This Should Increase Emigration to Mississippi

CNN reports today that an Alabama teenager raped his own mother. You can go the CNN web-site and read it if you'd like. If you're like me, afterwards you'll feel a strong urge to gargle with bleach, and then of course post it on a blog and make bad jokes about Alabama.

In the course of the news story, you will hear the phrases "trailer park", "passed out drunk on the couch", and the fact that this crime apparently stemmed from an argument Gary Dean Helm, (why do they always have three names?), had with his brother about another woman. Why Mom had to get raped as a result of that is beyond me, but I guess Gary Dean had his reasons. And I bet he's going to have a fine time explaining all those reasons to his new friends down at the state penitentiary.

"What are you in for boy?"

"I, uh, raped my mom cuz I was mad at my brother"

{crickets}

"C'mere boy. Ever seen a shank before?."

And somewhere, every citizen of Mississippi breathes a sigh of relief and points with gratitiude at their neighbor. "Uh-uh. Not us. They're the fuckin' red necks."

Ripped from today's headlines!

Or just calmly typed in verbatim. Whichever.

"It wasn't the best day for the picture of a German soldier simulating oral sex with a skull to have appeared in the nation's biggest newspaper."

Yeah. Everyone knows the best day for those photographs is Saturday.

Speaking of Pie

A friend of mine, who has an unhealthy fascination with all things celebrity, told me this morning that Nicole Ritchie, (shown here to unflattering effect),



has enrolled in a program described as "the opposite of fat camp". Now, this may or may not be true. While I care enough about this to spread an unsubsatantiated rumor around the internet, (because really, why else does the internet exist?), I don't care enough to actually look it up. But I do suspect that celebrities have access to such programs, because after all, they have access to everything else. I find this endlessly hilarious.

You want to gain weight Nicole? Come over to my house for a week. Here's what we're going to do. Sit your ass on that couch. I SAID SIT!! Good, now, put your feet up on that ottoman. Comfy isn't it? Blanket? Yes, it is a little cold in the northeast in October. Especially when their are Somalian refugees who outweigh you by a good 30 lbs. OK, all set? Oh, of course, here's the remote. Nope, I blocked out the E channel. Cold turkey this week sweetheart. Yes, you can watch Rachel Ray.

OK, ready for the intense part of the program? First sign this waiver. You acknowledge that a high cholesterol, high fat, no-redeeming-value-whatsoever diet accompanied by a complete an utter lack of movement, to say nothing of exercise, is a horrible idea, but when compared to the appeal of anorexia and forced vomiting, may have have some upside.

What? Oh, that's the World Series of Poker. That's the only sport you're allowed to watch for the week. Those guys barely move for days. Well, maybe I'll allow some bowling.

Alright, these are doughnuts. 12 of 'em. You have 40 minutes. When I come back, they better be all gone, and your fingers better not be anywhere near your throat. After that it's The People's Court and nappy time. Oh, here's some chocolate milk to wash it down with. After your nap it's field trip time. We're going to Kentucky Fried Chicken for a bucket of fried lard and some mashed-potato-like side dishes.

Seriously, give me a week with her. She'll put on 25 lbs. or die. Possibly both.

I Want A Piece Of The Pie

Jeffrey Skilling, formerly of Enron, was sentenced to nearly the maximum possible penalty of more than 24 years in prison yesterday. He also has to forfeit many millions in assets and pay some fines. The paper had a breakdown of all of these, and also noted his legal fees were $53 million.

Let me say that again.

$53 million.

Now, as you may know, I'm an attorney. I don't do criminal work, and I certainly am not qualified to do the sort of complicated, white-collar, bad finance thingie defense work that Skilling needed. But I will telll you this: for a 1/4 of what Skilling paid those hot shots of his, I guarantee you I could also get him found guilty and sentenced to nearly the maximum amount possible. And I'm fairly certain my dog could as well. She's got that cute face that jurors just want to trust.

I mean, if you spend $53 million on attorneys, don't you sort of expect, I don't know, probation? not guilty verdicts? maybe getting 18 years in the pen instead of 24 +? C'mon, Jeff, let me do the appeal. Give me $6 million and I'll promise to file some semi-legible document with the right court and on time. I doubt it'll change anything, but it will sure save you some cash.

And you're going to need as much cash as possible so you can load up on cigarettes. You're gonna need those where you're going.

