Promises, promises

While I am trying to dash off for the 4th of July weekend, during which I will spend most of my time on a ladder scraping paint, I did promise you vampire lesbians and vampire lesbians you shall have.

I always liked the "Blade" movies, even though they're really nothing that's going to make cinematic history, the acting, especially in the second one, is generally poor, and the third one has little going for it except Jessica Biel in tight clothing. Although, as I've mentioned before, with me that pretty muich makes up for anything else that could go wrong in a flick. And it did. If thoughts were made public that poor girl would have about a dozen restraining orders against me. Anyone have her address by the way? I know we were meant to be, I just know it. Xenu told me this, right after the part about why women shouldn't make noise during shild birth.

Anyhoo, my obsessions aside, I like Blade. And so when Spike TV, (perhaps the dumbest netwrok name ever), announced that they were going to start showing "Blade: The Series", you can imagine my excitement. Actually you probably can't. My reaction was "huh, I wonder how they'll fuck that up?" So when I did watch it last Wednesday, it was more out of a sense of morbid curioisty than the breathless anticipation of a rabid fan.

Most of my fears were realized. The fight scenes seem to have been choreographed in slow motion. The guy playing Blade seems to have the emotional range of a tree stump, and has none of the menace that Wesley Snipes just seemed to throw off with a glance in the movies. And why are all the vampires Aryan and the good guys an ethnic stew? Just once can't we have vampires from Arkansas that sit around in overalls and whittle when they're not sucking blood from their cousins? Is that too much to ask?

Actually, it probably is, because given the choice between watching hillbilly vampires whittling and watching really hot vampire vixens crawl all over each other what are you going to choose? Speaking for myself, I'll be at the vixens channel.

And that brings us to the one saving grace on "Blade: The Series." The producers had the good sense to hire a really hot actress named Jill Wagner. Here's a picture.




Then, they stuffed her in a white dress and had her confront the bad guys, who were all dressed in black. Can you spot the subtle metaphors? I couldn't, because I was trying to figure out if Jill could possibly be wearing any underwear with that dress. Then they had her captured, tied up, (just gets better and better doesn't it) and turned into a vampire, after which she wore black, although fortunately not much of it. And then the other lead girl vampire, a bleached blonde little number who I'm sure has a name but for now who we'll just call "She who exists so that we have someone to tease you with the possibility of lesbian sex between really horny vampires", decides she hates our girl Jill, but after they drink blood together they exchange the sort of smoldering looks that turn sand into glass and start to get real, real close, so close that their lips almost touch as their panting mouths draw closer together and their hands stroke at each other's...(do you know how hard it is to type with just one hand? It's a bitch!)

Anyway, I'll be watching next week. The previews have Jill stripped down to stripper type underwear and stretched out for some kind of ritual. I don't know what the plot will be, but frankly, who needs one?

Feel Free Not To Read This

Fair warning, I am going to rant about politics. I try not to, I like to keep things light and sometimes dirty, but I feel the need to yell about something and since I have this here little space, by god and by damn I'm going to do it.

The US Senate came perilously close to passing an Amendment to the Constitution that would outlaw flag burning. This is something that is attempted pretty much every year and usually goes away, but one vote, people, one lousy stinkin' vote, is all that kept us from marching down the road to amending the Constitution in a fashion that would, for the first time, erode our rights.

The argument that is usually presented in support of such an amendment is that the flag is a symbol of our country, and that thousands if not millions of people have died to defend the flag. I agree with the first part of that and disagree with the second part. The flag is a symbol of our country,but it is just that, a symbol. There is a enormous difference between a symbol of something and the substance of what that something is. In the case of the United States, the substance of our country is our freedom as individuals to express our thoughts, fears, opinions and hopes in whatever fashion we choose. This is true even if the fashion we choose may be highly offensive to other people, even most other people. In fact it is just when that opinion would offend most other people that it has to be defended with the most vigor. Because if it isn't, if it somehow becomes OK for the government to make rules that say "OK, you can express your opinion, but you may not do so in a manner which offends people", then we're only a few small steps from not being able to say anything that might offend whatever group has the power at any time, which is basically the same as saying we're only a few small steps, or in this case one lousy vote, away from destroying the substance of our country in order to "protect" a symbol of our country.

