It seems as though Lawrence's fattest cat, Eldloe, has passed away. As a catperson, I propose a drink to the memory of Edloe. As a drunkard, however, I didn't need a dead cat to drink a beer, now did I.

There's a place in Heaven for good cats, assuming Edloe was one, and the cat waits for you there, in the fields, when you're dead.

Sleep.

bling!

borf!!!!1

Puew! Brweeeeeeeeg! Noooooörf!

So are the dangers of drinking and blogging. Normal, hätte I the bling to glop what I blingin' dorf. You know?

Plow!

Here I am again, waiting on the old lady in the Worst Bar in the World. The Worst Bar in the World, by the way, has improved itself. It, like a woman, responds to slaps and degradations in the correct manner, vis it adjusts, tries to understand the reasons for its punishment, evolves. The Worst Bar in the World is no fool, and has its sights set on my money apparently. In short, the staff no longer spends its time smoking cigarettes behind the bar, wondering what all these people want from them. They pour beer now, and do it quickly.

On the other hand, there's the New Worst Bar in the World. I'm not a completely negative person, so I'll start with the positives: The New Worst Bar in the World is very clean. This is probably because after about 11 P.M. the staff do nothing other than clean the kitchen. They are nowhere to be found. You can walk in, take a seat, have a cigarette*, and proceed to load all the furniture and silverware that isn't currently being polished into the back of your car and drive home, nary an eyebrow raised. The New Worst Bar in the World is purportedly without pre-defined closing time, meaning, from my admittedly biased perspective as customer, that you can can drink all night, it being a bar and all. Such tag-lines can be deceiving, of course. Open all night means different things to different people, and here the customer is not always right. The bar, as you or I would understand it, closes about 11:15. After that point, it becomes more of a non-contact peep-show for dishwashing fetishists. The staff are not to be disturbed, and, if you don't mind staying overnight until the doors open up again, you can stay as long as you want.

The service in Europe sucks, still, even 2 months after my return.

*-The New Worst Bar in the World hides the ashtrays behind the bar, so you'll have to ash on the floor.

Oh, I'm droolin' here. Sam gives us the enviable role of doing exactly what we want with a comment/trackback spammer, without fear of retribution. Normally, I'd say turn him over to the police for a hitherto non-existing statutory transgression that will bring nothing, seeing as the perp more than like lives in a country whose name consists of 17 letters, not one of which is a vowel. So let's think outside the box for a minute.

First, you take a 12-foot length of 400lb fishing line. The you put a mess of fish-hooks on one end of it, and a ping-pong ball tied on the other end. Now, you take your subject and remove all his teeth, or at least the upper incisors. Then, you bind his hands behind his back, and lay him face down, naked, on your basement floor. You take the ping-pong ball, and force him to swallow it.

There's some funny things about the human body. One of those funny things is peristalsis, which is the process by which things are moved along the intestines 'til they get to the business end. Seeing as the human digestive tract is about 24 feet long on average, and needs about 5 hours for a complete tour, your subject will have about two and a half hours to watch that roll of fishing line unravel, and the fish-hooks travel towards his maw. There will be a lot of comic relief during this period, seeing as he'll be trying desperately to chew through the fishing wire with his gums, but this stage is all about anticipation.

Once the hooks get inside, the subject will have another 2 and a half hours to contemplate exactly what it feels like as his own body's muscular contractions pull a handful of fishhooks through his alimentary canal, and into his large intestine. The pain will be excruciating, but that's irrelevant, as this is a dead man walking. Well, a dead man laying toothless and naked on a cold concrete floor with a gut full of fishhooks, but we've all been there, now, haven't we. Once the intestinal wall is breached to any significant extent, the poisons there will flow out into the abdominal cavity, condemning all the vital organs to a slow, toxic death, and the host to death by septicemia.

At this point, the innkeeper can go for the quick thrill, letting the subject's small intestine take over, with its quicker peristaltic pace, raking the hooks 12 feet behind, leaving the subject screaming in agony until his inevitable death through internal blood loss. Or, if he has the time and/or patience, he can take the subject to a secluded parking lot, toss him out, and call an ambulance. There's no helping him, of course, but it will be amusing to watch him mutate into a swollen, jaundiced, piss-smelling monster while paying $5000 a minute for all manner of dialysis and blood-purification procedures, all of which will not stop the fact that his liver and kidneys have been handed down the death penalty. This could go on for six to eight months, and never ceases to amuse.

I'm a quick-thrill kind of person, myself, but to each their own.

There are cases, of course, where nobody wants to be number 1.

So, I was just sitting here, and I realized that my last blog entry was in something like 1963, and I thought to myself, how the hell do you fuckers do it? It's bad enough when you want to post, but don't have time. What's even worse, is when you don't want to post, when the shining light within you has guttered and died like a wet match, but the hole calls. The hole must be fed.

But I think now, I've taken a little break. I would like to start putting stupid little thoughts into glass boxes again, and have to defend them against Gentoo zealots and Islamic terrorists. But drawings are always good. So, here's an old drawing that I kinda like.

Makes me think of Guantanamo.

marcy say:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time
To sit and think about myself
And then there she was
Like double cherry pie
Yeah there she was
Like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had too much caffeine
And I was thinkin' 'bout myself
And then there she was
In double platform suede
Yeah there she was
Like disco lemonade
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream
Mama this surely is a dream
Yeah mama this must be my dream

"I was overwhelmed by the hellish imagery, the abject violence, and the complete inhumanity. A vision right out of Bosch's worst nightmares, with Hell let loose upon the Earth with brimstone and sulfurous fumes. An utterly loathsome firestorm of Evil waiting to be unleashed upon this world of ours, just biding its time till it bursts out into the open and wreaks destruction. I could barely sit through the whole thing. Man, I've got to lay off the pesto gnocchis.

"The movie? Oh, it was OK, I guess."

Here's one more reason to watch the Keynote Monday.

I guess it doesn't really matter if Apple switches to Intel chips. They go where they want, and always seem to come out unharmed. For the record, though, I don't believe a word of it. I've heard OS X-on-Intel fantasies since the '90s, and I don't think Apple will be doing that particular dance in the foreseeable future.

If they do, though, it will disappoint me terribly. I wanted a new Cell-Driven Powerbook.

not a shrinking violet » Moooooo-vie Meme:

Well, on about a week ago, Liv meme-tagged me. Unfortunately, the email all my blog notifications get sent to is gone, for whatever reason, so I failed to notice. I'll have to be updating that. Also, I've been unable to either blog or read blogs for the past few weeks, seeing as I've been busy 'n' stuff. Sorry, Liv, I'll get to the meme now.

1) Total number of films I own on DVD/video:

Well, I think it's about 30 now. I used to have more, but I've sold about half of them on Amazon over the past few weeks.

2) The last film I bought:

The last film I bought was...hmmm...let's see...

"Der Soldat James Ryan (DTS)" (Steven Spielberg)
(saving private ryan, subsequently sold for a handful of magic beans)

3) The last film I watched:
Star Wars, Episode IV. Meeee-mo-reeeeees.

4) Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):

"Memento (2 DVDs)" (Christoper Nolan)

"Die üblichen Verdächtigen" (Bryan Singer)

"L.A. Confidential" (Curtis Hanson)

"Die Verurteilten" (Frank Darabont)

"Affliction [UK IMPORT]" (Paul Schrader)

5) Tag 5 people:
I don't think I will, because I've missed the meme-wave. Sorry folks, I'll try to get my blog-butt in gear.

According to my "This Day in History" applet in Dashboard, on May 13, 1846 the United States declared war on Mexico. Davy Crockett eventually had to get involved, unless I'm not mistaken.

I'd heard the belly-laughs rippling through the so-called "blogosphere" about the Huffington Post, so I figured I'd check it out. I've never seen a more wretched hive of shallowness and drivelry. It's like a high-school newspaper consisting of only an uninteresting entertainment section. It looks more like a National Lampoon spoof of a group-blog than an actual one. For example, check out these unintentionally hilarious concessions from, ahem, Ze Frank:

i agree that if we all start shouting about anal intercourse all of the time our country will fall into ruin.
...
I told a guy at Starbuck's to go f*ck himself when he cut me in line. I also peed on a car that took my spot outside my apartment. Might I not also symbolize the Left's flirtation with the Demon's of Anarchy?

Ignoring for the moment the hideous diction abuse rampant in this post, I'm happy about the anal intercourse thing. Shouting about it won't make it happen, and it's good that we're all in agreement. Other than that, I have to say I'm actually dumber for having read the entire entry. I'm still reeling from trying to figure out what the point of writing it was. I think if I got the chance to write for such a highly-visible page like the renowned Huffington Post, I'd actually, you know, try and say something; give advice; help the children.

The American Left needs advice, that's for sure. They're getting squeezed out of Washington about as fast as those hump-backed Caribou in Alaska will be once Smirky McHallibush gets the oil contracts for his oil-drilling cousins. The reason, of course, is that they're getting all their advice from absolute knuckleheads. For example, just get a load of the mental game of Twister that some nobody who goes by the obvious pseudonym "Deborah Rappaport" has to say:

Myth #1 We need the right candidates: If the Republican Party has taught us anything, it is that with a clear purpose and a well-defined, consistent message delivered over a long enough period, anybody can be elected president. Your mommy and daddy were right. Any child in the United States can grow up to be president. We can’t wait for the second coming of Bill Clinton or John Kennedy or FDR. We need to create the environment that allows a good enough candidate to win. We need to trust that the electorate is smart enough to understand us when we talk about progressive values and ideals. And we need to trust that when we speak authentically about those values and ideals, the electorate will respond by electing our candidates.

Myth #2 We need to win the next elections: Well, duh. But if all we do is worry about the next election, we have taken our eye off of the ball. A coherent party, speaking from the gut rather than the brain, will lead to winning elections. A strategy of trying to just win the next one, and then everything will be OK, has led us to where we are now. What we need to win are the hearts and minds of the people. The Democratic Party has done a woefully bad job of speaking to the truths of people’s lives. Instead of standing up and talking about what we really believe in--society’s responsibility to all of its citizens, fairness, equality--we get dragged into arguments that serve no purpose but to cause us to lose sight of what we were fighting for in the first place.

Got that? I'm assuming Debbie works like I do, when I actually feel like writing a document someone will read. I start with an outline, then flesh it out, just like in 6th grade English. However, I can't believe I'd run with an outline that started out with A) we don't need the right candidates, and B) we don't need to win the next elections. Nobody could seriously write this kind of stuff and actually think it made sense. You'll notice that she states obvious inanities in bold print, then burns through 1200 characters a piece trying to justify them. That's modern Democrat thinking for you: You can bullshit your way out of any jam, as long as your audience wants to believe you. But that audience is getting smaller.

So here's the deal, Deb. Assuming you want to supply America with a viable, democratically necessary loyal opposition again at some point in the future, you do, in fact, need the right candidates. You also very much do need to win the next elections, because that's what defines success in politics: Winning elections. But that's just politics. Maybe if you change "Myth #1" to "Rule #1", Myth #2 will just disappear.

Letting the courts decide elections, ceaselessly filibustering important congressional decisions, and spending more time on the road whining about why you lost instead of doing the job you actually got elected to do is no way to run a party. I mean, it was amusing for a while, but it's turning into a one-joke show.

I'm sitting here watching my temporary doghouse roommate play what has to be the second most boring racing video game I've ever seen, Forza Motorsport. It's. Soooooo. Sloooooooow. It's like watching a NASCAR race consisting entirely of '84 Buick Regals. There are no pedestrians to run over, no nitro button, and you aren't even allowed to run the other cars off the road into the woods.

Another snoozer is Microsoft's Flight Simulator. I just got through flying 11 hours over the Atlantic in the real world, and I think it's insane anyone would even imagine making a game out of it. Only Microsoft could get away with such blatant perversity.

The award for most boring video game ever, though, goes without a doubt to 18 Wheels of Steel. It's like Flight Simulator, except you're driving a semi truck across the United States in realtime, and you get bonus points for staying within posted speed limits and delivering your load of photocopiers or whatever on time. Jesus, why not just get a job as a truck driver and actually get paid for the same amount of wasted life? A co-worker of mine would actually come in with bags under his eyes from playing this game all night, and bitch about the way people drove on the American Interstate. That's just wrong, wrong wrong.

I noticed this entry a while back at Velociman's place, and finally got around to taking the draw-a-pig test. Apparently, the guys who run this page can tell all about your personality by what your pig looks like. Here's mine:

(click for full-size)

It didn't give me an answer right away, so I sent it off to the admin of the site. As soon as I get an answer, I'll be sure to post it here!

Hugs,
Rube

I've got this recently-was-hot 2.8GHz Pentium 4 hyperthreading processor in my Windows box. There was a time when that much processing power was too bad to be had. But it's slow now. I thought maybe I was just getting used to the performance, and that the 2-year speed-freak fix time was coming up. But now I'm not so sure.

I wonder what the efficiency level of a patched, firewalled, and virus-protected Windows box is. I mean, every byte you read off the disk has to be read at least once by the virus scanner. Every accessed byte of memory has to be scanned; every email you send goes through the virus scanner, the firewall software, and then gets scanned by every single mail server along the way, just to make sure. And that's in addition to the normal operations that have to be performed on a message, like typing it, spellchecking it, and looking up all the nifties that it takes to route an SMTP message from here to yon.

It's not just for email, either. Every web page you load gets scanned. Every document you open, every jpeg you view, and every movie file you watch has to be scanned and monitored before you ever see it. Every byte that gets read from your hard drive or from the network has to be compared to a table of hundreds of thousands of Windows-based viruses for similarities; and, if you've set your virus software up that way, heuristically analyzed against a second table of virus patterns. Your firewall does it, too. Every connection you try to open gets put through a series of tests to make sure that the program opening the connection is authorized to connect to that address, at this particular time, and for how long. I'm sure these programs are well-written, and as efficient as they can possibly be under the circumstances, but still, it's a huge amount of overhead.

Basically, I'm wondering just what percentage of the world's CPU cycles are actually spent wiping Bill Gates' ass for him.

Poking around Drudge this morning...ok, afternoon, I saw that there was yet another 'art happening' in which thousands upon thousand of people got naked in the street, most of whom probably for the first time in their lives. Now, I don't know much about art, but I know it's not particularly difficult or subtle to make an impression on people by slamming their eyes with thousands of naked people. Mona Lisa? That's subtlety defined; nothing extravagant there, just beauty in details instead of the weary inflation of subject matter that this knucklehead here is doing. Project stagnating? Just throw some nudists at it. That didn't work? Throw THOUSANDS at it. That'll get their attention, and that's really what this is all about, ain't it? Getting attention?

Or maybe it's because their all Belgians. Pervs.

Via Drudge

Nearly a decade after being left virtually speechless, a firefighter in Buffalo, New York, has suddenly started talking. Doctors are stunned, and trying to fully understand how the change came about.

The Red Sox did what?

Tim Berners-who?!

Atlanta? That bunch of grits-eatin', banjo-playin inbreds? Atlanta?!

Jesus, you mean to tell me you can't even smoke in bars in the freakin' Bowery anymore?

Put me back to sleep, fer chrissakes!

Some hooks are not meant to hold large objects, such as book bags. Not heavy objects, strictly speaking; despite the hook's appearance of solidity. You just assume the hook's going to hold, because that's what hooks do, after all. But the hook can be pushed beyond its capacity, in which case it will fail. A hook's failure will result in the load's succumbing to the force of gravity, and probably damage to the mounting surface.

Ain't it the truth.

Jeez, at neither the Munich nor Atlanta airports can you find a wireless network. I'll never understand these knuckleheads. At the Country Hearth Motel on Highway 17 in south Georgia you can sit in the parking lot and check your email, but in two of the world's most travelled airports you'd think you were back in the 70s. I wonder what these big airports are waiting for.

I'll have to get used to the time difference again. I just sat down and ordered a beer and kässpätzle at 8:30 in the morning. Mmmm...helles bier. Even though it's Erdinger, it tastes like sweet nectar going down. I knew there was something about this country I missed. Well, that, and you can still smoke at the baggage claim.

Welp, the trip home is over. The little lady was introduced around, to glowing reviews. There was plenty done: the Wreckyll, Atlanta Attractions, Savannah, Charleston, and the davidian compound we visited near Athens, Tennessee. Now, I'm sitting in a plane, about 3 hours away from landing in Munich. I'm sitting right behind the right wing, as seems to be my lot in life, I've never sat anywhere else on this flight.

Speaking of this flight, flew it the first time back in 1997, the first of many. I fell asleep before we left the runway, and woke up over Holland. Man-o-man, I wish I could still sleep on flights, now in my dotage. A friend of mine got a prescription for some sleeping pill, named something like Ambien, or Ambiex. He said he took one, and a little while later he just felt sleepy and lay down on the couch and took a nap. Sadly, that sounds like the perfect drug; at 35, I can imagine nothing better than taking a nap on the couch with the baseball game is on. I'd take that over heroin any day.

Hi, my name is Ken. Rube has foolishly given me permission, as well as a corresponding password, to contribute to this blog from the heart of old Europe. As I live in the U.S., it will make for some interesting perspective.

Me and the little woman just finished spending two wonderful days visiting Mr. Straight White Guy and his bonnie lass, Fiona. First of all, let me just tell you what a wonderful pair those two are. They really went out of their way to make us feel welcome at their beautiful compound, and showed us one hell of a time.

The first night, I met Eric's cousin, who shall remain nameless, namely because he was short-drinking us, remaining sober while the rest of us drunk ourselves into a good-natured stupor. The boys barbecued some good-looking ribs, and we spent about seven hours shooting pool in the garage, drinking beer, talking trash, and, for my team at least, beating Eric and Anna like rented mules.

(click on images to view full size)

This morning, Mr. Guy cooked us up a killer breakfast of biscuiits, bacon, and eggs, providing the groundwork for our foray into the world of newly-legal assault rifles. You'll notice in the first picture below, that Anna, who's never shot a weapon before in her life, just took out the three colored ballons that were attached to the post. In three shots, I might add. I needed about 15 rounds before bagging my third balloon, so, yes, I'm humiliated as both a man and an American, thank you.

Now, let's see some action! Here are some movies; just click to play, though you may need the free Quicktime software to view them.

Eric, running the table. Almost.

Brad with the manly, manly break.

Anna with the shot!

Rube talkin' trash

Three shots, three balloons. Nice shootin', Tex!

There's something about european girls with assault weapons that is just irresistible. Here's Fiona on the AR 15:

Of course, the shot-to-kill ratio would've suffered had it not been for Eric's coolness.

Remember kids, handle your firearms responsibly! Although guys, between you and me, there are few things on the planet that can make chicks pull mugs like these:

Those are gun-faces if I've ever seen one. All in all, we had ourselves a wonderful time. You can read Eric's version of it here.

We've invited Eric and Fiona over to visit us in Germany. Hopefully, they'll show up and we can take them snowboarding. Or just sit around and drink beers as big as tree trunks, either way, I'm easy.

Downright memed me, did he?

Courtesy of the Juju Man:

If I could be a scientist, I would start a vicious underground movement to stop research in the anti-aging field. Humans are not meant to live forever, and eternal life would mean the end of us as a species. We are not yet through evolving.

If I could be a farmer, I would build myself a veranda, with a porch swing, where I could listen to cicadas, watch my milk-cows fall asleep at sunset, and drink mint juleps. Naked.

If I could be a musician, I would never stop playing. I would be the hit of every campfire, the center of attention, just me and my bagpipes.

If I could be a doctor, I would see Catfish more often, I'll wager.

If I could be a painter, I would never contact the NEA for money. I would try to paint stuff people would enjoy, and put high value on, and keep the experimental stuff where it belongs, in the lab.

If I could be a gardener, I would plant azaleas.

If I could be a missionary, I would only do it doggie-style, and giggle at the irony.

If I could be a chef, I would spend all my energy elevating those two highest forms of cuisine, the hush puppy and the buttermilk biscuit, to the respected position in the culinary world that they so deserve.

If I could be an architect, I would try to bring gables back into fashion.

If I could be a linguist, I would translate this blog into latin, hebrew, and aramaic for posterity.

If I could be a psychologist, I would know why I can't get out of bed before noon.

If I could be a librarian, I would underline the dirty parts of every book in the building.

If I could be an athlete, I wouldn't take steroids, unless of course everyone else was doing it.

If I could be a lawyer, I would have the worst won-loss record since the '87 Braves.

If I could be an innkeeper, I wouldn't take yankees. They're rude, messy, and they don't tip.

If I could be a professor, I would be the most unpopular person in the faculty lounge, owing to my obsession with fart jokes.

If I could be a writer, I would probably get picked every now and then to write blog novella chapters, instead of the tight little clique of glory hogs and suck-ups that now dominate them.

If I could be a backup dancer, I would spend a lot of time explaining to people that no, I'm not gay.

If I could be a llama-rider, I would join the llama-riders' union and try to organize surreal steeple chases near Macchu Picchu.

If I could be a bonnie pirate, I would constantly be doing old Abbot and Costello routines with my trained parrot, Muffin. I would be the straight man.

If I could be a midget stripper, I would only strip midgets who had given me their permission beforehand, in writing.

If I could be a proctologist, I would come up with lots of jokes to take the edge off. "So," I would say, "You meet a lot of assholes in this job, too, you know." Stuff like that.

