Archive for the ‘Whining’ Category

Sorry folks… out for today, perhaps tomorrow.  Food poisoning, rotovirus, or I’ve been poisoned by Cruel Wife for my many millions – all possible reasons, I guess.

Except I don’t have millions.  If that’s the cause it must mean she just hates me.  Not unreasonable…

So, before my intestines explode, I’m going to sign off, drink some mylanta, chew on some tums, eat a handful of pepcid, chug some pink bismuth, and sacrifice a rooster or a bunny or something to appease the Urp Gods.

Maybe tomorrow.

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Yes, Cruel Wife… I know it is 7:30.  I know it is time to get up.  Give me a few more minutes, K?

Yes, Cruel Wife, don’t yell, I know it is 8:05.  Thanks.  A few more minutes, all right.

Yes, Cruel Wife I know it is… WHAT???  It’s TEN TO NINE?  WHYDIDN’TYOUSAYSOMETHING?  I’m LATE.

Followed by a 17 second shower, shave (half the face – the left half), shirt-shoes-socks-pants-tie, remove socks and shoes and put on socks first, pants go on the bottom half… brush teeth… yech, what’s that new toothpaste… neosporin?  In the truck, backing up, forget the tree because trees can be replaced, onto the highway, and it’s off to work at a high rate of speed.  At work by ten.

Late, but no one cared. Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  If I were on fire there’d be no one in the world who’d pee on me to put the flames out.  Glad to have run over senior citizens getting to work on time.

Work.  Translate complex assembly to spreadsheet format so we can track our errors to the grave, after they have been discovered.  Lunch… three New York Peppermint Patties (ok, five).  Dessert… another pot of coffee.

5pm.  Need to leave by 5:30 to get home by 6:30 at the latest to care for the kids whilst Cruel Wife sells cooking utensils to a bunch of chain-smoking blue-hair ladies with knit shawls that look like they were made out of cat fur yarn but really are just shawls coated in cat fur.   Thing is, the odds are against them serving kool-aid spiked with LSD, which is kind of a bummer considering how these things go – discussions about bowel movements, perms, the price of bananas, and that cute young man running for president… what’s his name?  Oh yes, John McCain.  Glad it’s her doing these things.

Driving down the freeway to the back-road route home.  Doing 77mph.  Sun’s in your face and just staying between the lines gives you the firsthand knowledge of what an ant must feel like under a hot sun and magnifying glass – your brain sizzles quietly to the sound of screaming retinas.  A hand held up doesn’t help the glare through the bug spattered windshield but that doesn’t matter – they’re really just there to take your mind off of the spiderweb cracks.

Look in the rear-view mirror on the off-ramp and realize that the blue car is a state trooper – and it dawns on you that the sound you hear is the siren.  Shit, he’s not passing you, he’s on your tail.  Locking the brakes and wrenching the wheel to the side is a time proven manner of impressing the cops so it seems like it is warranted here.  Thirty feet of shredded smoking rubber later your vehicle comes to a shuddering stop in a cloud of petroleum toxins.

The trooper edges up to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door.  He looks agitated.  He looks angry.  And he definitely does not look like he has a sense of humor – either on the job or off it.  Perhaps it was crushed when he was a child.  We just don’t know.  Without preamble the trooper submits a request for proof of insurance and registration and it is here that you sense that there will be no banter, no witty repartee, no friendly camaraderie.

A quick fumble through the glove box and frantic examination of the official-looking card confirms that your proof of insurance card is a year old because the new one is right where it belongs – on the desk at home, where it can’t get lost.  The officer is granted access to the proof of insurance card – gotta hold back that registration because of the shaky hands thing going on.  One baby step at a time.  Don’t show fear.  They can smell fear you know…

Sudden flash of insight… When asked if he had the siren on for a while he answers through clenched teeth “Yes.”   Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  Insight #2:  The open window and rushing air is enough to cause one’s hearing aids to clamp down on the outside noise – all outside noise.  Showing the officer the hearing aids helps his composure, and the groveling part can never hurt.  Much.  Hard to fake microelectronics on spur of the moment.

Officer reaches into the glovebox, pushing the heroin kit and baggies of weed aside so he can get at the registration.  It’s wet because of the spilled beer on the dash, but still readable.  He takes all the personal information and politely requests a small powwow back at his vehicle.  If the officer wishes to palaver at his mode of transportation who are you to argue? First thing you notice is that the guy could be your younger brother, by about ten years, perhaps your son.  Ok, so that has you off balance.  Like you weren’t already.

Lots of questions are thrown out.   Where do you work? [Insert Town Name].   What do you do? Aerospace Engineer. How long have you worked there? Ten years.  Ten long years.  Ten long heart wrenching goddamned years.  Ten years of … oh.  You don’t want to hear that, do you? You have hearing aids. (Not a question, that.)   Huh?  Yeah. You read lips? Hell yes.  But the only reason I couldn’t hear you with the aids was that they can cut out on you like when I had the window down.  What’s that?  My WINDOW TINT? Window tint has to go. No shit? No shit. Hell yeah, I can get rid of it.  No problem. Officer gives long look.  Long long look, suddenly mentions how his dad has a hearing aid and a cochlear implant.  Does he like them? The officer says Nah, not the hearing aid, he says it makes things sound like shitYou laugh a bit hysterically, over the top for the situation. Yeah, they work better than the old box kind though.

