My wife and I both love love House. It's one of the few shows we can agree upon. Fortunately we have multiple TVs so it's not a big issue. We await the season debut. House deals with a cantankerous, surly, uncompassionate doctor who pops pain pills like a drunk does breath mints in preparation for a meeting with his parole officer. He heads a team of young turks who specialize in diagnosing bizarre medical maladies. He doesn't suffer fools gladly. He's always locking horns with hospital management.
The season opener deals with a guy who is on death row but has convulsions. The obvious question being: Why bother? He's going to be dead soon enough anyway.
Living here in the DC area I have more than a passing interest in the spate of sniper attacks, you'll recall. John Mohammed and his vegetarian, nomimal Muslim, sharpshooting sidelick Lee Malvo had us terrorized for weeks. They shot somebody at a gas station I frequent, where Heidi runs her Hispanic brothel.
Virginia sentenced Mohammed to death. But the conviction rests on very shaky grounds, primarily because there's no evidence that he shot anybody. So they decided to go for a $2 million "insurance conviction" in Maryland. The idea being that if he wins on appeal in Virginia they can just ship him across the river and cook him over there. Win-win, right?
Except there's one little problem: Maryland has the death penalty but they are squeamish about using it. On 6/18/04 they whacked one Steven Oken, a sexual predator and mass murderer. But that was the first state-sanctioned capping in 6 years! You can't count on Maryland to take out anyone.
It's a huge problem nationwide. Politicians want to curry favor with vindictive voters so they champion the death penalty. But they get all weak in the knees when it comes to actually strapping someone to the gurney and killing them.
In California, it is far more likely that a death row inmate will die of old age than execution. The average stay is 12 years. Since 1992 when the California legislature sanctioned killing undesirable elements, 600 persons have been condemned to death. Only 10 have bought it.
The rest continue to feast at your table, wining and dining in style. In China, it's different. Guilty and they take you out back and lodge a bullet in your head before they waste another egg roll on your ass.
Speaking of dead people, I hear that they are ignoring the floating corpses in the hurricane-devastated area. Isn't that a bit of a problem from a public health standpoint? I seem to remember seomthing called the The Plague....
As I was killing a little time after doing some legal research today, clearing my head as it were, I happened to browse through news.google.com to see what news was around for the states. I can across this.
Now I've dealt with similar cases in my career, but the age range in that particular case is a little extreme. 13 and 16, wrong but more understandable, but starting to date when she's 12 and he's 20? a little much...
Of course the legal parameters in my jurisdiction are a little different. Here the age of consent is 14, and we have the within 2 years rule for those under 14 (ie 14 minus 1 day and 15 and 1/2 is fine. 14 minus 1 day and 16 plus 1 day= statutory rape.) Looking at it in those parameters still leaves these people offside of course.
What do you do though? He's obviously developmentally delayed. Chronically hanging around with younger people, and it makes sense that only a younger girl would find him attractive. Unfortunately it was a much younger person. At least he's holding down a job and attempting to support his nascent family...
Of interest to is the differences in the states of Nebraska and Kansas for the age people can marry: "The governor of Kansas, Kathleen Sebelius, embarrassed by her state's status as one of the few allowing children as young as 12 to marry, has said she will propose a raise in the minimum age when the Legislature reconvenes in January"
Overall it reminds me of the flashback scene in the episode of the Simpsons that explained why the City of Shelbyville and the City of Springfield became two cities from the same party of settlers:
"The city of Shelbyville was founded by Shelbyville Manhattan in 1796, who held the belief that people should be allowed to marry their cousins, a practice disallowed by fellow explorer and founder of Springfield, Jebediah Springfield."
On Sunday, I was enjoying the fabulous weather at a neighborhood music festival with a friend and the local hippies, families and teens. It was actually her neighborhood, so I'd driven over there. We met up with some friends, played cards while listening to music, then went to her apartment to test one of her crockpot experiments. (Geez, I feel so domestic at times.)
Afterwards, I walked over to my car and discovered that lo and behold, it was no longer where I'd parked it.
My first thought was that it'd been towed. I'd parked really close to a busstop, so close that when a friend had parked there before, I asked if it was legal. She said that it was and pointed out the yellow curb about 5 feet down, saying that you couldn't park there. So, my missing car was proof that it is not a legal space. Damn.
