What a day

Y'know, when you have daydreams about performing 'broken lead pipe dentistry' on some cockmaggot at work, and those daydreams fill you with more toasty joy than Christmas morning in front of a crackling fire, you're not too far away from the end.

More later.

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Maybe I will get around to that Pop Culture Gadabout discussion before comics go the way of hieroglyphics.

Long day at work.

Hey, I did manage to think of another reason Right Wing people would move the truck before I could get to the tailgater:

8. STONERS ARE FUNNY WHEN THEY'RE NOT BEING EXTREMELY ANNOYING. I have stated before that I don't mind if MJ is legalized. Like I said, smoke your lungs black and crusty as far as I'm concerned. Just so long as I don't have to pay one thin dime of my tax money towards it. I still think all the arguments about the 'legitimate' benefits of cannabis are horsepellets, but I don't smoke it so I can't really muster up any further arguments beyond my previous post on the matter. Plus, doing the 'Trees rushing by' and the 'watch this finger' tricks on dopeheads provides me with endless sophomoric amusement.

---

Well, the discussion with the gentleman from Pop Culture Gadabout will have to wait until tomorrow (later today, actually). I became bogged down with work and other distractions.

Let's see: I owe THREE Survivor recaps now. I watched Jackass: The Movie and The Beatles Anthology DVD's a while back, and I want to review those for Blogcritics sometime before they both go out of print. I have a video game review I want to do here, because if I put it on Blogcritics no one in their right mind will want to buy the game. I have to change those polls below which everyone is sick to death of by now. I have to put up a new story if I can ever get off my lazy ass and type it in. I still have to finalize the T-shirt design for the monthly contest I mentioned eons ago. I have to get things ready for THE BIG MOVE to Moveable Type and my own server/domain, which will also be home to The Jitters. I have to answer a couple of nice emails folks have sent me.

I am one procrastinatin' sonofabitch.

You know, when I have absolutely nothing to do around the house and work is slow, I can't ever think of anything to write about. Isn't that always the way?

Until I can get started on all those other projects, I whipped up a quick, ongoing list of

REASONS I WILL PROBABLY NEVER BE INVITED TO THE FANTASTIC RIGHT WING HOEDOWN BLOWOUT

1. I HAVE A GREAT DEAL OF AFFECTION FOR PORNOGRAPHY. I don't know if anyone's told you this yet, but there's about ninety bagillion pictures of naked women on the internet, and most of them can be viewed for the low price of free-fifty. Really, if you're paying for internet porn you're either an idiot, or you have more money than you know what to do with. Which reminds me, I have to get one of those paypal things. That way I can actually watch myself not earn any money for writing, instead of just sending pieces off and never getting a reply. When I'm depressed I go look at free internet pornography, so I like to remain depressed as often as possible.

2. I HAVE NO OPINION ON THE ABORTION ISSUE. NONE. I know that's hard to believe, and there's a lot of 'Harrumph!' ing going on right now, but it's true. I could not care less about the subject. I'm not a woman, and I have never impregnated one, so there you have it. It is an issue which doesn't affect me at all. Would I have an opinion if I did knock someone up? Maybe. I don't know. It's never happened, so I don't care to speculate. In fact, the only thing that I can think of at the moment that I would care less about is televised fishing. So save your emails, seriously. I'm just going to look at them and laugh, then hit the delete key. I won't even bother replying; that's how little I care about the subject.

3. I HAVE NO RELIGIOUS AGENDA. I've been in a church maybe five times since the age of twelve, and none of those had anything to do with being washed in the blood of Christ or whatever the hell it is they do in there that makes me nervous. Do I believe in God? Sure. See, without God there can be no Hell - I look around the internet, read the newspapers, and I know there just HAS to be a Hell for some of these bonehead morons to burn in eternally. That, and the George Burns movie. How can you watch that and not believe in a cuddly octogenarian higher power? I like to think that Gracie Allen is Mrs. God, and that's why we have things like THIS.

4. I AM APATHETIC WHEN IT COMES TO THE VOTING. Here's how slack I am: during the last Presidential election, I drove to the wrong polling station. Instead of driving the five minutes to the correct one, I bought beer at the nearest convenience store and drove home. I didn't even watch election returns. I think I watched cartoons. I can't remember, I was drunk. Yeah, I have certain opinions on certain issues - who doesn't? Everyone's an asshole. That's my personal favorite political opinion, and if I can find a group with that phrase as their platform, I will gladly register as a member and wear one of those goofy styrofoam hats at the convention.

5. I REFUSE TO WEAR ONE OF THOSE GEEKAFIED BOW TIES. That may not be exclusive to Right Wing Hermans. I don't know.

6. I THINK ANN COULTER HAS SOME ISSUES. I'd probably still sleep with her, though. She likes weapons, so I'm thinking there'd be some freaky funking going on in the boudoir. Does that make me a pig? I hope not. I'm so very alone. Question: Is her last name pronounced 'Cool-Ter', or 'Cooter', like the guy from Dukes Of Hazzard? I hope it is the latter, because at least then she'd have something cool and quirky to hang on. "Here comes that ole Ann Cooter again, totin' that over and under shotgun o'hers to shoot us up a mess of squirrel."