If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I would blind-side child actors and fluff guests with loaded questions about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Now, I guess I have to pass it to 3 more people:

Sandy, of the Dirty Ashtray
Zonker, of the genetically engineered mutant turbo-liver
Mr. Dax Montana, overlord of the pimptastical bombastical red hat brigade

Not that they'll do it, lazy toids.

Since I met such a great new bunch of people at the Wreckyll, I figured it was time to update my musty ol' blogroll over there. Having met you all personally, I don't think y'all are the types that will get offended being linked by a site named You Bitch. As I said many, many times in Jeckyll: Nothing Personal.

Welcome to the fray:

Acidman
Catfish
The Dax Files
Divine InnerBitchin'
Fistful of Fortnights
Georgia
Grouchy Old Cripple
Key Issues
Meanderings
Moogies World
Parkway Rest Stop.
suburban blight

Feisty Repartee (of course!)

If you were at the Wreckyll, and I don't have you linked, just let me know. That brain cell might not have made it off the island in one piece.

I think South Carolina was one of the last states to rid themselves of the Confederate part of their state flag. After the Wreckyll, I took my baby up to Charleston. Driving through the back-roads of rural South Carolina, one sees that the race relations are still stuck somewhere between the Civil Rights Movement and Amistad. Stopping at a gas station near Columbia, I noticed that they actually had a light-brown colored iced coffee drink called the 'Moo Latte'. What the fuck? You crackers aren't even trying up there.

Jesus, I'm wondering now if Velociman's Artillery Punch wasn't subtly affecting us all, threatening all who drank it with slow madness. Can anyone explain to me what the hell is going in this video?

Excerpt:

Straight White Guy: So, how would you jerk off a marmocet?
Dax Montana (in Red Pimp-hat with purple feather): I don't know, I'm not the person who had that job...

The Wreckyll is over now. I'm not going to be able to write about it until tomorrow, I figure, when the liver-swelling goes down to an acceptable bulge under my sternum. I've got tons of pictures, and more than a couple of videos that will have to be filed under 'incriminating evidence'.

Eric is a wild-man, as everyone knows, but Sam, 'Hollow-leg' Zonker, Jim, and Christina more than held their own. You guys are maniacs, and I've got pics to prove it. Don't forget, videos were enough to get Terry Schiavo's plug pulled; there's no telling what they're going to do to y'all once these get out.

Pictures will definitely be forthcoming.

The ring finger and pinky of both hands. My tongue when I wake up, most mornings. The tops of my feet, if I happen to be lying on my back. My left elbow. Along my left calf, where the hair has fallen out. The palms of my hands. A four-inch vertical strip on the left side of my forehead, running up under my hair, where there's a scar from an old war-wound. I'm going numb, one piece at a time.

Eventually, over years, the numbness will work its way inward, making my arms heavy and difficult to steer with, easing the pain of the shoulders, both of which I've separated doing various stupid things, and the hip, which I broke in college, and the muscles of my lower back, which always seem sore, ever since I broke thirty.

Once the numbness makes it to my heart, I guess that will be that.

Well, outside the tornado sirens are going crazy, there's a grey eerie sunlight, and the cat's hiding behind the sofa. If you don't hear back from me, I'll say hi to the Wizard for you.

It seems as though Lawrence's fattest cat, Eldloe, has passed away. As a catperson, I propose a drink to the memory of Edloe. As a drunkard, however, I didn't need a dead cat to drink a beer, now did I.

There's a place in Heaven for good cats, assuming Edloe was one, and the cat waits for you there, in the fields, when you're dead.

Sleep.

bling!

borf!!!!1

Puew! Brweeeeeeeeg! Noooooörf!

So are the dangers of drinking and blogging. Normal, hätte I the bling to glop what I blingin' dorf. You know?

Plow!

Here I am again, waiting on the old lady in the Worst Bar in the World. The Worst Bar in the World, by the way, has improved itself. It, like a woman, responds to slaps and degradations in the correct manner, vis it adjusts, tries to understand the reasons for its punishment, evolves. The Worst Bar in the World is no fool, and has its sights set on my money apparently. In short, the staff no longer spends its time smoking cigarettes behind the bar, wondering what all these people want from them. They pour beer now, and do it quickly.

On the other hand, there's the New Worst Bar in the World. I'm not a completely negative person, so I'll start with the positives: The New Worst Bar in the World is very clean. This is probably because after about 11 P.M. the staff do nothing other than clean the kitchen. They are nowhere to be found. You can walk in, take a seat, have a cigarette*, and proceed to load all the furniture and silverware that isn't currently being polished into the back of your car and drive home, nary an eyebrow raised. The New Worst Bar in the World is purportedly without pre-defined closing time, meaning, from my admittedly biased perspective as customer, that you can can drink all night, it being a bar and all. Such tag-lines can be deceiving, of course. Open all night means different things to different people, and here the customer is not always right. The bar, as you or I would understand it, closes about 11:15. After that point, it becomes more of a non-contact peep-show for dishwashing fetishists. The staff are not to be disturbed, and, if you don't mind staying overnight until the doors open up again, you can stay as long as you want.

The service in Europe sucks, still, even 2 months after my return.

*-The New Worst Bar in the World hides the ashtrays behind the bar, so you'll have to ash on the floor.

Oh, I'm droolin' here. Sam gives us the enviable role of doing exactly what we want with a comment/trackback spammer, without fear of retribution. Normally, I'd say turn him over to the police for a hitherto non-existing statutory transgression that will bring nothing, seeing as the perp more than like lives in a country whose name consists of 17 letters, not one of which is a vowel. So let's think outside the box for a minute.

First, you take a 12-foot length of 400lb fishing line. The you put a mess of fish-hooks on one end of it, and a ping-pong ball tied on the other end. Now, you take your subject and remove all his teeth, or at least the upper incisors. Then, you bind his hands behind his back, and lay him face down, naked, on your basement floor. You take the ping-pong ball, and force him to swallow it.

There's some funny things about the human body. One of those funny things is peristalsis, which is the process by which things are moved along the intestines 'til they get to the business end. Seeing as the human digestive tract is about 24 feet long on average, and needs about 5 hours for a complete tour, your subject will have about two and a half hours to watch that roll of fishing line unravel, and the fish-hooks travel towards his maw. There will be a lot of comic relief during this period, seeing as he'll be trying desperately to chew through the fishing wire with his gums, but this stage is all about anticipation.

Once the hooks get inside, the subject will have another 2 and a half hours to contemplate exactly what it feels like as his own body's muscular contractions pull a handful of fishhooks through his alimentary canal, and into his large intestine. The pain will be excruciating, but that's irrelevant, as this is a dead man walking. Well, a dead man laying toothless and naked on a cold concrete floor with a gut full of fishhooks, but we've all been there, now, haven't we. Once the intestinal wall is breached to any significant extent, the poisons there will flow out into the abdominal cavity, condemning all the vital organs to a slow, toxic death, and the host to death by septicemia.

At this point, the innkeeper can go for the quick thrill, letting the subject's small intestine take over, with its quicker peristaltic pace, raking the hooks 12 feet behind, leaving the subject screaming in agony until his inevitable death through internal blood loss. Or, if he has the time and/or patience, he can take the subject to a secluded parking lot, toss him out, and call an ambulance. There's no helping him, of course, but it will be amusing to watch him mutate into a swollen, jaundiced, piss-smelling monster while paying $5000 a minute for all manner of dialysis and blood-purification procedures, all of which will not stop the fact that his liver and kidneys have been handed down the death penalty. This could go on for six to eight months, and never ceases to amuse.

I'm a quick-thrill kind of person, myself, but to each their own.

There are cases, of course, where nobody wants to be number 1.

So, I was just sitting here, and I realized that my last blog entry was in something like 1963, and I thought to myself, how the hell do you fuckers do it? It's bad enough when you want to post, but don't have time. What's even worse, is when you don't want to post, when the shining light within you has guttered and died like a wet match, but the hole calls. The hole must be fed.

But I think now, I've taken a little break. I would like to start putting stupid little thoughts into glass boxes again, and have to defend them against Gentoo zealots and Islamic terrorists. But drawings are always good. So, here's an old drawing that I kinda like.

Makes me think of Guantanamo.

marcy say:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time
To sit and think about myself
And then there she was
Like double cherry pie
Yeah there she was
Like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had too much caffeine
And I was thinkin' 'bout myself
And then there she was
In double platform suede
Yeah there she was
Like disco lemonade
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream
Mama this surely is a dream
Yeah mama this must be my dream

"I was overwhelmed by the hellish imagery, the abject violence, and the complete inhumanity. A vision right out of Bosch's worst nightmares, with Hell let loose upon the Earth with brimstone and sulfurous fumes. An utterly loathsome firestorm of Evil waiting to be unleashed upon this world of ours, just biding its time till it bursts out into the open and wreaks destruction. I could barely sit through the whole thing. Man, I've got to lay off the pesto gnocchis.

"The movie? Oh, it was OK, I guess."

Here's one more reason to watch the Keynote Monday.

I guess it doesn't really matter if Apple switches to Intel chips. They go where they want, and always seem to come out unharmed. For the record, though, I don't believe a word of it. I've heard OS X-on-Intel fantasies since the '90s, and I don't think Apple will be doing that particular dance in the foreseeable future.

If they do, though, it will disappoint me terribly. I wanted a new Cell-Driven Powerbook.

not a shrinking violet » Moooooo-vie Meme:

Well, on about a week ago, Liv meme-tagged me. Unfortunately, the email all my blog notifications get sent to is gone, for whatever reason, so I failed to notice. I'll have to be updating that. Also, I've been unable to either blog or read blogs for the past few weeks, seeing as I've been busy 'n' stuff. Sorry, Liv, I'll get to the meme now.

1) Total number of films I own on DVD/video:

Well, I think it's about 30 now. I used to have more, but I've sold about half of them on Amazon over the past few weeks.

2) The last film I bought:

The last film I bought was...hmmm...let's see...

"Der Soldat James Ryan (DTS)" (Steven Spielberg)
(saving private ryan, subsequently sold for a handful of magic beans)

3) The last film I watched:
Star Wars, Episode IV. Meeee-mo-reeeeees.

4) Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):

"Memento (2 DVDs)" (Christoper Nolan)

"Die üblichen Verdächtigen" (Bryan Singer)

"L.A. Confidential" (Curtis Hanson)

"Die Verurteilten" (Frank Darabont)

"Affliction [UK IMPORT]" (Paul Schrader)

5) Tag 5 people:
I don't think I will, because I've missed the meme-wave. Sorry folks, I'll try to get my blog-butt in gear.

According to my "This Day in History" applet in Dashboard, on May 13, 1846 the United States declared war on Mexico. Davy Crockett eventually had to get involved, unless I'm not mistaken.

I'd heard the belly-laughs rippling through the so-called "blogosphere" about the Huffington Post, so I figured I'd check it out. I've never seen a more wretched hive of shallowness and drivelry. It's like a high-school newspaper consisting of only an uninteresting entertainment section. It looks more like a National Lampoon spoof of a group-blog than an actual one. For example, check out these unintentionally hilarious concessions from, ahem, Ze Frank:

i agree that if we all start shouting about anal intercourse all of the time our country will fall into ruin.
...
I told a guy at Starbuck's to go f*ck himself when he cut me in line. I also peed on a car that took my spot outside my apartment. Might I not also symbolize the Left's flirtation with the Demon's of Anarchy?

Ignoring for the moment the hideous diction abuse rampant in this post, I'm happy about the anal intercourse thing. Shouting about it won't make it happen, and it's good that we're all in agreement. Other than that, I have to say I'm actually dumber for having read the entire entry. I'm still reeling from trying to figure out what the point of writing it was. I think if I got the chance to write for such a highly-visible page like the renowned Huffington Post, I'd actually, you know, try and say something; give advice; help the children.

The American Left needs advice, that's for sure. They're getting squeezed out of Washington about as fast as those hump-backed Caribou in Alaska will be once Smirky McHallibush gets the oil contracts for his oil-drilling cousins. The reason, of course, is that they're getting all their advice from absolute knuckleheads. For example, just get a load of the mental game of Twister that some nobody who goes by the obvious pseudonym "Deborah Rappaport" has to say:

Myth #1 We need the right candidates: If the Republican Party has taught us anything, it is that with a clear purpose and a well-defined, consistent message delivered over a long enough period, anybody can be elected president. Your mommy and daddy were right. Any child in the United States can grow up to be president. We can’t wait for the second coming of Bill Clinton or John Kennedy or FDR. We need to create the environment that allows a good enough candidate to win. We need to trust that the electorate is smart enough to understand us when we talk about progressive values and ideals. And we need to trust that when we speak authentically about those values and ideals, the electorate will respond by electing our candidates.

Myth #2 We need to win the next elections: Well, duh. But if all we do is worry about the next election, we have taken our eye off of the ball. A coherent party, speaking from the gut rather than the brain, will lead to winning elections. A strategy of trying to just win the next one, and then everything will be OK, has led us to where we are now. What we need to win are the hearts and minds of the people. The Democratic Party has done a woefully bad job of speaking to the truths of people’s lives. Instead of standing up and talking about what we really believe in--society’s responsibility to all of its citizens, fairness, equality--we get dragged into arguments that serve no purpose but to cause us to lose sight of what we were fighting for in the first place.

Got that? I'm assuming Debbie works like I do, when I actually feel like writing a document someone will read. I start with an outline, then flesh it out, just like in 6th grade English. However, I can't believe I'd run with an outline that started out with A) we don't need the right candidates, and B) we don't need to win the next elections. Nobody could seriously write this kind of stuff and actually think it made sense. You'll notice that she states obvious inanities in bold print, then burns through 1200 characters a piece trying to justify them. That's modern Democrat thinking for you: You can bullshit your way out of any jam, as long as your audience wants to believe you. But that audience is getting smaller.

So here's the deal, Deb. Assuming you want to supply America with a viable, democratically necessary loyal opposition again at some point in the future, you do, in fact, need the right candidates. You also very much do need to win the next elections, because that's what defines success in politics: Winning elections. But that's just politics. Maybe if you change "Myth #1" to "Rule #1", Myth #2 will just disappear.

Letting the courts decide elections, ceaselessly filibustering important congressional decisions, and spending more time on the road whining about why you lost instead of doing the job you actually got elected to do is no way to run a party. I mean, it was amusing for a while, but it's turning into a one-joke show.

I'm sitting here watching my temporary doghouse roommate play what has to be the second most boring racing video game I've ever seen, Forza Motorsport. It's. Soooooo. Sloooooooow. It's like watching a NASCAR race consisting entirely of '84 Buick Regals. There are no pedestrians to run over, no nitro button, and you aren't even allowed to run the other cars off the road into the woods.

Another snoozer is Microsoft's Flight Simulator. I just got through flying 11 hours over the Atlantic in the real world, and I think it's insane anyone would even imagine making a game out of it. Only Microsoft could get away with such blatant perversity.

The award for most boring video game ever, though, goes without a doubt to 18 Wheels of Steel. It's like Flight Simulator, except you're driving a semi truck across the United States in realtime, and you get bonus points for staying within posted speed limits and delivering your load of photocopiers or whatever on time. Jesus, why not just get a job as a truck driver and actually get paid for the same amount of wasted life? A co-worker of mine would actually come in with bags under his eyes from playing this game all night, and bitch about the way people drove on the American Interstate. That's just wrong, wrong wrong.

I noticed this entry a while back at Velociman's place, and finally got around to taking the draw-a-pig test. Apparently, the guys who run this page can tell all about your personality by what your pig looks like. Here's mine:

(click for full-size)

It didn't give me an answer right away, so I sent it off to the admin of the site. As soon as I get an answer, I'll be sure to post it here!

Hugs,
Rube

I've got this recently-was-hot 2.8GHz Pentium 4 hyperthreading processor in my Windows box. There was a time when that much processing power was too bad to be had. But it's slow now. I thought maybe I was just getting used to the performance, and that the 2-year speed-freak fix time was coming up. But now I'm not so sure.

I wonder what the efficiency level of a patched, firewalled, and virus-protected Windows box is. I mean, every byte you read off the disk has to be read at least once by the virus scanner. Every accessed byte of memory has to be scanned; every email you send goes through the virus scanner, the firewall software, and then gets scanned by every single mail server along the way, just to make sure. And that's in addition to the normal operations that have to be performed on a message, like typing it, spellchecking it, and looking up all the nifties that it takes to route an SMTP message from here to yon.

It's not just for email, either. Every web page you load gets scanned. Every document you open, every jpeg you view, and every movie file you watch has to be scanned and monitored before you ever see it. Every byte that gets read from your hard drive or from the network has to be compared to a table of hundreds of thousands of Windows-based viruses for similarities; and, if you've set your virus software up that way, heuristically analyzed against a second table of virus patterns. Your firewall does it, too. Every connection you try to open gets put through a series of tests to make sure that the program opening the connection is authorized to connect to that address, at this particular time, and for how long. I'm sure these programs are well-written, and as efficient as they can possibly be under the circumstances, but still, it's a huge amount of overhead.

Basically, I'm wondering just what percentage of the world's CPU cycles are actually spent wiping Bill Gates' ass for him.

Poking around Drudge this morning...ok, afternoon, I saw that there was yet another 'art happening' in which thousands upon thousand of people got naked in the street, most of whom probably for the first time in their lives. Now, I don't know much about art, but I know it's not particularly difficult or subtle to make an impression on people by slamming their eyes with thousands of naked people. Mona Lisa? That's subtlety defined; nothing extravagant there, just beauty in details instead of the weary inflation of subject matter that this knucklehead here is doing. Project stagnating? Just throw some nudists at it. That didn't work? Throw THOUSANDS at it. That'll get their attention, and that's really what this is all about, ain't it? Getting attention?

Or maybe it's because their all Belgians. Pervs.

Via Drudge

Nearly a decade after being left virtually speechless, a firefighter in Buffalo, New York, has suddenly started talking. Doctors are stunned, and trying to fully understand how the change came about.

The Red Sox did what?

Tim Berners-who?!

Atlanta? That bunch of grits-eatin', banjo-playin inbreds? Atlanta?!

Jesus, you mean to tell me you can't even smoke in bars in the freakin' Bowery anymore?

Put me back to sleep, fer chrissakes!

Some hooks are not meant to hold large objects, such as book bags. Not heavy objects, strictly speaking; despite the hook's appearance of solidity. You just assume the hook's going to hold, because that's what hooks do, after all. But the hook can be pushed beyond its capacity, in which case it will fail. A hook's failure will result in the load's succumbing to the force of gravity, and probably damage to the mounting surface.

Ain't it the truth.

Jeez, at neither the Munich nor Atlanta airports can you find a wireless network. I'll never understand these knuckleheads. At the Country Hearth Motel on Highway 17 in south Georgia you can sit in the parking lot and check your email, but in two of the world's most travelled airports you'd think you were back in the 70s. I wonder what these big airports are waiting for.

I'll have to get used to the time difference again. I just sat down and ordered a beer and kässpätzle at 8:30 in the morning. Mmmm...helles bier. Even though it's Erdinger, it tastes like sweet nectar going down. I knew there was something about this country I missed. Well, that, and you can still smoke at the baggage claim.

Welp, the trip home is over. The little lady was introduced around, to glowing reviews. There was plenty done: the Wreckyll, Atlanta Attractions, Savannah, Charleston, and the davidian compound we visited near Athens, Tennessee. Now, I'm sitting in a plane, about 3 hours away from landing in Munich. I'm sitting right behind the right wing, as seems to be my lot in life, I've never sat anywhere else on this flight.

Speaking of this flight, flew it the first time back in 1997, the first of many. I fell asleep before we left the runway, and woke up over Holland. Man-o-man, I wish I could still sleep on flights, now in my dotage. A friend of mine got a prescription for some sleeping pill, named something like Ambien, or Ambiex. He said he took one, and a little while later he just felt sleepy and lay down on the couch and took a nap. Sadly, that sounds like the perfect drug; at 35, I can imagine nothing better than taking a nap on the couch with the baseball game is on. I'd take that over heroin any day.

Hi, my name is Ken. Rube has foolishly given me permission, as well as a corresponding password, to contribute to this blog from the heart of old Europe. As I live in the U.S., it will make for some interesting perspective.

Me and the little woman just finished spending two wonderful days visiting Mr. Straight White Guy and his bonnie lass, Fiona. First of all, let me just tell you what a wonderful pair those two are. They really went out of their way to make us feel welcome at their beautiful compound, and showed us one hell of a time.

The first night, I met Eric's cousin, who shall remain nameless, namely because he was short-drinking us, remaining sober while the rest of us drunk ourselves into a good-natured stupor. The boys barbecued some good-looking ribs, and we spent about seven hours shooting pool in the garage, drinking beer, talking trash, and, for my team at least, beating Eric and Anna like rented mules.

(click on images to view full size)

This morning, Mr. Guy cooked us up a killer breakfast of biscuiits, bacon, and eggs, providing the groundwork for our foray into the world of newly-legal assault rifles. You'll notice in the first picture below, that Anna, who's never shot a weapon before in her life, just took out the three colored ballons that were attached to the post. In three shots, I might add. I needed about 15 rounds before bagging my third balloon, so, yes, I'm humiliated as both a man and an American, thank you.

Now, let's see some action! Here are some movies; just click to play, though you may need the free Quicktime software to view them.

Eric, running the table. Almost.

Brad with the manly, manly break.

Anna with the shot!

Rube talkin' trash

Three shots, three balloons. Nice shootin', Tex!