I called the city to figure out where they'd towed it to, and I found it about a block and a half away. I went to go figure out what the damage was, and reached for what I thought was a ticket. Nope-- accident report. The other slip was the ticket. Apparently, while my car was being towed, the tow truck drive managed to clip a tree with my car, which then caused my car to fall off of the hook. Double whammy.
Isn't that just the best luck you've ever heard of? It doesn't look like my car's very damaged... it's probably only about $50 to fix, and the tow truck company's going to pick it up today to have it looked at by their mechanic, so it'll all be resolved soon. But it sure felt like someone had punched me in the gut on Sunday evening when I read that accident report.
Dating back to Henny Youngman's classic one-liner "Take my wife....please!" old school comics have delighted in disparaging their better halves. Just the other day I heard one on the radio. He said: I spend a lot of time on the road, so I need porn. My wife was unpacking my bags and found a tape. It was called The French Maid. She asked me if I wanted her to dress up like a French maid. I said no, you'd ruin the tape.
And while he was indeed joking there's a kernel of truth to that observation. I'd venture that most married people seldom use their spouse as the object of their fantasies. To do so would somehow cheapen their relationship. Plus, it hits too close to home.
I also think most folks date one sort of person but marry another one entirely. Guys gravitate to flashy, trashy women but never commit to them. Likewise, women swoon over rakish rogue types of guys but wind up marrying dudes who are reliable breadwinners with stable jobs. Then they wonder why they grow so bored when he sits there drinking beer in yesterday's undererwear, watching 3 consecutive football games and then the endless recap on ESPN Sports Center. And guys are just as dismayed when their wives pack on pounds, lose their provocative walk for a puroseful, stroller-pushing stride and get that Soccer Mom hairdo that looks like they put a bowl over their head and cut around it themselves.
We had company this week, my brother and father-in-law among them. After an obligatory few minutes seated around the kitchen table gabbing with the womenfolk, they waited for a lull in the conversation. It's the guys' cue to saunter out of the kitchen, park themselves on the nearest couch and locate the remote. Then scan through 100 channels until they find---you guessed it---ESPN Sports Center. I joined them and sat mesmerized as the hosts prattled on about the baseball playoff race, which is heating up just as summer finally cools down. The Yankees are in the wild card hunt! My new home team the Nationals appears to be fading after a promising start!
Who knew that baseball even still existed? I thought their season got cancelled after a labor dispute and lockout by management or something.
Hey all. What’s up in Bad Samland? Sorry I have been absent. I have had quite a few things going on and life has been hectic. I can’t say much but I will be visiting one of Mr. Bush’s fledgling democracy projects and have been working like crazy for the past few months. I won’t be going in a military role, been there done that, but will be armed when we have to leave base for our “safe house” they lodge civilian contractors in. Call me crazy but safe to me would be within the confines of the military base but I guess I don’t speak their language at all. Safe, to them, means dropping us off at a house off base. One plus one doesn’t equal two here but what do I know. Well, we’ll have weapons so I don’t feel quite as nervous about it but it’ll still be dangerous. One thing I can assure you guys is that you will not see me alive, in an orange jump suit, on the internet. Screw that. The way I see it, if anything happens, we’re going to have one chance to make a stand and that’s what I intend to do. My buddy, I spent time at Ft. Bragg with, is going with me so I’ll have someone who understands being deployed to a hostile environment to watch my back. Wheeee, fun times for all.
Amy and I are doing amazingly well. We’re still not drinking, attending therapy, and have reached a level of comfort with one another that is truly fulfilling. We’re closing on a condo Sept. 9th and will, finally, own something. We’re going to have to move an entire mile away from where we live now so it’s going to be a pretty chill move. We’re so lazy that we’re considering using a moving service but my pride keeps eating at me. This probably means my boy and I will end up moving while our wives supervise. It’ll be no different than the last move so we’re used to it. Both places are ground level so that will be a welcome change. Our last move was down four long, narrow, floors and I felt that for a week after. It sucks getting older, dammit!
