Well, another hurricane season is upon us; and with it no doubt will come all the frantic insanity and sensationalist hyperbole we should all expect from the media. Take Alberto, the storm's practically a flash in the pan and Drudge pulled out his flashing siren for it. I can fart harder than 70 mph; but I digress. Having lived in several hurricane-prone areas, and seen the extremes at both ends of the spectrum; I thought maybe I might have something to offer. As it turns out (and you may have guessed) I don't; so I asked Paul to add something to the post that might have merit. If you can tell who wrote which peices of advice, I'll send you a special gift in the mail; free of charge of course.

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Gut Busting
A guy ate 47 grilled cheese sandwiches in ten minutes this weekend. No mention of if heÂ’ll need to use blasting caps to take a dump in the coming days. I just donÂ’t get it.

Sports
In soccer news, Persia got their asses kicked. I think they threw it. That skid mark of a president kept threatening to attend the games like Hitler at the 1936 Olympics. The big difference is that this guy likes to stir the pot at every opportunity and Hitler was less arm waving and more action. Give it time, I guess. This guy’s obviously a big fan of Der Führer and he needs to get whacked.

Terror
Al Qaeda in Iraq announced ZarqawiÂ’s successor as if were a posting in the WSJ. I donÂ’t know about you, but if I headed a terrorist organization I wouldnÂ’t be announcing or posting promotions and roster changes. It just seemsÂ…like the stupidest thing I could ever imagine. If the guy exists at all and if heÂ’s not a red herring.

Obits
The guy who wrote (I think) the theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey is dead. He did for kettle drums what Einstein did for physics.

Opinion
IÂ’m having new flooring installed at the house and itÂ’s been a goat-hump from the get-go. The thing I really donÂ’t understand is why these people canÂ’t just show up at the time they say they will? Is it really so hard?

When they do show up one of them stays on his cell phone the whole time, often disappearing for hours and the other guy doesnÂ’t speak English. Or Spanish, German or French. I have no idea what it was but I couldnÂ’t fucking parlay no matter how hard I tried. Am I expected to know Albanian or Serbo-Croatian or whatever it was? Meanwhile the workÂ’s not getting done and IÂ’m getting antsy and this bastard goes around my house fucking whistling all day. Literally. And I donÂ’t want them using my toilet anymore.

Not much of a post, I know. Spare me the critique.

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Ever notice a TV show character completely vanish from a popular show and theyÂ’re never heard from again? I had no idea it had a name, but it does. Chuck Cunningham Syndrome. You can scroll down and see a list of popular shows where this phenomenon took place and little bit about each one.

In more heinous news, thereÂ’s also Cousin Oliver Syndrome. Remember that little bastard? Scroll down and see a list of other shows that played this card to keep the show afloat long after it was clinically dead. I actually shuddered at some of these.

I should hat tip someone here but I honestly canÂ’t remember where I saw it. Probably Dlisted.

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This week weÂ’re on to part two of etiquette. Part one can found here.

We left off talking about handshakes. We’ve covered “the boneless shake” and “the double pumper” so now we’re on to the last two.

The bone crusher. I donÂ’t know what motivates people to pull a bone cruncher. If itÂ’s to intimidate, it rarely works. When someone gives me the bone cruncher I always know IÂ’m dealing with an asshole. In rare cases it can actually be painful and in those cases it is socially acceptable to break his wrist, throw him or double grab and head butt, however, these are rare circumstances and weÂ’re getting off course.

The last abominable handshake is when they just hold on too long. Any handshake that lasts longer than two seconds is over the line and IÂ’m taking my hand back one way or another. Caveat venditor.

LetÂ’s move on to general behavior. Having little education is not a breech of manners. According to Post:

People who say “I come,” and “I seen it,” and “I done it” prove by their lack of grammar that they had little education in their youth. Unfortunate, very; but they may at the same time be brilliant, exceptional characters, loved by everyone who knows them, because they are what they seem and nothing else.
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This has been a pet peeve of mine for a long, long time.

