I was watching Nip/Tuck tonight, and during her seduction of Christian; James says of Islay region scotches; "Some love their complexity and robustness, while others think they are unspeakably foul."

Oddly enough, this rung a bell in my head. And then I knew where I read it; here. There it is, word for word under the heading 'Islay'.

I'm not sure if this makes me a well-read individual with an uncanny memory, or an alcoholic with a reading problem.

I expended a great amount of effort today working up various posts that revloved around making fun of John Kerry. I'd patch together a few ideas, stand back and take a look, then rearrange; eventually deciding to ball it up and start over again. I mean, there were just too many approaches; and I figured the blogosphere was already churning a few of them around. Then I realized that it was just all too obvious, too easy of a target. It's not exactly a ground-breaking revelation that politicians are morons.

The Wife and I have begun showing the apartment to people. We're finally moving into a home in a few weeks, and we've got to find someone to take over our lease. I mean, it's a great little apartment at an insanely competitive price; which is good. But cheap stuff attracts crackheads, and crackheads don't usually pass credit checks.

I can always recognize them when they call too. It sounds shallow, but in truth it only takes a short conversation with someone to figure out if they're mentally there enough to pass a credit check.
"Yeah, I'm calling about the apartment?"
"Great, it's got a blah blah blah, some blah, a blah in the blah..."
"Wow, sounds nice. I really need to find a place too."
"Well, you can come on by and check it out if you want. However, I fell like I should at least tell ya that the management company is going to want to run your credit when you apply. Not that it's anything to worry about, but I don't want to waste your time looking at an apartment if you don't feel comfortable with them running your credit."
"Oh really? Damn, that's crazy. See, cuz in my last apartment, in California before I moved out here; I had this crazy roommate. She actually burned the place down, and that's why I had to move out..."
I usually fall into a trace of "Mm-hmm"s and "Yeeaah"s at this point. Generally my concious mind will come up for air about the same time this person breaks into a story that resembles an episode of 90210 or something.
"...and I've been praying about it lately. You know, I wrote a letter to God and stuck it in the Bible, you know, cuz that's what they say to do..."
Dive! Dive! Dive! And I'm back in REM sleep. I mean, if your last apartment was burned to the ground and you've resorted to telling common strangers that you write letters to God; your credit can't be all that great.

"Yeah, about that. Regardless of whether or not that gutter slut with the uncovered face was asking for gang rape (I mean, of course she was. Don't they all?); I'm a little miffed at the assumption that, like starved street cats attack raw meat, men will hump any woman who uncovers her face. Or maybe embellishes in a little lip gloss and concealer.

I mean, we have a little more control than that."

And I'm speaking specifically of those other than Jenelle (BURN!).

I saw Michael J. Fox on TV the other day promoting the advancement of stem cell research and the congressional candidates supporting it. My first thought was "It's a good thing you're not behind the wheel of that DeLorean these days Marty, because it would take more than 1.21 gigawatts and Doc Brown's kooky ass to get the mangled wreckage back to the future." Which was immediately follwed by "Oh, Parkinson's. That explains the shaking," and "Note to shank: get buried in Bermuda shorts, because it's going to be hot down there." I was surprised by how much he was shaking, but then I figured that's Parkinson's for ya.

Then today on CNN or something they were talking about Rush Limbaugh's accusation that Fox was off his meds for the spot to exaggerate the tremors that result from Parkinson's. Now, I know I'm a crass individual; and I can be downright rude on occassion; but you've got to have a real pair of brass nuts to accuse a guy with an incurable disease of putting a shine on. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you man? That's something you say to your friend when he calls in sick on a perfect day. Hell, even if he was off his meds it wouldn't matter, because the issue isn't Fox or Parkinson's or even congressional elections. It's stem cell research stupid.

They went on to mention that after the ads aired, public approval of stem cell research jumped up 5%. Which is kind of sad if you think about it, because Fox didn't say anything that hasn't been said a million times.