What else? Oh yea, I wrecked my car about a month ago. The last thing I needed along with all of the other chaos that is my life. I was on an exit ramp and there was gravel, from some road construction. Well gravel and traction don’t go together like peas and carrots so I ended up in the woods. I totaled my ride but the only injury I received was poison oak. I have had this evil, vile affliction for three weeks. Two steroid shots, two prescriptions of Prednisone and every home remedy I could find one the internet later, I still have it. I went ahead and got all 1800s on it and just started scratching the hell out of it. It seems to be working.
Well, back to work. Peace, love and hair grease y’all.
For the last couple days my ears have been really burning.
There is an old wives’ tale that says if your ears are burning, then someone must be talking about you. There is also an old wife’s tale about how her husband left her for some hot 20 year-old tail.
But old wives' tales, like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Dick Cheney, astronomy, and the “healing” effects of penicillin, are just something I don’t buy into.
Because if the choice is whether my ears are burning because someone has been talking about me, or my ears are burning because it’s August, I just got back vacation, and I kept forgetting to put sunscreen on my ears, well the decision is an easy one.
That is all.
A rare (for me, as opposed to Anna) 2 post day…
In my job I read constantly. Read police reports, read decisions, read legal articles and publications, read letters from lawyers etc… I also read a fair amount of letters sent to my office by members of the public, some of which contain a fair amount of unintentional humour… I’ll get to that in a moment…
In my spare time I also read a fair amount, as I imagine most who frequent this site, built around the written word as it is, do. After all you could be surfing through sites with much nicer pictures and moving things and all that.
Most of the written word I go through is professionals writing or at least talented amateurs writing because they want to, and they enjoy doing it. Most is fairly good quality. Not all of the content is terribly interesting, but most contains more or less correct syntax, grammar and spelling. Some of us make extensive use of spell check to confirm spelling etc, but can get by with minimal mistakes in the prose we handwrite too.
Then there are the people that come into contact with the police on a frequent basis due to the lifestyle they lead, and the people that they associate with. Many are accused of crimes, a few are trying to get the prosecutors office to stop prosecuting people that did things to them. All shapes and sizes, and predominately low on the literacy scale. Many make basic mistakes that require some thought to decode. Frequently I have to read words out loud to decipher what the author means. You’d be surprised how many people revert to a phonetic spelling when they can’t think of the correct spelling. They also have a tendency to break words in half. The best example I can think of is Prosecutor spelt pros ecutor.
So anybody have any suggestions for some good reading? Too much crap out there, hard to find something that I actually want to read…
To keep Anna from Jonesing the entire site, and to put up another face to contrast with the fine visage of Leafin, I am attempting to break out of my summer doldrums and get inspired.
My Job is in the process of breaking out of the summer mold. Getting ramped up for the fall season and all that. The Court system up her winds down in the summer to a degree. The superior court takes its summer recess over the months of July and August, and most of the Justices are off Golfing or whatever you do when you make the kind of money they make. Those of us in the trenches fill the time in with trials in the lower court, filling in for people on holidays and try to get a week or two off ourselves. This all changes come the end of summer...
My fall trial season has now started... commenced last week with a 2 day sexual assault trial, and at the end of this week I start a 4 day 1st degree murder preliminary inquiry... lotsa work in the office getting the trial ready to go, co-ordinating with police to make sure witnesses are there etc. A ton of work in prep so that things go smooth when we get to the main act starts.
I have another murder case set for a 4 days in september, but it looks much uglier. The crime itself is more or less as brutal, but the case I have to work with is much less together, much less put togetherable (is that a word... no). Unfortunately I have to work with what I can get and go from there...
All in all I find myself daydreaming looking at the interesting things other people have done with their time in the past while. Anna writing a novel (not for me, I'm not that inspired to write. Obviously.) Leafin talking about her divemaster certification. Neat, been wanting to try scuba for awhile, but haven't made the time.
The next hobby / pasttime for me is getting a private pilot license. Been looking into it for awhile, found a good local pilot school. Now I just need to get past the inertia, cobble together some funds and do it. Doesn't help of course that Avgas, like all petroleum, is through the roof in price. soon... soon...
Hopefully this place will pick up this fall as the weather gets colder and more of us spend more time indoors and in front of the computer.
