Hundreds of relatively tiny matter-engulfing black holes spontaneously pop open in the universe every day, and not one at that bloody Westminster dog show.
Monday, February 17, 2003 | 10:56 a.m.
Look, it'll never work out between us :
I like drinking coffee and punching dullards in the face, you like fumbling about with portafilters and asking me what a "tamp" is, despite having had this job for a year.
Sunday, February 16, 2003 | 05:13 p.m.
This is an approach to news that I've often thought would be good, but I personally lacked the...what...
....attention span to pursue myself. Nicely done.
This, on the other hand, is the sort of thing that I thought that I would have thought of, but didn't.
Tom Clancy is one of those creepy fuckers where I can't tell what he's looking at, or even if what he is in fact looking at even registers with him in any way, whatsoever.
If you've never seen him, imagine the older Johnny Cash from the "Hurt" video after a severe toupee fire and a stroke, and then fat and also on psilocybin. Interviewer "Tom, tell me, where do you get your ideas?" Clancy "Do you know that pound for pound no gun has killed more people worldwide than the Kalashnikov? It's a genuine work of art." Interviewer "...er,I didn't-" Clancy "Tom Ridge is quite beautiful for a man, really. That's what a quality mousse will do for you." Interviewer"...no kidding... so, uh... huh-" Clancy *leans in* "Son... know how much blood is in your head right now?"
I mention Mr. Clancy because the Wal Mart that I frequent has Tom, or something very similar to Tom, as one of those greeters now that they use to allow you to distinguish between themselves and the local leper colony.
I recently ran out of parts of my head to scratch in my nightly vain effort to avoid this dude's really penetrating/begging gaze, so I decided to get all Perseus, face the gorgon, make friends, and get past it.
Bad idea, because now I'm this dude's Special Four am Buddy. I knew this would happen. Every night there's a routine, now.
"Humebt fah weet" he said last night, slightly more clear than the night before.
"Yes, I'm the same myself" I diplomated without slowing down.
I have to do this, because Wal Mart is the only thing open where I live past 10 pm.
While I'm certainly glad that Tom has.. well, Wal Mart doesn't really pay a living wage, so I'm not that happy for him, but I'm guessing that this was the final speedbumb before homeless, so, bully for Tom that he gets whatever they pay him to stand there filling that niche between tobacco store indian statue and the automated bear hobo from that jug band at Disney.
I can't help but to wonder how a store with such a fucked up sense of presentation can be still canny enough to be rapidly taking over the world.
Sunday, February 16, 2003 | 09:57 a.m.
The White House would appreciate your downloading 988k worth of 12 individual PDF documents, so's you too can learn how to secure y'self and your little corner of the web against Terrorism.
I guess I'll read it, but as soon as I see "duct tape", I'm done.
Sunday, February 16, 2003 | 05:05 a.m.
There's an old Bloom County gag where Opus accidently brushes his teeth with Perpetration H.
I've noticed that Pres. Bush has a size 3 face on like a size 7 head.
I'm willing to believe that a lifetime of one will result in the other.
Sunday, February 16, 2003 | 03:45 a.m.
I've decided that I'm not anti-war, because even if we are imperialisticly (to coin a word) marching into Iraq only to gain domination over the oil output of that part of the world, I look at Iraq... and I think I'm okay with that. Look, Saddam isn't this horrible imposition on this otherwise Canada-like nation... Saddam is a product of the place. Saddam is Iraq's Brian Boitano.
Also, I think if we should accidently lose track of a few rouge missiles in a vaguely French direction while we're cowboying it up, so much the better.
Everyone else on the planet seems to think we're a dick, fine, let's run with the ball a little.
I have this going for me: I've never pretended my outright misanthropy was any sort of moral outrage or irritation with the misuse of our human potential.
Friday, February 14, 2003 | 07:43 a.m.
I'm not a superstitious guy, but Valentine's day is chock full of the bad voodoo.
Anything that focuses so hard on the ying of life, just has to swing the pendulum right back into the yang. I've always had real bad luck in general on the big VD, and I think this is why.
It's ether that, or the halitosis.
Thursday, February 13, 2003 | 11:36 a.m.
Evidently North Korea has a nuclear ballistic missile that can reach the west coast.
You know what that means...
That's right, it's time to buy some currently dirt cheap, one Kim Jong Il-small-penis-issue-away-from-waterfront property in Nevada!
Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do get most of my plans for the future from 70's movie villains. Lex Luthor? Genius.
There hasn't been a time when I wasn't pulled over for speeding that I didn't try to strangle the traffic cop with my brain, Darth Vader-style.
Never made it, but one of the nicer cops did offer me an Ex-Lax.
Wednesday, February 12, 2003 | 01:27 p.m.
Look, Sam-I-am, I would not like American Idol.
I would not like it on the tee vee,
I would not like traces of it in my pee,
I do not like it all in my face,
on my radio, on my news,
all over this rapidly-regressing-back-to-the-bronze-age place.
I would not like it even if the losers suffered bukkake.
Okay, I might watch then, but only if it also had group bowling pin sodomy.
I do not care for whatisname, that utter prat from England,
I do not care for that other guy, Journey was a horrible band,
I do not care for that milquetoast has-been reject from VH1 runt,
That squat, mindless (c -word that kind of rhymes with 'one'.)
Look, Sam-I-am, I don't want to watch American Idol.
I don't trust that british dude, he's a guy, yet in grave need of mydol,
I would not watch it stoned, I would not watch it even if I were paid,
I would not, could not, I managed to get past the fourth grade.
That turnaround bit where I try it and then like it after all?
That's never coming.
Wednesday, February 12, 2003 | 11:41 a.m.
Hey, neato. Looks like through the magic of quarks or tachyons or somesuch of that made up stuff in that book by that wheelchair guy, they've figured out a negative gear ratio, specific to minivans.
That's right... just now, as you're reading what I left here, you can bet I'm grinding along behind a minivan downshifting smoothly into motherfucking -1.
Tuesday, February 11, 2003 | 12:58 a.m.
Chico tipped me off to the fact that if you're using Opera, you can't see this.
Okay, who are ya trying to impress, anyway? Get a name brand browser. Do as you're told. Stop trying to be such a rebel.
Listen, Bill Gates works damn hard repackaging other people's ideas, the least you peasants could do is buy only his products at his prices.
Sunday, February 2, 2003 | 05:51 a.m.
Jesus, don't serve Folgers.
Folgers is never good, okay?
If regular coffee beans could eat, Folgers is the diarrhea they'd leave in the cheap motel's seatless toilet after a night of eating Lemmy Kilmister's week-old vomit in Mexico.
If Michael Jackson showed up at my door, with blood smeared all over his now fruit bat-looking face, wearing a Buffalo Bill suit freshly made out of neighborhood toddlers, squeaking that he would like some refreshment, I'd somehow manage to do better for him than Folgers.
Look, Folgers should be sold only in Afghanistan, in lead-lined bags with a big picture of Strom Thurmond's scrotum on it, and then only to goats, not in the local food store's coffee section in pleasing little red bags with coffee beans on them that look like actual coffee.
For god's sake man... don't serve Folgers. You can get normal real coffee for only 50 cents more. Be reasonable.