeing if he liked the jelly beans.

I've watched mothers pluck grapes off a bunch and hand them to their kids. I've watched a bummish looking open a carton of orange juice, drink down a healthy gulp, fold up the spout and put it back. And the candy bins... People seem to totally thing they are part of a free candy buffet. People and their kids.

And then weirdly enough, kids can get a free cookie at the bakery. Can you say mixed message?

Anyway, I think people who 'sample' food at the grocery store should be sent to Singapore, whipped with a cane on their bare butts and then returned to America, with a stern warning that next time it will be their genitalia.

It surprised me greatly that all the comments to the story were totally negative towards Albertsons, as if THEY had done something wrong. One person said that he wasn't shopping at Albertson's ever again. I'd have him sent to Singapore just on general principles.

"Well eff me with a babed wire fence!'

I started a book yesterday when I stopped to gas up at a Costco. I like to eat at Costco because the quantities are more than adequate and the price is low. Where else can you drink all the soda in the world for 55 cents?

So I sat there with my combo slice and started the book. I just finished it. A murder mystery. I do love me some fine murder mystery. Good writing, about anything, is fun.

In the midst of the fine writing, the author threw in that phrase titling this blog: "Well eff me with a barbed wire fence." I'm not saying that it isn't fine writing. It was funny, in the context it was found. A major character is told something amazingly surprising and ejaculates that phrase. Because the major character lives in the Great Plains of America, where barbed wire fences are both plentiful and necessary, it is totally in character.

But how does one get effed by a barbed wire fence? Aye, there's the rub...

Spidey, here I am!!

A fan of the show posted a comment, asking me where I am.

I'm right here, busier than I've ever been, burdened not only by my normal, and increasingly burgeoning activity, but saddled with the CHORE of teaching Big-T how to be a curb-painting wonder boy. Right now we're still hampered by the difficulty Big-T has remembering that a 3 & an E are entirely different things and not at all interchangeable. Damn California edumacational system...

I have not looked at a blog site in ten days. If it weren't for my Blackberry getting copies of the comments posted to my blog, I'd be totally out of the loop. I have some all your blogs (you know who you are) 'Fav-Placed' on my Blackberry, but I don't even have time to read them (in really tiny print...).

Two things are probably propelling the surge in business, the down turn in sales of new and existing housing, and the wild fires.

As part of the sprucing up new and existing housing, the address painted on the curb is getting much warranted attention; nothing says, "I care about my house" more than a spiffy looking curb painting of your street number. And now we're getting lots of orders for people who want fire-resistant paint! As they say in golf, every shot makes somebody happy.

I hope that by the end of this week I'll have some time to devote to reading the blogs of all my Blriends... Or should that be Frienogs? Would you be my Frienog?

Just to prove to you that I've been scurrying here and there, here's a photo of a very unusual vehicle. Which of you was aware that this year is the 15th anniversary of the Power Rangers? And if you knew, did you send a gift?


And yes, that pall in the background is from the Lake Arrowhead fire. But I can't say if it was the Slide Fire or the Grass Valley Fire.

This Could be True!

Because I don't work in an office, or within a bureaucracy, I don't have a lot in common with a number of you. I did once work for two behemoth national corporations (three if you count the warehouse gig one Christmas at Montgomery-Ward... Do they still exist?); the first experience was bad, because of mediocre managers, but the other was very positive, because my manager was an exceptional human being. But it's not really the same, because I knew I was just passing through...

Anyway, I was trying to memorize the internet again, and came across a bon mot of wisdom for office workers, or cubical monkeys, if you want the truth. And while I recognize the advice is potentially very useful, I can only say this as a hopeful generalization; I will never need to practice this.

The tidbits of information implied that to enjoy being a cubical employee, you need to keep abreast of the latest gossip, and you have to be considered, to at least a slight extent, useful for something other than your job description. (I think this also works for being a kid living at home...)

So now here's the advice:

1. keep a supply of some kind of chocolate candy on your desk. It can be cheap as cheap can be, as long as it's real chocolate. But no nuts! People who don't feel threatened by you will stop by to visit and eat chocolate. In exchange for the chocolate, they will gossip. You will be the winner in this exchange of cheap chocolate for gossip. Knowledge is King.

2. find the owner's manual for the copy machine(s) near your office or on your floor. Get the model number and research it online, find a users forum. Learn that machine! Soon every time the something goes wrong, you'll be the first person called. Your reputation will grow, and soon coworkers and your bosses will assume you're just as good at your job as you are at getting that copier to work.

So there you go, practical advice from the Right Reverend Bertram Bananas, Lz.D. Now go out there and beat up the world and make it cry.

Some Day . . .

Some Day the lion and the lamb will lie down together. The lion will sleep like a baby. The lamb will remain wide-eyed the entire night.

Some Day there will rise to prominence in the field of national politics a man for the masses, who will sell himself to the highest bidder, but only to wear patches on his Brooks Brothers suits advertising the high bidders. Other than that he will vote his conscious and the people will love him so much that the constitution will be amended so that man can be President for life. And the Dow will rise to 3000 during his third administration, after he cancels the national debt and invites any non-citizen holding treasury bonds to kiss his fat brown ass.

Some Day polyandry will become fashionable and the hot, sexy Hollywood Star babes of that time will compete to accumulate gorgeous husbands. In Fly-Over country, the trend will be taken up, and the results will heal America's social ills as smart, tough, beautiful women marry up to five men, of diverse backgrounds. The multiple husbands and their one wife will raise children who will grow up to become leaders of business, education and politics, with resources behind them like nobody could have ever imagined. These women, and their children, will historically be known as the Saviors of Mankind.

