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...

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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...

Technology is a god-send... or was it the devil?

The inventiveness of the human mind has us riding a learning curve that is getting close to going vertical on the progress charts. But maybe we're moving too fast? Here's a cautionary tale culled from today's headlines!

Telling his wife he was going over to his friend Reggie's house for a Texas Hold'em tournament, Rick Seifert kissed his wife on the cheek and exited the house, garage right. He marveled at how easily Becky Seifert had let him go. He should have thought the matter through.

Of course there was no Texas Hold'em tournament at Reggie's. The guys were actually meeting at the Play Dough Club, which promoted a very enjoyable 'hands on' philosophy.

When he got home at 1:40 p.m. Becky woke up briefly to ask him how his evening had gone. He started giving her an almost hand by hand account of the card tournament and she was back to sleep within three minutes.

That afternoon at work, a process server showed up at Rick's business (actually it was half Becky's) and handed him a Summons & Complaint, featuring his name as the Respondent. Becky was suing him for divorce. Attached was a short, typed, unsigned note that all his personal effects were at Reggie's house and it was hoped he still knew the way since Reggie's wife said he hadn't been there in over a year.

At their first meeting, where Rick, Becky and their attorneys were going to work on dividing the spoils, Rick learned that the final straw for Becky was his performance the night of the Hold'em tournament. Unbeknownst, when he'd left the house there was an "Erection Detection" device sown into his cargo pants. And either he found Texas Hold'em to be very, very sexually stimulating, or he'd been at a strip joint again, after giving her a written promise that he'd never again go to one. And since there was a GPS component to the Erection Detection device, one didn't have to guess at the answer.

Rick's attorney, his eyes moving back and forth from the written report by the Erection Detection recorder and the look of defeat on Rick's face, called for a side bar with his client. In hushed tones, as he watched Becky and her attorney high five-ing each other, he advised Rick to either face becoming a laughing stock, or pay Becky what she was asking for.

Scary, huh? And even as we speak, the people at Erection Detection are working on a Slippery When Wet Monitor for women... So see? Progress sometimes comes at a cost...

This hasn't happened in YEARS!

The F-bomb and I are not strangers. But in the past, oh, ten years it's dropping has been confined to golf courses and when I'm behind the wheel. But today I dropped the F-bomb at the office. I don't know if I was overheard. I felt badly, because the ladies in the office are all Mormon. Which raises the point that even if I was overheard, did they know what it meant?

But I would like to point out in my own defense that it was all my wife's fault. Mrs. Bananas called to ask if I'd down something I was supposed to do. I hadn't it, and in an effort to express my sincere chagrin, I opened the bomb bay doors and let the bomb fall. It was heedless of me and if you heard me, and were shocked or outraged, I apologize. Really I do...

Tomorrow is Friday the 31st !!!

Dyslexic people live in mortal fear of Friday the 31st.

Did you know that there are suffers of moral dyslexia? True! Have I ever steered you wrong?

Morally dyslexic golfers innocently say, "I hate a bogey," and are chagrined when reminded that they had a lost ball and took two strokes to get out of a green side trap. They aren't trying to cheat, they're just morally dyslexic.

Married men often suffer moral dyslexia. At least I think I've heard this is the case. Got an opinion? Or have you ever suffered from the innocence of moral dyslexia? Personally I'm shocked that this hasn't become a successful defense tactic in law suits. And it'd absolutely blow away the prosecution's case in a criminal trial, in instances where mens rhea is an element that has to be proven. (look it up, it'll do you good. While you're at it, look up wainscot...)

Local Radio Program Teaches a Lesson

"Handel on the Law" is heard on Saturday mornings locally on KFI. It's in syndication around the nation, so there's a tiny, tiny possibility that you've heard the show. The intent of the show is for the moderator, William Wolfe Handel, Esq., to find some way to humiliate you after you tell him about a legal problem you have and to ask the first of the show's two catch-phrases, "Do I have a case?" (The second catch-phrase is "And then I tell you you have no case!")

Last Saturday a guy called in to ask if he could sue a former neighbor, whose full name he never learned, because she surreptitiously videoed the two of them making 'whoopie goldberg' in her apartment. He said it was just a sexual thing, there were not "feelings" involved. She moved away about a year ago and he was left with just fond memories, he thought.

But then he was in the red light section of an indie video rental place and came across a photo of himself on the cover of DVD, tastefully humping the former neighbor.

Handel told him he had no case, based on the practical problem of not knowing her name. The DVD producer would claim to have signed releases and could claim not to have known the filming was done without his consent. Even if he could find he former neighbor, serve her and get a judgment, what were his damages, and if he did have some, how was he going to collect on a judgment?

At least I think that's what he said. I was too busy fantasizing about the new Lesbian couple that moved in next door. To increase my chances, I'm going to make it a point not to learn their names.

And no, you won't find any photos, grainy 8mm films or videos of me anywhere on this planet. But I did once pose for a still life drawing class at BYU, wearing nothing but walking shoes, corduroy pants, a maple wainscot, white shirt and tie, and a handsome tweed bomber jacket.

"I shot a man just to watch him die."

I don't think anyone ever really said this. I think a writer dreamed up the character and the dialog, but only because someone was paying him.

A person who could deliver that line and mean it probably doesn't do all that much talking. But then I haven't spent any real time in prison, just that one night in the Clark County jail. I think I've mentioned it before. I surprised myself by how much sleep I got. And to this day it was the only time in my life I've eaten french toast with a spoon. I say this because prison sounds like a great place to hear a line like that.

I'm curious... how many of you have killed someone and is there a reward? I once wrote a screenplay about a family man who dallied where he shouldn't have and got AIDS. Wondering what to do to to leave some serious money for his wife and kids, he came up with a plan for killing Black gangsters. Naturally there was soon some pressure on City Hall to find and prosecute the killer and City Hall posted a reward. The guy then confessed everything to his wife and had her turn him in for the reward. He goes down in a blaze of glory, just like Michael Douglas in that movie, Falling Down. Yeah, it's a trite plot, but I could see it as having a lot of visceral appeal. Especially when a friend convinced me to write in a cameo by E.T.

I'm soooo Happy!

This couldn't have happened to a nicer, more blood thirsty country!

According to a reputable survey by a Swiss smokeless gun powder manufacturer, America is the most armed country in the world, with 90 guns per 100 people. And when you factor in the fact that the extremes on both end of the age continuum can't hold or shoot a gun, it sort of means that everyone capable of pulling a trigger could do so at one single moment in time.

Meaning if you discount Americans under the age of 8 and over the age of 85, we have one gun per person! And since there are people who absolutely refuse to touch, much less fire a gun, those of us who want to can probably have a gun in each hand!

Here's a brain boggler: What would you think/do/say if Al qaeda launched a bloody assault here on American soil against graffiti taggers? Think carefully before you answer; you're being graded.

Where's the Economy Heading?

I have an opinion. I would like yours.

