Archive for February, 2007
My Super Power
Posted on February 27, 2007
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I watch “Heroes”. Fun show, but so far everyone has really impressive powers. Powers like going nuclear, super strength, liquifying matter, healing, flight, super hearing…
What of the guy whose power is far less impressive? I’m talking about the man whose only power is the spontaneous manifestation of garden vegetables. Specifically radishes. Small red ones only.
Furthermore, he can only manifest a maximum of one kilogram of radishes at a time and he’s then exhausted for four hours.
How would one turn that into a crime fighting skill?
I suppose if you could manifest the radishes directly inside someone’s colon…
Of course, I would just do it as a joke if it weren’t for the four hour refractory period. A kilogram of unexplained radishes in your stool makes for a great practical joke, if not an effective crime fighting strategy.
Puke, Smile, DST and Amalgam
Posted on February 21, 2007
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For those of you in the United States (excepting residents of Arizona or Indiana), be aware that Daylight Savings Time will be starting three weeks earlier this year. Your computer will need to be updated, and some of your applications may need to be patched. My clients’ computer systems need this update, and making the job that much more difficult is the fact that many companies (including Microsoft) waited until the end of last month to produce updates. Rush-rush-rush!
Not that you would care, but if you happen to be running Microsoft Exchange 2000 on your servers, Micro$oft insists upon receiving $4000 from your company in exchange for the necessary updates. Bastards.
So what’s on my mind? Dental amalgam.
This morning my dentist filled a cavity in one of my molars. My mouth now aches a bit, but I did enjoy the hours of moist, Novocaine-fueled droolishness that followed the actual operation. I collected some of the oral effluent in a napkin as a keepsake, and tonight I shall place it reverently upon my bedside table. Do not worry: pictures will not follow.
Drooling in such an obvious and uncontrolled manner, as endearing as I’m almost entirely sure it was, reminded me of one of the most singular abilities exhibited by my baby daughter, Riley. 
Imagine you are talking to a coworker and then, with a careless smile still pasted upon his or her lips, a fountain of vomit pours over their lower lip and runs off their chin in thin, lumpy rivulets which then slowly soak into their shirt and pants. They continue talking, unaffected by this eruption, only occasionally interrupted anew by another escaping mouthful.
My 7-month-old has this ability. She can twinkle her adorable little eyes at you and beam out a 10 megawatt smile all while happily puking out ounce after ounce of partially digested baby formula and mushy vegetables. I don’t know about you, but for me vomiting is a far more traumatic experience.
Normally my regurgitations are accompanied with wrenching pain, involuntary doubling over, a goofy looking fuck-face, and whorking noises so disturbing that my dog hides under the kitchen table and hums nursury rhymes to herself until I bring her down with soft words and a whisky-soaked Milk Bone.
But oh, what I wouldn’t give to be able to quietly and calmly vomit right in the middle of a long, boring business meeting covering Daylight Savings Time patches. I swear, I’d just keep talking and damn the rest of the bastards. If I have to be there, then at least I’ll be entertaining.
Well, good-night, peoples.
And nighty-night, crunchy-dried drool napkin!
What’s Wrong with America
Posted on February 16, 2007
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My brother-in-law lives in a new home smack-dab in the middle of Southeast Michigan’s vast urban sprawl zone. Like most of these subdivisions, it was produced in a hurry by plowing over some handy farm-land and tossing up one or two hundred instances of three or four house designs. This process happens dozens of times a year here-abouts, resulting in boring tracts of cookie-cutter housing just as fun to look at as the rows of soybeans and corn that came before them.
While that’s a bit depressing, more irritating is that all these get hooked up to the regional sewage treatment system which hasn’t been upgraded in decades and is barely capable of processing the volume of shit from 1990, let alone 2007.
Each spring the Clinton river is the proud recipient of tons of the resultant sewage overflow, which oozes its way across the suburban landscape on its way to turning lake St Claire into what has become, effectively, a sort of inedible cheese.
The “park” so proudly and redundantly celebrated in the above picture, is what one gets if you merely refrain from cutting down a small stand of trees in the middle of your wretched housing development.
What is wrong, my friends, is that no one in the chain of decision making which started with “lets make a sign for our park” and ended with “we seem to have two signs for our park” ever stopped to consider the fact that they are stupid fucking idiots who should be presented with the opportunity to void themselves with a fence-post auger. Someone hold them down, I’ll go rent one from the tool center.
Cinderella: Death by Rain Puddle
Posted on February 11, 2007
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My daughter is like many other proto-femme-consumers and has become quite enamored of the Disney “Princesses” franchise. “Disney Princesses” is basically a gatling-gun style of marketing in which Disney lumps all of its princess and princess-like intellectual properties together for maximum impact. As such, “Disney Princesses” represents all that is wrong with the Empire of the Mouse.
