A friend emailed me the following:

On an August morning in 1978, French filmmaker Claude Lelouch mounted a gyro-stabilized camera to the bumper of a Ferrari 275 GTB and had a friend, a professional Formula 1 racer, drive at breakneck speed through the heart of Paris. The film was limited for technical reasons to 10 minutes; the course was from Porte Dauphine, through the Louvre, to the Basilica of Sacre Coeur.

No streets were closed, for Lelouch was unable to obtain a permit.

The driver completed the course in about 9 minutes, reaching nearly 140 MPH in some stretches. The footage reveals him running real red lights, nearly hitting real pedestrians, and driving the wrong way up real one-way streets.

Upon showing the film in public for the first time, Lelouch was arrested. He has never revealed the identity of the driver, and the film went underground until a DVD release a few years ago.

Crank up the sound for this one.

It starts out on the open road but once he reaches the Place de la Concord, it gets really intense. The sound of that engine is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Note the person running for their life around the six minute mark.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:47 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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This link is like, a year old or something, but it doesnÂ’t matter. When celebrities are cheap bastards the world must know about it. The shitty tipper database.

I live for shit like this.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:22 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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What the fuck is MySpace?

Would I care if I knew?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:57 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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By now everyoneÂ’s seen or heard about Madonna doing the mock crucifixion bit on her tour. Personally, I think she should be hanging from a giant dollar sign. Does anyone really care anymore? After a while shock value wears off. This old broad is desperately trying stop the pending irrelevance.

I don’t like her fake English accent. I don’t like the fact that she does things just to be controversial. I don’t like the fact that back in the 80s I let chicks play “Lucky Star” on my car’s tape player just to pacify them long enough for me to get my hands up their dresses.

I remember the issue of Playboy where she was nude and all I could focus on was the thick patches of underarm hair. I donÂ’t like the way she whored herself out for cash with that sex book (and IÂ’m no prude).

Most of all I donÂ’t like the fact that sheÂ’s a fucking human corporation.

That is all.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:51 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I watched American Idol last night and came to the conclusion that both contestants suck. The chick is lacking thatÂ… je ne sais quoiÂ…star quality. She does not exude charisma. Taylor Hicks? My wife and I thought he was mildly retarded for the first few weeks, what with those full-body jerking motions and all, but then again, we think most people are to some degree mentally handicapped. WeÂ’ve changed our minds on that though. Now weÂ’re convinced heÂ’s insane. Take a look at his eyes. The eyes are the key, and when I look at that guy I see a deep bend in the sanity department.

As far as singing goes, the broad impressed at the very beginning of the season but then stopped maturing or improving. She over sings a lot, but mainly sheÂ’s just good. Adequate. And her body is shaped funny. From some angles she looks chunky and from other angles she looks thin. I prefer a woman that looks the same from every angle; at least I know what IÂ’ve got.

Taylor can sing but has a very limited range. Almost every song this season was in a bad key for him. His best work was the Joe Cocker thing. But at least he looks like heÂ’s enjoying himself. Crazy people usually do.

Last night’s show was a sleeper—two repeats and two very shitty new songs. The chick’s song was so obviously a reworking of Kelly Clarkson’s first single that I sang the chorus of it to my wife during McPhee’s performance right over of the new song. I didn’t know the words but I made my point. My wife was amazed and proclaimed me all-knowing.

Who will win? I donÂ’t care, and thatÂ’s a shame because IÂ’ve always had a horse in the race in past seasons. This season I wasnÂ’t impressed by any of them, frankly, compared to some of the talent in years past.

I predict the crazy man will win handily.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:12 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I rarely remember dreams. Perhaps once a month IÂ’ll remember a snippet or two but itÂ’s rare. This morning I was dreaming that I was taking a pee. At some point my eyes shot open and I ran for the bathroom and peed.

My wife woke up to find me feeling the bed for wet spots.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

“I think I peed the bed.”

“What?”

“I said, I think I peed the bed!”

Now both of us were up and searching for pee. Then she realized that I was standing there in my underwear.

“Are they dry?”

I felt them.

“Yeah. They are.”

She reached over and touched them.

“They’re dry. You didn’t pee the bed. Are you fucking going nuts are what?”

After a fifteen minute reality check I realized that I didnÂ’t pee the bed. But the dream was so real. So vividly real. I dreamed I peed the bed. I thought I peed the bed.