You probably aren't a jonesing Bad Sam junkie like me. When comments and posts run dry, you don't turn in desperation to the Recent Comments. You don't find that most of the ones attached to your long-forgotten posts are just come-ons for casinos or something or other.
But MG, damn him, is still attracting lively comment strings on bad advice posts he typed in 2001! Witness:
My ex-fiance just cheated on me. I had received an email, and instead of believing the person emailing me, I believed her. We had planned on moving into a new house, but while I was making the preparations she was staying at here moms. I didn't believe the mails, stupid me, instead and believed and trusted in her while she had already showed herself to be a lier. She came over for 5 days and helped me take care of some of the more minor aspects of the move, in which time she gave something to me. I haven't gotten tested so I'm not completely sure what, but it took a while for it to start showing up. The person had finally got around to emailing me the pictures that they said they had, and it was her. She got some skin disease about a week before I left to get the new house ready, and the pictures had the rash she had developed in them, that was the one way I was possitive that it wasn't old pictures. Well, after this happened I tried calling to tell her that she had 72 hours to come get her stuff, but her mom told me that she had moved in with this guy. She has stolen a bunch of my shit and I want to make her pay for all she's put me through. If you have any suggestions email me at [insert actual email address here.]I'm very willing to listen to any ideas of revenge you may have.
Oh, and just so you know to stay away from the person, her name is [insert actual full name here] . She lives in [insert hick town here] and she's a lying slut. Then again, if you want to get laid, just tell her you have a kid on the way with another woman, but you aren't allowed to go around her, she'll fuck you and let you take pictures of it so you can send them to her fiance or boyfriend. My advice is to stear clear of the whore though.
by Robert at August 20, 2005 06:09 PM
Also, if you know how to get a pussy ass mother fucker out of his parents house so you can beat his ass, let me know. I've tried to hunt the fucker that she cheated on me with down, but he won't even leave the house.
Get this, she left me, a guy that has his own place and a job that pays above $9.75 an hour for a guy that lives with his mom and sleeps in the same room as his little brother. The guy is physically pathetic and doesn't have to balls to stand up for himself, let alone her. I'm a big guy, alright, i'm 6'4" 235lbs, and I can understand how he wouldn't want to fight me, but I feel I've earned the right to send this short, scrawny ass little bitch to the hospital. For a year now this guy has been running around town talking shit, but never has the sack to step up when I get in his face. All the little bitch can do is cry that his step-daddy will take care of me.
Well [insert actual full name here], grow youself a sack. You can bring your weak ass step-dad or who ever you want, but come get it. You know where I'm at, be a man and stop hiding because you're afraid.
Remember what happened back when you tried to wrestle me in [insert possessive form of actual name] apartment a year ago? You remember flying across the room? Remember how every time you talked shit you would turn tail and leave? Remember that fear, and you might be able to live through what I'm going to do to you. You have two choices, come to me on your terms, or I'll find you, where ever you are, what ever time of the day, I'll find you. Oh, you might be able to hide for a while, but it's just going to make it worse on you when I get ahold of you. Watch over your shoulder if you want, but I'll be there, waiting for you when you least expect it. You can't run forever, nor can you hide forever. Remember that.
by Robert at August 20, 2005 06:28 PM
My advice to Robert is to stop dwelling on your own problems and have some empathy for people with real problems, like Martha Stewart or Mike Hunt or Tom Sizemore. And by god, see a doctor.
Looking to chase those summer doldrums away? Wanna have a little fun at the expense of others? Of course you do! So do like what I've been doing to amuse myself lately.
Drive around suburban neighborhoods. Look for houses with for sale signs in the yards. There are plenty of them. Park in fron as if casing the joint. Sit there for five minutes and then get out and pace around looking at you watch every couple seconds. Convey that you are waiting for someone.
Then knock on the door. Tell the resident that you are really interested in touring the home but your agent stood your ass up. Say something like, "Hal must have gotten hung up at closing." Use a name, it makes it more convincing. Ask if they'd mind if you had a look around. As the market cools down it becomes more and more likely that desperate sellers will agree to show their homes to total strangers unaccompanied by agents.
Move through the rooms, secretly scoffing at their awful decor choices, knockoff art, outdated appliances and overall lack of taste. Either walk unnaturally fast so they can't keep up or real slow like you're disabled. Get real close to anything that looks like it might contain valuables, such as a jewelry box. Gush about the house's better qualities if it has any. Otherwise make something up: That skylight would be great if it wasn't so grimy no light comes through!
