Kalamazoo - Go Be Fabulous Somewhere Else

Today I got word that my old stomping ground of Kalamazoo, Michigan has managed to get a petition put forth to repeal measures that made it illegal to discriminate against homosexuals for housing and employment purposes. Yes, in a time of unprecedented change and social progress, Kalamazoo has a group of concerned citizens who are actively fighting the powers that be, powers that tried to prevent them from discriminating against others. Way to fight the man, keeping you down, so you can, you know, keep those others down.

Personally, I don't think they're going far enough. For example, why not take the natural next step and put together a petition to end women's suffrage? Surely the good people of Kalamazoo are concerned with suffraging women, right? Besides, something has to be done. I worked with all sorts of women in Kalamazoo, and not one ever offered to bring me a cup of coffee or make me a pie. You can do better than that, Kalamazoo.



The real shame here is that during these hard economic times, there's not a realistic opportunity to take the really big steps. You know, fund putting in the duplicate drinking fountains and restrooms. You know, for them. You guys could truly be playing this old school if not for the whole "we've got like two big companies in town, and they're mostly skilled at layoffs" thing.

What the...aw Hell. I just blew another sarcasm fuse. See what you've gone and made me do? I hope you're happy with yourself. Now I can't be sarcastic again until I get to the hardware store. I guess I'll just have to take comfort first in that I got out, and second that when someone passed around a petition asking people in your town if they were ignorant bigots, only a couple thousand people were willing to go on record in agreement.

Now, Kalamazoo, you go and think about what you've done.

The Birthers Got Nothin' On Me

Once again, despite my best efforts, I have allowed information about politics to enter my brain. I would blame my wife and her habit of putting on MSNBC when we go to bed, but that doesn't work because a) she's not forcing me to listen to it and b)my wife has no natural faults, and blaming her for something suggests otherwise. Regardless of how this came to pass, I'm forced to face yet another mountain of ignorance, this time in the form of "birthers".

Birthers, for those whose wives do not control the remote at bedtime, are the group who insist that Barack Obama is not qualified to be President of the USA because he is not a natural born citizen. Some claim they'll be quiet when they see his birth certificate (the link is his Certificate of Live Birth, which is apparently something else). Others claim even that won't change things, because his father was not a citizen, so that disqualifies him.

I'm not going to sit here and pick these people apart for the same reason that I don't pick on my daughter for believing in fairies: the sensible among us know better, and we're the majority. Rather, I'm kind of wondering at how something like this gains traction. We've discussed individual yahoos before, but really, what does it take for these loons to unite into a full blown...I'm not sure what the proper term is for a group of yahoos. A flock? A bushel? An asylum? Yes, that sounds right. What does it take for a weird idea to amass a full blown asylum of yahoos to argue for it?

Things like this always resurface my temptation to start a completely unfounded rumor here on DLOG, just to see how far I could get it. Originally I was going to go for something in the movie industry. Speculation on Batman villains is always a hot topic (Neil Patrick Harris as the Riddler - you heard it here first). Now, however, I'm thinking of something more nefarious. I mean, at this point these people seem willing to believe anything, so I could really go to town, and as long as it get's picked up by the right yahoo, we could be making history here.

Tomorrow on DLOG: I'm pretty sure Barack Obama has a tattoo on his left butt cheek of Stalin sitting on a throne with his feet on the back of Ronald Reagan dressed in a gimp suit with a ball-gag in his mouth, and I refuse to believe otherwise until he gives an address that involves him mooning the entire press corps.

Alternate Definition: An Amputee Lap Dance

As I was walking out of our local grocery store, my eye was drawn to the big bulletin board where people post ads and business cards and whatnot. Right in the middle was an ad for stump grinding. I recalled my father-in-law saying something about having someone out to grind a stump once, and was reminded that I have no idea what the heck that means.

I know that the idea is that a tree stump is to be removed, but what an odd term. A quick Googling reveals that stump grinding involves someone taking a big, scary machine that basically chews up the stump into wood shavings. Apparently, like most household chores that involve big, scary machines, it's best to hire a professional. Fair enough. It was true when I tried to build my own giant robot, so I'll assume it's true for this too.



I have to say thought that, like most things I learn the truth about, I'm a little disappointed. I had assumed that stump grinding involved dancing in an overtly sensual manner while rubbing up against the stump. I figured once you did it long enough, the stump would simply become uncomfortable to the point where it just went away.

That's how it always worked with the girls in high school anyways.

Or I Could Write A Script That Adds The Current Zombie Alert Level

When I got my iPhone, it came with an automatic email signaure. For those of you that aren't tied to a computer that you carry around and pretend it's a phone, people who send emails from their phone set these up. As I recall, all it said was something like "Sent from my iPhone", which struck me as kind of obnoxious. It was like I was sending an advertisement with every message. "This email brought to you by the good people at Apple and their amazing iPhone technology."

Blech.

