Courtesy of Neal Boortz comes this special product advertisement:
All repeats, all the time!
I wud like a kool toy space ranjur fer Xmas. Iv ben a gud
boy all yeer.
Nice spelling. You're on your way to a career in lawn care.
How about I send you a fucking book so you can learn to read and
write? I'm giving your older brother the space ranger. At least HE
I have been a good girl all year, and the only thing I ask for is
peace and joy in the world for everybody!
You're parents smoked pot when they had you, didn't they?
I don't know if you can do this, but for Christmas, I'd like for my
mommy and daddy to get back together. Please see what you can do.
Look, your dad's banging the babysitter like a screen door in a
hurricane. Do you think he's gonna give that up to come back to your
frigid mom, who rides his ass constantly? It's time to give up that
dream. Let me get you some nice Legos instead.
I want a new bike, a Playstation, a train, some G.I. Joes, a dog, a
drum kit, a pony and a tuba.
Who names their kid "Damien" nowadays? I bet you're gay.
I left milk and cookies for you under the tree, and I left carrots
for your reindeer outside the back door.
Milk gives me the runs and carrots make the deer fart in my face
when riding in the sleigh. You want to do me a favor? Leave me a bottle
What do you do the other 364 days of the year? Are you busy
All the toys are made in China. I have a condo in Vegas, where I
spend most of my time making low-budget porno films. I unwind
by drinking myself silly and squeezing the asses of cocktail waitresses
while losing money at the craps table. Hey,you wanted to know.
Do you see us when we're sleeping, do you really know when we're
awake, like in the song?
Are you really that gullible? Good luck in whatever you do. I'm
skipping your house.
I really really want a puppy this year. Please please please PLEASE
PLEASE could I have one?
That whiney begging shit may work with your folks, but that crap
doesn't work with me. You're getting a sweater again.
We don't have a chimney in our house, how do you get into our house?
First, stop calling yourself "Joey", that's why you're getting your
ass whipped at school. Second, you don't live in a house, you live in a
low-rent apartment complex. Third, I get inside your pad just like
all the burglars do, through your bedroom window.
Not only did I post this last year, I've sent it out via email for more than 10 years. I promised you old and stale, and I've delivered ancient and decayed. No thanks are necessary.
December 14, 1972
My dearest darling John:
Who ever in the whole world would dream of getting a real Partridge
in a Pear Tree? How can I ever express my pleasure. Thank you a
hundred times for thinking of me this way.
My love always,
December 15, 1972
Today the postman brought your very sweet gift. Just imagine two
turtle doves. I'm just delighted at your very thoughtful gift. They
are just adorable.
All my love,
December 16, 1972
Oh! Aren't you the extravagant one. Now I must protest. I don't
deserve such generosity, three French hens. They are just darling
but I must insist, you've been too kind.
All my love,
December 17, 1972
Today the postman delivered four calling birds. Now really, they are
beautiful, but don't you think enough is enough. You are being too
December 18, 1972
What a surprise. Today the postman delivered five golden rings, one for
every finger. You're just impossible, but I love it. Frankly, all
those birds squawking were beginning to get on my nerves.
All my love,
December 19, 1972
When I opened the door today there were actually six geese laying on my
front steps. So you're back to the birds again huh? These geese are huge.
Where will I ever keep them? The neighbors are complaining and I can't
sleep through the racket. Please stop.
December 20, 1972
What's with you and those freaking birds?? Seven swans a swimming. What
kind of damn joke is this? There's bird poop all over the house and they
never stop the racket. I can't sleep at night and I'm a nervous wreck. It's
not funny. So stop those freaking birds.
December 21, 1972
I think I prefer the birds. What the hell am I going to do with 8
maids a milking? It's not enough with all those birds and 8 maids a
milking, but they had to bring their damn cows. There is manure all over the
lawn and I can't move in my own house. Just lay off me, smartass.
December 22, 1972
What are you.....some kind of sadist? Now there's nine pipers
playing. And Christ do they play. They've never stopped chasing
those maids since they got here yesterday morning. The cows are
getting upset and they're stepping all over those screeching birds.
What am I going to do? The neighbors have started a petition to evict
You'll get yours !
December 23, 1972
You rotten prick:
Now there's ten ladies dancing. I don't know why I call those sluts
ladies. They've been balling those pipers all night long. Now the
cows can't sleep and they've got diarrhea. My living room is a river
of shit. The Commissioner of Buildings has subpoenaed me to give cause
why the building shouldn't be condemned. I'm calling the police on you !
December 24, 1972
What's with those eleven lords a leaping on those maid and ladies?
Some of those broads will never walk again. Those pipers ran through the
maids and have been committing sodomy with the cows. All twenty-three
of the birds are dead. They've been trampled to death in the orgy. I hope
you're satisfied, you rotten vicious swine.
You're sworn enemy,
December 25, 1972
This is to acknowledge your latest gift of twelve fiddlers fiddling
which you have seen fit to inflict on our client, Miss Agnes
McHolstein. The destruction, of course, was total. All
correspondence should come to our attention. If you should
attempt to reach Miss McHolstein at Happy Dale Sanitarium,
the attendants have been instructed to shoot you on sight.
With this letter please find attached a warrant for your arrest.
Law Offices of Badger, Bender and Chole
In honor of the first snowfall in the Richmond area this year, I give you the following re-post:
Snow... Snow... Snow... Snow... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Diary of a Snow Shoveler
December 8: 6:00 PM. It started to snow. The first snow of the season
and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window
watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like
a Grandma Moses Print. So romantic we felt like newlyweds again. I
December 9: We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow
covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there
be a more lovely place in the Whole World? Moving here was the best
idea I've ever had. Shoveled for the first time in years and felt like a
boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks. This afternoon the
snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the
driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life.
December 12: The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a
disappointment. My neighbor tells me not to worry, we'll definitely
have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says
we'll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I'll never want to see
snow again. l don't think that's possible. Bob is such a nice man I'm glad
he's our neighbor.
