Sunday, April 30, 2006

I Ponder The Meaning of Life

Tomorrow, or today depending on when you're blowing off work to read this gibberish, is my birthday. Please, hold the applause. All I did was show up, and knowing me, I put up a hell of a fight to stay where I was for "five more minutes, just five more minutes." I am turning 37, which for the first time sort of bothers me. Granted there was that time in college when my roommate became so depressed about turning 20 that it started to affect all of the rest of us who were about to leave our teenage years behind, but then someone pointed out that he really had peaked at 18 and had nothing else to look forward to except a series of fat chicks at trcuk stops before the inevitable speedball overdose in a trailer park sometime around 32. We all felt better, although I don't think that revelation did much for my roommate. Who shall remain nameless at this point as I've lost touch with him and for all I know he may be reading this.

No, 37 bothers me because for the first time 40 is not an abstract concept. 40 isn't here yet either, but it's looking at houses in the neighborhood and I can tell that the fucker is going to be moving in soon. May even move into my house, put it's feet up and decide to stay awhile. Turning 30 didn't bother me at all. Possibly because my wife took me to a strip bar the night before, (Yes, Syd, I will tell that story later, but right now I'm feeling philisophical), and then before I knew it 30 had come and gone leaving me with a hangover, an empty wallet and a wife with a new hobby. But this birthday, with a 7 in it, I found vaguely irritating.

As I lay in bed this morning, (Please, try to contain the excitement. Oh, never mind, those were just crickets), I started to go down the road my roommate was on at the age of 19. I started to wonder where I was going to be in the future, what my past meant, what if anything I had accomplished, and who in the future would care. After several loooong seconds of this, I came to a startling revelation.

My college roommate was a whiny-ass pussy, and I'll be goddamaned if I go down that road. Yes, I will turn 37 tomorrow. Yes, it is quite close to 40, and someday soon I will turn 40 as well. It beats the crap out of the alternative, that I do know. In the meantime, I can look back at the first 37 years of the limpy epoch and determine the following:

1) No one should ever, under any circumstances, use the phrase "the limpy epoch". I apologize for doing so, and promise to do it agin in this entry.

2) I have two remarkably bright, well-adjusted and most importantly healthy children. They adore me and I adore them. That alone is reason enough for anyone, not just whiny-ass 36 year olds, to look back on their lives and know that they did OK. If your kids love you becuase they want to, I don't care what else you do or don't do, you're alright.

3) I married out of my league and after 11 years it remains a stable, committed marriage with a lot of crazy antics around every corner. Of course, if homosexuals are ever allowed to wed, our relationship will crumble like a house of cards, because my love for my wife is so shallow that the marrigae of two people of the same sex who I will never meet will rend it to the very core.

4) I consider myself an average looking guy, and after 37 years, I will never be mistaken for Tom Cruise. By the same token, I will never be mistaken for Tom Cruise. That guy's an idiot.

5) I have a career that, for reasons I couldn't even begin to explain, is doing very well. In fact, because of that career, my name is posted on at least three occasions in books that gather appellate law for future generations to determine what the law is for various issues. In short, even aside from my children my name will live on as long as Connecticut follows its past, becuase I have taken part in precedent setting arguments before our higher courts. And on at least one occasion my name isn't listed in the "Loser" category.

6) I have competed on and won at Jeopardy. The next day I completed that little circle of life by losing badly. And yeah, Alex Trebek is just as arrogant in person. No, I am not Ken Jennings. No, I will not loan you money.

7) I have a small group of friends from whom I can ask anything, up to and including "help me hide the evidence", and it would be done, no questions asked. I would respond in kind if the opposite were the case.

8) All in all, in 37 years I have done OK. I seriously doubt anyone's going to be building statues to my memory in the future, but I'm OK with that. I seem to have passed the important tests, and sometimes just knowing that is enough.

So I'm not going to worry about 37. Or any other age. I hope none of you do either. I'm just going to keep plodding along and doing what I do. Hopefully for a long while yet to come.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Last Night

So I think I missed American Idol last night. Thereby running my streak of missing it to "Howevermanyshowsthey'vebradcastsinceitstarted" and counting. Serioulsy, I've never seen more than five minutes of it, and that's only to see if Paula Abdul is really hitting the wall as hard as some people tell me she is. On that note, in my opinion they may be understating things.