I looked around a bit, and found that this is actually standard fare. I think the idea is to let people know that you're sending the email from your mobile device in an effort to get some slack on bad spelling or brevity. Some of them are quite explicit about this, going all "please excuse any misspellings or terseness", which I frankly find to be a bit silly. I mean, you went out and bought the thing because it has a full keyboard and sends email, and then immediately use it as an excuse to be lazy. My personal feeling is that if you're sending a message, you can take the time to check it for spelling. If you don't have that kind of time, perhaps you should put the phone down and focus on driving your damned car instead.

I suppose that there are times when you need to send out a quick message, but those aren't really the kind of situations that allow for a canned response, right? Maybe just in case I should set up an automatic signature on my phone after all. That way, if I do find myself in one of these situations, I'll be ready. What do you think of this:

Please excuse any errors in my English or spelling, but if you see such errors, there's a pretty good chance I'm actually bound and gagged and managed to type out this message with my nose while holding my iPhone between my knees. You might consider calling the police, especially if I misuse "your" and "you're", which even a failed English major knows is completely unacceptable and frankly frustrates me to the point where just reading it makes me want to punch a kitten.

You know, I think I'm probably just better off without one after all.

Because Really, With a New Baby What Else Are People Going To Spend Money On

Today, as of roughly 12:19 AM, I became an uncle. Now, I just came off of a big birthday weekend, what with the Princess turning seven yesterday and having not one but two parties, so I'm in a birthday mindset. The thing is, I realized that they make all kinds of birthday card except one. So once again, it's up to me to state the obvious, million-dollar idea, and then count on the kindness of others (not to mention the ever present threat of litigation) to keep it safe: actual birth day cards.



Why not cards for the actual day of your birth? Why wait for a year to pass when you could start celebrating right freaking now? So, here are a few ideas I've been tossing around for actual birth day cards:

[Front] We welcome you to the world, a being of complete purity and innocence who can not even concieve of judgment
[Inside] Which is good, because just between us your mom and dad aren't going to know what the Hell they're doing for a while.

[Front] We welcome a new American to the land where you can be anything you want to be.
[Inside] Now when can you start? We've got a lot of old people to feed.

[Front] Happy birthday, little baby. I can't wait to teach you all sorts of games...
[Inside] Which you need, because that last hour of labor? Worst game of peek-a-boo ever.

[Front] Happy birthday! Enjoy this time when all your needs will be taken care of without question.
[Inside] Seriously, when you're grown up you have to pay extra if you want a diaper change, and even then they'll give you looks.

[Front] I will have the image of the first time I saw your sweet face forever burned into my memory.
[Inside] Now if only it didn't involve your sweet face pushing through your mom's vagoo.

Remember folks, you see one of these in a Hallmark, you let me know and we'll share the settlement.

I'm Suprised Deniro Isn't In There

Okay, I'm going to give you a list of actors and actresses, and you tell me what they all have in common. Ready?

Tracy Morgon, comedian, actor and Saturday Night Live Alumni.

Sam Rockwell, an actor know for being featured in popular independant films.

Steve Buscemi, a genius known for playing the nervous and paranoid in such films as Reservoir Dogs, The Big Lebowski, and Fargo.

Penelope Cruz, an actress that, having claimed critical acclaim in her home of Spain followed suit here in the USA.

Jon Favreau, actor, screenwriter and director whose credits include writing Swingers and directing one of last year's biggest hit, Iron Man

Nicolas Cage, a household name whose nearly thirty year career has seen him in some of the biggest movies produced.

Did you guess that they are all award winners? Well, that's absolutely true I suppose. Maybe you went with them all being big players in their particular scene, which I guess I would also have to agree with. Neither of these is what I'm thinking of, however.

No, what I was thinking of is that they are all playing rodents in G-Force, Disney's latest theatrical romp, that revolves around a troupe of secret agent guinea pigs, give or take a robotic fly or a mole. That's pretty much what I know about it, having managed to ignore most of the ads up until yesterday when the Disney Channel was running one of their long commercials for it. That was when I realized what kind of cast they had nabbed for themselves.



Now I can't say I'm surprised that once again Disney has opted for name recognition over professional voice actors. Disappointed maybe, but not surprised. No, what's throwing me here is that combining talking rodents with this particular group just seems so...disparate. I mean, I admit I don't see a lot of movies, and I tend to stick to the best reviewed stuff, so maybe they have fallen further than I knew, but these are people I associate with works of skill, things that made me laugh or cry or think, or at the very least entertained the Hell out of me. And Tracy Morgan.

Now they're doing rodent voices for Disney.

Now I'm not hating on Disney. You all know I just came back from a rocking vacation that they had a big part in. Between that and the joy they bring my kids, I'm pretty happy with them as a company, and would not ever do anything to cast aspersions on them. Plus I really like Jonas, and I'm not ashamed to say so. (Okay, I'm a little ashamed, but ^#%$ it, it's funny.) But how they pulled together these people is a mystery to me.