In a parallel universe, IÂ’m certain I peed the bed. Dreams suck.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:21 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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IÂ’m on a lot of conference calls. IÂ’ve perfected the art of participating whilst doing other things simultaneously, like scratching my balls or writing a chapter of a novel.

But the one aspect of conference calls that I really enjoy is when we come to some impasse or another and decide to call in yet someone else; either for their worthless opinion or to blame them for everything that has gone wrong in the past quarter.

So these poor bastards, sitting at their desk playing solitaire or whatever is they do all day, get phones call theyÂ’re not expecting. A nice surprise. And for some reason they never suspect theyÂ’re on a conference call or that weÂ’ve called from the conference room and that a party of ten is on the line. YouÂ’d think theyÂ’d learn, but they donÂ’t.

And almost without exception they pick up the phone, hear a familiar voice and start talking shit. Or telling exceptionally filthy jokes. I get to hear one per week on average, where some dumbass picks up the line and starts telling a room full of people that he was out all night drinking or has the scabies or some shit. And no matter if the chairman himself is on the phone, no one says anything for at least a full minute because no one knows just how to tell the guy without making it a legal issue or whatever.

Yesterday we called a guy in and as soon as he heard the voice of the guy who was chairing the meeting, a friend of his, he starts busting the guyÂ’s balls:

“Tony! You home jerking off today? I bet you are. I bet your jerking off to the yoga channel, huh? I love jerking off to the yoga channel!” Then he made a few exaggerated noises.

“Uh, Pete, I’m here in the conference room with the budget team…we have a question.”

Dead air.

After about five seconds the meeting guy composed himself and asked whatever pointless question we called about.

There were a few women on the call, two company officers and an old broad from purchasing with no sense of humor. I had to excuse myself from the room for a minute because I was crying. It was one of those times where you laugh hysterically but no sound comes out and tears run streaming down your face. It was uncontrollable and everyone knew it.

When I returned a few minutes later the call had ended and people were filing out trying not to make eye contact with each other for fear of explosive laughter. Let this be a lesson to you.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:36 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I donÂ’t understand camping. IÂ’m not putting it down; IÂ’m just saying that I donÂ’t understand it.

I went camping only once and it was enough. Myself and three other idiots decided camping would be a great idea for spring break back when we were in high school. Having no cash was a contributing factor, as was getting away from our parents and drinking for sixteen hours a day.

None of us had ever been camping before so we rented a giant tent and scavenged for supplies in our parentÂ’s houses. We loaded up two cars full of shit and guitars and set out for points unknown. When we finally reached our destination, a National Forest, we pulled over to debate the best course of action.

“I say we don’t go to a campground. We just pitch our tents in the woods and live like Indians,” one guy said.

“We need a campground, dammit! With running water and bathrooms. Are you prepared to shit in a hole?”

I wasnÂ’t. It was eventually decided that we would go to a campground just outside the National Forest. We set up the tent and then stood there looking at each other. I knew at that moment it would end badly. We were bored and weÂ’d only been there for thirty minutes. None of us were old enough to buy beer so we set out immediately to start going from liquor store to liquor store trying our luck. It turned out to be unnecessary and the first place we came to looked like they hadnÂ’t seen a customer since the Conestoga wagons went by. We loaded up with several cases of beer and a big bottle of Southern Comfort. At the tender age of seventeen we had no idea how bad of an idea that was, but thatÂ’s another story.

I wonÂ’t boor you with the details, but our four day trip was cut to down to three. As soon as we backed the car up to the tent, popped the trunk and cranked up the Hendrix we started drawing complaints. We had so many empty beer cans that all the garbage cans in the place were full of them. We burned the oars from the rowboat for a cooking fire. Our singing was obnoxious and profane. There were bugs. The day before we left we had a more serious problem.

Four seventeen year old kids go through a lot of weed and the supply was gone. ThatÂ’s when it got interesting. Someone had the idea to drive back down the road some twenty miles where we passed what appeared to be some old slave shacks, now inhabited by poor white trash. You really had to see it to believe it. So we drove down there and sitting outside in a rusty lawn chair was this skinny guy who looked like an 1860s tenant farmer. He was about twenty-five, was tall and weighed about 80 pounds. A hay bender, if you will. So we pulled up and one of us gets out to inquire about buying a bag and before you know it the guyÂ’s in the car with us and we start driving up and down while he tries knocking on doors asking his friends if they had any weed.