7. WHAT IS UP WITH THE BLANDNESS? Grecian Formula is not really intended to be applied like shellac. Fuck's sake, where are all the cool politicians with mohawks and cigarette burns scattered across their shaved scalp? THERE'S a politician who would catch my interest. Teeth knocked out, eyepatch, whisky voice, and I'm punching chads all over the place. I want a President who looks like he (or she) could win a ghetto bar fight against any other leader in the world. That, or just some balls-out nutty fucker who dresses up in period costumes, drinks conspicuously at press conferences, and acts out his (or her) favorite scenes from HBO series during the State Of The Union Address for the benefit of those of us too cheap to pay for the service. I want a President who bursts into Dean Martin songs at random moments and strikes kitchen matches off people's ears to light a cigar. Who calls reporters 'Buster', as in "You'll get the answer to that question when chimpanzees fly out of my scrotum, Buster." I WANT A SHOW GODDAMNIT. Is that too much to ask?

That's all I can think of right now, and it's 2:30 a.m., so I have to go to bed. I'll think of more later, and I will balance it out with some reasons I won't ever be invited to the opposition's whingding, either.

No one who owns an $800 guitar has any reason to play 'The Blues'

Okay, now that all the extra people who were coming here because of the Oscar post have all left due to my inactivity, it's time to get rolling again!

Hey, do you think James Lileks ever reads my stuff? I wonder if he thinks I suck as much as I do?

Anyway, a couple of folks have expressed disappointment in the fact that I haven't been relaying as many personal tales of woe recently. The short and simple reason is I haven't been doing anything worth wasting your time over. Work, sleep, eat, crap, watch TV, play Xbox, watch a DVD, lather, rinse, repeat - that's pretty much it. All I need is a squeaky little aluminum running wheel to complete the image.

Last night I broke this long streak of emptiness by going to a bar called The Rusty Nail with my friend Rick (whom you may recall from past tales). Rick is Renaissance Man as played by Ralph Kramden. He draws, plays drums and the guitar, knows all the keyboard shortcuts on Photoshop, and bellows a lot while doing any of it.

"Alice, as soon as I puts this Posterize Filter over this collage, POW! Right in the kisser!"

So he wanted to get out of the house and listen to The Cape Fear Blues Appreciation Society during their weekly Blues Jam. He arrived at my home around 8:30, replete with beer. I was midway into the process of gussying myself up - earlier I had purchased a pair of new Lugz Brand^TM kicks, and a spiffalicious new shirt. Both of which, by the way, I spent a sum total of $38 dollars on because I am one cheap bastard who actively seeks out clearance racks. Less money spent on clothes and shoes = more money left for DVD's and video games. He hung around and watched TV while I primped and gave myself a buzz cut. He also nearly ruined my surround system, because he is an impatient fuck who doesn't bother to figure things out before he goes around punching buttons and turning the goddamned volume on the receiver all the way up to 90. Luckily I caught him before he found the button which would have switched the TV sound on and blown all my speakers.

Hey, here's a tip: When using clippers to cut your hair, make sure the blades are properly sharpened. I didn't cut my hair so much as I pulled it all out in large wads.

Anyway, we called for a cab and waited around outside for it to arrive. Forty-five minutes later, I stomped back upstairs to phone and see what the holdup was. The genius who answered told me that she 'thinks someone was sent out a while back'. THINKS? Wait a minute - are you telling me you people don't write anything down? You've got it all stored and locked in your immense brainpan, huh? I hear this shuffling around (could've been papers, could've been her fat ass shifting around in the seat), and then she tells me that someone's on their way.

This might be a good place to mention that the Taxi Service is located less than four fucking miles from my doorstep.

This guy finally rolls up, and the first thing we notice is that he looks like Eric Clapton. Until he opens his mouth, and then he sounds like Alex Reiger from Taxi. Picture Judd Hirsch singing 'Cocaine'. We give him some shit about this and he plays along, which earns him the Mark Of Coolness.

I begin to notice the neighborhoods we pass through degrading with each block, giving the appearance that we are travelling in a circle through time. We pause at a stoplight, and a tooth-deprived elderly black woman limps slowly towards the driver - who promptly locks his door and rolls the window up. We can hear her through the glass begging for a cigarette. Judd Clapton ignores her, so she slinks around to the passenger side where Rick is sitting. He just blankly stares at her until she moves on. As she passes me to the car behind us, I notice that she isn't elderly at all - just eaten up by the ravages of many years spent suckling the glass cock.

All of a sudden I realize we are in the middle of CRACK ROCKS AND BULLET HOLES, U.S.A. Every town has a section like this - some towns have nothing but sections like this. After dark you usually go out of your way to avoid even driving through them, but here I was getting ready to party right in the middle of it.

"Exactly where in the Hell is this bar, man?" I ask the driver.

He doesn't answer, but on the next block pulls over beside a ramshackle building with a quivering neon sign reading 'The Rusty Nail'.

"When it's time for you guys to leave, have the bartender call for me when you order your last beer," he says. "Whatever you do, don't go walking around outside. It's a nice place, and the people inside are all pretty nice, but don't leave the building until you see me pull up."

For a split second I thought about telling him to just drive off when Rick got out, but decided to just suck it up and face whatever icepick between the ribs awaited me. I tipped the guy five bucks to make sure he came back later, and followed Rick inside.

It was pretty empty except for the guys onstage. The bartender said it was because of the Azalea Festival. The Azalea Festival is an embarrassing display of hickery which the locals suffer through every year. There's much staged pageantry and a sea of Azalea Belles (teenaged girls wearing hooped skirts) wandering around downtown, a 'coronation' variety show starring whatever B-level country acts the city budget will allow, and a Parade on Saturday morning with the honored queen - who is nine times out of ten a Soap Opera Actress. If you're over ten it's awful, and you can forget about being able to drive anywhere downtown all day long; if you're under ten it's great because you can load up on sugary fried dough, cotton candy, and sausage dogs - puking it all back up later as you're running along the sidewalks.


