1. Mark Twain
2. Geoffrey Chaucer
3. William Shakespeare
4. Jesus Christ
5. Winston Churchill

Discuss.

The other night, while sitting in a candlelit room watching Return of the King with my beee-u-tiful girlfriend, I started to have an internal dialogue. I enjoy the Lord of the Rings films. They're amazingly well-done, as far as production goes. And some of the images are just about overpowering. They're poorly acted, in my humble, but in a sort of way that fits the overall weirdness that a simpering little dandy like Tolkien probably would've liked.

So, there at the end when SPOILER WHOA SPOILER Aragorn has defeated the dark powers-that-was with some small assistance by midget-folk, and is being crowned king, and everybody's getting all weepy, I said to myself, "What's up with these fucking monarchists? Don't they realize that there's going to be ethnic cleansing and genocide, starting with those hairy little Drúedains, as soon as Captain Eugenic there gets his in-bred ass in the saddle? Checks and balances, people!"

In Middle Earth, I would've been a plurocratic revolutionary, speaking truth to power and spreading democracy, undermining the authoritarian might-is-right rule of hereditary tyrants like Mr. "Ein Volk, Ein Land" Aragorn . Well, that or a barber. Get a haircut, you pussies.

I mean my post, not Dvorak's.

All the hand-wringing that Mac fans do about whether or not Apple will survive is good reason to write a column saying Apple won't. The Mac cultists love to defend and extoll their beloved machines until they froth at the mouth, citing style or simplicity or general coolness as the reason they love their Macs. Those people are dorks. It's a machine, people; get over it.

As a rule, I don't like desktop Macs. They cost too much, and once you look inside, it's just about all commodity hardware. They even use the same cheesy CD drives that every PC in the world does, hiding the "eject" button with an ill-fitting, tilting faceplate. In the old days, for a PC guy, a Mac's guts were a confusing blend of exotic components: Motorola chips, where Intel was expected; weird 3.5" 800K floppy drives, instead of the usual 5.25" 360K or 1.2M drives; SIMM banks, instead of DIP sockets; 50-pin SCSI ribbons instead of God's own hard drive interface, ESDI. It was truly different. Today, a desktop Mac has IDE drives, IBM-made CPUs, and the memory can be bought at the grocery store next to the cigarettes. About the only difference you'll see, hardware-wise, is the FireWire port, but even that's beginning to give way to the ubiquity of USB 2.0. It's the same cheesy hardware you'll find in any tired old PC; it just costs twice as much.

Notebooks, however, are a different story. Here, Apple really is the king, in my opinion. You simply cannot compare a clunky Sony Vaio running clunky Windows XP to a Powerbook running OS X, I don't care how many card-reading orifices the thing has. The 15" Powerbook I'm writing this on is simply the most efficient computer I've ever used. The OS X paradigm, along with Apple's hardware philosophy, fits perfectly into the laptop world. You don't ever shut the computer down, for example; you just clap it shut and it goes to sleep. You open it up, and it's immediately ready to use. I've had this computer since March, and I've only booted it into OS X about 10 times so far, mostly for system updates. Bluetooth is built right into the laptop, as is 802.11g (I would say 54Mbit 'Wi-Fi', if anyone could tell me what the hell 'Wi-Fi' stands for). There's USB, FireWire, Ethernet, Bluetooth, and a modem. There's also a PC card slot, though I've never used it, so I don't know what this guy's talking about. All-in-all, the Powerbook is rock solid, and it's a joy to work with.

I'm no Mac zealot, though. I like both my Mac and my Linux-running desktop PC. If you've got the money, buy the Apple. If not, then burn in hell, you Gates-rimming plebe.

Little cellphones today all have cameras embedded in them. You can just click on the shutter-button, and bling! there's a picture in your phone. So, I was wondering if there's a way to send that directly to the police. For example, if you're pretty sure you're about to get mugged, you could just take a picture of the guy and send it quick-like to the cops. Then, you could say, "whoa, G, you might as well keep on moving: five-o's got your mug." Of course, this may come across as somewhat antagonistic, which muggers generally don't like. Anyway, if you send an MMS to 911, does it work? It should. Then, we could all be bitch-ass little snitches at the touch of a button.