My opinion is focused on the Chinese. They have invested heavily in America. Essentially, they have bought huge amounts of our bonds, and are earning a steady, secure income on the interest paid on the those bonds. If they decide to 'cash in' a significant number of those bonds, America will have to sell new bonds. And a cycle of upward spiraling interest rates will have to be offered. Which will do the job of attracting 'new money.' Which means that that 'new money,' which might have gone into the stock market or venture capital, etc., will mean that business, new and old, will have to pay even higher interests to attract loans. Because the Federal Reserve MUST keep attracting more money, the interest rate on the bonds will go higher than what the market is offering and that's where the upward spiraling comes from.

If the Chinese sit quietly, we're okay. But if they decide that America, living with double digit interest rates (a la the Jimmy Carter era) will still be a good market, they'll dump their bonds, because then they'll have the best of both worlds: a drastically weakened America, either getting weaker or just getting by, as they, the Chinese find new markets for their goods. If the Chinese decide our 200+ year empire has peaked, they'll happily help kick the walls down.

Unfortunately Laztheism offers no financial aid or advice, other than to point you to the Boy Scout motto, "Be Prepared," and opine that it has more to do with life than always carrying a condom with you.

Laztheists and the Grim Reaper

First, "Grim Reaper" is false advertising. There's no entity out there traveling the Earth killing people or arranging their deaths. Yes, the Grim Reaper is a funny character on the Family Guy, but that's just a cartoon! Stop anthropomorphizing a natural process!

"Death" should never be used as a noun. Maybe a predicate nominative, but it should never be the subject in a sentence. "Death came today for little Malachi Hooper Enndicott, IV..." Bullcrap! The poor little kid, trapped in a well for 37 days, didn't die because "Death" came for him; he died because someone mistakenly lowered a PBJ down the well, not knowing he had a severe peanut allergy!

If I can teach you one thing, let this not be it because I have another thing, much more important, in terms of language usage, which ought to the one thing. But you're not ready yet...

So back to the topic: Gee, Mr. Bananas, you ask, "What should I think of death?" And I answer, "Think of death as something you'll never understand, if you have to think about it at all." And you may quote me.

For this is the Laztheist's way. If you are a realist, you will have admitted to yourself that there are things you'll never understand. Like why Rayetta Kay Kanel picked a virtual total stranger to whom to lose her virginity when I was there, plus I would have taken her to dinner first! You know you've had equally inexplicable things like this happen in your own lives. Most of us have unanswered/unanswerable questions up the wazoo. Like why does wazoo mean your rectum?

Naturally "religion" sprang up to offer answers to this unanswerable questions. Where there's a demand, you'll soon find people marketing to that demand. And when "religion" seduces you completely, you sit still for, "...God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform." Along with "It was God's Will" or "Jesus called him home." Yes, I know it fulfills a need and I'm sensitive to that need and would never have this discussion at a funeral.

The strength and genius of Laztheism is that it rejects this supposed 'need' to ask questions. And if you never ask the question, you can't lack for an answer. But you point out that it's in Man's nature to ask questions and you cite that this is the second thing that children verbalize when they first learn to talk, right after, "feed me/I've pooped." (The alimentary canal, beginning at one end with the mouth, and ending at the other, with Uranus, exists "outside" the body, just like a donut hole; you get a doughnut hole one with each donut you buy, but it's not part of the donut. That's right, you are a freakin' toroid. It is theoretically possible to pass a thin, very flexible steel strand from your mouth, down your gullet, through your stomach, large and small intestines and then out Uranus, so that you be be hung out to dry, like a fish on a string. Can you visualize this? A guy will be doing this on Jackass next year...)

But when a kid is asking his interminable list of questions, what's the reaction of the adult? We grow fatigued and impatient, mostly because we know that little, if any, of the information we impart in our answers makes sense to the kid or is being remembered by the kid. We either know from a potent education and thoughtful meditation, or intuit it based on experience, that Life is all about what science calls "The Ego." Kids aren't into learning, they're into manipulation for their own benefit. When they get older they become you and me, us, and thus more charming and sophisticated. The methodologies change but not the goal; the means change, but the ends are the same.

So back to death: It's a killer. Avoid it all costs. Woody Allen, who is related to Grammiekins, said it very well: "I'm not afraid of death, I just don't want to be there when it happens." And to this day that is how Woody is living his life.

Laztheists know we are going to die. Faced with this certainty we do our best to arrange things so that when it happens, we'll be grateful. How you do this is up to you, but it's the logical, Laztheist way.

"RESCREW"

What's the first thing you think of when you see "rescrew"?

If you're anything like a guy, which most guys are, plus a lot of ladies (you know who you are), you think re screw, as in, "I screwed her once and now I think I'll rescrew her." And if you're being thoughtful about this, you quickly realize that it doesn't have to be the same partner. But you have to be sort of kinky and tawdry to get to this stage and I welcome all of you who made it. Be sure to sign up for the news letter.

Okay, the truth is that I was thinking of "rescue" when "rescrew" popped into my head. A "rescrew" is the band of humans who through advance planning or pure happenstance rescue you when you are in peril. And then later, at the awards ceremony, you'd be called on to say a few words about your peril and what the rescrew did to save you and then you'd pose for the press and then wonder who it was on the rescrew who wrote the dirty limerick on your underwear.

And all this time you were thinking that I was just another pretty face . . . No way, man! I'm in this thing for the long haul.

Advice for the 21st Century

Honest truth, I no longer open fortune cookies at Chinese restaurants or buffets. It's a Lazthiest thing and it's okay if you don't understand...

But from past experience I am aware of what people go through when they read their 'fortunes.' And of course the Simpson's had an episode in which Homer took to writing these short, pithy essays. I remember that Woody Allen was among the group of writers whom Homer helped learn to write better 'fortunes.'

I was thumbing through the latest Readers' Digest this morning and noted that they had a humor piece dedicated to the notion that fortune cookie fortunes needed to be brought into the 21st century. Although it doesn't matter to me either way, I am always a proponent for progress, as well as fewer brassieres.

So I throw this out to you: write some 21st century fortune cookie fortunes. Sever your ties to the past and get with our modern age. Here are some that I came up with.

You will receive a text message from a stranger asking for money.

Your video Ipod will screen freeze with an ugly man's face leering at you.

Restless Leg Syndrome will strike someone close to you and you will have bruised calves.

A relative will win a lottery, move out of state and never speak to you again.

There will be a product recall that will make you weep.

You will be flipped the bird but your head will be so far up your ass you won't notice.

Someone close to you will max out his credit cards trying to find love, but will end up joining the Coast Guard.

You will have an orgasm so powerful that it will recharge all the batteries within 50 feet.

You will go to a party, get drunk, and wake up in alone in your own bed. Two months later your spouse will call you from Tonga to ask you to forward the mail.

Ashes, it all turned to ashes...

When I wrote my last entry, I was flying high. And I thought it would last...

Normally I play golf on Saturday mornings. But this week the Asian game got changed to Sunday. So I went early Saturday morning to the driving range. (Jesus! I won't go to Ashwood again; they wanted $9 for a medium bucket!!)