No last night I pahked my cah in Hahvahd Squayuh and went to a concert. Real music people. By a real band. With instruments. That they play. On the stage. where they really sing. As you may have noticed, I love The Supersuckers. And last night they played at a club called The Middle East Downstairs in Cambridge, MA. I'm plugging The Supersuckers, the club is so-so. The 'suckers started with the lead singer coming out solo with a bass guitar and launching into "cocaine blues", then doing a few more songs on his own. By the fourth song the lead guitarist wandered out and started playing along. The two of them did about three more songs, then the other two guys came out and the rock 'n roll portion of the evening got started. And it's just that, rock 'n roll. Hell for leather, whiskey-fueled, (although actually the singer kept guzzling from a wine bottle; first time I'd seen that) tattooed rock n' roll. Blew the roof off the place. I dragged my brother along. He's the fifth different person I've taken, and everyone is now a confirmed fan of the band. So if The Supersuckers come to your neighborhood, (and I link to them on the "links" section, which I still need to update and which is again not getting updated today, and it has all the tour dates), and you like rock, do yourself a favor and go see them. And take the next day off.

Now if you'll excuse me, I noticed when my wife left for work that she was wearing the panties with the zipper in the front, and that's a signal pretty much as reliable as the sun rising in the east and falling in the west, so I've got some things to do before she gets home at noon. God, I love a day off and full day kindergarten.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

I Rock Out

I'm preemptively calling in sick tomorrow. The greatest rock and/or roll band in the world, The Supersuckers, is playing in Cambridge tonight, and I'm heading on up. I have my priorities in order and work falls somewhere below family, fun and music. The legal world will have to stagger on without me, because tonight this motherfucker be trippin'

In other news the sports page today reports that a world class sprinter just got busted for a second time for using marijuana. Which begs the question, exactly how fast do you have to be before you can get away with getting baked all the time and still be considered world class. Like I said the last time, I don't smoke anymore, but when I did, I don't ever remember being even slightly inclined to sprint 100 yards afterwards. Unless there was a cheese pizza at the finish line. Maybe that's his secret.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Is It Still A Felony If You Were Framed?

We had the local poker game over at our house on Saturday night. Since we had the basement refinished my wife likes having people over to use it, even though she doesn't play, and even though we have to use the pool table as a card table. It works pretty well, aside from all the stretching, and as long as people keep their goddamn drinks off the felt, I usually don't blow a gasket.

This is the third time we've had the game at our house over the last few weeks. (If you care about the results I broke even) Also in our basement is a little gardening project that my wife has going on with our daughter. They have three plastic trays of dirt and lilac seeds and they're trying to grow lilacs. Fairly unsuccesfully. But over the last week or so, we've noticed that there are two or three plants valiantly struggling to reach maturity and meet their destiny as full grown lilac bushes.

Or maybe not.

Some of the guys I play cards with like to smoke things that are not tobacco. I personally don't, but I have no problem with people that do, especially when overindulgence leads them to bet that pair of deuces a wee bit heavier than they should. In short, smoking is OK in the basement, just keep it off the table.

Can you see where this is going?

So last Saturday night the wife is showing people the little gardening project and pointing out the lilacs that are struggling up and one of my friends says "Those aren't lilacs." We ask what he means. It turns out that during the last game he was removing some seeds from a pipe and didn't want to throw them on the table, so he just tossed them in the dirt trays. Now they're the only thing growing there.

We removed the plants. I think 5 is a little young to be growing alternative mood remedies anyway.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Decisions, decisions, decisions

Let me just start by saying that I want to hear more about the French maid outfit Soozie Q was talking about in the last comments about Geraldo Rivera. At the same time, I don't want to hear enough to get her dog Moto going, because he's 3,000 miles away and I'm still afraid of him.

I read in the paper the other day that there are some lawsuits in the works becuase, get this, Viagra can cause sudden blindness!!!! How's that for a side effect? It gets better. Apparently, the blindness sets in shortly after the man, um, well, ejaculates. Think about that. "Oh, god, oh, god, oh god ohgodohgodohgod!!! Wow that was great, honey, I'm so glad I started taking Viag...I CAN'T FUCKING SEE!!!!" Talk about your trade-offs. I'm not sure if the blindness is temporary or permanent. I remember when one of the potato chip companies came out with a product that contained something called olestra. Olestra did something like reduce all the fat in potato chips, but came with the unfortunate side effect of causing something called anal leakage. Until now I thought that this was probably the most unfortunate side effect going, but when faced with the choice of getting it up or going blind, I guess that's the new winner. On the other hand, while it's easy to just avoid the potato chips, I'm not sure if I had a choice between never getting it up and going blind that I wouldn't go "eh, I've seen the sunsets before."