Some Day your ability to attain a level of responsibility above "Jerk" will depend on how well you play the game of golf. This has nothing to do with how many strokes it takes for you to complete 18 holes, but rather on how well you relate to those in your group and to the good and bad bounces that flesh and Titleist are heir to. Every interview for a position of trust and responsibility will take place between the first tee and the 18th hole. Of course this means that true psychopaths will do very, very well, but hey, it'll be worth it, because true psychopaths are rare and will be bred out of the population by each mom and her husbands. These golf course interviews will weed out hot heads, whiners, excuse makers, fantasy-heads, goof-offs, braggarts, liars, cheaters. The input from the buxom cart girls will do in the losers who might have sneaked through otherwise.

Some Day governments will be replaced by Blog Sites.

Impious, perhaps, but curiosity does that to a Man

The gjaudh I grew up with was of Flesh and Bone. There were differing opinions regarding what, if anything, coursed through his blood vessels, if he had blood vessels. I was of the opinion that each Perfect Cell of His Body drew energy from the Radiance that surrounded His Being. And there were no waste products. C'mon! A gjaudh whose Body produced waste products! Are you insane!

So He had a Skeleton, and Muscles, Tendons and Ligaments. And a Brain. I figured most of His Brain was scattered through out various dimensions because it had to be impossibly large! But He didn't need a stomach, or large and small intestines, or a liver, pancreas or spleen. No kidneys, either. And yes, I figured, He has a Belly Button. An Innie. There is a Vast Right Wing Mystery about how He got it. But that's for another day... And no, I was positive His mouth did NOT connect to an anus. Gjaudh has no asshole. Heathens for even thinking that were possible!

Yes, I thought back in my youth, we were made in His image, with some necessary jury-rigging because of our mortal condition. There was no way to get that perfect, because getting it perfect was our job.

As I say, that was then... Now my explanation for the existence of Mankind is Evolution and Practical Jokes. Some day the whole lame story of who did what to whom 7.2 billion years ago will be known to us. Kurt Vonnegut's theory about the Elders of Tralfamadore manipulated Mankind in order to get one of us to deliver a spare part to a space ship marooned on Titan only seems farfetched now. When the truth comes out, no one alive will be able comprehend, much less appreciate, the joke. But I say, let's start trying now.

Coincidence strikes again

It is totally a coincidence that I employ a young man named Ricardo Sanchez. We call him Rick, or Ricky.

Some of you may recognize his name. No, not because Ricky painted your street number on your curb. Although who knows? He's been around...

Nope, you may recognize his name because it is also the name of a former "supreme" commander in Iraq, who was the "supreme" military commander there from June of 2003 until June of 2004. Abu Ghraib happened on his watch.

Gen. Ricardo Sanchez retired last year. Now anti-war activists are in love with him because, to us his words, the conflict in Iraqistan has become a "nightmare with no end in sight."

Tsk, tsk... such pessimism.

It's his opinion, but not mine. Personally, I don't know where it's promised that wars have to have ends in sight. Ever hear of the 100 Years War? You think people during that time were worried about not having an end in sight? Heck no! They soldiered on because they had no left wing liberal media (medium, probably... just town criers...) telling them they should be against war. I'm not saying Freedom of Speech shouldn't exist, but how often do you hear things worth remembering?

So for the record, I think Gen. Ricardo Sanchez, U.S. Army (ret.) is a pussy. I think he got his panties in a wad because of the criticism that landed on his door step because of Abu Ghraib and I think he's saying things now that he believes will make a significant number of people consider him an American Hero. Yep, he's a hero for speaking out against a war that is only popular with a minority of the American population. As if the majority should rule. Oh yeah, that would be Heaven on Earth.

But I do have to give him some credit: He's saying that the debacle that the war has become is due to the ineptness of the Bush administration. But who doesn't already know that? My world would be much more serene if Bush would announce that he's always been a Democrat at heart but he didn't want to disobey his daddy, who was also a freakin' closeted Democrat. At least our California Governor is finally coming out of the closet.

This is a trick question: Who should we follow?

If you offer no preface, no introductory exposition, the question, taken at face value, is mostly understood to be of a religious or political nature, and the person hearing the question may attempt an answer, naming a religion, a figure in history, a deity or a philosophy, a political party or a supposed way of life.

But back up a second: Remember the last time you looked in a mirror? If you're normal, you may not have been perfectly satisfied with what you saw, but you loved the big lug anyway. Okay, keeping that imperfect, but perfectly lovable big lug in mind, who, or what, should that big lug follow?

Here's my answer: The person who loves you the best. I can't answer that question for you when it comes to religion. Religion involves imaginary beings. Oh, sure, your Superior Being exists, which means you have to admit that upwards of 99% of the world believes in imaginary beings, depending on just how unpopular your Superior Being is.

But when it comes to politics, most humans end up following the person who is doing the best job of loving him or herself, and who has precious little love for his or her followers. Too bad we can't get people to see that. And what with the progress propaganda has made, it gets harder and harder to get this point across.

What I'm saying here is follow yourself. Scary, huh? But remember, most good people are willing to live and let live. All it takes is a recognition that each of us is the center of a vast and potentially very entertaining Universe. If you recognize that the "other guy" wants exactly what you want, and if he recognizes the same thing about you, then the two of you have a basis on which to strike a mutual non-aggression/mutual aid pact. Multiple that by six billion (which could never in a Millennium happen) and you would have paradise on Earth.

I'm just happy that I can golf with a bunch of guys who have made this deal.

The Bell Shaped Curve... Or how coincidence explains Everything

Many of us have "Rules" we live by. One of my rules is to not be governed by superstition. It was actually painful at first, but now I step on side walk cracks with nary a twinge. I don't go out of my way to break my mother's back, but if it happens, it happens.

There is a fairly broad line between superstition and native caution. For instance, I do NOT believe it is bad luck to stand up in a roller coaster. The reason I won't stand up on a roller coaster is that I could fall out. Nothing good can come of falling out of a roller coaster.