After the conversation comes to a close, we hug for a few seconds, he gets in his car and drives off.

Driving home.  20 mph under the speed limit.  Suspicion is that the cop was going to nail some ass to a wall for speeding but has opted to give an early Christmas present.  Scraping tint is a whole lot cheaper than a ticket.  Spot two more sunny-weather patrol cars out working on a tan and boosting township revenue.

Home.  Home crap home. Kids nowhere to be seen, dog chewing on dress shoe.  Cruel Wife jumps up, grabs tools of her trade and says “Good luck with the kids” and runs out the door.  The kids, hearing the door and noting that they did not exchange goodbye grief-rituals begin rending garments and gnashing teeth… followed by hysterical wails and blubbery weeping.  Dog switches to left dress shoe.  Cruel Wife runs back in for a happy reunion quickly followed by a second attack of separation anxiety from the youngest child, Destructo-Boy.  Defib paddles sorted the problem out.  Dog forcibly removed from shoes.

Boy on back of couch, removed forcibly.  Boy activates ice dispenser with no glass.  Boy writes all over face with pen.  Boy is discovered a few minutes later around the corner with the dish sponge in his mouth, sucking on it.  Boy spends 20 minutes making weird faces with mouth and looking like he wants to retch. Two very long hours pass with endless permutations of the Boy’s antics described above and it is time for bed.  Toothbrushes are apparently sorted not by color, or size, or by image printed on the handle but by how worn the bristles look.  Check.  Write that down:  GirlHead insists that brushes sorted by bristle wear.  Must’ve missed that in the Book of Good Parenting (which I do not own).   Bedtime stories  – Frog and Toad and The Cat in the Hat.  Boy falls asleep in your lap and the location of his elbow explains why there is no feeling whatsoever anywhere in your groin anymore.   GirlHead tries the Little Girl Smile of Smiting and rolls a critical hit – daddy does not get a saving throw.

Lights go out. Time for a bowl of chili, loads of cayenne pepper, pepper jack cheese, and mustard.

Time for House…

Thus endeth a day in the life of the Lemur King.

Note:  I really was late for work.  No one cared.  No lunch, just chocolate mints.  I really did get pulled over.  No heroin, weed, or beer was anywhere near my truck or me at any time.  I did not hug the officer goodbye.  Yes the pup chews on my shoes while I am wearing on them.  It’s kind of affectionate. Yes, the boy put a days-old used dish sponge in his mouth.


Update:  I like my kids and I have a hard time understanding the Nebraska Dump-Your-Kid-Off-No-Questions-Asked Law (Safe Haven Act).   Pretty damn pathetic if you ask me.  Then again, I don’t know the kids either.  Usually though, the acorn don’t fall far from the tree.

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You could be spam-bombed like myself today.  In the 30’s and counting in the last 20 minutes.  Bills, undeliverables, and viruses – oh my!  You’d think that maybe perhaps they’d think “Hey, if we send him a clogged colon’s worth of badly speled and grammar horible emales… maybe he might get suspicious”… but no, they just keep a-sending them out there, presumably because my IQ drops over the course of the day and I’ll slip up and open one or answer one.

Note:  “clogged colon”… see McGoo, everything does ultimately reduce to the ol’ poop chute in the final analysis.  Your axiom is correct.


You could be in a bad spot that coulda been worse, like on a sudden-drop plane. Qantas Passengers Suffer Broken Bones During In-Flight Altitude Drop, Emergency Landing.


Or, you could just be grateful for the escapism represented by a game you pre-ordered (like myself)… Far Cry 2 for example.


You could be related to an asshole like this guy, who saw bad finances to be the perfect reason for killing himself and his entire family.

Oh yeah, that’s honorable, you creep.


You could be one of us non-baby-boomer taxpayers who not only have our own portfolio hit, but will soon have to foot the bill for so many others at retirement age.  Down $2 Trillion dollars.  Nice.

More than half the people surveyed in a recent Associated Press-GfK poll said they worry that they will have to work longer because the value of their retirement savings has declined.

Well, the way I see it, my retirement plan at this rate will be… death.  I will get to retire when I’m dead, to pay everyone else off for their damned sob stories on top of my own.  Such is the price of life in a quasi-socialist state that can’t even do that correctly.


You could read this and have an aneurysm.

Lehman’s Fuld: Where was our bailout?

I want to chew nails when I read some pinhead like this whine about not getting a bailout.  How about the thousands and thousands of small businesses that have and will fail because they can’t get a line of credit to do daily business?


But there is JUSTICE in the world.  Not complete justice, but when the Ex-CEO of Lehman Brothers is attacked and knocked out cold on a gym treadmill, you have to smile.


Or you could read this…

I’m not even going to comment on this other than to say “Tell me what YOU don’t like about anything in this article.”

