Hello Kitty
One day I was walking in the greenbelt, minding my own business, enjoying the 95 degree heat in October that is probably caused by greenhouse gases and what have you, and suddenly I heard this booming voice from above that said only these two words:

H E L L O K I T T Y

I looked around, and didn't see anything. I waited for some further guidance, or perhaps an interpretive phrase or something - anything. But nothing else came. Since then, I've spent all my spare time trying to look into this matter so that I can determine just what, if anything, God was trying to say to me. I've learned a lot about Hello Kitty and I'm starting to maybe understand God and His mysterious ways a little more, slowly but surely.

By the way, you guys have a neat blog. I'm glad I stumbled onto it that night I dropped acid and drank that entire case of Busch Lite.

-The Hello Kitty Guy  ¶ 5:53 PM 1 comments

  Raise the minimum wage? Yes or no? The ballot initiative doesn't give us Ohioans much opportunity for nuance. So what I am struggling with is whether or not I should vote to increase the state minimum wage, with a further index to inflation.

Pros:
Poor people need to earn a living wage.
Minimum wages are positively correlated with unemployment, but we can afford a little more unemployment right now.
Votes are cheap, and I can always move if the economy tanks.
Its one way to stick it to Wal-Mart.

Cons:
Markets are better at deciding what a laborer is worth.
Some employees aren't worth $8/hour.
It will make Ohio a less employer friendly state. And it alreadys sucks.
Government interference is annoying.
Helping poor people may best be done with structural reforms that improve how much they are worth to an employer.

Can you guys help me out on this? My free-market side equates this to original sin, but my social liberal side considers this a dubious humanitarian gesture.  ¶ 7:51 AM 2 comments

  Does God speak to you?
Have you ever heard God speaking to you? I have, or at least I thought I did. I was a wee lad, living in Minnesota. My brother and I slept in bunks - I had the bottom - and we had put our jammies on, brushed our teeth and got the usual tucking in treatment, I suppose. It's strange that I can remember this, since I remember virutally nothing from my childhood (I've blocked it all, I suppose, on account of the emotional trauma - but for some reason not this experience). Anyway, I remember going to sleep and then sometime in the night I heard this dark, sinister voice say, "JIMMY!" I heard it again, and the hair on my neck stood up and my heart started racing. Again, "JIMMY!" I scrunched way down in the covers to prevent being seen, and I did what any sensible child would do in this situation - I pretended to be asleep so the voice would go away. Eventually it did. I am not making this memory up - this is exactly what I think happened. Only, I guess it could have been a dream... Or, I suppose it could have been someone other than God - maybe the Devil. I don't think it was my Dad, since he doesn't have that kind of wicked sense of humor.

I've also met others whom God has spoken to. When I was in college, I was going to Dallas Baptist University, where all the good girls attend classes. I had gone out on a date with this girl - I forget her name - and we kind of liked each other. After attending church with them on Sunday, I went home for Sunday lunch with her family - sort of like a promotional tour so that they could get to know and love me. Everything was going well until after lunch everyone kind of cleared off as if on cue, and I was led outside to the backyard ostensibly to get some fresh air, where I was then placed in a lawn chair across from this girl's visibly irritated father who verbally accosted and threatened me for about 2 hours about what would happen to me if I tried "soiling" his precious virginal daughter. I guess that was the usual treatment her boyfriends got. I finally escaped, and the next day at school I saw her, and I was all ready to say something about not being "ready" for a serious relationship right now, when she beat me to the punch. She said that she prayed about it all night long, and that God spoke to her and told her that I was "not the one." I was so relieved that I didn't even try to call her on that one - who knows, maybe God really did say something to her.