I'm here to prove to you that Darwin's theory of natural selection is complete horseshit. I'm so committed that I've actually assigned a category to log all the stupid shit that people do that absolutely flies in the face of natural selection. You see, if nature selected those most accustomed to their environment, the most crafty, intelligent, well adapted organisms who leveraged their advantages over all their peers; we would not have these dumb idiots.

Exhibit A:

And we definitely wouldn't have something like this.

I mean really, so much for human dignity.

I was watching the football game.

"Daddy, what are tampons?"

"I have no idea, sweetie. Ask your Mom when she gets home."

Awww yeah, bitches. Y'all remember the drunken movie reivew! Today's installment - V For Vendetta

What can I say? Natalie Portman as Yentle. Hottest damn bald chick since Sigourney Weaver in Aliens.

And talk about your kick-ass leads. 'V' has it all going on - bitchin' karate moves, Keeanuesque attire noir, and a Guy Fawkes mask.

Which reminds me - Guy Fawkes - what the fuck's up with that? A guy (pun intented) tries to overthrow the British government, gets caught, executed, and they make a holiday for him. Where's our Benedict Arnold holiday? Dammit, this has to be rectified! They're already 15 to 20 holidays ahead of us!

Why can't we have Boxing day? We've had more world champion boxers than the damned poms anyway!

Where the hell was I?

Oh, yeah - If nothing else, this movie gave Malcolm McDowell another chance to act. It deserves props for that if nothing else.

Go rent it today. And send me a dollar if you like it.*

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone. But they've always worked for me."

So if you can't tell, the mystery guests are people who know me. I hide their identites to protect the innocent. Namely, me. We'll name this next contestant...'John'.

SBD: Margaret Thatcher
John: Oh my God. A case.

What about that monkey from those CareerBuilder.com commercials?
A keg. At least. And a stunt cock.

Oprah Winfrey
Hm...that's tough. I think a 12-pack.
John's Girlfriend: Ew.
Well, she's rich...
John's Girlfriend: You're not who I thought you were.

Rosie O'Donnel
She's a dyke though. It should be how many would it take her. Oh man...I don't know.
You gotta guess...
I'mma say...four 40's.

Mrs. Piggy
Daaa....I...six pack. That's all I'd need for her.

Yourself
How many beers?? Hmm..
John's Girlfriend: I'd say at least two cases.

If you ask me, humanity already has this kind of seperation. Although it's not quite the fantastically visible difference that Curry seems to imagine.

Seriously, if you think about it there already is a series of societal barriers between the educated, modern, computer savvy population; and those people who have little or no education. We don't look biologically different, but we do respond differently to any number of social, political, and environmental stimuli. We have different diets, different hobbies, different health problems, and different jobs.

I guess I just find it amusing that this guy has issued a revelation from his ivory tower, with all the obligatory fanfare, predicting something that has already come to pass. Motherfucker, you don't have to look into the future to see that there's a giant rift between the educated and the uneducated already. Get with the program.

Moving on...
Tonight we've got some really good friends coming into town for the annual festivities. It's going to be a helluva good time. In fact, I just might have to take Friday off in order to fully prepare for such a devastatingly good weekend. We're taking both cameras along too, so there might be some interesting follow-up.

Lovely Wife sent me this article that details the long-awaited suppression of a violent and incredibly dangerous "game" in a Massachusetts elementary school.

Tag, you're out! Officials at an elementary school south of Boston have banned kids from playing tag, touch football and any other unsupervised chase game during recess for fear they'll get hurt and hold the school liable.

Recess is "a time when accidents can happen," said Willett Elementary School Principal Gaylene Heppe, who approved the ban.

It's about time! Most people don't realize just how dangerous "tag" really is. More kids die each year from tag-related injuries than hopscotch and tiddlywinks combined!

In addition to the physical dangers, "tag" has massive potential to cause emotional trauma. Being "it" is not a good thing in this so called game. The "it" kid is a social pariah - somebody to be avoided at all costs, even to the extent of running away and screaming if they approach. Shirley Maclaine and Oprah, among tens of others, have described the buried tag-related anxieties and fears they relived under regression therapy.

The third facet in this playground axis of evil is the touching. Little kids, forced by peer pressure, to touch and be touched. It's a well known fact that "tag" is a gateway game to other touching games like "doctor".