Pressured to Take More Risk, Fannie Reached Tipping Point


You could be frightened.  Damn, if this is “lifelike”… I don’t want to see the failed attempts.  With all due respect to families of deceased everywhere, I think they could take some lessons from morticians, who by and large do a damn good job.


Did you know that race is a factor in this election?  Emphasis mine…

Marian Wright Edelman, President and founder, Children’s Defense Fund:

In a high-stakes election like this I think we’re going to see many intense discussions among the campaigns about a number of issues. The fact that Barack Obama is now the Democratic party nominee for President of the U.S. demonstrates how far our country has come in terms of race. But, despite great progress over the past forty years since Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s death, peril still remains to snuff out the hopes and dreams and lives of millions of children

Got that?  If he wins, it’s progress, if he loses it’s snuffing hopes and dreams and lives of millions of children.  So **** yeah, race is a factor.  Cripes.


You could be self-righteous (righteously so) and wonder why these questions aren’t asked of reporters.

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UPDATE:  It appears that even in the most serious of times, the Democrats can’t resist throwing in snotty snide comments.  How professional San-Fran Nan can be!  For a loving cookie-baking grandma of 37 she sure can be a crass *itch.

Update #2: I HATE it when this happens.

Update #3:

Mmmm. God damn, Jimmy! This is some serious GOR-MAY shit. Me and Vincent would have been satisfied with some freeze-dried Taster’s Choice. Right? And he springs this serious GOR-MAY shit on us. What flavor is this?


That was the plan, anyway.

Winterizing is heavy on everyone’s mind and rather than leaving the mower in a “rode hard and put away wet” condition, I thought it would be a good idea to give it some attention on Saturday.

  • Wife selling Pampered Chef stuff at a local fall festival.   Check.
  • Kids at sitters.  Check.
  • Block of time.  Check.
  • Dog at the ready and just waiting to fetch tools as I need them.  Uh… hold on.

Perhaps tool fetchage is a bit too much to expect of a 9-1/2 week old pup.

Zoe Helped Herself to a Pillow

Drained the oil in the mower.  Most of it drained over my hands but I collected half a pint or so in the bucket.  There was probably an eighth of a pint in my shirt but not worth squeezing out.  Went to the hardware store for oil and returned home.  Then I realized that I forgot about the oil filter.

Turned around, went back to the hardware store and got a filter.

The old filter looked like it was old when model T’s were still on the road (I inherited the lawn mower).  By using a good tight grip and turning the filter I was able to determine that the previous owner had used a filter wrench to install it.  Straining to remain upbeat I said “No biggie!”  Got my filter wrench out and started twisting and slowly but surely there was movement – that slow giving up of the ghost that tells you that things are submitting to your will.  After a great deal of straining it was obvious that the filter wrench had given it’s all and the filter itself had not budged in the least.  The filter wrench lay on the ground, twisted beyond recognition, covered in little bits of my skin and glistening with my blood and 90 year-old oil.

The wrench was slipping anyway so I added two sanding disks from a random orbital sander back-to-back to get a little extra gripping power and I decided to remove the cowling of the mower to get better access.  Forty minutes later the filter started to break free.  The last resort would have been the old “stab the filter with a screwdriver and torque the bastard off” step but I’ve had really obnoxious filters resist even that and just tear like so much used tissue paper.  I went back to the hardware store for a filter.

Installed filter, went to go get the kids.  Kids kept wanting to play on the mower and the dog kept pooping in the no-go area of the yard.  Cruel Wife came home.  I begged her to keep kids and non-tool-fetching pooch out of my hair for a bit.

Started the mower to hear it purr, and purr it did.  As a test I put the deck down to see how it sounded with the blades engaged.   It sounded a lot like I was mowing over a Harley Davidson.  Got off, looked under the mower and discovered that there was no hog under the mower.  While down there I noticed that a foot-long section of belt had peeled off and was lying on the grass.  Hmmm.  Perhaps that had something to do with it?

An hour later, the three-arm job of removing the pins and hardware holding the deck on was complete and it was time again to be off to the hardware store to get a new belt.

As I attempted to install the new belt is was obvious that the new belt would not fit.  Several minutes were devoted to weeping and cursing.  Off to the hardware store again.  The new belt did not fit again.  Off to the hardware store again. By this point the clerks were not even trying to hide their smirks and snickers.  The belt finally fit, and the peasants rejoiced.  Here is where the really hard part came in.  just try to lift a mower deck by yourself while lying on your side and feeding four pins and keys into the linkages that hold the deck up.  It’s not easy.  The pins are slippery because of the blood and tears and the deck has no easy handholds.

After about 20 minutes the pins were driven home and and when I started up the lawnmower it ran beautifully.

I can only suspect that had my pup been properly trained in the retrieval of tools and the sizing of belts that it would have gone much smoother.  A simple 45 minute job took 7 hours, six bandaids, one blackened nail, two well-oiled shirts, and one Dairy Queen Arctic Freeze drink.  I hope she can sleep well at night.

Saturday night and Sunday (and this morning) were spent trying to get the spasms in my neck and pain under control.  Even now the vicodin and flexeril are just able to help me function.  Even percocet wasn’t touching it Saturday night or last night if that is any indication of how ridiculous it got.