There's something about european girls with assault weapons that is just irresistible. Here's Fiona on the AR 15:

Of course, the shot-to-kill ratio would've suffered had it not been for Eric's coolness.

Remember kids, handle your firearms responsibly! Although guys, between you and me, there are few things on the planet that can make chicks pull mugs like these:

Those are gun-faces if I've ever seen one. All in all, we had ourselves a wonderful time. You can read Eric's version of it here.

We've invited Eric and Fiona over to visit us in Germany. Hopefully, they'll show up and we can take them snowboarding. Or just sit around and drink beers as big as tree trunks, either way, I'm easy.

Downright memed me, did he?

Courtesy of the Juju Man:

If I could be a scientist, I would start a vicious underground movement to stop research in the anti-aging field. Humans are not meant to live forever, and eternal life would mean the end of us as a species. We are not yet through evolving.

If I could be a farmer, I would build myself a veranda, with a porch swing, where I could listen to cicadas, watch my milk-cows fall asleep at sunset, and drink mint juleps. Naked.

If I could be a musician, I would never stop playing. I would be the hit of every campfire, the center of attention, just me and my bagpipes.

If I could be a doctor, I would see Catfish more often, I'll wager.

If I could be a painter, I would never contact the NEA for money. I would try to paint stuff people would enjoy, and put high value on, and keep the experimental stuff where it belongs, in the lab.

If I could be a gardener, I would plant azaleas.

If I could be a missionary, I would only do it doggie-style, and giggle at the irony.

If I could be a chef, I would spend all my energy elevating those two highest forms of cuisine, the hush puppy and the buttermilk biscuit, to the respected position in the culinary world that they so deserve.

If I could be an architect, I would try to bring gables back into fashion.

If I could be a linguist, I would translate this blog into latin, hebrew, and aramaic for posterity.

If I could be a psychologist, I would know why I can't get out of bed before noon.

If I could be a librarian, I would underline the dirty parts of every book in the building.

If I could be an athlete, I wouldn't take steroids, unless of course everyone else was doing it.

If I could be a lawyer, I would have the worst won-loss record since the '87 Braves.

If I could be an innkeeper, I wouldn't take yankees. They're rude, messy, and they don't tip.

If I could be a professor, I would be the most unpopular person in the faculty lounge, owing to my obsession with fart jokes.

If I could be a writer, I would probably get picked every now and then to write blog novella chapters, instead of the tight little clique of glory hogs and suck-ups that now dominate them.

If I could be a backup dancer, I would spend a lot of time explaining to people that no, I'm not gay.

If I could be a llama-rider, I would join the llama-riders' union and try to organize surreal steeple chases near Macchu Picchu.

If I could be a bonnie pirate, I would constantly be doing old Abbot and Costello routines with my trained parrot, Muffin. I would be the straight man.

If I could be a midget stripper, I would only strip midgets who had given me their permission beforehand, in writing.

If I could be a proctologist, I would come up with lots of jokes to take the edge off. "So," I would say, "You meet a lot of assholes in this job, too, you know." Stuff like that.

If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I would blind-side child actors and fluff guests with loaded questions about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Now, I guess I have to pass it to 3 more people:

Sandy, of the Dirty Ashtray
Zonker, of the genetically engineered mutant turbo-liver
Mr. Dax Montana, overlord of the pimptastical bombastical red hat brigade

Not that they'll do it, lazy toids.

Since I met such a great new bunch of people at the Wreckyll, I figured it was time to update my musty ol' blogroll over there. Having met you all personally, I don't think y'all are the types that will get offended being linked by a site named You Bitch. As I said many, many times in Jeckyll: Nothing Personal.

Welcome to the fray:

Acidman
Catfish
The Dax Files
Divine InnerBitchin'
Fistful of Fortnights
Georgia
Grouchy Old Cripple
Key Issues
Meanderings
Moogies World
Parkway Rest Stop.
suburban blight

Feisty Repartee (of course!)

If you were at the Wreckyll, and I don't have you linked, just let me know. That brain cell might not have made it off the island in one piece.

I think South Carolina was one of the last states to rid themselves of the Confederate part of their state flag. After the Wreckyll, I took my baby up to Charleston. Driving through the back-roads of rural South Carolina, one sees that the race relations are still stuck somewhere between the Civil Rights Movement and Amistad. Stopping at a gas station near Columbia, I noticed that they actually had a light-brown colored iced coffee drink called the 'Moo Latte'. What the fuck? You crackers aren't even trying up there.

Jesus, I'm wondering now if Velociman's Artillery Punch wasn't subtly affecting us all, threatening all who drank it with slow madness. Can anyone explain to me what the hell is going in this video?

Excerpt:

Straight White Guy: So, how would you jerk off a marmocet?
Dax Montana (in Red Pimp-hat with purple feather): I don't know, I'm not the person who had that job...

The Wreckyll is over now. I'm not going to be able to write about it until tomorrow, I figure, when the liver-swelling goes down to an acceptable bulge under my sternum. I've got tons of pictures, and more than a couple of videos that will have to be filed under 'incriminating evidence'.

Eric is a wild-man, as everyone knows, but Sam, 'Hollow-leg' Zonker, Jim, and Christina more than held their own. You guys are maniacs, and I've got pics to prove it. Don't forget, videos were enough to get Terry Schiavo's plug pulled; there's no telling what they're going to do to y'all once these get out.

Pictures will definitely be forthcoming.

The ring finger and pinky of both hands. My tongue when I wake up, most mornings. The tops of my feet, if I happen to be lying on my back. My left elbow. Along my left calf, where the hair has fallen out. The palms of my hands. A four-inch vertical strip on the left side of my forehead, running up under my hair, where there's a scar from an old war-wound. I'm going numb, one piece at a time.

Eventually, over years, the numbness will work its way inward, making my arms heavy and difficult to steer with, easing the pain of the shoulders, both of which I've separated doing various stupid things, and the hip, which I broke in college, and the muscles of my lower back, which always seem sore, ever since I broke thirty.

Once the numbness makes it to my heart, I guess that will be that.

Well, outside the tornado sirens are going crazy, there's a grey eerie sunlight, and the cat's hiding behind the sofa. If you don't hear back from me, I'll say hi to the Wizard for you.

It seems as though Lawrence's fattest cat, Eldloe, has passed away. As a catperson, I propose a drink to the memory of Edloe. As a drunkard, however, I didn't need a dead cat to drink a beer, now did I.

There's a place in Heaven for good cats, assuming Edloe was one, and the cat waits for you there, in the fields, when you're dead.

Sleep.

bling!

borf!!!!1

Puew! Brweeeeeeeeg! Noooooörf!

So are the dangers of drinking and blogging. Normal, hätte I the bling to glop what I blingin' dorf. You know?

Plow!

Here I am again, waiting on the old lady in the Worst Bar in the World. The Worst Bar in the World, by the way, has improved itself. It, like a woman, responds to slaps and degradations in the correct manner, vis it adjusts, tries to understand the reasons for its punishment, evolves. The Worst Bar in the World is no fool, and has its sights set on my money apparently. In short, the staff no longer spends its time smoking cigarettes behind the bar, wondering what all these people want from them. They pour beer now, and do it quickly.

On the other hand, there's the New Worst Bar in the World. I'm not a completely negative person, so I'll start with the positives: The New Worst Bar in the World is very clean. This is probably because after about 11 P.M. the staff do nothing other than clean the kitchen. They are nowhere to be found. You can walk in, take a seat, have a cigarette*, and proceed to load all the furniture and silverware that isn't currently being polished into the back of your car and drive home, nary an eyebrow raised. The New Worst Bar in the World is purportedly without pre-defined closing time, meaning, from my admittedly biased perspective as customer, that you can can drink all night, it being a bar and all. Such tag-lines can be deceiving, of course. Open all night means different things to different people, and here the customer is not always right. The bar, as you or I would understand it, closes about 11:15. After that point, it becomes more of a non-contact peep-show for dishwashing fetishists. The staff are not to be disturbed, and, if you don't mind staying overnight until the doors open up again, you can stay as long as you want.

The service in Europe sucks, still, even 2 months after my return.

*-The New Worst Bar in the World hides the ashtrays behind the bar, so you'll have to ash on the floor.

Oh, I'm droolin' here. Sam gives us the enviable role of doing exactly what we want with a comment/trackback spammer, without fear of retribution. Normally, I'd say turn him over to the police for a hitherto non-existing statutory transgression that will bring nothing, seeing as the perp more than like lives in a country whose name consists of 17 letters, not one of which is a vowel. So let's think outside the box for a minute.

First, you take a 12-foot length of 400lb fishing line. The you put a mess of fish-hooks on one end of it, and a ping-pong ball tied on the other end. Now, you take your subject and remove all his teeth, or at least the upper incisors. Then, you bind his hands behind his back, and lay him face down, naked, on your basement floor. You take the ping-pong ball, and force him to swallow it.

There's some funny things about the human body. One of those funny things is peristalsis, which is the process by which things are moved along the intestines 'til they get to the business end. Seeing as the human digestive tract is about 24 feet long on average, and needs about 5 hours for a complete tour, your subject will have about two and a half hours to watch that roll of fishing line unravel, and the fish-hooks travel towards his maw. There will be a lot of comic relief during this period, seeing as he'll be trying desperately to chew through the fishing wire with his gums, but this stage is all about anticipation.

Once the hooks get inside, the subject will have another 2 and a half hours to contemplate exactly what it feels like as his own body's muscular contractions pull a handful of fishhooks through his alimentary canal, and into his large intestine. The pain will be excruciating, but that's irrelevant, as this is a dead man walking. Well, a dead man laying toothless and naked on a cold concrete floor with a gut full of fishhooks, but we've all been there, now, haven't we. Once the intestinal wall is breached to any significant extent, the poisons there will flow out into the abdominal cavity, condemning all the vital organs to a slow, toxic death, and the host to death by septicemia.

At this point, the innkeeper can go for the quick thrill, letting the subject's small intestine take over, with its quicker peristaltic pace, raking the hooks 12 feet behind, leaving the subject screaming in agony until his inevitable death through internal blood loss. Or, if he has the time and/or patience, he can take the subject to a secluded parking lot, toss him out, and call an ambulance. There's no helping him, of course, but it will be amusing to watch him mutate into a swollen, jaundiced, piss-smelling monster while paying $5000 a minute for all manner of dialysis and blood-purification procedures, all of which will not stop the fact that his liver and kidneys have been handed down the death penalty. This could go on for six to eight months, and never ceases to amuse.

I'm a quick-thrill kind of person, myself, but to each their own.

There are cases, of course, where nobody wants to be number 1.

So, I was just sitting here, and I realized that my last blog entry was in something like 1963, and I thought to myself, how the hell do you fuckers do it? It's bad enough when you want to post, but don't have time. What's even worse, is when you don't want to post, when the shining light within you has guttered and died like a wet match, but the hole calls. The hole must be fed.

But I think now, I've taken a little break. I would like to start putting stupid little thoughts into glass boxes again, and have to defend them against Gentoo zealots and Islamic terrorists. But drawings are always good. So, here's an old drawing that I kinda like.

Makes me think of Guantanamo.

marcy say:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time
To sit and think about myself
And then there she was
Like double cherry pie
Yeah there she was
Like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had too much caffeine
And I was thinkin' 'bout myself
And then there she was
In double platform suede
Yeah there she was
Like disco lemonade
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream
Mama this surely is a dream
Yeah mama this must be my dream

"I was overwhelmed by the hellish imagery, the abject violence, and the complete inhumanity. A vision right out of Bosch's worst nightmares, with Hell let loose upon the Earth with brimstone and sulfurous fumes. An utterly loathsome firestorm of Evil waiting to be unleashed upon this world of ours, just biding its time till it bursts out into the open and wreaks destruction. I could barely sit through the whole thing. Man, I've got to lay off the pesto gnocchis.

"The movie? Oh, it was OK, I guess."

Here's one more reason to watch the Keynote Monday.

I guess it doesn't really matter if Apple switches to Intel chips. They go where they want, and always seem to come out unharmed. For the record, though, I don't believe a word of it. I've heard OS X-on-Intel fantasies since the '90s, and I don't think Apple will be doing that particular dance in the foreseeable future.

If they do, though, it will disappoint me terribly. I wanted a new Cell-Driven Powerbook.

not a shrinking violet » Moooooo-vie Meme:

Well, on about a week ago, Liv meme-tagged me. Unfortunately, the email all my blog notifications get sent to is gone, for whatever reason, so I failed to notice. I'll have to be updating that. Also, I've been unable to either blog or read blogs for the past few weeks, seeing as I've been busy 'n' stuff. Sorry, Liv, I'll get to the meme now.

1) Total number of films I own on DVD/video:

Well, I think it's about 30 now. I used to have more, but I've sold about half of them on Amazon over the past few weeks.

2) The last film I bought:

The last film I bought was...hmmm...let's see...

"Der Soldat James Ryan (DTS)" (Steven Spielberg)
(saving private ryan, subsequently sold for a handful of magic beans)

3) The last film I watched:
Star Wars, Episode IV. Meeee-mo-reeeeees.

4) Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):

"Memento (2 DVDs)" (Christoper Nolan)

"Die üblichen Verdächtigen" (Bryan Singer)

"L.A. Confidential" (Curtis Hanson)

"Die Verurteilten" (Frank Darabont)

"Affliction [UK IMPORT]" (Paul Schrader)

5) Tag 5 people:
I don't think I will, because I've missed the meme-wave. Sorry folks, I'll try to get my blog-butt in gear.

According to my "This Day in History" applet in Dashboard, on May 13, 1846 the United States declared war on Mexico. Davy Crockett eventually had to get involved, unless I'm not mistaken.

I'd heard the belly-laughs rippling through the so-called "blogosphere" about the Huffington Post, so I figured I'd check it out. I've never seen a more wretched hive of shallowness and drivelry. It's like a high-school newspaper consisting of only an uninteresting entertainment section. It looks more like a National Lampoon spoof of a group-blog than an actual one. For example, check out these unintentionally hilarious concessions from, ahem, Ze Frank:

i agree that if we all start shouting about anal intercourse all of the time our country will fall into ruin.
...
I told a guy at Starbuck's to go f*ck himself when he cut me in line. I also peed on a car that took my spot outside my apartment. Might I not also symbolize the Left's flirtation with the Demon's of Anarchy?

Ignoring for the moment the hideous diction abuse rampant in this post, I'm happy about the anal intercourse thing. Shouting about it won't make it happen, and it's good that we're all in agreement. Other than that, I have to say I'm actually dumber for having read the entire entry. I'm still reeling from trying to figure out what the point of writing it was. I think if I got the chance to write for such a highly-visible page like the renowned Huffington Post, I'd actually, you know, try and say something; give advice; help the children.

The American Left needs advice, that's for sure. They're getting squeezed out of Washington about as fast as those hump-backed Caribou in Alaska will be once Smirky McHallibush gets the oil contracts for his oil-drilling cousins. The reason, of course, is that they're getting all their advice from absolute knuckleheads. For example, just get a load of the mental game of Twister that some nobody who goes by the obvious pseudonym "Deborah Rappaport" has to say:

Myth #1 We need the right candidates: If the Republican Party has taught us anything, it is that with a clear purpose and a well-defined, consistent message delivered over a long enough period, anybody can be elected president. Your mommy and daddy were right. Any child in the United States can grow up to be president. We can’t wait for the second coming of Bill Clinton or John Kennedy or FDR. We need to create the environment that allows a good enough candidate to win. We need to trust that the electorate is smart enough to understand us when we talk about progressive values and ideals. And we need to trust that when we speak authentically about those values and ideals, the electorate will respond by electing our candidates.

Myth #2 We need to win the next elections: Well, duh. But if all we do is worry about the next election, we have taken our eye off of the ball. A coherent party, speaking from the gut rather than the brain, will lead to winning elections. A strategy of trying to just win the next one, and then everything will be OK, has led us to where we are now. What we need to win are the hearts and minds of the people. The Democratic Party has done a woefully bad job of speaking to the truths of people’s lives. Instead of standing up and talking about what we really believe in--society’s responsibility to all of its citizens, fairness, equality--we get dragged into arguments that serve no purpose but to cause us to lose sight of what we were fighting for in the first place.

Got that? I'm assuming Debbie works like I do, when I actually feel like writing a document someone will read. I start with an outline, then flesh it out, just like in 6th grade English. However, I can't believe I'd run with an outline that started out with A) we don't need the right candidates, and B) we don't need to win the next elections. Nobody could seriously write this kind of stuff and actually think it made sense. You'll notice that she states obvious inanities in bold print, then burns through 1200 characters a piece trying to justify them. That's modern Democrat thinking for you: You can bullshit your way out of any jam, as long as your audience wants to believe you. But that audience is getting smaller.

So here's the deal, Deb. Assuming you want to supply America with a viable, democratically necessary loyal opposition again at some point in the future, you do, in fact, need the right candidates. You also very much do need to win the next elections, because that's what defines success in politics: Winning elections. But that's just politics. Maybe if you change "Myth #1" to "Rule #1", Myth #2 will just disappear.

Letting the courts decide elections, ceaselessly filibustering important congressional decisions, and spending more time on the road whining about why you lost instead of doing the job you actually got elected to do is no way to run a party. I mean, it was amusing for a while, but it's turning into a one-joke show.

I'm sitting here watching my temporary doghouse roommate play what has to be the second most boring racing video game I've ever seen, Forza Motorsport. It's. Soooooo. Sloooooooow. It's like watching a NASCAR race consisting entirely of '84 Buick Regals. There are no pedestrians to run over, no nitro button, and you aren't even allowed to run the other cars off the road into the woods.

Another snoozer is Microsoft's Flight Simulator. I just got through flying 11 hours over the Atlantic in the real world, and I think it's insane anyone would even imagine making a game out of it. Only Microsoft could get away with such blatant perversity.

The award for most boring video game ever, though, goes without a doubt to 18 Wheels of Steel. It's like Flight Simulator, except you're driving a semi truck across the United States in realtime, and you get bonus points for staying within posted speed limits and delivering your load of photocopiers or whatever on time. Jesus, why not just get a job as a truck driver and actually get paid for the same amount of wasted life? A co-worker of mine would actually come in with bags under his eyes from playing this game all night, and bitch about the way people drove on the American Interstate. That's just wrong, wrong wrong.

I noticed this entry a while back at Velociman's place, and finally got around to taking the draw-a-pig test. Apparently, the guys who run this page can tell all about your personality by what your pig looks like. Here's mine:

(click for full-size)

It didn't give me an answer right away, so I sent it off to the admin of the site. As soon as I get an answer, I'll be sure to post it here!

Hugs,
Rube

I've got this recently-was-hot 2.8GHz Pentium 4 hyperthreading processor in my Windows box. There was a time when that much processing power was too bad to be had. But it's slow now. I thought maybe I was just getting used to the performance, and that the 2-year speed-freak fix time was coming up. But now I'm not so sure.

I wonder what the efficiency level of a patched, firewalled, and virus-protected Windows box is. I mean, every byte you read off the disk has to be read at least once by the virus scanner. Every accessed byte of memory has to be scanned; every email you send goes through the virus scanner, the firewall software, and then gets scanned by every single mail server along the way, just to make sure. And that's in addition to the normal operations that have to be performed on a message, like typing it, spellchecking it, and looking up all the nifties that it takes to route an SMTP message from here to yon.

It's not just for email, either. Every web page you load gets scanned. Every document you open, every jpeg you view, and every movie file you watch has to be scanned and monitored before you ever see it. Every byte that gets read from your hard drive or from the network has to be compared to a table of hundreds of thousands of Windows-based viruses for similarities; and, if you've set your virus software up that way, heuristically analyzed against a second table of virus patterns. Your firewall does it, too. Every connection you try to open gets put through a series of tests to make sure that the program opening the connection is authorized to connect to that address, at this particular time, and for how long. I'm sure these programs are well-written, and as efficient as they can possibly be under the circumstances, but still, it's a huge amount of overhead.

Basically, I'm wondering just what percentage of the world's CPU cycles are actually spent wiping Bill Gates' ass for him.

Poking around Drudge this morning...ok, afternoon, I saw that there was yet another 'art happening' in which thousands upon thousand of people got naked in the street, most of whom probably for the first time in their lives. Now, I don't know much about art, but I know it's not particularly difficult or subtle to make an impression on people by slamming their eyes with thousands of naked people. Mona Lisa? That's subtlety defined; nothing extravagant there, just beauty in details instead of the weary inflation of subject matter that this knucklehead here is doing. Project stagnating? Just throw some nudists at it. That didn't work? Throw THOUSANDS at it. That'll get their attention, and that's really what this is all about, ain't it? Getting attention?

Or maybe it's because their all Belgians. Pervs.

Via Drudge

Nearly a decade after being left virtually speechless, a firefighter in Buffalo, New York, has suddenly started talking. Doctors are stunned, and trying to fully understand how the change came about.

The Red Sox did what?

Tim Berners-who?!

Atlanta? That bunch of grits-eatin', banjo-playin inbreds? Atlanta?!

Jesus, you mean to tell me you can't even smoke in bars in the freakin' Bowery anymore?

Put me back to sleep, fer chrissakes!

Some hooks are not meant to hold large objects, such as book bags. Not heavy objects, strictly speaking; despite the hook's appearance of solidity. You just assume the hook's going to hold, because that's what hooks do, after all. But the hook can be pushed beyond its capacity, in which case it will fail. A hook's failure will result in the load's succumbing to the force of gravity, and probably damage to the mounting surface.