Random and quick musical recommendation. Dance Hall Crashers. I have one of their CDs, the highly originally titled "The Live Record", and it just rocks. I don't think they're all that active right now, but if you can find one of their CDs in one of those remainder bins, buy it. Great combination of ska and punk.

I'm off to load up on Cialis right now. And if I do get a boner that lasts for four hours, the last person I'm going to call is my doctor. You unfortunate people will probably hear all about it.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Why Isn't He Dead?

I may have to re-open "The Douchebag of the Year" contest I mentioned awhile back. Last night I saw Geraldo Rivera on Bill O'Reilly's show. For the record I saw an outtake of the show on The Daily Show, which is where I get all my news from. I wouldn't watch O'Reilly on a bet. But Geraldo, who is one of the most loathsome individuals on the face of the earth, is talking about the Duke lacrosse/stripper rape thing, and says something along the lines of "It's not always the nuns that get raped, sometimes its the strippers."

What? Did he seriously say that? And if so, why? What possible point is there? Is he saying its worse for a nun to be raped than a stripper? Is he confessing a fetish for nuns? Does he think that moustache on his face looks good and doesn't look like a hairy lamprey just glommed on to his upper lip and is now sucking out what remains of his life essence?

After pondering this for a few moments, (because pondering anything Geraldo Rivera says for more than a few moments is a tremendous waste of time), I came to two conclusions. First, there is no god, becuase if there was neither nuns nor strippers would be raped, but Geraldo Rivera would be, preferably by rabid Tibetan yaks, and second, Geraldo himself doesn't know what that means but as it ran through his head the hamster fell off the wheel that operates his brain, thereby causing him to think it was a statement of great profundity, and he spit it out before the hamster could get things rolling again.

On a related note, The Daily Show made an excellent point. There is no reason this Duke thing should be national news. It concerns the accused and her accusers. Not the rest of us. It's like slowing down to watch a car wreck aftermath to anyone not involved directly. People like Geraldo thrive on that, so I beg of all of us, stop watching this shit.

And if anyone knows where I can buy some rabid yaks, please let me know.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Just Like Old Times

My mother took the children away from us this weekend. She always tries to, but my son doesn't like to go to Grandma's that much because Grandma is a tad smothering. Sort of like Savanna Samson is a tad horny. But since his two uncles were over as well and he knew it would be nothing but baseball and belching for 48 hours, off he went. My daughter was off at the first invitation, since she can't get enough of being spoiled.

We celebrated by doing....

Nothing. We just sat and listened to the silence. No one cried. No one tattled. No one had to have one more snack. No one broke anything. Magical.

The next day we went to breakfast a 45 minute drive from our house and waited in line for another half hour and no one went into a conniption fit. If any of you are ever in Middletown, CT, and need breakfast, you could do far, far worse than Rourke's Diner. Unless you have a heart condition in which case you should just order oatmeal.

After breakfast, which we were able to stretch until noon because adults can sit still and talk, (and because we didn't get out of bed until 10:00 am in the first place), we went shopping for crap we probably don't need and definitely can't afford. Although my daughter now has a Tibetan rug for her room, but not the hand-woven kind because I wasn't able to arrange a home mortgage refinancing that quickly on a Saturday. Then my wife took a nap, (in the middle of the afternoon!!) while I took the dog out into the woods. We were out there for two hours and I didn't have to carry anyone. Since there was no talking I was able to get very close to a large woodpecker, but not that close because it turns out Mocha will chase large woodpeckers. Bad girl, Mocha, bad girl. We capped the evening off with a dinner of appetizers and drinks at a local pub at 9 pm.

We agreed that we could get used to such a lifestyle. But we missed the little fuckers so we picked them up yesterday and brought them home. But if anyone of you would like to experience the joys o parenthood without the commitment and want to rent to fairly well-behaved children, just let me know.

Friday, April 14, 2006

Man Am I Gay

And I don't mean "gay" in the sense that I like men in that special way that gets Fred Phelps secretly hot with desire, or in the sense that I know where all the cool places are in Northhampton, even though I do know that. And come to think of it, I may still be a member of a gay club in Key West. My wife signed us up as members on our honeymoon because as members it was $5 to get in and $15 if we weren't. Hey, a buck's a buck.