Your average middle-aged potbellied white guys, the exception being a younger fellow who resembled Mickey Dolenz with a ponytail. The lead guitarist and singer was an older (mid-fifties) gray-haired black dude playing an orange Fender, Def Leppardized with multicolored 'paint slash' stripes. Don't get me wrong - I love the Leppard for what they are; as a matter of fact, I find them quite Def. It was just wonky watching this dude working that mid-80's axe like a featured player in a Dokken video - picture R.L. Burnside singing 'Pour Some Sugar On Me', that's about right.

These were the kind of people who think Stevie Ray Vaughan plays Blues music, which he never did no matter what they want to call it. You look on that stage and you see about $5,000 worth of musical equipment, and you think to yourself What the Hell do any of these people have to be blue about?

"Oh, oh, I just bought my sixteen year old daughter a Mustang. Let me wail about that in this next song."

"Lordy, the water pump on my speedboat just went out, so this next tune is called 'No Mo Kneeboardin' This Weekend'.

"My accountant found a discrepancy, so I can only claim $30,000 in material usage instead of $31,000. I'm down on my knees about it."

Robert Johnson had reasons to sing the blues - his shoes were worn out and full of holes, and everyone he knew kept trying to poison him. If you sold that nightmarish Judas Priest grinder that lead guitarist was wailing on, the resulting money would have fed Johnson for an entire year.

Technically they were all very good musicians, so I can't dog them in that respect. I just don't think 'The Blues' exists anymore. 'The Blues' stopped being 'The Blues' when the folks playing it started making truckloads of cash off the songs. Look at B.B. King. He wears rocks on his fingers so large that just one could pay off the whole of my debt. How can you have the blues when you earn more money than most people will earn in three years just by bending over and farting?

So these guys played their faux Blues tunes, and between songs another middle-aged spectacled man brought out a saxophone, asking if anyone knew 'Green Onions'. Everyone stood around like he'd just asked "Hey, you guys know 'Disposable Teens' by Marilyn Manson?" None of these fuckers knew 'Green Onions', one of the most basic songs in existence - but they knew 'The Sky Is Cryin'. He tried to show them by playing a few bars, but the lead guitarist dismissed him with a wave of his hand and told him "let me get one more in here, and then you can play all that stuff". They launched into another generic jam, and the sax fellow tried to join in, but backed off the stage after a few moments with a bewildered look on his face.

After this the Def Leppard guitarist and the drummer left the stage. Rick asked the bartender if they intended to play anymore, and she pointed them out in the back packing up their equipment. Rick went to the bathroom, and while he was in there the rhythm guitarist jokingly asked if anyone was a drummer. I told him there was one currently taking a piss. When Rick walked out of the john everyone stared at him. He immediately knew what was up and shot me an evil look (he hadn't touched the drums in about a year and a half). A few minutes of cajoling and he took the stage with the remaining members of The Cape Fear Blues Appreciation Society, giving me the slow burn the entire time.

He was shaky at first, but once the rust flaked off he did fairly well. He made a lot of dookie faces, but whenever he slipped and made a mistake he covered it very well. 'Specs' finally got to play 'Green Onions'. Between songs I walked over and Rick told me he was going to kill me later. I told him there was a whole neighborhood full of people in the bushes outside already waiting for their chance, so he'd have to take a number.

After they finished playing I wandered down to the end of the bar and spent the rest of the evening talking to the cute girl sitting there. We talked about everything two drunk people talk about, and I used my brand of 'brick through the window' subtlety to feel her out datewise. She had the best legs that ever walked anywhere, and I kept glancing in that 'trying so hard to be inconspicuous that it becomes very conspicuous' way. Of course, I forgot to get her number. Too bad it wasn't written on her legs. She works there, though, so I may risk bleeding to death in someone's car trunk and take a trip back down in a few days.

By the end of the night Rick was thanking me for putting him on the spot. Not wanting to take chances, we called a friend to come pick us up. I ran from the front door to the back seat of his vehicle like Julia Roberts dodging paparazzi after an all-night table-dancing bender.

So anyway, I didn't get murdered, I might get a date out of it, and I had a decent time.

Brief Intermission

I am working on several large posts at once, all of which will be forthcoming over the next few days. In the meantime, please amuse yourself by going through my blogroll and reading all the fine work contained therein...or you could create your own personalized nostalgic 1980's video game.

SURVIVOR: CRAMAZON part four

So I'm late.

If you need to catch up, you'll find the

First part here.
Second part here
Third part here.

NIGHT 15

TOMMYBOY TRIBE:

Children Of A Lesser Gripe is upset over Heidi-Ho's switch vote resulting in the removal of Executive Annoyance last episode. Massah Massengill feeds her a line of BS to calm her nerves, emoting on how much she 'brings to the tribe'. She is completely sucked in by anyone who compliments her.

DAY 16

TOMMYBOY:

Heidi-Ho, looking increasingly Ethiopian, sulks over the fact that the fellas are still sticking together all the time and not looking at her expensive boobs.

JABBERJAWS:

Skeletor brushes his choppers, followed by Magic Goof Ball and Whizzer, ALL OF THEM USING THE SAME BRUSH. That means there's three different varieties of plaque and jungle tooth funk on the bristle. Power Dyke thinks the guys are all 'fascinating', and relays this timeless bit of wisdom to Skeletor: "Girls are different than boys". Whizzer and Ms. Frizz grow closer, and romance is in the air...along with the thick stench of unwashed feet, underarms, and ass cracks.