Maybe they payed them all a ton of money. Maybe they've all had kids now and they're trying to win favor this way. Maybe someone at Disney has compromising photos of them all at an Oscar party (fingers crossed). I just don't know. Whatever it is, the casting has had the odd effect of taking a movie that I had absolutely no interest in seeing whatsoever, and making me curious. You don't suppose...I mean, that can't be their intention, can it?

Either way, I think I'll wait for the sequel, G-Force 2: Kicking It In Gere.

Yo Quiero...Paz

I dedicate today's blog to the passing of a great American talent. The recent rash of celebrity deaths (not to be mistaken with the recent rash of celebrity rashes) can be overwhelming, and some of the lesser players may not get the press of a Walter Cronkite of Michael Jackson. This would be a true injustice in this case, as the death involved one of my personal favorite television personalities.

I speak, of course, of Gidget, the Taco Bell chihuahua.



Gidget effected me in a way that no commercial spokesdog had done before. She was a Mexican chihuahua, I am part Mexican. She wanted Taco Bell, I wanted Taco Bell. She spoke to chubby guys who were clearly stoned out of their gourds, I was a chubby guy who...wanted Taco Bell.

It was like she was talking just to me.

Let us not forget that in addition to her work for the Bell, Gidget took on other work in an effort to help her Hollywood friends. Oh sure, she put together an ad for Godzilla, who didn't really need the help, but she also stepped forward and came out of retirement when she heard her friend the Geiko gecko was going to replaced by a platypus (apparently testing showed that the platypus would appeal to cross markets, covering mammal lovers, duck lovers, and people like me who just find them delightfully ridiculous). Don't even get me started about how she carried Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blond 2. I hope the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences hangs its collective head in shame for that little oversight.



And so it was with a heavy heart that I donned my Yo Quiero Taco Bell shirt this morning. I wear it for the little soul that gave so much of herself to bring joy to others. I can only hope that she has found peace in a land of squeaky toys and all the burritos she can eat.



Vaya con Dios, perrita con mucho talento. Vaya con Dios.

I Don't Want The Web, I Just Want Your Half

Some of you may have noticed the new link to the left where I'm asking you to vote for my entry in a writing contest over at Telltale Games. If you're anything like me, you're pausing to look at the back of your hands right now, fingers together with thumbs outstretched to determine which forms an "L" and is therefore your left. That's fine...we'll wait. Got it? Okay then, carrying on.

So, I threw the link up in an effort to push myself into the new Monkey Island game, what with me having a natural stake in it and all (this blog, for those who don't know, gets its name from the original Secret of Monkey Island). Unfortunately, I realized that while this blog gets decent traffic, that is not going to be enough to tip the scales in my favor. What's worse is that there is a chance that this contest might not be decided on the actual quality of the entry, but rather who can influence the most people to go vote for them through some other fealty.

I started ticking through my own resources. I posted the link twice to Facebook, which will get me a subset of the sixty or so people I'm connected to there (so three). I put the link over on Halforum, where I know I picked up a couple of hits from the people I haven't managed to annoy yet. Still, this seems decidedly lacking in numbers. I mean, if I'm ever going to successfully overthrow the worlds leaders and force everyone to recognize me as their supreme lord, you'd think I'd be better at attracting hordes. Seriously, I couldn't even start a cult with these numbers, and I'm way more pretty and charismatic that L. Ron Hubbard was.



So now, I have to figure out how to increase my online presence. Twitter is probably out, as being brief isn't exactly my strong suit. I already have the RSS feed at the bottom of the blog which you've all subscribed to lest you miss one of these delightful and fascinating posts. I've included a bevy of "Share This" links so you can all share your favorite posts (or my favorite posts) with friends via Facebook, Digg, and now even Twitter, links that you're all using, right? Right?

Come one people, what does it say about the state of the world if we can't unite a simple legion of followers through snarky remarks and occasional bathroom humor?

I Motion That You STFU

I'm officially back to not wanting to see anything having to do with politics thanks to this whole Sotomayor business. As I was listening to another Republican bring up the "wise Latina" bit for the fiftieth time (I suspect that the plan was to annoy her until she decided it wasn't worth it), I realized once again that this whole confirmation process that was being televised had absolutely nothing to do with whether or not she would be confirmed. In fact, it had nothing to do with her at all. It was just another opportunity for a handful of Republicans to make sure that they spouted the correct talking points so they could be seen on Fox News fighting the good fight.

Let's not single out the Republicans either. I heard an interview on NPR the other day with Nancy Pelosi where the interviewer was asking about the whole "did the CIA mislead you" thing. Pelosi, who had no qualms about outright saying that they did previously, not only dodged the question, but got outright rude about it, making it perfectly clear that she was there intending to discuss...well frankly, I didn't give a damn by then. What was clear was that she wanted to, again, cover a handful of talking points that her side had agreed on and then get out of there.