No I mean gay in the sense that I'm driving to work today and I have Night Ranger's "Sister Christian" (altogether now "Motorin'...what's your price for flight?") cranking on the radio and I realize that this has to be one of the gayest songs ever, in the since that it's pure wuss rock. And isn't cool enough to get airplay in Northhampton or Key West. I thought more about that when I read Mel's blog, (to your right people), and she was disclosing her most embarrasing song on her iPod, which was some atrocity by Loverboy. That made me feel better, because Loverboy is waaaaaaay gayer than Night Ranger.

Actually, Loverboy may be gayer than San Francisco, but that's another story.

But we all have 'em. Those songs we crank up when no one else is in the car, but would never, ever admit to liking in public. There's a couple of Billy Squier songs that fit this category for me as well, but I can never listen to the whole song becuase they're just too stupid. So let's hear it folks, name your secretly liked songs that you'd never tell anyone else.

"motorin' yeeeaaaahhhhh, motorin'"

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Answering Suzie's Questions+

In the comments section of the last post, SoozieQ stated that she didn't understand why someone would pay for something they could get free, like sex. The obvious answer is that it's usually guys, and we'll do pretty much anything to get laid. But the best answer I ever heard was from that great philosopher, Charlie Sheen, who when asked why a guy like him paid hookers for sex said soemthing like "I'm not paying them for to have sex with me, I'm paying them to leave afterwards." Well said Chuck. I'm sure your ex-wife's lawyer has that highlighted for the cross-examination proceedings.

Suzie also asked a couple of posts back what kind of dog we have. I get the feeling Suzie likes animals. Call it a crazy hunch. Or just that I've read her blog. Over there on the right. In the section that I need to update.

Anyway, our dog is named Mocha. She is, as all of our pets are or have been, a rescue animal. She is part Chesapeake Bay Retreiver, part Weimeraner, (yeah I know I spelled it wrong), probably some spaniel judging from the paws, and god knows what else. In short, she's a mutt. A friend of mine called her an Appalachian Retreiver because her original family gave her away when her brother knocked her up. They were disgusted that she would "let" him do that. I'm pretty sure dogs don't think of it that way. Those people were obvious idiots, but since I got a great dog out of it for $50, fuck them.

I will say that we've met two of her puppies, and they are a little weird. One got hit by a car and lived. Judging from his build at now full growth, there's some grizzly in that gene pool. Mocha goes about 70 lb. and that puppy, (Dodger if I recall), dwarfed her.

I'd post pictures, but I don't know how to scan. She's brown, with spaniel paws. She has impressive golden eyes. Biggest wuss you've ever met, but she'll bark like an attack dog. And she is fast. I saw her go full out a couple of times at the park down the road, and I'm pretty sure I could gte her to place at a greyhound track. Except that she'd run the wrong way and then sit down and start licking her ass.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

By Popular Request

A couple of posts ago I mentioned a story I had that revolved around a stag party and a stripper. I also mentioned that I wasn't writing it down because after I had written it, it just wasn't that interesting. And then a few of you perverts let it be known that you were tremendously disappointed about that.

So here it is. It started as another way for me to pick on Duke, as a result of the snafu involving the men's lacrosse team and sexual assault charges against them by a stripper they'd hired for a house party. While I rarely pass on the opportunity to pick on Duke, (as an attorney, I can truthfully say that you don't know what an asshole is until you've dealt with a Duke Law alum. Holy Christ what a sniveling pack of shitheads they are!) But the way that story is going I'd rather just leave that out entirely. What an ugly mess.

What we're left with is, at this point, my friend Rob's stag party. And you'd better believe that's not his real name.

More years ago than I care to remember, Rob got married to his long-suffering and demure girlfriend. Although when she got loaded she would do things like stuff dollar bills down my jeans, but Rob doesn't need to know that. Except that I think he was there. At any rate, these two had been together since college, and I think that meant about six years and finally Rob's soon-to-be-betrothed must have laid down one hell of an ultimatum because Rob was getting married.

As an aside, I will point out that the exchange of vows from the bride was, bar none, the loudest I have ever heard. More than one person remarked on the obvious note of triumph in her voice.

The wedding ceremony was lovely. The stag party, eh, not so much. Actually, it was a fucking horror show. There are some people who should not be put in charge of these things, and at least two of them had major input in this case.