So Zöe did not help me with the mower, but in other ways that pup has been the best gift I ever got.  She laid on the couch with me all evening last night with her head rested on my leg. I asked Cruel Wife if the pup had me wrapped around her tail and the look I got said “so much so that if you are wound any tighter you’ll snap in two…” and “…the dog knows it, too”.

Zöe is growing noticeably bigger – I swear if you put an ear next to her you can hear her growing.  Well, actually I can’t hear a damn thing but someone with their hearing intact might be able to sense something.  I don’t have a pic to post right now but if you check back this evening you should be able to see some taken yesterday.


Now for something fun and tasty. Sent to me by The Dude.  It is one of those things where you have to just accept that it is not good for you and that you choose to enjoy it anyway (like smoking except I’ve never heard of second-hand bacon fat killing innocent bystanders):

Bacon Mayonnaise

Author’s note: Is it possible to improve upon a classic BLT? I think so, by adding another layer of flavor with my bacon mayonnaise. The recipe makes about enough for four sandwiches. It’s best to use it all up as the bacon fat will turn it solid in the refrigerator.

Makes about 1/2 cup/125 ml

1 egg yolk

3/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1/2 cup/125 ml liquid bacon

Combine the egg yolk, mustard, and lemon juice in the small bowl of a food processor or in a blender and process to mix. Season with salt and pepper. Have the bacon fat liquid, but not hot. With the machine running, gradually add the bacon fat until the mixture starts to stiffen and emulsify, about two minutes. Once it starts to emulsify, you can add the fat more quickly. If the mayonnaise is too thick, just blend in one teaspoon of boiling water to thin it. Taste and adjust the seasoning.


Here.  Enjoy a good list of why rats make great pets.

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Addition to this post, not related: I promised months ago to post pictures of a hand plane (woodworking) that I refurbished.  It was rusted so bad that my estimate, based on a previous plane, was about 15 hours to get it cleaned up nicely.

Then I discovered… molasses.  Yes.  Molasses.  10:1 Water to molasses ratio.  Put the part in the tub of molasses, come back in a week to ten days and pull your part out.   I have heard 15 or 20:1, but molasses is cheap (Grandma’s Molasses was the etchant of choice here).

Cruel Wife, who is a metallurgical engineer says that the grain exposure in the steel is about what it would take for hydrochloric acid for 15 minutes.  Try it.  It will remove the rust from your rusty tools.  I have heard of car body parts being done this way.  And it is eco-friendly (no phosphoric acid to dilute).

Notice the grain in the steel.

Nope, no rust here.


Ok, so I wake up, scratch, yawn.   Wake up again, scratch.  Wake up again, open eyes, scratch, yawn, stretch, and leap out of bed all bright eyed and bushy-tailed.

Perhaps in another universe.

I drag my butt out of bed, stagger to the shower and for the millionth time wish my house was not so imbued with character (read:  a heap).  The pressure was low and I just gritted my teeth.  Could be worse.

Hop out of shower, suck in gut while passing the mirror, let gut out explosively going around corner, get dressed, and look around for my tools. Hammer is where the hammer always is, in the closet under the recyclables, the kid’s castoff toys, and the disposable scrubbing sponges.  Chop saw, in garage behind bandsaw.  Wedges… no wedges.  What does a guy have to do to get a doorframe built around here?  Kids underfoot, one of whom is competing for attention from my consciousness with a mixture of cuteness and Gilbert-Godrey-style annoying chatter.

Cruel Wife comes in with a serious look – “You need to come with me, NOW.”

Oh no.  Somebody has died.  Somebody cut off a body part.  Someone dug up the cat.  Somebody spontaneously changed genders.   Something BAD has to have happened.  Perhaps the worst has happened… the TV died?  Heavens, NO!

I’m led downstairs next to the furnace (fully expecting to see a lake of blood or animal body parts – damn you, Stephen King and HP Lovecraft!) where I am rewarded with the sight of water literally running down the wall, over the pipes, and running along the pipes to all corners of the basement, dripping on everything in sight.  It is worse than King or Lovecraft.  My soul drains slowly out of my body along with the blood in my head and tendrils of the dark space between realities creeps up my spine – my vision goes black and then red as a malignant consciousness displaces my own – we have plumbing issues.

I am an aerospace/research-type engineer.  I am not a plumber.  My dad was an electrician but that doesn’t help because I can’t even see electrons and therefore don’t believe in them.  They wouldn’t even help with leaking pipes, anyway.  Damn worthless electrons.  If I believed in them, that is.

Did I mention I’m not a plumber?  Well, the guy who IS a plumber says it’s going to be 1.5x normal pay to have him come out today.  But by shutting off our water it can wait until tomorrow at 9am and the cost will only be $27,000 for the repair instead of 1.5x that.  So we have no water other than containers filled by our surrogate grandparents (for our children).  What wonderful neighbors!  I wonder if they’ll still be so nice when they realize that we’re selling my son so we can afford the plumbing bill?