I ask, because I had exactly this dream last night. Except, I took the picture of the guy, then the little "Send" button on my phone fell off. I looked all over the place for it, and the robber was standing there, tapping his foot and looking at his watch while I searched all over the ground like Velma looking for her glasses. Had I been the robber, I would've just pistol-whipped my clumsy ass and taken the phone away.

I missed my blog's birthday. It's now 3 years old. Now it's going to be all bitchy until Christmas, where I'll have one last chance to make up for it.

I started this albatross as Rube's Nest, in December, 2001. At that time, I also registered youbitch.org as a tribute site to my ex-girlfriend, just in case anybody was wondering about the name. For some reason, I started writing crap here everyday instead of over at Rube's Nest. And I still have the delusion that I'll get the rest of my horrendously tedious travel diary up over there Any Day Now. It's looking good: After 3 years, I've already done almost a third of it. Only 9 more months to type in there!

But that's mañana. Today's Monday, and that's drinking day. Prost.

Here's the view from my "smoking room" at the moment. I woke up this morning and it had indeed begun to look a lot like Christmas. My "smoking room" is actually a broom closet in the stairwell, where I smoke because my girlfriend is a non-smoker, and I don't like her apartment smelling like a holding cell. And I actually rolled out of bed around noon. Other than that, everything's as I said, I think.

I think I'm still a little high from paint fumes. The apartment's finished, except I still have to mop the foyer. And give my landlady the keys. And relish the steam that shall pour from her ears when she realizes she traded hardwood floors for white walls and this:

(Closeup)

An excellent use of linoleum, to be sure. Germans have a slight problem with seeing the big picture sometimes; they're a little too detail-oriented.

Facts and Figures:

87 Liters of White Paint
65 man-hours
92 sq. meters of ceiling painted
3 m wall height
4 painting extensions, 2 of which broke
2 pairs of jeans
1 pair Addidas tennis shoes
1 pair Reebok running shoes
2 Lextite full-body condoms
6 brushes
5 rollers
1 man lost to illness, presumably malaria
1 man still missing in action

300kg of wood flooring disposed of, along with 1 old German lady's illusion that when an American offers you an all-or-nothing deal, he's bluffing.

Augie hits the crapper.

Rube admires the Hetzfresse's (sorry, still no link) spackle-moves.

After a week of painting, even the most unqualified handymen can afford to show a little painter-butt.

In abject frustration, Rube decides to paint the rest of the apartment with his sizable head.

In this case, 'experts' being a clever euphemism for 'Oompa-Loompas'.

Rube (R), in full painter regalia, prepares to rawk this house. White.

Ack!

Sorry, guys, I know you're all jonesing for some sort of anti-retard rant or something, but I'm painting my apartment this week. That means no TV, no radio, no Internet, no standing on the reload button hoping against hope that Velociman finally posted that picture of the pustule he promised us a while back. As primitive as can be, as they say.

There's also no heat, as long-time readers may remember. You see, I'm not really painting my apartment. I'm painting my old apartment, which I moved out of about a month ago. So you know it's done with love. Good lord, the paint-job looks like ass, despite what my esteemed colleagues have done to make it better. At 25 degrees Fahrenheit, paint neither dries nor covers the walls very well. And the unheated water that comes out of the tap does nothing to clean the brushes. FYI.

Keep the faith, my friends. There are pictures coming.

I'm not sure exactly when it was that I lost all patience with crazy people. I used to feel sorry for them, and think, aww, poor crazy person. Maybe I could help or something. Now it's all I can do not to plant my boot in their face. It's like that smelly old lady who sits in the ATM kiosk and screams some sort of aggressive-sounding eastern European nonsense at me when I'm trying to get my money. I envision the joy on the faces of the jack-booted thugs who should, by all rights, be stomping her steaming, genetically-damaged innards all over the immaculately-tiled floors. Merry Christmas, you fucking crazy lady. Then there's the so-called "King of Augsburg," who's basically a 40-something attention-whore who dresses up like Ludwig II and walks around city hall like he owns the place. Let's not forget this one loon who jumps on the streetcar at all hours and sings opera at the top of his lungs. They should be tagged, shaved, and sterilized, the whole loopy lot of them.