I have been thinking about this issue because, as you know, I drive back and forth between Austin and the Big D every week, which is pretty brutal in the boredom department. I've taken to noticing small, insignificant details and signs, and I think that the most interesting and unique billboard that I pass on my way home (it's in Temple, or Belton - I always get those two mixed up) is an enormous black one, with giant white letters and no pictures whatsoever. It simply reads, "TELL THE KIDS I LOVE THEM - GOD" This is puzzling to me. First, it sounds like God is going away for awhile or something - like he's leaving us, which can't be good. I mean, the world is totally eff-ed up as it is, with God being AROUND... what would things be like if he were away and the "mice" could play all day and do whatever they want? It would be a disaster, I think. The other thing that bothered me was that I don't really understand why, with all the electronic and cutting-edge technological media out there, God would choose the billboard to broadcast his message to the world. At first I thought that maybe it's because God is so old, and old people aren't very good at computers or VCRs and such, but then I remembered that God is omniscient and knows everything, by definition. Also, I wondered why God is so concerned with Temple and/or Belton, which is the only place in the entire world that he chose to send this message to us. I figure that either they are just completely wicked and sinful that he's warning them before he blots them off the map like Sodom, or he really loves them over and above everyone else, so they deserve the little extra carrot of this nice, actual proof of his existence. But seriously, how many people are going to actually take the time to go to Belton and/or Temple to see this miraculous sign? Probably not many, unless they are already making a trip down I-35 and want to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

It is an interesting issue. It would be great if all the readers of this blog would read this and weigh in on their experiences with God talking to them, or people they know, so that I can begin to gather more evidence. That would be, what - 5 people - or 4 (I'm the fifth)? Oh, and there's that other guy who likes to talk about Hello Kitty and stumbled across the Nerds4Words once and responded to a post. So that's six.  ¶ 8:52 AM 3 comments

  Invitation to all would-be song writers
Arkansas supper

Children on the porch want ham bone soup
Ham bone soup, ham bone soup
Mama gonna fix some possum sop
And grandpa's chokin' on a bone

Papa gone down to the general store
Bag of nails and some two-by-fours
Whiskey, okra, shotgun shells
Sunday morning, ain't no mail

Uncle Rufus left home 'bout a week ago
Says Aunt Margaret is a lousy ho'
Auntie spends the night at our house now
With two more dogs and a old brown cow

Children on the porch want ham bone soup
Ham bone soup, ham bone soup
Mama's making cornbread and buttermilk pie
Grandpa turned blue and up and died



I invite somebody else to collaborate on a verse, a chorus, a clever illustration, what have you.  ¶ 7:54 AM 2 comments

  Definition (Abe's Political Dictionary) Stubbornity (n.) Stubborn stupidity, as in Donald Rumsfeld, George Bush.  ¶ 12:21 PM 1 comments

  Drogging Drogging (n.) To blog while drunk.  ¶ 12:20 PM 0 comments

  Whinge
I've written a piece of a lyric what describes me overall philosophy of life, have you. It's called:

WHINGE

Oh, stop your cringing
I'm just doing a bit of whinging
that's all.

When I start dropping complaints like paint drops of Pollack's
just say, "Hey bastard - you're talking bollocks!"

And when I act like a right old nobhead git,
just remind me that I'm talking shit.

Like water's warping, and fire is singe-ing
so J.Dolla's made for one thing--whinging.

J.$.  ¶ 3:03 PM 1 comments

  Living with regrets There's a new company in Houston that rents animals on a long-term or short-term basis, so you can see what it's like to "own" a dog or cat without subjecting yourself to the sustained responsibility of pet ownership. Or, if you're a little devious, you can pick up a cute dog on a nice day and go trolling for women in the park. I would never do that, I'm just saying it's something that makes it a compelling business. Unfortunately, they already have a surplus of cats and would not accept Princess Jill. But that's a different story.
This company seemed perfect for me because I've been thinking a lot lately about gorillas, and I really wanted to see what it was like to have one. They seem so exotic, but also thoughtful and semi-human. I called them up, and at first they thought I was joking. Then they said they didn't have any, but I finally convinced them (after letting them charge a $1000 deposit on my AmEx) to find one to lease to me. I told them I really wanted either an 800 lb gorilla or a 900 lb gorilla, because then I could say that I had actually once ignored the 800 lb gorilla sitting in the room.
They came back a week later and said the best they could find was a 400 lb gorilla, a former possession of a Saudi prince. The gorilla is pretty old and has some serious health problems, so the prince was willing to part with him for a nominal fee (plus shipping and handling, which was not so nominal).
So now I have a 400 lb gorilla (I call him Fred) with a strange skin condition and incontinence pacing around my living room. He's really not the kind of gorilla you could ignore, so I don't know where that expression came from. He's really strong, despite his age. I feel like if I stop giving him food and scratching his back he might tear my arms off. And those teeth! I know he's a vegetarian, but those fangs look like they could impale an ox. Try to daydream about something else while one of thsoe is staring at you. Feed the damn thing another banana, is more like it.
Fred takes up all my time now. I'm not super happy about it, but what can I do? The animal pimps won't take him back until they have another customer to lay him off on, although they've stopped billing my credit card and I think I can get my deposit back. I get up at 6am when he does, and it's non-stop attention until he goes to sleep. I'm lucky if I can scrounge 10 minutes to make a sandwich and cram it down my own throat a couple of times a day. On top of that, Fred never seems happy or content with his accomodations.
Obviously, renting a 400 lb gorilla was a monumental mistake. The solution seems equally plain; I need to get rid of him. But now I'm stuck with this beast that screams at me, takes all my time, and slings runny shit at the walls when it gets slightly annoyed. And I just sold my deer rifle. Kind of makes it hard to look past the immediate present with such pressing demands on my time.
Next week I'll see if Fred will post something.  ¶ 9:31 AM 2 comments

