I see there’s a fight on to come clean and call a Christmas tree a Christmas tree.
“If it's a spruce tree adorned with 10,000 lights and 5,000 ornaments displayed on the Capitol grounds in December, it's a Christmas tree and that's what it should be called, says House Speaker Dennis Hastert.”
Well said. It’s time to stop the bullshit and call it what it is.
Some of my best friends are Pagans.
Last month my five year old took part in a book parade at school. They were supposed to dress up in a costume as a character from any book. They then walked in a parade carrying the book they choose the costume from. They were to wear the costume all day, and after the parade they had a party. The date of this “parade” was October 31st.
Some years ago it was decided, by whom I don’t know, that it was verboten to use the word terms Christmas tree, Christmas party, Christmas vacation, ad nausuem. I understand the premise. Not everyone is Christian. Well, it is what it is. It’s a Christmas tree. If we don’t want to have Christmas trees, ban the trees not the name. Is it any less insulting by changing the name? If I were really disturbed by this, changing the name and continuing the practice would piss me off even more.
A few years ago at work I was in a meeting and someone brought up the annual Christmas party. One of the VP’s said that we could no longer call it a Christmas party. He leaned in close to me and said in a low voice, “Some people are Jewish.” It was almost a whisper. No shit? I felt like screaming, “They know they’re Jewish! What's it to you, anyway?”
I’m not Jewish but a lot of my friends are. I’ve lived in areas where Christians are a minority. My neighbors are Jewish and they love coming over at Christmas. I have two Jewish friends who have Christmas trees every year. A few years ago I was Christmas shopping in the Fairfax district in Los Angeles. People were wishing me “Happy Hanukah” left and right. Do you know what my response was? “Same to you!” If I didn’t want to be surrounded by Jewish people I wouldn’t be there.
And just for the record, I’m Godless. That doesn’t mean I want “In God we trust taken off the dollar bill.” In fact I’m pissed off that people are actually trying to do that.
I’d like to know where all this over-the-top political correctness came from? Who the hell started it, and why has it been pushed this far down everyone’s throat?
Other points of view are welcome.
***Update***
Here’s an article from the Boston Globe that has a few gems in it:
It's discriminatory, too. Hanukkah menorahs are never referred to as ''holiday lamps" -- not even the giant menorahs erected in Boston Common and many other public venues each year by Chabad, the Hasidic Jewish outreach movement. No one worries that calling the Muslim holy month of Ramadan by its name -- or even celebrating it officially, as the White House does with an annual ''iftaar" dinner -- might be insensitive to non-Muslims. In this tolerant and open-hearted nation, religious minorities are not expected to keep their beliefs out of sight or to squelch their traditions lest someone, somewhere, take offense.
This article centers on major retail outlets and the choices they’ve made. Seperation of church and retail. Check out the poll.
I really can’t believe the war that’s going on over this. Someone is out to steal Christmas and I’m not fucking having it. The only problem is, I don't like the people I'm in bed with over this thing.
The day after Thanksgiving I was talking to my wife about the marathon day we put in at her parents house. We brought some good friends with us.
“Do you think Phil and Diane had a good time?” my wife asked.
“In general.”
“What do you mean, ‘In general.’”
“There was a small incident. Nothing big.”
“What incident?” she asked.
“Well, your old man was spitting all over Phil.”
“Spitting? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“He had Phil cornered, up against the kitchen counter. Your old man had a mouthful of food and he was talking with his mouth full. Actually, he was screaming with his mouth full. I literally saw pieces of food flying from his mouth.”
“Are you kidding me?” She was horrified.
“No, I’m not kidding. I saw food flying from his mouth and landing on Phil’s shirt. And it was no brief encounter. He was all excited about something and it seemed to be going on for a long time. You know how he gets excited.”
“I can’t believe this—“
“I’m not done. So Phil’s backed up to the counter and he’s got no place to turn and the old man’s getting closer and closer…it was hard to watch, and Phil was kind of cringing and turning his head trying to avoid the barrage—”
“What did you do?” She was pissed.
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. What was I supposed to do?”
“You should have told him not to talk with his mouthful! You could have told him to give the guy some air. You could have gotten in the middle or walked Phil away! How the hell could you let this happen? NOW I’M FUCKING MORTIFIED! HOW COULD YOU STAND THERE AND JUST DO NOTHING?