December 14: Snow lovely snow! 8" last night. The temperature
dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my
breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is
the life! The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything
again. l didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling,
but I'll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish l wouldn't huff and puff so.
December 15: 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4
Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the
freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out.
I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska, after all.
December 16: Ice storm this morning. Fell on my ass on the ice in the
driveway putting down salt. Hurt like hell. The wife laughed for an
hour. Which I think was very cruel.
December 17: Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go
anywhere. Electricity was off for 5 hours. I had to pile the blankets
on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to
irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit
it to her. God I hate it when she's right. I can't believe I'm freezing
to death in my own living room.
December 20: Electricity's back on, but had another 14" of the damn
stuff last night. More shoveling. Took all day. Goddamn snowplow came
by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but they said they're
too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only
hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they're
out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob
says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying.
December 22: Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more
inches of the white shit fell today, and it's so cold it probably won't
melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to
shovel and then I had to piss. By the time I got undressed, pissed and
dressed again. I was too tired to shovel. Tried to hire Bob who has a
plow on his truck for the rest of the winter; but he says he's too busy.
I think the asshole is lying.
December 23: Only 2" of snow today. And it warmed up to 0o. The wife
wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she
nuts!!! Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago? She says she
did but I think she's lying.
December 24: 6". Snow packed so hard by snowplow, l broke the
shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. If I ever catch the son of a
bitch who drives that snowplow, I'll drag him through the snow by his balls.
I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling
and then he comes down the street at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow
all over where I've just been! Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas
carols with her and open our presents, but I was busy watching for the
December 25: Merry Christmas. 20 more inches of the !=3D@x@!x!x1
slop tonight. Snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. God
I hate the snow! Then the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation
and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad
attitude. I think she's an idiot. If I have to watch "It's a Wonderful
Life" one more time, I'm going to kill her.
December 26: Still snowed in. Why the hell did I ever move here? It
was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves.
December 27: Temperature dropped to -30o and the pipes froze.
December 28: Warmed up to above -50. Still snowed in. THE BITCH is
driving me crazy!!!!!
December 29: 10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it
could cave in. That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does
he think I am?
December 30: Roof caved in. The snow plow driver is suing me for a
million dollars. The wife went home to her mother. 9" predicted.
December 31: Set fire to what's left of the house. No more
January 8: I feel so good. I just love those little white pills they
keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed?
* * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
And another from the not-so-wayback machine...
No holiday season would be complete without swatting the smug grin off of Martha Stewart's face. I give you the following:
When you read or listen to Martha Stewart's hints and advice, do you think to yourself "I could do that"? Then, you follow that thought with "What is wrong with me? Am I just a waste of good air?"
If this is you, then read on ...
MARTHA STEWART'S HOLIDAY CALENDAR
Blanch carcass from Thanksgiving turkey. Spray paint gold, turnupside
down and use as a sleigh to hold Christmas Cards.
Have Mormon Tabernacle Choir record outgoing Christmas message for
Using candlewick and handgilded miniature pine cones, fashion
cat-o-nine tails. Flog Gardener.
Repaint Sistine Chapel ceiling in ecru, with mocha trim.
Get new eyeglasses. Grind lenses myself.
Fax family Christmas newsletter to Pulitzer committee for
Debug Windows '98
Decorate homegrown Christmas tree with scented candles handmade with
beeswax from my backyard bee colony.
Record own Christmas album complete with 4 part harmony and all instrument
accompaniment performed by myself. Mail to all my friends and loved
Align carpets to adjust for curvature of Earth.
Lay Faberge egg.
Erect ice skating rink in front yard using spring water I bottled
Open for neighborhood children's use. Create festive mood by
handmaking snow and playing my Christmas album.
Collect Dentures. They make excellent pastry cutters, particularly
for decorative pie crusts.
Install plumbing in gingerbread house.
Replace air in mini-van tires with Glade "holiday scents" in case
tires are shot out at mall.
Child proof the Christmas tree with garland of razor wire.
Adjust legs of chairs so each Christmas dinner guest will be same
height when sitting at his or her assigned seat.
Dip sheep and cows in egg whites and roll in confectioner's sugar to
add a festive sparkle to the pasture.
Drain city reservoir; refill with mulled cider, orange slices and
Float votive candles in toilet tank.
Seed clouds for white Christmas.
Do my annual good deed. Go to several stores. Be seen engaged in last
minute Christmas shopping, thus making many people feel less
inadequate than they really are.
Bear son. Swaddle. Lay in color-coordinated manger scented with
Organize spice racks by genus and phylum.
Build snowman in exact likeness of God.
Take Dog apart. Disinfect. Reassemble.
Hand sew 365 quilts, each using 365 material squares I weaved myself
used to represent the 365 days of the year. Donate to local
Release flock of white doves, each individually decorated with olive
branches, to signify desire of world peace.
New Year's Eve! Give staff their resolutions. Call a friend in each
time zone of the world as the clock strikes midnight in that country.
I rarely ask for much. This year is no exception. I don't need diamond earrings, handy slicer-dicers or comfy slippers. I only want one little thing, and I want it deeply. I want to slap Martha Stewart.
Now, hear me out, Santa. I won't scar her or draw blood or anything. Just one good smack, right across her smug little cheek. I get all cozy inside just thinking about it. Don't grant this wish just for me, do it for thousands of women across the country. Through sheer vicarious satisfaction, you'll be giving a gift to us all. Those of us leading average, garden variety lives aren't concerned with gracious living. We feel pretty good about ourselves if our paper plates match when we stack them on the counter, buffet-style for dinner. We're tired of Martha showing us how to make centerpieces from hollyhock dipped in 18 carat gold. We're plumb out of liquid gold. Unless it's of the furniture polish variety. We can't whip up Martha's creamy holiday sauce, spiced with turmeric. Most of us can't even say turmeric, let alone figure out what to do with it.
