There is a petrol station near my home, and I’ve been meaning to tell you about it for awhile now.
    As a vehicle refueling facility it is, at best, average. The price per gallon is always within a penny or two of the neighboring Sunoco station, and it is slightly less convenient for me because it is not on the direct path out of my subdivision, like the therefore superior and aforementioned Sunoco.

    The odd thing about this gas station is that it has a symbiotic and intimate relationship with a Dawn Donuts bakery. You can purchase gasoline and fried/baked goods during the same visit and have a reasonable expectation that both will produce exhaust which falls within government mandates for clean air emmissions. I personally like the blueberry cake donuts, but will consider consumption of a custard donut if the occasion warrants.

    Deep within me is a hunger for blueberry flavored confections, and this place holds the key to unlocking satiation. More on this later.

    I lived at my home in Utica for no less than three years before setting foot in this nearby epicenter of petroleum and lipid proteins. But some weeks ago there was a gay wedding held in lovely Windsor, Ontario, and my family was on the move fairly early in our efforts to arrive in time to watch the fine ladies join in happy matrimony. And if you thought that sentence was long, you should’ve sat through the gay Reverend’s sermon. Blah, blah, blah. Hours before listening to his incessant droning about the struggles of the ‘community,’ I decided that I needed stimulants to get my day rolling along.

    We stopped and I stepped out, stroding into the establishment intending to purchase coffee.
    A slightly built young Pakistani man, no more than five and a half feet tall, stood behind the counter serving. There was a man who arrived before me being served, and I took station behind him, calmly resting my hands at my sides.

    We were not, however, alone in this place. Elderly men sat in chairs and on benches, reading newspapers and arguing about politics, cars, fishing and fashion*. Most were what I would call craggy or weathered. As I waited for my coffee, I saw the smiling Pakistani man wave to one of the old men, who knodded. A woman I assume to be the Pakistani’s wife stepped out from behind the counter and poured coffee for the geezer. The little old man knodded his thanks and went back to his French foreign legion debate**.

    For the next minute or two I observed this young Pakistani couple care for their cadre of elderly American white men as they bickered, joked and snored***.

    Finally I was allowed to request my donuts and coffee. I greedily salivated at the blueberry cake donuts remanded into my custody with which I would soon fill the gaping, blueberry cake shaped hole in my soul. (and you thought I forgot about the blueberry key) I also received into my custody a half-liter of coffee and made my escape.

    Days later I visited again, and noted the same geriatric gang, the same Pakistani fellow and his same wife. I watched the couple dote over the doddering men and reflected upon it.

    So I bring you this story for your amusement.
    A gas station with a bakery in it has become a gathering spot for elderly men who wish to engage in banter while being tended to by a couple of Pakistani shop keepers.

    How this couple, born so far away and in such a different culture, came to care for these grumpy old white men? They seem genuinely affectionate and gentle in their handling of them. From what little I know of their culture it is not likely they are intending to fatten the old men and eat them.

    Hmmm….

*They were pretty much just bitching about what the kids wear these days. Why, in their day young people wore a thick coat of elastic polyvinyl sprayed onto them by government assigned nozzle captains. And they had to be transported to school for MILES in vaccuum tubes surrounded by snow and ice.

***The snoring was produced by one bald fellow who had made his coat into a pillow and propped himself up in a vacant corner.

    Aye, my friends, I’ve been gone for days. Did you miss me?
    A project went long, and my weekend included working from 8:00am Saturday morning until 3:00am Sunday morning, and then Monday from 8:00am until 11:45pm. Tuesday was my recuperative (after working 8am-8pm, that is) and today is my first back-to-normal day. I suppose if I were a doctor or in the porno industry I wouldn’t mind so much. Sure, I’d need lubricant, but even chaffed I’d feel more fulfilled than I do today.
    I’m tired, folks, and I wasn’t in a funny mood. I have a bunch of ideas and outlines, so watch this spot. I’ll catch up with you all, and I’ll leave off-topic comments.
    Check out http://www27.brinkster.com/safetinspector for a taste of the BluntCog navigator engine. I’ll be providing a side-bar ready navigator for everyone Real Soon Now.

Click HERE to go and see.

    It happens from time to time; the effort it takes to avoid work just doesn’t completely pay off and, pigeonholed by those who expect nothing less from me, I end up fulfilling my commitments. I have far too much work this weekend to do much beyond this brief post.