When I hear the lament, "Why do these things always happen to me!?" I know I'm in the presence of either a mathematical anomaly or a person lacking some or all common sense. It's true, there are people who have nothing but bad things happen to them no matter how careful and prudent they are. Coincidence is the explanation. Just as it is possible to flip a coin and have it come up tails 50 times in a row, so it is possible to live a life where nothing ever works out. By the same token, the opposite is true. We all know, and grind our teeth, at people who fall into a pile of manure just as we're getting a cold...

Not that it matters, because life is a meaningless succession of days (and nights), from birth to death, with no point whatsoever, in a cold, heartless tick-tock Universe.

Sometimes I'll step outside of myself and make an impartial analysis of myself and then I'll ruthlessly tell myself, "No matter how much you practice, you're never going to beat Tiger Woods over the course of a four day tournament.

Nope, I'll have to be satisfied with beating him in one match play event.

You should try to be realistic... Have you made peace with your limitations?

Indignation

Indignation and Indigestion have a lot in common. Basically, what they have in common is that you can't tell what will set them off. The causes, for each, can be varied. I can eat tuna salad that's been sitting in the sun for two hours and be fine. People of more refinement could not do such a thing. I'd puke my guts out if I had to eat tofu burgers, people of more refinement would be in seventh heaven. I've pointed out the extremes of the continuum, but these differences exit all along the continuum.

With regard to indignation, I can watch happy Black people looting up a Korean liquor store and not be indignant. People with more refinement would frown heavily, being gravely indignant. If a person who weighed less than me and didn't have any big friends around tried to kick a stray dog, I'd express a good deal of hostile indignation towards that person. Someone of more refinement might simply look away, so as not to arose indignation in the dog kicker.

With regard to indigestion I don't tell people what to eat, but I do express opinions about things I wouldn't eat. They're just opinions...

I'm pretty much the same way with indignation. No one is going to talk me out of being indignant about the things that make me indignant, and I realize that it's pointless to tell an indignant individual, "Hey, don't be indignant..." So I don't, I won't.

I think there are times we express being alive by taking up a crusade of indignation. The Rev. Al Sharpton told me I was full of White Devil crap, but I think he's prejudiced.

What makes you indignant and is it a way of life or just a hobby?

An Alternative to the Truth

But first, what is "Truth?" Truth is a lot of things. Who can argue with that? And sometimes there are things you don't want other people to know. Which is why you end up suing the publishers and authors of unauthorized biographies. And you write your own life story, an oughter-biography, to tell the story of your life as is oughter be told.

Which is why I am so absolutely certain that non-fiction is an alternative to the truth.

Seriously, if answering a question truthfully requires more than "yes" or "no," you're not going to hear The Truth. 'Nano-fibs" always creep in. This is why God, in His/Her/Its infinite wisdom did NOT make lying, except in that one narrow category, a sin.

Yours in Truth,

Bert Bananas, tin horn deity


P.S.: Seriously, isn't the concept of a nano-fib a liberating concept? "Aw, Gladys, it was just a nano-fib!"

Falling in Love is like committing a Murder...

Oh, I think I may have gotten that wrong. Or maybe not...

Drudge has a headline: Russian Serial killer says murder is like love. (I changed the font to "Georgia" because that's the closest I could get to something Russian.)

I didn't read the article, except for this one sentence: "...when he first strangled a man it was like falling in love for the first time."

But here's the food for thought, the nugget of brainial energy that makes reading stuff like this worthwhile: How can a serial killer know what falling in love for the first time is like? It's extremely difficult to suppose that a serial killer can relate to another human being with "Love." Okay, John Cusack maybe in Grosse Pointe Blank... but he was just immoral when it came to the value of human life, and not actually a murderer for the pleasure of murder its ownself. And so falling in love with Minnie Driver wasn't a stretch?

But back to the issue of whether or not Falling in Love is like committing a Murder? Is the facto really the ipso?

Okay, this is a very difficult issue. It's easy to define murder, but not so easy to define falling in love. It was easy when I was in high school: Falling in love just meant finding a girl who would let me past first base. The innocence of youth. (everyone sigh, heavily)

Then when I was old enough to be tricked into getting married by any woman with an alleged positive pregnancy test, falling in love became a much more tricky proposition. (If you diagram 'tricky proposition' it ends up meaning sex with a hooker...)

Which makes me wonder if hookers fall in love or commit murder? Why not, they're human.

So to sum up, falling in murder is like committing a love. I think the Russian guy would agree.

So here's the deal...

I've been busy. Because my little curb address business is going nuts. We've getting some nice "assignments" lately, which take a lot of time, but pay a lot of money. And then the second supervisor I hired and trained quit. So I'm two for two in training and then losing good people. But I can't blame them. Like the first one, the second one took a job with 'benefits.' Geez! It's like they planned on getting sick and aging and then retiring! What pessimists!!

I still have an office lady, and she has stepped up to the plate and taken on new responsibilities. A very nice, and unexpected, bonus. Also, I hired a replacement supervisor. And when I put in my order, with the LDS Employment Agency of course, it was for a 'stay at home' mom who could work from home using the hours available to her. (The thing about Mormons who use the LDS employment agency, you can TRUST them!) But I have to train her from scratch. She knows NOTHING about painting addresses on curbs!

But now here's the thing that really has me jazzed. Or a variation on that theme... I think it's more the humor in it that has me going... Big T said that he's off now on Mondays and Tuesdays... He called me both yesterday and today to ask if I wanted to play golf. What an idiot question! Of course I did! But I couldn't. When I said it was because I was too busy, he made mention of his two new days off. So I immediately asked him how much he wanted an hour. He named his price and I immediately hired him. Only it wasn't a formal hiring. I still have to 'Jew' him down (Hey, it's okay for me to say that, as I am a big fan of Israel and loose Jewish women) to a more realistic hourly rate...