OK, Santa, maybe you think I'm being a little harsh. But I'll bet with all the holiday rush you didn't catch that interview with Martha in last week's USA Weekend. I'm surprised there was enough room on the page for her ego.
We discovered that not only does Martha avoid take-out pizza (she's only ordered it once), she refuses to eat it cold (No cold pizza? Is Martha Stewart Living?) When it was pointed out that she could microwave it, she replied, "I don't have a microwave." The reporter, Jeffrey Zaslow, noted that she said this "in a tone that suggests you shouldn't either."
Well lah-dee-dah. Imagine that, Santa!
That lovely microwave you brought me years ago, in which I've learned to make complicated dishes like popcorn and hot chocolate, has been declared undesirable by Queen Martha. What next? The coffee maker?
In the article, we learned that Martha has 40 sets of dishes adorning an entire wall in her home. Forty sets. Can you spell "overkill"? And neatly put away, no less. If my dishes make it to the dishwasher, that qualifies as "put away" in my house!
Martha tells us she's already making homemade holiday gifts for friends. "Last year, I made amazing silk-lined scarves for everyone," she boasts. Not just scarves, mind you. Amazing scarves. Martha's obviously not shy about giving herself a little pat on the back. In fact, she does so with such frequency that one has to wonder if her back is black and blue.
She goes on to tell us that "homemaking is glamour for the 90s," and says her most glamorous friends are "interested in stain removal, how to iron a monogram, and how to fold a towel." I have one piece of advice, Martha: "Get new friends." Glamorous friends fly to Paris on a whim. They drift past the Greek Islands on yachts, sipping champagne from crystal goblets. They step out for the evening in shimmering satin gowns, whisked away by tuxedoed chauffeurs. They do not spend their days pondering the finer art of toilet bowl sanitation.
Zaslow notes that Martha was named one of America's 25 most influential people by Time magazine (nosing out Mother Theresa, Madeline Allbright and Maya Angelou, no doubt).
The proof of Martha's influence: after she bought white-fleshed peaches in the supermarket, Martha says, "People saw me buy them. In an instant, they were all gone." I hope Martha never decides to jump off a bridge!
A guest in Martha's home told Zaslow how Martha gets up early to rollerblade with her dogs to pick fresh wild blackberries for breakfast. This confirms what I've suspected about Martha all along: She's obviously got too much time on her hands. Teaching the dogs to rollerblade. What a show off.
If you think the dogs are spoiled, listen to how Martha treats her friends: She gave one friend all 272 books from the Knopf Everyman Library. It didn't cost much. Pocket change, really. Just $5,000. But what price friendship, right? When asked if others should envy her, Martha replies, "Don't envy me. I'm doing this because I'm a natural teacher. You shouldn't envy teachers. You should listen to them." Zaslow must have slit a seam in Martha's ego at this point, because once the hot air came hissing out, it couldn't be held back. "Being an overachiever is nothing despicable. It is only admirable. Never lower your standards," says Martha. And of her Web Page on the Internet, Martha declares herself an "important presence" as she graciously helps people organize their sad, tacky little lives.
There you have it, Santa. If there was ever someone who deserved a good smack, it's Martha Stewart. But I bet I won't get my gift this year. You probably want to smack her yourself.
A Hopeful "Child"
Later, rinse, repost.
So what happens? Does Rudolph finally have enough of the bullying and dons a trenchcoat, listens to Marilyn Manson and mows down his enemies? No, Rudolph goes off on an adventure. He escapes his problems instead of confronting them. When you think about it, running away on adventure isn't so bad, as he could have turned to a life on the streets, doing "favors" for old barflys in exchange for salt licks.
I really missed Michele's blogging during her absence. And her post put me in mind to repost an old image:
Lather, rinse, repost.
And here's one that you won't want to see.
Frosty turns out to be a dirty, nasty little grade schooler:
Don't say that I didn't warn you about the Christmas-time repeats...
Barbie's Letter To Santa
Listen you fat little troll, I've been helping you out every year,
playing at being the perfect Christmas Present, wearing skimpy bathing
suits in frigid weather, and drowning in fake tea from one too many tea
parties, and I hate to break it to ya Santa, but IT'S DEFINITELY PAY
BACK TIME! There had better be some changes around here this Christmas,
or I'm gonna call for a nationwide meltdown (and trust me, you won't
wanna be around to smell it).
So, here's my holiday wish list for 1998, Santa.
1. A nice, comfy pair of sweat pants and a frumpy, oversized sweatshirt.
I'm sick of looking like a hooker. How much smaller are these bathing
suits gonna get? Do you have any idea what it feels like to have nylon
and velcro up your butt?
2. Real underwear that can be pulled on and off. Preferably white. What
bonehead at Mattel decided to cheap out and MOLD imitation underwear to
my skin?!? It looks like cellulite!
3. A REAL man... maybe GI JOE. Hell, I'd take Tickle-Me-Elmo over that
wimped-out excuse for a boy toy Ken. And what's with that earring anyway?
If I'm gonna have to suffer with him, at least make him (and me)
4. Arms that actually bend so I can push the aforementioned Ken-wimp
away once he is anatomically correct.
5. Breast reduction surgery. I don't care whose arm you have to twist,
just get it done.
6. A jog-bra. To wear until I get the surgery.
7. A new career. Pet doctor and school teacher just don't cut it. How
about a systems analyst? Or better yet, a public relations senior
8. A new, more 90's persona. Maybe "PMS Barbie", complete with a
miniature container of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and a
bag of chips; "Animal Rights Barbie", with my very own paint gun,
fitted with a fake fur coat, bottle of spray on blood and handcuffs;
or "Stop Smoking Barbie," sporting a Nicotrol patch and equipped with
several packs of gum.
9. No more McDonald's endorsements. The grease is wrecking my vinyl.
10. Mattel stock options. It's been 37 years-I think I deserve it.
Okay Santa, that's it. Considering my valuable contribution to society, I
don't think these requests are out of line. If you disagree, then you can
find yourself a new bitch for next Christmas. It's that simple.