That's why this post by Velociman aggravates me. Not only does he not engage them with violence, he gives them smokes! It's the two things that conspire to drive me batshit: non-violence with regards to crazy people, and the wanton giving of smokes to freeloaders. Now, in all fairness, I used to give cigarettes to anyone who asked. I could recognize a brother in need, and would happily surrender a Camel to silence the monkey, if only fleetingly. I'm not sure how this tradition started, but it's wrong-headed in the most serious way. I didn't realize just how wrong it was until I went to Paris. I'll warn you now, in case you've never been in Paris: Don't ever smoke outdoors. Even in the nice parts of town, you'll be swarmed by sullen teenagers from every direction, demanding a cigarette; and offering not even the slightest nod of thanks once you give them one. You'll go through about a pack an hour in daylight, and you'll be asking for a brick-slap on the back of your skull if you light up at night. Since my last trip to Paris, I've taken a different tack towards freeloaders. If somebody comes up and asks for a cigarette, I ask for money. If I've got more than half a pack left, it's only 50 cents. If I'm down to the last 5 or so, or if the asker is drunk, it's a cool Euro per nail. You should try it; it works. You can make enough to buy a whole pack, and it's better than saying no, since it's completely fair. Unless it's a crazy person, in which case you should just say no because you're as likely to get a small rock painted with a smiley-face as you are to get a Euro.

Yee-haw! I got my search thing working again, in order to settle a personal dispute. As it turns out, I've only used the word 'twat' 3 times in 2 years. And, I might add, always in a non-sexual context.

"First of all, baby, it wasn't me. That's all I've got to say about that. I don't care what the bitch said, I didnt. Do. Shit. I was jsust sitting there typing away, like I always do. And you know how cute I look when I'm sitting there bangin-, I mean, typing away on my little Powerbook. Baby, can I just say you look beeeee-u-tiful tonight? You do. What? Oh, I mean, then she came over to me and said, 'Are you like a journalist or something?' And then I was like, 'Journalist? You trying to piss me off or what? Journalist?' And she was all, 'Well, you know...' playing with her hair and shit, twisting little curls around her finger and stuff. You know, I can read people. So, I deigned to retort: 'I'm not a journalist. I'm a blogger.' Which was probably exactly the right thing to say, you know, because then she was all like, ewwwwww, get it off me! which was fine by me, she's probably in j-school for all I know. What's that, baby? Naw, baby, I think blogging's sexy, especially when you do it. So anyways, I was just sitting there typing away about how bad the service here blows, I mean, you know, they're lax and whatever, and then I look over and the bitch is staring at me. I mean like retarded starin'. And that's when I noticed that not only had she done peeled off the label on her beer bottle, she'd already got started on her date's! Well, baby, that's when I realized it was time to get the HAIL outta Dodge, nowhutimsayin.

"Check please! I mustered through my risin' gorge. Now, stop that fussing. You know ya daddy treats ya right."

Well, looks like I've managed to become illegal again. The last time was in September, and then I managed to get a three-month extension. The twist in the spiel is, if I can manage to stay on German soil until April, I'll get a Green Card. Of course, what happens in-between will probably have a major effect on whether or not I'll be a hollow-eyed 80 lb. scarecrow by then, selling nickel-bags to schoolchildren to buy coffee and tobacco, but whatever, it's a start. I think I've developed my game plan; stay tuned...

Bureaucracies have their place in the order of things. They bring order and impersonality where it's needed. It's the earthly manifestation of the Rule of Law, where the rules apply regardless of identity or circumstance. To be sure, there are good and bad bureaucracies, but the point of it all is, poor and rich alike are affected by the red tape, thereby assuring some sort of lowest common denominator of suffering that unites, feel the love my brothers. Bureaucracies do have their drawbacks, of course. To wit, "going postal" is now officially in the American lexicon. But still, you have to admit that it all looks good on paper, like Socialism or torx screwdrivers.

So, now all that's left to hope is that I can phone it in for four months and back into the playoffs, to mix a metaphor or three.

Here I am again, sitting in what I now refer to in my head as the Worst Bar in the World. It's not the worst looking bar in the world. There are some rough-and-tumble jobs on the bad side of Bangkok, where betting your Baht on spontaneous bouts of Thai-boxing is a respected tradition. In one bar that I visited where the tuk-tuks dare not roam, I actually found a tooth in the ashtray. It was a human tooth, I assume, though admittedly I'm no dentist. There were dried blood patches on the floor, at least on the night I was there (perhaps not coincidentally it was Ladies' Night). There's also the late, great Stein Club in Midtown Atlanta to consider.

