Saturday, February 11, 2006

A Thought for Every Once in a While

Do you suppose Eskimos ever wake up in the morning and say, "Holy shit, it's cold! Screw this! Hook up the sled; we're going to Florida"?

It's a Third 'Till

Why don't we use thirds with time? We say it's a quarter 'till, or it's half past, but nobody (except maybe for me) uses thirds. And why not?

Screw with people's minds! (That's what they're there for.) Start using thirds. For instance, right now, more or less, it's a third 'till noon. And at a third after four this afternoon, I hope to be working on the fog machine. Ain't language great?

Working On the Fog Machine

Being a student of language, I had an epiphany the other day. I was truly trying to figure out the difference between stuff like past perfect progressive (I had been wanting) and present perfect progressive (I have been wanting), and my favorite, future past perfect progressive (I will have had been wanting). Part of the epiphany was that nobody probably truly gives a shit. But the other part was that all improvements on language are designed to make it more vague. Nobody really wants to be held to anything, which is the beauty of the passive voice (wanting has been). We no longer even know who wants, or who does, or who's making the mistakes.

And then there are metaphors.

In my never ending effort to enrich the English language (i.e., to make it more vague), I'm trying to add a new metaphor: Working on the Fog Machine.

Working on the Fog Machine is a metaphor for working toward those goals that at times become obscured -- you know, dreams. it can also mean trying purposely to obscure your intentions -- you know, to lie. And it can simultaneously mean both, and it usually does. Because what can be more of a lie than our dreams? But then again, it can also mean to get stoned out of your mind.

Friday, February 10, 2006

Wow, Talk About Your Irony...

I'm not convinced that Bin Laden is truly that intelligent. But then again, I'm not convinced he's really that dumb either. OK, just ignore that last sentence. It makes sense, but it's really not worth the effort to figure out.

So I was sitting at the house the other night playing with my fog machine and it occurred to me that if our (we God-fearing Americans) -- if our freedom was really what the al-Quida guys truly hated...if that is truly why they attacked It only took 19 guys and 4 airplanes to do it. We did the rest. Either Osama got lucky or we really are that dumb.

And while we're on the subject, wouldn't it really suck if your name was Al Kayda? Forget ever getting on the plane. How would you like to be behind him at the airport? It would almost be as bad as being behind Benjamin Laddon.

Bureaucracy at its Best

This is too good not to post. A colleague of mine here at my day job missed a department meeting. So the boss called her into her office to chide her for missing a meeting. Of course, during that meeting with the boss for missing a meeting she was missing another meeting...

Double Barrel

The band Double Barrel is playing down at Shadow Rock Park in Forsythe. There not actually playing in the park, but the hotel (I think) that's right at the entrance. I'm determined to find out where, exactly. They're the house band there.

My good friend Darcy is on drums (or whatever he wants to be). He assures me they're getting better every week and are now playing both kinds of music: Country and Western. Just kidding. Darcy assures my (by the divine grace of Jesus) that they are now playing rock as well as country.

It should be a good time if you're looking for something to do this (and assumably every) Friday and Saturday night. Look at it this way: Even if they suck, they serve liquor. They can only improve.

Actually, though, Darcy is one helluva musician, so it should be a good time. See ya there!

The Senator Leonard K. Bullfinch Newsletter #10

Domestic Spying

Our government is in the midst of a conundrum (two Catholic female clerics playing percussion instruments simultaneously). There are undeniable forces of evil out there in the world who are actively seeking to destroy our way of life, and us as well. It is imperative that we use every tool possible to prevent these forces of evil from taking increasingly more American lives and undermining our way of life -- the freedom and liberty -- that so many Americans have so willingly laid down their lives to preserve.

Yet, obtaining the information that is vital in protecting our way of life can undermine the very freedom, the very way of life, that we’re trying to protect. I’m talking about the so-called domestic spying that has come to the forefront of national debate.

The President claims that he has the right, yea, the obligation, to keep us safe. Therefore he claims that he can legally spy on those citizens whom he deems a threat. Others, however, such as the ACLU, the entire Democratic party, anybody who’s thought about it in the least, and other damned liberals, claim that it is an illegal intrusion into our private lives. And, I must grudgingly admit, they seem to have a point.