There is no such thing as adding “II” to your name. Does everyone understand that?

You’re “Junior.” I’m sorry, but that is a fact. I know that you don’t want to be called junior. You don’t want “Junior” on legal documents. I can understand that. You’re a big strong man. You’re James Theodore Winthorpe II.

But you’re not. And you’re not fooling anyone. Not me, anyway, ‘cause I know how this works. If you have the same exact name as your father you are “Jr.” There’s no such thing as II. Some try to sneak by with 2nd. Pleases stop the bullshit. When the elder dies, you are promoted to “Sr.” Does that help? Because you’re making an ass of yourself trying to pull this off. People are laughing much harder at “II” than they are at “Jr.”

Get used to it, Junior.

Primarily in the U.S.A. (and never in the U.K.), boys who should be styled junior are sometimes incorrectly labeled with the suffix ‘II’, particularly if there is a third or fourth with the same name. Even if a legal title, this is socially incorrect; strictly speaking, ‘II’, pronounced the second, refers to a boy who is named after his grandfather, uncle, or cousin. The suffixes ‘II’, ‘III’, etc. are also correctly written 2nd, 3rd, etc.

More proof that you are an idiot here and here.

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I see plenty of bloggers are excited about the World Cup.

If youÂ’re a soccer fan, you probably donÂ’t live in America. If you are a soccer fan living in America: I pity you. If you are a blogger who doesnÂ’t even know how many men you need to field a team, letÂ’s just be honest about it from the get-go. I suspect many bloggers will jump on this bandwagon because itÂ’s the only one on the prairie.

I’m an unabashed soccer detractor. I fear things I don’t understand. If it were up to me, I would beat soccer to death with a stick—like a garter snake on the patio.

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IÂ’ve had a bottle of Dom in my fridge since New YearÂ’s Eve. It was a leftover, of sorts, that has been waiting for a proper occasion. IÂ’ve been tempted several times since than but IÂ’ve held out.

And this morning I wake up to find that that goddamned, sub-human cockroach has been stamped out—sent to hell on the express train—courtesy of a couple of five hundred pound bombs. I haven’t been this happy since I discovered masturbation as a lad.

IÂ’ve never been one to celebrate death but there are a few exceptions, such as this one and that Serbian asshole and a handful of others. Well, quite a few others, I will admit. So tonight IÂ’ll pop the cork and celebrate the extermination of that fucking vampire. That maggot encrusted, shit-filled bag of diarrheatic pus.

Burn, baby, burn
Disco inferno
Burn, baby, burn
Burn that mutha down

Â….The Trammps, 1977

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The other day I heard that the median I.Q is 100.

That scares the hell out of me. That means that one half of us have a double digit I.Q. No wonder everything is so jacked up.

They say that 100, plus or minus 10, indicates average intelligence. IÂ’m not so sure about that. Seventy-five is the beginning of retardation so IÂ’m not sure IÂ’d count ninety as average intelligence.

Where do you think people in the 75-90 range work? If youÂ’re thinking garbage men, or landscapers youÂ’d be wrong. My suggestion is to stand up and peer around the other cubes. Take a walk down the hall and get some water.

I rest my case.

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So, today and tomorrow we have these management training seminars. They're pretty interesting, but they're mostly geared to folks who aren't business school grads; so I spend most of the time passively paying attention. By that I mean I doodle. I'm a really good doodler, to wit (click for bigger):