I guess what's bothering me is that you can't get away with that in the private sector. I'm trying to imagine team meeting where my manager asks how my project is going, and instead of answering, I point out that while we could discuss my current work, I'm really more concerned about the overall health of our team and think we should start planning a fitness program for us. If she tried to get the meeting back on topic, I may very well accuse her of not caring about our well being in addition to being prejudiced against fat people, not because I actually believe she's prejudiced against fat people (although in all fairness, I've never asked), but because later when she's trying to accuse me of being non-productive, I can bring it up and try to spin it as her just not liking me due to lack of fitness, which is of course totally unfair as I'm a programmer and our version of physically fit is "not immediately mistaken for a walrus".

Goo goo g'joob.

Anyway, I'm guessing that such a derailment would get me a talking to, and for good reason. In the real world, if you're not there to get something done (or occasionally digress the situation for a momentary snicker or two, something I will happily admit to doing), you're generally invited to get the Hell out. For some reason, we don't expect the same from many of our public servants, who seem perfectly happy using whatever platform they see fit to discuss affirmative action or health care or Argentinian soul mates or whatever damned thing that comes to mind. If these people really need an outlet for spouting this stuff off, they should all get blogs and keep their work time to actual work.

Well, that or all public hearing and conferences should be held in internet forums, where such derailment is expected and can be swiftly dealt with with an appropriate image.

R2's Got Nards?

We have someone in my pod of cubicles who places small toys randomly around the room. This may sound strange, but I find it vaguely comforting, as it means I'm not the only one with toys at the office. Anyway, last week, one of the tiny ducks on someone's wall picked up a companion in the form of an R4-E1 unit.



Someone referred to it as R2, and while I tried my best to suppress it, my inner nerd spilled forth. I pointed out that it couldn't be an R2 unit because the top would be round like R2-D2's (it turns out that this isn't entirely true, thus adding to my immense body of useless knowledge). Compounding the error, it bothered me that I couldn't tell them what the actual model was, so I applied my Google Fu which led to Wookiepedia and the entry for the R4-E1 Unit. While perusing the entry and sharing my new found knowledge with my cubemates, I came across the following words, which stopped me dead: "Masculine Programming".

Whaaaaaa?

Apparently, astromech droids were assigned genders, which makes no sense to me. I mean I can see C-3PO, who actually had a humanoid shape and a voice, needing a gender assigned. It would probably be quite confusing if someone tacked on a pair of tin jubblies and then gave him a voice like Barry White. Identity issues would abound (not to mention what that would have done to Anakin's already troubled formative years).

The astromech droids, on the other hand, have as much sexual presence as a mini-fridge, which is to say none (feel free to keep your disagreements on this point to yourselves). Nevertheless, it turns out that they all had a gender programming, including our beloved R2-D2. Even stranger is that when I inquired if my cohorts had ever considered R2 as a male or a female, one replied that he had always thought of R2 as a guy, and oddly enough, I found I did too.

So now I'm trying to figure out if I think of R2-D2 as a guy because I'm a guy projecting myself onto it, or if it's behaviors were somehow male. I don't recall any belching or R2 watching sports, so that doesn't help. I guess I should ask some women what they thought to see if that changes things. Feel free to comment with your own observations.

Either way, one this is for sure: now I'm going to feel a little dirty every time I see R2 interface with another machine.

Why Do All My Life Plans Sound Like Sitcom Premises?

There are times where I grow desperate with my situation, times when I feel the need to change something drastic. Given the fact that I'm not the "abandon your family to wander the Earth, meet people and have adventures like Caine from Kung Fu" type, this leaves me with pondering a career change. Specifically, I'm thinking about starting my own business.

Now I know a lot of people start their own business only to fail spectacularly, but I think I've got a winning angle. First, I've considered what I like to do most. Realizing that no one is going to pay me to play video games and drink, I'm forced to look at my second option, which is writing. Now I could cover the edges of this here blog with ads and wait until this thing reaches enough mass to cover my expenses, but I seem to pick up an average of one reader every couple of months, and frankly I don't have that kind of time, so we're talking freelance writer. I've won contests for writing blurbs before - maybe I could make it work as a career.

Of course it would take time for people to realize my mad wordsmithing skills, and this is where my genius kicks in. See, I would combine the business to use my current skills and my new goal to offer multiple services. So I would have a freelance writer/web development business. The only issue with that is that it seems off-kilter somehow with the two services.

And that's why you add "Detective Agency".

So there it is. I'll start scoping out locations for the new Dangerously Low On Grog Freelance Writing/Web Development Detective Agency immediately as well as scoping out a long term business plan to show the people who give out loans for this sort of thing. They'll probably want details on my qualifications, particularly for the detective agency part, but I figure if I add the caveat that the detective agency will only take cases involving electricity monsters, ghosts, or space kooks then I'll be fine.