No, this bar is just the worst all-round bar in the world. You may recall the episode with the fütchen, about which I wrote a week or two ago. At that time, the staff was just too stressed to bring people beer. Tonight, however, they had a different reason. I walked in about a half hour ago; and, as usual, about half the customers were sitting around with warmed-over, greasy, empty glasses in front of them. The other half were either already drunk, or not the drinking type. I walked up to the bar to order myself a beer; I've given up ever getting served at a table here. The wait staff were sitting at the bar smoking cigarettes, as is their wont, and I actually had to tap one of them on their tattooed shoulder to get their attention.

Once I'd ordered my beer, the tall, slender, albeit buck-toothed blondie sauntered around to the business side of the bar, and started pouring a beer. After a few seconds of shooting nothing but foam into my glass, she called to the other "waiter" that he needed to grab a new keg from storage. "What, a new keg again?" he whined.

Again? I thought. When the hell could they have last changed out kegs? How many months could it take for such a ridiculous gaggle of slackers to actually dry up a keg? More likely the beer evaporated. Does this place even have a boss? What do you have to do to get fired here? In many places, sitting at the bar smoking cigarettes while all the customers wait for beer from an empty keg is nigh Dickensian in its cartoonishly abject insolence. There's a niggling little thought in the back of your head that you forgot the password, and that everyone thinks you're a narc.

You'd think that years of abuse, culminating in having a waitress delegate her job to you, would be one of those lessons you'd never forget. You get burned, and you develop little rules of thumb to avoid making mistakes more than once; you develop little proverbs like, "always throw the circuit breakers before drilling", and "never moon a Chinaman". But sometimes you forget, and here I am again, in the worst little Kneipe in Germany.

HIM: This Bush, he's a crazed religious fundamentalist! He said that he was 'chosen by God' to lead the United States against the Arab horde!

ME: Well, I don't think he ever actually used the words 'Arab horde'

HIM: Yes, he rules America like a puritan. But you know what the 10 Commandments are?

ME: Well, most of them

HIM: Love your neighbor like yourself, for example. Or thou shalt not kill.

ME: Ok...

HIM: And he doesn't hold himself to these rules!

ME: So, what you're telling me, is that you hate Bush because he doesn't run America like a religious fundamentalist?

HIM: Exactly!

ME: ...

HIM: ...

ME: So, how 'bout that crazy tax system, huh?

HIM: What about it?

Today is D-1 Day. Tomorrow, Vaterstaat will decide whether or not he wants to disown me, sending me off to live with my Uncle Sam; who, for better or worse, could really give a fuck. Uncle Sam has never really shown me the love that Vaterstaat does. Oh, I know, a real loving, Ozzie and Harriet-style father wouldn't take three fourths of everything I earn, kick me out of my apartment, threaten to jail me, then deport me. But it's tough love, you know? He wants what's best for me, is all.

But then again, what is the best for me? Jump-starting is not the best way to get a car going, but sometimes it's the only way. Well, you can always roll-start it; but I heard that's bad for the catalytic converter, whatever that is. What would I do if they kicked me out of the country? First of all, I'll exchange my Euros for some sort of stable currency, like Chinese Yuan, something with some worth to it. Then, I'm going on an x-day bender, x being the number of days they give me to go on said bender. Then, I'll sell my snowboard, I guess. Not much use for that thing in Woodstock, Georgia I'll wager. Then I'll call ahead for a reservation at the Wade Green Waffle House for the week covering December 13-19; on second thought, just save that back table for me 24/7 until further notice, girls, the boy's got a grits-deficiency to take care of.

Where does one go from here? I've been on the road now for damn near seven years. You can't go home again. I tried once, and that was an abject failure. As scary as it is to lose everything, once it happens, you've got a lot of freedom. You've nothing to lose, and every option is open. All you need's a plan, and that will come in time.

Why couldn't this have happened before the Jawja Blogfest? At least then I could've gotten my ass kicked at half-rubber, only to exact my sweet, sweet revenge with a rough-and-tumble game of street hockey. Now there is a sport of kings.

Hopefully, I'm through now with waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, the smell of fear upon me and an uncontrollable desire to run to the computer and open up my email. No, I haven't cancelled my subscription to the Hollywood Newsletter, I've done something even more radical. It took a little hacking, but I've finally got James Seng's wonderful SCode working with MovableType 3.

I think.