I hit my way through the bucket. I was hitting the ball very nicely and feeling a good deal of pride, which I modestly was trying to conceal 'neath my bushel basket. I was down to four balls. I was hitting the 3 wood. I always put my bag down very close to where I'm hitting. I think it's no big deal because I'm always careful... Yeah, right. On the down swing I hit the head of my driver. The shaft snapped and I now had a two-piece driver.

I drove to our local full-service golf shop, in Hesperia. Cobra Golf will repair my driver. The shop couldn't have repaired mine in less than two days, so there was no need to hurry. My immediate problem at that point was what to do about the Asian game the next day. I voiced this concern at the shop and was answered with the offer of a loaner. It's also a Cobra driver, but it's a 65 gram shaft with an 8° loft. But it was really pretty...

Come Sunday morning I found out that I can't hit an 8° lofted driver. Few people can... So I couldn't get off the tee. And so the downward spiral began. I lost back all the money I'd won the week before.

If you have any connections at Cobra golf, could you please give them a call and ask them to rush the repair of my driver so I have it for next Saturday? Thanks. I'll owe you one...

Giggles

According to an article written some years ago by Isaac Asimov, an attempt was made in the middle 1960s to change the pronunciation of the 7th planet from the sun from "yer A nus" to "YUR a nuss."

This artificial attempt to modify our spoken language was made for one reason and one reason only: school children were no longer muffling their giggles when science teachers taught them things like, "Uranus is a gas giant," or, "Uranus has rings around it of varying dimensions," and "Uranus is blue."

I believe this strongly implies that there was a secret conference somewhere at which this change of pronunciation was the only topic.

I would like to believe that they had to throw some of the invited participants out of the proceedings. I want very much for that to have been the case. I don't want to be part of a culture that can convene a conference of high brows who are capable of repeatedly saying "yer A nus" to one another in different and varying contexts and not eventual have some of them start grinning.

And can you imagine the horror of finding out that your mom and dad MET at this conference and were attracted to one another because of their shared dedication to stamping out 'inappropriate' giggling among students and lay people? Yikes!

Anyway, this post was inspired by the fact that we can now see the rings of Uranus edge on. Things have been going on around Uranus that scientists are interested in. Uranus is going to be in the news and you'll be seeing photos of Uranus on the internet. I hope we give Uranus the respect it deserves.

What is "Cool"?

The concept of 'Cool,' or 'Kewl' as it is sometimes called, is like quick silver. Which is actually mercury, a substance of amazing toxicity to just about anything that has to draw a breath. I once saw a special on TBN, Trinity Broadcasting, about the gold miners in Brasil (as they call it) and it showed in graphic detail, from start to finish, what mercury poisoning does to a human being and how believing in the Lord Jesus Christ could help those poor souls if you, meaning the viewer, would send money to Paul and his vixen wife. (What would you do with Jan's hair if you could get her into the sack?) But the main point is that there is a stage of mercury poisoning where you are walking and talking, but you're a total goof ball and a lot of what you do is totally funny to normal people who are watching, either in person or through the miracle of TV, which at one time really was miracle, but now its existence is a total yawn if you were born to parents with indoor plumbing.

Anyway, being 'cool' is fleeting. I had a grasp on it, not once, not twice, but three times. One thing all three fleeting moments of coolness had was I wasn't married, engaged or even seriously involved with a female. I'm not saying that you can't be cool and married at the same time, I'm just saying I've never really seen it done. Brad Pitt was not 'cool' when he was married to what's-her-name and then started messing around with what's-her-name.

Here's the story of my first episode of coolness, which lasted maybe three hours. I was put on a plane in Mexico City, still a 'set apart' Mormon Missionary. The Vietnam war was raging and the timing of my release from the Mission Field was purposely designed to get me enrolled at BYU within a day so that I went immediately from a 4D to a 2S draft status. So I flew to LA and then onto Salt Lake City, where I was picked up and taken to the Admin Building at BYU where I was registered for classes. This was called Mid-Term Enrollment. It just happened to be a Friday. I left the Admin Building and was told to report to the MTC (Missionary Training Center) where they'd bunk me for the night. I checked in, and then went out to wander the campus. There was a dance at the student union. I showed up and found a guy who'd left my Mission field a few months earlier. He had a date. He and I brought each other up to date. His date quickly glommed onto the fact that I was 'still' a Missionary. Meaning I couldn't dance, I could kiss, neck, pet, hump, or in any way, shape or form act like a normal 21 year old. So she started calling out to her friends and they called out their friends and all these young, fresh, firm, desirable Mormon girls started hitting on me. Because they knew they weren't supposed to. So they were practicing all their comely wiles on me, knowing that I wasn't supposed to do anything about it. And I remember thinking, "How cool is this?" I knew that if I tried to flirt back, they would think me uncool and the magic would be gone. So in response to their flirting, I would offer to pray with them. It was totally cool.

Which proves a very important point: Coolness is relative.

Another important point: I either didn't know the girl's name or I was seriously involved. There was never a middle ground. I like to think that this sort of set me apart from the other guys.

Half way into the 900 mile drive

I received an email from a reader of this blog. Here are some responses to the questions asked.

Andrew is probably 5'11" and because his physical development seems to be mirroring mine, he make reach 6'1", meaning that his earning power will be above average, which is important because when Liz and I retire, we want to live above his garage. Liz will be his house maid and I will be the gardener. I know it's a stretch, but I can see myself in that role.

Yes, we dropped Andrew off at school, the effable SFSU of S.I. Hiyakawa fame. The shot at the top is of his dorm. It has a name but I've forgotten it. And yes, he is on the top floor, the 15th floor. If you were to copy the photo of the building and enlarge it enough, you'd see me in that line of parents and students going up the ramp to the one and only elevator available. (I had to set the camera on a tripod, set the self-timer and then run like a mad man to get in the photo!)

The second photo is the south end of the sitting room/kitchen area. Andrew is practicing his 'sitting' for when females come visiting.

The next photo is of the north end of the sitting room/kitchen. Here we see the re-effable Liz Bananas. (Been there, done that!) Next is the obligatory bedroom with the matching study hutches and beds. There are plenty of drawers.

Later we went out for cruising for gay men; we were told they are plentiful in San Francisco. Turns out the town is trite with them... We think we saw gay women, too. Buried somewhere in this is a message about what that San Francisco treat is.

When we got hungry we found a funky place to eat dinner. It had to be a place with meat, and it was. This place, with a funky San Francisco-ish name, features all kinds of meat on a skewer. I had the tuna with lime cream sauce on it. It was over a bed of garlic mashed potatoes. Just like mom used to make...

There are 14 sturdy young men on the 15th floor. Four of them are in Andrew's 'pod.' The four share the kitchen/lounge you see above, with a two bedroom set up, but only one bathroom, although there is a second wash basin set up outside the bathroom door. So if someone REALLY had to pee, he could pee into that wash basin and save having to walk all the way to the kitchen to pee.