And that is why I do not agree that people die for the flag. If people die for that then they die for a colorful piece of cloth, and to say that is to insult the soldiers an sailors who have given their lives. They died because they wanted to serve their country. And their country is a group of people bound together by a set of laws that is rooted in the Constitution. And the first right protected in the Amendments to that Constitution reads "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion...(let's save that can of worms for another time shall we?), or abridging the freedom of speech...." It doesn't say "abridging the freedom of speech unless it might piss someone off" it says NO law abridging the freedom of speech. Those kinds of freedoms are what makes this country what it is, those kinds of freedoms are what makes this country great and goddamnit those kinds of freedoms are what people have fought and died to protect. And in my opinion if someone is so fainthearted or easily offended that they are willing to allow the government to start taking freedoms away because some asshole, (and by the way I do think people who burn flags are total assholes), burned a piece of cloth in protest of something, then that offended person doesn't have the first fucking clue what this country is about.

I love my country, and I exercise my right to scream and yell about things I don't like. If that means I have to burn a flag to make my point, I should be able to do so. And if you feel the need to say something along the lines of "that guy over there burning the flag is a fucking idiot", you have that right as well. But no one and nothing has the right to tell either group that they can't say what's on their mind.

Symbols must never be allowed to take precedence over substance. If that is allowed to happen, soon the substance disappears, and the symbols mean jack shit.

OK, that's it. next time we'll talk about screamingly hot lesbian vampires on "Blade: The Series"

Blood On The Tracks

Or at least on my TV set. Last night, instead of my usual porn, I was watching the tail end of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." Or at least flipping to it during breaks from "The Daily Show." It's not like there's a real complicated plot to follow. Ordinarily I wouldn't watch that type of movie; call me crazy but movies that center around helpless people being dismembered by power tools don't quite get it done for me. But this was the remake of Chainsaw Massacre, and it had Jessica Biel running around in the rain, (and for some reason a meat packing plant that had the sprinklers on), while wearing a tight white tank top that she felt compelled to knot up so as to reveal her belly. I love that look, but when someone makes the effort to do it that while being chased by a maniac with a chainsaw and a seemingly limitless supply of gasoline, well you have to admire that.

Anyway, I have come to the conclusion that while I generally avoid splatter films, if Jessica Biel were in the flick and was dressed in nothing but a thong I'd probably spend two hours watching her throw puppies out 4th floor windows.

In somewhat related news, (in the sense of people I'd like to take a chainsaw to), Rush Limbaugh got busted with a bunch of Viagra while coming back from the Dominican Republic. Apparently it really was his prescription, but there was a typo. Nonetheless, this paragon of the right apparently feels the need to load up on Viagra before taking a solo trip to the Domincan Republic. You do the meth. I mean math. Don't know why I'd confuse illegal drug use with a note on limp dick limbaugh.

Career Opportunities

The ones that never knock. Anyone know of any? Because if the fat attorney down the hall comes to me one more time asking for $10 for Friday's staff pizza party, (today being Tuesday!), I am going to put her head through a wall. Thereby leading to an immediate job search. Unless everyone else is as irritated as I am, in which case it could lead to a promotion. Could be worth the risk.

This person also, and without my consent or knowledge, has said that I'm in charge of "4th of July" music for this thing. I'm playing X doing "4th of July", which might be the best song ever. If you don't believe me, look it up and play it. Great band doing an even better song. Then I'm going to play "Fuck and Run" by Liz Phair just to clear out the room.

Never, ever leave me in charge of the playlist.

This Is The End

No, not of this blog. It's too nice a break from work to do that. No, in a couple of weeks my wife and I are going to meet with an attorney. To go over our wills. Which would come into only at The End. Hence the title.

Hey cool, the radio is playing "Ana Ng" by They Might Be Giants. Nice.

The purpose of the will isn't really to make sure that my assets are distributed according to our wishes. No, most of those are going to be distributed according to our creditors wishes. Except that huge life insurance policy I have. That's going to be distributed according to my wife's wishes. I am canceling that sucker the second my youngest reaches 21. No sense tempting fate. As you may have figured out by now, we have two children. let's call them Thing 1 and Thing 2. Yes, I stole that from Dr. Seuss. But since he's dead, who cares? Anyway, we want to protect Thing 1 and Thing 2 in the event of our early demise, and while that means we would like to appoint their guardians, it even more means that we want to point out people that under no circumstances would we ever want to have any role in the raising of our precious Things.