Thanks the stars that there are principled and honorable administrators like Gaylene Heppe who are willing to put it all on the line to protect our kids.

It appears as if collecting African babies is all the rage in Hollywood.

Famous people with too much money have been doing wacky shit from the outset and no one seems to have learned any lessons yet. Most of you are probably too young to remember the Beatles and the Maharishi. The Maharishi was the leader of a money grubbing cult of sorts. His schtick was transcendental meditation. It was all the rage with the hip crowd.

The Beatles, along with a group of Hollywood idiots were lured to India to study transcendental meditation from the great master, after of course, coming up with certified checks. It lasted about a week before they got bored and the Maharishi was caught trying to fondle Mia Farrow. Some people never see it coming.

Since then many an Hollywood idiot has jumped aboard any bandwagon that was in range of them. One of the latest rages has been the kabbalah. If you don’t know what that is you’re not alone. Neither do half the people learning it. Some tout it as Jewish mysticism, some as fortune telling and others as an ancient secret to life. Aleister Crowley based his whole black magic thing around it. Regardless, Hollywood is now filled with teachers of whatever it is and the rich and famous are running their lives around it. At least until they get bored, which is already happening. Then it will be on to something else. Like collecting African children.

Famous idiots with too much money are now flying to Africa and picking what they like from a flesh and blood line up of children. I don’t want to suggest that’s like a slave auction or anything, but it’s like a fucking slave auction. If one more Hollywood idiot does this I predict it will become a national craze. And I predict that right now Paris Hilton is thinking about it. After all, it would be so cute, just like the tiny little dog she carries around in her purse. Until these people start getting bored, like they did with meditation, kabbalah, etcetera. Then these kids will be regulated to the guest house and the nanny until their old enough to start robbing liquor stores.

Meanwhile, this thing is still on the upswing. African baby acquisition has at least another year before the charm wears off. Pretty soon when you lease a new car it will come with satellite radio and a one year old African kid (with approved credit).

Last week I sat on a plane for five hours contemplating suicide. The only food available was tiny bags of pretzels. There was a baby in front of me crying non-stop. The armrest fight with my neighbor, a phlegmy cougher, was goddamned brutal. Delays kept us sitting on the tarmac for an hour before takeoff and when we arrived there was no gate for us so we sat there like idiots for another thirty minutes. I got to thinking how this could be improved upon and I think some of these ideas have potential:

The first thing they need to do is rip out some of the seats and install a craps table. Maybe a couple of black jack tables as well. Nothing takes the sting out of boredom like casino gambling.

A roast beef carving station.

A bar. Sitting there waiting for a drink while they stop at every seat on the way to pass out tiny cups of soda is more than inconvenient. It’s torture. How about a bar where I can walk up and order a cocktail or knock back a couple of boilermakers?

An adults only section.

All of the above are not only good solutions to the problems that travelers face on a daily basis, but they’re also alternate revenue streams. How hard could it be to make this happen?

So there's much ado about what someone's beer says about them. Don't believe me? Just look at the advertising dollars thrown at creating a brand image for any beer bottle out there. Well, regardless of what millions of dollars in advertising will tell you; there's only one thing a beer says about you. Thank God for me, because not only do I know the truth about beer, but I'm going to share it with you. Free of charge. Well, not exactly free; you'll have to hit the tip jar.*

1. PBR - As much crap as PBR gets, if it's good enough for guys who ride bulls for a living; goddamnit it's good enough for you. I don't know anyone who doesn't respect a person who drinks PBR, and it's been my experience that nothing gets you laid better and quicker than being seen with a PBR in your hand and a smile on your face.

2. Bud Light - "This mixer is ten times better than it was last semester. The pledges suck worse though. Fags. Oh, has anyone seen my pink polo shirt? The Chi-Psi girls are coming over soon and I look best in a popped collar." Seriously people. Don't drink Bud Light outside your homes. I was in a bar in Dublin once, and I saw a guy get his ass handed to him for ordering one. And they didn't even serve it there.