The windows are kind of dirty, so it sort of spoils some otherwise beautiful views to the south and west. His building is a block east of Lake Merced Blvd, on State St. You can see the back nine of the Harding Park golf course. Next time I go up there I'm taking my golf clubs. It looks like very pretty course.

And, dear reader, regarding your golf questions, I'm shooting some good golf right now. I played last Friday, with Big T, and took a $1.25 from him (25 cents of which he still owes me. He begged off playing today because "...I have to go see my son's first soccer game as a member of the SBSU Coyotes Soccer Team." But then he later confessed: he's going to leer at the volley ball and cross country girls teams.)

Last Saturday I shot a tidy 79 at LA Royal Vista. I haven't played since then. I think I'm about an 11 handicap right now, but it's going down. I'll be single digit (again) by November.

(The things I'll do to save having to send an email...)

Mull this over while I drive 900 miles

From an article I read after being linked to it on another blog site. I think it was a Yahoo.com story.

"One in four adults read no books at all in the past year, according to an Associated Press-Ipsos poll released Tuesday.

"Among those who said they had read books, the median figure — with half reading more, half fewer — was nine books for women and five for men."

I read about ten books a month. I'm one of those voracious readers. I'd read more if the internet didn't exist and GSN didn't have High Stakes Poker playing twice a week, or more. And imagine how much I'd read if I didn't play golf?

I love reading.

Either you love to read and you'd miss books if there were all taken away, or you only read when you think there's something in it for you, an immediate something. (Well, yeah, porn does give you an immediate something...)

It's getting late, I haven't packed...

But I had to share this with you:

I could have been a contender.


Thank you.

Two Days Off...

We leave early, early tomorrow morning to drive Andrew Bananas to San Francisco State. Because he is not a merit scholar, schools he could attend were limited to the CSU system. His brother, Roby Bananas, attends Long Beach State.

You know what's really cool about the transition from high school to college now? You can take the HS friends along for the ride.

I threw away my HS yearbooks about 12 years after graduating HS. All those people had become totally irrelevant. All we had in common were some increasingly vague and somewhat embarrassing youthful interactions. We'd created memories together, and then stopped. They were people caught in amber.

But now Andrew and his tight-knit group of friends, male & female, will continue to share memories as each member of the group goes on and make additional unique-to-himself memories. They IM, they text-message, they upload video and photos, they call each other...

My freshman year in college, in a vain and very ill-fated attempt to stay close to Paula Bunker (she was at UofW in Seattle and I was at UofU in Salt Lake City) I ran up a phone bill of $125 over a two month period. That was big money back then. HUGE money! My boys stay in touch with all their friends, all over of the state, and soon the country, for probably about that much a year. And if Google rolls out the gPhone, even that cost will plummet.

So their HS friends have a legitimate chance to remain life-long friends.

We'll be back Friday. I'm taking my laptop, so if the hotel has free Wi-fi, I'll log on and be obnoxious in a NorCal sort of way. It's a whole different world up there...

If they don't have free Wi-fi, I can always bug Even Handed Hope for the use of her T-mobile Wi-fi account.

Here's a photo taken last Saturday night as we were waiting to be seated at Viva Marias: Roby Bananas is the pensive lad sucking on his lower lip. Andrew Bananas is closest to the camera, trying to seduce it with a look.

Rant for a Sunny Day

I love a good rant. We all love a good rant. Here's one now!

Rights.

We're all supposed to have some. The American Way of Life is built on the Rights of Free Men. We keep changing the definition of what is American, what is Free and what Men are, but we've never changed the notion that Rights exist and we get to have them.

Which is why silly people think they are accomplishing something when they tell hooligans that they, the hooligans, have no Right to do whatever bit of hooliganism the hooligans are committing. The silly people are correct, but not in any fashion that does them any good.

Because the silly people failed to learn, or understand, that Rights do not exist in a vacuum. Rights only exist when a Power supports them.

For instance, a hooligan has no Right to honk his horn and flash his lights at you when you're going 70 miles an hour in the #1 lane, in a 65 mph zone, because he wants you to move over and let him pass you. The hooligan is TOTALLY without any Right to do that, and you're totally within your Rights to sit there, blocking his way, impeding his improper progress.
But while the hooligan has absolutely no Right to be doing that, he does have the Power to start passing you on your right and then take some shots at you with this little Sat. night special. See the difference between a Right and a Power? Rights are abstracts, but Powers are real.

The State has the Power to enforce your Rights, but in a society where the State's Power is waning, the People lose significant Rights when the State's Power isn't feared enough. The only thing that can save the State, and the Rights of its Citizens, is when good people start taking video of hooligans doing naughty things and putting them on YouTube so the hooligans can see how badly they are behaving.

Getting personally involved is insane. Did you hear about the woman in the SouthEast section of Los Angeles who flashed her headlights and honked at a couple of graffiti artists? They shot her dead. But if she'd just taken video of them and used that video in the most effective manner, she'd still be alive.

So there you have my Rant. I want the Rights of the People fully restored and I want you to help. If you don't have a way of 'filming' people, go out and buy something. Then we'll start a new website with a catchy name, and we'll house the servers on some off shore island so we can't be sued in a US court. People will visit our website to see video of hooligans doing unAmerican things and they'll comment on each video and eventually we'll have the names of the Hooligans, and their addresses and good will triumph over evil, but we have to remember that the ends don't justify the means. Always a very hard task.

As with most of my desires, I want you to start first. I'll be along in a minute.

D-Day: The Toilet Story

That's that I thought I read on the screen. I woke up from my nap as one of the war-mongering channels was hyping a new show. Of course it was hyping "D-Day: The Total Story."

My initial reaction was 'chagrin.' But then I recognized that I'd been presented with a wonderful opportunity! There are legions of story about men in combat, men doing heroic things! Women, too! But what about the 'back' story? The story about where they all pooped and peed before, during and after their heroics? Because you know they did.

I think it's an important, mature admission that we recognize the role of poop and pee in the affairs of men, both heroic and evil. And even common place, which makes three 'boths.'

Just think about your own life: I bet you can recollect a time when having to poop, pee or lay down a fart track, altered a course of action you'd contemplated. And it works both ways. Here's a story illustrating this point.

Robin Vickers was the least popular of the varsity cheerleaders, but not the least 'cute.' She was 'cute' to beat the band. She just wasn't as secure with her beauty as the other five cheerleaders, those vicious, prick-teasing, wannabe harlots. But one thing she did know, she loved Tim Franklin, the junior point guard of the likely State Champions, at least that what the local press was predicting. But Tim, because of a case of raging ass warts, couldn't bring himself to date. But he was under a doctor's care and was almost cured and then he was going to ask out that luscious cheerleader who didn't have a boy friend, Robin Vickers. (Remember, this is a true story.)

One afternoon, when both the basketball team and the cheerleader practice ended at the same time, Robin decided that she just had to proclaim her feelings to Tim. She waited out in front of the gym, just to the west of the door. Tim came out alone, hurrying. He was by her before she could react. But she sped after him. He was almost to his car before she caught up to him. But just as she was only a couple of steps behind and was about to call to him, he stopped. She stopped. He farted. It was one of those long, buzz saw kind of farts.