Now, I am researching PEX tubing and wondering if anyone has used it.  Compression fittings?  I can do compression fittings in my sleep.  The idea of doing the whole house in flexible tubing sounds really really attractive.  I do compression fittings for lasers and instruments that need heat removed all the time (peltier-cooled cameras, detectors, etc.)  They’re a snap.

And, as far as I know, PEX is:  cheaper, easier to install, less likely to freeze and crack, manifold runs to different places in the house, and won’t get pinhole leaks (ding ding ding ding!). I’ll let you all know what the plumber says tomorrow.  Beyond “well, this repair could get costly,” that is.

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Yep, yesterday was a day with Le Porcupine… So, after so many weeks, a new addition to the page.


She’s honest, and that counts for a lot, even if she is a limpid milquetoast.  Pleas for Nannies…


Here is an idea that is so clever and disgusting that I HAD to link the guy’s site.  Go visit Nik’s site.  Wonderful site, some stuff may be NSF or un-kid-friendly, but use your best judgement.

BriefSafe on mmoabc.com

The problem with most safes is that experienced burglers know how to crack them. “Brief Safe” offers the next best thing which is basically stained underwear that securely stores valuables in a 4″ x 10″ secret compartment with velcro closure. Available now for $9 from Shomer


Next, I find over at “This Goes to 11” from a post about a militant FemiNazi who is militantly pro-choice to the point where she is critical of not killing your Down’s Syndrome child. Get that?

I’m pasting the F-Nazi’s link here but I’m not linking it because frankly I don’t want her to splash her frothy foamy saliva all over my site.   She the individual, personified, who I did the “so you’re a feminist…” graphic about – You can only fight that kind of self-absorption with mockery.


But the important thing (other than that she’s a sworn right-to-kill-your-child raver) is that the Feminazi is critical of Sarah Palin, who I actually wish had run for the PRESIDENTIAL position.  Beats anything else that the Republican party was graced with this cycle.  Complaints are that Palin is less experienced than Obama, but here’s the real point:   I know what she stands for but all I can tell is that Obama is about rainbows, change, healing, and unity.  NONE of those is a position!  They are feel-good words that tell me not a damn thing.

Preston’s closing remark over at Six Meat Buffet – it is exactly right:

While I’d prefer a PALIN/McCain ticket, this will have to do.


Oh drats, now I’m non-family friendly.  A site that reads your blog and assigns you a rating.

OnePlusYou Quizzes and Widgets

Created by OnePlusYou

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News Flash

Drudge Report shows a McCain/Palin pairing for the election.  He could have done worse – much worse.  Let me rephrase that… he did good, about as good as it gets.  Weasel has some interesting factoids about her.

On another hand, here’s more proof that Obama is high.


This is a PROBLEM???  When was the last time you really felt like taking a shot of alcohol via your eyeball?

DOCTORS yesterday warned against a new craze of taking alcohol through an eye socket.

Pubs and clubs are selling drinks to be taken through the eye because revellers believe they get them drunk quicker and stay in their system longer.

– – –

I’ve whinged about this before, but I’m not the only one noticing that the blogosphere is silent as a morgue lately, right?  I figured 1-2 weeks, but this is… silent.

– – –

Sorry, but if this is the new way to get votes… is it any wonder why people are so ill-informed at the voting precincts?  Look, if you’re really on top of topics and the facts and issues, you’re probably not going to register via an XBOX because you’d have already done it via other means.  Most (most, not all) XBOX players will not be of the mentality to be well-informed on the issues.  Sorry, it’s just true.  So why do I want to get people who don’t know what the **** they are doing out to vote?  I would only want that if they were pliable human putty.  How have we gotten here?  Me, I want people to have to prove that they know a certain minimum level about the topics before they are allowed near a booth.  Allowing an XBOX to be a mode of registration is just asking to move a step closer to this:

“Oh, but that is disenfranchisement!” they say.  HUH?  Is it too much to ask that people know what they are doing before casting votes?  This is serious stuff, and it isn’t about the hairdo, the boyish dimples, our feelings about change, the power-pantsuits… this is about the platform, the issues, and the candidate’s past voting record.

When was the last time you heard someone say “I can’t vote for that guy because I looked up his voting record and it both sucked and blew”?  When was the last time you could say that?

Remember, every time we lower the bar, we are setting the new default.  Fini.


Sixteen hours of the last twenty-four.  Staring at a design.  Drinking coffee.  Staring at design.  Waiting for modeling program to catch up.  Grinding molars.  Drinking more coffee.  Go to the bathroom, realize I haven’t gotten out of my chair yet.  You know the drill.

Just got done 25 minutes ago.  No, I’m not done, but I’m done if you know what I mean.  Stick a fork in my ass and turn me over.  I’d drink but I don’t drink anymore.

Here’s what I see when I look at my desk:

My vision as of right now.

Yep.  Double vision.  What’s worse is there’s no apple on my desk.  Seriously though, that is an artist’s impression of what an apple could look like if it were indeed, sitting on my desk.