At first we found this hillbilly ingratiating and hospitable, but soon we realized weÂ’d driven 60 miles and we were aimlessly stopping for this guy to knock on doors. Our patience with Cletus had expired. And as he got out to bang on yet another door I proposed the inevitable.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

There was silence for about two seconds and then we back out and drove away. Cletus looked like he’d shit his pants and broke into a run hollering, “Wait! Wait!” But there would be no waiting. We carted his unemployed ass around for over an hour touring the shittiest hovels I’d ever seen on an almost uninhabited county road. Did I mention he was barefoot?

In the morning we decided we’d had enough and so did the proprietors of the campground. We’d worn each other down. We decided that in order to complete the trip one more thing would be required, so as the boys packed up all our shit I wrote a note to Cletus. It was along the lines of, “You need to get a job and paint your shack and get yourself some shoes because you may not realize it but we have electricity and shit now, etc., etc. I remember it was a masterpiece of letter, quite long and touching on many subjects but no apologies about stranding him at some fucking sod house in no mans land.

The only thing missing with the note was a method of delivery. I ended up tying a guitar string around a potato and wrapping the note around it. As we pulled out of town and past the slave shacks, there he was on the porch sitting in his rusty lawn chair. We started to pull over and his eyes lit up as he recognized us. He ran towards waving and smiling. He wasnÂ’t even pissed off, which pissed us off. As we drove by slowly we didnÂ’t stopÂ…I just launched the potato and it bounced off the door of his 1863 hovel with a thud. As we drove away he was inspecting the parcel post weÂ’d so ceremoniously delivered.

And we got on the road and headed for home. My first and last camping trip.

IÂ’ve changed a lot since then. I havenÂ’t smoked any weed in twenty years and IÂ’ve moved up to the Marriott as a bare minimum as far as comfort is concerned when traveling. I donÂ’t commune with nature very well. I donÂ’t like getting dirty and smelling like smoke. I need a full bar and restaurants. Maybe if I went with someone of the fairer sex it would be different?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:58 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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Did you know that as late as 1977 the French were still sending people to the guillotine?

I was both shocked and pleased.

On another note, IÂ’ve come to the conclusion that a lot of people are at least mildly retarded. I spent an inordinate amount of time at a home improvement warehouse this weekend and IÂ’ve seen it all.

No matter how wide the aisles are some people have to pass their cart dangerously close to you. They expect you to move because they’re important people in their simple minds. Rude, nasty people. What they don’t expect, however, is for you to say, “Watch me run this asshole down,” to your wife really loud while you stare at them. Trust me, they will back down. Fast.

The parking lots of these places are even worse than being inside. ItÂ’s not really that complex. You simply park and get out of your car. When the coast is clear, you cross the main little drag and go into the store. There is no need to cruise the little drag at 2 MPH. There is no need to stop for 30-60 seconds on that little drag before continuing on at 2 MPH.

There is no reason to walk down the center of that little drag with your cart full of shit. Cross it or don’t. When you walk down the middle for long periods of time as if it were a side walk—I have no choice but to blow the horn when I’m two feet away from you. You could cross in six steps asshole, walking down the middle for the whole length of the parking lot shows your disregard for common decency and running you down would be a public service.

I watched the Movie King Kong on Saturday night and I still canÂ’t believe it was released at that length. What was it, like four hours long or some shit? I could have easily edited an hour of Kong having tantrums. It was like they showed the same footage over and over again. My God that was tedious. It takes balls to release something like that fucking bad.

Yes, itÂ’s Monday and IÂ’m not handling it well. IÂ’m not feeling any love.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:16 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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LetÂ’s take a look at something IÂ’ve never mentioned before. The Da Vinci Code.

For some reason this thing really upsets people.

I read the book so long ago that I barely remember it. I bought it the week it came out, before there was any hoopla or reviews or controversy. I happened to like his previous book, Angels & Demons, so I bought this one hoping it would be as good. It wasnÂ’t, but I liked it anyway. It was a very good idea and though BrownÂ’s not exactly Tolstoy, the story moved along and it was interesting and I read it in close to one sitting and then promptly forgot about it. I was not enraged or offended. I donÂ’t know what I was, because it didnÂ’t leave any impression on me other than it was a fun book and thatÂ’s swell, but I had moved on to another.