Her face flamed red and she turned and ran from him. He was so happy to get the gas back log reduced, with any lumpy surprises, that his deep sigh hid the sound of her retreating footsteps. He opened his car door and got in. As he was buckling up, he thought about the dreams he'd been having about Robin Vickers. He promised himself that the next time he saw her, he'd ask her out.

And he did. And he had no idea why her face got all red and she ran away.

Look, if you don't get the moral to this story, email me and I'll try to make it clear.

Plus we can talk about where the soldiers pooped and peed on D-Day.

Life is wonderful

Boy, it's good to live in a place and time where everything is wonderful.

I'm a very lucky guy.

It's good that we can all get along.

If you'll be nice to me, I'll be nice to you.

Oh, heck, that's too much pressure... If you don't don't throw dog feces at me or slash my tires, I'll be nice to you.

That's all I wanted to say...

For Big-T and myself, this is a haunting photo

The sentiment, "If only my wife was this dirty" is a common enough lament. You know, "I want a lady in public and a whore in the bedroom." (But I don't actually want to pay...)

So seeing this inscription was somewhat poignant and I grabbed the camera and excited some pixels from one state to another.

But what Big-T and I find especially evocative in this photo is the "GOLF" label on the hood. It's a zen kind of thing and mere mortals wouldn't understand. Where your brains remove "GOLF" from the equation as you 'interpret' this photo, it is writ large and it reverberates as we read it:

GOLF, if only my wife was this dirty.

It changes everything...

A new view of Laughter

Laughter isn't too difficult to judge as to it's quality. And you, personally, can testify as to what percentage of your available 'laugh track' is committed to your current chortling. But you can't do the same for someone other than yourself. Not that has ever been a hindrance to all the judging we do of those around us.

But it would be nice if we could establish a standard of laughter. We could call them peals or maybe traques (in honor of sitcom laugh tracks) or maybe just make a completely new word, like tzarghz. One tzargh would be the amount of laughter needed to raise one cubic centimeter of whoopee cushion one degree, Kelvin. (For extra credit, please finish this new morality tale: "If a tree falls on a whoopee cushion in the forest ... ")

Just as "Super Star" now has no real meaning, the possibility that "she was a million tzarghs!" might someday also become meaningless exists. So we need to instill the humble tzargh with a degree of reverence such as we currently bestow to bra cup sizes.

As per usual, I've now spent upwards of 120 seconds trying to solve yet another of life's mysteries and so I shall retire to my just reward. In about 27 minutes my wife is going to ask me, with a look of total innocence, "Oh, did you want to have sex?" I swear, one of these nights I'm going to say no, to see just how she handles always winning, again.

If she wasn't a million OGOGOGs I wouldn't put up with it. (That probably needs a completely made up word, too.)

We can't win the war against things that can't be defeated

I don't mind sticking my neck out to receive a gold medal or anything else as appetizing on a ribbon. This is one of those times.

We can't win the war on drugs. Mostly because it's actually a war on human fallibility. Or as we call it at my local Think Tank, Human Foi-llability. Get it? Foibles combined with fallibililty? We Think Tank people get our biggest laughs out of messing around with words...the younger and more vulnerable, the better. Ancient, armored, crusty words, like "bratwurst" and "funicular" and "pagan" can maim the unsuspecting wordophile. (One of the guys once dated a woodaphobe.)

We had a 13 year experiment with banning a drug, alcohol. The wrong people got rich during Prohibition. Just as now the wrong people are getting rich off of proscribed drugs. And no matter how much we spend, or how many hours a day Dr. Phil is on TV, there are going to be people who want what they're not supposed to want.

I don't mind that there's a war on against drugs, I just mind that there are people out there who talk about 'winning' it.

Same goes for the war on poverty. And the war on ignorance, or the war on war.

One war I could vote to raise taxes for would be a war against people who want to kill me.

You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you

This is why men can also file for Restraining Orders!

A Book Review: Love Without Speed Limits in the HOV Lane

Well, it's not really a "book." It's a romance novel. A modern romance novel, designed to harvest new readers from today's 15 to 28 female age group. Gone are the swashbuckling heroes and the 'oh please ravage me again, you beast' leading ladies.

Without giving away any important plot points, here's what a prospective reader needs to know:

The hero is J. Paul Ghetto, a rapper from Bigge Grosse Pointe De Lujo, Michigane. Of course that's not his real name, but I can't say more about that without giving away an important plot point.

The villain is Foxcroft Morgan, computer despot, and evil webmaster, whose greatest desire in life is to to hack into the software of the heroine:

Hannah Julia LeBra. This haughty, proud peacock (peahen) of a woman has a small shop in the Beverly Center, selling hand made leather iPhone holsters. 19 years old, 5'10" tall, 110 pounds, flame red hair down to the small of her back and a front that starts around a corner 38 inches before you see her face.

There is a lot of yadda yadda and she repeatedly makes mad passionate passion at the two men, without actually touching them. Her heart is tossed and turned and her bosom heaves and sighs. And then the action starts!

Her livelihood is threatened, her cat, Puddn' Puss, is abducted and held hostage; her little sister, Francine Rebecca Hodges, nee LeBra, is tied up and stripped and has things pointed at her, but in a non-degrading way, because soap is involved... A lot of other horrible things happen until finally all issues are resolved and Hannah gives it up to J. Paul Ghetto, which everyone knew was going to happen, or they'd feel cheated.

Hints of a sequel made me queasy.

"...the odds are very high that the object of your derision is using you to increase his own feelings of self-worth."

I quote the above, from a writer of vast 'gravitas,' as a way to introduce a point that I feel is very important.

There are people in our lives whom we make fun of. Or we could make fun of them if we wanted to. It's all part of the "ladder" process. You can make fun of the people lower on the ladder than you, but what do you think the people higher than you are doing? Based on this, I tend to avoid easy laughter at the plights of others.

But consider someone on a different ladder. For instance, an Islamo-Fascist ladder. There you are, on your Judeo-Christian-Britney Spears ladder, and there's this guy, Al, on his Islamo-Fascist-death to all infidels ladder.

Most of us grew up only knowing people on our ladder. People on different rungs of the ladder sometimes had trouble getting along.

But with people on different ladders, communication and understanding becomes very difficult. I think I've mentioned Alfred Korzybski's efforts in this regard, his theory of 'maps' and 'territories.' Communication often seems to occur between people on different ladders, but it's not really communication like you and I mean it. (I can comfortably say this because I've received word that al Qaeda members in particular and Terrorist and Mujuhadeen in general are prohibited by Fatwah from reading this blog.)

All I'm saying is that trying to make an Islamo-Fascists feel bad is impossible. Leaving us with the preeminent problem of this and future generations: do we convert, let them kill us, or kill them?

Those who say there are other options should get their Santa Claus letters mailed out before Thanksgiving to make sure they get to Santa in time for him and the elves to work on your list.