I suspect it is somehow linked to the blood from my sinuses, a raspy nasty cough, a truly bitchin’ headache, low-grade fever, and foul taste in my mouth.  If it’s still bothering me in a few weeks I’ll get it checked out.  Driving is a cinch – I just close one eye.   Financially I feel more secure – basically all I have to do is look at my money and it practically doubles.  Luckily I can touch type.


Why do newspaper outlets even write obituaries in advance?

It’s pretty damn ghoulish, if you ask me.  Turns out it ends up being foolish too.


Let’s talk about the kid’s new nickname: Lucky.

Disposable diaper breaks fall, saves child’s life

A disposable diaper has saved the life of an 18-month-old boy, breaking his fall from a third-floor apartment window, officials said Thursday.

Caua Felipe Massaneiro survived a 30-foot (10-meter) fall because his diaper snagged on a security spike embedded in the concrete wall around his apartment building in the northeastern Brazilian city of Recife.

The boy dangled from the spike for a moment, then “the diaper opened and the baby fell to the ground, but at a much slower speed,” a police officer said. “The diaper obviously lessened the impact of the fall and saved the baby’s life.”

“It was a miracle,” said the officer who declined to be identified because she was not authorized to speak to the press. “He could also have been killed by one of the spikes.”


It’s already old news but the thing is, it hasn’t been reversed in a damned court yet!

As students get ready to start their classes, the teacher in a small Texas country school, packs a gun together with their lessons. The school is located near the border with Oklahoma and is believed to be the first school to allow weapons in the classroom.

According to the school’s officials, teachers with guns are the only way to protect the school, located 30 minutes from the closest police station.

“How do you stop the angry person without enough sense? It’s not going to take very long for it to be a total massacre,” said Superintendent David Thweatt of the Harrold Independent School District.

This is what I think teachers ought to be allowed to carry (keep one step ahead of the bad guys):

Yes, I know somebody is going to have to write to me and tell me all the reasons why it’s stupid to show that weapon.  Well… don’t.  If you want to have a discussion, I’d love it, but if you’re flexing your brain/ego, go do that with Mensa.

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Abu Dhabi is buying the Chrysler Building.  The time to sell is NOT when the dollar is so freaking low.  This is the perfect time to hand over property and buildings at a furious pace if you don’t think of the big picture.  Forget economics for a second and be honest:  How many Middle East countries/companies do you want owning major real-estate in the US?  Or China for that matter?  Or EU countries?

In other words, any country that has issues with the US.  Notice that I’m saying “countries” – not people of any color/race/creed/religion – because it’s policies of countries that are going to hold sway ultimately.

You could argue that the more they invest here the more incentive to keep the US strong, but I still maintain that we’re giving footholds.

I don’t know… my feelings on this are vague and not well articulated, and I may very well delete this post.  I can’t be the only one feeling uncomfortable, however.

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Ok, one hand, McCain is like eating broken glass, turpentine, and polonium.

But if he does win…

SUSAN SARANDON, who appeared in three films last year and won kudos for her TV movie “Bernard and Doris,” is still not a contented soul. She says if John McCain gets elected, she will move to Italy or Canada. She adds, “It’s a critical time, but I have faith in the American people.”

Didn’t Alec Baldwin swear this same thing? Oh they are such teases.

Also, over at The Cowl we have another pledge to relocate. Good for Jackie Kramer! Waytogo! Don’t care what side of the fence you’re on, if you make statements like this, make good on it or go sit somewhere quietly.

This I predict: If McCain wins, you will see the exact same huge landslide you saw booking for the borders into Canada that you saw when Bush won. Two people, neither of which were pre-declared. If you’re going to open up your mouth with threats/promises, grow some guts and follow through. Although I suspect Canada isn’t excited about getting our malcontent floaters.

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Those of you who know me even a little bit recognize that I’d rather slather my naked body with raw hamburger and jump into a pit of starving hyenas than fly. I’m better than I used to be. Used to take 30mg of valium just to get me on the plane and there’d still be a lot of whining. A lot of higher-than-a-kite whining, but still a distinct amount of it.

You see, this is NOT designed to make me feel good.

Airplanes taking off in the wrong direction at Newark Liberty Int’l airport.

NEWARK (CBS) ― Planes at Newark Liberty International Airport depart southwest have historically turned to the left on take-off, but now a new regulation that went into effect in December allows controllers to tell pilots to take a right turn.

AS CBS 2 HD has learned, the new rule may be causing some confusion.

At Newark Liberty, some travelers are very concerned. The union representing air traffic controllers says several planes this month were sent in the wrong direction on take-off.


Neither was this going to make me feel warmish and fuzzy. WHY do they not neuter the damn things or at least chain them up so they can’t go around creating unwanted planes?

(source: Independent.co.uk)


Other things can happen, too. Like the pilot falling asleep. Like BOTH pilots falling asleep. This is, according to top experts falls under the heading of A Bad Thing.


Another Bad Thing

Airplane sushi… wherever is Itamae-san?

More “Bad Thing” kinds of accidents can be found on this fun blog.


But, as a good friend of mine, EW1(SG) – crazy man that he is – reminded me of The Untouchables this morning, I think I can pull a quote out of context that fits the mood regarding flying when faced with the realities of life/work:

Jim Malone: [after a plan goes wrong] Oh what the hell? You gotta die of something.