Line of the Weekend

Allow me to set the scene. We're playing poker on Saturday night. Normally we play every Thursday, but a "emergency" game was convened on Saturday. The emergency being that one guy's wife was out of town and he had to watch the kids, and after they fell asleep he had nothing to do. So we showed up and tried to take his money. Although in the end I think he did alright. Personally, I stayed up until 3 AM and made $3. Woo-hoo.

But at one point earlier in the night, one of the guy's shows up from a party with his wife, who is very nice. One of the other guy's had showed up earlier from a dinner with his parents to which he had worn a suit, (my parents are lucky if I remember a shirt, but then, my inheritance probably consists of old lottery tickets anyway), and of course he was getting a hrad time for his formal dress. The newest arrival comments on how well-pressed the suit is, going on to say, (no doubt to his wife's eternal pride), most of my suits are crumpled up in the corner of my closet. To which suit boy answers, without missing a beat:

"What a coincidence. That's where I keep my self-esteem."

In other news, impersonations of R2D2 are a lot funnier at 2:30 am than otherwise, and one of the other guy's produced a stack of porno DVD's that they had allegedly "found" in a plastic bag on their lawn. If anyone has a burning, (pun intended) desire to see "Transexual Hookers 2, (horribly implyng that there was a TH1), I may be able to get you a copy for the right price.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

In my continuing effort to keep you people update on "news you need to know", (an actual tagline from one of our local news shows up here, a;beit one that is rarely followed by anything more than 2-3 people actually need to know), I must bring this little tidbit of information your way.

Researchers at Duke University have developed what they call "an invisibility cloak". As opposed to a Cloak of Invisibility, because if they calle it that, the powers that be at Dungeons & Dragons HQ would sue the unholy bejesus out of them. Apparently they have a device, described somewhat oddly as "primitve", that hides objects by bending electromagnetic waves around an object "like water around a rock." I don;t know about you, but to me a primitive device is a rock tied to a stick and then used to persuade someone as to the validity of my position as opposed to there. A device that bends electromagnetic waves around me and my club so that my debating opponent never sees me coming, well, that's about three or four steps up from primitive.

Apparently this thing only works with microwave radiation, (Nonny is already trying to take her microwave apart as you read this), and only works on very small objects and only in two dimensions, but they think they're going to be able to move up to toaster size objects in all three dimensions very soon.

Clearly here's a device that will benefit millions with no possible adverse uses or abuses foreseeable at this time. I am very concerned about how various forces might use this for evil, but not as concerend as I am with this question: How do I get my hands on one of these??

More concert info

OK, I am putting aside the sheer agony I am in from a vicious head cold, (honestly, I did less whining when I had Lyme Disease, and I freely admitt hat I am porbably the world's biggest pussy when it comes to colds. They're not enough to stay out of work for but they are enough to just aggravate the hell out of you for 3-4 days), to spell out the rest of my musical extravaganza of late.

Monday night I journeyed up to the hallowed city of Boston to see the Supersuckers and Social Distortion. As you may have figured out by now I really like The Supersuckers, but Social D is one of the first bands I really got into when I discovered punk. And unlike bands like The Ramones or The Clash, Social D's lead singer, (and only consistent member of the band since the late 70's formation), Mike Ness, is still alive. Although the odds of him actually making it this far probably rival those of Keith Richards.

The concert was at a club called Avalon, on Landsdowne St. right behind Fenway Park. I drove all the way into he city, guided only by the giant Citgo sign, since for some reason there were no lights on at Fenway. And that last line was a lot funnier before the Yankees went down like a $2 whore to the Tigers, and don't think I don't know that. So there's plenty of parking, I buy a scalped ticket for face value, (another good reason to follow obscure bands: even sold-out shows won't cost you much), and get in just in time to buy a beer before the Supersuckers start their set.

Unfortunately, they were only on for about half an hour, since they were the opening act, and that sort of sucked. Then Social D took the stage, and I'll give them this, they played hard. But not for long. After Ness said, twice, that they would barely get warmed up in an hour and a half, they were done in less than an hour, then managed a two song encore. Look, I know you're getting up there in years, but if you've got a couple thousand hopped up fans screaming for every song, I would think you could stay for 90 minutes or so. That's about how long it took me to get to the show, so I don't think that's too much to expect. The music was great, the energy high, but much too short.

Which, come to think of it, is probably what my wife says with disturbing frequency.