Let me say before we go much further that I am no prude. I love strippers. I like to drink. I like to drink with strippers. I went to the nudie bars at my stag and was tongue-kissed by a lovely young thing who then stole all the money my friends had piled in front of me.

But there are limits.

Rob' stag was held outside. Behind some bushes behind some kind of social club. Right there, that isn't a good sign. If your stag party is held in hiding, laws are obviously going to be broken. Th entertainment for the evening showed up with two gentleman who were probably violtaing parole just by being out after dark. And not the sort of parole one gets for failing to appear for traffic court either. At least one had a gun.

And then there was the girl. I'm sure that she was just wroking as an exotic dancer to pay her way through dental school, or to pay the bills for her little sister's kidney operation, but she certainly enthusiastic about it. I mean, she'd already been paid up front; blowing the best man in front of everyone seemed a little extreme.

He had performance anxiety by the way.

As to her physical attributes, there are men I'd take a run at before this one. She had breasts, but only in the sense that there were nipples on the front of her body, and they seemed a little swollen, perhaps by the assotment of piercings in the area. Generally speaking, nipple piercings don't do it for me, but I'm a live and let live kind of guy. Three on a side, however, and I'm going to call you a freak. Although if you show up with two guys who look like they would eat my major organs for fun, the odds are I'm going to do so quietly, becuase I am, in addition to all of my stunning attributes, a major-league pussy.

Those were not her only piercings. And let's not go down that road again OK? Suffice it to say, I am not aware of an orifice she did not have pierced at least once. LEAVE IT THERE. Syd, I'm looking at you. Just don't even ask that question.

Her face could and I think temporarily did stop time. She danced in the sense that a kid with cerebal palsy lurching across the road dances. That kid, however, is doing the best he or she can. This girl was there for the sex and money not the dancing. Yep, Rob's friends hadn't hired a stripper, they had hired a hooker. Top notch guys, top notch.

When the groom's father left, there was an auction. The "winner" got to go somewhere with the hooker. I honestly think it was a storage shed of some kind. Most of us were, at that point, looking to find the quickest way to politely leave without getting shot in the ass. We were more than willing to give our tickets away to any takers.

Which brings us to John. John did not hire this girl. That's the best thing I can say about him. He remains the biggest pig I have ever met in my 36 years on this planet. He had no respect for women, no respect for men, no respect for himself. His sense of personal hygiene was roughly the same as that of your average dung beetle. He had things in his porn collection that I don't think are legal in Thailand. He drank to an extent that would make Oscar Wilde say "Dude, (actually, Oscar would never say Dude, but he would appeciate artistic license so just keep your clever little witticisms to yourself), you're a fucking lush." And his family was incredibly rich, so he had limitless resources to pursue his descent into hell.

Guess who won the raffle?

Guees who bragged about winning the raffle and what he'd done with the girl?

Guess who wasn't the least bit fazed when it was pointed out that he was braggin about screwing a hooker?

That's right, me!

Just kidding, it was John. Yep, he won, he got to go in the shed, and he got to have sex with a hooker. She would go on to do at least two other guys at the party, one of whom lost his shirt in the process. He spent the rest of the time I was there walking around with his big, hairy belly sticking out and telling anyone who would listen that the girl asked to keep his shirt.

At this point I was with two friends and the three of us were looking to leave. We could not find Rob. We could not see the girl. Again, I'm not a prude, but I do think that if you're fucking a hooker a week before your wedding, your friends have a moral obligation to kick your ass. So we looked for Rob.

I can honestly say that I have never before been that happy to find a friend passed out in in a sandbox surrounded with a pool of his own vomit as I was that night. Which reminds me, the food that night was really good.

So that's the story I was thinking of when I was first reading the Duke lacrosse story. I guess I was surprsed that a girl working in that field would go to such a party without bringing the firepower that this girl did. But the connection seemed to me then to be as tenusous now as it did then, so we're left with a meandering tale of the worst stag I ever went to. It was long, it was pointless, it really has no bearing on anything in my current life, (and Rob's still married), but hopefully it was somewhat entertaining.

Broken Promises

I know I said that the next post would involve sex and strippers, but the thing is that I found out I have about 70 accrued hours of time-off that I need to use quickly or I will lose it, so I'm on vacation and it's 70 and sunny out and I feel the urge to take the dog out into the woods. So you'll have to wait. Also the story remains uninteresting and I can't think of a good way to tell it. But I'll be back at work tomorrow and I will just write it out, but it will still suck like an electrolux.