    So I come to you, pockets filled with empty fruit snack wrappers and holy socks upon my feet, and I confess I’ve spoilt my wife by buying her no less than a new Macintosh iBook for Valentine’s day. I type upon it now, and while it is the least expensive permutation of Apple computer technology available to the American consumer (outside the iPod series of digital narcotics), it still represents a qualitative leap above my own laptop–especially in terms of raw style.

    I manipulated my parents into buying my baby sister one of these some months ago (Vicky is a student at University) and Heather admired it since. Her existing machine, a circa 1997 Dell Latitude laptop with a 6GB hard drive and a 266Mhz processor, was beginning to make alarming rattles at an alarming rate. I was alarmed!

    But I’ve made it right, and take some amount of pleasure observing my wife balancing this rounded, white, glowing machine upon her slightly distended and occupied tummy.

    Tuesday proceeds into Wednesday.
    Time passes us all, Doctor… But perhaps it passes you slower than it does myself.

    After all, I have higher wind resistance, on account of being a fat and lazy American. More surface area, more resistance. I think you can show me the math, but I will remain content with the evidence presented by the increased temperature of my windward posterior.
    This increased drag accounts for my being 5 hours behind you on a good day. I think, perhaps, that now time is passing you slower than I.
    Is it Monday still, where you are?

    Monday was a good day for me, although not an exemplary day. Those don’t happen as often as they used to now that mortality bears down upon my ass. Even the best events are tempered with the knowledge that there are finite opportunities to reprise my successes.

    I remember hearing of my Grandfather in his last days, consuming stacks of books while he was able. Where did all that knowledge go? All that information he consumed from the library trips his soon-to-be widow made? Of what use was it to him?

    Hush, I know the answer as well as anyone. It kept the gears turning. It served as a distraction, amusement, and very likely succor.

    When I arrived at his bedside he was still breathing, snoring even. He was closing up shop, however. Liquidating his stock in consciousness and, ultimately, the furnaces of life darkened as I sat next to him listening to inappropriately cheerful music–Spike Jones and his City Slickers, if you must know. I had some half-baked idea that he might hear it and be cheered by its sounds.

    Time stopped that morning for him, but it accelerated incrementally for me.

    My daughter has risen to nearly four feet in as many years, and her blazing soul lights up my existence. It is still five hours earlier here than where you are, but it is 29 years earlier where she is, upstairs and sleeping with her chosen plush mascot.

    You know, we read a story book version of a Disney bastardization of a true story tonight. Pocahontas; an interesting and important true tale reduced by the colossal Mouse to caricatured depictions of beautiful people and anthropomorphic animals.
    No, she wasn’t a gorgeous 17 year old, 6 foot tall woman in a Wilma Flintstone costume, she was little more than a 13 year old child. Probably fat-bottomed.
    No, he wasn’t a gorgeous 20-something, 6 foot tall in pantaloons… OK, I’ll go as far as the pantaloons. But he was hardly heroic, and no warrior. Disney, was it necessary to rewrite an interesting truth into a ridiculously contrived fiction? What reason do you have for taking such liberties?

    We read the story and she concentrated on the page and on my voice, she listened to the words intently, and she crowded her warm little form against my side. Sam had heard this same story two days ago. And, although it was hardly worth the effort of doing so, she had memorized enough of the book on that night to correct me several times as I plowed through it this evening.
    ”No, Dad. It’s POWDER, not POWER.”
    ”Oh. You’re right. It says powder.”
    Later, I tucked her in, marveling again at the length and strength of her not-so-little arms as we hugged. As I retreat down the hall to join my Wife downstairs, Samantha calls out at the top of her lungs,
    ”Have a GOOD DAY!!”
    But the day is already over, Sam. And, for Doctor Maroon it will be starting anew in just a scant few hours. The conveyor belt of occupation is drawing unwelcome work towards me, and if I have any hope of assembling my future I will need my rest.
    It is 4:47am for you, but it is 13 minutes shy of midnight for me.

Welcome to Wednesday.

	I’m not going to waste your time with a joke about Dick Cheney’s recent hunting trip.     I’m sure the fellow is embarrassed enough.
I would just like to take this opportunity to point out to Vice President Cheney that it is possible for player two to control the ducks during gameplay to enhance the challenge of this fine hunting pastime.

Eddie the Eagle says, click the pictures!
…he also says to read my Olypic Extravaganza below!