One of the things that happens when you get married is that you meet members of your significant others family. And sometimes you realize that your significant other is, shall we say, an exception to what seems to be the rule. And that some of their siblings are, shall we say, less a shining example of prospective parenthood and more an example of what is usually displayed on the left side of those evolutionary charts one sees in National Geographic magazines when one is not looking at the boobs on the pygmy chicks. In other words, you've inadvertently married into a family partially made of of sub-human pig men, and unless your will clearly states otherwise, your kids could wind up being raised as inbred farm mutants. I suppose there's nothing wrong with that if you think of "The Hills Have Eyes" as a documentary, but if you don't, you damn sure better have a will. So we're making the will and in the special instructions we will have a (brief) list of people that are kids are NOT to go to in the event that we pass on to our eternal reward before they reach adulthood.

I think the rest of the document will just state that if I die first my wife gets everything, except in the event I turn up with an ice pick in my back, in which case I think the police might want to look into any real estate purchases she's recently made in Key West.

A somewhat grim entry from yours truly, but when one is working through a will, that tends to dominate one's thoughts.

I am breaking in with an edit here to ask "Is there a better song out there then Patti Smith doing 'Gloria'"? I think not, and everyday I thank Xenu for college radio. Fucking A I love this song.

Thou Shalt Not Cross This Line

I'm driving to work this morning and on the radio comes an ad for something called a "Meat Outlet." Where apparently you can get great quantities of meat for cheap, cheap, cheap. Now I'm about as cheap as they come, and I've certainly used outlet stores for clothes and furniture and the like.

But meat?

OUCH

Just a quick tip. If your wife has commandeered the remote and is watching her favorite soap opera, (now on at 10 pm thanks to Soap Net, may the creator of that channel burn in hell), and is getting teary eyed because two of her favorite characters are leaving each other and she sobs out "Just say you love her and stay", that is probably not the time to yell out "fuck her and leave anyway"

The dent in my head looks a lot like our remote.

Random Thought

I have been heavily into the World Cup this year and have managed to see at least a few minutes of most of the games. Yes, because I am a soccer fag. Feel better now? Good, let's continue. I was watching two days ago while lifting weights in the morning, (not so much of a soccer fag now am I tough guy?), and Switzerland was playing Togo. Now most Americans have such vast geographic knowledge that they'd be challenged to find their own ass with both hands and a road map, but I happen to know that Togo is a wafer thin, (extra credit to all those now singgering at "wafer thin"), country on the west coast of Africa. At one point ESPN2 runs a graphic saying that Switzerland is wearing red shirts and Togo is wearing green shirts. And I'm wondering if anyone watching is going "I'd really enjoy this game more if I could only tell the difference between the Swiss and the Togo teams! Won't someone run a graphic that allows me to tell which team is which? Oh, Lord, why won't someone tell me what color uniform is worn by the 11 blonde, white guys who haven't seen the sun in months, and which is worn by the 11 black guys who average about 6'6?" Just once I want to see a graphic that says something like, "The United States soccer team are the 11 guys who look like they're running in cement, and the Brazilians are the 11 guys running through them like Mack trucks on a puppy farm." Just once.

Please note, that Mack trucks line is not original to me. I lifted it from a book called, I think "Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up", by an author I cannot recall. It's an older book, but if you can find it, and if you went to Catholic school, you'll laugh your ass off.

Office Morale Soars

We had a meeting yesterday afternooon. As usual, it went on too long because, as is true for most if not all offices, there were at least two people who felt compelled to interject pointless and occasionally personal asides that add more and more time to the discussion. The meeting should have lasted ten minutes; it went 45 instead. Most of the additional time was taken up with the amazingly important topic of a pizza party the attorneys are funding for the staff. Its our way of saying "thank you", in lieu of bonuses or time off or something they'd actually like.

Personally, I hate these things. Not because I'm cheap, although I am, but because it doesn't serve any purpose. I am not one for Office Morale Committee meetings. I look at a job as just that, a job. Be happy you have one. It's not supposed to be 8 hours of Camp Happy Times. If you want fun during the work day, start a blog. Otherwise, just get your work done and then go home and forget about it until the next day. If you're punching a clock, as our staff does, just work your hours and leave. And before anyone says I'm insensitive, there's a waiting list to be assigned to my staff. Because I don't care what you do during the day as long as my work gets done in a timely fashion. You want 17 cigarette breaks a day? Fine. You want tomorrow off? No, I don't care why. See you Thursday. You'll be late tomorrow? Well, probably not later than me. Just do your work, if you have free time, far be it from me to tell you how to fill it.