LUXURY CHALLENGE

It's a log rolling contest. A revolving cylinder is suspended over a large mud puddle. One person from each tribe (same sex) will attempt to knock the other off and mudify them. The first tribe to five points wins. Skeletor douches Massah Massengill for Jabberjaws first point. Ms. Frizz soaks Heidi-Ho for Jabberjaws second point. Gung Whoa tumbles Whizzer for Tommyboy's first point. Mr. Weatherbee floats Magic Goof Ball for Tommyboy's second point. Children Of A Lesser Gripe walks Stupormodel down the aisle to Tommyboy's third point. Whizzer squirts Massah Massengill (nearly breaking a kneecap in the process) for jabberjaws third point. Ms. Frizz gives Heidi-Ho a taste of mud for Jabberjaws fourth point. Weatherbee scrapes Skeletor's rib bones to give Tommyboy their fourth point. Children Of A Lesser Gripe mudpies Stupormodel, giving Tommyboy the winning fifth point.

Tommyboy wins spices to flavor up the Amazonian Bisquick they've been eating, along with an assortment of scurvy-preventing fruit. Heidi-Ho needs to rub some of that on her bajoobies, so the flesh will regenerate around the now-highly visible saline containers.

DAY 16

JABBERJAWS

Stupormodel states that no one in the tribe cares about losing the reward challenge, and everyone is just faking all those dejected looks. The tribe takes a bath together, Whizzer clearly enjoying Ms. Frizz's fingers running through his back hair. Ms. Frizz tells the camera that it's all just good business, giving the men erections so that the blood will draw away from their brains and they'll be too stupid to vote her off. This bathtime is the highlight of Magic Goof Ball's life.

TOMMYBOY

Heidi-Ho eats a piece of fruit and one rib recedes back into her torso. Mr. Weatherbee strokes Children Of A Lesser Gripe's ego YET AGAIN, telling her that watching her win was a 'defining moment' in his life. Sad, sad life, that Weatherbee has led. The rest of the tribe collectively rolls their eyes so hard at this saccharine sentimentality that the breeze created flutters through the 'Believe In Yourself!' banner Weatherbee brought along as his personal luxury item.

JABBERJAWS

Down by the river, Magic Goof Ball makes a deal with Power Dyke. The deal is: Magic Goof Ball, Power Dyke, Heid-Ho, and Stupormodel will ally themselves to eliminate all others, making the quartet the infamous 'final four' of Survivor legend. It is decided amongst the Dark Council that Skeletor's might is needed, so underlord Magic Goof Ball aproaches him with an offer to join the Black Allegiance. Skeletor has no idea that Magic Goofball is playing him like an inbred hillbilly plays the banjo on a bridge. Magic Goof Ball tells the camera that Skeletor is a dope, and as soon as he stops catching fish or doing their evil bidding he's gone.

NIGHT

Ms. Frizz decides three guys fawing over her every move during daylight hours isn't enough, so she invents a campfire 'game' where each of them will describe in detail a perfect date with her. Skeletor uses this excuse to try and slither his way into Frizz's heart, as he is working under the genuinely pathetic assumption that he has chance in hell with her. God, he really is a dope. Frizz opines into the camera about how much she 'needs' the men around - AKA how much she needs them slobbering about how pretty she is 24 hours a day.

DAY 18

JABBERJAWS

Whizzer is growing annoyed with the way Skeletor is cuddling up on Frizz's body during the all-day nap the three of them are taking. Power Dyke sees this ploy by Ms. Frizz as a potential threat to The Dark Council.

IMMUNITY CHALLENGE

Two humongous slabs of partially cooked beef hang suspended by hooks. Each tribe (each individual's hands tied behind their back) will attempt to tear off hunks of beef with their teeth and spit them into baskets. At the end of ten minutes, the team with the most saliva-coated regurgitated flesh clotted together wins. How may starving people are there in the world right now, do you suppose?

Hi-Lites: Weatherbee gets clocked in the face with the dinosaur-sized bone protruding from the slab of meat. Skeletor spits and misses the basket completely, then licks the dirty meat back up off the floor. Weatherbee uses his mouth to pull a piece of meat trapped in Massah Massengill's teeth, providing the homoerotic moment for this episode. Heidi-Ho nearly bites Massah Massengill's lip in half 'trying to help'.

TOMMYBOY wins the challenge, and immunity.

JABBERJAWS

The tribe has a confab, and Ms. Frizz offers herself up as a sacrifice. Whizzer states that he's voting for Skeltor since Ms. Frizz is one damned fine piece of ass and he hasn't had the chance to bag her yet. Okay, he actually said something along the lines of "she's come so far", but whatever. Magic Goof Ball complains to the camera that if Skeletor is removed from the tribe he will no longer be able to manipulate him in an evil manner.

TRIBAL COUNCIL

Whizzer uses his poetic description to emote that Ms. Frizz is "totally awesome". Skeletor "relishes the role of being provider". Magic Goof Ball admits he is only good for a laugh. Ms. Frizz says she is "glowing" now that testicles are a new feature of the tribe, and that she's "in it for the long haul" - which is a complete reversal from what she said just hours previous.

Votes are taken, counted, and:

THE TRIBE HAS SPOKEN

Ms. Frizz is dyed, fried, and laid to the side.

Next episode: THE MERGER (probably tomorrow, but I promised myself I'd stop making promises)

ALL RIGHT ALREADY

Okay, okay, sheesh. Everyone's clamoring for a recent picture of me, so here:



Happy?