    I love the winter Olympics. Its like the summer Olympics, but with far more specialized gear. In fact, there’s so much strange equipment already that its not such a stretch to think that if they ever allow bionics in sports, they’ll show up in the winter Olympics first.
    Not only because we’re already pretty darn close with some of the super-specialized accoutrements of the modern winter Olympian, but also because the necessary servomotors will require more cooling systems than are practical during summer events. I’d hate to see a sprinter with a radiator coil strapped on his back…wait, no I wouldn’t. That would be sweet!*

The Opening Ceremony
    So we’re in Italy this time around. The opening ceremonies started off suitably Italian, with an operatic chorus singing songs about pasta and whatnot, and later there was a moment when the fat guy sang**.
    The cow theme observed was a touch on the strange side, but who am I to judge? We have cherry festivals in Michigan, after all. Cherries! That’s right: no milk, no beef, and instead of a complicated musculoskeletal structure each marble sized fruit merely has a measly pit. Compared to the delirious fun you experience eviscerating a fine heifer, slicing open a cherry is a bit of a let-down.***
    No, the cow thing was fine with me. The homoerotic dudes hanging from the Olympic rings? Also fine. They seemed like a nice bunch of gentlemen. So what was the problem, SafeT?

    The problem is the bizarre choice the Italians made of accompanying the Olympic procession with English language pop songs. Devo’s Whip It, Depeche Mode’s Just Can’t Get Enough, Earth Wind and Fire’s Let’s Groove, all made appearances. The most bizarre choice was “Moonlight Shadow,” a modern dance number with lyrics about a woman with a boyfriend who is “shot six times by a man on the run”. Hardly the sort of thing an antsy world community wants to think about while watching their prime genetic stock parade past the cameras.

The Events:
    Now, I love speed skating. If I ever become a professional athlete**** this is the sport I would want to fail at. Speed skaters are cool looking, fast, and so graceful they look just as awesome in slow-mo as they do live. Further, the women in this sport look so luscious that I have to adjust my knickers several times before the first commercial break hits… heck, even the men look good enough to eat, and I’m as straight as the shortest distance between two points.

    On the other hand, I hate snow boarding. It’s far too hip for me. Baggy clothes, doo-rags, expensive and goofy goggles, unusual facial and cranial hair arrangements, tattoos, and a permanent smirk all seem to be prerequisites for participation in this sport.
    I just want to take a bent-pipe and wipe that attitude off their frontal lobes, and that level of hatred isn’t a part of my personality I’m prepared to come to grips with quite yet. So I choose not to watch these kids screwing around with their freakishly oversized mono-ski strapped to their feet.

    As mentioned by Shoopska, at first blush the wierdest event is probably the Biathlon. In this event you ski for awhile, shoot some stuff, and then ski some more. But I figure this one at least has some historical roots and was probably originally based on hunting.
    In times of yore the ancient Norwegian peasant would ski until he found a set of bright orange targets, shoot them, and then bring them home to eat with his grateful family. Nowadays it is merely a sport, since the subsistence component has been removed by the availability of prepackaged orange targets at the local supermarket.

    To me, the flume events are the ones that make the least sense. Events like the Skeleton, the Luge, and all the variations on Bobsleds*****. At what point in history was this an essential component of proving your athletic prowess?
    ”To prove you’re a man in this village, sit in or on this box balanced on some razor sharp blades and ride like a bat out of hell through a frosted sewer pipe!” (?!?) If there were more snow in the UK I’d blame the Scotts. Seems like the kind of crap they get off on. Also really boring to watch. Unless they had gun turrets on the sleds, of course. Then it would be sweet.

The Coverage
    One of the many reasons its great to live in the Detroit area is that we get to watch Canadian television if we are so inclined to partake of it. And when it comes to the Olympics, I am always inclined.
    NBC (the American network with the Olympic rights this time around) tends to spin EVERYTHING during their coverage. Some of their offences include showing events out of order, pretending they are broadcasting live when they are most certainly not, repeatedly indulging in soft-focus, heart-warming mini biographies (SFHWM), and hitting us with more commercials in an hour than I’m allowed by my doctors to view within a week; whats worse is that to make room for the SFHWM and the commercials most of the events are reduced to bare highlight reels.
    CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Company), on the other hand, is far more to the point. I don’t know if its intentional or budgetary, but there are hardly any SFHWMs and the announcers engage in hardly any opinion or vitriol. The sports are usually shown in full form; hardly ever the scant highlights that the NBC coverage boasts. They are a bit dull, but that comes from having a peaceful, parliamentary form of government, socialized medicine, and strict regulations on liquor sales******.