“He’s your old man! I have to show some respect…”
“You know what? You’re like one of those Nazis who said they were only following orders.”
“I don’t think that particular analogy fits—“
“Oh, be quiet. I have to call and apologize before these people think we’re savages!”
###
Truthfully, would any of you have tried to intervene?
I've had one of those past couple days that was not the greatest. I mean, it didn't suck per se; I still have my health, but there's someone in my immediate family that doesn't even have that. It's kind of surreal at this point, but at the same time very real. It's one of those things that 'never happens to you', but in the end it happens to everyone. We should kind of expect it, but we're never ready for it. We're never really ready to hear that someone's got a 6% chance of living through the next 12 months. We're never going to have the flexibility to work it into our schedules. There's never a good time to die. But we all know it's coming. So we just take our lumps, and we know that the things that really matter will always be there.
Responding to death by saying "That's tragic" is simply releasing vocal filler into the air. And the next time somebody says that within earshot of myself, I will stab them with their own sword and say "No. That's tragic." I mean, I don't expect people to express sympathy or empathy, because I don't even know how to express it. I don't expect people to say shit really, because I don't even know what to say yet; still processing. But I can't just not say anything; I'm not going to pretend it's not happening. So when I say "My Mom is dying" don't feel obligated to utter the traditional "I'm so sorry for you." I know what people are feeling when I tell them that. So just give me a hug, and then go home and give your family a hug.
In the extended entry is her recipe for turkey stock. I, of course, took liberties with it and made it my own. Cuz nothing's ever good enough for me when it comes to food.
Wishing you and yours a Happy Thanksgiving.
And remember, the first one to eat him/herself into a stupor wins!
What did the pilgrims and Indians eat on the first Thanksgiving?
Much of what we consider standard Thanksgiving fare is based on supposition, conjecture and myth, but there are two first hand accounts of the first Thanksgiving that shed some light on what they really ate.
Edward Winslow's account was written in a letter dated December 12, 1621.
Our corn [i.e. wheat] did prove well, and God be praised, we had a good increase of Indian corn, and our barley indifferent good, but our peas not worth the gathering, for we feared they were too late sown. They came up very well, and blossomed, but the sun parched them in the blossom. Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.
The second account was written by William Bradford in his History of Plymouth Plantation. Oddly, this account was pilfered by the British during the Revolutionary war and rediscovered in 1854. This account gives us the turkey thing.
They began now to gather in the small harvest they had, and to fit up their houses and dwellings against winter, being all well recovered in health and strength and had all things in good plenty. For as some were thus employed in affairs abroad, others were exercising in fishing, about cod and bass and other fish, of which they took good store, of which every family had their portion. All the summer there was no want; and now began to come in store of fowl, as winter approached, of which this place did abound when they came first (but afterward decreased by degrees). And besides waterfowl there was great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many, besides venison, etc. Besides they had about a peck of meal a week to a person, or now since harvest, Indian corn to that proportion.
So there we have it. The pilgrims spent three days partying with 90 wild Indians. Too bad the peas didn’t turn out. I plan to point out all the flaws in our meal this Thanksgiving, so if peas are served I’m going to demand we throw them away.
There was probably pumpkin pudding on the first Thanksgiving, sweetened with honey and perhaps similar to pumpkin pie filling, but there would have been no crust. So when the pie comes out this year I’m going to scoop out the filling and plop it on a plate and throw the crust away. If anyone tries to stop me they’ll get an earful.
Cranberries were available, but not sugar, so no cranberry sauce was on the menu. In addition to Cod, they also ate a lot of eels, so if you want to make your Thanksgiving authentic, make sure you get plenty of eels. Mmm. Eels.
There were no potatoes or sweet potatoes either. They were not native to or introduced to the area yet. And there was no ham. The pilgrims didn’t have pigs with them, unless you count Bradford.
Apropos of nothing, in 1623, Winslow wrote that eagle tasted just like mutton. Just so you know.
Aude sapere
Work has been crazy. Like trying to drink from a fire hose. I can't complain, because the 60% pay raise (insert screaming, cheering, dancing, heavy tipping of the bartender here) is pretty nice to me; but damn do I hate working. Absolutely.