Oh, Survivor is coming later. I have to watch the tape again. YES, I watch it twice - once for enjoyment, and once for you. Why? Because I love you. And I'm not just saying that so you'll give me head. Although I wouldn't object. And I'll call you tomorrow, I promise. Why would I lie? I JUST TOLD YOU I love you, and guys take those three little words very seriously. So come on. Please? Guys have needs, you know. Ever heard of Blue Balls? Did you know they can KILL a man if he doesn't get to release? No? All right then, screw it, I'm taking you home. No, don't talk to me. You're just being selfish. I wonder if your little friend with the nice ass might like to go out sometime. No, I think it WAS called for. You never think about what I want. I paid for that whole evening out, too. NO, I don't want 'your half'. If you keep talking I'm just gonna keep turning the stereo up. Damnit. There they go. It's just like being kicked in the nads over and over, but do YOU care? NO. So be quiet. Unless you're opening your mouth to say "Yes, Kevin, I will help you not die from exploding testicles", then I don't wanna hear it.

LIFE WAS LIKE A CHINESE FINGER TRAP, ONLY ONE FINGER WAS MY PENIS

That's going to be on my headstone - unless I opt for cremation, in which case keychains with that phrase inscribed will be handed out to the four people who may or may not show up at my funeral.

Last night I remained at work to patch a hole in a bathroom wall, 3 feet by 3 feet. This hole was behind both a toilet and a bathroom vanity. So, I had to cut circles for the pipes in the sheetrock, twist myself into peculiar shapes, and slot the section in through a particularly awkward angle. It was great, yoga without all the hot girlies around to distract you and make you feel all googy. I've never done yoga in my entire life, by the way, so that was a lie. Although I do feel googy around the girlies.

After many clever and inventive compound curse words I finished the task, came home, where I promptly ignored my blog. Since the apartment was scheduled to be cleaned this morning, and the move-in scheduled for Saturday morning, time was of the essence. I arose two hours earlier than usual, showered, shaved, ate a little something (because you should always eat a little something), and I don't remember any of it because I think I was still in REM sleep the whole time. The apartment was in the building next to mine. It's both a blessing and a curse that I live in the complex I do business with - the good things are I can sleep right up until five minutes before I have to go to work, leave whenever I want during the day, and set my own weekly work hours. THE BAD THING IS I NEVER GET TO DO ANY OF THAT. I make up for all this by sneaking up to my abode various times throughout the day to have a sip of soda, and maybe a little something to eat (because you should always eat a little something). This is why you might see comments from me during the middle of the day every now and again.

So I walk over to the building, tool in hand - hey, whatta ya know, that's how I spend my evenings, too - only to find the patch still damp. Something isn't right. You give any patching compound in the world twelve hours and it will dry. I used my razor-edged deduction skills and came to the conclusion that this was a result of the carpet cleaners. They'd steamed the carpet sometime after I'd left yesterday, and you could feel the moisture still heavy in the air.

I had many other tasks to perform today, so I set about them and reminded myself to check the patch later today. Fridays are a complete waste of time for me. Apartments are generally rented for Friday or Saturday morning, so my time is spent dashing about touching them up, last minute polish like covering waterstains which bled through as the paint dried, caulking and painting shoemold which was replaced, sanding and painting patches which had to dry, etc. The maintenance crew comes in after I've painted and 'fixes' things, which is completely ass-backwards if you ask me but no one ever does. I am left to return, paintbrush in hand, upwards of three different times to patch and paint whatever they've 'fixed'. There are long, fuming periods of waiting, for the stray piece of shoemolding, or new towel rack which had somehow been overlooked.

After lunch I returned to THE NEVERENDING APARTMENT, and surprise! Still wet! So, desperate to finish this job before I had to help the new tenants unload their truck, I decided to heat things up a bit. I turned the air conditioning on the highest heat setting, and turned the bathroom heater up until it glowed bright red. The bathroom heaters are the electric type which resemble a stove element affixed to your wall, and that's just the thing you need to accidentally back your naked wet ass cheeks into. I left the apartment this way for three more hours.

Again - still damp, although forming a dry crust over the top. I was forced to ask one of the maintenance guys to cut me a key, because I'd have to stay after they left. I finished my other duties, went home and took a short nap, then returned to find -

Yeah.

I had no choice. Using the lightest touch I was capable of, I sanded off the burred edges of my patching work, then carefully painted over the wall. It occurred to me at that moment why the patch was still wet: The source leak, the one the workmen had cut this 3x3 hunk of wall out and taken almost a whole day to fix, was still there.
A microscopic hole somewhere along the pipes, leaking just enough so that no puddles form, but keeping the wall damp evermore.

And now I have to go back AGAIN early tomorrow morning, to put a second coat of paint on this patch which is never ever going to completely dry. In a week (or less), I'll have to go back and patch the hole once more after it's been 'fixed' a second time, only this trip I will have the added bonus of angry tenants over my shoulder blaming me for the whole ordeal (that's what they do, every time). All because some other dope didn't do his job in the correct fashion. If it were up to me I would make whoever was in charge of repairing that leak stand there with his finger over the hole for the entire length of the new tenant's lease. Get thirsty, take your finger off the hole. Hungry? There'll be plenty of mold to chew on.

Sometimes it seems like my entire business consists of camouflaging someone else's fuckups.