  My hobby - Owed to Sleep Sleeping is fun,
Two's better than one.
Three's a handful,
But little one's cool.

Wake us so tired,
Drink coffee get wired.
Work down the road,
Repeat then get old.

Dream of pillows,
Sweet tasting beers.
Work week ending,
Sorry, no tears.  ¶ 7:29 AM 0 comments

  Ask Sherwin Williams The following is a conversation overheard not long ago, in a suburb near you. These are not actors; I could not get actors to actually read these lines. I hope that you, my audience, are not so particular.

Muffy and Perry are two young suburb-dwelling professionals, with children named Mackenzie, Kylie, and Cole. The children's gender is indeterminate, but they are all painfully cute and smartly dressed. Perry is successful tax lawyer, and Muffy plays tennis with the gang from Junior League. They are normally a very happy family, but tonight they're conflicted. Perry has brought home several paint samples so they can choose the perfect color for their dining room, but none of them seems just right.

Muffy: They're all so dark! Why didn't you get any lighter paints?
Perry: I know. They looked great on the paint chips, but they're so dark when you put them up on the wall.
Muffy: I kind of like the Harbor Fog. It would look nice with the green in the Wedgewood.
Perry: Is that the light blue? I think we need something darker to accentuate the teak floors.
Muffy: What about the Vintage Wine then? And we could do the trim in Golf Tee white.
Perry: Why not get wild? We could do Rosy Tan on the walls and ceiling, and go with Aspen White for the trim.
Muffy: Absolutely not! Rosy Tan would make this place look like a whorehouse! Is that what you want?
Perry: Well, that doesn't sound all that bad some days.
Muffy: What is that supposed to mean? Are you still mad at me because I won't go down on you any more?
Perry: Oh, please! You never held a candle to my secretary. Like I'd miss that.
Muffy: Your secretary is a pus-filled douchebag! How about just painting the room All Pink on the Inside and Yeast Infection Yellow for the trim? Would that make you happy?

The rest of the conversation was deleted by the censors on grounds of indecency. In short, the young couple went back and forth for many hours, and never reached anything they could agree upon. They grudgingly decided on off-white for the walls and white trim, like everybody else.  ¶ 8:55 PM 2 comments

  Dear Editor,
Thank you for your recent letter. While I understand that my lack of purchasing history with your company may seem supect, I would like to offer some words of explanation.

We wrote your company asking for a FREE subscription to the Skymall catalog because as regular fliers, it was often the most interesting magazine provided during the flight. When the airlines took to charging for pillows and blankets, it also make a not entirely uncomfortable neck roll.

Now that we have swithced to a junk-magazine-burning fireplace, your magazine has found yet another use. Our neigbhors often complain about the layer of ash on their cars, but for the most part have been successful removing it with goo-gone.

I would also point out that Christmas 1999 I bought all the presents for my family from the catalog. That included the car emergency kit for my sister, the smoke-absorbing rock bag for my mom (who complains incessantly about cigarette odors) and something else for my brother, that has long since been thrown out or lost.