But even more than my own feelings about "work is work so quit crying about morale and work", I hate these functions because of the petty staff arguments that ensure half the people won't even show up and half of the people who do won't talk to each other. Apparently there is a civil war brewing down the hall because one staff member doesn't like the way another one planned the first one's birthday, and then that second one is upset because a third one stepped in and did what the first one wanted instead of what the second one wanted. They haven't spoken in two months and won't eat together. Yesterday was the first time I'd heard of this, (none of them are my staff; if they were, I'd haul them into my office and tell them to grow the fuck up), and my suggestion was to bring all three into the manager's offifce and tell them they were getting laid off. Then wait three minutes for the fear of sudden and unexpected unemployment set in, and then ask if they could now tell the difference between people with real problems and people with birthday cake problems.

There's a reason I'll never make management.

This Is My Weekend

Saturday I'm playing four square with my son and daughter. Never mind that there are three of us, by God we're playing some four square. Apparently it's the latest craze in 2nd grade, and my son found some chalk at home, and we have a driveway. Naturally, my 5 year old daughter wants to play, so she's in. I bounce a ball to her, gently. She goes to hit it back and promptly breaks her pinky. At least I think it's a break; the doctor told my wife that it was more of a dent in the soft bone, but either way, I broke my daughter's finger playing four square. Fortnately, my wife came home shortly after, just as I was rechecking what I thought was a jammed finger and coming to the conclusion that it probably was worse. My wife wroks in the medical field and was able to go to the ER, drop a few names and get right in. If I go in, we wait for hours and I eventually get arrested for assault because if my kid's hurt, I don't care if you have a bullet in the gut, you do not get to jump the line. She's fine now, has a splint and some new stuffed animals from her grandmother.

After injuring my daughter in a bouncing ball game, I played in a poker tournament. Despite my deep-seated parental guilt, I played very well, made the final table, then made a dumb mistake, lost all my chips, and finished 6th. The top 5 got paid.

The next day, Father's Day, it was time to abuse my son. I mean, if I can break my daughter's bones playing four square, I ought to be able to do some serious damage to him in the woods. We went hiking with my father and he'd been in the woods for all of 90 seconds before he was bleeding. He walked off the trail to pee, bumped his leg on a stick and ripped a scab off his knee. No, I was not responsible for that scab. Then, on the way out of the woods I notice he's bleeding from the head, behind an ear. I look around and he's got a decent cut back there with no idea how he got it, except that he's been running as fast as he can down the trail and might have hit a tree branch but thinks it might have been when a bee bounced off his head. I asked him if the bee was carrying a knife. He said no, and besides, if a bee had a knife it would be too small. Some cold water stopped any bleeding and cleaned him up. He escaped the woods with no further damage.

But I wasn't done yet.

My wife has not walked up the stairs to bed in years. I carry her. Romantic isn't it? Not when someone leaves a fan just below the stairs its not. I have her scooped up in my arms and step right into the fan. Somehow, she escaped injury. Your truly? Not so much. I wrenched my knee and find it a bit harder to get around today. I did, however, get her up the stairs.

I, for one, am sort of glad the weekend is over.

I Got Up For This?

I just came from a school function called "Donuts for Dads", which requires all the Dads in the school to got to breakfast in the cafeteria with their kids. There's also a "Muffins for Moms" thing earlier in the year, which sounds vaguely dirty but really, and sadly, isn't. All I'm saying is, if certain dads were up until 2:30 the same morning playing poker, and they still managed to drag ass out of bed at 8, there should at least be some fucking doughnuts.

I didn't win the raffle either.

Who Else Is Hungry?

I was reading News of the Weird in our fine local alternative paper, (because I hadn't gotten to the part in the back where I can call pre-op tranvestities, OK?), and came across an entry describing some of the finest delicacies the South has to offer. You can get both of these at an establishment in Decatur, GA called Mulligan's. One is a hamdog, a half-pound of burger meat wrapped around a hot dog, then deep fried, stuffed into a hoagie and served topped with chili, bacon and a fried egg. The second is "The Luther" which is little more than a half-pound bacon cheeseburger, but served on a Krispy Kreme doughnut. I can't think of anything that says "I just don't care anymore" than ordering one of those.