Take into account that I can work a white sweater and red scarf like nobody's business, and it's clear that this is gold baby. Solid freakin' gold.

Facebookers, Sometimes No Comment Is Best

Today we'll cover a tip from our "learning from the mistakes of others" department with regards to online shenanigans. Let us say, hypothetically, that you use Facebook. Let us say that someone that you are related to uses Facebook as well, for example your teenage child.

Now, it's an established fact that teenagers have an amazing way of doing dumb things. It's not their fault. They're young. They don't know better. I myself was a teenager once, and I did enough dumb things to fill volumes. I would tell you about them, but I was also once an unsuccessful college student, so I don't remember most of them anymore.

Anyway, the difference between the dumb things I did when I was a teenager and the dumb things teenagers do now is that the teenagers today compound the levels of dumb by allowing themselves to be photographed while doing these dumb things. This becomes worse when these bits of evidence invariably find their way onto the internet, where they are shared by God knows how many people. This may seem tragic, but the fact is that there are a lot of pictures of people doing dumb things on the internet, so the odds are whatever your teenager is doing in their picture is probably overshadowed by some celebrity flashing her goods while kicking a homeless person and will thus be largely ignored.

Which brings us back to Facebook, and our lesson for the day. These (purely theoretical) pictures may very well find their way onto the Facebook pages of your child's gooby little friends, whereby you may stumble upon them. Once the initial rage/shock/embarrassment/gagging has ceased, you will feel inclined to say something to both the child and probably the gooby little friend who put the picture up in the first place. Your immediate urge may very well be to comment on the photo itself, thus letting everyone who sees it how you feel about it.

Do not do this.

Here's why I say that: when you put a comment on a photo, all of your Facebook friends get a little notification that you have commented on it, along with the photo itself. As such, all of us who would ordinarily not have seen whatever debauchery your child is engaged in will be directly notified of it. Oh sure, we'll get the disapproving note as well, letting us know how you feel about it, but really, wouldn't it have been better to send a threatening/guilt ridden/litigating letter directly to the offending parties?

Of course, those who disagree might like my idea for a new regular feature here: One Degree of Fail - Friends of Friends Embarrassing Themselves on the Internet.

Let's See Chris Pine Top That

I'm a man who has the ability to take great pleasure in things that are truly awful. Bad music. Bad television. Bad movies. Taco Bell. There's just something wonderful about coming across something so absolutely terrible that it enters into the realm of camp. It was with this mentality that I took great delight in entering two little words into my Pandora application this morning.

William. Shatner.

Okay, if you don't know what Pandora is, it's a program that lets you put in the name of a song or an artist. Then it builds a radio station around the entered data, using the Music Genome Project to match other songs and artists that are similar to what you've selected. When a song plays, you say whether you approve of it or not, and it fine tunes the station. It's a wonderful way to find new music, and the first 40 hours a month are free (and only a dollar for the rest of the month if you want more). It's awesome.

Anyway, I knew that Bill Shatner, one of my personal heroes for obvious reasons, had produced some variety of music, but I had only heard a couple of songs a few years ago. It was spoken word poetry set to music, and Henry Rollins was involved, so naturally I was delighted. Thus, I decided to pursue what else there could be.

Oh what I found.

Try to imagine Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, only entirely spoken over background singers. That's...well it's awful. Wonderfully, delightfully awful. Then Pandora throws in a Rufus Wainright song, or maybe something by Tom Jones. Something to cleanse the aural palate before I'm subjected to his work from The Tranformed Man, where he performs a Shakespeare monologue and then follows it with a cover of some song, again entirely spoken in his stilted, Captain Kirk cadence.

The thing is, and it's really hard to accept at times, he's completely serious. Unlike his later work, there's no indication that he has any idea of how ridiculous this all is, no tongue-in-cheek wink at the camera to let you know he understands. It makes it so, so sweet.

Don't believe me? Here, try this. The sound is a second or two off, but it's so worth it.



I'm almost afraid to watch Leonard Nimoy's Balland of Bilbo Baggins now lest I implode in a moment of perfect, tasteless delight.

I'm Calling Everyone To See Who Answers Fastest, And You Totally Won

So, the date of my becoming an uncle fast approaches. In fact, a doctor apparently predicted the there is a significant chance that the little lady will escape her current living quarters within the week. Having two children of my own, I know what this means for my brother-in-law, the father to be. He's sitting by the phone all day, jumping when it rings in anticipation of this being the call.

Naturally, it's everything I can do not to abuse this situation.

I don't recall ever having a reason to call him directly before. Oh sure, I could call him up with helpful advice, but I've kind of covered what he needs right now, so that's out. Still, I suddenly have all of these questions that I feel he is uniquely qualified to answer, and I don't think it's unreasonable to call and ask, right?

"Hi Nick. I was trying to remember - how many strings are there on a banjo? Huh. How about an upright base? I see. Okay, thanks."