There is, however, a simple solution. It is simply a case of semantics. We need do nothing more than change the name. It’s not spying; it’s monitoring. We are simply keeping a watchful eye on all of our citizens. Monitoring is no different than taking the census (which is perfectly, Constitutionally legal). But instead of doing it once every ten years, we do it constantly -- everywhere at every time to everybody.

If we tell you we’re going to do it, if everybody knows we’re doing it, and if we’re doing to everybody all the time, how can it be spying? Problem solved, and our country’s a safer place because of it.

Monitoring doesn’t mean that people are going to install cameras in your bedrooms or start listening in on your every conversation. The cameras are already there, and we’re already listening. But you have nothing to you?

Thank you,

The Honorable Senator Leonard K. Bullfinch

Thursday, February 09, 2006

The Ballad of Bobby

Bobby was bitchin'.
He was the coolest kid in the Junior High;
all the teachers hated him,
and he just drove the girls nuts,
doin' stuff like throwin' spit wads
and making sounds like farts
(and even farting) in class.
He'd snap all the girls' bra straps
and let everybody know which girls weren't wearing bras,
especially if he thought they should have been.
Once he even threw Old Mister Doughty's briefcase out the window,
which was really cool,
'cause it broke when it hit the ground
and stuff just went everywhere.
And he'd sit outside the principal's office
smilin' like he just didn't care.

And at the end of the year
everybody wrote in Bobby's yearbook:
"You're the coolest dude I know.
Don't ever change."
So Bobby didn't.

And while everybody else went on to the High School,
Bobby was still sitting outside the principal's office
for throwing spit wads in math.
And while everybody else
was going steady and stuff like that,
Bobby was still yelling down the hall
that Mary Elizabeth had a tampon in her purse.
And all the new kids at the Junior High
really thought Bobby was cool,
and when the end of the year came around again
they all wrote in his yearbook:
"You're one of the coolest dudes I know.
Don't ever change."

One day Bobby's parents got tired of waiting
for Bobby to get out of Junior High,
so they retired and moved to Florida,
which was really cool
'cause they left Bobby the house
and no one to tell him what to do.
Bobby threw the most bitchin' parties.
We'd all shake our pop up
and just squirt it all over the place
and never have to worry about havin' to clean it up or anything.
Then we'd call up all the girls
and talk dirty and stuff like that.
Once Bobby even had a real Playboy.

Pretty soon, though, it got old,
even for Bobby.

Even thought all the kids still wrote in his yearbook:
"You're a really cool dude.
Don't ever change."
it just wasn't as much fun anymore.

Fewer and fewer people came to his parties.
It wasn't that they weren't fun...
Well, it would've been more fun
if Bobby still had a phone.
And there just wasn't any place
you could really sit without getting all sticky.
And the bathrooms were really gross
since there was no way Bobby was ever going to clean them.

And fewer and fewer people laughed
when Bobby made Old Lady Greer cry
when he called her an old bitch
right to her face.

And when Darla Lawson
turned around right in the middle of the hall
and slapped the living shit outta Bobby
for grabbing at her bra strap,
we all still laughed,
only we weren't laughing with Bobby anymore.
Bobby still acted cool,
and he walked away like he'd planned the whole thing.

At the end of the year
everybody still signed his yearbook,
but it was all stuff like:
"Have a great summer!" or
"See ya next year."
And no one -- No one at all -- wrote:
"You're a cool dude,
don't ever change."

So Bobby decided that maybe,
just maybe, it was time to change.

Bobby got his hair cut
and put on some clean clothes.
Then he went downtown
and got a job as a junior partner in a law firm,
where he did really well
and just made tons of money.

After he had his house cleaned
he'd have everybody from the office
over for some espresso,
except on those evenings
when he'd stay in with his finacée,
who was this fine looking babe
who used to be a model for Playboy.

Once a local business magazine
even did a feature story on Bobby,
where they said he was the greatest thing to happen to business
since file folders.
And they offered him only one small piece of advice,
and that was to never change.