Ain't it the truth.

Jeez, at neither the Munich nor Atlanta airports can you find a wireless network. I'll never understand these knuckleheads. At the Country Hearth Motel on Highway 17 in south Georgia you can sit in the parking lot and check your email, but in two of the world's most travelled airports you'd think you were back in the 70s. I wonder what these big airports are waiting for.

I'll have to get used to the time difference again. I just sat down and ordered a beer and kässpätzle at 8:30 in the morning. Mmmm...helles bier. Even though it's Erdinger, it tastes like sweet nectar going down. I knew there was something about this country I missed. Well, that, and you can still smoke at the baggage claim.

Welp, the trip home is over. The little lady was introduced around, to glowing reviews. There was plenty done: the Wreckyll, Atlanta Attractions, Savannah, Charleston, and the davidian compound we visited near Athens, Tennessee. Now, I'm sitting in a plane, about 3 hours away from landing in Munich. I'm sitting right behind the right wing, as seems to be my lot in life, I've never sat anywhere else on this flight.

Speaking of this flight, flew it the first time back in 1997, the first of many. I fell asleep before we left the runway, and woke up over Holland. Man-o-man, I wish I could still sleep on flights, now in my dotage. A friend of mine got a prescription for some sleeping pill, named something like Ambien, or Ambiex. He said he took one, and a little while later he just felt sleepy and lay down on the couch and took a nap. Sadly, that sounds like the perfect drug; at 35, I can imagine nothing better than taking a nap on the couch with the baseball game is on. I'd take that over heroin any day.

Hi, my name is Ken. Rube has foolishly given me permission, as well as a corresponding password, to contribute to this blog from the heart of old Europe. As I live in the U.S., it will make for some interesting perspective.

Me and the little woman just finished spending two wonderful days visiting Mr. Straight White Guy and his bonnie lass, Fiona. First of all, let me just tell you what a wonderful pair those two are. They really went out of their way to make us feel welcome at their beautiful compound, and showed us one hell of a time.

The first night, I met Eric's cousin, who shall remain nameless, namely because he was short-drinking us, remaining sober while the rest of us drunk ourselves into a good-natured stupor. The boys barbecued some good-looking ribs, and we spent about seven hours shooting pool in the garage, drinking beer, talking trash, and, for my team at least, beating Eric and Anna like rented mules.

(click on images to view full size)

This morning, Mr. Guy cooked us up a killer breakfast of biscuiits, bacon, and eggs, providing the groundwork for our foray into the world of newly-legal assault rifles. You'll notice in the first picture below, that Anna, who's never shot a weapon before in her life, just took out the three colored ballons that were attached to the post. In three shots, I might add. I needed about 15 rounds before bagging my third balloon, so, yes, I'm humiliated as both a man and an American, thank you.

Now, let's see some action! Here are some movies; just click to play, though you may need the free Quicktime software to view them.

Eric, running the table. Almost.

Brad with the manly, manly break.

Anna with the shot!

Rube talkin' trash

Three shots, three balloons. Nice shootin', Tex!

There's something about european girls with assault weapons that is just irresistible. Here's Fiona on the AR 15:

Of course, the shot-to-kill ratio would've suffered had it not been for Eric's coolness.

Remember kids, handle your firearms responsibly! Although guys, between you and me, there are few things on the planet that can make chicks pull mugs like these:

Those are gun-faces if I've ever seen one. All in all, we had ourselves a wonderful time. You can read Eric's version of it here.

We've invited Eric and Fiona over to visit us in Germany. Hopefully, they'll show up and we can take them snowboarding. Or just sit around and drink beers as big as tree trunks, either way, I'm easy.

Downright memed me, did he?

Courtesy of the Juju Man:

If I could be a scientist, I would start a vicious underground movement to stop research in the anti-aging field. Humans are not meant to live forever, and eternal life would mean the end of us as a species. We are not yet through evolving.

If I could be a farmer, I would build myself a veranda, with a porch swing, where I could listen to cicadas, watch my milk-cows fall asleep at sunset, and drink mint juleps. Naked.

If I could be a musician, I would never stop playing. I would be the hit of every campfire, the center of attention, just me and my bagpipes.

If I could be a doctor, I would see Catfish more often, I'll wager.

If I could be a painter, I would never contact the NEA for money. I would try to paint stuff people would enjoy, and put high value on, and keep the experimental stuff where it belongs, in the lab.

If I could be a gardener, I would plant azaleas.

If I could be a missionary, I would only do it doggie-style, and giggle at the irony.

If I could be a chef, I would spend all my energy elevating those two highest forms of cuisine, the hush puppy and the buttermilk biscuit, to the respected position in the culinary world that they so deserve.

If I could be an architect, I would try to bring gables back into fashion.

If I could be a linguist, I would translate this blog into latin, hebrew, and aramaic for posterity.

If I could be a psychologist, I would know why I can't get out of bed before noon.

If I could be a librarian, I would underline the dirty parts of every book in the building.

If I could be an athlete, I wouldn't take steroids, unless of course everyone else was doing it.

If I could be a lawyer, I would have the worst won-loss record since the '87 Braves.

If I could be an innkeeper, I wouldn't take yankees. They're rude, messy, and they don't tip.

If I could be a professor, I would be the most unpopular person in the faculty lounge, owing to my obsession with fart jokes.

If I could be a writer, I would probably get picked every now and then to write blog novella chapters, instead of the tight little clique of glory hogs and suck-ups that now dominate them.

If I could be a backup dancer, I would spend a lot of time explaining to people that no, I'm not gay.

If I could be a llama-rider, I would join the llama-riders' union and try to organize surreal steeple chases near Macchu Picchu.

If I could be a bonnie pirate, I would constantly be doing old Abbot and Costello routines with my trained parrot, Muffin. I would be the straight man.

If I could be a midget stripper, I would only strip midgets who had given me their permission beforehand, in writing.

If I could be a proctologist, I would come up with lots of jokes to take the edge off. "So," I would say, "You meet a lot of assholes in this job, too, you know." Stuff like that.

If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I would blind-side child actors and fluff guests with loaded questions about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Now, I guess I have to pass it to 3 more people:

Sandy, of the Dirty Ashtray
Zonker, of the genetically engineered mutant turbo-liver
Mr. Dax Montana, overlord of the pimptastical bombastical red hat brigade

Not that they'll do it, lazy toids.

Since I met such a great new bunch of people at the Wreckyll, I figured it was time to update my musty ol' blogroll over there. Having met you all personally, I don't think y'all are the types that will get offended being linked by a site named You Bitch. As I said many, many times in Jeckyll: Nothing Personal.

Welcome to the fray:

Acidman
Catfish
The Dax Files
Divine InnerBitchin'
Fistful of Fortnights
Georgia
Grouchy Old Cripple
Key Issues
Meanderings
Moogies World
Parkway Rest Stop.
suburban blight

Feisty Repartee (of course!)

If you were at the Wreckyll, and I don't have you linked, just let me know. That brain cell might not have made it off the island in one piece.

I think South Carolina was one of the last states to rid themselves of the Confederate part of their state flag. After the Wreckyll, I took my baby up to Charleston. Driving through the back-roads of rural South Carolina, one sees that the race relations are still stuck somewhere between the Civil Rights Movement and Amistad. Stopping at a gas station near Columbia, I noticed that they actually had a light-brown colored iced coffee drink called the 'Moo Latte'. What the fuck? You crackers aren't even trying up there.

Jesus, I'm wondering now if Velociman's Artillery Punch wasn't subtly affecting us all, threatening all who drank it with slow madness. Can anyone explain to me what the hell is going in this video?

Excerpt:

Straight White Guy: So, how would you jerk off a marmocet?
Dax Montana (in Red Pimp-hat with purple feather): I don't know, I'm not the person who had that job...

The Wreckyll is over now. I'm not going to be able to write about it until tomorrow, I figure, when the liver-swelling goes down to an acceptable bulge under my sternum. I've got tons of pictures, and more than a couple of videos that will have to be filed under 'incriminating evidence'.

Eric is a wild-man, as everyone knows, but Sam, 'Hollow-leg' Zonker, Jim, and Christina more than held their own. You guys are maniacs, and I've got pics to prove it. Don't forget, videos were enough to get Terry Schiavo's plug pulled; there's no telling what they're going to do to y'all once these get out.

Pictures will definitely be forthcoming.

The ring finger and pinky of both hands. My tongue when I wake up, most mornings. The tops of my feet, if I happen to be lying on my back. My left elbow. Along my left calf, where the hair has fallen out. The palms of my hands. A four-inch vertical strip on the left side of my forehead, running up under my hair, where there's a scar from an old war-wound. I'm going numb, one piece at a time.

Eventually, over years, the numbness will work its way inward, making my arms heavy and difficult to steer with, easing the pain of the shoulders, both of which I've separated doing various stupid things, and the hip, which I broke in college, and the muscles of my lower back, which always seem sore, ever since I broke thirty.

Once the numbness makes it to my heart, I guess that will be that.

Well, outside the tornado sirens are going crazy, there's a grey eerie sunlight, and the cat's hiding behind the sofa. If you don't hear back from me, I'll say hi to the Wizard for you.

It seems as though Lawrence's fattest cat, Eldloe, has passed away. As a catperson, I propose a drink to the memory of Edloe. As a drunkard, however, I didn't need a dead cat to drink a beer, now did I.

There's a place in Heaven for good cats, assuming Edloe was one, and the cat waits for you there, in the fields, when you're dead.

Sleep.

bling!

borf!!!!1

Puew! Brweeeeeeeeg! Noooooörf!

So are the dangers of drinking and blogging. Normal, hätte I the bling to glop what I blingin' dorf. You know?

Plow!

Here I am again, waiting on the old lady in the Worst Bar in the World. The Worst Bar in the World, by the way, has improved itself. It, like a woman, responds to slaps and degradations in the correct manner, vis it adjusts, tries to understand the reasons for its punishment, evolves. The Worst Bar in the World is no fool, and has its sights set on my money apparently. In short, the staff no longer spends its time smoking cigarettes behind the bar, wondering what all these people want from them. They pour beer now, and do it quickly.

On the other hand, there's the New Worst Bar in the World. I'm not a completely negative person, so I'll start with the positives: The New Worst Bar in the World is very clean. This is probably because after about 11 P.M. the staff do nothing other than clean the kitchen. They are nowhere to be found. You can walk in, take a seat, have a cigarette*, and proceed to load all the furniture and silverware that isn't currently being polished into the back of your car and drive home, nary an eyebrow raised. The New Worst Bar in the World is purportedly without pre-defined closing time, meaning, from my admittedly biased perspective as customer, that you can can drink all night, it being a bar and all. Such tag-lines can be deceiving, of course. Open all night means different things to different people, and here the customer is not always right. The bar, as you or I would understand it, closes about 11:15. After that point, it becomes more of a non-contact peep-show for dishwashing fetishists. The staff are not to be disturbed, and, if you don't mind staying overnight until the doors open up again, you can stay as long as you want.

The service in Europe sucks, still, even 2 months after my return.

*-The New Worst Bar in the World hides the ashtrays behind the bar, so you'll have to ash on the floor.

Oh, I'm droolin' here. Sam gives us the enviable role of doing exactly what we want with a comment/trackback spammer, without fear of retribution. Normally, I'd say turn him over to the police for a hitherto non-existing statutory transgression that will bring nothing, seeing as the perp more than like lives in a country whose name consists of 17 letters, not one of which is a vowel. So let's think outside the box for a minute.

First, you take a 12-foot length of 400lb fishing line. The you put a mess of fish-hooks on one end of it, and a ping-pong ball tied on the other end. Now, you take your subject and remove all his teeth, or at least the upper incisors. Then, you bind his hands behind his back, and lay him face down, naked, on your basement floor. You take the ping-pong ball, and force him to swallow it.

There's some funny things about the human body. One of those funny things is peristalsis, which is the process by which things are moved along the intestines 'til they get to the business end. Seeing as the human digestive tract is about 24 feet long on average, and needs about 5 hours for a complete tour, your subject will have about two and a half hours to watch that roll of fishing line unravel, and the fish-hooks travel towards his maw. There will be a lot of comic relief during this period, seeing as he'll be trying desperately to chew through the fishing wire with his gums, but this stage is all about anticipation.

Once the hooks get inside, the subject will have another 2 and a half hours to contemplate exactly what it feels like as his own body's muscular contractions pull a handful of fishhooks through his alimentary canal, and into his large intestine. The pain will be excruciating, but that's irrelevant, as this is a dead man walking. Well, a dead man laying toothless and naked on a cold concrete floor with a gut full of fishhooks, but we've all been there, now, haven't we. Once the intestinal wall is breached to any significant extent, the poisons there will flow out into the abdominal cavity, condemning all the vital organs to a slow, toxic death, and the host to death by septicemia.

At this point, the innkeeper can go for the quick thrill, letting the subject's small intestine take over, with its quicker peristaltic pace, raking the hooks 12 feet behind, leaving the subject screaming in agony until his inevitable death through internal blood loss. Or, if he has the time and/or patience, he can take the subject to a secluded parking lot, toss him out, and call an ambulance. There's no helping him, of course, but it will be amusing to watch him mutate into a swollen, jaundiced, piss-smelling monster while paying $5000 a minute for all manner of dialysis and blood-purification procedures, all of which will not stop the fact that his liver and kidneys have been handed down the death penalty. This could go on for six to eight months, and never ceases to amuse.

I'm a quick-thrill kind of person, myself, but to each their own.

There are cases, of course, where nobody wants to be number 1.

So, I was just sitting here, and I realized that my last blog entry was in something like 1963, and I thought to myself, how the hell do you fuckers do it? It's bad enough when you want to post, but don't have time. What's even worse, is when you don't want to post, when the shining light within you has guttered and died like a wet match, but the hole calls. The hole must be fed.

But I think now, I've taken a little break. I would like to start putting stupid little thoughts into glass boxes again, and have to defend them against Gentoo zealots and Islamic terrorists. But drawings are always good. So, here's an old drawing that I kinda like.

Makes me think of Guantanamo.

marcy say:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time
To sit and think about myself
And then there she was
Like double cherry pie
Yeah there she was
Like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had too much caffeine
And I was thinkin' 'bout myself
And then there she was
In double platform suede
Yeah there she was
Like disco lemonade
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream
Mama this surely is a dream
Yeah mama this must be my dream

"I was overwhelmed by the hellish imagery, the abject violence, and the complete inhumanity. A vision right out of Bosch's worst nightmares, with Hell let loose upon the Earth with brimstone and sulfurous fumes. An utterly loathsome firestorm of Evil waiting to be unleashed upon this world of ours, just biding its time till it bursts out into the open and wreaks destruction. I could barely sit through the whole thing. Man, I've got to lay off the pesto gnocchis.

"The movie? Oh, it was OK, I guess."

Here's one more reason to watch the Keynote Monday.

I guess it doesn't really matter if Apple switches to Intel chips. They go where they want, and always seem to come out unharmed. For the record, though, I don't believe a word of it. I've heard OS X-on-Intel fantasies since the '90s, and I don't think Apple will be doing that particular dance in the foreseeable future.

If they do, though, it will disappoint me terribly. I wanted a new Cell-Driven Powerbook.

not a shrinking violet » Moooooo-vie Meme:

Well, on about a week ago, Liv meme-tagged me. Unfortunately, the email all my blog notifications get sent to is gone, for whatever reason, so I failed to notice. I'll have to be updating that. Also, I've been unable to either blog or read blogs for the past few weeks, seeing as I've been busy 'n' stuff. Sorry, Liv, I'll get to the meme now.

1) Total number of films I own on DVD/video:

Well, I think it's about 30 now. I used to have more, but I've sold about half of them on Amazon over the past few weeks.

2) The last film I bought:

The last film I bought was...hmmm...let's see...

"Der Soldat James Ryan (DTS)" (Steven Spielberg)
(saving private ryan, subsequently sold for a handful of magic beans)

3) The last film I watched:
Star Wars, Episode IV. Meeee-mo-reeeeees.

4) Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):

"Memento (2 DVDs)" (Christoper Nolan)

"Die üblichen Verdächtigen" (Bryan Singer)

"L.A. Confidential" (Curtis Hanson)

"Die Verurteilten" (Frank Darabont)

"Affliction [UK IMPORT]" (Paul Schrader)

5) Tag 5 people:
I don't think I will, because I've missed the meme-wave. Sorry folks, I'll try to get my blog-butt in gear.

According to my "This Day in History" applet in Dashboard, on May 13, 1846 the United States declared war on Mexico. Davy Crockett eventually had to get involved, unless I'm not mistaken.

I'd heard the belly-laughs rippling through the so-called "blogosphere" about the Huffington Post, so I figured I'd check it out. I've never seen a more wretched hive of shallowness and drivelry. It's like a high-school newspaper consisting of only an uninteresting entertainment section. It looks more like a National Lampoon spoof of a group-blog than an actual one. For example, check out these unintentionally hilarious concessions from, ahem, Ze Frank:

i agree that if we all start shouting about anal intercourse all of the time our country will fall into ruin.
...
I told a guy at Starbuck's to go f*ck himself when he cut me in line. I also peed on a car that took my spot outside my apartment. Might I not also symbolize the Left's flirtation with the Demon's of Anarchy?

Ignoring for the moment the hideous diction abuse rampant in this post, I'm happy about the anal intercourse thing. Shouting about it won't make it happen, and it's good that we're all in agreement. Other than that, I have to say I'm actually dumber for having read the entire entry. I'm still reeling from trying to figure out what the point of writing it was. I think if I got the chance to write for such a highly-visible page like the renowned Huffington Post, I'd actually, you know, try and say something; give advice; help the children.

The American Left needs advice, that's for sure. They're getting squeezed out of Washington about as fast as those hump-backed Caribou in Alaska will be once Smirky McHallibush gets the oil contracts for his oil-drilling cousins. The reason, of course, is that they're getting all their advice from absolute knuckleheads. For example, just get a load of the mental game of Twister that some nobody who goes by the obvious pseudonym "Deborah Rappaport" has to say:

Myth #1 We need the right candidates: If the Republican Party has taught us anything, it is that with a clear purpose and a well-defined, consistent message delivered over a long enough period, anybody can be elected president. Your mommy and daddy were right. Any child in the United States can grow up to be president. We can’t wait for the second coming of Bill Clinton or John Kennedy or FDR. We need to create the environment that allows a good enough candidate to win. We need to trust that the electorate is smart enough to understand us when we talk about progressive values and ideals. And we need to trust that when we speak authentically about those values and ideals, the electorate will respond by electing our candidates.

Myth #2 We need to win the next elections: Well, duh. But if all we do is worry about the next election, we have taken our eye off of the ball. A coherent party, speaking from the gut rather than the brain, will lead to winning elections. A strategy of trying to just win the next one, and then everything will be OK, has led us to where we are now. What we need to win are the hearts and minds of the people. The Democratic Party has done a woefully bad job of speaking to the truths of people’s lives. Instead of standing up and talking about what we really believe in--society’s responsibility to all of its citizens, fairness, equality--we get dragged into arguments that serve no purpose but to cause us to lose sight of what we were fighting for in the first place.

Got that? I'm assuming Debbie works like I do, when I actually feel like writing a document someone will read. I start with an outline, then flesh it out, just like in 6th grade English. However, I can't believe I'd run with an outline that started out with A) we don't need the right candidates, and B) we don't need to win the next elections. Nobody could seriously write this kind of stuff and actually think it made sense. You'll notice that she states obvious inanities in bold print, then burns through 1200 characters a piece trying to justify them. That's modern Democrat thinking for you: You can bullshit your way out of any jam, as long as your audience wants to believe you. But that audience is getting smaller.

So here's the deal, Deb. Assuming you want to supply America with a viable, democratically necessary loyal opposition again at some point in the future, you do, in fact, need the right candidates. You also very much do need to win the next elections, because that's what defines success in politics: Winning elections. But that's just politics. Maybe if you change "Myth #1" to "Rule #1", Myth #2 will just disappear.

Letting the courts decide elections, ceaselessly filibustering important congressional decisions, and spending more time on the road whining about why you lost instead of doing the job you actually got elected to do is no way to run a party. I mean, it was amusing for a while, but it's turning into a one-joke show.

I'm sitting here watching my temporary doghouse roommate play what has to be the second most boring racing video game I've ever seen, Forza Motorsport. It's. Soooooo. Sloooooooow. It's like watching a NASCAR race consisting entirely of '84 Buick Regals. There are no pedestrians to run over, no nitro button, and you aren't even allowed to run the other cars off the road into the woods.

Another snoozer is Microsoft's Flight Simulator. I just got through flying 11 hours over the Atlantic in the real world, and I think it's insane anyone would even imagine making a game out of it. Only Microsoft could get away with such blatant perversity.

The award for most boring video game ever, though, goes without a doubt to 18 Wheels of Steel. It's like Flight Simulator, except you're driving a semi truck across the United States in realtime, and you get bonus points for staying within posted speed limits and delivering your load of photocopiers or whatever on time. Jesus, why not just get a job as a truck driver and actually get paid for the same amount of wasted life? A co-worker of mine would actually come in with bags under his eyes from playing this game all night, and bitch about the way people drove on the American Interstate. That's just wrong, wrong wrong.

I noticed this entry a while back at Velociman's place, and finally got around to taking the draw-a-pig test. Apparently, the guys who run this page can tell all about your personality by what your pig looks like. Here's mine:

(click for full-size)

It didn't give me an answer right away, so I sent it off to the admin of the site. As soon as I get an answer, I'll be sure to post it here!