3. Milwaukee's Best - "I never drink less than 18 beers at a time. Hey, does your mom have an older sister?"

4. Blue Moon - "Oh my God, I got the greatest deal on a pair of boots at Structure today. You wouldn't believe it. And the salesboy? To die for!"

5. Miller High Life - High Life is the patron beer of the homeless. It's the dollar draft in more bars than any other, which makes it the obvious choice to quench the thirst that can only come from spending an entire day begging for change. And I'm not being cynical either. There are guys that spend their entire day begging for change right outside our bar, and without fail they show up at sundown with pocketfuls of freshly begged George Washingtons.

6. New Castle - "Dude, that last Widespread show was soooo dank." New Castle has become the beer for indiscriminant drinkers everywhere who want people to think they're discriminant. It's a shame, because New Castle reall is a good beer. But half the time I see someone drinking it, they simply order it by default; making the practice no more different than ordering any other mainstream American ale.

7. Heiniken - "I enjoy the taste of ice cold, imported piss. Won't you let me buy you a drink?"

8. Fruit Flavored Beers - Apricot Ales, blueberry, cherry, and raspberry rails; even the cherished pumpkin brew. These beers are strictly for females. Hot females, but females nonetheless. Be familiar with them, but it's not something you want to bring to the next poker game.

9. Here you'll find a list of beers that are in no specific order. They're good beers (in my highly prejudiced, oft scrutinized opinion) for a varying number of resons, which means if you're drinking them you're probably going to have to open your yapper before I publicly declare you an insufferable boor. Killian's Irish Red, Stella Artois, Anchor Steam, Yeungling, Pacifico, and depending on what you've had for dinner; Guiness or Harp.

The neglected kiddie pool that passes for my creativity well has all but dried up. So instead of having anything to say at all, really; I've got nothing.

I did, however, recently ponder scotch. Specifically those scotches from the Islay region. See, Islay scotches come from seaside distilleries whose peat has absrobed the saltiness of the seabreeze. This gives the Islays one hell of a gnarly flavor. I've heard that some aficianados consider the strong aroma of these scotches some kind of an abomination. I've also heard that some people like to shove gerbils up their brown eyes, so I suppose people's opinions should be taken with a grain of salt. And in some cases maybe a pelvic x-ray.

Those who can't teach, critique.

Jim's review of the top 10 rock sensation Hinder.

Their lyrics are pedantic and uninspired. The rhythm wallows. They have more fouled hooks than Bassmasters. The bright spot in this band is guitarist "Blower". He is an absolute genius with the four chords he knows.

While listening to Hinder I wondered what atrocities I had committed in a former life because nothing I've done in this one should warrant a punishment as extreme as being subjected to this music.

On the plus side, they did inspire some creative venting.

If I hadn't been so busy lately, I would have posted something like this recently. From Iowahawk:

In the back yard of scientific researchings behind the Great Storage Shed of the People, Iowahawk scientists successfully conducted above-ground nuclear missile test explosions under secure and many malt liquor conditions on early hours of October 10, 2006, at a stirring time when alarm clocks of the neighborhood have yet to clangle.

What really sucks is I can get my hands on all manner of pyrotechnic jubilation just across the border in South Carolina. Hey, I guess they figured if it was going to be legal to fuck your cousin, you might as well be able to purchase high explosives at a roadside stand.

Oh, and also of note...

I recently revived what was a pretty good practical joke on my wife.

I taught the kid to say a couple a phrases:

“My mommy’s still on the sauce.”

“My mommy drinks too much gin.”

I had the kid primed to spit these phrases out at the grocery store, play dates and such and trust me, it was effective. Right up until the retaliation came.

I was picking the kid up from practice and I was the only guy there and this whole sewing circle of mommies had me cornered and I was being a real swell guy until the kid walked up and shouted, “My Daddy’s medicine is called whiskey!”

I was appalled, but it could have been worse. My wife’s fairly devious and it could have been something like, “My daddy’s got the crabs again!”

I don’t know whether to escalate this or surrender.