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As the last post clearly shows, I’m brain damaged, wiped, zipped, zapped, zonked, and confused.

Cruel Wife would say that nothing in that sentence distinguishes me from any other time.

And I still fit the description – in that much at least, matters are static. Except that I cannot sleep. I want to sleep but am “buzzed” from the lack of sleep. I once experienced this after a 24 hour data collection cycle that was followed by taking nets off of tanks scattered about the countryside and stowing them. By the time we got done with the nets, we (naturally) had to go get breakfast, and lastly around hour 40-something, back to the hotel room to lie, in futility, staring at the ceiling yearning for sleep.


Oh yes. You all remember the I-parked-the-car-on-the-railroad-tracks-because-the-GPS-told-me-to-so-it-isn’t-my-fault guy, right? He rented a car and then… you know.

Well, one wonders how that could happen. The answer is not going to be found here, so keep wondering. This is a tale of woe. A tale of tragedy. A tale of gut-gnawing fear and loathing.

We got off the plane in City X a few nights ago (Sunday) and proceeded to the Hurtz rental agency to acquire transportation suitable for two men and their luggage (had it been two women their luggage would have required a 15ft truck). Ever the bright spark, I insisted on getting one of them fancy newfangled EverLost GPS units. We took advantage of the intuitive interface and wasted 45 minutes in vain trying to enter the destination into the unit. At one point someone suggested that the “Power” button had not yet been tried and this was met with encouraging results. Once we stopped trying to take advantage of the unit, it relented and accepted the data with all the pomp and circumstance of a five-year-old announcing the next bathroom visit.

As we left the rental lot, the NeverLost Unit (NL, or rather “Nell”, which has a nice ring to it)… Nell says “Make a right turn immediately. Make a right turn immediately. Make a right turn immediately.” We chose to disregard that imperative because we were still inside of a concrete-walled garage. I think we did the right thing. See, we didn’t HAVE to do what Nell said. A lot of people think it’s opposable thumbs that separate us from the animals. Others think it is the use of toilet paper. Still others (me) that think it is because we cook other animals with fire. But another blindingly brilliant indicator of our fitness to be separate from animals is that we don’t turn our cars into cement walls like a common Lemuridae or Mustelidae when told to. We’re better than that. We crash into fire hydrants when watching chicks in miniskirts walking down the street.

So, we pull out of the garage being careful to stifle the urge to flaunt the sign that says “Warning, do not back up or STD will result”. (STD = Severe Tire Damage)

A quarter-mile long road and Nell is bellowing directions: <bing bong> Right turn in 1/4 mile, straight ahead. <bing bong> Right turn 1/4 mile, straight ahead. Gee dude, where are we supposed to go now? Uh, how about we turn right up there? Oh, ok. Why I felt a need to verify every directive with my own paper map – continuously rotating it to register it’s orientation with the digital map Nell was showing us – I don’t know. I’m a Luddite – perhaps that influenced me.

<BING BONG> Right turn then turn LEFT after 1/2 mile. <BING BONG> Wild boar roadkill 1/3 mile ahead, ease left. <BING BONG> Wild boar roadkill…

It went on like this for 50 minutes, even to the point of Nell leading us around in little pink lines criss-crossing all over the place in some strange sort of Brownian motion about the actual location of the hotel. I began to wonder if in Nell’s version of the universe, our hotel had somehow succumbed to the much-larger-than-quantum-scale variant of Heisenberg’s Principle.

Another clickabiggered pic…

We knew our exact velocity (awful damned slow, at rest, nearly) and therefore we had NO business even guessing where the hotel actually was, because we didn’t even know where WE were.

Moral of this overlong windy story: Nell will not save you from Heisenberg. You WILL get to your hotel sometime after 1AM in spite of all efforts to the contrary.

You will get to your ACTUAL ROOM sometime after 2:15AM, except the fleabag hotel you were assigned to initially puts you in a room that is the new breeding ground for a radiation-resistant strain of black mold, and you must Make A Scene in order to get a room with a Breathable Atmosphere™ (which will “cost extra”). If the fleabag hotel were a cat, it would have looked like this:

* Fleabag portrayed by Silver d’Cat, shown here imitating a furry sausage

By 2:45AM you are now in just such a higher-class room, permeated with a marginally breathable atmosphere and a lot of bitter feelings. The comforter on the bed is safely thrown in a corner of the room and weighted down under plastic to isolate the parasites crawling upon it, and at some point after 3:15AM, you realize that yes, you have to get up at 5:45AM to get ready for the conference.

Mission Accomplished. The beginning of a great week has… begun.



We’ve been hearing about how the population of polar bears is in grave peril, similar to what is shown in the picture below… Here a bear is suffering from some sort of groin irritation.

(photo taken from Fox News, credited there to Arne Naevra)

But this does not gel with other information, namely that the polar bear population has been increasing throughout the last 40 years (through the horrible global-[insert choice]-ing that is going on as we speak.  (choices are “warm”, “cool”, “invariance”, “fizzle”, etc.)