Hey, everybody's got a gift right? Anyways, I have some serious ADD, so it actually helps me concentrate on the speaker or discussion if I've got something low-level going on in the background. Anyways, I'm into my fifth or sixth hour of this boredom born masterpiece when a woman next to me leans in and whispers "Fill me in the diddle with black." Excuse me? For a second there I'm pretty sure this woman wants something that I can't give her.
"What?" I whisper back, still not paying attention to her.
"Fill in the middle black." I'm still a little confused, then I realize that this nosy wench is trying to tell me how I should doodle.
"Nah. Nothing else is filled in."
"Yeah! Fill it in, make it black."
"Nah, nothing else is black." I try to chuckle, because chuckling when people say something stupid to you usually seems to make them back off. I'm surprised that this woman is so invested in the elements of design; but I refuse to ruin the fruit of my labor.
"Well, do we have another color?" Sweet Jesus woman!
"It wouldn't look right, everything else is lines." She gave up here which is good, because I was fearful that I might have to start explaining positive and negative space to her; and that would just be too much work for a doodle. But I'll be goddamned if someone whom I'm unacquainted with is going to try and critique my doodling. That's just plain rude.

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Talent is a funny thing. I know IÂ’ve talked about this before but my fascination hasnÂ’t subsided.

I don’t have a lot of ideas. I’m not what you would call “an idea man.” That doesn’t make me an idiot. I have a more than respectable job and a fancy title and a lot of responsibilities—far ranging responsibilities. I’ve come to the conclusion that the farther one moves up the corporate ladder the less specific their responsibilities become. And while I’m supposed to be running a lot of different things, what it really boils down to is that I am Winston Wolf.

"I'm Winston Wolf. I solve problems."
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ThereÂ’s nothing more fun than a couple of wiseasses pulling a Bill Nye.

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The vast majority of television programming is recockulous. It's worthless shite aimed squarely at a severly retarded audience. I got bit by a shark this weekend, and as a result I've been forced to spend much time on the couch, layed up watching TV*. It's been horrible, but lucky for you; I'm willing to wade into the sewers and bring you back warning of what lies beneath.

The Real World - This show used to be my guilty pleasure, but after watching two or so hours of it on Sunday afternoon, I'm a changed man. All these monkeys do is get fucked up and start arguments with eachother. Every episode was the same damn thing - get money, get drunk, get pissed at a roommate. I mean, these people are supposedly trying to get a business off the ground, but all I ever see them do is get plastered and scream at eachother. At least back in the day, there was a little fucking going on. How the level of programming over there at MTV has slipped. Sigh.

Wife Swap - I finally thought the censors had allowed hardcore porn on TV. Man was I disappointed to see this garbage. Okay, two husbands trade wives for a week or something, and then at the end, the wives get to dole out prize money. First off, what kind of dumbfuck signs up for this? I'm guessing one of these people who's up to their eyeballs in unsecured debt, and whose only recourse is to pimp his wife out to someone he doesn't even know for the entertainment of the American public. At any rate, these women get shipped off and exposed (inevitably) to some strange family that's completely opposite of their own. Madness ensues, tantrums are thrown, the parade of the absolutely pathetic marches on.

Deal or No Deal - No deal. Really Howie, pack your cueball haircut up and move to the gameshow channel you washout. Remember "Bobby's World"? That was the shit man, now look at you.

Reality TV in general is a cancer on society. Half of MTV's lineup is reality TV and each show stars the same lameass, wastes of a twentysomething losers as the next. Not only are they on Real World/Road Rules Challenge 42, but it's the same people that were on the original shows. I think I saw a dude with a cane and a colostomy bag on the last episode. Again, amazingly pathetic. I can make an exception for something like American Gladiators, or it's new incarnation 'Pros vs Joes'; because at least it's pure competition. Don't give me this rehersed, recycled, scripted drama bullshit.

Hell, worthwhile television can only be found on a select few channels:
Discovery Channel - Everything you ever wanted to know, and then some.

History Channel - It's like regular TV drama, except it really happened. Which, you know, makes regular TV look like the History Channel's dorky little brother who's always trying to be like him. God, what a loser.

National Geographic Channel - Watching a Mara River crocodile pick off some unsuspecting wildebeest never gets old. Plus, they air a bunch of shows on everything from weather to UFO's.