Even if I could logically accept that female cartoon characters, illustrated in wildly different art styles, living in geographically disperate locales and completely different eras, might actually be able break the bonds of time space and good taste in order to have tea together and discuss what it means to be ladylike, I still resent the deification of this pagan pantheon of privileged gals. I’m no feminist, but I still think hyper-feminizing the tastes and interests of young girls for purposes of financial gain is unhealthy. I mean, fuck, PINK PINK PINK PINK PINK…..
| Whatever. Samantha also enjoys racing games, wrestling, soccer, mummies, vampires, story books and card games as well. So if she digs on the Disney girls I don’t really see the harm. At least they aren’t slut trainer dolls like Bratz.* But I digress… |
 Bratz Doll |
I have an old Game Boy Advance that I Samantha plays with and we recently purchased a very inexpensive game called “Cinderella: Magical Dreams.” Happily, this resulted in Samantha happily murdering Cinderella over and over again with rain puddles and lambs. Curious? Read on!
The game begins by your child controlling Cinderella as she goes about the daily chores forced upon her by a certain wicked step-mother and step-sisters. Cinderella’s old family estate is quite extensive and is broken up by a series of wooden gates which refuse to open and, despite being only waist-high and made of seemingly normal wood, are completely unscalable. How can Cinderella get back to the house and make breakfast? No problem; as soon as she shoves a wad of hay into the knickering maw of the chestnut gelding penned up in a nearby dilapidated stable, that recalcitrant gate swings open to allow her access to… another gate. Good thing there’s plenty of crumbling stables with hungry horses here, or this barnyard would be completely impassable. And just when you think you’ve left those barns behind, Cinderella finds herself forced to water sunflowers to open gates, or catch falling apples to open gates, or fill her underpants with oatmeal to open gates***. Farm-work sure is tough. Good thing about the gates, the apples might infect the deadly haystacks and cross-pollinate with the sunflowers. Cinderella would probably be allergic to the resulting vegetation and go into anaphylactic shock at the sight of it.
Which brings us to Cinderella’s severe immune deficiency; what’s a quick way to kill a teenage inginue with a minimum of fuss? Have her walk through a rain puddle and touch a chicken–problem solved! Yes, any contact with the adorable chickens, lambs, bunnies, gophers or shallow mud puddles littering the estate can bring on a fatal collapse. Somehow the original movie left this character flaw out, so its a good thing we have this game to fill in the back-story; Cinderella is a far more intrigueing character knowing that she’s likely to be cuted to death.
But my daughter Samantha, being a NORMAL thinking little girl, doesn’t grasp the fact that puddles are deadly, or that cute little bunnies should be avoided at all costs, or that a wooden gate can only be opened by watering flowers in its general vicinity. Oddly enough, she doesn’t seem too upset by her heroine’s messy and frequent deaths.
And so we leave Cinderella trapped behind a foreboding two-foot tall wooden gate, repeatedly assassinated by a cute lamb and a rain puddle. The Game Boy resurrects her over and over again, but the damn fuzzy bunnies and roly-poly gophers will always be waiting for her.
I like this game.
TOPICAL CHEAP HUMOR WARNING!!!
Perhaps Anna Nicole Smith accidentally touched a bunny or brushed up against a gopher. Her symptoms were strikingly similar to Cinderella Syndrome.
* – Go visit the site. Its frickin’ crazy. Even the load statement “please wait, it takes time to look this good” makes me want to shove a French rolling pin up my ass in mental self-defense. How can the people responsible for Bratz go to bed at night?**
** If you answered: on satin sheets covering a red heart-shaped bed with a coin-operated “Magic fingers” machine attached to it, then perhaps you are right.
*** I can’t tell if Cinderella actually wears underpans.
-20 Degrees Celcius
Posted on February 5, 2007
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I’m just glad I had one of those cosmic codpieces Arthbard came up with installed in the fall. (Arthbard is pictured here with his original prototype. Mine is even BIGGER!) At the time, I kinda felt it was an extravagant luxury. Uncomfortably heavy, my genitals were always a bit too warm, and sex became a tricky twelve step process (not including the two or three minutes of actual copulation).
Gouts of mighty steam erupt forth from my nether regions as I walk the dog, enveloping me in a moist and warm–yet cloying–embrace. As the radioactive water vapor settles in my beard and mustache, it immediately frosts over, making me feel a little more like Santa with each step. I stop at a cross-walk, and soon my codpiece reduces the visibility to about 6 feet, preventing motorists from seeing the signal lights. My crotch then assumes its mantle as the bringer of steel death as cars, already slipping and sliding on the icy road, smack into one another with temporarily blissful–and suddenly torturous–abandon.
But its all worth it! My body warms from between my legs outward, and birds alight upon my metallic bulge, seeking to thaw their tiny frozen wings. They chirp happily from within my obscurant cloud, ignoring the screams and creaky crashing as effectively as I and my dog.
Here’s to a LONG winter, baby!