For fun I include a Spiked article.  There, they say a lot of things that I would say in rebuttal, so it saves me from having to write it.

My only beef with what they wrote is how they used the word “decimate”.  Decimate comes from the Latin “decimatio” which means to remove a tenth.  This was a Roman punishment wherein soldiers who were to be punished faced a removal of one-tenth their number, by death.  It is one of my great pet peeves that people choose to use the word “decimate” when they clearly mean to use the word “obliterate”.

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I’m going to be on business travel and return late Wednesday night. Rather than take a train like I had hoped, I’m… <shudder> … flying. I’d rather strip naked, douse myself in turpentine, and crawl across broken glass than fly, but what are you going to do?

Actually, it’s not flying, it’s not being able to see the pilots or have any control over the plane at all is what wigs me out. Flying is fun if you are with the pilot.

Anyway, no posts until Thursday. Have fun everybody.

Parting shot… Poor HIllary, now it’s the media that’s screwing her over, not the VRWC! Nope, it’s never because you’re just a nasty vile repulsive shrew-hag with the sincerity of a viper, is it, Hillary?



And an important link to new allegations of torture of Iraqi children by US troops.  I can’t believe the damage that we’re doing every second we’re there.

Thanks Bar Slaves!!!

Cheers –


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Update: How ’bout that? Late model Taurus has a tranny fire right next to our building. As expected. they keep pouring water on it and it keeps flaring up. I bugged out when it looked to me like it was getting near the fuel line. Buh-bye.


For those of you, like myself, who have paid off quite a few college loan dollars, this ought to kind of piss you off (you were probably already pissed off every semester when you got slammed for more hidden costs).

I don’t mind paying a decent amount to get a decent education, because they offer a service, accreditation, and they provide an investment into your future.

But there is a certain amount of screwball stuff going on when you can hide behind tax shields yet crank it up to 11 to bring in money. Read about it on Glenn Beck’s commentary here.


I’m hoping he keeps us posted and lets us know how successful his bid at saving his marriage is.

Hubby tries to flog wife on eBay


A JEALOUS husband who suspected his wife of an affair took revenge – by putting her for sale on eBay.

Paul Osborn, 44, kicked out wife Sharon and advertised her on the internet auction site – with bids hitting £500,100.

It offered his “cheating, lying, adulterous slag of a wife” to the highest bidder – and became an internet phenomenon, with users forwarding the link worldwide. But Sharon, 43, denies an affair and cops are now investigating Paul for harassment.

MoT inspector Paul heard rumours in March that Network Rail manager Sharon, his wife of 24 years, was having an affair with a man at work.


Dad-of-two Paul, of Bletchley, Bucks, said: “I started checking her emails and I realised the rumours were true. They had been discussing their sex life together and making plans for the future.

“I was absolutely destroyed. I gathered all her stuff in bags and dumped it in the drive.”

Three weeks ago, Sharon pleaded for Paul to take her back. She moved back in, but two weeks later, Paul was again convinced she was cheating.

Paul said: “In a fit of rage I put the advert on eBay. I later took it off because I realised it wasn’t the right thing to do. I was just so angry.”

Sharon and her colleague made a police complaint against Paul. Neither was available for comment last night. But the unnamed man’s wife said at home in Hemel Hempstead, Herts: “There’s nothing going on. They work in the same office, that’s all.”

Thames Valley Police confirmed it was investigating, saying: “Statements have been taken from two people.

(source: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/article1165282.ece)


As doubleplusundead put it: It better STAY in France. Any combinations of animals and humans meant to look sexy (not saying it does) is just plain wrong. It is so far off base it’s not even wrong. It would have to climb to even get to the level of “wrong”.

PS: I should have been more explicit, Old Iron at The Bar Slaves was the original post -sorry Old Iron – Saw it linked on DPUD’s site and wasn’t diligent enough in attributing it properly.


Really, this lies somewhere on the spectrum from normal to chimerism – glad she’s ok and all – weird things have been known to happen. Not that this isn’t weird enough.

I can see the t-shirts: “I ate my sister and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

If you have a slogan, let’s hear ’em.

9-year-old Girl’s Twin Is Found Inside Her Stomach

Thursday, May 15, 2008

ATHENS, Greece — A 9-year-old girl who went to hospital in central Greece suffering from stomach pains was found to be carrying her embryonic twin, doctors said Thursday.

Doctors at Larissa General Hospital examined the girl and surgically removed a growth they later discovered was an embryo about six centimeters (more than two inches) long.

“They could see on the right side that her belly was swollen, but they couldn’t suspect that this tumor would hide an embryo,” hospital director Iakovos Brouskelis said.

The girl has made a full recovery, he said.

Andreas Markou, head of the hospital’s pediatric department, said the embryo was a formed fetus with a head, hair and eyes, but no brain or umbilical cord.

Markou said cases where one of a set of twins absorbs the other in the womb occurs in one of 500,000 live births.

The girl’s family did not want to be identified, hospital officials said.

(source: http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,355877,00.html)


Join me, why don’t you, in your hatred of NY Times… here.


Giant Beetles – OH MY.

Click to see the fugly thing up closer.

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