Ken's Letter To Santa
I understand that one of my colleagues has petitioned you
for changes in her contract, specifically asking for anatomical and
career changes. In addition, it is my understanding that disparaging
remarks were made about me, my ability to please, and some of my
fashion choices. I would like to take this opportunity to inform you
of some issues concerning Ms. Barbie, and some of my own needs and
First of all, I along with several other colleagues feel
Barbie DOES NOT deserve preferential treatment - the bitch has
everything. Along with Joe, Jem, Raggedy Ann & Andy, I DO NOT have
a dream house, corvette, evening gowns, and in some cases the ability
to change our hair style. I personally have only 3 outfits which I am
forced to mix and match at great length.
My decision to accessorize my outfits with an earring was my
decision and reflects my lifestyle choice.
I too would like a change in my career. Have you ever considered
"Decorator Ken", "Beauty Salon Ken", or "Out Of Work Actor Ken"? In
addition, there are several other avenues which could be considered such
"S&M Ken" , "Green Lantern Ken", "Circuit Ken", "Bear Ken", "Master Ken".
These would more accurately reflect my desires and perhaps open up new
markets. And as for Barbie needing bendable arms so she can "push me
away," I need bendable knees so I can kick the bitch to the curb.
Bendable knees would also be helpful for me in other situations - we've
talked about this issue before.
In closing, I would like to point out that any further concessions
to the blond bimbo from hell will result in action be taken by myself and
others. And Barbie can forget about having Joe - he's mine, at least that's
what he said last night.
You do know that beer is "living proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy," right? Did you also know that God has a wicked sense of humor and, more importantly, he freaking hates Al Gore? The timing is uncanny and, dare I say, lovely. Why lovely? Because Gore is a pretentious, bombastic, know-nothing douche of a politician filled with a completely undeserved sense of self-importance and I giggle like a little girl when I see him get Godslapped upside his carbon-emitting-by-the-freaking-truckload cakehole.
Thanks to Ace for the link.
I've stopped reading Batshit Crazy Juice most of the time because, well, if I'm going to read drug-induced fiction, I'll pull out out my Edgar Allen Poe books. However, once in a while I click over to see what the Daily Dementia ™ (sorry for stealing your byline, Sully) is. Today I did it and I can't say that I regretted doing so. I needed a good laugh and the clusterfark at Bugfuck Crazy Urine provided it. It's like watching a paranoid schizophrenic chimpanzee suffering from ADD trying to type coherent sentences expounding on the general theory of relativity. It's entertaining for a while, what with all the screeching and poo flinging, but eventually it becomes simply boring, and then it's time to move on.
I won't link to him these days because he's, well, nuts and a dick, but I saw that Cole made the following comment:
Ehh. We humans had a good run.
What you mean we, white man? I suggest that you get your DNA tested because I think that you're mistaken in your belief.
Yeah, it's an oldie, but it's still on my list of favorite holiday repeats.
CHRISTMAS INFO MEMO 12/21
IT CAME UPON A SERVER CLEAR...
Archaeologists working in the Holy Land have discovered an ancient
diskette mixed up with the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Here is what they found on the diskette:
Date: Mon, 2 Dec
Subject: Taxes, Census
I decree that all the inhabited world shall be counted and taxed. You must
every one go unto your own city.
Date: Wed, 4 Dec
Please reserve room for two, perhaps three, for December 24 to
Date: Fri, 6 Dec
Subject: RE: Reservations
Sorry, no room available. We've got the Hanukkah rush and the census crowd.
Thank heaven Athens beat us out for the Olympics this year! Why not come in
the off-season and get our special rate? Anyway, if you have a forms-capable
browser, you can register for the census and pay your taxes on the Med Wide Web
Date: Sun, 8 Dec
Subject: RE: RE: Reservations
Forms-capable browser? You must be kidding! It'll probably take
Galilee OnLine a couple of thousand years to work out access like
that. Please place us on waiting list for room.
Date: Mon, 23 Dec
Subject: Temporary Permit
Due to the crush of taxpayers and holiday visitors, you are hereby
granted a permit to use your stable, barn, or any agricultural outbuildings
for temporary lodging or shelter for up to 30 days from this date.
Address any appeals to:
ATTN: Manger Manager
Date: Wed, 25 Dec
Subject: It's a boy!
Unto us a son is born.
Let the family know. He came upon a midnight clear, away in a manger.
Hope to upgrade room.
Date: Wed, 25 Dec
Tidings of great joy: Unto you is born this day in the city of David
Date: Wed, 25 Dec
Subject: Praise the Lord ...
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward
Date: Wed, 25 Dec
Subject: ... and Pass the Admonition
If ye do not act now, rates for heavenly hostingWeb sites will go up
January 1. Sign up now to lock in current prices, so ye can make known
abroad (at our famous low rates) the saying which was told you
concerning this child, glorifying and praising God for all the things
that ye have heard and seen, as it was told unto you.
Date: Wed, 25 Dec
Subject: RE: ... and Pass the Admonition
Angels we have heard on high. We'll sign up, but only if you can get
us the domain name we want: FirstNoel.com.
Date: Wed, 25 Dec
Subject: Star sighting
We've seen the light! Heading your way. May take a few days. Caspar wants
to pick up some gold, frankincense, and myrrh before leaving. And for some
reason, everything seems to be closed today. Also, transportation is heavily
booked westward leading, still proceeding. We just got bumped off a caravan
because Balthazar wanted a non-smoking camel. See you January 6 or so.
Sorry we'll miss the bris. So, what are you going to name the kid, anyway?
And his name shall be called Jesus.
That's what this is all about...
Don't think of it as leftovers. Instead, think of it as a rerun of a dearly beloved holiday classic.
57 ELM STREET BETHLEHEM, PA. 11:51 P.M., DECEMBER 24TH
Mulder: We're too late. It's already been here.