My best friend in the whole wide world is in town tonight. He woulda been my best man if he wasn't trying to live in Costa Rica, Texas, and North Carolina at the same time. Makes him a little hard to get ahold of. But he's in town for the holidays, so I've dutifully put a twelver of Corona on ice, sliced the lime, and put on some music. It'll be a nice way to start my Thanksgiving holiday extravaganza.
Much Like Paul stated below, our Turkey Day revolves not so much around the food. We like to play poker, drink whiskey, and then make fun of eachother when we get drunk and someone's wife starts giving them the stink eye. One year, we were forced to play in the garage. Which was okay with my Uncle Jay, because that put him closer to the deepsink - it's easier for him to throw up in. I swear, second to the poker/whiskey, that's Jay's way of celebrating a family get together. What a louse that guy is.
Then there was the year my younger cousin lost his ass (a sum total of maybe $5 in change, we play high stakes donchaknow) in the game, got pissed; and would only calm down if Grandma promised to have a shot of whiskey with him. She must really love that boy, or at least the Maker's Mark, because she 'took a hit for the team'. That was the same year I got so shitty I had a nervous breakdown and damn near spent the night in my car. My own poor mother had to bring me inside.
The good news at the end of all this mindless drivel is that you probably won't hear from me for the next few days. But you already know what I'm going to be up to, so it's not like you're missing out.
The big question will be how many people burn down their house this year trying to deep fry a heavy frozen bird inside their house.
Most people don’t have the common sense to put the bird in, fill the fryer with oil and then take the bird out and get the oil hot. Instead, the fill the fryer with too much oil, get it close to the temperature of the sun and throw in a thirty pound, partially frozen Butterball. When that thing hits the oil it goes up like Michael Jackson’s hair on a Pepsi shoot, not including the displaced oil that splashes out of the fryer and onto linoleum, which I believe is extruded from petroleum products. Last year something like 400 homes caught fire attempting this trick and I predict the numbers will double this year.
In days of old, boiling oil was a great weapon when poured over the castle walls. Imagine the potential in the average American kitchen. Somebody’s Uncle Frank will probably learn a lesson the hard way.
Aside from the skin, I have no use for turkey. I find it unappealing in taste and texture.
But even though I don’t care for turkey, I am a fan of Thanksgiving. I’ll be at the in-law’s with many friends in tow and the drinking always starts early. We usually drink champagne on the holidays and no one is about to complain that it’s too early to drink when you’re uncorking the good stuff. We generally stand around in the kitchen patting each other on the back and swilling drinks and demanding to be fed.
I find the waiting to be the biggest problem. That’s because my family are liars. The day before we always call over to see what time we’re eating. They’ll say 2:00PM, when they know damned well it won’t be until 4:00PM. They lie because they want to spend time with us, which is odd, because I can’t comprehend anyone wanting to spend time with us.
On the way over there I guarantee that some doofus will be outside hanging his Christmas lights, which will start my wife up and I’ll have to listen to how I’d better get our shit up right away and not wait too long like last year. And when we finally arrive we’ll walk in on a shouting match about the turkey, and how it’s not cooking fast enough or hot enough, or when the tin foil should be taken off to brown the skin, even though it won’t be ready for hours.
So we stand around the kitchen and drink champagne until a card game breaks out or we can start poaching food. Some will sneak out for a smoke, others will incite slanderous talk about other relatives and the majority will bitch and moan about anything that comes to mind. And when the bird is done everyone will argue about the proper way to carve it and how this family, “doesn’t have a goddamned sharp knife” and there won’t be enough of the same type of plates for everyone and it will ruin the photos.
Somehow, I find comfort in all this. There we are, all together and complaining as a family. It’s hard to describe. And when the time comes to trot the bird out everyone takes on a solemn demeanor and we go around the table and everyone expresses what they’re thankful for this year. I never use to participate and this whole thing used to make me very uncomfortable. The first couple of years tried to hide in the bathroom for this part but they refused to start until everyone was seated. Nowadays I don’t mind so much. I have a lot to be thankful for.