But can't you just see Big T driving around in my patented customer attractor, drumming up business and entertaining the crowds? I think he's a natural !!

Jesse's Girl . . .

I found this pretty cool internet radio station, Pandora.com. You do have to register after 24 hours of listening, but it's free. In return, you get to create your own radio station. You name your station and then give them the name of a song or an artist and they find songs in that artist or song's style. You can create quite a number of stations and then either play one station, or do a shuffle between your different stations.

What's cool is that if they play a song you don't like, you click on the thumbs down icon and the song is replaced by a new song, and you won't hear the song you 'thumbed down' for at least 30 days. So this works for a song that you eventually get tired of hearing.

There are commercials constantly visible on the screen, but with tabbed browsing I only go to that screen to thumbs up or thumbs down a song.

So tonight I was listening to my one station, named Heart Radio, and Jesse's Girl came on. I totally grove on this song, not for the words, but for the beat/melody. I was in my office and I jumped up, closed the door and cranked up the volume. Then I grabbed a pair of 50 lb dumbbells and started slinging them around (...okay, they weren't 50 lbs each, but there was a 5 on each one...). I did some curls, then some reverse curls, then some presses, then back to curls... two-thirds of the way through the song I was begging for it to end. I could have been seriously injured if they'd played the 16 minute concert version. I made it through the song and then put the dumbbells down and went and complained (yeah, okay, whined...) to my wife, trying to get some sympathy.

I got none.

On top of that, I'm going to have to take an Advil tonight, so that I don't wake up all achy. I want to be loose and limber for golf. We're playing at a course I've never played at before. Virginity becomes me.

Life is sometimes just like AOL

I was an AOL habitué from Christmas of 1995 up until about two or three years ago. I hope it was three years ago so i can respect myself just a bit more.

What AOL did was suck you into being part of a Community. You found your own level and became part of a family. And the less responsible members of the family behaved in often cruel fashion and never paid any penalties. I cringe now thinking about it. Hey, I didn't do the cruelties, but what I often did was criticize people who would let others hurt them, instead of treating it all as pixelated fun and games.

I hardly ever think about those days. But there is a story in the news now that brings it all back:

There's this woman, Tania Head. As in Head case. I'd never heard of her till today. But within the 9/11 survivor community she became a legend. Hers was a simple story: she was a high powered mergers & acquisition specialist, working for Merrill Lynch. She was in one of the towers when the first plane hit. She was trying to get out when the second plane hit her tower. Her entire Merrill Lynch team was wiped out. She was only saved because of an employee who was credited with saving a number of people that day. She had a sob-wrenching story about coming across a dying man who pressed his engraved wedding ring into her hands, asking that she deliver it to his wife, which she says she was finally able to do. She woke up in a hospital some days later with burns, but recovered.

Further hankies come into play when she related that her own fiancé died in the other tower, but at least they were able to have a week in Hawaii during which they held a commitment ceremony on the beach.

She started out online, telling these stories in chat rooms. If you've ever been in that milieu you know how it goes. Then word got around amongst the organizing survivors and she became a volunteer head honcho in one of the organizations. She never profited, money-wise, from all of this, but she got her picture in the paper a lot and a lot of attention was paid to her. Priceless stuff if you're Tania Head.

Now that she's been outed, she was ousted as President of the World Trade Center Survivors' Network. I went to their web site and there's no mention of her. But I pulled up the cached version of their web site and found this blurb, obviously written by Ms. Head:

"Tania Head, President

Tania Head is a Senior Vice-President for Strategic Alliances for an investment Think Tank. On September 11, she was working for a client whose offices where located on the upper floors of the South Tower. Her fiance worked across the plaza in the North Tower. Tania sustained life threatening injuries and barely escaped with her life. But her fiance was one of the many lost that day. Despite painful injuries, Tania has been a tireless advocate for survivors and family members, and also feels a special mission to help victims of other disasters. She went to Thailand to help after the tsunami and to Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina. She speaks to many groups across the country, and is an active supporter of emergency plans in the workplace. Tania also lends her time to serve as Chairman of the 9/11 Living Memorial Survivors' Committee, the board of a foundation set up in her fiancé's memory, and the board of the WTC Widows Social Group. In 2003 and 2004 Tania taught financial planning workshops for fellow September 11 widows, and last year was recognized by her Alma Mater with an Achievement Award for her contribution to her profession and community. She also collaborates with and leads numerous tours for the WTC Tribute Center. Tania is a co-founder of the World Trade Center Survivors' Network, and currently serves as its President."

How she pulled it off this long is an amazing tribute to the majority of mankind. First, look at her photo:


Me, I'm suspicious right away. America, being the way that it is, Merrill Lynch wouldn't have her on some high powered Mergers & Acquisitions team, unless it was to make coffee or provide massages. Cruel, unkind? Sure, but certainly realistic.

Then there's this: She said she took her BA from Harvard and her MBA from Stanford. Neither school has any record of her. Merrill Lynch has no record of her. Her fiancé's family never heard of her, nor had her fiancé's roommate, who is pretty sure that David, the dead fiancé, didn't spend a week in Hawaii any time in the two years before 9/11. There's no record of a foundation in her fiancé's memory. She doesn't work for a financial think tank.

Did you get all the hyperbole written into her biography? Sure, people have been doing this kind of ego-self inflation thing since people created vocal communication. As soon as we could yearn, we began doing so. The 'if you can dream it, you might as well pretend it happened' crowd. But when you take this kind of attitude out of your shower, it can become a problem.

Can you imagine what she's going through now? She has an attorney, and both of them are saying, "No comment."

