A Stiff in Time.

The main post is below this impromptu Lemur Life Story…

aliceteach over at DPUD has a great post about Frank Miller for Toddlers.  That won’t make sense if you haven’t seen Sin City, but go watch the movie she put there.

My comment there was:  At least at that age you can say “Oh, look at the funny looking rubber ball!” and almost (sometimes) get away with it.

It reminded me of a time in college when my roommates and I, in a fit of boredom and an innate desire to be obnoxious (alcohol may have been a factor), crafted in the dark of night a (anatomically correct) 7 or 8 foot tall (erect) male phallus-thing.  The wording was chosen to avoid certain Google searches .

We poured bucket after bucket of water on this thing and had a layer of ice that was inches thick over the whole thing.

The next day we got pictures of each other sitting on one or the other of a pair of giant testes, and I had one of myself sitting there, proud as can be, complete with the full-arm cast I had for several months.  Shown below is a very good friend from those college days, and we’ll call him… OldEnglish800… for reasons which I will not divulge at the moment.

OldEnglish800, feeling teste, face blurred for his own good.

Women were driving by our house and every few minutes a car would honk and chicks would yell “Whooooo!”   It went on for hours until someone got cheesed and called the cops.  We denied that it was ours and the cops decided to get in a workout with their clubs.  They were extremely tired after trying to break several cubic feet of ice with nightsticks and had some firefighters come and loan them some axes.  They were not too happy with us, but as future events unfolded we became much more closely involved with them.  They had our number.   That’s another story.

I took the picture back home for the Christmas holiday.  The family was laughing over it and my grandmother comes in and says “What’s so funny?”

Immediate silence.  A hush came over the room as we all panicked and thought as one, “What the hell is the right thing to say and could someone else please say it so I don’t have to?”

It got kind of awkward after about ten seconds with the ten or twelve of us sitting there as if we were Bambi frozen in the middle of the road by the Pork Chop Express’ lights.

The pressure was building… building… and suddenly my aunt jumped up explosively and said “LOOK MOM!  HERE’S A PICTURE OF LEMUR SITTING ON PART OF A GIANT SNOWMAN!  Isn’titsillyhowhe’soutinthesnowandcoldwithoutaproperjacketandthatcastuncovered?”  Then she started hyperventilating, gasping for breath.

We held our collective breaths, waiting for the moment that our almost-octegenarian matriarch would figure it out and come unglued.  Believe me, a 4′ 11″ matriarchal ungluing is not something you want to witness more than once in your life.

She turned to me, looked me squarely up and down, frowned, and said “Lemur, why are you going out in the winter without a coat?  You could get pneumonia!”

I shook my head in shock and said “Well, Gram, I don’t know what I was thinking.  I guess I was so excited about building a snowman I forgot it.  It only got down to 8F that day so it wasn’t like it was viciously cold.”

My Gram walked out of the room muttering about how terrible I was taking care of myself and again, as one, ten or twelve of us went for our drinks and had doubles.

Goes to show you – octegenariansn and toddlers can be easily deceived at times, but you can’t depend upon it.

****

Now, for the original posting material…

Titled:  Oh.  Yeah, this means goodbye, I guess.

Harold Camping, Doomsday Priest, has apparently stuck by his prediction that Tomorrow (Friday, October 21, 2011) will be The Day We Die.

Don McLean sings softly in the background:

Did you write the book of love,
And do you have faith in God above,
If the Bible tells you so?

I’m pretty sure that the Rev. Camping has not cleared his bank account or sold his house yet again, despite the rather obvious need to spend money like there was no tomorrow in order to save the last few souls.  I’d say if he is enlightened as he says he is, it shows a remarkable lack of faith on his part when you look at the record of his behavior.  I’d also say the good Rev. Camping never actually read the Book of Matthew.  Just sayin’.

I started singin’,
“bye-bye, miss american pie.”
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, “this’ll be the day that I die.
“this’ll be the day that I die.”

But, wait… the old fella suffered a stroke (but didn’t die) in June, which seems awfully soon after The World That Refused to Die Event (May 21st, 2011).  Does that not seem like a pretty convenient way to shutter yourself away from a world full of derision, mockery, and in the case of the gypped people, betrayed anger?

Yup!  It does to me, too!

Yeah… I hear what you’re saying, Camping, but no offense… you’re a f***ing loon.

And in the streets: the children screamed,
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admire most:
The father, son, and the holy ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died.

When you look at all  the nice well-intentioned folks (but stupider than a bag of hammers) that gave this screwball all their money and gave away their savings and gave up homes, it becomes obvious that another part of American Pie would seem to fit the good Rev. Doomsday.

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage.
No angel born in hell
Could break that satan’s spell.
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite,
I saw satan laughing with delight
The day the music died

Don’t read anything into this.  I just really like the song and I thought it would be fun in conjunction with mocking the Doomsday Priest, is all.   I’ve often wondered what McLean meant in the lyrics but I don’t obsess about it.  It’s a catchy tune.

I was a Jim Beam man, after Tanqueray Gin, of course.  I don’t like Rye though.  Blech.