Since I don’t eat turkey I’ll fill up on my old lady’s pecan crusted sweet potato pie and mashed potatoes and gravy and swill more champagne. And towards the end, when the pumpkin pie comes out I’ll fill half my coffee cup with good cognac and reflect on the fact I don’t have to work the next day. And while the mess is being cleaned I’ll sit there with my daughter on my lap and plan a graceful exit strategy as the old lady packs up as much of the leftovers as she can before her siblings can get it all.
And when we get home and put the kid to bed I’ll pour myself a single malt and sit on my lazy ass—sated—as my wife and I look through the pay channels for amusement.
Happy Thanksgiving.
The rules:
- In the extended entry are quotes from 13 movies. Your job is to identify the movie that each quote came from.
- Guess as many times as you want, just don't get silly about it.
- First person to correctly guess each entry gets a point. If there are any left after 24 hours they are worth 2 points.
- As people guess the films I will strike out those entries and note who got it first.
- NO cheating!!! That means NO: Google, IMDb, searching my archives etc.!
“Daddy, I want to eat lunch there,” she said as she pointed out the window.
I looked up and saw that she was pointing at Taco Bell. This was a strange development. We’ve driven by the place a thousand times since we lived in these parts but have never stopped. I had no intention of doing so this time either.
“Daddy, stop! You said we were on a date and I could pick where we eat!”
“That’s because you’ve been reasonable up to now. You pick Wendy’s every week.”
“But today I don’t want Wendy’s. I want that!”
I swung around and pulled into the parking lot. After ten minutes of reasonable discussion we went inside, against my better judgment. Soon afterward we sat at a table and unwrapped our bounty, which was somewhat disturbing. I have a thing about Mexican food. I like it a lot. I’d lived in California long enough to know good Mexican food and my expectations were minimal—but this was hideous. I made the mistake of looking inside my burrito and it appeared to be made out of brown paste.
“Mine looks like dog food.”
“Daddy, stop saying bad things and eat your lunch.”
I hadn’t been to a Taco Bell in roughly fifteen years. I had no idea what to order so I got four burrito supremes. I could only stomach three of them and it was tough getting them down but I was starving.
An hour later I was watching the game when the storm hit. The first wave wasn’t as violent as I thought it would be, but the next wave had all the elements of a classic green meat attack. I’ll spare you the details, but I was in there long enough to miss almost an entire quarter of the Eagles game. The kid was unfazed and unaffected. The entire time I was on the throne she was drawing pictures and shoving them under the door, which might have cheered me up if they weren’t pictures of doggies eating Taco Bell.
She kept singing, “Fart, fart, fart, FART…fart, fart, fart, FART.” To the tune of the opening of Beethoven’s fifth symphony and then laughing hysterically.
I refused to reply.
My wife eventually got in on the act, humiliating me even further, before taking a more serious note and rattling off a long list of chores that needed to be done, including measuring the windows for the new window treatments and taking the car to the dealership on Monday. All while I sat there, depressed and cramping, and wishing I was someplace else. If you can’t get some peace in there, there’s truly no hope. I stayed in there until they had gotten bored and gone about their business. And I slinked back to the couch and pretended to be asleep for a while.
And thus, another Sunday gone the way of Hades. Mocked by my family and frowned upon by the gods.
Acta est fabula, plaudite!
DATELINE: Atlanta
Researchers at MGRC* announced today that they have isolated the elusive "PTY" gene. This gene has been difficult to isolate because it is active only when paired with both X and Y chromosomes. That is, although it is present in all humans it is only turned on in males.
The PTY gene is classified as "limited functionality" because it has a very minor effect. According to MGRC researchers the only function of this gene is that when active the person will visually survey a surface before sitting on it.
With the gene isolated MGRC researchers were able to activate it in female subjects using targetted stimuli. Research subject Janet Mulberry related her experience of having an activated PTY gene:
"It was incredible" Janet reported. "I woke up in the middle of the night and had to piddle. I went into the bathroom, turned on the light like always but then had this incredible urge to look at the toilet before I sat down. I looked at it and the seat was up! I put the seat down before I sat and had a perfectly comfortable potty experience. I can't tell you how many times I've had a wet tuckus during previous bathroom trips. I feel...empowered!"