This is why I always tell my kids, don't ever tell a lie that can be proven a lie. That's where she went wrong, so horribly wrong.

Doesn't end how you probably thought...

If you were asking my opinion about buying this car and using it to travel on SoCal freeways, I'd be all negative. Yes, I understand the importance of fuel economy and holding down carbon dioxide emissions, but I'd start meandering on about how there are too many old folks converting oxygen to CO₂, to no good end except that most of us would feel guilty about off'ing them just to save the Earth. But isn't the earth worth it?

Oh yeah, I know how these discussions about putting "useless" humans on ice floes always degenerate into not very helpful name-calling, but me personally, I'd rather waste good oxygen on such discussions rather than own/ride in one of these little portable coffins. One good whack from a semi and they can just bury you in your ride.

An Essay with no words; you will drool . . .

Marcel Marceau, The Mime who talked through not his mouth

So he mimed for a living. Ed Sullivan liked him and booked him fairly often.

Heard today upon his passing, "Marcel Marceau was the mime who inspired Michael Jackson to come up with the Moon Walk."

I hope they put that on his tomb stone, only in pictograph form.

Finally!

I've been busy.

I had two supervisors. One quit about a month ago. The other one quit last week. I've been totally bombed, doing my work and trying to do theirs. A losing battle.

Today I hired a replacement. She's going to work from home. She's good, so I feel like I'm coming out of a cave, into the light. She'll take a lot of weight off my shoulders and I can get back to being the carefree young buck whom I've grown to love and adore.

Like the guy at the right. You can't really tell, but he's got a very long skateboard; it's gotta be four feet long. A bit after I took this photo, he got on the board and skated off into the sunset, his hands behind his back, leaning back, looking very regal.

He probably doesn't have a job. Jobless people congregate at this location, the Orange County civic center in Santa Ana. Some homeless advocates feed the homeless here; it's a mad house around here at 4:00 p.m. when the people line up. I tried to eat here once, but they tricked me into admitting I wasn't homeless and I was escorted from the feeding line, with people heckling me, making me feel bad because I had a home and a job. Perspective is everything...

When it comes to Culture, Bert Bananas has all the best bacteria

If things are lining up correctly, the first photo is of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. My mom used to have season tickets to the summer presentations, either light opera or plays straight from Broadway. This place has been here a long time.

Fresh off my second marriage, and trying to get right with the world (meaning date more) I decided to acquire culture. I'd read about culture but just didn't have any. But it stood to reason that only a person with culture would pay money to be inside this place, so if I could carry around ticket stubs, I could prove that I had culture.

First thing I did was find a girl whom I thought would appreciate culture. But what with this being Los Angeles, how hard could that be? And as is probably the case everywhere, I found a female desperate enough... She was a lawyer girl, very pretty, petite and Jewish. (Why was she desperate enough to date me? Well, she had issues...) I figured I'd lucked out, because everyone knows Jewish girl didn't have all the moral issues that Christian women get hung up on. So I asked her out, having first checked to see that there was an upcoming Tchaikovsky performance. (Jeez, how did I ever exist without spell check!) How could anyone have any problem staying awake during Tchaikovsky? But it turned out that he wrote some slow, sonorous pieces and it was lights out for the Banana Boy during the first half. My date gently woke me for the intermission and we had white wine. (gag!) I did stay awake for the second half of the performance because I wanted to make sure the drool had a chance to dry from my suit jacket. (Cultured people wore suits back then.) And yes, she was an immoral minx and I paid dearly.

I took these two photos this afternoon, in good ol' downtown LA. They're basically across the street from each other.

What do you people think of this place? I'm sure you've seen other photos of it, and of course the Simpson's mocked the heck out of it. It's the Disney Opera House.

The odds of me ever being in the Dorothy Chandler again, or ever in the Disney Opera house are so slim as to be invisible, just like my culture, unless you'd like to talk about my toenail fungus. I got all kinds of culture there.

Hiding out in Oceanside

Dos Lagos ... It was a tale of two cities, in a manner of speaking; one city was fun, like Oshkosh, WI, if you're a flyer and it's the summer 'fly in,' and the other city wasn't fun, like Las Vegas after you've lost the money you embezzled from a Mafia loan shark.

Meaning I played decently on the front nine, but horribly on the back nine.

We had three teams of three players each. I was teamed up with George (his iconic counterpart bears his name on Big-T's blogger main page) and Parker.

We were the first group out. Big-T was behind us in the second group. Big-T had Jesus with him. Tito couldn't make it, but how can you complain, especially when Jesus's putter catches fire?

The first two photos are from a green my group was on, looking back at the green Big-T, Jesus and Parker's brother, Burz, were on. Maybe you can copy the image, blow it up fantastically big and figure out which one is Big-T and which was is Jesus...

The last photo is of the two lakes of Dos Lagos. But it's kind of a misnomer, because there's a third lake. Maybe Tres Lagos was already taken? Or maybe three lakes are unlucky?

As to the Oceanside reference in the title... I had to go to San Diego and I didn't finish in time so now I'm holed up in a Days Inn in Oceanside, eagerly awaiting the free breakfast. I have to be in Orange County in the morning, so it wasn't practical to go back to Apple Valley, just to have to turn around in the morning to fight traffic back down the hill.

Dos Lagos

Not the beer, the golf course.

It's new. I don't know when it opened, but it'll be our first time playing it. Big T booked the times there for the Wednesday group. He's not a Senior, so he has to pay a lot more than everyone else. We mock and ridicule him, but deep down in our heart of hearts, we envy him his youth; he's a young Nureyev, to our Abe Vigodas. I weep...