Speedvision - Roadracing. Watch, learn, practice on your hometown streets.

Comedy Central - Although I wish they'd bring back a lineup that was heavier on standup comedy, as I regard standup as probably one of the most entertaining artforms; they still have some decent programs. I watched Ron White do his new thing with the Rednecks of Comedy Tour (or whatever), and it was an absolute rip. If I was a comedian I'd be Ron White; which is why I'm glad he's doing it. So I don't have to. more...

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Trust me on this one.

***Link Now Works***

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I went to my kidÂ’s dance recital on Saturday. Four hours in all, of which she was on the stage a total of three minutes. I was medicated, but not nearly enough. Some of you might remember last yearÂ’s affair, where stuck in those small cramped seats I had to endure the smell of shit for several hours. This time wasnÂ’t much better.

YouÂ’re only allowed to leave the auditorium between dances and they had Gestapo posted at all the doors insuring the mandate was enforced. There were 45 individual songs/dances of which my kid participated in one, plus the finale. That guarantees the seats stay full to the end. My kid went on, like third, and then we had three more hours to kill before we could retrieve her. The trouble started early.

The idiots who were sitting next to us had set up camp and we had to get through them to get to the aisle. I sat in my seat with my camera and program on my lap. In contrast, the buttholes had four bouquets of flowers, a handful of programs and two backpacks all laid out on the floor at their feet. And I had to pee.

I held it until our kid was done and then we planned our exit to the bathroom. The problem was that between the dances they turned all the lights out completely. It was like being at the bottom of a well. YouÂ’d think that the red exit signs mandated by law would throw at least some light but youÂ’d be wrong. Also, the time between dances was like one minute, so you had to act fast.

The lights went off and I bolted up, carrying my shit with one hand and grabbing the old lady with the other. It was hopelessly dark…I really couldn’t see anything. I said, “Excuse me!” at the top of my voice, but the assholes sitting there didn’t bother to move. Again, “I said, excuse me!” Still nothing. I was standing there in the dark like a jackass and I’d had enough.

I started stomping through. The first thing I felt under my right foot was a bouquet of flowers. There was no room to walk normally so I had to side-shuffle, and in doing so felt my left foot smash the remains. Then I hit a backpack, but felt it lifted from my path, with a great sigh. Like I was putting these people out or something. “Excuse me!” I shouted again because I was trying to be polite, but he was still unrepentant as after moving the backpack he was just sitting back in his chair. The rest of his brood was just as useless. I plowed over more flowers, ice skated on his programs and stepped all over his feet. I got by him, but not before he took a head shot from the camera. He actually yelped when I clocked him. I was still dragging my wife by the hand so whatever I didn’t completely smash she surely did.

I heard her saying excuse me as well but these people just didnÂ’t get it. By the time we hit the aisle we had steamrolled over four people and their possessions. The doors were closed, the lights were up and we hadnÂ’t gotten out. I was standing to the side now and looked over at the assholes. They were watching the performance like nothing had happened. Smiling.

I could have beaten the whole family to death at that point and not lost any sleep. With the lights up I could see the damage weÂ’d done getting out. All the flower bouquets were completely destroyed. Flattened. The programs were torn up good and had giant, size twelve footprints on the remains. The best part was the giant bag of Cheetos that were completely and totally demolished, IÂ’m assuming by my wife, because I never felt them. Have you seen a big, stepped on bag of Cheetos recently? ItÂ’s quite a sight.

We stayed outside for about an hour and we knew we could ever return to our seats down front. We stayed up in the nosebleed section for the remainder where we had some room and could chat without disturbing others. It was a wholly miserable experience, save the three minutes of my kid. I wouldnÂ’t have missed that, and I though I pay a heavy price each year itÂ’s worth it.

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I had a moment of clarity over the weekend while I was watching a commercial for what appears to be another cheesy talent show on fox. During the commercial, a guy took a flying leap and landed on his face, which got my attention. The show is called, “So you think you can dance?”