"Hi Nick, it's me again. I forgot to ask before if we could order a cd of your band from somewhere yet."

"Sorry to interrupt again, but I figured you're an accountant so you'd know this one. Do I look for dividend information on my balance sheet or my statement of retained earnings?"

"Hey Nick. Boy, you sure are answering the phone quickly today. Anyway, I was hoping you could help me settle a debate online. Who would you say was the most talented of the Monkees?"



Fortunately for him, I am an upright individual who would not prey on another person's anxiety for my own amusement. No, I choose the more noble path of simply waiting with him, ready to lend any kind of support I can. Better to be helpful and take the high road, avoiding any kind of louche games that, while potentially amusing, might be hard on already strained nerves.

Well, that and I still really don't like talking on the phone.

Someone Got Their Crazy All Over My Internet Again

My God, I love the internet. Every time I feel like I've seen enough crazy, someone throws up a link, embeds a video or sends me a picture that just blows my mind. Today's example is the following video (careful at work, I think she say the h-word in there somewhere):



People never cease to amaze me. Now, I don't want to belittle this woman's concerns. Clearly this is well researched postulation being done on her part. Attention needs to be paid to the scourge of rainbows that threaten to overtake our nations lawns caused by some creepy chemical (and certainly not by the fact that sprinkler technology has probably changed the way the actual water sprays). If allowed to continue unabated, the costs of cleaning up after all the leprechauns alone could be staggering (the little buggers just poop anywhere you know). Still, I have a couple of points that might make this a more effective presentation.

First, let's try to stick with one or two theories. The best conspiracy theorists are pretty specific, which is what makes them compelling. It's why we ignore the random "I was probed by aliens" stories, but will listen to the guy who claimed aliens were implanting their fetuses into the anuses of celebrities (I ain't Googling it at work, but I've heard the guy talk, and it's breathtaking). I don't want to hear rambling about water supplies or stuff seeping up from the ground or airborne contaminants causing this issue. Give me something concrete. Give me Government vans mysteriously showing up right after the rainbows and then driving off, with you catching a glimpse of the captured unicorn whose flatulence was causing said rainbows. Now you have my attention.

Second, let's work on our composition skills people. I know looks aren't everything, and I may be accused of being superficial here, but I find that your point is easier to take seriously without the sounds of police sirens constantly blaring somewhere beyond your broke-ass fence. For that matter, perhaps it's not the best idea to buffer your eloquently explained concerns with text that has not been run through a spellchecker. Unless of course it is truly the Government's thrist for energy that concerns you here. In that case, carry on. Fight the good fight.

But if you really want to know who's behind the increased rainbows, I'd start by questioning the lovers, the dreamers, and felt amphibians with ping pong ball eyes.

And Don't Even Think About Planting a Toilet Paper Tree

Today, I saw that someone had posted a question regarding "urban chickens" online, and immediately I was fascinated. Naturally, I was picturing bands of chickens with low-hanging pants and doo-rags listening to rap music too loud. It turns out that instead they were talking about people who live in regular houses with regular yards keeping chickens.

Having never heard of such a thing I was fascinated. Why anyone would choose to keep a chicken on the premises is beyond me. Chickens, as a species, lack the cuteness I require from a pet, so that can't be it. It seems unlikely that you would raise a bunch of chickens just to eat them, as it doesn't seem like the time, money and effort to raise one healthy bird would pay off. That just leaves eggs, which I find come conveniently pre-packaged at the supermarket, remarkably free from any evidence that they once sat in close proximity to a chicken's exhaust portal.

Naturally, I turned to the internet for more information. I found that it's at least popular enough to have a web site dedicated to it, but that never impresses me much, as there are whole web sites dedicated to stopping alien abductions through homemade thought-screening caps (yikes). According to them, the advantaged are fresh eggs, fresh chicken (if killing is legal where you live), fresh chicken poop (I think they're stretching a bit calling that a plus), and insect control. Right.

This, to me anyway, feels like a really bad idea. If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a strong proponent of utilizing the expertise of others to get things done. I mean, if fresh chicken and eggs are something that really matter to you, why not support a local farmer, who more than likely knows way more about raising chickens than you do? Then you're still supporting the "buy natural/buy local" mantra that seems so prevalent right now, all without subjecting your neighbors to chicken dookie and clucking.

More importantly, if this did catch on, where does it lead. What about cows for fresh milk and beef? Pigs for pork and entertainment (I'm sorry, but pigs are inherently funny)? Goats for Greek cheeses to place upon salads with cucumbers and tomatoes? I'm not keen on the idea of looking across my neighbors lawns and seeing the set of Green Acres looking back at me.

Besides, when the kids get to the age where their creepy little friends think it's funny to egg houses, I want the little bastards to at least have to pay for the eggs.

Who Knew The Apocalypse Would Rock?