Playing a new course for the first time is like choosing a new girl at Madam Harriet's Bridal Palace, where for the current price of a 1974 Gremlin you can practice making a baby. Which is what golf's all about, making babies. I give you as my first bit of evidence Mr. Tiger Woods, baby maker extraordinary. My niece, the little hottie, is now a nanny and she has great hopes of landing herself a man of wealth and charming vigor, just like the girl who landed Tiger Woods.

Yes, I know it's almost sacriloyal to be thinking about golf and making babies on 9/11, but 9/11 or not, the world, especially Old White Europe, needs babies. Remember to give at the office.

Din and ought in Beverly's Hills

The Irish are a great people. Take my friend Beverly O'top O'themorning. Bright, pretty, healthy, well endowed, with a bubbly, outgoing personality that helps her compete successfully with the ruthless salesmen at Mercedes of Pacoima, which is just around the corner from Our Lady of Arleta Cathedral and house of wax.

She called yesterday morning, asking for help. No one can say no to Beverly, mostly because she can't say no, either. (You realize this is all a daydream, right? No actual sperm were injured during the filming of this daydream...) So there I was, driving down to her townhouse, in morning rush hour traffic. I don't think any of you have ever talked about your commutes. My normal commute is exactly one mile, from the house to the office. Occasionally I'll walk. Okay, once I walked, but then called my wife to come get me at lunch.

I don't mind rush hour traffic, probably because it's such a rare "treat" for me, and I pass the time studying the drivers around me. Very seldom do I see a truly happy driver, other than when I'm checking my hair in the mirror.

Anyway, when I got to Beverly's, the hills were alive with the sound of music. She'd gotten one of those iPod bras, where you plug the iPod into it's connection and music comes out the cups. The larger the cups, the fuller the base. My wisdom teeth were even resonating, such was the power of her bass appeal.

The problem she'd called me over to address had to do with painting. I took care of the problem while she did her yoga. I think she was always naturally limber. I was back at the office by 2:00 p.m. I went home earlier than usual, and because we're 'empty-nesters' now, I worked out some issues left over from the morning commute with my wife.

So in November of 2008, remember to vote for happiness, not revenge.

Thank you.

Ladies, tell it like it is ...

My 21 year old is having female problems. ...somewhere near his pubic bone.

Oh man, that reminds me! 7th grade, Fifth St. Elementary School, Las Vegas, Nevada (Fifth St. is the Strip. How weird is that?) It's health class and Mrs. Graham asks some innocent question about the human skeleton. Winston Allen pipes up and asks is it true that only women have breast bones? Much hilarity ensues.

Back to my boy. He has a 22 year girl friend, still in college. His college. The details of his heartache aren't important. What's important is that my female readers, who are of superior intelligence, remarkable grace, fierce loyalty, unsurpassed creativity, majestically noble, as well as brave, clean and funny, tell my son what they were like when they were 22. See what I'm driving at? It's my point that somewhere out there is a girl who is 22 now, but when he meets her in, oh, three or four years, she will THEN be of superior intelligence, remarkable grace, fierce loyalty, unsurpassed creativity, majestically noble, as well as brave, clean and funny.

Or am I off my rocker?

Oh, the ignominy!

Ignominy has smashed its way into my life, upsetting two apple carts, a watermelon wagon and several fruit baskets.

Plus I think I have a pimple that bothers me when I sit down.

The ignominy of it all is that the Disney Company, with whom I have a contract to paint address numbers on the curbs of houses on movie sets, has discovered that in a fit of aggravated revenge, Paula Bunker has put a picture of me, naked from the toes up, on the internet. At first I thought it was funny, because the camera's perspective makes me look, you know, ...nice. I've been hearing from people with whom I'd totally lost contact years ago!

But then some of the honchos at the Disney company were contacted by a fundamentalist group of morality freaks who were demanding that Disney contract with me be severed. At first, because there is no morality clause in my contract, they simply refused these entreaties because the liquidated damages clause would have allowed me to play golf every day for two years! But then, because the pressure was building, the Disney cabal of totally immoral attorneys came up a way out. They've scheduled me for work on Wednesday, golf day with Big T and the gang. It was ALWAYS understood that I wouldn't have to work on Wednesdays!

So they have me over a barrel. No way do I dare let Big T and the gang down! And all because of a "little" picture on the internet. What kind of a world has this become, where closeted sexual freaks need to impose their artificial values on a helpless world?

The time is Ripe...

The time is ripe and the time is right could almost be used interchangeably. I chose 'time is ripe' because I think it portends more...

You know how when you click on your link to the DrudgeReport and the page opens and you usually see a small teaser headline to the left, and then the major, MAJOR, headline is in the middle, screaming at you from the monitor? Wouldn't it be SOOO COOOOOL if you could hijack a friend or loved one's computer so that the next time they went to Drudge, that big central headline was something only they would see?

For instance, if I could hijack Big T's computer, his headline would read:

Big T has sex with Wait Staff of Myrtle Beach Hooters Restaurant on long par 5

But of course the real headline I'd write would be muc more visceral and pornographic. But that's just me. After all, wouldn't the whole point be that your victim's first thought is that this is a headline that the entire WORLD is reading? Can you imagine the traumatizing effect on me if I read:

Bert Bananas video: Deflowering very large nuns!

Okay, maybe not traumatized, but terribly embarrassed... okay, somewhat chagrined.

And what if you could hijack the actual DrudgeReport servers and put up a fake headline that all the world DID read!! Suppose you could, and it was a one time deal... Is your first thought, like me, to put up a headline like:

Bert Loves Liz

Or would you lash out at someone, seeking to cause pain and humiliation? Like:

JESSE JACKSON, AL SHARPTON & KWEISI MFUME CAUGHT UP IN MESSY HOMOSEXUAL LOVE TRIANGLE!

or something closer to home, to avenge a wrong:

Rayetta Kay Kanel & Paula Bunker in double suicide because they could have had Bert Bananas, but dumped his ass. "Remorse killed them," says county coroner spokesperson.