Friday, April 07, 2006

More Religion

What with Mother Theresa yesterday, (look, I'm sorry about the walnut crack. Please stop raining toads on my house and get the Angel of Death off the fence in the back yard. He's creeping out the kids), and today's musings, this is getting like a CCD class. I think. I never took one. But my friends did, and it seems like all they talked about there was religion. Which is all I've talked about, (with an aside or two about Paris Hilton going down like the Titanic), for the last two days. So in the next post maybe I'll bust out that stripper thing I started thee other day. I warn you though, it really goes nowhere. But it does have strippers and illicit sex.

Apparently the newest develpoment in Christianity is the Catholic Church recognizing women as equal to men.

Juuuuuust kidding. That'll never happen. They'll recognize Judas Iscariot as a saint before they do that.


Apparently, there is a new gospel due to be revealed. The gospel of Judas. Good old Judas. Good old "I'll sell your Holy Ass out for less than the chariot fare from Jerusalem to Samaria" Judas. The guy we were all taught as wee Cathloics had betrayed our big gun, Jesus H. Christ himself, to the Romans.

I will leave the theological ruminations on this to Nick, who is eminently more qualified to comment on this than I am, (but I'm going to do it anyway), but in traditional Christianity, there are four recognized gospels. Matthew, Mark, Luke & John. The Beatles of Christ as it were. I would bet that any one of them is a better drummer than Ringo though. Apparently, and this I don't know much about, there are far more other gospels out there by other people, including Mary Magdalene, that are not recognized by the holy authorities, and these are called the Gnostic Gospels. And people who beleive them are called heretics and get burned at the stake, or at least they used to, but now they just write wildly popular, (and just as wildly historically inaccurate) novels and make millions off the faith and belief of misguided souls. Just like the Vatican.

Does my lapsed faith show? Just thought I'd ask.

The newest one is, as I said, the Gospel of Judas. Putting aside the inevitable book and movie deal to come, according to this gospel, Judas was actually an integral part of JHC's whole plan, and in fact was instructed by Jesus Himself, (which gives a whole new slant to "I was just following orders"), to betray him so that the Romans could catch Jesus and kill him and then three days later He'd rise again, redeem our sins and if He saw His shadow there would be six more weeks of Lent. From the little I read in the paper, it seems that Jesus told Judas he had to do this and would be seen as the greatest of the Apsotles, (no doubt news to Peter), although he would also be misunderstood and hated by many small Catholic school kids who didn't have access to the Gnostic gospels and barely understood the four we did get.

To me, as a history major and lapsed Catholic, (like you didn't guess), this is endlessly fascinating stuff. To you, the reader, it probably isn't, but remember: Strippers and sex next post!! Poor Judas has been kicked around for nigh on 2 millenia just for doing what Jesus told him to do. And all becuase his gospel didn't get recognized early on. Talk about a public relations disaster.

Maybe not as much of a disaster as getting credit with being the first vampire in the abominable movie "Dracula 2000", which now might need serious reworking, but that's another story.

Anyway, I have this idea in my head of Jesus going up to a dejected Judas, possibly sitting on a swing kicking at dirt with his toes, and saying "OK, look, we let them discover your gospel. It's getting front page play all over the world. Everyone will know your side of the story. Now will you please get off the Medamn swing and come have a beer with the guys?"

Thursday, April 06, 2006

I Am Not Making This Up

I have a 13" penis.

Ok, that I'm making up. (It's 14), (millimeters) But in the paper today there is a short story about an Indian filmmaker by the name of T. Rajeevnath, (loosely translated from Hindi to mean "I'm totally going to hell and I'm OK with that), who is planning to write a movie about Mother Theresa. Mother Theresa, as you may recall, was an Albanian nun who closely resembled a walnut, (I'm going to hell too), and who spent the majority of her life catering to lepers and other unwanted types in the slums of India, the sort of places that make the homeless in the U.S. jump up and down at the sheer joy of how good they have it sleeping on a street grate in NYC in February. While I would disagree with a lot of what Mother Theresa believed and tried to get other people to follow, (I, for instance, think birth control is a swell idea. Mother Theresa, not so much), I think most of us would agree that she lived her life in a truly unselfish way and at least tried to do the right thing and undoubtedly helped many people who otherwise would have died in miserable conditions. Actually, they probably still died in miserable conditions, but at least they knew that someone cared about them before they met Vishnu and had to explain their conversion to Catholicism.