Anyway, that's a small part of the reason why there haven't been a lot of updates recently, and why the ones I've squeezed in have been fairly weak. When I'm tired my already subpar writing ability drops below the Earth's crust. I'll get around to both Survivor Updates I owe you tomorrow, put up a new poll and tally the results of the old ones, and maybe (maybe) there'll be time for some other inanity as well. I finally have a day off.

Now I'm going over to Jim Treacher's blog and do a little catching up. He's been on a roll lately.

Menagerie Of The Grotesque

This really has nothing to do with the war or protesters or Michael Moore. Sort of. Maybe a little.

Well, don't that punch a cow in the udders - Now that I am getting more hits than ever before, my workload increases and I can hardly find the free time to come on here and embarrass myself. It's going to be like this from now until the end of summer - brief periods of quiet followed by intense bursts of spraypainting. So, posts will likely be short for a while. Which will please some of you to no end, undoubtedly. In fact, I would go so far as to say some of you hope my posts dwindle in size to perhaps three words per day maximum.

Oh, I owe you two Survivor updates. The first will go up tomorrow evening.

ANYWAY...

A couple of days ago I likened the 'Die-In' protesters to hognose snakes. Astute reader Ric Manhard sent me a nice email Sunday, with his own comparison:

I think the fainting goat is more apt than the hognose. I'll try to google
up a link: http://www.webworksltd.com/webpub/goats/faintinggoat.html
Which has the following relevant verbiage:
> The name "Fainting" goat is
> a bit misleading because they do not actually
> faint. They have a genetic problem with relaxing
> muscles. When they are startled or surprised
> their muscles lock up and the goat then sometimes
> falls over. Hence the name "Fainting"
> Goat.

Now, the first thought to skitter out of the dank, wet holes in my mind like a brown recluse avoiding a whisk broom was: I really, really want one of these.

I've always had an affinity for the truly wretched creatures, the malformed and seemingly useless life forms which have been delivered upon the Earth through either misbegotten evolution or God. I will tell you someday exactly why I have this love of freakish animals, when I have more time - just remind me.

One of these days, if luck drops a golden polished turd into my lap and I become rich, I hope to have a ranch. On this ranch I will herd the most horrid livestock imaginable, a Menagerie Of The Grotesque. Hence the title.

Any creature which spits, shits, oozes mucous, shoots blood out of a hidden orifice, emits an unearthly stench, issues forth piercing noises or howls, glows in the dark...all will have a home on my ranch. Nothing venomous in there, mind you. My wish is not to kill, simply to disgust.

And the best part is it would be a petting zoo.

"Why yes, you are certainly welcome to hold the Guatemalan Leaping Ejaculator Lizard. You may wish to put these safety glasses on first."

Part Wild Kingdom, part Gallagher Concert. Raincoats available at the door for a small fee.

I WANT ONE OF THESE, TOO...

Another fine fellow blogger, Bert from Bert's Blog, sent me the following link he himself found on Dave Barry's blog (Dave Barry needs no link from me - when he gets off his ass and links to me, THEN we'll talk):

''No one wanted to be known as the guy who broke the parrot,'' Shimonski said.

No guy has ever broken this particular Parrott, but I can say that many women have tried their level best.

WELL, OKAY, MAYBE ONE PROTEST JOKE

I'm like that little kid from your neighborhood who tags along a hundred yards behind everyone else when it comes to these things:

Remember the stories about the milk-swigging 'Vomit-In' protestors which you've probably read a jabillion times on other blogs by now? (scroll down the page, it's in there)

Well, I was just thinking a really good punishment for those jabronies would've been to dump cases of Cap'n Crunch, Cocoa Puffs, and Rice Crispies on the puddles, and make them all eat it back up. The Cocoa Puffs would've turned the vomit all chocolatey-rich, the Cap'n Crunch would have fucked up the roofs of their mouths, and the Rice Crispies....Snap, Crackle, and BLARRRRRFFFF.

OKAY, LAST ONE, I PROMISE, IT'S ALL OUT OF MY SYSTEM NOW

This is for Jim Treacher. His slogan is the one on the far right.



***I just noticed that Blogspot is slow as frozen molasses AGAIN. I can't wait until I gather up enough money to get the fuck away from this place. I will talk shit about them endlessly, and if I can keep just ONE person from signing up to a paying account with them, it will be worth it. Google buys you, AND YET YOU STILL SUCK ALL DAY LONG.***

The 75th Academy Awards #11

1. Best Adapted Screenplay goes to The Pianist. He thanks Roman Polanski, who can't come to the Oscars because apparently fucking a 13 year old girl is not smiled upon here. Best Original Screenplay goes to Talk To Her, and the guy who won looks like he borrowed Christopher Walken's vacuum cleaner when he was done. He also reads A Very Important Statement Of Peace from a crumpled piece of paper, dedicating his fucking Oscar to whoever the hell he thinks is oppressing the oppressed oppressively across this oppressive world of ours. Jeez, you'd think if it was that important he'd have bothered to memorize it.

2. Seriously - do you REALLY want to see THAT Harrison Ford doing another Indiana Jones? Come on, Mel Gibson turned down Gladiator because he thought he was too old, and he's, like, SIXTEEN YEARS younger than Ford. Roman Polanski wins Best Director for The Pianist and everyone blows their nuts cheering. Hollywood - coddler of pedophiles, appeaser of tyrannical dictators. What a wacky fucking place that looneyhole is.

3. Chicago wins best picture. Every morning for the next year I will wake up drenched in ice cold sweat, with 'AND ALL THAT JAZZ!' coming from my lips in a hoarse whisper.

THIS WAS NOT MY BEST WORK. I APOLOGIZE FOR MY WEAK, WEAK COMMENTARY.