Tits and Tattoos

Tattos seem to be a recurring theme here, but there's adifferent point to this. Which we'll get to in a few minutes. Eclectic wouldn't give me any tips on where to find dragons for my planned second inking, unless I told where I was getting it. Fair enough. Right leg, down the calf. So now if any of you find a body with no identification other than a dragon on a ruined pillar, possibly Doric, maybe Corinthian, you'll know it was me and you can go quietly about your business, no doubt taking no other action other than to delete this blog from your links.

On to tits and tattoos. last night, on the recommendation of Zoe and Phollower and some others, I went to see The Suicide Girls Burlesque Show. And I took my wife, whose musical tastes run to Pink Floyd, ABBA, and some wretched Finnish group I can never remember. When we arrived at the venue, a former theater in a run-down section of Hartford, our luck is at a high level. We walk in and ask a guy where we can buy tickets, becuase there's no one in the window. He says "I have two passes, give me $10 and they're yours" I gave him $10, he gets us in, and I'm up about $40 on the night. Score!

Now we walk in and see one of the opening acts. And the luck train goes off the tracks, off the bridge, into the gully, bursts into flames, and all are killed.

Let me say this. If any of you are ever unfortuante enough to be in a venue where a Hartford based musical act called Base 2 is playing, find an exit. If you cannot find an exit, kill yourself. They were awful. And they wouldn't get off the stage. They kept indicating they were on the last song, then they'd mention the Suicide Girls, then they'd either play another song or else the first one never ended. I couldn't tell, because it all sounded alike. The one good thing from this act was I got to lean over to my wife and say "Y'know, the fiddle really is an underutilized instrument in punk rock" It could have been a violin, I don't know. They also had an emcee who, after they finally got off the stage, got up and yelled at the crowd for not going nuts for a hard-working local act. Emcee A-Hole apparently didn;t realize that none of us were there to see them, and that while I like local acts as much as the next guy, if they suck, they suck.

And then came the Japanese girls. Tsu Shi Ma Mi Re. I don't know what this means, but I can guess. My guess is "Paint Peeling Caterwauling That would Scare the Unholy Bejesus Out of Godzilla Himself." Seriously, if I had known about these chicks earlier in the spring I would have hired them to perform outside my house, hit a couple of high notes, and knock all the loose paint off. Would have saved a ton of time. Honest to Christ, at least twice I ducked my head in pain when they went to the higher levels. I'm pretty sure the guitarist is insane and doesn't really know how to play her instrument. None of them can sing at all, and in fact it's so bad it will hurt you, and despite that, I would probably go to see them again, (but with earplugs), becasue the show is just so insane. Three Japanese chicks dressed in schoolmarm type gingham, thrashing around like Angus Young on crack. The bassist alone was worth the price of admission. Assuming, of course, that I had actually paid the price of admission. I couldn't take my eyes off the stage. In short, the music sucked, but the antics were worth watching.

And then the Sucide Girls took the stage. If you haven't seen the show, find a schedule and go see it. One of the girls introduced the show by yelling "Are you ready for tits and tattoos", (hence the clever title above), which is almost the same motto as the hideous new strip bar that opened near my house, ("near" meaning 8 miles or so)(beggars can't be choosers), which is, "are you ready for tits and mearly healed bullet wounds?" The answer to that question, incidentally, should always be "No" Trust me on that.

I can't explain the show, except that there was a lot of near nudity, a lot of tattoos, some clever skits, including one that gives me a whole new take on Napoleon Dynamite, and my wife has asked for a hula hoop for Christmas. And by god I'll be buying her one!

Anyway, good referral from Zoe, Phollower and Co., and if you're in the mood for something completely different and insane, check that show out. But bring ear plugs.

Tattoo You

You may recall a few posts back, (and I'm far too lazy to link to it, so don't bother looking here), I mentioned some friends of mine, the female of the pair being somewhat smitten with my tattoo. Well, yesterday, thanks in part to my bad influences, they both went and got matching tattoos. Isn't that cute? Thankfully, they actually got pretty cool ones, with phenomenal color. This is thanks in part to my good influences, since I had gone to the studio with her a few weeks ago and, with assistance from one of the artists, made her abandon several really bad ideas. That Van Halen looking thing still makes me shudder.

So naturally I went to the studio to watch and make fun of them and tell thme how much it was going to hurt. Actually, the woman went first, and for her I told her that a tattoo in the small of the back really doesn't hurt that much. I was lying; everyone I know with a tattoo in that area says it hurts like hell. And I think she figured this out almost immediately, judging from the sharp intake of breath, hostile galre in my direction, and a hissed "you fucking liar" between clenched teeth.