True Story, with subtle enhancements!

On May 8,1936, it appeared that Ralph Neves' life was cut tragically short at Bay Meadows Racecourse, near San Francisco, California. The 19-year-old jockey was coming into the final stretch of the third race of the day when his horse, Fannikins, tripped. She and her rider crashed through the wooden fence. Fannikins was unharmed, but Neves, who had not only broken his own mount's fall, but had also been trampled by four other horses, was quickly attended to by the track physician, assisted by two doctors who had come down from the stands when they saw Neves fall. They all agreed he was dead, since none of them had bet on his horse. They had his body loaded into an ambulance. The race announcer called for a moment of silence. But no such moment of silence was kept because of immediate and continuing arguments about how long the moment should last.

Doctors at the hospital did everything legal they could think of to revive Neves, but to no avail. One doctor, skirting the edges of legality, called a nearby brothel and had them send their hottest Charleston dancer, but her best efforts to 'blow' life back into his body were equally in vain. By the time his friend, Dr. Horace Stevens, arrived, he had already been toe-tagged and sent to the morgue. Stevens, though, was not quite ready to give up. He administered a shot of adrenaline directly into Neves' heart. It had no effect. Sadly, he replaced the white sheet that covered his friend's lifeless body, and left him there. Had he waited just a few more minutes, he would have witnessed a miracle. The "dead" jockey rose from the chilly sla, bloodied, shrouded in the morgue sheet and wearing only his pants and a single boot. He staggered out of the hospital and hailed a cab to take him back to the racetrack.

Pandemonium broke out as Neves sprinted past the grandstand, half-dressed, with his toe tag flapping along, being chased by the cabbie, whom he had failed to pay, due to never carrying money or his wallet when he raced. "At one point," he said later, "I think everyone on the damn track was helping the cabbie chasing me. But I tipped him good later and now he's my personal driver." He fought free of the crowd and burst into the jockeys' room, where his colleagues were taking up a collection for his widow. She'd let the jockeys know that she'd take anyone 'around the world' if they came up with enough money.

She fainted when she saw her resurrected husband standing in the doorway, demanding to be allowed to ride her for free. He insisted that he didn't feel dead, but the stewards still refused to let him compete again that day. The following day, though, he rode five winners and claimed the meet's top prize — a $500 watch donated by Bing Crosby.

Neves' dramatic recovery was typical of the man who became known at "The Portuguese Pepperpot," although he always claimed to be descended from Albanian aristocracy. Fellow jockey Charlie Whittington once described Neves as "wilder than a peach-orchard boar." Neves, with the modesty that so endeared him to people who liked him, said that he was only as wild as a peach-orchard boar, not wilder. Neves wife of 61 years, Charlotte "The Big C" Neves once wrote a friend that if her husband had spent less time ridding her and more time ridding the horses, they might have made a little more money.

Neves rode another 28 years, racking up nearly 4,000 wins on more than 25,000 horses, ostriches, camels, pachyderms and once, a greyhound. In 1960, he was abducted into the National Museum of Racing's Hall of Fame and held until Charlotte baked the staff her famous Gumbo Orleans.

Ralph Neves went to bed one night in 1995, and is now sleeping for Eternity, having failed to set his alarm.

The Gift that keeps on Giving

(I do not mean this as a slight to Mr. Pistolero's post with a similar name.)

I think of myself as a very reasonable person. I'm always willing to consider the other guy's side and I'm all for 'compromising' if both sides are actually doing so.

So here's the deal for Christmas: The first rifle, seen above, the Barrett Arms Model 107, is a semi-automatic .50 caliber weapon. The magazine holds ten rounds. If you put in the magazine and then work the bolt, take out the magazine and replace the missing 10th round, you'd be sitting there with 11 rounds in the gun! But I am a realist. I don't need 11 rounds of .50 calibre BMG at my disposal. (BMG stands for Browning Machine Gun.) And besides that, the retail cost (yes, you can actually purchase this!) is $8,050, plus shipping and handling.

Let us contrast and compare the M107 with this beauty, the Barrett Arms Model M468. This baby fires the Remington 6.8 SPC cartridge. That's 6.8 mm.

I know, what's the big deal? You're sitting there fondling your 9mm Beretta, humming a catchy R. Kelly tune, and thinking, hell, my 9mm will take on any sissy 6.8mm shooter.

No you won't. See, the 6.8mm bullet is housed in a .30 caliber casing, with the latest and greatest in propellant. And while it's a thinner round, it's longer and weighs in at close to what your 9mm bullet weighs. And it's going to arrive at it's target packing twice as much kinetic energy as your Beretta bullet. And your Beretta holds what, 13 bullets? The model M468 comes with 30 round magazines.

And here's what puts this over the top: the list price is $2,700!

Look out Al Qaeda, here comes Al Capyerass.

A Tribute to El Pistolero

First, the legal stuff:

The fact that this is dedicated to El Pistolero in no way supports the notion that the male in the cartoon looks anything like him. It's just that the behavior depicted distills what I, and it's my blog, feel to be his essence.

The author of the cartoon is Scott Meyer. His work can be found at BasicInstructions.net. Google is featuring him on the dashboard page of your blog. The cartoon featured here reminded me of what the Pistolero lifestyle is all about.

And everyone knows that a lawsuit based on a form of 'homage' is tacky. Or should know...

And hey, how terrible is it that how you live your life becomes cartoon fodder? Most of us would give a testicle, even if it was our last one, for that honor.

Computer Modeling v. Fortune Telling

I haven't seen this comparison made yet in the popular press. I wonder why?

In some cultures, including our own, "fortune telling" is both popular and profitable. In the SoCal area there are storefront businesses with names like Cisco Palm Reading, Mikro-sopht Tarot and Chinga Fortune Telling. We all, from time to time, really feel a strong desire to get a peek at our futures.

Computer modeling is the attempt to know the future, based on science. But it's still just fortune telling, when you get down to the nitty-gritty. But we, the public, are supposed to be in awe of the process, because it's 'scientists' doing the modeling. But I bet that if you went to an experienced fortune teller and got a reading about where your life is headed, statistically it would be as accurate an prediction as you could get from someone who took all the pains he/she could, to do an accurate computer modeling of what lies in store for you.

Which of course brings us to today's get rich quick scheme. Find an 'educational' website and get your doctorate in Human Potentiality. So now you'd be like <insert favorite alias>, Ph.D. Then buy the domain name ComputerizedFutures.com, or something like that, and get a moody, unpredictable, but fabulously hot website designer to prepare it for you. Then charge $21.99 for a Computer Model of the client's future. Couples can ask about their fortunes for just $39.99. There's a 250 entry questionaire and then you get to ask three questions about your future or the couples' future.

Can you see why I say that an experienced 'fortune teller' has just as good a chance to 'get it right' as does the 'computer modeler'?