But it does remind me of a friend of mine's wedding on Long Island. Stereotypes abounded, and let's just leave it at that. The morning of the nuptials, in what was probably a subconcious attempt to kill the groom and save him from himself, we went to a local establishment and ordered the special for breakfast. It consisted of three scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon, a slab, (in every sense of the word) o' ham, topped with cheese and served on a large grinder roll.

Sadly, the groom lived and went through with the ceremony, which was just lovely. Everyone had a good time, especially the groom's younger sister, who my wife taught how to smoke, and his middle sister, who I smuggled out of the ceremony early so she and her boyfriend could have sex. Hey, someone in the groom's family needed to get laid that night.

Come to think of it, if anyone's looking for me I'll be at Mulligan's. I'm totally going to hell anyway.

And Your Point Is?

Today did not go well in terms of the trial I have coming up. Contrary to popular belief, (OK, maybe just Toast), I am not an attorney for Baskin Robbins, and I do not try cases that involve 31 delicious flavors. No, I try cases that result from what happens when two cars meet in an unexpected fashion and the laws of physics intervene to cause what we in the business like to call "an accident." Generally I defend these cases, and today was no different. I'll leave out any details, but suffice it to say we were surprised at a settlement conference when the other side suddenly "found" some documents that change the whole complexion of the case. I returned to my office in a foul mood and got a call from home.

My son had been written up for something he did on the bus. At first I thought he'd been in a fight or said something rude to the driver. I came home to find a very official report written up by the driver and a note from the prinicpal asking me to talk to my son about this behavior.

Seems my 8 year old had given another 8 year old the finger.

Now, if you've been reading this blog for awhile you may anticipate my initial thoughts on this. Thoughts like "why is the bus driver watching kids giving each other the finger and not the road?" Thoughts like "This explains why the prinicipal never has time to call my wife back about planning a tribute to a school mother who was murdered." (I'm not kidding). Thoughts like, "I could not possibly care any less that my son flipped another kid the bird on a bus."

When I was in school and we were riding the bus we snuck shots of Southern Comfort in the back. Admittedly that was in 7th grade, but giving anyone the finger was pretty small potatoes. We got in fist fights and Joe the bus driver would just say "fight nice, fight nice" and keep on going. He always said it twice for some reason. And we always got to school.

For my family's sake I had a talk with number one son and told him we do not act like that when in public, unless we're really, really sure that no one's looking, and that we would only have this warning conversation one time. But inside I felt like a complete hypocrite, because I just don't think this is a big deal. I had to sign the report, and I am invited to make comments. So far I am resisting the urge to trace my middle finger.

So far.

"Working" from home

I have a rather crucial report due tomorrow. A big trial with all sorts of ramifications. Apparently all the higher ups are looking at it with great concern. I've been advised that if we do well, "The Board" will look favorably upon us. When my direct supervisor and I heard this during a conference call Friday afternoon we looked at each other with raised eyebrows. As far as we know, we don't have a board. I think at best we could try to turn a good result into designated parking spaces. The supervisor is trying to think of a way a soft-serve ice cream machine is crucial to the outcome of the trial. Good luck on that one.

Naturally, I am working from home today to ensure that I can get this report done without any unnecessary interruptions. The fact that the US is playiong in The World Cup this faternoon is mere conincidence I assure you. Incidentally those fuckers are getting thoroughly outplayed by the Czechs and are down 2-0 at the half. Not that I'm watching. I'm working from home today.

Beaten To The Punch

Yesterday I read a news story about two Royal Canadian Mounted Police getting married in a well-publicized ceremony. No big deal, except that they're men. Both of them. Get it? It's a gay wedding. For some reason this was able to go through and the world did not spin off its axis, although I suspect that this wedding may have been to blame for the volcanic eruptions in Indonesia. Or not.

But anyway, I rushed onto my little blog to make snide comments about how the RCMP "always gets its man", but blogger wouldn't let me in. And now this morning I see that several, (and by several I mean about 68,749), other people have aleady made that comment, including a spokes person for a Canadian gay rights group. That bitch.

I suppose I could take the low road and make comments about how exactly "mounted" fits into this whole thing, but that would be crude and wrong, and we don't do that here. Except for just now.