MGRC is now turning its attention on gene IGNR. Similar to PTY, this is a limited functionality gene active only when paired with X and Y chromosomes and governs a specific behavior. The IGNR gene is thought to produce a semi-catatonic state when the subject is exposed to excessive amounts of input in the high vocal register. When in this state the subject will nod frequently and utter noncomittal common phrases such as "Yes dear", "Of course dear", and "Whatever you say dear". Short term memory is completely shut down during these periods.
* Madeup Genetic Research Center
The crap is hitting the fan for the Oil for Food scammers. Sheesh. The UN are such a bunch of numbnuts.
Also, Jim's wife reviews Snooze's new bloggers:
"Seems like some male-macho kabaza with not much sense to it."
She goes on, but read the whole thing. She really loves us.
Recently, the White House has begun a pushback campaign, a series of press releases targeting Democrats who've issued grievances with the war in Iraq. It seems, the Republicans are calling them out into the front yard, as it were, for a little game of 'Put Your Name Where Your Mouth Is.' Goldstein called it a day or so ago. I'm just surpised the Republicans, after taking so much garbage, are finally entering the fray. Hmph. We'll see how it goes.
Seeing as how I, as a member of the Snooze Crew, am about to be blown away by upcoming bloggy goodness from Jim, Paul, and shank, I decided to take a look at my old posts here at Snoozehaus, and see if there's anything that might vaguely be considered good.
Nah. Not really.
There was a little stretch there, though, where some of my posts had comments approaching double-digits (I'll take my victories, no matter how small, as I get them.). These were posts that, quite frankly, probably helped boost the gayness rating of The Blue Snooze.
(Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
But while reading one of my more infamous posts, a phrase I put in there struck me, much like the SBD* I cut loose on a very crowded Metro train on the Fourth of July probably hit the people standing next to me when I cut that bad boy. I had to find out where the Snooze-a-roni stood when that phrase was googled.
Now, I'm sure Jim is LW's number-one husband. Betcha Burger, Bacon, and the Bear have given him a coffee mug or t-shirt or a tie that proclaims Jim their "Number 1 Dad." We all know him as a number-one BS artist, and also as a number-one eater of meat.
And, as it turns out, he's also Number One when I ignore my own advice, given in a certain blog post so very long ago:
Folks, don't ever google the phrase "man rape movies." Just trust me on this one.
Congratulations, Jim! Or not.
Man, it's crowded around here at Chez Snooze. Jim moved the Snooze Crew out of the guest bedrooms and into the bathroom and living room. I'm under the sink, living inside the cabinet like a rat.
Appropriate, eh? Here's a picture of a rat sleeping in better accomodations than what Jim has given us:
Anyway, I'd like to give a warm Snooze Crew welcome to Paul and Shank, except I won't. Paul snores and Shank pisses Jen off sometimes. He *claims* she likes it, but I know better. Good thing he hasn't attacked Susie or it'd really be war.
Also, did anyone else notice Paul is one of the gay James Bonds instead of Sean Connery?
UPDATE: I do believe I owe shank an apology. He has commented:
Ya know, I've always wondered if Paul was a little..feshnickit. I mean, all this metrosexual, drinking martinis and reading books shit. If I didn't know he was a scotch drinker, I'd swear he was an asspirate.
I now realize shank is not prejudiced. He hates everybody.
But be warned: Don't ever make Susie cry!
Okay, so Jim was Snoozy enough to import all the old content from Id's Cage. For those of you not familiar, I suggest perusing the stuff. I highly recommend the categories 'How Many Beers', 'Goddamn Wedding', and 'The Cage'; though my faves are in the other ones. I can't remember though; I usually blog blind drunk.
Also, Paul and I are pretty engaging bloggers when we have the time, hence the game 'How Many Beers'. Of course, I've been toying with the idea of playing the game 'Murder, Marry, Fuck'; but we might have to come up with a new name for that one.
Another thing about the Id's Cage bloggers. We're full of it. I mean, just about every entry, unless it alludes to some current event in the news, is probably a good 75% bullshit, probably more in my case. I tend to have a pretty boring life, but a really cracked out imagination.
Okay, you get the idea. We're glad to be here, hope ya'll stick around. I'm outta here.
Yay! First post!
Anyways...