Project Black Widow has claimed another life. That brings the total body count to 4 and a half for managers and above. (One fellow was "lucky" enough to escape. Unfortunately the horse he rode off on turned out to be Project Widowmaker.)

This puts Black Widow way out in front of Project Lizzie Borden. Lizzie has a measly 2 so far. Then again, BW will actually be closing in the next half year. Lizzie could be morphing into a four year global implementation. That would give her plenty of time to catch up and pass the Widow.

Now don't go thinking that the only projects I handle are career killers. I just commissioned project Fluffy Green Leaves. Unfortunately, after defining the business case, it became apparent that the leaves were raw spinach from California.

In other job news I've been offered a promotion of sorts. I'd still be a project manager for all of my current projects but would also coordinate all projects for our largest internal client. More work, same pay, same title, but fantastic leverage and networking opportunities. The down side is I'd have less time for blogging.

Decisions...decisions...decisions...

No matter how bad my mood is, I always say, “Good morning” to people. And when that greeting is not returned my natural instinct is throw my elbow into the side of the offenders jaw. How big of an ass do you have to be not to give or return a simple goddamned salutation? I realize that I can’t go around thrashing people for not saying good morning, but sometimes I have a hard time controlling mouth.

Like this morning when I said “Good morning” to someone and when there was a long pause I added “asshole.” It wasn’t a whisper, I barked it out. The look on the guy’s face was disbelief.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I said ‘good morning,’ and when you ignored my salutation, I added ‘asshole.’ Because when someone looks at you and smiles and says ‘good morning’ and you just stare back for a moment and then look away, that’s what you are. An asshole.”

He just stared at me. I could see he was wrestling with himself internally. I don’t know if I would classify it as fight or flight, but he’d been insulted and he was torn about how to respond. Then I smiled, relieving him of his obligation to try and be the alpha male.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “It’s been a bad morning…I really apologize.”

“I understand,” I said.

I thought about hammering the point home but decided to leave it alone and continue on my way. I can’t wait for tomorrow morning. There are some things I simply cannot abide.

I hate people when they're not polite.
...Psycho Killer
The Talking Heads

I really dislike those pithy little sayings like "A picture paints a thousand words" and "Three times is a charm". People tend to take them as actual maxims of life, giving them far more weight than they could possibly merit, simply because they are well known. They absolve people of the burden of rational thinking and justifying their arguments. Instead of arguing and proving a point, just throw an idiomatic saying at it.

Take "Three times is a charm" for example. People throw this one out to escape culpability for screwing the pooch twice. They wouldn't be on time three if they hadn't royally fucked up time one and time two.

So I read today that Ayatollah Ali Khameini has stated that, among other things, spanking the monkey during Ramadan is a no-no. Well, unless it's unintended masturbation and/or you don't jizz; in which case it's just an accident. I'm not sure exactly how one masturbates without the intention of masturbating, let alone how all this goes on without sealing the deal, as it were. I mean, in all honesty, if I had to go a month without releasing the hounds; that shit would probably happen in my sleep. The body has a way of taking care of itself, you know. I guess I could never be a good Muslim.

Which, that being said, I was never really a good Catholic either. Because I'm pretty sure I've never lasted an entire Lent without, in the Ayatollah's words; 'discharging'.

Anyways, my awesome idea. You can't keep beer in a freezer, and I can't set the fridge low enough to keep my beer suitable cold without making the veggies and other items too cold. Apparently, it's lonely being a cold brew.

So I came up with an idea that will help keep my beer perfectly cold, without having to get entangled in the whole 'two fridge' situation. See, I bought a length of that large plastic flex-piping that people use for dryer exhaust. Then I cut a hole in the side of the freezer, right where the ice maker is. I cut the spigot off of a large funnel, and attached it to the end of the hose. Now, I have an automatic ice machine for my beer cooler. Just need to get some of that insulation stuff to wrap around the plastic flexpipe.

However, the house we're moving into has a full wet bar with it's own refridgerator; so this whole setup is merely temporary.

Except for the hole in the side of the freezer. I haven't figured out how I'm going to get that one past the landlord. So, you know, any ideas are greatly appreciated.