Inform them that you will take it at the asking price. Then ask what that amount is. Shrug. Tell them that you have the money in the car and could they get their agent over there right away, as you're in a huge hurry and need to close the deal right now.
Walk out to the car and retrieve a briefcase. Get out of the car and stride purposefully toward the house. Then pull out your cell as if it rang. Act real surprised at what the caller said and run back to your car. Drive off with tires squeeling.
The people will be left to wonder if they just got robbed, or if you were casing the joint or if perhaps you were for real and will be returning to buy their hovel in cash---which an Arab actually offered to do when I sold my first townhouse years ago. What, you think I come up with this stuff on my own?
Starting around October last year, I had an itch to go to the Bay Islands in Honduras and learn how to scuba dive. I finally got around to going there this last May. I was going to be there for a week tops, but I stayed for seven. Eventually, I got roped into getting my divemaster certification, which is professional scuba diver status just below assistant instructor. It took me about 4 weeks finish the class, and that was pretty fast. It involved making about 2 dives a day, passing various written and practical tests, and mapping a dive site. It was all pretty fun. It was like being in class for something you love, like playing video games or cooking.
However, there was one thing that I was dreading. No, not the scuba exchange or “stress test”, where you practice buddy breathing with another person (you only use one regulator and pass it back and forth between the two people) while taking off and trading all of your equipment including masks and fins with that person. Oh yeah—and the instructor grading you turns off your air, throws up sand to reduce visibility, and undoes your tank strap so it just kinda hangs in mid-water instead of being strapped property to you. It actually turned out to be a fun challenge.
It was the snorkel test I feared. It reminded me of a college or frat ritual. It takes place at a bar after you’ve finished all of your requirements. In Utila where I did all of my diving, there’s a bar called Tranquila’s, and they have the gear on hand behind the bar. Several nights a week, you’ll see a snorkel test in progress there. They have a mask and snorkel with a funnel attached to the top of the snorkel. At my dive shop, they always mix up a concoction that involves just about every kind of liquor behind the bar, including some blue stuff, so the whole thing is electric blue. Then the victim sits on a bar stool with the instructors on the bar behind them pouring about 10-15 shots worth of the stuff down the funnel. When they’re done with that, they have a few beers they pour in the top. And then the poor newly-inducted divemaster stumbles around for the rest of the night.
I like to drink, but I like to take my time and drink things I enjoy. Shots aren’t really my cup of tea unless they have names like “Dirty Girl Scout” or “Scooby Snack”. So, the thought of loads of booze to be entering my system at one time scared me to death. I swore that I was going to have about 2 gulps, then let the rest of it spill onto the floor. But when it actually came time, I took it like a trooper and gulped down all of it. Until I started to taste the beer. I normally like beer, but with all that other stuff already sloshing around in my stomach and bloodstream, I aimed it right towards my dive instructor. I missed, but at least I tried. I remained sober for about 15 minutes, and I don’t remember a thing afterwards.
I’m kinda glad I did it, but I don’t ever want to do anything like that again. But I am a divemaster and have survived all of the divemaster rites of passage. I guess that’s what I get for never having done a beer bong or keg stand in college.
It's a tad sad to see this once-mighty site seemingly withering on the vine for lack of posts and comments. I'll try to enliven things a bit with a discussion of something near and dear to so many hearts, something radio stations insist that "it's" all about----The Muuuuuu-sic!
Specifically I'd like to nominate a few songs for the title of Absolute Worst and Yet Inexplicably Popular in Terms of Airplay.
My #1 nominee is the Black Crowes' Hard to Handle. Here we have a Led Zeppelin knockoff riff with lyrics that just make me cringe and I'm not even a girl. The premise being that this girl has a boyfriend but sex with this bearded joker will be so much better. To convince her of this he calls her "little thing," as in "Little thing let me light your candle." In the manner of bikers in or behind bars he also refers to a woman his age as "mama." He's supposed to be such a better stud because he is "hard to handle" i.e. an asshole. I'm so sure. It's a wonder a sophisticated actress like Kate Hudson puts up with this dick.