Scully: Mulder, I hope you know what you are doing.
Mulder: Look, Scully, just like the other homes: Douglas fir, truncated, mounted, transformed into some sort of shrine; halls decked with boughs of holly; stockings hung by the chimney, with care.
Scully: You really think someone's been here?
Mulder: Someone or some THING.
Scully: Mulder, over here -- it's fruitcake.
Mulder: Don't touch it! Those things can be lethal.
Scully: It's O.K. There's a note attached: "Gonna find out who's naughty and nice."
Mulder: It's judging them, Scully. It's making a list.
Scully: Who? What are you talking about?
Mulder: Ancient mythology tells of an obese humanoid entity who could travel at great speed in a craft powered by antlered servants. Once each year, near the winter solstice, this creature is said to descend from the heavens to reward its followers and punish its disbelievers with jagged chunks of anthracite.
Scully: But that's legend, Mulder -- a story told by parents to frighten children. Surely, you don't believe it?
Mulder: Something was here tonite, Scully. Check out the bite marks on this gingerbread man. Whatever tore through this plate of cookies was massive -- and in a hurry.
Scully: It left crumbs everywhere. And look, Mulder, this milk glass has been completely drained.
Mulder: It gorged itself, Scully. It fed without remorse.
Scully: But why would they leave it milk and cookies?
Mulder: Appeasement. Tonight is the Eve, and nothing can stop its wilding.
Scully: But if this thing does exist, how did it get in? The doors and windows were locked. There's no sign of forced entry.
Mulder: Unless I miss my guess, it came through the fireplace.
Scully: Wait a minute, Mulder. If you are saying some huge creature landed on the roof and came down the chimney, you're crazy. The flue is barely six inches wide. Nothing could get through there.
Mulder: But what if it could alter its shape, move in all directions.
Scully: You mean, like a bowl full of jelly?
Mulder: Exactly. Scully, I've never told anyone this, but when I was a child my home was visited. I saw the creature. It had long white strips of fur surrounding its ruddy, misshapen head. Its bloated torso was red and white. I'll never forget the horror. I turned away, and when I looked back it had somehow taken on the facial features of my father.
Mulder: I know what I saw. And that night it read my mind. It brought me a Mr. Potato Head, Scully. IT KNEW I WANTED A MR. POTATO HEAD.
Scully: I'm sorry, Mulder, but you're asking me to disregard the laws of physics. You want me to believe in some supernatural being who soars across the skies and brings gifts to good little girls and boys. Listen to what you are saying. Do you understand the repercussions? If this gets out, they'll close the X-files.
Mulder: Scully, listen to me: It knows when you are sleeping. It knows when you're awake.
Scully: But we have no proof.
Mulder: Last year, on this exact date, S.E.T.I. radio telescopes detected bogeys in the airspace over twenty-seven states. The White House ordered a Condition Red.
Scully: But that was a meteor shower.
Mulder: Officially. Two days ago, eight prized Scandinavian reindeer vanished from the National Zoo in Washington, D.C. Nobody - not even the zookeeper - was told about it. The government doesn't want people to know about Project Kringle. They fear that if this thing is proved to exist, then the public would stop spending half its annual income in a holiday shopping frenzy. Retail markets will collapse. Scully,they cannot let the world believe this creature lives. There's too much at stake. They'll do whatever it takes to insure another silent night.
Scully: Mulder, I --
Mulder: Sh-h-h! Do you hear what I hear?
Scully: On the roof. It sounds like . . . a clatter.
Mulder: The truth is up there. Let's see what's the matter.
Learn how right here.
Unless Maureen Down or Paul Krugman have columns out. Even then, it will be hard to top this bit of horse squeeze from Kirsten Powers passed off as, well, who know what:
What will health-care reform cost?
This question has become the obsession distracting us from the moral imperative to provide health care to all Americans.
I believe that the phrase you're looking for is non sequitur or, more accurately in this case, balderdash.
Q: Why am I not married to Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Connely?
A: This question has become the obsession distracting us from the moral imperative of wearing purple underwear on our heads.
In point of fact, my non sequitur is less nonsensical than Kirsten's.
Don't say that I didn't warn you:
Buffy, come back. Please.
Image found here via Dr. Melissa's Tweets.
My Christmas Story
Late last week, I was rushing around trying to get some last minute shopping
done. I was stressed out and not thinking very fondly of the Christmas
season right then. It was dark, cold, and wet in the parking lot as I was
loading my car up with gifts that I felt obligated to buy. I noticed that I
was missing a receipt that I might need later. So mumbling under my breath,
I retraced my steps to the mall entrance.
As I was searching the wet pavement for the lost receipt, I heard a quiet
sobbing. The crying was coming from a poorly dressed boy of about 12 years
old. He was short and thin. He had no coat. He was just wearing a ragged
flannel shirt to protect him from the cold night's chill. Oddly enough, he
was holding a hundred dollar bill in his hand. Thinking that he had gotten
lost from his parents, I asked him what was wrong.
He told me his sad story. He said that he came from a large family. He had
three brothers and two sisters. His father had died when he was nine years
old. His mother was poorly educated and worked two full time jobs. She made
very little to support her large family. Nevertheless, she had managed to
save two hundred dollars to buy her children Christmas presents. The young
boy had been dropped off on the way to her second job. He was to use the
money to buy presents for all his siblings and save just enough to take
the bus home.
He had not even entered the mall, when an older boy grabbed one of the
hundred dollar bills and disappeared into the night.
"Why didn't you scream for help?" I asked. The boy said, "I did." "And
nobody came to help you?" I wondered. The boy stared at the sidewalk and
sadly shook his head. "How loud did you scream?" I inquired. The soft-spoken
boy looked up and meekly whispered, "Help me!"
I realized that absolutely no one could have heard that poor boy cry
So, I grabbed his other hundred and ran to my car.
And by water, I don't mean saline ::nudge-nudge::
I don't know what they're feeding the UK lassies these days, but I like it. Or rather, I like the results. Just imagine the ad campaign over here:
Blood pudding: it's what's for dinner!