It came to me in a flash. I’d like to develop a show called, “So you think you can swear?”

Just think about the auditions. Brooklyn plumbers, Princeton frat boys, all branches of the military would probably be represented, et. al. Granted it would have to be on cable, but I think IÂ’m really on to something.

On a safer note, I’ll also be pitching, “So you think you can read?” because recent experience shows that few people actually can. I’m thinking the best part would be pitting small children against stupid adults.

Brilliant, huh?

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Anybody else notice that half the template seems to be missing?

Wasn't me...

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I woke with the instant panicked reaction that DANGER was present. My flight or fight reflex was in full effect. I was immobilized and I was being smothered. In my moment of waking clarity I knew that the inevitable had finally happened - the children were launching their coup and were trying to take me out in my sleep.

I fought back. The vermin weren't going to get me without some losses! My arms were being held down, preventing me from clearing my face and taking a breath. With a mighty heave I ripped my right arm free, throwing the soft body against the wall with a satisfying "thwack".

I kicked out, freeing my legs. I rolled over violently, upsetting the clinging evil that still covered my supine form. In the back of my mind it registered that Lovely Wife was not in the bed. Had they already finished her or was she holding out somewhere else in the house? I had to finish this fight quickly if she was to have any chance of survival.

I leaped from the bed. As I did, the last of the pillows fell off. I rushed for the door and ...

Stopped.

Pillows?

I flicked the light on to see my vanquished enemy strewn about the room. Not children at all, except perhaps the children of Martha Stewart. They were pillows. Pillows everywhere. Plus one rather tangled up duvet.

On the plus side the children weren't actively striving for my demise. At least not yet anyway. On the negative side I now had to return to sharing my bed with nine homicidal pillows and their duvet overlord.

There should be a law about how many stuffed objects a man can be subjected to at one time.

Posted by: Jim at 09:49 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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1 Alwright now, who let this Jim guy come in and post?

Posted by: diamond dave at June 03, 2006 02:40 PM (4J7so)

2 "...duvet." C'mon man. Even I don't use the word duvet. And I'm a pompous ass.

Posted by: Paul at June 05, 2006 08:00 AM (vbP6L)

3 Damn, Helen. Wish I could make someone orgasm just by blogging. I'd never leave home.

Posted by: diamond dave at June 05, 2006 11:03 AM (QmI9R)

4 Oh. My. God. Jim posted. I think I either just orgasmed or saw Jesus. Or, quite possibly, both.

Posted by: Helen at June 05, 2006 11:26 AM (La1Mk)

5 Wait a damn minute! How did that happen? My last post was AFTER Helen's!

Posted by: diamond dave at June 05, 2006 12:49 PM (ImpfT)

6 No it wasn't dave, you must be mistaken. Good day sir. I said good day!

Posted by: shank at June 05, 2006 03:13 PM (jfEhX)

7 My post caused a rift in the space-time continuum. Expect random wonkiness until the hole in reality heals itself.

Posted by: Jim at June 05, 2006 03:56 PM (oqu5j)

8 And Paul...I use "duvet" because merely saying the word makes chicks get hot. Seriously. Try it at a party some time. "Hi. Stacy, right?" "Yes. And you are..." "You'll never know." [pause] "Duvet." "Take me! Take me now!"

Posted by: Jim at June 05, 2006 03:58 PM (oqu5j)

9 Stealth point! "Monty Python and the Holy Grail"

Posted by: Victor at June 07, 2006 01:19 PM (L3qPK)

10 Nope!

Posted by: Jim at June 07, 2006 04:24 PM (tyQ8y)

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Back by popular demand. This week we’re taking a look at etiquette. If there’s one thing that pisses me off it’s poor manners. It’s one thing to live like a caveman in your own home—but it’s entirely another thing to do it in public.