This is why people talk about power corrupting... Imagine if you could hijack the DrudgeReport headline any time you wanted to, without ever having to worry about getting caught. Breathtaking!

Laztheism and Football

I had no idea that today was the opening day for the 2007-2008 NFL season. I was flipping through channels and came upon an activity that rivaled the arrival of the Pope in your typical Mexican cathedral.

Yes, I'm saying that the NFL is now a religion and will soon probably file for religious tax exemption with the IRS. And if the IRS has any sense, tax exempt status will be granted.

As a Laztheist I have no quarrel with the NFL. If they leave me alone, I'll leave them alone. But eventually they'll get around to sending out "missionaries" and the sanctity of my home will be invaded by one or another team trying to convert me.

Maybe what this all means is that I am in a tiny minority of people born without a 'religious' gene?

"I circulatory pump the windows to your soul."

In literature, and songs, which are strings of literature set to music, the human heart is an emotional organ. In real life it's a pump. Just a pump. When it fails as a pump, the bearer of tat heart dies, with or without a song on his or her lips. Such is the power of suggestion that there have been times when you felt an "emotion" in your cardiac cavity. But it was just auto-suggestive behavior; there are no emotional nerve ends in your heart, not like there are in your wallet.

As for the 'windows to the soul,' otherwise known as your eyes, they NEVER reveal anything other than that they are dry, moist, moistening or leaking like a sieve. Eyes don't tell us that the person looking at us adores us, hates us, feels sympathy, etc. When people say someone's eyes 'said it all,' it was not the eyes, it was the set of the facial muscles.

But generations, GENERATIONS, of lazy ass writers have taken the easy way out and used phrases like, "I could see the hate in her eyes...," or "Her eyes told me she had to have me..." A set of human eyes cannot glow, they can't radiate love or hatred, eyes don't have any way to say, "I'm hiding something..." Our eyes just sit there in our faces, incapable of making any kind of voluntary changes. Eye lids, eye brows, facial muscles, the lips... These are what change and allow us to read emotions.

Will you join me in encouraging writers to clean up their acts?

Thank you.

I Never Planned on Being a Freakin' Genius . . .

By any measure of genius, except perhaps intelligence, I am totally a rock solid genius. Take for example my plan for ... Nope, I can't mention that one as I haven't yet patented it. Of course I totally trust 'the gang' but there are strangers who read blogs not for the entertainment, but for profit. Those Dastards!(sic)

But here's an example of my genius that can be shared simply because it's just a new usage of already existing items.

Waste disposal is a necessity. Humans make waste. So does haste. Combining the two, as promoted by our modern technology, means mountains of trash. You can see this in your very own home!

The answer? Mini-Black Holes. They'd have to be held in suspension, and fed within a vacuum, which would require some break throughs in technology, but imagine putting all your trash down a chute and never, NEVER having to worry about it again. You'd never have to trundle the garbage cans out to the curb. Landfills would be things of the past. Portable Black Hole trucks would scurry about the landscape suckng up trash and debris, and never having to be emptied. Eventually we'll have Black Hole toilets, so sewage disposal will no longer be a problem.

Amazing, aren't I?

Fraudulentology Under Attack in Europe!

According to Drudge, the favored religion of KirstiTomJohn AllieCruiseTravolta hasn't had smooth sailing in Belgium and Germany.

Here's an interesting sentence I boldly copied from Drudge's copying: "Belgium, Germany and other European countries have been criticized by the State Department for labeling Scientology as a cult or sect and enacting laws to restrict its operations."

I assume that the "State Department" in question is the U.S. State Department. I had no idea the U.S. Government was fostering the spread of Fraudulentology. The notion that the government I pay taxes to is spending time, money and effort complaining about sovereign governments inhibiting the spread of Fraudulentology is annoying to me. I wonder if the Mormons get this kind of support?

But here's the jewel of the story: "The German government considers Scientology a commercial enterprise that takes advantage of vulnerable people."

And yes, this at times defines a number of projects undertaken by any number of religions, but in this regard I thought it was totally spot on. After all when's the last time you went to a Fraudulentology wedding or funeral? Are there favored casserole recipes for when a member of the congregation ceases existing? Hey, anyone know if there's a Fraudulentology Heaven?

Images

I took this first photo in August of 2006, when they announced that a Super Target was going in across the street from our office... All there is in this photo is the bowling alley, at the left, and the UCB bank on the right. This is at the intersection of US Highway 18 and Dale Evans. (Yes, THAT Dale Evans, behind whom I once stood in line at the market and I looked over her shoulder and noted that her personalized checks identified her as Mrs. Roy Rogers. Of course, that was back when women knew their places...)

Then just now I took the next photo. You have to look closely... Behind the
bowling alley is the Super Target. The cement pre-cast walls in the center are the new Lowe's. There was no publicity about it. The local hardware stores are doomed. There's a big commercial plaza going in to the left of the bowling alley. The big rumor is that we're getting an In 'N Out! All hail progress!

Apple Valley used to be a very sleepy bedroom community. Now it's a bedroom community with more to do and our sales tax money stays at home.

Next we have a Black Widow and her prey. She came sliding down a strand of her web, right in front of my window. So I stepped outside and snapped off a few pics, one of which actually was in focus!

Nature is harsh. There's a lesson in this: It's better to bite than be bitten.



Finally we come to a photograph of your humble correspondent. For my age I'm enjoying very good health and have not too bad a physique. I thought I'd share it with you.

Roby, the 21 year old, was up to do laundry on Saturday, and I had him use my camera. He stood at the shallow end of the pool and I jumped in, let all my air out and sank to the bottom (12') and stood there waving at the camera. He snapped off some pics and I chose this one, because I like the twinkle in my trunks.