So who does Mr. T. Rajeevnath have in mind to play Mother Theresa? In what can only be called type-casting, he is considering one Paris Hilton for the role of Mother Theresa.

That's not a typo.

Paris Hilton.

According to the paper, he got the idea when he saw a computer-generated image showing a close facial resemblance between the two. Now I don't know about you, but when I think "computers", "facial" and "Paris Hilton", I get another picture entirely. It doesn't look anything like Mother Theresa. The story goes on to say that our would-be filmmaker, (and with casting ideas like this he'll probably retain that status for some time), was also impressed when Ms. Hilton said she refused to pose nude for Playboy.

Dude, she's on film swallowing cock like it's ice cream. Turning down Playboy isn't modesty, it's boredom.

Part of me, the part that laughs at women who fall over walls while on cigarette breaks, (she's fine and out there right now as a matter of fact), really hopes this movie gets made. I'll buy a ticket, if only to hope that in some small way it contributes to the massive heart attack Pat Robertson will undoubtedly have.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Women's Basketball

Ordinarily I don't watch, (back off people, I don't watch the men either unless UCONN is on), but I find any activity in which Duke loses endlessly entertaining. Especially when they blew a 13 point lead, not once but twice, to do it. That just never gets old.

I had a story that went with this, but after reviewing it, I decided it had no point and deleted it. Suffice it to say it involved strippers, the men's lacrosse team at Duke, bodyguards with guns and parole violations and a friend of mine's stag party. Just not all at once.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Public Service Announcement

I don't care what sex you are or what your preference is, this applies. When your significant other looks at you with an air of wonder and even a little hope and says, 'Wow, I bet you can't fuck me like that again", the correct answer is not, I repeat NOT, "Yeah, you're probably right."

At least not according to this friend of mine who you wouldn't know and not, you know, yours truly, because I would never say that.

I gotta go.

Saturday, April 01, 2006

Little League Morons

We had "evaluations" today for 7-8 year old little league. I want you to keep that phrase in mind. "7-8 years old." I asked them two days ago how long it would take. I was told half an hour. We were there just under two hours. This iswhat it consisted of. There were roughly 40 kids. First they did timed runs from home plate to second, then second to home. Then they went to the batting cages and got to swing at 5 balls that I will charitably describe as pitches. Most of those balls came over the plate at ankle height. If a kid was good he could tap a grounder back to the pitcher. In addition, the pitcher, a fat bastard with an official's cap and an "I'm compensating for a small penis by bossing around little kids" T-shirt, was hiding behind a batting cage pitcher's shield. After each kid got to take their hacks, (and my kid got lucky and got to swing against a teenager who actually put the ball over the plate), they went and STOOD IN FUCKING LINE FOR 45 MINUTES TO TAKE TWO GROUND BALLS AND TWO FLY BALLS. Then they got to go home.

The purpose of this evaluation was to give all the coaches a chance to evaluate the players for the draft on Monday night. All afternoon the coaches watched the kids and took notes about their speed, batting and fielding. Took notes. About 7-8 year olds. To drfat them. Kidsneeded to go pee, and were there outhouses? No, there were not. I'm failry certain the woods around the field will be especially well irrigated this spring.

I have never seen a more poorly run exercise for a less legitmate purpose. I know most adults can't wait to suck the fun out of anything kids do, but this was ridiculous. As a parent, and as someone who coached last year, I can tell you that there is no way that watching a kid take two grounders and two fly-balls, (did I mention that the guy throwing the flys was the same guy who was throwing batting parctice? He couldn't get the fly balls to the kids either! At least we know who's willing to dive and who isn't.), gives you any idea of how good they are in the field. Watching a kid swing at five poorly thrown balls won't do it either.

Before this fiasco started, I hit a few balls to my son to let him warm up. Within five minutes there were three other parents and ten kids in the infield. We had all the kids fielding grounders and pop-ups in turn, and this went on for a good ten minutes. All the kids had fun, and I guaran-goddamn-tee you that I can tell you more about how good each of those kids is than any of the coaches who watched "fielding practice".

When we drafted teams for ragball last year, we did it by who lived closer to the practie fields we were assigned to and who was friends with who. I didn't give a rat's ass about how fast they were or if they could catch. I know that this a competitive league, and that there wil be winners and losers. I just hope that the kids win and the adults lose.

And to make sure, I volunteered to assist again.