I also take an intense dislike to Eric Clapton's Rock and Roll Heart. Here he is saying "before we go crazy, before we explode" (pretty insensitive in this age of daily suicide bombings) he wants here to know that he gets off on '57 Chevies and "screaming guitars," whatever that means. What's more, he "don't want to change." "Here's what you're getting," he informs the unfortunate lass. What a sexist dick. And the guitar licks are hardly "screaming." This songs sucks ass.
Then there's Bruce Springsteen's workmanlike Hungry Heart. A charming little ditty about a guy who went out for a ride and then deserted his family, leaving them to starve to death. Same goes for this, from Fastball.
My son disagrees. He thinks Dido's stalker anthem White Flag is the epitome of bad songs. And I must admit it smacks of what both Ezy and I have experienced when it comes to ex-girlfriends who continue to carry a torch and refuse to simply go quietly into the night. People like that are annoying and should be shot on sight.
Anything else come to mind?
I've posted before about how I hate adages. In particular I hate ones that are just comforting myths begging to be debunked. A prime example is "beauty is in the eyes of the beholder." It is not. And any smoking hot chick could attest to this. She knows from all the ogling, leering and propositioning she's subjected to daily. Likewise a homely chick to whom no one every gives the time of day knows there is such a thing as objective beauty. It just isn't her.
I've been researching the matter in the course of writing Splashing in the Gene Pool. Turns out that there have been numerous studies of what traits constitute hotness, as well as what having those traits means in terms of acceptance, popularity, performance appraisals and overall success in life.
The research is done in an objective way and includes people from various cultures so there really isn't any such bias. (Everyone knows, for instance, that African-American men prefer more meat on the bones. Baby got back!) Anyway, this is what they found:
1) With women the biggest thing is waist to hips ratio. Across cultural and ethnic lines, a .7 ratio is considered optimal.
2) Symmetry of features. You want eyes, elbows, ears, tips of mouth, breasts, legs and everything else that comes in twos exactly the same.
3) Lustrous and uniquely styled hair. The latter is likened somehow to peacocks strutting their plumage.
4) White, symmetrical teeth. A winning smile.
5) In men being at least a few inches taller than the woman and better yet than the norm.
6) A healthy physique.
7) In women, large, evenly spaced eyes. Also, contrasts like dark eyebrows on light skin or vice versa. A lack of facial hair.
Of course they go into a bunch of pseudo-evolutionary hooey to support why we dig what we do. Then again, they also included a photo of a women who was voted as the most beautiful 2005. Though in kind of a multiethnic kind of way, I'd agree she is pretty hot. Unfortunately I left the article at work so no link, kids.
The weirdest thing was no mention of what American men seem to mention and obsess over the most: tits and ass. I have no idea why that doesn't enter into the equation. Nor does it allude to how men in Muslim countries go about assessing potential mates. Hard to tell about her waist to hips ratio or symmetry of features or lustrous hair or white teeth when she's covered head-to-toe in a burqa you can't remove till the wedding night. Judging by what I see strolling the streets these days, odds are she turns out to be a hideous pig. (Put your damn burqa back on, woman!!) Which may be why they are allowed up to three wives.
Every so often I attempt a monumental undertaking: writing a book. To paraphrase Jaded Jew, this is so foolish, on so many levels, that I don't even know where to begin. First of all, it is a colossal waste of time. First-time authors can never enjoy the services of a reputable agent let alone get published. You have to work your way up, doing magazine articles and such. Trying to write a book without being published before is like a U-6 soccer player trying out for Manchester United. Just ain't going to happen.
When you submit your manuscript to an agent or publisher, you wait. And wait. After a month or two it is returned with a cursory form letter basically saying nice try but we aren't interested. But don't stop trying! And carve an L on your forehead, loser! In my case, the material has proven so patently offensive to some that it prompted them to pen a real letter advising me never to send them anything again. As if just reading my prose had tainted them for life.
So now I am at it again. My working title is Splashing in the Gene Pool. In what may come as a relief to many, this means you'll see less of me here at Bad Sam.