Hugs,
Rube

I've got this recently-was-hot 2.8GHz Pentium 4 hyperthreading processor in my Windows box. There was a time when that much processing power was too bad to be had. But it's slow now. I thought maybe I was just getting used to the performance, and that the 2-year speed-freak fix time was coming up. But now I'm not so sure.

I wonder what the efficiency level of a patched, firewalled, and virus-protected Windows box is. I mean, every byte you read off the disk has to be read at least once by the virus scanner. Every accessed byte of memory has to be scanned; every email you send goes through the virus scanner, the firewall software, and then gets scanned by every single mail server along the way, just to make sure. And that's in addition to the normal operations that have to be performed on a message, like typing it, spellchecking it, and looking up all the nifties that it takes to route an SMTP message from here to yon.

It's not just for email, either. Every web page you load gets scanned. Every document you open, every jpeg you view, and every movie file you watch has to be scanned and monitored before you ever see it. Every byte that gets read from your hard drive or from the network has to be compared to a table of hundreds of thousands of Windows-based viruses for similarities; and, if you've set your virus software up that way, heuristically analyzed against a second table of virus patterns. Your firewall does it, too. Every connection you try to open gets put through a series of tests to make sure that the program opening the connection is authorized to connect to that address, at this particular time, and for how long. I'm sure these programs are well-written, and as efficient as they can possibly be under the circumstances, but still, it's a huge amount of overhead.

Basically, I'm wondering just what percentage of the world's CPU cycles are actually spent wiping Bill Gates' ass for him.

Poking around Drudge this morning...ok, afternoon, I saw that there was yet another 'art happening' in which thousands upon thousand of people got naked in the street, most of whom probably for the first time in their lives. Now, I don't know much about art, but I know it's not particularly difficult or subtle to make an impression on people by slamming their eyes with thousands of naked people. Mona Lisa? That's subtlety defined; nothing extravagant there, just beauty in details instead of the weary inflation of subject matter that this knucklehead here is doing. Project stagnating? Just throw some nudists at it. That didn't work? Throw THOUSANDS at it. That'll get their attention, and that's really what this is all about, ain't it? Getting attention?

Or maybe it's because their all Belgians. Pervs.

Via Drudge

Nearly a decade after being left virtually speechless, a firefighter in Buffalo, New York, has suddenly started talking. Doctors are stunned, and trying to fully understand how the change came about.

The Red Sox did what?

Tim Berners-who?!

Atlanta? That bunch of grits-eatin', banjo-playin inbreds? Atlanta?!

Jesus, you mean to tell me you can't even smoke in bars in the freakin' Bowery anymore?

Put me back to sleep, fer chrissakes!

Some hooks are not meant to hold large objects, such as book bags. Not heavy objects, strictly speaking; despite the hook's appearance of solidity. You just assume the hook's going to hold, because that's what hooks do, after all. But the hook can be pushed beyond its capacity, in which case it will fail. A hook's failure will result in the load's succumbing to the force of gravity, and probably damage to the mounting surface.

Ain't it the truth.

Jeez, at neither the Munich nor Atlanta airports can you find a wireless network. I'll never understand these knuckleheads. At the Country Hearth Motel on Highway 17 in south Georgia you can sit in the parking lot and check your email, but in two of the world's most travelled airports you'd think you were back in the 70s. I wonder what these big airports are waiting for.

I'll have to get used to the time difference again. I just sat down and ordered a beer and kässpätzle at 8:30 in the morning. Mmmm...helles bier. Even though it's Erdinger, it tastes like sweet nectar going down. I knew there was something about this country I missed. Well, that, and you can still smoke at the baggage claim.

Welp, the trip home is over. The little lady was introduced around, to glowing reviews. There was plenty done: the Wreckyll, Atlanta Attractions, Savannah, Charleston, and the davidian compound we visited near Athens, Tennessee. Now, I'm sitting in a plane, about 3 hours away from landing in Munich. I'm sitting right behind the right wing, as seems to be my lot in life, I've never sat anywhere else on this flight.

Speaking of this flight, flew it the first time back in 1997, the first of many. I fell asleep before we left the runway, and woke up over Holland. Man-o-man, I wish I could still sleep on flights, now in my dotage. A friend of mine got a prescription for some sleeping pill, named something like Ambien, or Ambiex. He said he took one, and a little while later he just felt sleepy and lay down on the couch and took a nap. Sadly, that sounds like the perfect drug; at 35, I can imagine nothing better than taking a nap on the couch with the baseball game is on. I'd take that over heroin any day.

Hi, my name is Ken. Rube has foolishly given me permission, as well as a corresponding password, to contribute to this blog from the heart of old Europe. As I live in the U.S., it will make for some interesting perspective.

Me and the little woman just finished spending two wonderful days visiting Mr. Straight White Guy and his bonnie lass, Fiona. First of all, let me just tell you what a wonderful pair those two are. They really went out of their way to make us feel welcome at their beautiful compound, and showed us one hell of a time.

The first night, I met Eric's cousin, who shall remain nameless, namely because he was short-drinking us, remaining sober while the rest of us drunk ourselves into a good-natured stupor. The boys barbecued some good-looking ribs, and we spent about seven hours shooting pool in the garage, drinking beer, talking trash, and, for my team at least, beating Eric and Anna like rented mules.

(click on images to view full size)

This morning, Mr. Guy cooked us up a killer breakfast of biscuiits, bacon, and eggs, providing the groundwork for our foray into the world of newly-legal assault rifles. You'll notice in the first picture below, that Anna, who's never shot a weapon before in her life, just took out the three colored ballons that were attached to the post. In three shots, I might add. I needed about 15 rounds before bagging my third balloon, so, yes, I'm humiliated as both a man and an American, thank you.

Now, let's see some action! Here are some movies; just click to play, though you may need the free Quicktime software to view them.

Eric, running the table. Almost.

Brad with the manly, manly break.

Anna with the shot!

Rube talkin' trash

Three shots, three balloons. Nice shootin', Tex!

There's something about european girls with assault weapons that is just irresistible. Here's Fiona on the AR 15:

Of course, the shot-to-kill ratio would've suffered had it not been for Eric's coolness.

Remember kids, handle your firearms responsibly! Although guys, between you and me, there are few things on the planet that can make chicks pull mugs like these:

Those are gun-faces if I've ever seen one. All in all, we had ourselves a wonderful time. You can read Eric's version of it here.

We've invited Eric and Fiona over to visit us in Germany. Hopefully, they'll show up and we can take them snowboarding. Or just sit around and drink beers as big as tree trunks, either way, I'm easy.

Downright memed me, did he?

Courtesy of the Juju Man:

If I could be a scientist, I would start a vicious underground movement to stop research in the anti-aging field. Humans are not meant to live forever, and eternal life would mean the end of us as a species. We are not yet through evolving.

If I could be a farmer, I would build myself a veranda, with a porch swing, where I could listen to cicadas, watch my milk-cows fall asleep at sunset, and drink mint juleps. Naked.

If I could be a musician, I would never stop playing. I would be the hit of every campfire, the center of attention, just me and my bagpipes.

If I could be a doctor, I would see Catfish more often, I'll wager.

If I could be a painter, I would never contact the NEA for money. I would try to paint stuff people would enjoy, and put high value on, and keep the experimental stuff where it belongs, in the lab.

If I could be a gardener, I would plant azaleas.

If I could be a missionary, I would only do it doggie-style, and giggle at the irony.

If I could be a chef, I would spend all my energy elevating those two highest forms of cuisine, the hush puppy and the buttermilk biscuit, to the respected position in the culinary world that they so deserve.

If I could be an architect, I would try to bring gables back into fashion.

If I could be a linguist, I would translate this blog into latin, hebrew, and aramaic for posterity.

If I could be a psychologist, I would know why I can't get out of bed before noon.

If I could be a librarian, I would underline the dirty parts of every book in the building.

If I could be an athlete, I wouldn't take steroids, unless of course everyone else was doing it.

If I could be a lawyer, I would have the worst won-loss record since the '87 Braves.

If I could be an innkeeper, I wouldn't take yankees. They're rude, messy, and they don't tip.

If I could be a professor, I would be the most unpopular person in the faculty lounge, owing to my obsession with fart jokes.

If I could be a writer, I would probably get picked every now and then to write blog novella chapters, instead of the tight little clique of glory hogs and suck-ups that now dominate them.

If I could be a backup dancer, I would spend a lot of time explaining to people that no, I'm not gay.

If I could be a llama-rider, I would join the llama-riders' union and try to organize surreal steeple chases near Macchu Picchu.

If I could be a bonnie pirate, I would constantly be doing old Abbot and Costello routines with my trained parrot, Muffin. I would be the straight man.

If I could be a midget stripper, I would only strip midgets who had given me their permission beforehand, in writing.

If I could be a proctologist, I would come up with lots of jokes to take the edge off. "So," I would say, "You meet a lot of assholes in this job, too, you know." Stuff like that.

If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I would blind-side child actors and fluff guests with loaded questions about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Now, I guess I have to pass it to 3 more people:

Sandy, of the Dirty Ashtray
Zonker, of the genetically engineered mutant turbo-liver
Mr. Dax Montana, overlord of the pimptastical bombastical red hat brigade

Not that they'll do it, lazy toids.

Since I met such a great new bunch of people at the Wreckyll, I figured it was time to update my musty ol' blogroll over there. Having met you all personally, I don't think y'all are the types that will get offended being linked by a site named You Bitch. As I said many, many times in Jeckyll: Nothing Personal.

Welcome to the fray:

Acidman
Catfish
The Dax Files
Divine InnerBitchin'
Fistful of Fortnights
Georgia
Grouchy Old Cripple
Key Issues
Meanderings
Moogies World
Parkway Rest Stop.
suburban blight

Feisty Repartee (of course!)

If you were at the Wreckyll, and I don't have you linked, just let me know. That brain cell might not have made it off the island in one piece.

I think South Carolina was one of the last states to rid themselves of the Confederate part of their state flag. After the Wreckyll, I took my baby up to Charleston. Driving through the back-roads of rural South Carolina, one sees that the race relations are still stuck somewhere between the Civil Rights Movement and Amistad. Stopping at a gas station near Columbia, I noticed that they actually had a light-brown colored iced coffee drink called the 'Moo Latte'. What the fuck? You crackers aren't even trying up there.

Jesus, I'm wondering now if Velociman's Artillery Punch wasn't subtly affecting us all, threatening all who drank it with slow madness. Can anyone explain to me what the hell is going in this video?

Excerpt:

Straight White Guy: So, how would you jerk off a marmocet?
Dax Montana (in Red Pimp-hat with purple feather): I don't know, I'm not the person who had that job...

The Wreckyll is over now. I'm not going to be able to write about it until tomorrow, I figure, when the liver-swelling goes down to an acceptable bulge under my sternum. I've got tons of pictures, and more than a couple of videos that will have to be filed under 'incriminating evidence'.

Eric is a wild-man, as everyone knows, but Sam, 'Hollow-leg' Zonker, Jim, and Christina more than held their own. You guys are maniacs, and I've got pics to prove it. Don't forget, videos were enough to get Terry Schiavo's plug pulled; there's no telling what they're going to do to y'all once these get out.

Pictures will definitely be forthcoming.

The ring finger and pinky of both hands. My tongue when I wake up, most mornings. The tops of my feet, if I happen to be lying on my back. My left elbow. Along my left calf, where the hair has fallen out. The palms of my hands. A four-inch vertical strip on the left side of my forehead, running up under my hair, where there's a scar from an old war-wound. I'm going numb, one piece at a time.

Eventually, over years, the numbness will work its way inward, making my arms heavy and difficult to steer with, easing the pain of the shoulders, both of which I've separated doing various stupid things, and the hip, which I broke in college, and the muscles of my lower back, which always seem sore, ever since I broke thirty.

Once the numbness makes it to my heart, I guess that will be that.

Well, outside the tornado sirens are going crazy, there's a grey eerie sunlight, and the cat's hiding behind the sofa. If you don't hear back from me, I'll say hi to the Wizard for you.

It seems as though Lawrence's fattest cat, Eldloe, has passed away. As a catperson, I propose a drink to the memory of Edloe. As a drunkard, however, I didn't need a dead cat to drink a beer, now did I.

There's a place in Heaven for good cats, assuming Edloe was one, and the cat waits for you there, in the fields, when you're dead.

Sleep.

bling!

borf!!!!1

Puew! Brweeeeeeeeg! Noooooörf!

So are the dangers of drinking and blogging. Normal, hätte I the bling to glop what I blingin' dorf. You know?

Plow!

Here I am again, waiting on the old lady in the Worst Bar in the World. The Worst Bar in the World, by the way, has improved itself. It, like a woman, responds to slaps and degradations in the correct manner, vis it adjusts, tries to understand the reasons for its punishment, evolves. The Worst Bar in the World is no fool, and has its sights set on my money apparently. In short, the staff no longer spends its time smoking cigarettes behind the bar, wondering what all these people want from them. They pour beer now, and do it quickly.

On the other hand, there's the New Worst Bar in the World. I'm not a completely negative person, so I'll start with the positives: The New Worst Bar in the World is very clean. This is probably because after about 11 P.M. the staff do nothing other than clean the kitchen. They are nowhere to be found. You can walk in, take a seat, have a cigarette*, and proceed to load all the furniture and silverware that isn't currently being polished into the back of your car and drive home, nary an eyebrow raised. The New Worst Bar in the World is purportedly without pre-defined closing time, meaning, from my admittedly biased perspective as customer, that you can can drink all night, it being a bar and all. Such tag-lines can be deceiving, of course. Open all night means different things to different people, and here the customer is not always right. The bar, as you or I would understand it, closes about 11:15. After that point, it becomes more of a non-contact peep-show for dishwashing fetishists. The staff are not to be disturbed, and, if you don't mind staying overnight until the doors open up again, you can stay as long as you want.

The service in Europe sucks, still, even 2 months after my return.

*-The New Worst Bar in the World hides the ashtrays behind the bar, so you'll have to ash on the floor.

Oh, I'm droolin' here. Sam gives us the enviable role of doing exactly what we want with a comment/trackback spammer, without fear of retribution. Normally, I'd say turn him over to the police for a hitherto non-existing statutory transgression that will bring nothing, seeing as the perp more than like lives in a country whose name consists of 17 letters, not one of which is a vowel. So let's think outside the box for a minute.

First, you take a 12-foot length of 400lb fishing line. The you put a mess of fish-hooks on one end of it, and a ping-pong ball tied on the other end. Now, you take your subject and remove all his teeth, or at least the upper incisors. Then, you bind his hands behind his back, and lay him face down, naked, on your basement floor. You take the ping-pong ball, and force him to swallow it.

There's some funny things about the human body. One of those funny things is peristalsis, which is the process by which things are moved along the intestines 'til they get to the business end. Seeing as the human digestive tract is about 24 feet long on average, and needs about 5 hours for a complete tour, your subject will have about two and a half hours to watch that roll of fishing line unravel, and the fish-hooks travel towards his maw. There will be a lot of comic relief during this period, seeing as he'll be trying desperately to chew through the fishing wire with his gums, but this stage is all about anticipation.

Once the hooks get inside, the subject will have another 2 and a half hours to contemplate exactly what it feels like as his own body's muscular contractions pull a handful of fishhooks through his alimentary canal, and into his large intestine. The pain will be excruciating, but that's irrelevant, as this is a dead man walking. Well, a dead man laying toothless and naked on a cold concrete floor with a gut full of fishhooks, but we've all been there, now, haven't we. Once the intestinal wall is breached to any significant extent, the poisons there will flow out into the abdominal cavity, condemning all the vital organs to a slow, toxic death, and the host to death by septicemia.

At this point, the innkeeper can go for the quick thrill, letting the subject's small intestine take over, with its quicker peristaltic pace, raking the hooks 12 feet behind, leaving the subject screaming in agony until his inevitable death through internal blood loss. Or, if he has the time and/or patience, he can take the subject to a secluded parking lot, toss him out, and call an ambulance. There's no helping him, of course, but it will be amusing to watch him mutate into a swollen, jaundiced, piss-smelling monster while paying $5000 a minute for all manner of dialysis and blood-purification procedures, all of which will not stop the fact that his liver and kidneys have been handed down the death penalty. This could go on for six to eight months, and never ceases to amuse.

I'm a quick-thrill kind of person, myself, but to each their own.

There are cases, of course, where nobody wants to be number 1.

So, I was just sitting here, and I realized that my last blog entry was in something like 1963, and I thought to myself, how the hell do you fuckers do it? It's bad enough when you want to post, but don't have time. What's even worse, is when you don't want to post, when the shining light within you has guttered and died like a wet match, but the hole calls. The hole must be fed.

But I think now, I've taken a little break. I would like to start putting stupid little thoughts into glass boxes again, and have to defend them against Gentoo zealots and Islamic terrorists. But drawings are always good. So, here's an old drawing that I kinda like.

Makes me think of Guantanamo.

marcy say:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time
To sit and think about myself
And then there she was
Like double cherry pie
Yeah there she was
Like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had too much caffeine
And I was thinkin' 'bout myself
And then there she was
In double platform suede
Yeah there she was
Like disco lemonade
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream
Mama this surely is a dream
Yeah mama this must be my dream

"I was overwhelmed by the hellish imagery, the abject violence, and the complete inhumanity. A vision right out of Bosch's worst nightmares, with Hell let loose upon the Earth with brimstone and sulfurous fumes. An utterly loathsome firestorm of Evil waiting to be unleashed upon this world of ours, just biding its time till it bursts out into the open and wreaks destruction. I could barely sit through the whole thing. Man, I've got to lay off the pesto gnocchis.

"The movie? Oh, it was OK, I guess."

Here's one more reason to watch the Keynote Monday.

I guess it doesn't really matter if Apple switches to Intel chips. They go where they want, and always seem to come out unharmed. For the record, though, I don't believe a word of it. I've heard OS X-on-Intel fantasies since the '90s, and I don't think Apple will be doing that particular dance in the foreseeable future.

If they do, though, it will disappoint me terribly. I wanted a new Cell-Driven Powerbook.

not a shrinking violet » Moooooo-vie Meme:

Well, on about a week ago, Liv meme-tagged me. Unfortunately, the email all my blog notifications get sent to is gone, for whatever reason, so I failed to notice. I'll have to be updating that. Also, I've been unable to either blog or read blogs for the past few weeks, seeing as I've been busy 'n' stuff. Sorry, Liv, I'll get to the meme now.

1) Total number of films I own on DVD/video:

Well, I think it's about 30 now. I used to have more, but I've sold about half of them on Amazon over the past few weeks.

2) The last film I bought:

The last film I bought was...hmmm...let's see...

"Der Soldat James Ryan (DTS)" (Steven Spielberg)
(saving private ryan, subsequently sold for a handful of magic beans)

3) The last film I watched:
Star Wars, Episode IV. Meeee-mo-reeeeees.

4) Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):

"Memento (2 DVDs)" (Christoper Nolan)

"Die üblichen Verdächtigen" (Bryan Singer)

"L.A. Confidential" (Curtis Hanson)

"Die Verurteilten" (Frank Darabont)

"Affliction [UK IMPORT]" (Paul Schrader)

5) Tag 5 people:
I don't think I will, because I've missed the meme-wave. Sorry folks, I'll try to get my blog-butt in gear.

According to my "This Day in History" applet in Dashboard, on May 13, 1846 the United States declared war on Mexico. Davy Crockett eventually had to get involved, unless I'm not mistaken.

I'd heard the belly-laughs rippling through the so-called "blogosphere" about the Huffington Post, so I figured I'd check it out. I've never seen a more wretched hive of shallowness and drivelry. It's like a high-school newspaper consisting of only an uninteresting entertainment section. It looks more like a National Lampoon spoof of a group-blog than an actual one. For example, check out these unintentionally hilarious concessions from, ahem, Ze Frank:

i agree that if we all start shouting about anal intercourse all of the time our country will fall into ruin.
...
I told a guy at Starbuck's to go f*ck himself when he cut me in line. I also peed on a car that took my spot outside my apartment. Might I not also symbolize the Left's flirtation with the Demon's of Anarchy?

Ignoring for the moment the hideous diction abuse rampant in this post, I'm happy about the anal intercourse thing. Shouting about it won't make it happen, and it's good that we're all in agreement. Other than that, I have to say I'm actually dumber for having read the entire entry. I'm still reeling from trying to figure out what the point of writing it was. I think if I got the chance to write for such a highly-visible page like the renowned Huffington Post, I'd actually, you know, try and say something; give advice; help the children.

The American Left needs advice, that's for sure. They're getting squeezed out of Washington about as fast as those hump-backed Caribou in Alaska will be once Smirky McHallibush gets the oil contracts for his oil-drilling cousins. The reason, of course, is that they're getting all their advice from absolute knuckleheads. For example, just get a load of the mental game of Twister that some nobody who goes by the obvious pseudonym "Deborah Rappaport" has to say:

Myth #1 We need the right candidates: If the Republican Party has taught us anything, it is that with a clear purpose and a well-defined, consistent message delivered over a long enough period, anybody can be elected president. Your mommy and daddy were right. Any child in the United States can grow up to be president. We can’t wait for the second coming of Bill Clinton or John Kennedy or FDR. We need to create the environment that allows a good enough candidate to win. We need to trust that the electorate is smart enough to understand us when we talk about progressive values and ideals. And we need to trust that when we speak authentically about those values and ideals, the electorate will respond by electing our candidates.