I woke up this morning with 350 emails in my Inbox, each one a little congratulatory note to me for becoming the new worldwide marketing director of Phentamine, a substance I've never heard of . So, I figured I'd get some kind of comment spam control in there before it gets out of hand...er. Now, just what the hell is Phentamine, anyway?

So, with SCode in place, ecto running full speed, and half a bottle of Glenmorangie 18 calling my name, the blogging can begin again in earnest:

Best. Domain name. Ever.

Beer is indifference.
Whisky is indignance.

thom say:

After years of waiting nothing came
As your life flashed before your eyes
You realize

I'm a reasonable man
Get off, get off, get off my case
I'm a reasonable man
Get off my case
Get off my case

After years of waiting
After years of waiting nothing came
And you realize you're looking,
Looking in the wrong place

The fascination of failure: It is the thing that connects us to our childhood, and, through that, immortality. No one wants to die, least of all successfully.

Sleep tight.

Some things really should be the same in all languages.

For the non-German speakers, that means "Do not stand here, because huge amounts of snow will fall from the roof of this building and crush you like a bug."

Ace is pondering the ways and wiles of the political anthem. The current wisdom seems to be that right-wingers don't have a real anthem that fucking rocks. Somebody ain't been paying attention. I submit Big Man with a Gun, by noted conservative celebrity and pro-gun activist, Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails.

I am a big man
(yes I am)
and I have a big gun
got me a big old Dick and I
I like to have fun
held against your forehead
I'll make you suck it
maybe I'll put a hole in your head
you know, just for the fuck of it
I can reduce you if I want
I can devour
I'm hard as fucking steel, and I’ve got the power
I'm every inch a man, and I'll show you somehow
me and my fucking gun
nothing can stop me now
shoot shoot shoot shoot shoot
I'm going to come all over you
me and my fucking gun
me and my fucking gun

It positively drips everything good about American values and conservatism onto the floor, somebody bring me a fucking sponge, man, I'm getting weepy over here.

Plus, it's got a better beat than the Horst Wessel Lied.

What's fucking rocking in iTunes right now?

Big Man With A Gun from the album "The Downward Spiral" by Nine Inch Nails

Cobby is rating herself. I find it refreshing how open and honest bloggers can be about their private lives. I won't give away all the juicy parts, but here's something to whet your appetite:

Oral: 8 - Accompanied by the comment, "You can do more. Show it."

Kids today...

Poking around at a site belonging to the girlfriend of a twat, I noticed that the #7 Word for 2004 was 'peloton'; which means, as anyone who reads Velociworld knows, "a list of bloggers sorted by penis size, in ascending order."

Next time I pass out at my girlfriend's apartment, remember to hide the laptop first...

Hello, this is Augie typing. I just finished feeding my spousal unit with kidney beans and now try to conquer his new beloved blogging software - anyone of you ever heard of ecto? Don't know anything about it except that he - my boyfriend - would not say:

"What's wrong with two Delhaize* bags and a bit of string ?"

... if I would ask him to go shopping with me for a new bra.

* - Tescos, for example.

In September 2001, I, like most Americans, took a step back, scratched my chin thoughtfully while looking at the rest of the globe, and decided, It's Got to Go. Well, here we are 3 years later, and it's still there.

The main difference between mainstream America and the rest of the world is that we know that if enough of us vote to get rid of the rest of the world, well, just don't be buying stock in Condé Nast is all I'm saying. I've been having a lot more dreams about nuclear war than I usually would've. Once them Mullahs get the bomb and vaporize Tel Aviv, the Israelis are going to be vaporizing some things we hadn't really been planning on letting them vaporize, for example Paris.

My mom took me on her knee when I was 10 (don't ask), after Reagan won the White House over charismatic homeboy Jimmy Carter. "Eric", she said (she always called me Eric. Rube came later.), "Eric, there's gonna be a war now. Whenever a Republican gets elected, there's a war. And if there's another war, which there will be, it'll be the end of the world, and everyone's going to die." Then, we watched a documentary about Nostradamus, and how he predicted everything from the French Revolution to the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Orson Welles, in all his Paul Masson-fat years glory, was the host of this particular show, and he explained to my young psyche the dire years ahead, with overpopulation and widespread famine, and how men would feed upon men and the beast would arise in the middle east, and then something about hats.