I quit my job today. Well, that's inaccurate. I positioned myself to take advantage of a rapid exit strategy. How you like those words? Learned 'em during my MBA studies. But yeah, never thought I'd actually use them outside of a blue book - that just goes to show you how valuable continuing education is. Besides, getting fired is too reactionary of a strategy, as an MBA I need to be anticipatory, proactive, controlling my own destiny. So I decided to position myself. See, you just learned all kinds of MBA horseshit without the tuition, reading, homework, and pontificating faculty.
Well, not quite exactly the same. Snooze Button Dreams is now a multi-author blog. Shank and Paul are joining up as SBDs co-hosts. Give them both a warm Snoozy welcome!
Yay!
Okay then, let's take care of the questions:
Q: Why the multi-author thing?
A: I've been toying with the idea for quite some time. In typical form I procrastinated for months before finally deciding I had to shit or get off the pot. I decided to shit.
Q: But why?
A: A bunch of reasons. First and foremost is you, my lovely reader. It is incredibly flattering that I get hundreds of hits a day even when I post once a week like I have been lately. You deserve better than a post a week. Second, I think it's the way of the future. The incredible plethora of blogs out there means that individual blogs are getting less and less attention. By teaming up with other authors who have similar tastes this blog will hit higher on the attentionometer. Third, I view having direct authoritative input into the blog as a good thing. More ideas, hopefully better ones, will help SBD grow into its maturity. And beyond!
Q: Why Paul?
A: We fit well together. We have a similar sense of humor, compatible writing styles, and work well together. In fact, we work well enough together to co-author shorts. Remember Protomonkey?
Q: Why shank?
A: Mostly the death threats. He knows where I live.
Q: No, really.
A: Pretty much the same as with Paul. I've known him for a long time from his comments around the neighborhood and from his own blogs. He cracks my shit up. He's also able to go from poop humor to delicate insight in a single post. You gotta love that.
Q: So is this really a multi-person blog or are you just letting them post here?
A: It's really a multi-person blog now. Majority rules and all that happy stuff.
Q: What about my points?!
A: Points continue. shank and Paul will be handing them out too, if they want.
Q: Are you tossing the Snooze Crew™?
A: Nope. The Snooze Crew™ is a highly valued part of the site. Only now, any of three will be able to tap their mad blog skillz when needed.
Q: Can I join up too?
A: Nope. Not right now anyway. We need to get through the transition period and get comfy with managing a group blog before we consider taking on any more owners. Paul and shank have been doing it for a while but it's new to me. No big bumps are expected but, as Confucious say: Man who live in glass house should dress in basement.
Q: What the hell does that mean?
A: Nothing really. I was just trying to end this on a humorous note.
Q: You failed miserably.
A: Yeah, I know.
A: Hey! Look over there! Something shiny!
I, of course, got this...
 | You scored as Maximus. After his family was murdered by the evil emperor Commodus, the great Roman general Maximus went into hiding to avoid Commodus's assassins. He became a gladiator, hoping to dominate the colosseum in order to one day get the chance of killing Commodus. Maximus is valiant, courageous, and dedicated. He wants nothing more than the chance to avenge his family, but his temper often gets the better of him.
Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0 created with QuizFarm.com |
Only a fricken 75% score too, but I like those two guys. I guess if I'm 75% Maximus and 75% Indiana Jones, that's like 150% head-stomping, smart-talking badass; right? Plus I got Jack Sparrow in there, talk about a one-in-a-million wingman. But Lara Croft? Dude, if I was more than half Lara Croft, I wouldn't leave the house. I mean, whether it was the upper half or the lower half, it wouldn't matter. I'd be at home playin' with my womanly parts.
And Paul got 100-fucking-percent Bond? I think he rigged that shit, the wily old coot.
I never, ever do this shit so don't give me any crap. And you know you want to do this one.
 | You scored as James Bond, Agent 007. James Bond is MI6's best agent, a suave, sophisticated super spy with charm, cunning, and a license's to kill. He doesn't care about rules or regulations and somewhat amoral. He does care about saving humanity though, as well as the beautiful women who fill his world. Bond has expensive tastes, a wide knowledge of many subjects, and his usually armed with a clever gadget and an appropriate one-liner.
Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0 created with QuizFarm.com |
h/t to Ted.
So Paul added this dude TwentyMajor to the blogroll in Bills spot because Bill's once again fallen off the face of the Earth.
Twenty's a friggin' riot.