Anyway, see my three reasons for wanting to bring the UK diet over to this country, pronto:
Rule 5 applies even to imports over here in the colonies.
I don't know what to say about the recent Patterico/Jeff Goldstein/RS McCain dustup. I cannot believe that this little tempest has been allowed to boil over to the point that we might be witnessing the Frey-Goldstein Rumble II beginnings. Suffice it to say that I'm in agreement with Big Lizards and Little Miss Attila's assessment, but also understand-to a point-where Mr. Frey is coming from. But I'm going to side with Stacy in that you cannot allow someone else to define the rules for engagement. To do so grants authenticity to their argument, at least to some degree. Once done, you're merely arguing about whether you're a cheap whore or an expensive one, not whether you are one at all.
And no, I don't see fit to link to the people mentioned above. I dig them all, but can't really bring myself to add to the feeding frenzy.
Received via email:
Every once in a while . . . In life . . . you run into a genius with a true talent!
THINGS THAT ARE DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN DRUNK:
THINGS THAT ARE VERY DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN DRUNK:
3. Passive-aggressive disorder
THINGS THAT ARE DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY WHEN DRUNK:
1. No thanks, I'm married.
2. Nope, no more booze for me!
3. Sorry, but you're not really my type.
4. No thanks, I'm not hungry.
5. Good evening, officer. Isn't it lovely out tonight?
6. Oh, I couldn't! No one wants to hear me sing karaoke.
7. I'm not interested in fighting you.
8. Thank you, but I won't make any attempt to dance, I have no coordination.
I'd hate to look like a fool!
9. Where is the nearest bathroom? I refuse to pee on the side of the road.
10. I must be going home now, as I have to work in the morning.
I don't know what to say about this article: Revisiting Old-School Text Adventures as a Jaded Modern Gamer.
Okay, that's not true. I know exactly what to say: BWAHAHAHA!. Excerpt:
It gets even better.
I've got nuthin' today except this.
What do I think about Tiger Woods? Well, I think that he's quite possibly the best golfer that I've ever seen. Other golfers may possess as much actual talent and/or skill, but his mental toughness trumps that of his opponents every time. In that respect, he has no peer on the pro golf tour.
As to Tiger Woods the husband, well, let's just say that I think he's an absolute turd, a narcissistic jackass whose idea of being a family man is to have unprotected sex with numerous skanks while having screaming Who's your daddy! Add in the fact that his wife is drop dead, make your draw drop and your mouth dry gorgeous, and Woods appears to just be plain stupid as well.
Let's be clear: for all I know, Elin might be a knife-wielding psycho who attempted to go Lorena Bobbit on Tiger's wood. And sure, when you're rich, famous and good looking, women of all shapes and sizes will be throwing their panties at you. But so what? Be a man- an actual man, not merely someone with a penis- and do the right thing. If your wife is crazy, divorce her. If you want to have crazy kinky monkey sex with every PGA groupie, divorce your wife and proceed to act out every sexual fantasy that you can imagine that doesn't involve a donkey and a Great Dane. What you do NOT do is go all hump-bot crazy with every floozy who falls on her back with her legs spread and then go home to your I cannot believe how hot she is wife and mother of your children. Should that be the case, you deserve to have pretty much everything- money, kids, house, clothes- taken from you. You don't deserve to be beat upside the head with a golf club, but you pretty much deserve any other shit that your wife wants to inflict on you.
Some years ago, I posted a recipe for vegetarian chili. Since then, I've modified/tweaked it a bit and I think that it's both better tasting and more easily prepared. The updates will be bolded below:
Title: Vegetarian 3-bean chili
Categories: Soups, Main dish
Yield: 8 servings
2 T Olive oil
1/2 c Carrots, sliced
2 c Onions, chopped (White onions are the best, but red onions will add a nice characteristic. Vedalia onions do not work in this recipe
1 t Basil leaves
1 c corn(frozen/thawed,fresh)
1/2 c Celery, slcied
1/4 t Ground black pepper
1/2 c Green pepper, chopped
2 ea Jalapeno peppers, mince
1 T Chili powder
1 T Ground cumin
1 t Oregano leaves
1/4 t Garlic powder
1/2 t Salt
1/8 t Cayenne pepper
1 ea 15 oz can kidney beans,drain
1 ea 16 oz can black beans, drain
1 ea 15 oz can pinto beans, drain
2 ea 28 oz cans italian-style
Plum diced tomatoes (Italian-style tomatoes with oregano, basil and garlic work best
1 T Lemon juice
Grated monterey jack cheese
sliced green onions
Heat oil; add onions, celery, carrots and green peppers. Saute 5 minutes.
Add corni; saute 5 minutes. Dump into a crock pot
Add to the crock pot the jalapeno peppers, tomatoes, chili powder, cumin, oregano, basil, salt, pepper, garlic and cayenne; mix well
breaking up tomatoes. Add kidney beans, black beans and pinto beans to the crock pot. Cook on high for one hour and then cook on low for a few more hours. Overnight works well, or from lunch until dinner time
Stir in lemon juice before serving. Top each serving with grated cheese and onions.
For the record, this chili freezes well, so make a double batch
Link sent by a friend. A sick, twisted friend, God love her. Here's a sample:
What does someone with an actual scientific pedigree have to say about Climategate? The inestimable Jerry Pournelle isn't kind. Excerpt:
I studied Philosophy of Science from Gustav Bergmann at the University of Iowa back in the 1950's. Bergmann was one of the last of the old Weiner Kreitz, the Vienna Circle, and he steered his students toward the ideas of Sir Karl Popper; but he had contributions of his own. The most important thing I remember from Bergmann is that if you can't put an experiment into a letter to a competent person, so that your correspondent can repeat the experiment and get the same results, it isn't science. Science isn't a method of finding proof and discovering truth. It is a method for falsifying hypotheses, ruling out falsehood; what's left is accepted as truth because it's all we have. ... We know that the major climate alarm in the 1970's and early 1980's was the fear of a coming Ice Age. Gus Spaeth, Carter's environmental quality advisor, was concerned that nuclear waste depositories be able to withstand glaciation. Margaret Meade as President of AAAS had much to say about the coming bad times as the world began cooling. During the 1980's the speculations of Arrhenius made about 1895 about possible "greenhouse" effects of CO2 began pushing forward, and with increasingly powerful (and cheap) computers climate models became affordable to many academic and scientific institutions. The models began predicting warming, although the data collectors weren't really finding it. The rest is history. There emerged a "consensus" about an "inconvenient truth". Whether that consensus was forced by scientific data or by social engineering is open to question.