If any of you would like a framed, autographed copy, email me a crisp new (0r old) $100 bill and I'll give my wife $3.99 to go to Aaron Bros. to get a cheap ass frame and then I'll spend the rest at the golf course.

"God Is Not Great."

That's the name of a book written by Christopher Hitchens. The sub-title is "How Religion poisons everything." I've read a number of his essays and enjoyed his writing, even when I didn't agree with what he was opining. But how can I dislike what I'm learning about his views of religion? Here's a quote from a previous work that I'm amazed I missed, in which he had this to say about Mother Teresa:

"Terri was a corrupt, malignant dwarf who left people to die in agony because 'Christ loves suffering.'"

I don't know enough about Momma T to have an opinion but you gotta love how he beats around the bush.

He was interviewed on TV yesterday and I was enjoying it. He has some amusing personal habits that I'm sure his critics have probably attacked. He talked about his drinking. He says he'd not an alcoholic; he's just a guy who likes the buzz... Asked if he'd had a drink yet that day, (it was 3:00 p.m.) he said he hadn't, but only because of the scheduled interview. He further remarked that had he not had it not been for the interview, he would have had his first alcoholic libation before noon.

I would have watched more, but they let a caller on who rambled embarrassingly while trying to ask him to forgive her for having lost her faith, because is wasn't her fault. At least I think that's what she might have been getting at. The host interrupted her stuttering, repetitive attempt to communicate: "Caller, do you have a question?" Three seconds went by and I concluded that she didn't so I changed the channel...

Hitchens was asked this interesting question: "Are you happy?"

His response was that he was more interested in being satisfied.

Not me. In work and in golf, if you're satisfied, why would you continue? Unless he meant that he's satisfied to keep trying. Semantics...

As life drags on, what makes you feel best, happiness or satisfaction? Maybe they're the same? Why would Hitchens distinguish them? Maybe he doesn't think he deserves happiness?

I'm about to send it to the Publisher . . .

"The Era of the Extravagant Wedding" is a coffee table book I'm writing. Actually, it's not writing so much as it is going through my collection of wedding photographs and selecting those to be included. Most of the captions write themselves, if you get my drift.

What sets my book apart is the "Appendix of Pain", wherein, accompanied by a thumbnail of the happy couple, I explain in one short, pithy paragraph, in 8 point Times New Roman, how it all fell apart for them.

In the much shorter "Appendix of Limitied Success" the thumbnails are accompanied by longer explanations on how the couple is still managing to cope, despite ...

Look for my book at Narns &Boneable.

Culturally Accurate Fashion Design

Now remember: I speak to you, mostly, from across a vast divide of decades; I've seen more of the same things you see, heard more of the same sounds you hear and have been experiencing some of the things you experience for years and years longer. Okay, sure, I've never been drunk and haven't killed anyone, but don't think I have scratched these off my life's list of things to do...

But this post focuses on one theme: Women's fashions.

As a heterosexual male I am very aware of women. I like women. (There is a common Sci-Fi concept where humans meet sentient races with sexual 'halves,' with one 'half' being non-intelligent. Either the women are just brood mares or the men are just penises who just sit around eating and pooping when not needed. Do I think the human race would be better off this way? Laztheists don't play the 'what if...?" game.) I have an opinion about how women should 'look.'

Based on this opinion, I would like a rule established, to be a fashion designer, you must be:

1. Male
2. Over 40
3. Heterosexual
4. Married, with kids
5. A heavy beer drinker
6. A better than bogey golfer
7. Have a subscription to Playboy

Then once a year, in the late Fall, the world's 'registered' fashion designer would get together at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina for a week of, among things, designing what women will wear for the upcoming year.

The world would be a better place.

Phluffy Phoolish Philosophical Phunnies

Which is better, in your view? To be known for something you did, or for something you could do?

You can pixelate, but you can't hide

KFed, feel free to guide the Judge to my blog...

Write a Title for this Blog and win a Prize!

Since I don't have a life of my own, I borrowed this from some edgy, has a life, person's blog. She didn't say I could, but she didn't say I couldn't... She herself got it from her mother, whose age I probably match or exceed, since I have kids who are older.

Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree. Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they sometimes take the apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy. The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing. They just have to wait for the right person to come along, the one who is brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

Now Men.... Men are like a fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

The first part about the apples is just plain silly. I once climbed to the top of an apple tree, grabbed the highest apple and while trying to get down, lost my grip, fell 30 feet, busted one or both of my legs (it's all kind of hazy now...) When I got to the emergency room, the handsome ER doctor told me I had to let go of the apple. I did, and he married it.

The second part is misogynistic in the extreme! It's also mistaken. You show me a man who is acceptable to have dinner with and I'll show you a Senator from Idaho! (Yes, yes, I already used this once, but it's good, it's really, really good.)

Wherein Bert Bananas offers an Apology

Readers have bombarded me, BOMBARDED me! with a request for more information about my daily life. Evidently there is one Bert Bananas reader who thinks there are exciting details that I am keeping concealed.

And so the apology: I'm deeply, deeply sorry for living a life of total banality, abysmally bereft of excitement and interest.

I used to have a life, but then I got married. Which I think is "the Life" but it's not what most people want Life to be about. On top of that, I don't even drink.

In real life I live as hum-drum a life as could be imagined for someone not in a coma.


So thank gawd for the internet! I have another blog where I play the part of a 27 year old transvestite Greek Orthodox priest, living in a loft in Downtown Los Angeles with a lady vice cop and the vice cop's ex-father-in-law. But it's totally, totally fiction, except the parts where the Transvestite dreams about the epileptic whore from M*A*S*H. It's in the book, not the movie...

So once again, I'm deeply, tragically sorry...