Myth #2 We need to win the next elections: Well, duh. But if all we do is worry about the next election, we have taken our eye off of the ball. A coherent party, speaking from the gut rather than the brain, will lead to winning elections. A strategy of trying to just win the next one, and then everything will be OK, has led us to where we are now. What we need to win are the hearts and minds of the people. The Democratic Party has done a woefully bad job of speaking to the truths of people’s lives. Instead of standing up and talking about what we really believe in--society’s responsibility to all of its citizens, fairness, equality--we get dragged into arguments that serve no purpose but to cause us to lose sight of what we were fighting for in the first place.

Got that? I'm assuming Debbie works like I do, when I actually feel like writing a document someone will read. I start with an outline, then flesh it out, just like in 6th grade English. However, I can't believe I'd run with an outline that started out with A) we don't need the right candidates, and B) we don't need to win the next elections. Nobody could seriously write this kind of stuff and actually think it made sense. You'll notice that she states obvious inanities in bold print, then burns through 1200 characters a piece trying to justify them. That's modern Democrat thinking for you: You can bullshit your way out of any jam, as long as your audience wants to believe you. But that audience is getting smaller.

So here's the deal, Deb. Assuming you want to supply America with a viable, democratically necessary loyal opposition again at some point in the future, you do, in fact, need the right candidates. You also very much do need to win the next elections, because that's what defines success in politics: Winning elections. But that's just politics. Maybe if you change "Myth #1" to "Rule #1", Myth #2 will just disappear.

Letting the courts decide elections, ceaselessly filibustering important congressional decisions, and spending more time on the road whining about why you lost instead of doing the job you actually got elected to do is no way to run a party. I mean, it was amusing for a while, but it's turning into a one-joke show.

I'm sitting here watching my temporary doghouse roommate play what has to be the second most boring racing video game I've ever seen, Forza Motorsport. It's. Soooooo. Sloooooooow. It's like watching a NASCAR race consisting entirely of '84 Buick Regals. There are no pedestrians to run over, no nitro button, and you aren't even allowed to run the other cars off the road into the woods.

Another snoozer is Microsoft's Flight Simulator. I just got through flying 11 hours over the Atlantic in the real world, and I think it's insane anyone would even imagine making a game out of it. Only Microsoft could get away with such blatant perversity.

The award for most boring video game ever, though, goes without a doubt to 18 Wheels of Steel. It's like Flight Simulator, except you're driving a semi truck across the United States in realtime, and you get bonus points for staying within posted speed limits and delivering your load of photocopiers or whatever on time. Jesus, why not just get a job as a truck driver and actually get paid for the same amount of wasted life? A co-worker of mine would actually come in with bags under his eyes from playing this game all night, and bitch about the way people drove on the American Interstate. That's just wrong, wrong wrong.

I noticed this entry a while back at Velociman's place, and finally got around to taking the draw-a-pig test. Apparently, the guys who run this page can tell all about your personality by what your pig looks like. Here's mine:

(click for full-size)

It didn't give me an answer right away, so I sent it off to the admin of the site. As soon as I get an answer, I'll be sure to post it here!

Hugs,
Rube

I've got this recently-was-hot 2.8GHz Pentium 4 hyperthreading processor in my Windows box. There was a time when that much processing power was too bad to be had. But it's slow now. I thought maybe I was just getting used to the performance, and that the 2-year speed-freak fix time was coming up. But now I'm not so sure.

I wonder what the efficiency level of a patched, firewalled, and virus-protected Windows box is. I mean, every byte you read off the disk has to be read at least once by the virus scanner. Every accessed byte of memory has to be scanned; every email you send goes through the virus scanner, the firewall software, and then gets scanned by every single mail server along the way, just to make sure. And that's in addition to the normal operations that have to be performed on a message, like typing it, spellchecking it, and looking up all the nifties that it takes to route an SMTP message from here to yon.

It's not just for email, either. Every web page you load gets scanned. Every document you open, every jpeg you view, and every movie file you watch has to be scanned and monitored before you ever see it. Every byte that gets read from your hard drive or from the network has to be compared to a table of hundreds of thousands of Windows-based viruses for similarities; and, if you've set your virus software up that way, heuristically analyzed against a second table of virus patterns. Your firewall does it, too. Every connection you try to open gets put through a series of tests to make sure that the program opening the connection is authorized to connect to that address, at this particular time, and for how long. I'm sure these programs are well-written, and as efficient as they can possibly be under the circumstances, but still, it's a huge amount of overhead.

Basically, I'm wondering just what percentage of the world's CPU cycles are actually spent wiping Bill Gates' ass for him.

Poking around Drudge this morning...ok, afternoon, I saw that there was yet another 'art happening' in which thousands upon thousand of people got naked in the street, most of whom probably for the first time in their lives. Now, I don't know much about art, but I know it's not particularly difficult or subtle to make an impression on people by slamming their eyes with thousands of naked people. Mona Lisa? That's subtlety defined; nothing extravagant there, just beauty in details instead of the weary inflation of subject matter that this knucklehead here is doing. Project stagnating? Just throw some nudists at it. That didn't work? Throw THOUSANDS at it. That'll get their attention, and that's really what this is all about, ain't it? Getting attention?

Or maybe it's because their all Belgians. Pervs.

Via Drudge

Nearly a decade after being left virtually speechless, a firefighter in Buffalo, New York, has suddenly started talking. Doctors are stunned, and trying to fully understand how the change came about.

The Red Sox did what?

Tim Berners-who?!

Atlanta? That bunch of grits-eatin', banjo-playin inbreds? Atlanta?!

Jesus, you mean to tell me you can't even smoke in bars in the freakin' Bowery anymore?

Put me back to sleep, fer chrissakes!

Some hooks are not meant to hold large objects, such as book bags. Not heavy objects, strictly speaking; despite the hook's appearance of solidity. You just assume the hook's going to hold, because that's what hooks do, after all. But the hook can be pushed beyond its capacity, in which case it will fail. A hook's failure will result in the load's succumbing to the force of gravity, and probably damage to the mounting surface.

Ain't it the truth.

Jeez, at neither the Munich nor Atlanta airports can you find a wireless network. I'll never understand these knuckleheads. At the Country Hearth Motel on Highway 17 in south Georgia you can sit in the parking lot and check your email, but in two of the world's most travelled airports you'd think you were back in the 70s. I wonder what these big airports are waiting for.

I'll have to get used to the time difference again. I just sat down and ordered a beer and kässpätzle at 8:30 in the morning. Mmmm...helles bier. Even though it's Erdinger, it tastes like sweet nectar going down. I knew there was something about this country I missed. Well, that, and you can still smoke at the baggage claim.

Welp, the trip home is over. The little lady was introduced around, to glowing reviews. There was plenty done: the Wreckyll, Atlanta Attractions, Savannah, Charleston, and the davidian compound we visited near Athens, Tennessee. Now, I'm sitting in a plane, about 3 hours away from landing in Munich. I'm sitting right behind the right wing, as seems to be my lot in life, I've never sat anywhere else on this flight.

Speaking of this flight, flew it the first time back in 1997, the first of many. I fell asleep before we left the runway, and woke up over Holland. Man-o-man, I wish I could still sleep on flights, now in my dotage. A friend of mine got a prescription for some sleeping pill, named something like Ambien, or Ambiex. He said he took one, and a little while later he just felt sleepy and lay down on the couch and took a nap. Sadly, that sounds like the perfect drug; at 35, I can imagine nothing better than taking a nap on the couch with the baseball game is on. I'd take that over heroin any day.

Hi, my name is Ken. Rube has foolishly given me permission, as well as a corresponding password, to contribute to this blog from the heart of old Europe. As I live in the U.S., it will make for some interesting perspective.

Me and the little woman just finished spending two wonderful days visiting Mr. Straight White Guy and his bonnie lass, Fiona. First of all, let me just tell you what a wonderful pair those two are. They really went out of their way to make us feel welcome at their beautiful compound, and showed us one hell of a time.

The first night, I met Eric's cousin, who shall remain nameless, namely because he was short-drinking us, remaining sober while the rest of us drunk ourselves into a good-natured stupor. The boys barbecued some good-looking ribs, and we spent about seven hours shooting pool in the garage, drinking beer, talking trash, and, for my team at least, beating Eric and Anna like rented mules.

(click on images to view full size)

This morning, Mr. Guy cooked us up a killer breakfast of biscuiits, bacon, and eggs, providing the groundwork for our foray into the world of newly-legal assault rifles. You'll notice in the first picture below, that Anna, who's never shot a weapon before in her life, just took out the three colored ballons that were attached to the post. In three shots, I might add. I needed about 15 rounds before bagging my third balloon, so, yes, I'm humiliated as both a man and an American, thank you.

Now, let's see some action! Here are some movies; just click to play, though you may need the free Quicktime software to view them.

Eric, running the table. Almost.

Brad with the manly, manly break.

Anna with the shot!

Rube talkin' trash

Three shots, three balloons. Nice shootin', Tex!

There's something about european girls with assault weapons that is just irresistible. Here's Fiona on the AR 15:

Of course, the shot-to-kill ratio would've suffered had it not been for Eric's coolness.

Remember kids, handle your firearms responsibly! Although guys, between you and me, there are few things on the planet that can make chicks pull mugs like these:

Those are gun-faces if I've ever seen one. All in all, we had ourselves a wonderful time. You can read Eric's version of it here.

We've invited Eric and Fiona over to visit us in Germany. Hopefully, they'll show up and we can take them snowboarding. Or just sit around and drink beers as big as tree trunks, either way, I'm easy.

Downright memed me, did he?

Courtesy of the Juju Man:

If I could be a scientist, I would start a vicious underground movement to stop research in the anti-aging field. Humans are not meant to live forever, and eternal life would mean the end of us as a species. We are not yet through evolving.

If I could be a farmer, I would build myself a veranda, with a porch swing, where I could listen to cicadas, watch my milk-cows fall asleep at sunset, and drink mint juleps. Naked.

If I could be a musician, I would never stop playing. I would be the hit of every campfire, the center of attention, just me and my bagpipes.

If I could be a doctor, I would see Catfish more often, I'll wager.

If I could be a painter, I would never contact the NEA for money. I would try to paint stuff people would enjoy, and put high value on, and keep the experimental stuff where it belongs, in the lab.

If I could be a gardener, I would plant azaleas.

If I could be a missionary, I would only do it doggie-style, and giggle at the irony.

If I could be a chef, I would spend all my energy elevating those two highest forms of cuisine, the hush puppy and the buttermilk biscuit, to the respected position in the culinary world that they so deserve.

If I could be an architect, I would try to bring gables back into fashion.

If I could be a linguist, I would translate this blog into latin, hebrew, and aramaic for posterity.

If I could be a psychologist, I would know why I can't get out of bed before noon.

If I could be a librarian, I would underline the dirty parts of every book in the building.

If I could be an athlete, I wouldn't take steroids, unless of course everyone else was doing it.

If I could be a lawyer, I would have the worst won-loss record since the '87 Braves.

If I could be an innkeeper, I wouldn't take yankees. They're rude, messy, and they don't tip.

If I could be a professor, I would be the most unpopular person in the faculty lounge, owing to my obsession with fart jokes.

If I could be a writer, I would probably get picked every now and then to write blog novella chapters, instead of the tight little clique of glory hogs and suck-ups that now dominate them.

If I could be a backup dancer, I would spend a lot of time explaining to people that no, I'm not gay.

If I could be a llama-rider, I would join the llama-riders' union and try to organize surreal steeple chases near Macchu Picchu.

If I could be a bonnie pirate, I would constantly be doing old Abbot and Costello routines with my trained parrot, Muffin. I would be the straight man.

If I could be a midget stripper, I would only strip midgets who had given me their permission beforehand, in writing.

If I could be a proctologist, I would come up with lots of jokes to take the edge off. "So," I would say, "You meet a lot of assholes in this job, too, you know." Stuff like that.

If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I would blind-side child actors and fluff guests with loaded questions about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Now, I guess I have to pass it to 3 more people:

Sandy, of the Dirty Ashtray
Zonker, of the genetically engineered mutant turbo-liver
Mr. Dax Montana, overlord of the pimptastical bombastical red hat brigade

Not that they'll do it, lazy toids.

Since I met such a great new bunch of people at the Wreckyll, I figured it was time to update my musty ol' blogroll over there. Having met you all personally, I don't think y'all are the types that will get offended being linked by a site named You Bitch. As I said many, many times in Jeckyll: Nothing Personal.

Welcome to the fray:

Acidman
Catfish
The Dax Files
Divine InnerBitchin'
Fistful of Fortnights
Georgia
Grouchy Old Cripple
Key Issues
Meanderings
Moogies World
Parkway Rest Stop.
suburban blight

Feisty Repartee (of course!)

If you were at the Wreckyll, and I don't have you linked, just let me know. That brain cell might not have made it off the island in one piece.

I think South Carolina was one of the last states to rid themselves of the Confederate part of their state flag. After the Wreckyll, I took my baby up to Charleston. Driving through the back-roads of rural South Carolina, one sees that the race relations are still stuck somewhere between the Civil Rights Movement and Amistad. Stopping at a gas station near Columbia, I noticed that they actually had a light-brown colored iced coffee drink called the 'Moo Latte'. What the fuck? You crackers aren't even trying up there.

Jesus, I'm wondering now if Velociman's Artillery Punch wasn't subtly affecting us all, threatening all who drank it with slow madness. Can anyone explain to me what the hell is going in this video?

Excerpt:

Straight White Guy: So, how would you jerk off a marmocet?
Dax Montana (in Red Pimp-hat with purple feather): I don't know, I'm not the person who had that job...

The Wreckyll is over now. I'm not going to be able to write about it until tomorrow, I figure, when the liver-swelling goes down to an acceptable bulge under my sternum. I've got tons of pictures, and more than a couple of videos that will have to be filed under 'incriminating evidence'.

Eric is a wild-man, as everyone knows, but Sam, 'Hollow-leg' Zonker, Jim, and Christina more than held their own. You guys are maniacs, and I've got pics to prove it. Don't forget, videos were enough to get Terry Schiavo's plug pulled; there's no telling what they're going to do to y'all once these get out.

Pictures will definitely be forthcoming.

The ring finger and pinky of both hands. My tongue when I wake up, most mornings. The tops of my feet, if I happen to be lying on my back. My left elbow. Along my left calf, where the hair has fallen out. The palms of my hands. A four-inch vertical strip on the left side of my forehead, running up under my hair, where there's a scar from an old war-wound. I'm going numb, one piece at a time.

Eventually, over years, the numbness will work its way inward, making my arms heavy and difficult to steer with, easing the pain of the shoulders, both of which I've separated doing various stupid things, and the hip, which I broke in college, and the muscles of my lower back, which always seem sore, ever since I broke thirty.

Once the numbness makes it to my heart, I guess that will be that.

Well, outside the tornado sirens are going crazy, there's a grey eerie sunlight, and the cat's hiding behind the sofa. If you don't hear back from me, I'll say hi to the Wizard for you.

It seems as though Lawrence's fattest cat, Eldloe, has passed away. As a catperson, I propose a drink to the memory of Edloe. As a drunkard, however, I didn't need a dead cat to drink a beer, now did I.

There's a place in Heaven for good cats, assuming Edloe was one, and the cat waits for you there, in the fields, when you're dead.

Sleep.

bling!

borf!!!!1

Puew! Brweeeeeeeeg! Noooooörf!

So are the dangers of drinking and blogging. Normal, hätte I the bling to glop what I blingin' dorf. You know?

Plow!

Here I am again, waiting on the old lady in the Worst Bar in the World. The Worst Bar in the World, by the way, has improved itself. It, like a woman, responds to slaps and degradations in the correct manner, vis it adjusts, tries to understand the reasons for its punishment, evolves. The Worst Bar in the World is no fool, and has its sights set on my money apparently. In short, the staff no longer spends its time smoking cigarettes behind the bar, wondering what all these people want from them. They pour beer now, and do it quickly.

On the other hand, there's the New Worst Bar in the World. I'm not a completely negative person, so I'll start with the positives: The New Worst Bar in the World is very clean. This is probably because after about 11 P.M. the staff do nothing other than clean the kitchen. They are nowhere to be found. You can walk in, take a seat, have a cigarette*, and proceed to load all the furniture and silverware that isn't currently being polished into the back of your car and drive home, nary an eyebrow raised. The New Worst Bar in the World is purportedly without pre-defined closing time, meaning, from my admittedly biased perspective as customer, that you can can drink all night, it being a bar and all. Such tag-lines can be deceiving, of course. Open all night means different things to different people, and here the customer is not always right. The bar, as you or I would understand it, closes about 11:15. After that point, it becomes more of a non-contact peep-show for dishwashing fetishists. The staff are not to be disturbed, and, if you don't mind staying overnight until the doors open up again, you can stay as long as you want.

The service in Europe sucks, still, even 2 months after my return.

*-The New Worst Bar in the World hides the ashtrays behind the bar, so you'll have to ash on the floor.

Oh, I'm droolin' here. Sam gives us the enviable role of doing exactly what we want with a comment/trackback spammer, without fear of retribution. Normally, I'd say turn him over to the police for a hitherto non-existing statutory transgression that will bring nothing, seeing as the perp more than like lives in a country whose name consists of 17 letters, not one of which is a vowel. So let's think outside the box for a minute.

First, you take a 12-foot length of 400lb fishing line. The you put a mess of fish-hooks on one end of it, and a ping-pong ball tied on the other end. Now, you take your subject and remove all his teeth, or at least the upper incisors. Then, you bind his hands behind his back, and lay him face down, naked, on your basement floor. You take the ping-pong ball, and force him to swallow it.

There's some funny things about the human body. One of those funny things is peristalsis, which is the process by which things are moved along the intestines 'til they get to the business end. Seeing as the human digestive tract is about 24 feet long on average, and needs about 5 hours for a complete tour, your subject will have about two and a half hours to watch that roll of fishing line unravel, and the fish-hooks travel towards his maw. There will be a lot of comic relief during this period, seeing as he'll be trying desperately to chew through the fishing wire with his gums, but this stage is all about anticipation.

Once the hooks get inside, the subject will have another 2 and a half hours to contemplate exactly what it feels like as his own body's muscular contractions pull a handful of fishhooks through his alimentary canal, and into his large intestine. The pain will be excruciating, but that's irrelevant, as this is a dead man walking. Well, a dead man laying toothless and naked on a cold concrete floor with a gut full of fishhooks, but we've all been there, now, haven't we. Once the intestinal wall is breached to any significant extent, the poisons there will flow out into the abdominal cavity, condemning all the vital organs to a slow, toxic death, and the host to death by septicemia.

At this point, the innkeeper can go for the quick thrill, letting the subject's small intestine take over, with its quicker peristaltic pace, raking the hooks 12 feet behind, leaving the subject screaming in agony until his inevitable death through internal blood loss. Or, if he has the time and/or patience, he can take the subject to a secluded parking lot, toss him out, and call an ambulance. There's no helping him, of course, but it will be amusing to watch him mutate into a swollen, jaundiced, piss-smelling monster while paying $5000 a minute for all manner of dialysis and blood-purification procedures, all of which will not stop the fact that his liver and kidneys have been handed down the death penalty. This could go on for six to eight months, and never ceases to amuse.

I'm a quick-thrill kind of person, myself, but to each their own.

There are cases, of course, where nobody wants to be number 1.

So, I was just sitting here, and I realized that my last blog entry was in something like 1963, and I thought to myself, how the hell do you fuckers do it? It's bad enough when you want to post, but don't have time. What's even worse, is when you don't want to post, when the shining light within you has guttered and died like a wet match, but the hole calls. The hole must be fed.

But I think now, I've taken a little break. I would like to start putting stupid little thoughts into glass boxes again, and have to defend them against Gentoo zealots and Islamic terrorists. But drawings are always good. So, here's an old drawing that I kinda like.

Makes me think of Guantanamo.

marcy say:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time
To sit and think about myself
And then there she was
Like double cherry pie
Yeah there she was
Like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had too much caffeine
And I was thinkin' 'bout myself
And then there she was
In double platform suede
Yeah there she was
Like disco lemonade
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream
Mama this surely is a dream
Yeah mama this must be my dream

"I was overwhelmed by the hellish imagery, the abject violence, and the complete inhumanity. A vision right out of Bosch's worst nightmares, with Hell let loose upon the Earth with brimstone and sulfurous fumes. An utterly loathsome firestorm of Evil waiting to be unleashed upon this world of ours, just biding its time till it bursts out into the open and wreaks destruction. I could barely sit through the whole thing. Man, I've got to lay off the pesto gnocchis.

"The movie? Oh, it was OK, I guess."

Here's one more reason to watch the Keynote Monday.

I guess it doesn't really matter if Apple switches to Intel chips. They go where they want, and always seem to come out unharmed. For the record, though, I don't believe a word of it. I've heard OS X-on-Intel fantasies since the '90s, and I don't think Apple will be doing that particular dance in the foreseeable future.

If they do, though, it will disappoint me terribly. I wanted a new Cell-Driven Powerbook.

not a shrinking violet » Moooooo-vie Meme:

Well, on about a week ago, Liv meme-tagged me. Unfortunately, the email all my blog notifications get sent to is gone, for whatever reason, so I failed to notice. I'll have to be updating that. Also, I've been unable to either blog or read blogs for the past few weeks, seeing as I've been busy 'n' stuff. Sorry, Liv, I'll get to the meme now.