But then, every culture has its myths about the end of the world, even the shallow, self-absorbed Dixie-Hippies' schicht to which my mother belonged. The population explosion never happened, then World War III became a made-for-TV fantasy, so then they invented AIDS to threaten the world and bankrupt the AYDS Diet Candy Corporation; then it was Mexicans, if I recall correctly. Now, it's got something to do with Bush and Jews, but I'm not sure exactly what it is anymore, it being late and me being drunk.

I think I prefer the Norse apocalypse to our hand-wringing version of the end the world. According to the Scandinavians, the end of the world, Ragnarok, has already happened. The gods and giants engaged in the final battle in time immemorial; a battle which laid waste to the Earth and induced an eons-long winter. This marked an end to the age of wonder, rendering the world safe for the only two survivors, which were a man and a woman.

Recently, I've been poking around the Internet a bit, slumming for blogtools. I say slumming because I'm generally an anti-tool kind of person. I sweated out the decision to switch to Movable Type, for example, for 3 months before I finally jumped. At the time, I was writing my own content management system, the now-lamented CMX®. After much deliberation, I decided to go instead with the industry-standard MovableType, because CMX® sucked like Denise Richards at a casting call.

A short while ago, I wrote an article, never published because it also sucked, concerning the integration of HTMLArea with MovableType. This was my publishing constellation of choice for a while. I can do HTML, but HTMLArea not only makes it unnecessary, it also works on Mac, thus allowing me to post both lazily and smugly. Then, a chain reaction of mishaps occurred. HostingMatters my hosting provider, upgraded the server which hosts all my stuff. This broke the Turing test I had installed, the wonderful scode plugin, which I subsequently uninstalled so that my comments worked and I could once again be called a White Monkey by the many visiting Muslims who find my site by googling "All Muslims Are Terrorists". Then, the comment-spammers found my site, and I began experiencing the joy of deleting 200 online poker ads per minute. Who the fuck plays that much online poker anyway? The joy of poker is eating Doritos, farting, and smoking cigars within the anti-woman shell that is the basement rumpus room, while pretending that Tuesday night is all about winning a handful of nickels you'll wind up tossing in that fucking wooden bucket in the corner that you really need to take down to the Kroger and toss in the big Change-Automat anyway. But I digress. This led to my upgrading to MovableType 3, which is still free for the small blogger, by the way. And it's ok, with TypeKey registration and all, which not one of you lazy fucks have bothered with. I know you've got to register with TypeKey to be able to post, but it's not like Janet Reno works for Six Apart, you fucking Unabombers, so get a grip. Skinner said it's on the up-and-up.

Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah, ecto. So, I went out and bought ecto, which cost a whopping $13 or something like that, so yeah, I'm broke now. Bloggin with ecto, yeah man, wonder what the poor people are doing. ecto lets you write in WYSIWYG mode, automatically upload pictures, and control multiple blogs. As long as you've got a Mac, that is. The Windows(tm)(r)(s)(c) version came with the price of purchase, but it's not a real big improvement over the old method of scribbling your blog entries on the backs of beer-soaked bar naps in your own snot and sending them to old girlfriends via U.S. mail. But it's free, so what the fuck.

And on the Mac it rocks.

Jacques at Y-2-Dray is weighing in on the CBC's Greatest Canuck debate. For me it's no contest: Wayne Fucking Gretzky.

I only got to see Gretzky play live once. It was in Washington, while he was still playing for Los Angeles with Robitaille and Sandstrom. He was about 32 or so then, and skated circles around Washington's entire team. At one point in the game, he actually killed off an entire 2-minute 5-on-3 without ever letting go of the puck. He went from end to end, the Caps forming a conga line behind him, and when Hrudek started banging his stick on the ice, he just dumped it and went to the bench for a martini. I fully expected him to run back on the ice and throw a bucket of confetti on Dale Hunter.

The man had eyes in the back of his head, the reflexes of a jungle cat, and hands like a high-dollar Swedish call girl. He scored 92 goals in one season, 215 points in one season, then he got bored and figured he'd start banging Janet Jones.

If Kurri got the assist on that one, he is, indeed, the finest wingman ever.

Everyone's somebody's kid. No matter if that someone is alive, or not. In situations like this one, I'll just quote Jason Robards on the subject of being a parent:

When does it end? It never ends. It's like your aunt Edna's ass, it goes on forever.

What's playing in iTunes?

Tumbling Dice from the album "Exile on Main Street" by Rolling Stones