So please consider my earnest entreaty to be added back to your mailing list. My son is still pretty small and our house is insulated with ground up newspaper. We sure could use the heat.

Sincerely,

Charles Cratchett  ¶ 3:48 PM 1 comments

  Labels Hurt, Childhood reborn I had the benefit of a 4 1/2 hour car ride to do some thinking. The "angel-baby" was asleep in his car seat. The magnificent fall foliage was no match for the cover of darkness, and the little white lines were not providing much mental stimulation.

(Much of the time my wife and I had a great conversatoin, but eventually heavy eyelids caught up with her too... so I'm not saying she wasn't stimulating.. she was. But she fell asleep)

So I started thinking about a spot I had recently heard on NPR saying something to the effect of "Labels hurt and stigmatize, blah blah blah" and I started thinking about my own childhood. My parents didn't call us freaks or losers or anything like that, but they were very eager to classify us as "the artistic one," (not me!) or the "free-spirited one" or the "hard working child" or the "outgoing child." With those kind of labels, meant as positive and affirming, they inadvertenly picked a pair of "not the artistic ones" and "chained-spirted ones."

Years later, I'm sitting in the driver seat listening to my son breathe quietly. I realize that those labels closed doors for me. I was not the "artistic one" so I came to see myself as an aesthetically challenged engineering type. So where did that leave me when the engineering was too rigid and confined me to closely to rules, angles (and half angle formulas) and methods?

Now I resolve, to take this opportunity to have my creative side reborn with my son. I'll start with legos, then move on to crayons, finger paints, and of course bathtub art. When I feel clean, I'll get to work with dull scissors with rounded edges, glue sticks, glitter and construction paper.

I will find my medium. I will, I will.!  ¶ 8:46 AM 1 comments

  Oh, the Huge Manatee!

I turned 40 today, which means I should be getting more sane and therefore less insane. In the brain. However, I just fought off an almost irresistible urge to write a blog about 21st century Greek mythology, which would include such deities as Afro-dite, a press-on nails wearing, smack-talking, snap-her-fingers-up-in-yo-grill sista, and Gay-res, the gay god of war who will bitch-slap you down to Gay-des, a kind of Underworld with really tasteless décor. Sigh… See what I mean? Why must I be tormented by these strange, unnatural visions?

Instead I offer you this meditation from the life of a large beer bottle.

Do you know why you are to blame for it all, with none of the responsibility falling on my foamy head? Hmm? Well, let’s see… Did I make you reach into the fridge last night and take me out and drink the contents of my bottle? Did I tell you not to eat any real dinner, but only have those two frozen 99cent bean and cheese burritos? Was I responsible when you finished me, and quickly reached for my brothers – one after another, and did I tie you down and force you to take those 7 shots of pure agave tequila? Was it I who removed your pants and convinced you to go running down the street in your underwear singing “Living the Vida Loca” at 1:00 a.m. on a Tuesday? Was I whispering in your ear when you were arguing with the cop, telling him he had bad breath and that his face looked like a “stupid shit face?” Was I in control of your rectum when, as the officer was placing the handcuffs on you, just in that very moment you emitted so deadly a cloud of noxious vapors that the officer charged you with a new form of assault – gaseous assault, and he had no choice but to cover the back seat of the squad car with a plastic tarp? Was it my doing that you passed out on the drive to the station, and that you woke early today, only to find yourself lying in your soiled underwear, facedown in a jail cell, your head five inches from a pool of dried vomit? The answer to all those questions, my dear friend, is “no.” No no no no.

By the way, since there are no actual manatees in this post, and you undoubtedly feel bitter and cheated about that, here is a poem about manatees. (Oh, I forgot to tell you that this is me talking again, and not the beer bottle)

Oh, the Huge Manatee!
By J.Dolla

O cruel time, waster of life,
Piss-poor backup band to Morris Day
Your joke is to suck out all our days
as day rhymes with day
Like a boy sucks the crème filling from his doughnuts
Or his donuts, and then discards the empty holes
In an invisible pile.
So you suck.

And my time is like a word written in vanishing ink
On onion skin paper
At very high altitude
During leap year
on February 28th.
The word is “negatory”
Which isn’t a real word,
Which is exactly my point.