In the middle of my second day of all day meetings about how to beat project Lizzie Borden into a semblance of order I received an instant message from another one of my clients.

Carol says: do you or any of your cronies know if we're moving to IPv6? it's a discussion topic in one of my classes this week.

Jim says: IPv6 has been an approved standard for a decade. Nobody is going to go through the pains of implementing it until we’re all out of IP addresses. Then it will be a huge rush to implement, just like Y2K compliance was. There will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Doomsayers will spin tails of woe about all electronic transactions failing and the crash of the Internet porn industry causing global financial collapse.

Jim says: Then after nothing much happens for a while the news will refocus on terrorism and the latest Gallup poll showing that 47% of registered voters really aren’t qualified to pick their noses much less a president and the whole IPv6 story will fade to its proper place as a Trivial Pursuit question.

Carol says: you're a bit cynical

Jim says: Flatterer!

Two things jumped out at me when I reread this. First, I'm the only person I know who uses capitalization and punctuation in instant messages. Second, I'm a geek of godlike proportions.

Spinster-
Your rackets are leaving tomorrow or the next day. However, there was a small problem.

See, I spotted this box at the loading dock at work that I thought would fit. I mean, I was just eyeballing it; and figured it would do fine. So I bring it home and wouldn't you just know that bastard was one fucking inch to short. Well, not to be outdone by corrugated cardboard, I dug out my McGuyver skills.

Needless to say, you'll be recieving a slightly oddshaped package in the next few days. And I didn't have any newspaper (seriously, who reads hard copy anymore?) to pack it in, so you can thank me later for the free issue of FHM. Of course, it's no longer bound; but I'm pretty sure each page is numbered so you could just sort the peices.

So I was hearing in the blogosphere today that Spain has decided to 'tone down' a celebration that has been going on for quite a while. Apparently, the Spaniards were dominated for centuries by Muslim overlords. You know, the whole 'spread religion by the sword' type of folks. They regained independance, and for the past; oh, five hundred years or so have celebrated escape from the Reconquista by filling pinatas with fireworks and blowing those bitches up. That is, pinatas fashioned after Mohammed himself.

I'll never understand why some organizations choose their mascots. A mascot should stir admiration. It should be noble, but at the same time ready to dispatch it's competitors with extreme prejudice. Apparently, there are a few folks out there who didn't get the memo. To wit:

Blue Jays, Cardinals, Ducks, Orioles, and any other bird that is not a bird of prey. There's nothing about any of these creatures that rouses one's competitive spirit. Seriously, what kind of pussy runs onto the field screaming "GOOO RED-BREASTED PLOVERS!!"

Same with Beavers, Terrapins, or Turtles. Are these animals even carnivorous?

Inanimate objects are beyond stupid, and it is in this category that we find the most undeniably idiotic team mascot in the history of organized athletics: The Buckeyes. For a top seded football team, you'd think they might consider opting for a team mascot that's something other than a nut. Like maybe a fire hydrant. At least you could spray the shit out of someone with a fire hydrant. What the hell are you going to do with that nut? Bake some fucking cookies? Same goes for the Syracuse Orange. Seriously, I thought the term Orangemen was in reference to a group of transient northeastern citrus workers known for their ferocity and spirit in battle. Unfortunately, it's just an orange. Christ on a bicycle.

Notice here, that I haven't made mention of odd mascots. You know, the Tennesee Volunteers, the Purdue Boilermakers, the New York Knickerbockers. The thing is, at least these mascots have a locally relevant, historically significant story behind them. Unlike, say, the USC Trojans. Last time I checked, there was no historical record of a band of Trojan warriors settling in the greater Los Angeles area.

Clothing items. Seriously, if all you've got to be proud of are a pair of red or white socks; that's sad.

There's one that I just don't get though. The Crimson Tide. If that's a reference to the algal bloom that occasionally chokes aquatic ecosystems; that's fuckin' harsh. At that rate, it's only a matter of time before we have the Anaheim AIDS or the Cleveland Chlamydia. As sure as I am that everyone in Cleveland probably has chlamydia; I don't think it's something they'd opt to name one of their teams.