Jesus Apparently Has Some Time On His Hands

I found this story interesting. The Colorado Rockies apparently have discovered Jesus and are crediting him with turning their generally awful performance on the field around. Because, y'know, Jesus cares if the Rockies win games. One of the more religious guys in baseball, from what I've read, is a guy named Mike Sweeney who plays for the Royals. He must be praying wrong, because Jesus doesn't seem as inclined to help the Royals out this season, or any other season for that matter.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not religious myself, but I don't mind if you are. I mind if it's put in my face and if it's insnuated that I am less of a person becuase I don't read the Bible and use it as my guide through life. Although I have tried to kill Philistines with the jawbone of an ass before, but it turns out they were just Duran Duran fans and technically it isn't legal to hit them with any kind of blunt object, much less the jaw bone of an ass.

Speaking of asses, I get annoyed because of people like this who attribute their new found success as a baseball team to an abiding faith and clean living. When it's actually becuase they have a better pitching staff than usual and started storing their baseballs in a humidor in order to counteract the thin air in thier stadium. The concept of God as a baseball fan who rewards good behavior with more wins seems to me the height of arrogance. As though God were up there going "Well, today I should do something about Darfur, or maybe straigthen out Iraq, and I need to unclog that volcano in Indonesia before things get nasty, and ....What? The Rockies banned Playboy from their clubhouse? Well, let's move those boys to the head of the line and get them some wins!!" Somehow I doubt it.

Besides, everyone knows God roots for the Yankees.

I Read Very Goodly

It is nearly midnight on Sunday night and I suspect that I won't be going to bed anytime soon. I took the kids down to my mother's house to visit my sister, who is now announcing that she is with child. My daughter got out of the car and yelled "Aunt D--, you're pregnant with our cousin!!!!", which would have been cute if she wasn't 18. Actually, she's 5, and it was really fucking cute.

While I was there I stole my sister's copy of "Marley & Me", which you may already know since it's on the best seller list and has been for awhile. It's about a couple raising a very badly behaved, and large, Labrador Retreiver. I recommend it. I've had my nose in it ever since the kids went to bed and I'm not inclined to stop.

Not that I'm ruining anything by saying this, SPOILER ALERT, DO NOT GO FORWARD IF YOU DON'T KNOW THIS






but I peeked and Marley isn't going to make it to the end of the book. Which you can tell by the pictures on the back flap and also of the author. He got Marley when he was 22, and, well, he aint' 22 anymore. There aren't many dogs that would age along with him.

I love dogs. I've had to put two to sleep, and those are the only times my wife has seen me cry. And "cry" is a euphemism for bawling my fucking eyes out. There's a passage in this book where the author's wife is going through post-partum and announces that the dog has to go. I couldn't help think that my response would have been "after you", which is just one of many reasons I trend toward the "down-on-all-fours"section of the evolutionary scale. At the same time, however,my dog, the one my wife claims to hate, is not feeling well, (apparently the basted rawhide bone was not a good idea), is currently sleeping it off on my side of the bed, next to said wife. Go figure.

And read the book. After all, reading is fundamental.

Next I'll recommend selected passages from the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe, which I bought myslef three years ago and am slowing working my way through. That should drive up the readership. Sort of like a pledge drive increases PBS viewership.

Stolen from Nick

Nick's blog is over to the right. He's usually good for a few good jokes every week. I liked this one, so I stole it. It reinforces my love for good beer at the expense of those mass produced numbers. I think the funniest part of this joke is the guy claiming Coors is anything but snow melt with urine color added.


After a Beer Festival in London, all the brewery presidents decided to go out for a beer.Corona's president sits down and says, "Señor, I would like the world's best beer, a Corona." The bartender takes a bottle from the shelf and gives it to him.Then Budweiser's president says, "I'd like the best beer in the world, give me 'The King Of Beers', a Budweiser." The bartender gives him one.Coors' president says, "I'd like the best beer in the world, the only one made with Rocky Mountain spring water, give me a Coors." He gets it.The guy from Guinness sits down and says, "Give me a Coke."The other brewery presidents look over at him and ask, "Why aren't you drinking a Guinness?" and the Guinness president replies, "Well, if you guys aren't drinking beer, neither will I."

Did I Hear This Right?

Work has been insane lately and I'm not getting a lot of sleep or food, and I was stuck in a bad traffic jam when I heard this, so I could have been hallucinating, but I swear I heard a DJ on the radio report that Elton John said that in his next life he wants to come back as a woman so he can "see how the other half lives."

Whaaaaa?

I think they live pretty much the same way you do now Elton, only with less money and duller clothes. Jesus, butch it up sister and at least come back as an interior decorator.