And my days are like the teeth of a manatee.
Not many people see them, and yet that doesn’t mean
They are not the uncommon objects that no one has never
Thought to contradict as always refusing to never be absent
From the mouth of the manatee.

The manatee doesn’t exist in this poem, o reader.
He is merely a conceit so that I may use his image at the top
Without paying his copyright manatee lawyer, who also doesn’t exist.
This poem ends now.

J$  ¶ 1:49 AM 1 comments

  O where are thou? Oh Where, Oh Where
Has my sarcastic Jim gone?
Oh Where, Oh Where
Can he be?
With his teaching cut short
And his homework now long
Oh Where, Oh Where can he be?  ¶ 3:02 PM 1 comments

  Dr. StrangeRide or: How I learned to stop worrying and love the bus! People who live in Columbus, Ohio are called "central ohioans" and this is a story about these people. Please don't think of it as a tribute, its really more of a roast. And all you central ohioans out there, don't take it personally, the same observations would probably hold true for all you central iowans, central pennsyvlanians, central texans and maybe even central arkansassians.

The only small nugget I picked up with the extra "thinking time" I gained by riding the bus is that Americans of 2006 don't like to share. We can occassionally transcend our desire to have our own when we; (i) can't afford to own one (as in planes, beach houses and backhoes) or (ii) someone will inexpensively rent us one so new and so well maintained that we can pretend their is no patina of OPD -other peoples dirt. This is the case with rental cars and, well..., thats the only example I can think of

For all other things, its all MINE MINE MINE. I don't want to rent a boat for the weekend, I want to own a boat. My preference would be to own a 20 acre ranchette rather than use one of the hundreds of thousands of acres of state and national parks and forests. Why get a free library card when you can get a new book for 20% of the suggested retail price? At least if I own it, I can dog ear the pages and return it on my own time.

How often do you use your biscuit joiner or your router, or your compound mitre saw? How often do you think your neighbor uses hers? When was the last time you stepped out to your own pair of backyard sawhorses and looked across the obligatory fence to see your good neighbor hauling out the same tool?
"Custom cabinetry today Bob? Me too!" or,
"Cutting some ceramic tile? What a coincidence. Me too. Got the old Home Depot wet saw out."

Given the plethora of such coincidences, it would seem that sharing would actually give us some needed community interaction and save me some space in the basement. Now I could argue that shared tools would be beat up and not well maintained. But the dark reaches of my soul know that my own tools sit haphazard in a cardboard box in the damp basement, covered in the grime of their last use. Nobody can be as careless with their toys as me. Not even a whole team of like minded individuals could best me by more than a length.

So I started riding the bus. Not voluntary. But I like it. I see people that look different than me. Uniforms to work. Backpacks with the days requirements. ID badges. work clothes. And the conversations. Talk of over time? Its been a while for me. But good to be reminded.

Sure, occasionally it is an assault on the senses. Being scoffed at for my bus ignorance by a surly bus driver... being needled for missing the punch line of a joke. This makes me part of the team. And I like it.

The smells I could do without. But who are we kidding, my own private world isn't always roses as my wife would attest. Damp seats... gross... but once you know to watch out for them you are okay. Germs. Not much to do about germs that can't be done with a bar of soap once at the office.

So where does that leave me? A 15 minute commute (12 miles on the interstate) and I would burn about 3/4 gallon of gas (at todays' prices $1.60). For a mere $1.50 I get a brisk morning walk (1/3 to 1 mile depending on when the bus passes) , a 25 minute ride during which I can read the paper, and that warm fuzzy feeling of being the only guy in my office that dares ride the bus. Delicious.  ¶ 7:40 AM 1 comments