In Conclusion
I’m going to bed.

* I’m such a dork I’d love to see them with gun turrets and smoke screens
** Either because its just an urban myth, or because it truly requires a female singer to achieve the conclusive effect, this singing fat guy did not signal the point at which the ceremony was “over.”
*** It was long believed that aliens vivisect cows for scientific reasons. Bull! They just get off on it. Now you know.
**** Realistically, at the age of 33 the only sports left to me are bowling, tiddly winks and bingo.
***** …Or bobsleigh if you’re a worthless foreigner
****** In Canada you can’t buy beer at the liquor store, nor liquor at the beer store. Somehow this Makes Sense.

Click the category selector above and you will see the I’ve added the Dog Priest series as a separate selectable.
Oh, and I added the final edits to Dog Priest Three.
HUGE props to Sarah for getting ahold of a picture of an actual DOG Priest.
Hope you enjoyed teh Dog Priest series!

    110 degree heat bakes the young men of the 275th. The assigned lookouts peer out into the swirling sands while those who are off-duty try their best to sleep through the howling wind.
    Preston McKay, a 19 year old soldier serving his first tour of duty is one of those lookouts today, and he is the one who first catches sight of it. He calls out the alarm and, as several of his fellows refocus their attention towards his northerly position, he yells,
    ”Steeple! Steeple!”
    Some of the men relax as they recognize the 15 foot tall, 10 foot wide, shining steel object rolling out of the impenetrable dust storm and rumbling to a halt just outside of camp; these men realize there is no threat here.
    Others seem to grow uneasy, as they reflect upon the late night tent-borne masturbation they’ve engaged in and the impure thoughts leading up to said behavior.
    McKay smiles as he gazes up at the top of the newly arrived object where a recognizable and becrossed steeple projects from the top of the tank-like machine, complete with radar arm swinging in circles–keeping an eye out for approaching non-believers.
    The caterpillar treads creak and pop as they slowly cool; soon the arched doorways, complete with painted on ‘stained glass’, automatically swing open to reveal the cramped interior. Inside are three short rows of pews and a chromed pulpit. Gazing calmly at the watching soldiers from behind the pulpit is a cylindrical metal form with a speaker grille, a pair of digital cameras and a colorful set of vestments decals pasted up and down its entire length.
    A voice, grating and distorted, emanates from inside and invites, “WELCOME… MY CHILDREN. ENTER AND BE SAVED.”

    Originally intended as a mobile, automated hospital, the Droid Of God, which the men have taken to calling the DOG priest, was introduced to the Iraqi battlefield late in the fall of 2005 as part of a secret deployment of faith-friendly armored vehicles.
    Lead designer, Steven Floydmasterson, explains:
    ”My group designed the chassis, motivator units, defenses and the restraining bolts,” he relates with pride, but then continues with a sad shake of his head, “there was this other group what was supposed to make the robotic medic parts. Nothing went right for them. Anesthetic dosages were wrong and euthanized a set of capuchin monkeys, restraints were too tight and occasionally strangled the test pigs, and the scalpel subsystem had a devil of a time judging depth.” Steve grows quiet and contemplative for a moment. He clears his throat, shakes his head and continues on more confidently,
    ”That’s when the Republican party military liaison got wind of the project and repurposed it.”

    Harvard graduate and spiritual advocate in military affairs James StJohn had been looking for a safe way to deliver the word of God to the men in the battlefield for months. As the insurgency escalated, Iraq became less and less safe for men of the cloth* to travel the country. Couple that with the constant shortage of qualified chaplains in the armed forces and James saw a spiritual disaster mounting on the horizon.
    ”Until we launched the DOG Priest project, hundreds–perhaps thousands–of soldiers died on the battlefield in an impure state and certainly went straight to Satan’s muscular, flaming arms in hell. That’s no way for an American to die.” StJohn’s eyes grow wide and he finishes in a reverent whisper, “I’m convinced God caused the medical portion of the Mobile Medivac project to fail. He personally delivered this amazing automated platform for delivering his Word to me… and the American soldier.”