Starting with a news brief, Oscar Mayer, retired chairman of the good people who turn animals into tube steaks, has passed away at the age of 95. Apparently, he was the third Oscar Mayer in the family, being the grandson of the man who founded it. Details on his burial services have yet to be announced, although it is assumed that he will be cremated just as soon as they can find a hot dog bun big enough to hold him.

In more frightening news, British scientists claim to have created human sperm from stem cells. The work (currently being questioned by other, less mad scientists) is supposedly meant to treat infertile males, but one wonders if they have considered the far reaching consequences that success may bring. Between the facts that men are not technically needed for noise checking and bug killing and technology already simulated and, according to some, surpassed what a man can do when it comes to the female pleasuring (link NSFW - funny, but NSFW), one questions if heading towards potential parthogenesis is a wise move.

While on the subject of girl power, a Russian woman has broken her own world record for having the world's strongest vagina. The athlete apparently was able to lift 14 kilograms (over 30 pounds) using only the muscles in her hoo-hah. As described in the article (mostly SFW, but sanity isn't guaranteed), she does this by using a pair of balls. I'm sure there's a joke there somewhere, but I fear that I just went into innuendo overload.

And finally, with much pomp and circumstance (but mostly pomp), Michael Jackson's body was laid to rest yesterday. It was just as much of a media circus as one might expect from such a thing. I'm not going to make fun, because the fact is I grew up when the man became a legend, and while I avoided all the media as much as possible, I'm somehow affected by it. Besides, I view it as little more than a temporary setback, leading to one of the greatest comeback tours in history.



Cue Vincent Price laughing.

"Tongue Secured" Would Work Well Too

Last night my lovely wife filled out a set of invitations for the Princess's birthday party later this month. Being young and full of exuberance, my daughter requested permission to put on stamps and lick the envelopes shut. I watched as she proceeded to shut them, her enthusiasm draining slightly each time, and I realized that there is absolutely no dignified way to lick an envelope closed.

Let us compare this to the olden days, when an envelope was properly sealed with a wax stamp. You write out some important letter, and then take a moment to melt a puddle of wax and firmly press into it your personal seal. It's so elegant and official.



For a long time now, we have instead used the standard gummed labels. This required that after you finished typing out your carefully thought out letter, you neatly folded it, slipped it into an envelope, and proceeded to slobber over the back of that envelope until the gummed portion (which invariably tastes like poison) was sufficiently covered in saliva to seal the envelope. You press shut the envelope, excess spittle oozing out of the freshly sealed edge, then do the same to the stamp and send the thing off.

Stop and consider for one moment how seriously icky this is. It's particularly rough for the poor schmoes at the post office who spend their days surrounded by envelopes sealed with the spit of strangers. It would be like me coming to work only to discover that while I was away, everyone in the office had licked my keyboard. (On a side note, this is one of the many fine reasons I don't clean the Cheeto dust off my keyboard. Its absence would serve as an immediate warning that my keyboard may have undergone a mass licking, requiring repeated washings with some variety of industrial strength cleaner. That's a little pro-tip for you non-computer geeks out there.)

Fortunately for those of us who are forced to consider such things, they now have these lovely self-adhesive envelopes. Between that and self adhesive stamp, I may now partake of the postal system in a relatively spit-free manner. This is a great relief to me as the one who typically sends out the bills and whatnot. As far as the cases such as invitations where they still rely on the licking-type envelopes, I'm thinking I may get a rubber stamp made to put on the back of the envelope.

"Lovingly sealed with my own bodily fluids", or something like that will do nicely I think.

Painted With Cow's Feet, or Hoof Arted

One of my co-workers today was imparting upon me a family tale whereby one of his young relatives updated the time-honored classic "He who smelt it dealt it" with the more colloquial "The smeller is the feller". While a notable addition to the many variations that currently exist, I take issue with the rule itself. In fact, upon consideration, I think it's almost completely invalid.

Presumably, the rule is based on the classic gaseous misdirect, whereby the farter, waiting until the correct moment, casts the blame of the noxious fumes filling the area on a sitter nearby. While this does undoubtedly occur, I think it's really relegated to the area of sport among brothers, where the attempt is done not so much to hide guilt as to embarrass the accused.

Upon consideration, there are only two scenarios where a standard emission would potentially be blamed on another, and I really believe that in both cases it's the exception rather than the rule, the first case being the audible escapee. I'll give you an example. I heard an oft repeated tale in the circle of friends my parents sometimes hung around with that told of a man who, during a wedding, made the grave error of allowing a particularly noisy fart escape during a quiet moment on the ceremony. Thinking quickly, he promptly turned to his wife sitting next to him and accusingly said her name, as if appalled. Now, this is obviously a variation of the rule, and probably done for comedic purposes (that, or he had a really comfy couch at home), but really, how many would be so bold to take such actions?