  Busin' it Texas Style My cousin Toby always had a good story involving public transportation. I shall attempt to channel Toby from whatever astral plane former punk rock band managers inhabit, because I think his story is important and one that must be heard.
You need to know some background on Toby. Toby was raised for the most part by his grandmother, a well-to-do widow of a Texas oilman. His grandmother, Tiny, was a sweet woman who observed rules of etiquette chapter and verse, and whose friends do the same. To her credit, she was completely comfortable in the company of Toby's punk rock friends with their assorted tattoos, piercings, and questionable gender identities.
On Toby's wedding day, he made the first toast at the reception. While Tiny and all of her white-glove clad friends watched and smiled, Toby grabbed a bottle of champaigne and raised it up. I'm pretty sure the toast was this: "This toast is for me, because I'm the luckiest motherfucker in here!"
Upon which Toby drained the bottle (not easy with a bottle of carbonated beverage), and Tiny and her friends clapped and smiled uneasily.
Now that I've suckered you into reading all that, I confess that I can't remember any specific bus-riding stories about Toby. I remember that he often found himself without a car, and had to ride the bus. The way he told it, you can't get anywhere in Austin in less than 2 hours by bus. All buses go to the middle of town, where you transfer to a downtown bus, then transfer to another bus going away from downtown. Then you have to either walk a long way or transfer to nother bus on the perimeter of town that takes you closer to where you want to go.
All the while, old toothless men with the stench of cheap alcohol take turns sitting next to you. They mumble a few words (something I'm known to do as well), and then laugh unexpectedly at a joke nobody told.
Toby's days an operator for Roy's Taxis were pretty good, too. It seeems that most of his clientele were coming in town from the airport. They invariable asked Toby if he could hook them up with drugs (Toby looks the part, but doesn't actually partake), or if he could set them up with 'girls'. I'm always impressed by the nerve of somebody who can ask a perfect stranger to help them find a prostitute, but evidently there are lots of these people walking around in nice suits and traveling on business. once again, Toby was unable to oblige. He finally got out of that racket because the ten year old taxi Roy had supplied him with needed repairs, and insisted that it come out of Toby's fares.
So, if you ever find yourself passing through Austin, I strongly recommend you spend the money on a rental car.  ¶ 9:49 AM 0 comments

  sights, sounds, stories and smells
From COTA, the Central Ohio Transit Authority.

Without rising to the cache of being an undercover reporter, my recent automotive troubles gave me a wonderful opportunity to experience what it means to ride the bus.

Decades after buses stopped playing a voice in national debates on race, and years after the debate between public and private transportation had effectively been settled, I found myself visiting this foreign land.

From the reactions of my colleagues and friends, it is clear that few people take the bus because they want to. The people on the bus are apparently there because they want to get somewhere, and there is no other way for them to get there. The bus is the last resort. Judging by the reactions of my colleagues, they must either have no car, have no license, have no money for gas, or... their car must be in the shop.

So I got up yesterday morning a bit early. I had showered before going to bed to buy myself a little more sleep, because I knew to get to work in a timely fashion I would need a pretty good head start. I set out from the house about 30 minutes earlier than usual and had a brisk 1/2 mile walk to the bus stop. There was a drizzle coming down, hard enough to make me wish I had thrown on a fleece, but gentle enough to keep me from turning back. My wife had offered to take me to work, I mean, I could have bailed out at any time.

By some twist of Murphy's law, call it Muffy's law, I got there within a minute of the last bus. I sat down with my Wall Street Journal and read deeper into the paper than on any of my "car days." I even turned the page to read the "continued on ..." part of a story. Turns out there really isn't that much to the continuation.

The bus came, I boarded. I deposited $1.50 in the automated $1.50 accepter. It is interesting to me that they automate a task that automatically happens only at a time when the bus driver is otherwise unoccupied. Perhaps its for security.

I rode in peace for a while before being jolted from my relaxed reading to find the bus turning off its route into a residential neighborhood. I had been a little astonished to see the bus empty out completely, and had even seen one passenger get on, talk to the bus driver, take a transfer pass and exit. So I ran to the front of the bus flapping my arms for the bus driver to stop. Without saying,
"Where the hell do you think you are going?" I think I conveyed the message. He explained that the bus was a local and to go furhter North, I'd need to get off, wait in the rain for 10 minutes and take the next bus.

Which I did.

Except that I waited in the eave of a building and pondered the possible consequence of so blatantly loitering outside a closed barbershop. Then when the bus came I ran out (arms flapping) to make sure I didn't miss 'my ride.'

So I made it to my stop, did a quick and graceful 'frogger crossing' of the 5 lane road and trudged through the grass. A few knee wrenching foot stomps in the parking lot shook loose most of the fresh grass clippings from my shoes. I went in and after a handful of minutes at my desk I was mostly dry.