Finally we know that one phenomenon of the coldest part of the Little Ice Age was the "Maunder Minimum": a long period of minimal solar activities, characterized by long periods of few to zero sunspots. You can monitor rcent solar activity at http://www.solarcycle24.com/ .
Given that the science is not settled, and that the economic effect of national policy to counter "climate change" are enormous, simple Bayesian analysis would indicate that we ought to be spending a lot of money to determine just what the climate trend is: and that means funding contrarian studies, studies designed to refute the "consensus" theory, as well as funding the collection of accurate data. This seems an obvious conclusion. It is of course inconvenient to those whose careers have been financed by grants peer reviewed by peers who don't include "deniers."
Just start at the top of the current view and keep on scrolling.
Reposted from last year. Expect. more reruns until EOY; I'm quite busy.
While some of you might think that the picture below is cute and creative, what you're missing is that it's a crime against nature. Look closely and see if you can spot what's wrong.
Did you notice? The bottles are EMPTY!!! They should be full until you slowly disassemble the tree over the course of a few days, emptying the bottles into your stomach. Now that's a celebration.
From last year, with links updated a bit:
People who read me -thanks to both of you- know that I'm more than a little skeptical about the idea that the Earth is burning up and that people are the primary culprits. Not due to the slavish devotion that the idea is shown by its most ardent worshippers (although those people do turn me off quite a bit), but rather due to the complete lack of science on display: the circle jerk of authorities cited as proof of consensus; the hiding of all data and code so as to prevent actual critiquing of the hypothesis; and the obvious attempt on the part of some to enrich themselves by hyping the "crisis" (Al Gore, you asshole, I'm looking at you).
Let's be clear: science is simple. Observe. Hypothesize. Test. Revise hypothesis and retest as necessary. Make data and methods known to see if your results are reproducible. If so, great: you've got a pretty solid theory. If not, well, time to move on. For the record, the AGW's biggest proponents fail on almost all those points. Thus, it isn't science. Also, the attempt to pass if off as science is a different word altogether: fraud
One week in high school, my all-time second-favorite social studies teacher, Lyle Thornton Wolf, presented us with a fascinating unit:
On Monday, he passed out forty-eight distinct high-school and college level American history textbooks (there being 48 students in the class). Each of us got a different textbook, though some were merely later versions of an earlier text that somebody else had. Each of us took his book home with instructions to read and “brief” (like a lawyer would) the factual events — not interpretations or speculations — recounted in his book about the Boston Massacre.
Then on Wednesday, Mr. Wolf began going through the incident, student by student, making a “comparison table” on the blackboard using every important fact from each book… e.g., the number of colonists killed by the redcoats, the number wounded, how many lobster-backs and Yankee doodles were present, what provocation (if any) did the colonists give to the soldiers, how long the shooting lasted, who was the first shot, and so forth.
As a court trial followed the shootings, and that trial took eyewitness and forensic evidence (future President John Adams defended the soldiers), one would expect nearly all the facts to be reported the same way in every textbook. Not so; there was significant variation in the details taught to students about that infamous eruption of anti-democratic violence.
But Mr. Wolf didn’t stop there, and this was his genius; he was more interested in teaching us good researching skills than specific numbers of people killed in the Boston Massacre. Thus he also made each of us read the footnotes, endnotes, and any other errata indicating the source of the supposed facts reported in his assigned book; he then put up a posterboard list of all the textbook titles arranged like a matrix.
As we reported the sources for each book, Mr. Wolf drew an arrow from the source to the book that cited it. After about ten books, we quickly realized that not a single one of the 48 textbooks cited any primary document or original source material; each cited only other high-school or college textbooks. In fact, only a couple of them cited texts not already in our hands (both times older editions of books we did have).
Worse, the entire set of citations was a snarl of textbook “daisy chains”: Textbook A (let’s say it was the 1962 edition) would have an arrow pointing to B (1964); B pointed to C (1965), which pointed to D (1968)… but D then pointed to a later version of textbook A, say the 1970 edition.
In other words, there was no “ultimate source”: The books just referenced and reinforced each other.
Thus it was hardly a surprise that, variations aside, all the books agreed on the core issues: The colonists were disorderly but didn’t provoke the shooting; no colonist used a firearm; the British were almost entirely to blame; and they only got off because of the eloquence of Adams. The issue was closed; no need to rethink any basic premise. After all, if that interpretation of the data wasn’t perfectly true, what are the odds that all those textbooks would just happen to agree with each other?
This perfectly illustrates how the AGW circle
of life jerk begins.
Do I really need to say it?
This will seem a bit dated, as it goes back to the time of pr0n chat rooms. Still makes me laugh, though.
Online computer users often engage in what is affectionately known
as "cybersex". Often the fantasies typed into keyboards and shared
through Internet phone lines get pretty raunchy. However, as you'll see
below, one of the two cyber-surfers in the following transcript of an online
chat doesn't seem to quite get the point of cyber sex. Then again, maybe
Wellhung: Hello, Sweetheart. What do you look like?
Sweetheart: I am wearing a red silk blouse, a miniskirt and high heels. I work out every day, I'm toned and perfect. My measurements are 36-24-36. What do you look like?