I know manners, as they were drummed into me as a child and as a young man by my parents, who hoped IÂ’d somehow turn out better than I did. I fell well short of everyoneÂ’s mark but I do remember my manners. This doesnÂ’t mean IÂ’m an etiquette Nazi. I just donÂ’t want to hear public farting. ThereÂ’s a big difference.

Very few people still adhere to age old manners of the royal court and to the completely outdated standards set by Emily Post. That broad was born in 1873 so you can bet your ass things have changed. You know, with electricity and all. So letÂ’s get to it.

Greetings
Up until the 19th century proper etiquette stated that you should never speak to someone that you were not actually, personally introduced to. That type of familiarity was unheard of in England at the time.

If you were actually introduced to someone, the only proper greeting was, “How do you do?”

The response was either another; “How do you do?” or the person could simply bow instead.

I donÂ’t expect people to exercise these standards in modern day America, although there still is a place for them on occasion. HereÂ’s what I do expect:

When greeting someone look them in the eye, stand up straight and shake hands. DonÂ’t wave your drink at them. DonÂ’t nod at them like youÂ’re the Prince of Wales acknowledging the pee boy.

And for God’s sake shake hands properly. Nothing disgusts me more than a limp shake. Everyone has experienced “the boneless hand” before. It’s something of an enigma to me, how anyone could go through life with that handshake having met no repercussions of any kind. I always figured one day they would give the boneless shake and some guy would feel the near lifeless hand, spin the guy around and de-pants and defile him standing up right there, with a few grunts and a brief apology, along the lines of, “Sorry about the mess.”

Almost as bad is the double shaker. ThatÂ’s the guy who clasps your hand with both of his hands and pumps away. I refuse to tolerate the double shake because I always get the feeling heÂ’s going to pull me in and head-butt me. If I get the double shake I always step right and shift my weight so if I have to throw him I can.

In the old days when a man passed a woman with whom he was not acquainted he would tip his hat, where if he were acquainted with her he would bow. We donÂ’t do this anymore. We now have two options if you donÂ’t know the woman you are passing on the street. The first is to smile politely and the second is to ignore her, making no eye contact whatsoever. In both cases, it is polite to turn after a few steps and oogle her ass. Well, not exactly, but itÂ’s taken for granted. It is not polite to whistle or to make audible noises or grunts. Public grunting is never good manners.

Etiquette is such a broad topic that I might have to address it in parts, as IÂ’d hate to skip over some important topics, like distinguishing a tea from a reception. For instance, according to Post, the menu defines the event. A tea, for instance:

Only tea, bouillon, chocolate, bread and cakes are served. There can be all sorts of sandwiches, hot biscuits, crumpets, muffins, sliced cake and little cakes in every variety that a cook or caterer can devise—whatever can come under the head of “bread and cake” is admissible; but nothing else, or it becomes a “reception,” and not a “tea.”

I bet you idiots have been fucking this up for years, huh? Well, thereÂ’s more where that came from.

To be continued.

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Did you know that President Gerald R. Ford’s real name was Leslie Lynch King, Jr.? Because it was, and there was no way a guy named Leslie “Lynch King” was getting elected. That’s not why he changed it, but that’s beyond the scope of this shitty post.

On the other hand, a guy with a fairly normal name, Arnold Gerry Dorsey decided it was better to change it to Engelbert Humperdinck.

More here. You might need that someday.

Also, this just in.

I told you. I must have said it a hundred times.

I said, “Katharine McPhee has no charisma, and she looks like she’s in a daze.”

Well, my track record of spotting the insane at a glace has once again been proved accurate. Now it turns out that there may be a brainwashing cult behind the blank look.

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Which of these things are not like the others?

Fireman
Policeman
EMT
Teacher
Star of “Ocean’s Thirteen”

HereÂ’s a harder one:

Which of these things are not like the others?

Tinkerbell
Santa Clause
Global Warming
Tooth Fairy
Internal Revenue Service

HereÂ’s an even harder one:

Who the fuck is Kevin Federline?

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