Why, for the majority of my life, going on 50 years now, have the words "Muslim" and "Death" been part of the same sentence? What? What??? What is it that they're not GETTING?? They're not renegades on camels in the Sahel fighting for AAAALLLAHU AKBHAR any more! Allah can really, trust me on this, TAKE CARE OF HIMSELF. (Big "H,"people!)
He doesn't need a ragged band of losers holed up in some ravine in Afghanistan plotting some idiot mayhem to further his cause! THAT'S CALLED NEGATIVE ADVERTISING. It's like continually shooting the foot that you depend on to walk on.
It's just a band of idiot losers who just don't prefer to better themselves, like their "Arab Brothers in Dubai" or some such -- just the age-old "oppressed" against the "rich."
Hey, get with it, "Oppressed Muslim Peoples": the people doing the oppressing live right behind you in Apartment 2A.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Words For the Day XXVII
From my endless sludge of thoughtinventions:
"Shoot them all, sir, and then confiscate their curry."
"Shoot them all, sir, and then confiscate their curry."
My Adoring Throng . . .
. . . no, seriously, discard everything that you have ever read in this space. True terror, impossible-to-imagine terror has befallen all of us. The Day here, on our beloved earth, may have increased by 6.8 microseconds! That is not nano-seconds, but micro-seconds, orders of magnitude huger!
Mankind is threatened! The drive to work will take an unnoticeable but nonetheless measurable EXTRA 6.8 microseconds! Day in, day out! Plan your Saturdays accordingly, and make SURE you allow for those extra microseconds with the picnic basket! Hot things stay hot! Cold things stay cold! Mayonnaise attracts wasps!
Mankind is threatened! The drive to work will take an unnoticeable but nonetheless measurable EXTRA 6.8 microseconds! Day in, day out! Plan your Saturdays accordingly, and make SURE you allow for those extra microseconds with the picnic basket! Hot things stay hot! Cold things stay cold! Mayonnaise attracts wasps!
Not Welcome to my Nightmare
God, have you ever had a nightmare where you practically awake from shouting and sweating?
This is the second day in a row I've had these vast, complex, disturbing nightmares that almost seem to crouch in glee behind my back as they invent progressively more horrible twists and turns.
I know, I know. There's nothing more boring than hearing someone else's dreams. You just want to say "Aaah, wake the fuck up."
But these two in a row take the cake. Yesterday, I dreamed my ex-wife showed up at Brigitte's (not my, and I don't know why) house for no apparent reason other than to INVADE MY DREAM. Let's leave the fact that she's in Japan and would never, ever make the trip out of this.
Suddenly, as i'm still trying to figure out what she's doing here, in Brigitte's house, the DOOR OPENS; no knock! The massive front door! And it's a young female relative of Brigitte who I know I've met but can't quite recall the name of! And she sits down and sullenly gestures at my ex-wife and says "I know what you're up to." And I say, "No, no. no, you're completely wrong!"
But then three of her friends show up, all young teens with weird hair and tattoos and now they're sitting in a circle and muttering amongst themselves about my infidelity but by that time my ex-wife has long gone and I awake, panting and looking for Brigitte, who isn't there. (She's in the next room).
Nightmare: Part Deux: I'm somehow going to Japan with my son. (Imagine all this in wide-screen, Technicolor Surround-sound IMAX and you might just get an idea).
For some reason I'm taking both of Brigitte's cars. The one that was wrecked last week by hit and run, and the rental replacement. (In reality, dear readers). For some reason I somehow drive both of them onto the plane/ship/mode of conveyance. (Hey, what the fuck, talk to my Nightmare Cruise Director).
Somehow we get to Japan and are in this vast labyrinth of hotel/airport (often the sad reality in Japan, and an experience that my seasoned mind will sadly tell you I've only all to often been through before) and all of a sudden I have to park the first car. Never mind how I somehow am dragging both behind me with an 8-year-old boy in tow -- like I said, TALK TO THE NIGHTMARE DIRECTOR.
So I park it, and we're on our way. Never mind that I haven't driven a car in 25 years and that they drive upside-down in Japan. DETAILS, People, DETAILS. THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE, not yours.
We check in, and all is rosy. We're in this huge, Spielbergian complex of flying shuttles and escalators and 18 levels and signs and thousands upon thousands of people walking, talking, going to Starbucks . . . the list is long! we go to eat something and suddenly I forget where I parked the car. (I think the second car deserted the scenario due to lack of top billing in the nightmare script).
I have no idea where I parked the car in this huge, endless maze of buildings and structures and yawning chasms of Industria, so, naturally, I take it out on Tai-chan (my litte boy). "Where is it, Bunny? Where did Daddy put the car?" (See where this fucking Nightmare Director is taking us?)
"I don't know, Daddy, I can't remember."
"Oh, for God's sakes, just stay right here and I'll go look for it."
. . .
Let alone the ludicrousness of leaving an 8-year-old boy alone in your nightmare, I do just that.
And guess what: thanks, Dream-Cruise-Whtchamacallit -- I come back with no car, no clue, and a disappeared son, in now this mind-bogglingly huge universe of endless mind-numbing details; escalators that go nowhere, signs I can't read, languages I can't speak and now there's only me, whistling my special whistle that Tai-chan and Brigitte always recognize when we're separated somehwhere.
Except this time, this story, I'm truly whistling in the dark . . .
As in most nightmares, there is no happy ending, except the time YOU FUCKING WAKE UP.
This is the second day in a row I've had these vast, complex, disturbing nightmares that almost seem to crouch in glee behind my back as they invent progressively more horrible twists and turns.
I know, I know. There's nothing more boring than hearing someone else's dreams. You just want to say "Aaah, wake the fuck up."