They weren't giving me much to work with.

The 75th Academy Awards #10

1. Meryl Streep presents the Honorary Oscar to Peter O'Toole. Gotta love the Toole. He was who I wanted to play The Joker when the first Batman flick was announced back in 1987 (I think). He used to look like the Brian Bolland version of The Joker. Plus, I also always heard a light English accent in my head whenever I read Joker dialogue in Batman comics. He gave an incredibly classy speech. SHOCK OF THE EVENING - there was only a smattering of applause when he gave praise and thanks to America at the end of it. Goodness. Who woulda thunk it.

2. Denzel Washington, looking all snappy in a sharp-shouldered suit, presents the Oscar for Best Actress to Nicole Kidman for The Hours, another film I may eventually catch one Sunday afternoon years from now on WE.

3. That old dude who always announces something on the Oscars just made A Very Important Statement about the war. Is it a compulsion with these folks? Do they think everyone's suddenly going to drop their rifles and say "HOLY SHIT WHAT WERE WE THINKING?!?! THAT OLD DUDE WHO INTRODUCES SOMETHING AT THE OSCARS EVERY YEAR, THAT YOUNG GUY FROM THAT MOVIE ABOUT THE HOLOCAUST, THAT FAT GUY WHO MADE THE MOVIE ABOUT THE GUNS, AND THAT GUY FROM FRIDA ALL THINK THERE SHOULD BE PEACE! LET'S ALL JUST HUG AND GO HOME, OKAY!?!?!"

4. I had no idea Barbara Bush was involved with the Oscars. Oh wait, that's Olivia De Havilland. Never saw Gone With The Wind. I've seen her in a lot of other films, though, on the Turner Classic Movies channel (AMC is of the Devil). She introduces a bunch of past Oscar winners sitting on some bleachers. JESUS TATUM O'NEAL IS HOT. Luise Rainer - if you've never seen The Good Earth, do yourself a favor. The Mick is still kickin' it Chubby Elf Style. Christopher Walken looks like he combed his hair with a vacuum cleaner. Then, at the end of it all they parade this year's winners out like they're the new kids in the class or something. What the hell.

The 75th Academy Awards #9

1. Colin Farrell intros U2, and speaks some kind of muttered gibberish. Anyone out there know what that meant? WOW, BONO DIDN'T GIVE A SELF-IMPORTANT SPEECH AT THE END. Amazing. Bono practicing restraint in front of an audience of millions.

2. Chicago wins another award, for film editing. ALL THAT JAZZ HAS NOW BECOME THE WORST SONG OF ALL TIME.

3. Susan Sarandon's wearing her pin while introducing the 'Annual Academy Death March', and you can tell she wants to say something about Bush so bad it is eating her alive.

4. Halle was looking berry edible in her sleek dress, and presented the Best Actor award to Adrien Brody for a movie I will likely never see unless it is on Flix sometime next year, The Pianist. He was nervous as all get out. He wore the pin, so I know where his opinion lies - but if you're going to do it, if you just can't restrain yourself enough to accept your award and go home - that's the way you make a tasteful comment about the war, Michael Moore.

5. Lot of subtle stabs at the administration and the war tonight if you pay attention - Dustin Hoffman's intro to a clip from The Pianist included.

6. Best Original Song goes to 'Lose Yourself' from Eight Mile. Dude, wear a suit. A Basketball shirt with Mardi Gras beads is just goofy.

The 75th Academy Awards #8

I'm not trying to be funny all the time, since I probably haven't even managed it once.

1. Diane Lane presents Best Documentary to Michael Moore's Bowling For Columbine. He says he likes nonfiction best; so why is his documentary semi-fictional? He has brought out every documentary filmmaker 'in solidarity' to protest the President. Oh, I'm sorry, I meant the war. The boos almost drown him out, but it's a short version of his new rant about the Dixie Chicks and The Pope. Cameras fly around everywhere, and that dull thud you hear is a gaggle of agents and publicists having simultaneous panic attacks at the thought of one of their clients standing and cheering Moore on-camera (you can tell a lot of the celebs want to, big shock there). Prediction: Moore will never see that stage again because of that speech. I'm not exaggerating the level of booing.

2. Twin Towers wins for Best Short Documentary.

3. Conrad Hall posthumously wins the Best Cinematography award for Road To Perdition. It was a beautifully shot film, a last work to be proud of.

The 75th Academy Awards #7

1. Salma Hayek's top isn't quite as opaque as I would like it to be. I was straining to see so hard I missed what award she gave out.

2. Chicago wins Best Sound. AND. ALL. THAT. JAZZ. YOU. BASTARDS.

3. I think those earrings are about to pull off Julianne Moore's earlobes.

4. LOTR: TTT wins Best Sound Editing. Perhaps they can put that expertise to work and edit another song for the next time Chicago wins an award.

5. Some dude from Frida just made the first direct reference to the war tonight, saying "If Frida were alive today she'd be on our side, against war." I think if Frida were alive today she might actually want to make her own decisions - but what do I know, I'm not 'on your side'. I'm on the Iraqi people's side.

Here's just a sample of how much they hate us being over there, dude from Frida:

A group of American anti-war demonstrators who came to Iraq with Japanese human shield volunteers made it across the border today with 14 hours of uncensored video, all shot without Iraqi government minders present. Kenneth Joseph, a young American pastor with the Assyrian Church of the East, told UPI the trip "had shocked me back to reality." Some of the Iraqis he interviewed on camera "told me they would commit suicide if American bombing didn't start. They were willing to see their homes demolished to gain their freedom from Saddam's bloody tyranny. They convinced me that Saddam was a monster the likes of which the world had not seen since Stalin and Hitler. He and his sons are sick sadists. Their tales of slow torture and killing made me ill, such as people put in a huge shredder for plastic products, feet first so they could hear their screams as bodies got chewed up from foot to head."