The premise is to take a lighthearted look at genetics, unspoken racial differences and the silly theory of evolution. In the last week I have managed to churn out a meager total of 6 pages. I've examined the preponderence of blacks in sports, the differences between me and my shiftless 1/2 brother, the genetics behind The Simpsons, who is smarter, Bart or Lisa, whether Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf's kid is guaranteed to dominate the tennis circuit and of course my time-honored theme of how beauty is not in the eyes of the beholder but rather an objective measure most sighted folks can agree upon. (Insert your own link of Denise Richards after shedding her dreaded baby bulge here. I'm too lazy and hungover.)
Just this far in I'm already plagued by writer's block. So help me out here. Any ideas?
Colonics are a way trendy thing among new age types. You go in there, lay down and they rig up this hose that pumps fluid into your anus in copious quantities. It has to be cuz your digestive tract is miles long. The fluid permeates every nook and cranny of your innards. Somehow they get it to come back out. And that is when the fun begins. The tube is clear so you can watch your entire culinary history float by on its way to the most revolting vat this side of an outhouse. Some surprising things have turned up: Matchbox cars, fake fingernails, undigested gristle, wads of chewing gum, Popsicle sticks, gnawed off penises and mutant watermelon vines that took root in the sludge. It's supposed to have a cleansing effect.
Now there's no way I'm allowing that to happen. My asshole is most decidedly an exit not an entrance. I don't care if you're Angelina Jolie and you promise to let me reciprocate, there's no way I'm letting you strap on a dildo and pork me in the ass. Just forget about it.
But I do think it would be kind of cool if they had a colonic for your mind. If you're anything like me, you've forgotten more experiences than you can recall. So they pump some potion into your cranium and all those submerged memories come wafting by like that undigestable Grand Slam breakfast you had at Denny's a week ago.
How it felt the first time you fell in love and put that regrettable inscription in the wet concrete. The shame of waking up with a one night stand and rifling through their wallet to determine their name. That startled feeling of being pulled over by police with contraband in the car. Being cold-cocked in a bar by the ex of a girl you were chatting up. Your early childhood. Heavy petting zoos. That time your drunken girlfriend took the stage to sing along with a Motley Crue cover. Practical jokes gone horribly awry. Times you've come up with a perfectly snappy retort but too late. That time you were sitting with a guy on the couch, went to get another beer and came back to find him having whipped out a Coke can-sized monster. All the carefree joy, surprises, embarassments, tense moments, despair, death, birth, betrayal, laughter and bitter dissapointments that make up a well-examined human life.
George Bush announced that he's appointing John Bolton to be the US ambassador to the UN yesterday, despite the fact that his confirmation was basically declared a dead issue in Congress. As usual, the President couched his announcement in terms that strongly imply that anyone opposing him is being unreasonable. Consider his speech announcing his nomination of Judge Roberts to the Supreme Court, when he repeatedly said, "When the president appoints a Supreme Court justice...". He expects a rubber stamp on every one of his decisions, and when anyone opposes him he either ignores them or labels the person obstructionist.
This is par for the course in politics, of course. But I also recall that the President, before his first election, couldn't recall a single instance when he'd made a bad decision. I'm not inclined towards conspiracy theory, and I don't usually attribute entirely good OR evil intentions to anyone, but I have to wonder: does this guy really think that he's infallable? The reason Bolton didn't get the nod is because he is a completely inappropriate candidate, not because the Democrats were being bitchy about it. By appointing this guy during recess anyway, what Bush is really saying is, "I'm never wrong, and even when you think that you've beaten me I will still do whatever I want." This attitude is simple arrogance when normal people try it, but when the Prez acts this way it's ... well, REALLY arrogant.
The more I watch him the more I am convinced that Bush isn't simply not intelligent enough for his job, but that he is actively destructive and deeply immoral. He talks a lot about Jesus, but he doesn't seem particularly interested in what Jesus actually had to say.
I thus grow increasingly frustrated by the Democrats and their so-called opposition. The Democrats should be hounding this man out of the White House and back to his massive estates in Texas to live out the rest of his life in shame, but instead they continue to wring their hands and seem ready to shrug Roberts into a seat on the Supreme Court in September. Guys, if you fight then you might still lose, but at least you'll have gone down fighting. If you don't fight, though, you definitely won't prevail. Do we really need a "Braveheat"-type speech here? Am I the only one who thinks this is pathetic?