Wellhung: I'm 6'3" and about 250 pounds.I wear glasses and I have on
a pair of blue sweat pants I just bought from Walmart.I'm also wearing a
T-shirt with a few spots of barbecue sauce on it from dinner...it smells
Sweetheart: I want you.Would you like to screw me?
Sweetheart: We're in my bedroom.There's soft music playing on the stereo and candles on my dresser and night table. I'm looking up into your eyes, smiling. My hand works its way down to your crotch and begins to fondle your huge, swelling bulge.
Wellhung: I'm gulping, I'm beginning to sweat.
Sweetheart: I'm pulling up your shirt and kissing your chest.
Wellhung: Now I'm unbuttoning your blouse.My hands are trembling.
Sweetheart: I'm moaning softly.
Wellhung: I'm taking hold of your blouse and sliding it off slowly.
Sweetheart: I'm throwing my head back in pleasure.The cool silk slides off my warm skin.I'm rubbing your bulge faster, pulling and rubbing.
Wellhung: My hand suddenly jerks spastically and accidentally rips a
hole in your blouse.I'm sorry.
Sweetheart: That's OK, it wasn't really too expensive.
Wellhung: I'll pay for it.
Sweetheart: Don't worry about it.I'm wearing a lacy black bra.My soft breasts are rising and falling, as I breath harder and harder.
Wellhung: I'm fumbling with the clasp on your bra.I think it's stuck. Do you have any scissors?
Sweetheart: I take your hand and kiss it softly.I'm reaching back undoing the clasp. The bra slides off my body. The air caresses my breasts. My nipples are erect for you.
Wellhung: How did you do that? I'm picking up the bra and inspecting the clasp.
Sweetheart: I'm arching my back. Oh baby. I just want to feel your tongue
all over me.
Wellhung: I'm dropping the bra. Now I'm licking your, you know, breasts. They're neat!
Sweetheart: I'm running my fingers through your hair. Now I'm nibbling your ear.
Wellhung: I suddenly sneeze. Your breasts are covered with spit and phlegm.
Wellhung: I'm so sorry. Really.
Sweetheart: I'm wiping your phlegm off my breasts with the remains of my blouse.
Wellhung: I'm taking the sopping wet blouse from you. I drop it with a plop.
Sweetheart: OK. I'm pulling your sweat pants down and rubbing your
Wellhung: I'm screaming like a woman. Your hands are cold! Yeeee!
Sweetheart: I'm pulling up my miniskirt. Take off my panties.
Wellhung: I'm pulling off your panties. My tongue is going all over, in and out nibbling on you...umm... wait a minute.
Sweetheart: What's the matter?
Wellhung: I've got a pubic hair caught in my throat. I'm choking.
Sweetheart: Are you OK?
Wellhung: I'm having a coughing fit. I'm turning all red.
Sweetheart: Can I help?
Wellhung: I'm running to the kitchen, choking wildly. I'm fumbling through the cabinets, looking for a cup. Where do you keep your cups?
Sweetheart: In the cabinet to the right of the sink.
Wellhung: I'm drinking a cup of water. There, that's better.
Sweetheart: Come back to me, lover.
Wellhung: I'm washing the cup now.
Sweetheart: I'm on the bed arching for you.
Wellhung: I'm drying the cup. Now I'm putting it back in the cabinet. And now I'm walking back to the bedroom. Wait, it's dark, I'm lost. Where's the bedroom?
Sweetheart: Last door on the left at the end of the hall.
Wellhung: I found it.
Sweetheart: I'm tuggin' off your pants. I'm moaning. I want you so badly.
Wellhung: Me too.
Sweetheart: Your pants are off. I kiss you passionately-our naked bodies pressing each other.
Wellhung: Your face is pushing my glasses into my face. It hurts.
Sweetheart: Why don't you take off your glasses?
Wellhung: OK, but I can't see very well without them. I place the glasses on the night table.
Sweetheart: I'm bending over the bed. Give it to me, baby!
Wellhung: I have to pee. I'm fumbling my way blindly across the room and toward the bathroom.
Sweetheart: Hurry back, lover.
Wellhung: I find the bathroom and it's dark. I'm feeling around for the toilet. I lift the lid.
Sweetheart: I'm waiting eagerly for your return.
Wellhung: I'm done going. I'm feeling around for the flush handle, but I can't find it. Uh-oh!
Sweetheart: What's the matter now?
Wellhung: I've realized that I've peed into your laundry hamper. Sorry again. I'm walking back to the bedroom now, blindly feeling my way.
Sweetheart: Mmm, yes. Come on.
Wellhung: OK, now I'm going to put my...you know ...thing...in your...you know...woman's thing.
Sweetheart: Yes! Do it, baby! Do it!
Wellhung: I'm touching your smooth butt. It feels so nice. I kiss your neck. Umm, I'm having a little trouble here.
Sweetheart: I'm moving my ass back and forth, moaning. I can't stand
it another second! Slide in! Screw me now!
Wellhung: I'm flaccid.
Wellhung: I'm limp. I can't sustain an erection.
Sweetheart: I'm standing up and turning around; an incredulous look on my face.
Wellhung: I'm shrugging with a sad look on my face, my weiner all floppy. I'm going to get my glasses and see what's wrong.
Sweetheart: No, never mind. I'm getting dressed. I'm putting on my underwear. Now I'm putting on my wet nasty blouse.
Wellhung: No wait! Now I'm squinting, trying to find the night table. I'm feeling along the dresser, knocking over cans of hair spray, picture frames and your candles.
Sweetheart: I'm buttoning my blouse. Now I'm putting on my shoes.
Wellhung: I've found my glasses. I'm putting them on. My God! One of our candles fell on the curtain. The curtain is on fire! I'm pointing at it, a shocked look on my face.
Sweetheart: Go to hell. I'm logging off, you loser!
Wellhung: Now the carpet is on fire! Oh noooo!
Sweetheart: ::logged of::
Update:Ace has a post on this very topic. Funny stuff.