But these two in a row take the cake. Yesterday, I dreamed my ex-wife showed up at Brigitte's (not my, and I don't know why) house for no apparent reason other than to INVADE MY DREAM. Let's leave the fact that she's in Japan and would never, ever make the trip out of this.
Suddenly, as i'm still trying to figure out what she's doing here, in Brigitte's house, the DOOR OPENS; no knock! The massive front door! And it's a young female relative of Brigitte who I know I've met but can't quite recall the name of! And she sits down and sullenly gestures at my ex-wife and says "I know what you're up to." And I say, "No, no. no, you're completely wrong!"
But then three of her friends show up, all young teens with weird hair and tattoos and now they're sitting in a circle and muttering amongst themselves about my infidelity but by that time my ex-wife has long gone and I awake, panting and looking for Brigitte, who isn't there. (She's in the next room).
Nightmare: Part Deux: I'm somehow going to Japan with my son. (Imagine all this in wide-screen, Technicolor Surround-sound IMAX and you might just get an idea).
For some reason I'm taking both of Brigitte's cars. The one that was wrecked last week by hit and run, and the rental replacement. (In reality, dear readers). For some reason I somehow drive both of them onto the plane/ship/mode of conveyance. (Hey, what the fuck, talk to my Nightmare Cruise Director).
Somehow we get to Japan and are in this vast labyrinth of hotel/airport (often the sad reality in Japan, and an experience that my seasoned mind will sadly tell you I've only all to often been through before) and all of a sudden I have to park the first car. Never mind how I somehow am dragging both behind me with an 8-year-old boy in tow -- like I said, TALK TO THE NIGHTMARE DIRECTOR.
So I park it, and we're on our way. Never mind that I haven't driven a car in 25 years and that they drive upside-down in Japan. DETAILS, People, DETAILS. THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE, not yours.
We check in, and all is rosy. We're in this huge, Spielbergian complex of flying shuttles and escalators and 18 levels and signs and thousands upon thousands of people walking, talking, going to Starbucks . . . the list is long! we go to eat something and suddenly I forget where I parked the car. (I think the second car deserted the scenario due to lack of top billing in the nightmare script).
I have no idea where I parked the car in this huge, endless maze of buildings and structures and yawning chasms of Industria, so, naturally, I take it out on Tai-chan (my litte boy). "Where is it, Bunny? Where did Daddy put the car?" (See where this fucking Nightmare Director is taking us?)
"I don't know, Daddy, I can't remember."
"Oh, for God's sakes, just stay right here and I'll go look for it."
. . .
Let alone the ludicrousness of leaving an 8-year-old boy alone in your nightmare, I do just that.
And guess what: thanks, Dream-Cruise-Whtchamacallit -- I come back with no car, no clue, and a disappeared son, in now this mind-bogglingly huge universe of endless mind-numbing details; escalators that go nowhere, signs I can't read, languages I can't speak and now there's only me, whistling my special whistle that Tai-chan and Brigitte always recognize when we're separated somehwhere.
Except this time, this story, I'm truly whistling in the dark . . .
As in most nightmares, there is no happy ending, except the time YOU FUCKING WAKE UP.
Monday, March 1, 2010
McDonald's. "I'm Loving It."
What whack-job, what corporate-cubicle-farm suit came up with that one? What's worse, what hack-ass musician came up with the fucking most annoying jingle on Earth?
How do these people actually gainfully employ themselves? I try to eke out a living with my graphic design skills but these people actually manage a global conglomerate idio-sinkrasy with THIS COMPLETE TOTAL CRAP?
How do they do it? And WHY DO WE ACCEPT IT? Do we all have to be wriggling small-headed blind worms squirming underground while "I'm Loving It" in fifty-five languages plays overhead?
What the fuck are we, after two goddamn million years? A civilisation of FUCKING HEADLESS WORMS???
Furthermore, I see this as none less than an ASSAULT on the future health of my 8-year-old son.
You fucking jihadis. You're totally misguided. Get rid of these jerks first, and maybe you'll get 27 fucking Big Macs in Paradise for your troubles. Who the fuck needs virgins. They're overrated.
How do these people actually gainfully employ themselves? I try to eke out a living with my graphic design skills but these people actually manage a global conglomerate idio-sinkrasy with THIS COMPLETE TOTAL CRAP?
How do they do it? And WHY DO WE ACCEPT IT? Do we all have to be wriggling small-headed blind worms squirming underground while "I'm Loving It" in fifty-five languages plays overhead?
What the fuck are we, after two goddamn million years? A civilisation of FUCKING HEADLESS WORMS???
Furthermore, I see this as none less than an ASSAULT on the future health of my 8-year-old son.
You fucking jihadis. You're totally misguided. Get rid of these jerks first, and maybe you'll get 27 fucking Big Macs in Paradise for your troubles. Who the fuck needs virgins. They're overrated.
Medal Count?
Medal count? WHO THE FUCK CARES? How about the "medal count" for a malarial kid screaming for his AIDS-dead mother and absent father in sub-Saharan wherever the fuck?
Medal count? It's by my last count, OBSCENE.
Hey, girl-scout cookies, anyone?
Medal count? It's by my last count, OBSCENE.
Hey, girl-scout cookies, anyone?
How To Reheat Almost Anything
This would be a book I would like to have. How do you reheat a pita, filled with rare steak slices, onions, lettuces and condiments? So that the lettuce won't be hot, the steak will still be rare, the pita will be crunchy and nothing, absolutely nothing, will be soggy?
Certainly not in the microwave. Perhaps this is a book that should be written. By me.
Certainly not in the microwave. Perhaps this is a book that should be written. By me.
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