The second, and more common, occurrence is the release of a traditional SBD in a crowded area. My favorite example of this is the theater or lecture hall, where people are crowded into rows of chairs. It is in this case, a case more closely related to the smelt-it-dealt-it adage in question, where the whole thing falls apart. An experienced practitioner of such deviltry will quickly point out that the correct reaction upon realizing that the rush of hot wind was indeed full of foul vapors is no reaction at all. Rather than accusing someone, it is best to wait it out. If you're lucky, the heaviness of the funk will bring the whole mess to ground level before it can spread to those around you. If the fallout does, in fact, begin to cause gasps, cries, eye watering, etc. in those around you, it is best to not be the first to react, instead reacting second or even third, thus maintaining the illusion that the wind is breaking from another direction.

This is all of course simply conjecture, as I have no first hand (cheek?) experience in such things myself. If I were to, however, I would recommend owning up to your own stink. Do not attempt to feign ignorance of what has occurred, which can lead to a habitual accusing and even shameful incidents such as my sister attempting the whole "Who farted?" routine when she and I were the only parties present (schmuck). Rather, be proud of the miracle that is your body, and the fact that it has the power to draw breath, think thoughts, create works, and clear a thirty-foot diameter circle in a crowded theater.

Just don't do it around me, 'kay?

And Can Someone Tell Superman That the Underwear Go On the Inside?

At one point I had been overthinking the bizarre circumstances surrounding superhero creation, but I had glossed over the other thing that stops me from taking most superhero comics seriously. Then someone posted this article, and I was brutally reminded that even if I could stomach the idea that every single thing that happens results in a superpower, what happens next is worse. I mean, you have just discovered that you have evolved into something more than your fellow men, and whether you decide to use this power for good or evil, one thing is almost certain:

You're going shopping for tights.



Seriously, this is where a whole world of WTF opens up to me. Why the hell would anyone outside of a circus choose to don brightly colored spandex? I mean, you could wear anything, right? So where do the tights come in? If I decided to fight crime or become an arch villain, and I felt the need for a costume to hide my identity, I'm thinking I'd go with something ninja-like. More Mortal Kombat and less Peter Pan.

So then I start wondering why they started with these things in the first place. I mean, it can't be the intimidation factor. Well, I suppose if your power is having a huge package it could, but I'm pretty sure when Thor refers to his hammer, he's being literal. I can never buy the whole "well, the tight clothing means they don't get caught up in things" line, because half of them pin on a cape.

And then it hits me: the people who write these things think that deep down, everyone wants to dress this way. They think that it's only the intimidation of peer pressure and social morays that keeps me from showing up for a day of programming wearing a purple spandex jumpsuit with gold boots and a cape is the fact that, without superpowers, I would most likely get my ass kicked. Otherwise, I'd triumphantly walk in and plunk my fabulous self down for eight hours of coding, tapping my gold boots to MC Frontalot on my iPhone. This is, of course, ridiculous.

It's what keeps me from dressing like Guybrush Threepwood.

Super Mario Superstar Will Probably Rock Though

You know, no one is happier than me that video games have become mainstream entertainment now. I'm far from one of the annoying purists who claim that games are too easy now trying to appeal to a mass audience (play the hard ones - on hard if you really want to) or that too many throwaway games are made just for cash (an issue I continue to cleverly avoid by playing only older, thoroughly reviewed games), but once in a while, I see something that makes me a little afraid.

Today, that something is Grease: the Video Game.



No, it's not a simulator where you butter pans. (You thought I was going to make a dirty joke there didn't you? Cheeky monkeys.) Instead, someone thinks that there is a portion of the market who doesn't want to pretend that they are a hero fighting villainous hordes or a puzzle solving pirate. No, they think these people really long to pretend that they are John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John, before he got all hooked on Scientology and she helped nearly single-handedly destroy the movie musical (not to mention Gene Kelley's pristine career) with a steaming pile of Xanadu, although I will admit that at least Xanadu gave us good songs, whereas Scientology seems to mostly result in conspiracy theories.

Anyway, I have to admit I'm a little thrown by the idea of taking up a Wii-mote and microphone and belting out "You're The One That I Want". It's not fear of public performance (although that particular tune, like so many others, is reserved for moments when I'm alone in my car). Rather, I'm concerned that this could become a trend, the birth of genre if you will. People will forgo the latest first person shooter for Webber's Phantom of the Opera. Piles of adventure games will collect dust while shelves reserved for Les Miserables lay empty, homes now full of the lamenting wails of downtrodden Frenchies, most likely off key.

Even more horrifying, this is for the Wii, a system that prides itself on it's wholesome, fun-for-the-whole-family image. That's all well and good but let's not forget that not all musicals are concerned with those same values. When we get to the point where someone put's together Hair: the Video Game Experience, I'm thinking that they're going to lose their E for Everyone rating, not to mention the suffering that will occur when someone walks in on Grandma singing The "Age of Aquarius" in the buff.

And thus concludes another successful "Dangerously Low On Grog Makes You Picture Something You Can Never Un-Picture" Wednesday.