Now what to you suppose I think about the computer models that predict that 2009 will see a dramatic upturn in global warming? Pretty much what I think about the computer models that said that 2006 was going to be high activity hurricane season. Fortune tellers and computer modelers both know that their incomes depend on telling the client what he, the client, wants to hear.

(Those seeking to invest in ComputerizedFutures.com should contact me at the email address of their choice.)

A Great April Fool's Prank!

This April Fool's prank came to me as I was watching golf. Enough of you have seen golf on TV this prank to make sense. Unfortunately, we won't have a weekend April Fool's day until 2112, and by then you'll have forgotten about this post and you'll be caught up in the April Foolery just like everyone else.

Cameramen at golf events have perfected the ability to focus in tight on a golf ball in flight. Most of you have seen this done. A golfer hits his tee shot. The ball suddenly appears on the screen and the camera even focuses tight on the ball. Then as the ball is descending, the shot widens and we see the golf course and then the ball hits the ground.

Okay, in my prank there is a CGI prepared to switch to during this process. When the switch is made from the golfer striking the ball to the tight shot of a ball in flight, the switch is actually to the CGI shot. The announcers, who are in on this and watching what we're seeing on their monitor, suddenly notice, and comment on, the fact that the ball has slowed and come to a stop. The shot widens and we see the ball suspended in the air, stationary. Then the ball starts to do lazy eights in the air and then it starts chasing Tiger Wood around on the golf course. Crowd noises are inserted to conform with what we're seeing on the screen and the announcers are going nuts!

Then they all start laughing and in unison cry out, "April Fools!"

The Luxury Crossover

Buick is marketing a vehicle with this label.

It gives men of lesser accomplishment something to shot for. I want to be your Luxury Crossover.

What do I mean? Well, obviously you who are tuned into my writings know there has to be a sexual component. Any true human being worth his or her reproductive paraphernalia has to admit that sex is a component in just about everything we do.

But as I always point out to pimps promoting their spring line, "Hey, sex isn't everything! You got any girls with a good short game?"

Becoming a Luxury Crossover means that I have to care about which fork is for the salad and which fork is for the aceitunas estilo tus nalgas. In other words I have to care, sincerely, about things that people who pretend they aren't sexual beings care about.

Right away I know you're asking yourself, "BB, why do you care about people who are into denying their sexuality?" Silly rabbit! Like the kids always say, 'tricks are for kids!' In other words, to get laid!

Online storage and the Law

I have no idea what the status of the law with regard to documents, photos and ideas (intellectual property).

Google gives me the opportunity to store scanned documents, photographs and my 'ideas' on their servers. I can do this by attaching the files to a gmail sent to a "storage" email account, or by using their spreadsheet or psuedoWord services through my gmail account. I'm sure many people are doing the same thing. It's a method for backing up your files and it allows you to access these files from any computer connected to the internet.

But what happens when I shuffle off the mortal coil? Or if I die!!

Liz has a couple of my passwords and since she can access my main email account, she'd be able to 'harvest' them and see what I took the time to save. It would be immensely boring for her.

But there are people out there who may have some pretty exciting stuff stored online. Who has more right to it upon their intestate deaths, their common law heirs or the service that stored all those MBs? Especially if the common law heirs didn't even know there were things stored online?

Sure, like when they sell the contents of storage facilities, it's mostly all crap. But occasionally you find cardboard boxes full of cash or video tapes of Lindsey Lohan acting rationally, a true rarity!

What do you have stored online that you don't want the rest of us to know about? Please provide all the squishy details. Please?

A Note to My Wife:

Honey, according to the LA Times this morning, Lucy Jones, whom we loved watching on TV whenever there was an earthquake, is trumpeting the news that:

We are 3,600 months and 75 days overdue for a magnitude 7.0 quake striking in the Coachella Valley.

The really bad news for us is that the 'path of travel' of the quake is towards Palmdale. We sit between the Coachella Valley and Palmdale.

So double up on the bottled water and toilet paper today at Costco.

Love you!

Put up your Dukes

I have a very, very strong suspicion that Pres. Bush may have thought that "put up your dukes" was an old medieval term having to do with poker night at the castle. There's a certain tendency for literalness seen in our President. (Like "staunch Republican effort" in his mind may mean "stop Republican effort...")

Someone must have clued the President in, because at a press conference yesterday Pres. Bush is quoted as saying the following, in reference to posing in a photo op with his clenched fists raised:

"You don't want the picture to be kind of, you know, duking it out, you know?" Bush said " 'OK, put up your dukes.' That's an old boxing expression."

That's an old boxing expression... Indeed it is. I sincerely believe even illiterates know this. I submit to you that it putting up one's dukes has been part of the vernacular in the English speaking world since long before GWB was born (Google says since the late 1800s among polite society). It bothers the heck out of me that Bush thinks he has to explain his vocabulary to the press of the reading world. How dumb does he think we are? Or by inference, how smart does he think he (and God) are?

Advice

I've often advised. But no one wants my advice.

I know certain things that have value. Just like when you go to the race track and you're looking for a hot tip, there's a certain type of character to whom you will naturally lend a ear when they mention "Twinkie Defense" in the fourth race, but to only buy a place ticket.

There is a certain milieu in which I am that type of character. It has nothing to do with dress or appearance, but with my gaze. (Kathy Griffin and her Gaze...) I take a certain amount of pride in this, but not as much pride as that morning when I walked out of my first Screamer's apartment, there on the West Side of LA. Okay, actually it was in the Palms District. I think the neighbor's started fearing my appearance at the front gate of her complex. And she was very petite! Who knew?!

Anyway, I often get called to advise and I do a good job because it's about something everyone agrees I know.

But I know lots of other things, too! But did my niece ask me for advice about her new boyfriend's tattoos? Nope.

Did my wife ask me for advice when her best friend accused her of trying to sabotage her latest attempt to sucker some man into living with her? Nope.

Did my second oldest son ask me for advice when his possible future father-in-law lost his job and wanted to move his family into Roby's apartment "temporarily"? Nope.

Did Katrocket ask me for advice before she (- - - - - - censored - - - - - -)? Another big, fat NOPE! Geez, who couldn't have seen that coming!!

I'm not saying that I have the answers, but if what I see going on around me is any indication, no one really listens to advice anyway. But it would have been nice to be asked.

Useful life style advice from TV land

Lois, in The Family Guy, advices post-pubescent females to make themselves freely "available" to boys in their peer groups because you can never tell in advance who will grow up to be rich and famous.

I see no reason why women of all ages should not avail themselves of this advice, as long at they are making themselves available to men who can afford lottery tickets. And are actually buying them. Always ask to see the lottery tickets...

"Going Green"

Al Gore needs to expand on this theme.

Going Green should also mean that when you die, you 'husk' is disposed of without making a carbon footprint. No embalming. (Embalming fluid can't be good for plant life.) No cremating. No digging a grave with machinery. Etc.

Going Green should also mean that when you pee and/or poo, you should avoid leaving any more of a carbon (or methane) footprint than necessary.

Going Green needs to replace 'going dutch.'