To make up for it I held her hand while her husband went to get her a drink. I'm typing one-handed today, and not for the usual reason either. But an hour later she had a great tattoo and was happy she went through it. I almost guarantee she's good for another one within a year or so. Probably on the ankle. Which I've alos heard really hurts and which I'll keep to myself.

Then it was his turn. He got his on the shoulder, which I do know from personal experience is more annoying than painful. I tried bribing the artist to stick an upside down pink triangle in there somewhere, but unfortunately he's a consumate professional and wouldn't do it. Goddamn spoilsport consumate professionals. The wife even offered to double my bribe.

So of course now I have the jones to get a second tattoo and have an appointment and a couple of ideas. So now I need your help. Which one of Pud's HNT shots should I get tattooed on my arm?

What? Copyright infringement? Really? Oh.

In that case, what I really need is some possible help. A vouple of years back I was gruising the internet looking for dragon tattoo ideas. I saw a great shot of a medieval dragon, (has to be medieval; I've never been fond of the look of the Asian dragons), perched on a ruined column. It rocked. Naturally I haven't been able to find it since. If anyone knows of something similar, please let me know where to find it. I will give you a handsome reward, probably saying something like "Hey, (Your name here), thanks a lot for the tip on the dragon." Offer not valid in Guam, Indiana and the Lesser Antilles.

Can You Say "Self-Esteem"?

Becase Amanda can't. last night I was watching a plastic surgery show on TLC. Amanda was an absolutely stunning young woman, (who shockingly was working as a waitress until she could become an actress), (I know, in Beverly Hills! What are the odds?), who was in to have a boob job redone. She wanted it redone becuase when she laid down they fell to the sides and looked weird, and she was hoping to get that oh-so-natural look when she laid down of two tits that don't move and stand straight up. That fools everyone. Now other than her fake boobs, Amanda is, for the moment, all natural. (By the end of the show she would fill her lips full of collagen, which was completely unnecessary but which did allow me to make crude comments about what I'd like to fill her lips with. At least until my wife punched me). And she's gorgeous. But she's also an idiot. Here's why. She feels that her waist isn't even in the way it scurves on both sides. Clearly, she's not only spending WAY too much time looking at herself in the mirror, (although if I were her I'd probably spend six hours a day jumping rope naked in front of that same mirror), she's also got the same visaul acuity as Helen Keller, because there's nothing wrong with her waist, except that it isn't pressed against mine. Her solution t her perceived problem? She wants to have a rib removed from the "fat" side to even things out. Dr. Frankenstein, who seems like a nice enough guy, politely tells her that she's out of her fucking mind and nukes the idea, although as the show moved on he did move her boobs from the sides to the center, but unfortunately we never got to see her lying on her back so I don't know if they ever stood at attention, but Amanda did seem much happier at the end of the show, posing for some biker magazine while straddling a motorcycle and giggling over how all the guys thought she was hot.

And I bet they were all thinking "I'd totally do that chick if she only had one less rib"

Why I'm Going To Hell

Reason 6,784.

Halloween is fast approaching, and at our house we're just all atwitter over it. We don't decorate, because we live out in the sticks, and frankly, it's a waste of time trying to scare the deer. Shooting them is another matter, but one doesn't have to dress up like a scarecrow with a pick-axe to do that. Although...

Anyway, our kids love Halloween. And they had the last two days off from school. One for Columbus Day, or, as we politically correct types like to call it, Imperialist Pig-Dog Oppressor of the Aboriginal Peoples Day. Our parade is much cooler. Check out our small-pox float.

The second day off was for some professional development day for the teachers. Because, you know, they couldn't get to that during the summer, or Xmas break, or winter break, or spring break.

The end result is that the kids got to stay home and up late for two unseasonably warm days and nights. So last night we're all out after dark and they're trying to show how brave they are by having me dare them to run to various parts of our dark yard. And we have a big yard. My son got to the far corners of the yard. My daughter did too, but only when I held her hand. She was accused of cheating by her brother. I offered him $100 if he would run to the telephone pole out in the field behind our house. It's about 200 yards away and it is D A R K out there. He wouldn't do it. Today he did it when it was twilight and I gave him $5. Dark is one thing, twilight's kind of easy.