For an 8 mile journey, I was only doing a little better than an average runner. A day of work.. and I would have a chance to improve on my record high 55 minute commute.  ¶ 3:01 PM 0 comments

  Truth is stranger than fiction
Is it just me or is the news just getting weirder and weirder all the time? Take the bizarre story coming out of Florida about Republican Congressman Mark Foley. Okay, I realize the phrase "coming out" wasn't the best one to use there. Anyway, Here is a guy who spends a good portion of his energy in Washington trying to toughen legislation on child predators and pedophiles, and yet the whole time he's been secretly mackin' on a bunch of young teenage boys who serve as pages to the House of Representatives. What the hell? The transcripts of his emails and text messages are painful to read, with such poetic romantic overtures as this one: "Are you wearing boxers?" "Well, slip them off and get comfortable." I look at his picture and I see a kind of comical gay drill sergeant in the army or something. What's even more bizarre is that he's gay and a Republican, and that there is at least one other gay Republican Congressman as well! Please don't misconstrue what I'm getting at here - I don't think that homosexuality is a sin or anything like that. Like Jerry Seinfeld says, "Not that there's anything wrong with it!" But why why why why - if you were a gay man who is interested in politics - would you ever run as a Republican candidate?! Your whole party is about as anti-gay as can be, and most of your Republican colleagues believe and openly state that homosexuality is disgusting and should be illegal. I'm just totally baffled.

I'm actually starting to feel a bit sorry for the Republicans, who once had the whole world at their feet, but have somehow seemed to piss it all away in about 6 measly years. Jeez - they had control of the presidency for two terms AND control of both the Senate and the House, and they have succeeded in sitting two conservative judges on the Supreme Court. But what a shambles they've made of everything. They botched protecting our country on 9/11, and then botched the assault on Bin Laden by turning their attention to Iraq before they finished the job in Afghanistan. Iraq has been one debacle after another, and by all appearances seems to be perhaps the first case in US history of our nation attacking and occupying another country without any just cause and without the consent of the world community at large. And, in 6 short years they've managed to rack up the most monumental and staggering, virutally insurmountable national debt in the history of... well, the world. And this is supposed to be the "conservative" party. Hint, hint - "conservative" means playing it safe. You know, NOT going to Vegas and blowing the family's life savings on slot machines, booze and hookers. In short, who are these people and what have they done with and to America?

Mark Foley, it turns out is in a heap of trouble, some deep shit, and what's more his indiscretion will likely cost the Republicans a key seat in the House during next month's midterm elections. Everything crumbles, doesn't it? It's good to remember this lesson - those who rejoiced at the downfall and disgracing of Bill Clinton and the subsequent rise of the neo-cons are now the same ones who are seeing their guys disgraced and displaced. The real question is this - when will Americans finally say "enough" and change the rules so that these sleazy, slimy sophists will not have access to positions of power in our country any longer (and I'm talking about people from both parties). Hopefully that day is coming soon. And that's my political harangue for the season. J$  ¶ 1:19 PM 1 comments

  The Ultimate Storage Solution
American Redblooded Flagwaving Patriot Waste Services is proud to announce the introduction of its newest product, the PurseMakeupKnicknackShoe Storage Unit (PMKSSU). The PMKSSU is offered at a starting price of $225 per month, only a minor increase over similar 10 cubic yard storage containers. The PMKSSU is outfitted with racks and drawers that will accomodate over three tons of clothing, holiday decorations, or other assorted crap. The PMKSSU can be ordered with decorative paintable trim and siding, so you can customize to look like an extension of your house or a detached garage.

We guarantee delivery of a PMKSSU within 24 hours of your order. Rental prices are prorated, so you only pay for the unit as long as you need it. We even offer 1-day storage rental. When you're done storing things, we'll come pick up the unit and haul it away the same day. Any items left in the storage unit will be disposed of at a modest fee based on tonnage. If you have especially large storage needs, we can typically bring the unit back the same day for refilling.

A haulable storage unit specially designed to accomodate all the things that clutter up a house... Imagine the possibilities!

As we bring this revolutionary house-emptying solution to market, we will be phasing out the TARDIS models.
(see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TARDIS)  ¶ 9:34 PM 0 comments