There are probably more ways to turn 'Going Green' into further reductions in our cultural carbon footprint.

As a sidelight, I should like to point out that we could do a lot towards reducing our carbon footprint if we revive foot binding.

Thank you, Guv'nor!

The Guv'nor sent me a link to her site. At least I think it's her site. I didn't actually go in, as I have no real proof that I'm over 18, so rather than take any chances, I just ogled this photo. There seems to be a certain luster to her finish...

While I have nothing but admiration for the Guv'nor, I had to deal with my prudery, not to mention the fact that youngsters, and the young at heart, plus an Asian friend, Mr. Yung, visit this site, so I obscured her bosom. Not the Guv's bosom, but the photo's bosom. This may or may not be an effigy of the Guv'nor. I'll leave you all to deal with this issue, as god and your carnal desires figure is best.

But isn't it great!? 12 years ago, before I got on the internet via AOL, what earthly chance would I have had for the Guv'nor to share herself with me, and the rest of the world. The Guv'nor has taken the bull by the horns and is apparently now all about connecting. Ya gotta love how the internet helps us all connect, MasterCard and Visa accepted.

WTF?

This is a photo on the log-on screen when you sign onto T-Mobile at a Fedex-Kinkos.

Every time (and it can't just be me!) I see this photo I immediately assume that both of them are naked from the waist down. Why else are they grinning that way?

What the hell else could they be doing?

Achieving Insignificance

This is a metaphysical goal, right? To not matter...

Most of us work (or play) our little butts off trying to matter. But what about the reverse?

You couldn't find a teacher to instruct you... How could you trust a teacher of insignificance who was listed in the phone book? Or was recommended by word of mouth?

You ask yourself, why would anyone want to achieve insignificance? Oh, man, there are lots of reason. Obviously anyone who has a blog isn't pointed towards this goal... But I'm aware that there are people who are trying to erase themselves from the consciousnesses of all those who surround them. Sometimes I view this as a handy talent.

Anyway, I'd love to see a school of 'being' start up in which this was the announced goal, which, of course, they'd couldn't announce, as it would be significant...

The Fairness Doctrine

To my knowledge, which is two bushels short of two and a half bushels, no Old Timey Greek Philosopher concerned himself or herself with 'fairness.'

That they never expected their gods to be fair is quite apparent from the stories that survive, so my appreciation of their lack of appreciation for fairness can easily be appr... seen.

"But that's not FAIR!" is a lament all of us have grown up with. It does no good to wonder how and when this fetish began. Sure, I can understand how as a society we enjoy helping the downtrodden, because you can never tell when you've going to be a downtrodden. And I don't even mind making it a tenet of our culture that the 'advantaged' should in some way be yoked with the 'disadvantaged' to the benefit of the 'disadvantaged.' A majority of us have decided/been brainwashed into agreeing that this is fair.

How many times have you heard the exclamation, "That's not Fair!" and vocally or internally responded, "Hey, no one said life was fair?"

So am I correct in my confusion: Life is well known not to be fair, but I live in a society that desires to smooth out all of life's bumps. Is it really a virtue that there are people who say, "Life isn't fair but we're working on it." Who is the 'we' and who gets to say if what their doing is 'fair'?

Now can you see why I can't sleep nights?

If you really try, you can find a silver lining in any cloud

I don't necessarily propose that you have to find a silver lining in every cloud. Imagine being in a business where that was your job! Yeow!

"Hey, Russ, an 7.4 earthquake just hit Rome and Vatican City is just a pile of rubble and everything combustible is burning. Gimme a silver lining, stat!"

"Hey, Russ, George Bush just announced that he's suspending the Constitution and imposing martial law (You suppose there are guys named Marshall Law? What kind of jokes do they grow weary of hearing when they first meet new people? How about the stupid jokes he'd have to hear as he left on his honeymoon?) on the entire country and banning elections until the war on terrorism is won and everyone has to attend a worship service once a week and the IRS will begin collecting tithings at the first of the month and the money will be turned over to the church of your choice, but taxes will be reduced 5% because all welfare will be abolished and if you need help, ask your pastor, priest, reverend, rabbi, mullah, sensei, bishop, holy man or Katrocket. Quick, where's the silver lining?"

When Gilda Radner was told her cancer had returned and that she had only months to live, she went on tour. Here's one of the jokes she told (and I'm paraphrasing): A woman goes to the doctor and is told she has a super-advanced cancer and that she only has 12 hours to live. Since it's 4:30 p.m., she leaves the office, refusing to pay the bill and telling the billing clerk, "... So sue me!" She rushes home and begins preparing dinner for herself and her husband. He gets home and as they're eating she tells him about the doctor visit and that this is their last meal. He's heartbroken. They talk and talk, except that at 10 p.m. when he has to watch Sports Center.

Then as they're getting ready for bed, she asks him to make mad passionate love to her. He starts to beg off, telling her he's just not in the mood. She explodes, thinking she's perfectly entitled to do so. How can he be so insensitive, she laments! This is her last night alive and if she wants him to make love to her, he should! He reminds her of all the times she begged off, because she wasn't in the mood. She keeps playing the death card as she tries to get him to change his mind. Finally he says, "Hey, cut me some slack here! It's not like YOU have to get up in the morning!"

The ultimate in finding a silver lining is probably when you can laugh at your own death/annihilation. So far I've been able to muster a snigger. (Chocolate covered Sniggers? My humor inspires only niggardly sniggers, snatcherly.)

Celebrity Spokespeople

Some Hispanic baseball player has done erection pill endorsements, as has one-time presidential candidate Bob "the Big Boing" Dole. I had no trouble with The Big Boing fronting for the product, but I bet the Hispanics of the world were ashamed of the ballplayer for admitting he needed propping up.

I want to see celebrity endorsements for condoms... Both sexes. Charlie Sheen... Who could doubt his word on the subject? But I can see where the A-list actresses might shy away from this endorsement, but Kathy Griffin, now that she's single, could have some fun with it.

Preparation H would be a problem. But not insurmountable, given how much money they make per sale. It's almost all profit, I've heard. An older male comedian could get away with it, like Bill Cosby. Or they could purchase the use of some iconic dead personality. Like John Wayne or Elizabeth Taylor. Is she dead yet? Or one of the recent popes...

And wouldn't you totally buy Britney Spears as a spokesperson for a yeast infection cure? And even being a guy, I'd buy a douche on Paris Hilton's recommendation. And who could resist
Angela Jolie for AstroLube?

Funniest thing I've just read that I can't believe I never read before.

No matter what amount of German food you eat, an hour later you're hungry for power.

A photographic History of Time, Space & Matter

You know how when you're looking at a folder of photos in your 'pictures' section and they're way small so you can't really make out what it is sometimes? That was the case in this photo. There were two others of this same object.

So naturally, having no idea at that instance what it was, I decided to do a post about it. Makes perfect sense, right?

Once I was able to see this larger image I immediately remembered what it was. I photo'd this at a residence not my own. Although I've never had one of these, I'm betting that at least a third of you have.

Know what it is?