But we weren't done yet. My daughter wanted her brother to scare her, but only if I would hold her hand. This got sort of old and number one son was getting bored. So the following takes place.

Son: "Dad, you scare me"

Me: "No, it's hard enough getting you to bed already"

Son: "C'mon, I bet you can't"

Me: "I don't think so"

Son: "You just know you can't do it...Old Man"

WHAAAAA? Old man? Oh, it's on motherfucker. It's SO on. (And yes, technically I'm the motherfucker. I know this. My son doesn't need to.)

Me: "OK smart-ass, count to ten and then come look for me."

I hide deep in the bushes on one side of our property. When my son gets close I lay down on the ground, very quietly. He gets closer. "Dad?" he says, tentatively. "Are you in there?" Oh, it's not Old Man now is it, ya little bastard. I don't answer. "Dad?" No answer. He turns away.

And that's when my hand shot out from under the bushes and grabbed his ankle.

See you all in hell.

Go Tigers!

I have a massive headache from repeatedly smashing my head into the wall over the weekend. God I hate the Yankees right now. But not as much as I hate the A's and the National League, so Go Tigers!

Is it spring training yet?

Just Wondering

Do you think Gavin Rossdale ever wakes up and says to himself, "Gee, I'm really tired of seeing Gwen Stefani's naked body next to me."

Yeah. I don't either.

In a somewhat related note, in that we're dealing with pop music in both cases, when I was a wee small lad growing up, the hottest show for the 8th grade girls to watch was General Hospital. And this was largely because of one Rick Springfield, and also becuase it allowed them to fantasize that if they were ever raped in a roller rink, they could grow up to marry the rapist. Thank you Luke and Laura for that lesson. Anyway, Rick Springfield managed to parlay his good looks into a pop music "career" of a couple of albums. I heard one of the hits this morning on the way into work, one "Jessie's Girl." Feeling nostalgic, I kept the station on. And I came to one conclusion. That song sucked. And still sucks. And will always suck. A few months ago, Rick played a concert at our local casino. My wife, who is a General Hospital fan to the same extent that the Pope is sort of Catholic, wanted to go. I agreed to buy two tickets, on one condition.

Her: "What's the condition?" (No doubt thinking she was going to have to wear the nurse's uniform again)

Me: "You take someone else."

Questionable Advertising

Last night I'm comfortably ensconced on the couch watching my beloved Yankees take a 1-0 series lead on the Detroit Tigers. Sorry Monk. I was rooting for the Tigers most of the year, but now they're up against the Yanks, and well, they have to go.

But I'm not writing about the game, thrilling though it may have been. Nope, in the middle innings there's an ad for Dunkin' Donuts. After a few seconds I place the guy doing the voice over. It's John Goodman, late of Roseanne, where he played the incredibly overweight Dan Connor. As opposed to the svelte Rosie. Anyway, John is going on about the new cookies at DD, and ends the commercial with their new tag line "America Runs on Dunkin' Donuts"

Listen, John Goodman doesn't run on anything, much less a handful of doughnuts. The guy sonded out of breath reading off the cue cards for the commercial! And I was wondering "what genius came up with the idea of getting a 300+ guy to do an ad for doughnuts?" It's like having Mel Gibson do a Budweisier voice-over.

"Thish ish th' famoth Budweisther beer. -Urp- 'Scuse me. Far as I know it's not made by Jews. -hic- Tha's why you should drink it, cuz America drives on Bud."

CUT!!!

Putting The "Fun" In Dysfunctional

It's lunch time here at the office. That means it's time for my supervisor to have his weekly bible meeting with some of the staff who are apparently in to that sort of thing. I suppose I could complain about how this infringes on my rights, and that because I don't take part I'm less likely to be promoted or get other benefits, like forgiveness of my sins, eternal life, or a better parking spot. But I've always thought that people who complained about such things were sort of dicks. Besides, this crew keeps to themselves and there's no one handing out pamphlets cubicle to cubicle, so it's all good.

Nope, I leave them alone and they leave me alone and everyone's happy. Especially when I play the Supersuckers "Born With A Tail" as the meeting winds down. Sing along everyone:

"You know/That I'm in league with Satan/And you know/There can be no debatin'/My hellbound trail..."

etc., etc.

I suppose this could start a huge controversy, but considering that the staff is currently arming themsleves for conflict over what restaurant we'll have our Xmas party at, this seems like pretty small potatoes.

Seriously.

Arming themselves.