1) Total number of films I own on DVD/video:

Well, I think it's about 30 now. I used to have more, but I've sold about half of them on Amazon over the past few weeks.

2) The last film I bought:

The last film I bought was...hmmm...let's see...

"Der Soldat James Ryan (DTS)" (Steven Spielberg)
(saving private ryan, subsequently sold for a handful of magic beans)

3) The last film I watched:
Star Wars, Episode IV. Meeee-mo-reeeeees.

4) Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):

"Memento (2 DVDs)" (Christoper Nolan)

"Die üblichen Verdächtigen" (Bryan Singer)

"L.A. Confidential" (Curtis Hanson)

"Die Verurteilten" (Frank Darabont)

"Affliction [UK IMPORT]" (Paul Schrader)

5) Tag 5 people:
I don't think I will, because I've missed the meme-wave. Sorry folks, I'll try to get my blog-butt in gear.

According to my "This Day in History" applet in Dashboard, on May 13, 1846 the United States declared war on Mexico. Davy Crockett eventually had to get involved, unless I'm not mistaken.

I'd heard the belly-laughs rippling through the so-called "blogosphere" about the Huffington Post, so I figured I'd check it out. I've never seen a more wretched hive of shallowness and drivelry. It's like a high-school newspaper consisting of only an uninteresting entertainment section. It looks more like a National Lampoon spoof of a group-blog than an actual one. For example, check out these unintentionally hilarious concessions from, ahem, Ze Frank:

i agree that if we all start shouting about anal intercourse all of the time our country will fall into ruin.
...
I told a guy at Starbuck's to go f*ck himself when he cut me in line. I also peed on a car that took my spot outside my apartment. Might I not also symbolize the Left's flirtation with the Demon's of Anarchy?

Ignoring for the moment the hideous diction abuse rampant in this post, I'm happy about the anal intercourse thing. Shouting about it won't make it happen, and it's good that we're all in agreement. Other than that, I have to say I'm actually dumber for having read the entire entry. I'm still reeling from trying to figure out what the point of writing it was. I think if I got the chance to write for such a highly-visible page like the renowned Huffington Post, I'd actually, you know, try and say something; give advice; help the children.

The American Left needs advice, that's for sure. They're getting squeezed out of Washington about as fast as those hump-backed Caribou in Alaska will be once Smirky McHallibush gets the oil contracts for his oil-drilling cousins. The reason, of course, is that they're getting all their advice from absolute knuckleheads. For example, just get a load of the mental game of Twister that some nobody who goes by the obvious pseudonym "Deborah Rappaport" has to say:

Myth #1 We need the right candidates: If the Republican Party has taught us anything, it is that with a clear purpose and a well-defined, consistent message delivered over a long enough period, anybody can be elected president. Your mommy and daddy were right. Any child in the United States can grow up to be president. We can’t wait for the second coming of Bill Clinton or John Kennedy or FDR. We need to create the environment that allows a good enough candidate to win. We need to trust that the electorate is smart enough to understand us when we talk about progressive values and ideals. And we need to trust that when we speak authentically about those values and ideals, the electorate will respond by electing our candidates.

Myth #2 We need to win the next elections: Well, duh. But if all we do is worry about the next election, we have taken our eye off of the ball. A coherent party, speaking from the gut rather than the brain, will lead to winning elections. A strategy of trying to just win the next one, and then everything will be OK, has led us to where we are now. What we need to win are the hearts and minds of the people. The Democratic Party has done a woefully bad job of speaking to the truths of people’s lives. Instead of standing up and talking about what we really believe in--society’s responsibility to all of its citizens, fairness, equality--we get dragged into arguments that serve no purpose but to cause us to lose sight of what we were fighting for in the first place.

Got that? I'm assuming Debbie works like I do, when I actually feel like writing a document someone will read. I start with an outline, then flesh it out, just like in 6th grade English. However, I can't believe I'd run with an outline that started out with A) we don't need the right candidates, and B) we don't need to win the next elections. Nobody could seriously write this kind of stuff and actually think it made sense. You'll notice that she states obvious inanities in bold print, then burns through 1200 characters a piece trying to justify them. That's modern Democrat thinking for you: You can bullshit your way out of any jam, as long as your audience wants to believe you. But that audience is getting smaller.

So here's the deal, Deb. Assuming you want to supply America with a viable, democratically necessary loyal opposition again at some point in the future, you do, in fact, need the right candidates. You also very much do need to win the next elections, because that's what defines success in politics: Winning elections. But that's just politics. Maybe if you change "Myth #1" to "Rule #1", Myth #2 will just disappear.

Letting the courts decide elections, ceaselessly filibustering important congressional decisions, and spending more time on the road whining about why you lost instead of doing the job you actually got elected to do is no way to run a party. I mean, it was amusing for a while, but it's turning into a one-joke show.

I'm sitting here watching my temporary doghouse roommate play what has to be the second most boring racing video game I've ever seen, Forza Motorsport. It's. Soooooo. Sloooooooow. It's like watching a NASCAR race consisting entirely of '84 Buick Regals. There are no pedestrians to run over, no nitro button, and you aren't even allowed to run the other cars off the road into the woods.

Another snoozer is Microsoft's Flight Simulator. I just got through flying 11 hours over the Atlantic in the real world, and I think it's insane anyone would even imagine making a game out of it. Only Microsoft could get away with such blatant perversity.

The award for most boring video game ever, though, goes without a doubt to 18 Wheels of Steel. It's like Flight Simulator, except you're driving a semi truck across the United States in realtime, and you get bonus points for staying within posted speed limits and delivering your load of photocopiers or whatever on time. Jesus, why not just get a job as a truck driver and actually get paid for the same amount of wasted life? A co-worker of mine would actually come in with bags under his eyes from playing this game all night, and bitch about the way people drove on the American Interstate. That's just wrong, wrong wrong.

I noticed this entry a while back at Velociman's place, and finally got around to taking the draw-a-pig test. Apparently, the guys who run this page can tell all about your personality by what your pig looks like. Here's mine:

(click for full-size)

It didn't give me an answer right away, so I sent it off to the admin of the site. As soon as I get an answer, I'll be sure to post it here!

Hugs,
Rube

I've got this recently-was-hot 2.8GHz Pentium 4 hyperthreading processor in my Windows box. There was a time when that much processing power was too bad to be had. But it's slow now. I thought maybe I was just getting used to the performance, and that the 2-year speed-freak fix time was coming up. But now I'm not so sure.

I wonder what the efficiency level of a patched, firewalled, and virus-protected Windows box is. I mean, every byte you read off the disk has to be read at least once by the virus scanner. Every accessed byte of memory has to be scanned; every email you send goes through the virus scanner, the firewall software, and then gets scanned by every single mail server along the way, just to make sure. And that's in addition to the normal operations that have to be performed on a message, like typing it, spellchecking it, and looking up all the nifties that it takes to route an SMTP message from here to yon.

It's not just for email, either. Every web page you load gets scanned. Every document you open, every jpeg you view, and every movie file you watch has to be scanned and monitored before you ever see it. Every byte that gets read from your hard drive or from the network has to be compared to a table of hundreds of thousands of Windows-based viruses for similarities; and, if you've set your virus software up that way, heuristically analyzed against a second table of virus patterns. Your firewall does it, too. Every connection you try to open gets put through a series of tests to make sure that the program opening the connection is authorized to connect to that address, at this particular time, and for how long. I'm sure these programs are well-written, and as efficient as they can possibly be under the circumstances, but still, it's a huge amount of overhead.

Basically, I'm wondering just what percentage of the world's CPU cycles are actually spent wiping Bill Gates' ass for him.

Poking around Drudge this morning...ok, afternoon, I saw that there was yet another 'art happening' in which thousands upon thousand of people got naked in the street, most of whom probably for the first time in their lives. Now, I don't know much about art, but I know it's not particularly difficult or subtle to make an impression on people by slamming their eyes with thousands of naked people. Mona Lisa? That's subtlety defined; nothing extravagant there, just beauty in details instead of the weary inflation of subject matter that this knucklehead here is doing. Project stagnating? Just throw some nudists at it. That didn't work? Throw THOUSANDS at it. That'll get their attention, and that's really what this is all about, ain't it? Getting attention?

Or maybe it's because their all Belgians. Pervs.

Via Drudge

Nearly a decade after being left virtually speechless, a firefighter in Buffalo, New York, has suddenly started talking. Doctors are stunned, and trying to fully understand how the change came about.

The Red Sox did what?

Tim Berners-who?!

Atlanta? That bunch of grits-eatin', banjo-playin inbreds? Atlanta?!

Jesus, you mean to tell me you can't even smoke in bars in the freakin' Bowery anymore?

Put me back to sleep, fer chrissakes!

Some hooks are not meant to hold large objects, such as book bags. Not heavy objects, strictly speaking; despite the hook's appearance of solidity. You just assume the hook's going to hold, because that's what hooks do, after all. But the hook can be pushed beyond its capacity, in which case it will fail. A hook's failure will result in the load's succumbing to the force of gravity, and probably damage to the mounting surface.

Ain't it the truth.

Jeez, at neither the Munich nor Atlanta airports can you find a wireless network. I'll never understand these knuckleheads. At the Country Hearth Motel on Highway 17 in south Georgia you can sit in the parking lot and check your email, but in two of the world's most travelled airports you'd think you were back in the 70s. I wonder what these big airports are waiting for.

I'll have to get used to the time difference again. I just sat down and ordered a beer and kässpätzle at 8:30 in the morning. Mmmm...helles bier. Even though it's Erdinger, it tastes like sweet nectar going down. I knew there was something about this country I missed. Well, that, and you can still smoke at the baggage claim.

Welp, the trip home is over. The little lady was introduced around, to glowing reviews. There was plenty done: the Wreckyll, Atlanta Attractions, Savannah, Charleston, and the davidian compound we visited near Athens, Tennessee. Now, I'm sitting in a plane, about 3 hours away from landing in Munich. I'm sitting right behind the right wing, as seems to be my lot in life, I've never sat anywhere else on this flight.

Speaking of this flight, flew it the first time back in 1997, the first of many. I fell asleep before we left the runway, and woke up over Holland. Man-o-man, I wish I could still sleep on flights, now in my dotage. A friend of mine got a prescription for some sleeping pill, named something like Ambien, or Ambiex. He said he took one, and a little while later he just felt sleepy and lay down on the couch and took a nap. Sadly, that sounds like the perfect drug; at 35, I can imagine nothing better than taking a nap on the couch with the baseball game is on. I'd take that over heroin any day.

Hi, my name is Ken. Rube has foolishly given me permission, as well as a corresponding password, to contribute to this blog from the heart of old Europe. As I live in the U.S., it will make for some interesting perspective.

Me and the little woman just finished spending two wonderful days visiting Mr. Straight White Guy and his bonnie lass, Fiona. First of all, let me just tell you what a wonderful pair those two are. They really went out of their way to make us feel welcome at their beautiful compound, and showed us one hell of a time.

The first night, I met Eric's cousin, who shall remain nameless, namely because he was short-drinking us, remaining sober while the rest of us drunk ourselves into a good-natured stupor. The boys barbecued some good-looking ribs, and we spent about seven hours shooting pool in the garage, drinking beer, talking trash, and, for my team at least, beating Eric and Anna like rented mules.

(click on images to view full size)

This morning, Mr. Guy cooked us up a killer breakfast of biscuiits, bacon, and eggs, providing the groundwork for our foray into the world of newly-legal assault rifles. You'll notice in the first picture below, that Anna, who's never shot a weapon before in her life, just took out the three colored ballons that were attached to the post. In three shots, I might add. I needed about 15 rounds before bagging my third balloon, so, yes, I'm humiliated as both a man and an American, thank you.

Now, let's see some action! Here are some movies; just click to play, though you may need the free Quicktime software to view them.

Eric, running the table. Almost.

Brad with the manly, manly break.

Anna with the shot!

Rube talkin' trash

Three shots, three balloons. Nice shootin', Tex!

There's something about european girls with assault weapons that is just irresistible. Here's Fiona on the AR 15:

Of course, the shot-to-kill ratio would've suffered had it not been for Eric's coolness.

Remember kids, handle your firearms responsibly! Although guys, between you and me, there are few things on the planet that can make chicks pull mugs like these:

Those are gun-faces if I've ever seen one. All in all, we had ourselves a wonderful time. You can read Eric's version of it here.

We've invited Eric and Fiona over to visit us in Germany. Hopefully, they'll show up and we can take them snowboarding. Or just sit around and drink beers as big as tree trunks, either way, I'm easy.

Downright memed me, did he?

Courtesy of the Juju Man:

If I could be a scientist, I would start a vicious underground movement to stop research in the anti-aging field. Humans are not meant to live forever, and eternal life would mean the end of us as a species. We are not yet through evolving.

If I could be a farmer, I would build myself a veranda, with a porch swing, where I could listen to cicadas, watch my milk-cows fall asleep at sunset, and drink mint juleps. Naked.

If I could be a musician, I would never stop playing. I would be the hit of every campfire, the center of attention, just me and my bagpipes.

If I could be a doctor, I would see Catfish more often, I'll wager.

If I could be a painter, I would never contact the NEA for money. I would try to paint stuff people would enjoy, and put high value on, and keep the experimental stuff where it belongs, in the lab.

If I could be a gardener, I would plant azaleas.

If I could be a missionary, I would only do it doggie-style, and giggle at the irony.

If I could be a chef, I would spend all my energy elevating those two highest forms of cuisine, the hush puppy and the buttermilk biscuit, to the respected position in the culinary world that they so deserve.

If I could be an architect, I would try to bring gables back into fashion.

If I could be a linguist, I would translate this blog into latin, hebrew, and aramaic for posterity.

If I could be a psychologist, I would know why I can't get out of bed before noon.

If I could be a librarian, I would underline the dirty parts of every book in the building.

If I could be an athlete, I wouldn't take steroids, unless of course everyone else was doing it.

If I could be a lawyer, I would have the worst won-loss record since the '87 Braves.

If I could be an innkeeper, I wouldn't take yankees. They're rude, messy, and they don't tip.

If I could be a professor, I would be the most unpopular person in the faculty lounge, owing to my obsession with fart jokes.

If I could be a writer, I would probably get picked every now and then to write blog novella chapters, instead of the tight little clique of glory hogs and suck-ups that now dominate them.

If I could be a backup dancer, I would spend a lot of time explaining to people that no, I'm not gay.

If I could be a llama-rider, I would join the llama-riders' union and try to organize surreal steeple chases near Macchu Picchu.

If I could be a bonnie pirate, I would constantly be doing old Abbot and Costello routines with my trained parrot, Muffin. I would be the straight man.

If I could be a midget stripper, I would only strip midgets who had given me their permission beforehand, in writing.

If I could be a proctologist, I would come up with lots of jokes to take the edge off. "So," I would say, "You meet a lot of assholes in this job, too, you know." Stuff like that.

If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I would blind-side child actors and fluff guests with loaded questions about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Now, I guess I have to pass it to 3 more people:

Sandy, of the Dirty Ashtray
Zonker, of the genetically engineered mutant turbo-liver
Mr. Dax Montana, overlord of the pimptastical bombastical red hat brigade

Not that they'll do it, lazy toids.

Since I met such a great new bunch of people at the Wreckyll, I figured it was time to update my musty ol' blogroll over there. Having met you all personally, I don't think y'all are the types that will get offended being linked by a site named You Bitch. As I said many, many times in Jeckyll: Nothing Personal.

Welcome to the fray:

Acidman
Catfish
The Dax Files
Divine InnerBitchin'
Fistful of Fortnights
Georgia
Grouchy Old Cripple
Key Issues
Meanderings
Moogies World
Parkway Rest Stop.
suburban blight

Feisty Repartee (of course!)

If you were at the Wreckyll, and I don't have you linked, just let me know. That brain cell might not have made it off the island in one piece.

I think South Carolina was one of the last states to rid themselves of the Confederate part of their state flag. After the Wreckyll, I took my baby up to Charleston. Driving through the back-roads of rural South Carolina, one sees that the race relations are still stuck somewhere between the Civil Rights Movement and Amistad. Stopping at a gas station near Columbia, I noticed that they actually had a light-brown colored iced coffee drink called the 'Moo Latte'. What the fuck? You crackers aren't even trying up there.

Jesus, I'm wondering now if Velociman's Artillery Punch wasn't subtly affecting us all, threatening all who drank it with slow madness. Can anyone explain to me what the hell is going in this video?

Excerpt:

Straight White Guy: So, how would you jerk off a marmocet?
Dax Montana (in Red Pimp-hat with purple feather): I don't know, I'm not the person who had that job...

The Wreckyll is over now. I'm not going to be able to write about it until tomorrow, I figure, when the liver-swelling goes down to an acceptable bulge under my sternum. I've got tons of pictures, and more than a couple of videos that will have to be filed under 'incriminating evidence'.

Eric is a wild-man, as everyone knows, but Sam, 'Hollow-leg' Zonker, Jim, and Christina more than held their own. You guys are maniacs, and I've got pics to prove it. Don't forget, videos were enough to get Terry Schiavo's plug pulled; there's no telling what they're going to do to y'all once these get out.

Pictures will definitely be forthcoming.

The ring finger and pinky of both hands. My tongue when I wake up, most mornings. The tops of my feet, if I happen to be lying on my back. My left elbow. Along my left calf, where the hair has fallen out. The palms of my hands. A four-inch vertical strip on the left side of my forehead, running up under my hair, where there's a scar from an old war-wound. I'm going numb, one piece at a time.

Eventually, over years, the numbness will work its way inward, making my arms heavy and difficult to steer with, easing the pain of the shoulders, both of which I've separated doing various stupid things, and the hip, which I broke in college, and the muscles of my lower back, which always seem sore, ever since I broke thirty.

Once the numbness makes it to my heart, I guess that will be that.

Well, outside the tornado sirens are going crazy, there's a grey eerie sunlight, and the cat's hiding behind the sofa. If you don't hear back from me, I'll say hi to the Wizard for you.

It seems as though Lawrence's fattest cat, Eldloe, has passed away. As a catperson, I propose a drink to the memory of Edloe. As a drunkard, however, I didn't need a dead cat to drink a beer, now did I.

There's a place in Heaven for good cats, assuming Edloe was one, and the cat waits for you there, in the fields, when you're dead.

Sleep.

bling!

borf!!!!1

Puew! Brweeeeeeeeg! Noooooörf!

So are the dangers of drinking and blogging. Normal, hätte I the bling to glop what I blingin' dorf. You know?

Plow!

Here I am again, waiting on the old lady in the Worst Bar in the World. The Worst Bar in the World, by the way, has improved itself. It, like a woman, responds to slaps and degradations in the correct manner, vis it adjusts, tries to understand the reasons for its punishment, evolves. The Worst Bar in the World is no fool, and has its sights set on my money apparently. In short, the staff no longer spends its time smoking cigarettes behind the bar, wondering what all these people want from them. They pour beer now, and do it quickly.

On the other hand, there's the New Worst Bar in the World. I'm not a completely negative person, so I'll start with the positives: The New Worst Bar in the World is very clean. This is probably because after about 11 P.M. the staff do nothing other than clean the kitchen. They are nowhere to be found. You can walk in, take a seat, have a cigarette*, and proceed to load all the furniture and silverware that isn't currently being polished into the back of your car and drive home, nary an eyebrow raised. The New Worst Bar in the World is purportedly without pre-defined closing time, meaning, from my admittedly biased perspective as customer, that you can can drink all night, it being a bar and all. Such tag-lines can be deceiving, of course. Open all night means different things to different people, and here the customer is not always right. The bar, as you or I would understand it, closes about 11:15. After that point, it becomes more of a non-contact peep-show for dishwashing fetishists. The staff are not to be disturbed, and, if you don't mind staying overnight until the doors open up again, you can stay as long as you want.

The service in Europe sucks, still, even 2 months after my return.

*-The New Worst Bar in the World hides the ashtrays behind the bar, so you'll have to ash on the floor.

Oh, I'm droolin' here. Sam gives us the enviable role of doing exactly what we want with a comment/trackback spammer, without fear of retribution. Normally, I'd say turn him over to the police for a hitherto non-existing statutory transgression that will bring nothing, seeing as the perp more than like lives in a country whose name consists of 17 letters, not one of which is a vowel. So let's think outside the box for a minute.

First, you take a 12-foot length of 400lb fishing line. The you put a mess of fish-hooks on one end of it, and a ping-pong ball tied on the other end. Now, you take your subject and remove all his teeth, or at least the upper incisors. Then, you bind his hands behind his back, and lay him face down, naked, on your basement floor. You take the ping-pong ball, and force him to swallow it.

There's some funny things about the human body. One of those funny things is peristalsis, which is the process by which things are moved along the intestines 'til they get to the business end. Seeing as the human digestive tract is about 24 feet long on average, and needs about 5 hours for a complete tour, your subject will have about two and a half hours to watch that roll of fishing line unravel, and the fish-hooks travel towards his maw. There will be a lot of comic relief during this period, seeing as he'll be trying desperately to chew through the fishing wire with his gums, but this stage is all about anticipation.