    As the men file into the mobile church of the DOG Priest, they are required to press their thumbs on an access plate and state their name, rank, religious affiliation and political party. Today’s congregation adds up to a grand total of five men, including our lookout friend Preston McKay, who is a Presbyterian.
    Once everyone is seated, complicated algorithms craft a sermon structure tailored to the common religious denominators amongst the attending parishioners. It would not do, for instance, to serve tea and biscuits after the service unless there were Episcopalians present. Likewise, any baptism requests by Lutherans would not require complete immersion in water, so the dunk tank remains empty this morning. Any attendee claiming a non-Christian identity would automatically trigger the use of one of a half dozen conversion routines, and Catholics would be offered the opportunity to enter a small sensory deprivation chamber to give confession.
    Today, however, the DOG Priest finds itself faced with not-quite half a dozen protestant and evangelical Christians, none of which require that DOG talk in tongues or refrain from singing. Soon, the doors swing shut. For a moment the only sound is the muted howling of the dust storm as it strokes the little mechanized sanctuary. An audible click is heard from the speakers on the PriestHead cylinder and LCD panels on the backs of the pews light up to display the customized program for today’s service.
    ”WILL THE.. CONGREGATION… PLEASE STAND….”
    And so they do.
    ”GOOD… MORNING. I AM… PASTOR** KJ549-X311.”
    ”PLEASE FOLLOW ALONG WITH THE PROGRAMS…. IN FRONT… OF YOU.”
    ”MAY… GOD BE WITH YOU.”
    The young men look down at their displays and dutifully intone, “…and also with you.”
    DOG Priest continues, “Ruh! Ruh! RrrrrrrAWR!!!”
    ”Baruff ruff, wrowr bark! Ruff ruff bo-woof, yap yap yap!”
    ”Grrrrrr….”
    ”Rowf rowf rowf rowf rowf rwof!”
    ”Browoof rowoof roww roww.”
    ”Yip! **whimper**”
    The men, as one, chant, “amen….”
    Later, communion is served; the small dried communion wafers are dispensed into vending chutes in front of each warrior. Instructions are intoned directing the men to carry their wafer with them and file past a small drinking fountain mounted to the front of the pulpit. Watered down wine begins to flow and each fellow chews his wafer, washes it down with the weakened vino and bows his head to accept the blessing of the DOG Priest. As an added feature, DOG blesses each man in the manner traditional to his home church.
    Tears of relief and joy are seen to flow down the cheeks of two of the intrepid and faithful young men as they return to their seats to pray penitently.
    In just a few hours all the faithful among the men in this remote camp have had their time with the blessed droid and the D.O.G. Priest Armored Vehicle rumbles back into action, rolling across this godless desert towards its next Godly destination.
    So what’s next for James StJohn and the D.O.G. project? James is quite excited about the future of automated spirituality.
    ”We’ve got some other countries interested in getting their hands on these technologies. Israel, for instance, is interested as long as we can scrape together enough robots per unit to form a proper quorum. We’re already in talks with the original Mobile Medic unit to produce an automated Briss module.”
    James thumps his desk in excitement, “Man, its a good time to be alive, brother!”

* Presumably women of the cloth are also unsafe. But women priests, as abominations before God, are pretty much doomed anyway.
** With a different mix of church-goers DOG Priest might introduce himself as “reverend KJ549-X311″ or “father KJ549-X311″ or even “facilitator”.

My Apologies:
    27AnonymousInches is no more. He was supposed to have been a statement about the ridiculousness of taking offense at anonymous commenters. Well, the joke is done and I screwed the pooch with that one.

    I had intended that character to be SOOO exaggerated and buffoonish that no one would take it seriously. His insults were to be so generically offensive and over-the-top as to eliminate their ability to actually be taken personally. I liberally planted hints as to my identity throughout his comments and 27anonymousinches often insulted himself more effectively than he insulted others (he once copped to having dreams about paying to be sodomized, let slip his involuntary celibacy, inadvertently referenced his squalid living arrangements, etc).

    It seems that this worked with some (Sarah, Dr M, Geezer) but not with others.

    I was going for Kaufmanesque, but really didn’t have the skill to pull it off.

    I don’t want to engender any animosity and really intended no harm. I feel bad that I got people so genuinely angry and so I have killed 27anonymous inches.

    You can read about his sad death at his blog, anonymous27.
And with that apology, I swear I’ll get back to being the fabulously mediocre humorist, SafeTinspector, and will sin no more*.

* Except for gluttony, coveting my neighbor’s property, and non-procreative lust