I have plenty more.

The 75th Academy Awards #6

Fuck it, I'm just riffing now.

1. Matthew McConaughey intros the Gangs Of New York clip. He is SO stoned. You could tell he wanted to bang on that podium like a bongo.

2. Kate Hudson OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER MY LETTERS THEY ARE WRITTEN IN MY OWN BLOOD THAT IS HOW MUCH I CARE.

3. Puddin' Zellwegger presents the Oscar for Best Original Score to Frida, and if the music they played while that guy was walking to the stage is any indication, the dudes down at the Mexican Restaurant I frequent could rock his ass away.

4. I can't watch Julie Andrews anymore without seeing her flop her titties out in that scene from S.O.B.

5. Watching the clips from the past Oscar shows. Hollywood got dull when everyone stopped binge-drinking and snorting coke before they went in front of the cameras.

The 75th Academy Awards #5

1. Paul Simon is beginning to look a little like former New York Mayor Ed Koch. It's really weird to watch a dude wearing an African robe rocking out on the guitar.

2. Nia Whatever from the movie My Big Fat Overexposure presents Best Makeup to Frida, for not shaving a gap in Salma Hayek's own natural monobrow.

3. Sean Connery, dressed in a hand-me-down costume from The Pirates Of Penzance, presents Best Supporting Actress. Catherine Zeta Jones wins, and they turn the volume back up on 'All That Jazz'. I guess I ought to watch that movie sometime - but I will turn the volume down when they sing 'All That Jazz' because I now hate it with every fiber of my being. Wasn't Chicago a fucking MUSICAL? Like, with more than ONE SONG?!!? THEN PLAY ANOTHER SONG FROM IT YOU MORONS.

The 75th Academy Awards #4

1. I don't care what you say, I still think Jennifer Garner is secretly Ron Howard's daughter. How much money did they spend on that CGI Mickey Mouse? And who did the voice - some stray audience member who stumbled backstage to take a piss? The Chub-Chubs wins Best Animated Short Film. What the HELL is a 'Chub-Chub'?

2. This Charming Man wins Best Live-Action Short Film. How come we never get to see any of these things? I'd like to be charmed, you know.

3. Mira Sorvino comes out of to present the Oscar for Best Costume Design. Chicago wins, while 'All That Jazz' plays in the background. I think it has been playing this whole time, and they just turn the sound down when someone else wins an award.

4. Brendan Fraser introduces the clip for Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers. Some random Nancy is going to end up getting the part of Superman, and there he was presenting an award. Listen to that voice; it's a Superhero voice. Stupid asshole Warner Brothers.

5. God this is so boring. Where's the controversy? WHERE ARE THE CRAZY STREAKERS, DAMNIT?!?!?!

The 75th Academy Awards #3

1. COOP (Chris Cooper) wins Best Supporting Actor, and makes the first war-related comment of the evening. I think Nicholas Cage is jealous that Cooper called Meryl Streep 'Beautiful and Wonderful' instead of him.

2. Chicago wins for Set Decoration, presented by J-Lo, who pronounced the word mountains as 'Mou-ins'.

3. Travolta intros Catherine Zeta-Jones and Queen Latifah. I think Latifah would make a great album of Jazz standards. Zeta-Jones is what you might call Uber-Knocked Up. She would make a great album of standing there in silence.

The 75th Academy Awards #2

1. Jennifer Connelly is presenting something or other. Excuse me for three minutes.

The 75th Academy Awards #1

1. A montage of every movie cliche' dialogue line from the last 75 years, filtered through Adobe Premiere and projected onto gems falling past a bigass Oscar.

2. It seems to me they're a little desperate to stress just exactly how many stars are present.

3. Steve Martin's getting off some decent one-liners. DUDE HE USED THE NOLTE DRUNK PICTURE!

4. That dude from the Black Crowes looks like a hitchhiker I once picked up. He had shrimp shells in his beard. The hitchhiker, I mean. I don't know what Chris Robinson had for dinner.

5. Spirited Away wins Best Animated Film. Haven't seen it. I hear it was a close vote between that and Treasure Planet.

6. Lord Of The Rings wins Best Visual Effects by creating a CGI rendition of my Grandfather on his 93rd birthday Gollum.

Oscar Pre-Show #2

1. They just showed that Jack Palance push-up clip for the 9753987432th time. It's gotta suck to be remembered for that over Shane.

2. I think the best word word to describe this show is anti-suspense.

Oscar Pre-Show #1

1. Renee Zellwegger is such a cute-lookin' puddin'. She hides her Texas accent well when she acts; that's the first time I've ever heard it.

2. They're showing all the nominations for Best Actress right now. Question - how long was Unfaithful in theaters? Half an hour?

3. No one's wearing duct tape yet, although I think there might be some being used in lieu of bras.

Watching The Golden Phallus Oscar Roll His Eyes In Mortification

Just so you know, I will be blogging the Oscars tonight, with updates as they happen. (or shortly thereafter). You'll get to experience my poor grammar and shortsighted 'wit' almost instantaneously!

Oh, yeah - If you'd rather it be one long updated post, or a bunch of little ones, let me know. I'm all about convenience.