Once the hooks get inside, the subject will have another 2 and a half hours to contemplate exactly what it feels like as his own body's muscular contractions pull a handful of fishhooks through his alimentary canal, and into his large intestine. The pain will be excruciating, but that's irrelevant, as this is a dead man walking. Well, a dead man laying toothless and naked on a cold concrete floor with a gut full of fishhooks, but we've all been there, now, haven't we. Once the intestinal wall is breached to any significant extent, the poisons there will flow out into the abdominal cavity, condemning all the vital organs to a slow, toxic death, and the host to death by septicemia.

At this point, the innkeeper can go for the quick thrill, letting the subject's small intestine take over, with its quicker peristaltic pace, raking the hooks 12 feet behind, leaving the subject screaming in agony until his inevitable death through internal blood loss. Or, if he has the time and/or patience, he can take the subject to a secluded parking lot, toss him out, and call an ambulance. There's no helping him, of course, but it will be amusing to watch him mutate into a swollen, jaundiced, piss-smelling monster while paying $5000 a minute for all manner of dialysis and blood-purification procedures, all of which will not stop the fact that his liver and kidneys have been handed down the death penalty. This could go on for six to eight months, and never ceases to amuse.

I'm a quick-thrill kind of person, myself, but to each their own.

There are cases, of course, where nobody wants to be number 1.

So, I was just sitting here, and I realized that my last blog entry was in something like 1963, and I thought to myself, how the hell do you fuckers do it? It's bad enough when you want to post, but don't have time. What's even worse, is when you don't want to post, when the shining light within you has guttered and died like a wet match, but the hole calls. The hole must be fed.

But I think now, I've taken a little break. I would like to start putting stupid little thoughts into glass boxes again, and have to defend them against Gentoo zealots and Islamic terrorists. But drawings are always good. So, here's an old drawing that I kinda like.

Makes me think of Guantanamo.

marcy say:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time
To sit and think about myself
And then there she was
Like double cherry pie
Yeah there she was
Like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had too much caffeine
And I was thinkin' 'bout myself
And then there she was
In double platform suede
Yeah there she was
Like disco lemonade
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair
Who's that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream
Mama this surely is a dream
Yeah mama this must be my dream

"I was overwhelmed by the hellish imagery, the abject violence, and the complete inhumanity. A vision right out of Bosch's worst nightmares, with Hell let loose upon the Earth with brimstone and sulfurous fumes. An utterly loathsome firestorm of Evil waiting to be unleashed upon this world of ours, just biding its time till it bursts out into the open and wreaks destruction. I could barely sit through the whole thing. Man, I've got to lay off the pesto gnocchis.

"The movie? Oh, it was OK, I guess."

Here's one more reason to watch the Keynote Monday.

I guess it doesn't really matter if Apple switches to Intel chips. They go where they want, and always seem to come out unharmed. For the record, though, I don't believe a word of it. I've heard OS X-on-Intel fantasies since the '90s, and I don't think Apple will be doing that particular dance in the foreseeable future.

If they do, though, it will disappoint me terribly. I wanted a new Cell-Driven Powerbook.

not a shrinking violet » Moooooo-vie Meme:

Well, on about a week ago, Liv meme-tagged me. Unfortunately, the email all my blog notifications get sent to is gone, for whatever reason, so I failed to notice. I'll have to be updating that. Also, I've been unable to either blog or read blogs for the past few weeks, seeing as I've been busy 'n' stuff. Sorry, Liv, I'll get to the meme now.

1) Total number of films I own on DVD/video:

Well, I think it's about 30 now. I used to have more, but I've sold about half of them on Amazon over the past few weeks.

2) The last film I bought:

The last film I bought was...hmmm...let's see...

"Der Soldat James Ryan (DTS)" (Steven Spielberg)
(saving private ryan, subsequently sold for a handful of magic beans)

3) The last film I watched:
Star Wars, Episode IV. Meeee-mo-reeeeees.

4) Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):

"Memento (2 DVDs)" (Christoper Nolan)

"Die üblichen Verdächtigen" (Bryan Singer)

"L.A. Confidential" (Curtis Hanson)

"Die Verurteilten" (Frank Darabont)

"Affliction [UK IMPORT]" (Paul Schrader)

5) Tag 5 people:
I don't think I will, because I've missed the meme-wave. Sorry folks, I'll try to get my blog-butt in gear.

According to my "This Day in History" applet in Dashboard, on May 13, 1846 the United States declared war on Mexico. Davy Crockett eventually had to get involved, unless I'm not mistaken.

I'd heard the belly-laughs rippling through the so-called "blogosphere" about the Huffington Post, so I figured I'd check it out. I've never seen a more wretched hive of shallowness and drivelry. It's like a high-school newspaper consisting of only an uninteresting entertainment section. It looks more like a National Lampoon spoof of a group-blog than an actual one. For example, check out these unintentionally hilarious concessions from, ahem, Ze Frank:

i agree that if we all start shouting about anal intercourse all of the time our country will fall into ruin.
...
I told a guy at Starbuck's to go f*ck himself when he cut me in line. I also peed on a car that took my spot outside my apartment. Might I not also symbolize the Left's flirtation with the Demon's of Anarchy?

Ignoring for the moment the hideous diction abuse rampant in this post, I'm happy about the anal intercourse thing. Shouting about it won't make it happen, and it's good that we're all in agreement. Other than that, I have to say I'm actually dumber for having read the entire entry. I'm still reeling from trying to figure out what the point of writing it was. I think if I got the chance to write for such a highly-visible page like the renowned Huffington Post, I'd actually, you know, try and say something; give advice; help the children.

The American Left needs advice, that's for sure. They're getting squeezed out of Washington about as fast as those hump-backed Caribou in Alaska will be once Smirky McHallibush gets the oil contracts for his oil-drilling cousins. The reason, of course, is that they're getting all their advice from absolute knuckleheads. For example, just get a load of the mental game of Twister that some nobody who goes by the obvious pseudonym "Deborah Rappaport" has to say:

Myth #1 We need the right candidates: If the Republican Party has taught us anything, it is that with a clear purpose and a well-defined, consistent message delivered over a long enough period, anybody can be elected president. Your mommy and daddy were right. Any child in the United States can grow up to be president. We can’t wait for the second coming of Bill Clinton or John Kennedy or FDR. We need to create the environment that allows a good enough candidate to win. We need to trust that the electorate is smart enough to understand us when we talk about progressive values and ideals. And we need to trust that when we speak authentically about those values and ideals, the electorate will respond by electing our candidates.

Myth #2 We need to win the next elections: Well, duh. But if all we do is worry about the next election, we have taken our eye off of the ball. A coherent party, speaking from the gut rather than the brain, will lead to winning elections. A strategy of trying to just win the next one, and then everything will be OK, has led us to where we are now. What we need to win are the hearts and minds of the people. The Democratic Party has done a woefully bad job of speaking to the truths of people’s lives. Instead of standing up and talking about what we really believe in--society’s responsibility to all of its citizens, fairness, equality--we get dragged into arguments that serve no purpose but to cause us to lose sight of what we were fighting for in the first place.

Got that? I'm assuming Debbie works like I do, when I actually feel like writing a document someone will read. I start with an outline, then flesh it out, just like in 6th grade English. However, I can't believe I'd run with an outline that started out with A) we don't need the right candidates, and B) we don't need to win the next elections. Nobody could seriously write this kind of stuff and actually think it made sense. You'll notice that she states obvious inanities in bold print, then burns through 1200 characters a piece trying to justify them. That's modern Democrat thinking for you: You can bullshit your way out of any jam, as long as your audience wants to believe you. But that audience is getting smaller.

So here's the deal, Deb. Assuming you want to supply America with a viable, democratically necessary loyal opposition again at some point in the future, you do, in fact, need the right candidates. You also very much do need to win the next elections, because that's what defines success in politics: Winning elections. But that's just politics. Maybe if you change "Myth #1" to "Rule #1", Myth #2 will just disappear.

Letting the courts decide elections, ceaselessly filibustering important congressional decisions, and spending more time on the road whining about why you lost instead of doing the job you actually got elected to do is no way to run a party. I mean, it was amusing for a while, but it's turning into a one-joke show.

I'm sitting here watching my temporary doghouse roommate play what has to be the second most boring racing video game I've ever seen, Forza Motorsport. It's. Soooooo. Sloooooooow. It's like watching a NASCAR race consisting entirely of '84 Buick Regals. There are no pedestrians to run over, no nitro button, and you aren't even allowed to run the other cars off the road into the woods.

Another snoozer is Microsoft's Flight Simulator. I just got through flying 11 hours over the Atlantic in the real world, and I think it's insane anyone would even imagine making a game out of it. Only Microsoft could get away with such blatant perversity.

The award for most boring video game ever, though, goes without a doubt to 18 Wheels of Steel. It's like Flight Simulator, except you're driving a semi truck across the United States in realtime, and you get bonus points for staying within posted speed limits and delivering your load of photocopiers or whatever on time. Jesus, why not just get a job as a truck driver and actually get paid for the same amount of wasted life? A co-worker of mine would actually come in with bags under his eyes from playing this game all night, and bitch about the way people drove on the American Interstate. That's just wrong, wrong wrong.

I noticed this entry a while back at Velociman's place, and finally got around to taking the draw-a-pig test. Apparently, the guys who run this page can tell all about your personality by what your pig looks like. Here's mine:

(click for full-size)

It didn't give me an answer right away, so I sent it off to the admin of the site. As soon as I get an answer, I'll be sure to post it here!

Hugs,
Rube

I've got this recently-was-hot 2.8GHz Pentium 4 hyperthreading processor in my Windows box. There was a time when that much processing power was too bad to be had. But it's slow now. I thought maybe I was just getting used to the performance, and that the 2-year speed-freak fix time was coming up. But now I'm not so sure.

I wonder what the efficiency level of a patched, firewalled, and virus-protected Windows box is. I mean, every byte you read off the disk has to be read at least once by the virus scanner. Every accessed byte of memory has to be scanned; every email you send goes through the virus scanner, the firewall software, and then gets scanned by every single mail server along the way, just to make sure. And that's in addition to the normal operations that have to be performed on a message, like typing it, spellchecking it, and looking up all the nifties that it takes to route an SMTP message from here to yon.

It's not just for email, either. Every web page you load gets scanned. Every document you open, every jpeg you view, and every movie file you watch has to be scanned and monitored before you ever see it. Every byte that gets read from your hard drive or from the network has to be compared to a table of hundreds of thousands of Windows-based viruses for similarities; and, if you've set your virus software up that way, heuristically analyzed against a second table of virus patterns. Your firewall does it, too. Every connection you try to open gets put through a series of tests to make sure that the program opening the connection is authorized to connect to that address, at this particular time, and for how long. I'm sure these programs are well-written, and as efficient as they can possibly be under the circumstances, but still, it's a huge amount of overhead.

Basically, I'm wondering just what percentage of the world's CPU cycles are actually spent wiping Bill Gates' ass for him.

Poking around Drudge this morning...ok, afternoon, I saw that there was yet another 'art happening' in which thousands upon thousand of people got naked in the street, most of whom probably for the first time in their lives. Now, I don't know much about art, but I know it's not particularly difficult or subtle to make an impression on people by slamming their eyes with thousands of naked people. Mona Lisa? That's subtlety defined; nothing extravagant there, just beauty in details instead of the weary inflation of subject matter that this knucklehead here is doing. Project stagnating? Just throw some nudists at it. That didn't work? Throw THOUSANDS at it. That'll get their attention, and that's really what this is all about, ain't it? Getting attention?

Or maybe it's because their all Belgians. Pervs.

Via Drudge

Nearly a decade after being left virtually speechless, a firefighter in Buffalo, New York, has suddenly started talking. Doctors are stunned, and trying to fully understand how the change came about.

The Red Sox did what?

Tim Berners-who?!

Atlanta? That bunch of grits-eatin', banjo-playin inbreds? Atlanta?!

Jesus, you mean to tell me you can't even smoke in bars in the freakin' Bowery anymore?

Put me back to sleep, fer chrissakes!

Some hooks are not meant to hold large objects, such as book bags. Not heavy objects, strictly speaking; despite the hook's appearance of solidity. You just assume the hook's going to hold, because that's what hooks do, after all. But the hook can be pushed beyond its capacity, in which case it will fail. A hook's failure will result in the load's succumbing to the force of gravity, and probably damage to the mounting surface.

Ain't it the truth.

Jeez, at neither the Munich nor Atlanta airports can you find a wireless network. I'll never understand these knuckleheads. At the Country Hearth Motel on Highway 17 in south Georgia you can sit in the parking lot and check your email, but in two of the world's most travelled airports you'd think you were back in the 70s. I wonder what these big airports are waiting for.

I'll have to get used to the time difference again. I just sat down and ordered a beer and kässpätzle at 8:30 in the morning. Mmmm...helles bier. Even though it's Erdinger, it tastes like sweet nectar going down. I knew there was something about this country I missed. Well, that, and you can still smoke at the baggage claim.

Welp, the trip home is over. The little lady was introduced around, to glowing reviews. There was plenty done: the Wreckyll, Atlanta Attractions, Savannah, Charleston, and the davidian compound we visited near Athens, Tennessee. Now, I'm sitting in a plane, about 3 hours away from landing in Munich. I'm sitting right behind the right wing, as seems to be my lot in life, I've never sat anywhere else on this flight.

Speaking of this flight, flew it the first time back in 1997, the first of many. I fell asleep before we left the runway, and woke up over Holland. Man-o-man, I wish I could still sleep on flights, now in my dotage. A friend of mine got a prescription for some sleeping pill, named something like Ambien, or Ambiex. He said he took one, and a little while later he just felt sleepy and lay down on the couch and took a nap. Sadly, that sounds like the perfect drug; at 35, I can imagine nothing better than taking a nap on the couch with the baseball game is on. I'd take that over heroin any day.

Hi, my name is Ken. Rube has foolishly given me permission, as well as a corresponding password, to contribute to this blog from the heart of old Europe. As I live in the U.S., it will make for some interesting perspective.

Me and the little woman just finished spending two wonderful days visiting Mr. Straight White Guy and his bonnie lass, Fiona. First of all, let me just tell you what a wonderful pair those two are. They really went out of their way to make us feel welcome at their beautiful compound, and showed us one hell of a time.

The first night, I met Eric's cousin, who shall remain nameless, namely because he was short-drinking us, remaining sober while the rest of us drunk ourselves into a good-natured stupor. The boys barbecued some good-looking ribs, and we spent about seven hours shooting pool in the garage, drinking beer, talking trash, and, for my team at least, beating Eric and Anna like rented mules.

(click on images to view full size)

This morning, Mr. Guy cooked us up a killer breakfast of biscuiits, bacon, and eggs, providing the groundwork for our foray into the world of newly-legal assault rifles. You'll notice in the first picture below, that Anna, who's never shot a weapon before in her life, just took out the three colored ballons that were attached to the post. In three shots, I might add. I needed about 15 rounds before bagging my third balloon, so, yes, I'm humiliated as both a man and an American, thank you.

Now, let's see some action! Here are some movies; just click to play, though you may need the free Quicktime software to view them.

Eric, running the table. Almost.

Brad with the manly, manly break.

Anna with the shot!

Rube talkin' trash

Three shots, three balloons. Nice shootin', Tex!

There's something about european girls with assault weapons that is just irresistible. Here's Fiona on the AR 15:

Of course, the shot-to-kill ratio would've suffered had it not been for Eric's coolness.

Remember kids, handle your firearms responsibly! Although guys, between you and me, there are few things on the planet that can make chicks pull mugs like these:

Those are gun-faces if I've ever seen one. All in all, we had ourselves a wonderful time. You can read Eric's version of it here.

We've invited Eric and Fiona over to visit us in Germany. Hopefully, they'll show up and we can take them snowboarding. Or just sit around and drink beers as big as tree trunks, either way, I'm easy.

Downright memed me, did he?

Courtesy of the Juju Man:

If I could be a scientist, I would start a vicious underground movement to stop research in the anti-aging field. Humans are not meant to live forever, and eternal life would mean the end of us as a species. We are not yet through evolving.

If I could be a farmer, I would build myself a veranda, with a porch swing, where I could listen to cicadas, watch my milk-cows fall asleep at sunset, and drink mint juleps. Naked.

If I could be a musician, I would never stop playing. I would be the hit of every campfire, the center of attention, just me and my bagpipes.

If I could be a doctor, I would see Catfish more often, I'll wager.

If I could be a painter, I would never contact the NEA for money. I would try to paint stuff people would enjoy, and put high value on, and keep the experimental stuff where it belongs, in the lab.

If I could be a gardener, I would plant azaleas.

If I could be a missionary, I would only do it doggie-style, and giggle at the irony.

If I could be a chef, I would spend all my energy elevating those two highest forms of cuisine, the hush puppy and the buttermilk biscuit, to the respected position in the culinary world that they so deserve.

If I could be an architect, I would try to bring gables back into fashion.

If I could be a linguist, I would translate this blog into latin, hebrew, and aramaic for posterity.

If I could be a psychologist, I would know why I can't get out of bed before noon.

If I could be a librarian, I would underline the dirty parts of every book in the building.

If I could be an athlete, I wouldn't take steroids, unless of course everyone else was doing it.

If I could be a lawyer, I would have the worst won-loss record since the '87 Braves.

If I could be an innkeeper, I wouldn't take yankees. They're rude, messy, and they don't tip.

If I could be a professor, I would be the most unpopular person in the faculty lounge, owing to my obsession with fart jokes.

If I could be a writer, I would probably get picked every now and then to write blog novella chapters, instead of the tight little clique of glory hogs and suck-ups that now dominate them.

If I could be a backup dancer, I would spend a lot of time explaining to people that no, I'm not gay.

If I could be a llama-rider, I would join the llama-riders' union and try to organize surreal steeple chases near Macchu Picchu.

If I could be a bonnie pirate, I would constantly be doing old Abbot and Costello routines with my trained parrot, Muffin. I would be the straight man.

If I could be a midget stripper, I would only strip midgets who had given me their permission beforehand, in writing.

If I could be a proctologist, I would come up with lots of jokes to take the edge off. "So," I would say, "You meet a lot of assholes in this job, too, you know." Stuff like that.

If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I would blind-side child actors and fluff guests with loaded questions about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Now, I guess I have to pass it to 3 more people:

Sandy, of the Dirty Ashtray
Zonker, of the genetically engineered mutant turbo-liver
Mr. Dax Montana, overlord of the pimptastical bombastical red hat brigade

Not that they'll do it, lazy toids.

Since I met such a great new bunch of people at the Wreckyll, I figured it was time to update my musty ol' blogroll over there. Having met you all personally, I don't think y'all are the types that will get offended being linked by a site named You Bitch. As I said many, many times in Jeckyll: Nothing Personal.

Welcome to the fray:

Acidman
Catfish
The Dax Files
Divine InnerBitchin'
Fistful of Fortnights
Georgia
Grouchy Old Cripple
Key Issues
Meanderings
Moogies World
Parkway Rest Stop.
suburban blight

Feisty Repartee (of course!)

If you were at the Wreckyll, and I don't have you linked, just let me know. That brain cell might not have made it off the island in one piece.

I think South Carolina was one of the last states to rid themselves of the Confederate part of their state flag. After the Wreckyll, I took my baby up to Charleston. Driving through the back-roads of rural South Carolina, one sees that the race relations are still stuck somewhere between the Civil Rights Movement and Amistad. Stopping at a gas station near Columbia, I noticed that they actually had a light-brown colored iced coffee drink called the 'Moo Latte'. What the fuck? You crackers aren't even trying up there.

Jesus, I'm wondering now if Velociman's Artillery Punch wasn't subtly affecting us all, threatening all who drank it with slow madness. Can anyone explain to me what the hell is going in this video?

Excerpt:

Straight White Guy: So, how would you jerk off a marmocet?
Dax Montana (in Red Pimp-hat with purple feather): I don't know, I'm not the person who had that job...

The Wreckyll is over now. I'm not going to be able to write about it until tomorrow, I figure, when the liver-swelling goes down to an acceptable bulge under my sternum. I've got tons of pictures, and more than a couple of videos that will have to be filed under 'incriminating evidence'.

Eric is a wild-man, as everyone knows, but Sam, 'Hollow-leg' Zonker, Jim, and Christina more than held their own. You guys are maniacs, and I've got pics to prove it. Don't forget, videos were enough to get Terry Schiavo's plug pulled; there's no telling what they're going to do to y'all once these get out.

Pictures will definitely be forthcoming.

The ring finger and pinky of both hands. My tongue when I wake up, most mornings. The tops of my feet, if I happen to be lying on my back. My left elbow. Along my left calf, where the hair has fallen out. The palms of my hands. A four-inch vertical strip on the left side of my forehead, running up under my hair, where there's a scar from an old war-wound. I'm going numb, one piece at a time.

Eventually, over years, the numbness will work its way inward, making my arms heavy and difficult to steer with, easing the pain of the shoulders, both of which I've separated doing various stupid things, and the hip, which I broke in college, and the muscles of my lower back, which always seem sore, ever since I broke thirty.

Once the numbness makes it to my heart, I guess that will be that.

Well, outside the tornado sirens are going crazy, there's a grey eerie sunlight, and the cat's hiding behind the sofa. If you don't hear back from me, I'll say hi to the Wizard for you.

It seems as though Lawrence's fattest cat, Eldloe, has passed away. As a catperson, I propose a drink to the memory of Edloe. As a drunkard, however, I didn't need a dead cat to drink a beer, now did I.

There's a place in Heaven for good cats, assuming Edloe was one, and the cat waits for you there, in the fields, when you're dead.

Sleep.