Then some months later I started hearing about outrage and it blossomed from there into some kind of full-fledged Beatlemania of hate. It got to the point where I never wanted to hear the title of the book again. And now thereÂ’s a movie and all the hype is back.

You know what? Go see it. Or donÂ’t go see it. Because in the grand scheme of anyoneÂ’s life this means very little. ItÂ’s a fucking book. ItÂ’s a fucking movie. People need to stop acting like theyÂ’re teaching the plot of this thing in public schools.

“It’s ridiculous!” I hear from grandstanders. You know what? So is fucking Shrek. I haven’t seen Mission Impossible VII, but I’m pretty sure that plot is ridiculous.

You donÂ’t have to like it. You donÂ’t have to see it. Or you could revel in it. The choice is yours; unlike it would be in, say, Iran.

A lot of people key in on one a central point when they discuss this topic. “It’s fiction,” they say. “Fiction!”

And that’s pretty hard to fucking argue. It’s not a book that anyone is going to look for in the “Theology” section of Barnes & Noble. If you personally believe this book is blasphemous to your personal beliefs, that’s too fucking bad. Plenty of shit offends me and I live with it. Free speech and all that. These people have a right to tell this tale if that’s what they wish to do. And I have the right to see it if I so choose.

I saw some actor from the film say in an interview that The Bible ought to be labeled fiction as well. Heh.

IÂ’m not touching that because I donÂ’t care what other people believe. They can believe or not believe anything they want. I donÂ’t wish to join forces, cause people to switch sides or anything else. IÂ’m personally not interested in what other people believe.

I AM interested in the Christians and especially the Catholics who are able to read the book or see the movie and say they liked it or they didnÂ’t. No big hoopla or anything, just liked it or didnÂ’t. To me these people seem very sane. They donÂ’t want to boycott or burn villages.

IÂ’m also interested in people who say, I donÂ’t think IÂ’ll see it, or who say they will go see it--without any foaming at the mouth or quotes from Leviticus. IÂ’m a big fan of sanity. See it. DonÂ’t see it. Is that too fucking over simplified?

For the record, IÂ’ll see it, even though I hear thereÂ’s no T & A.

Because I like a good story.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:04 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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IÂ’m fascinated with shrunken heads. The Jivaro tribe from Ecuador and Peru did an outstanding job with these. And when I say shrunken heads, I mean shrinking down an actual human head so that it looks just like it did on someoneÂ’s shoulders, but is the size of an orange. And a little wrinkly.

HereÂ’s a gallery of great photos.

One of these things would look great hanging from my rearview.

Ebay, here I come.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:39 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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Why do people videotape themselves having sex?

I really want to know.

First of all, these things have a way of coming back to haunt you. ItÂ’s undeniable. Secondly, I donÂ’t understand the appeal. I hate having my picture taken. IÂ’m talking about still photos, fully clothed. When I see a picture of myself I cringeÂ…and itÂ’s been said IÂ’m not too hard on the eyes.

I just canÂ’t imagine watching a videotape of myself having sex.

I would have to sit there and critique my own performance. How could I not? How could anybody not? I find the concept incomprehensible.

Why am I making that face? I shouldnÂ’t bend my neck like that. Look at my hair.

Yet some people make these things habitually. What am I missing? Is there something wrong with me?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:59 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Aside from drunken hookups with skanks and having to dance to poorly chosen music, the bouquet toss has always been a peril. IÂ’ve seen chicks smash into the cake table trying to catch the bouquet on more than one occasion.

Now it appears theyÂ’ve got snipers waiting in the woods. This chick went for the bouquet and got shot.

On a related note, nothing gives me more pleasure than when a crass, drunken idiot catches the garter and a shy, demure lass in revealing clothing catches the bouquet. When the guy starts pushing that thing up the girlÂ’s leg everybody in the place is uncomfortable. The drunks are shouting and the uptight relatives are holding their breath and the chick looks like sheÂ’d rather be tied to a red ant mound and than have Cletus come at her with the garter.

And as the video rolls she desperately tries to mentally transport herself away from the scene while Cletus, whoÂ’s been doing shots for several hours, threatens to cross the line. ItÂ’s always been my favorite part, save the times I had to do it. I found it almost as humiliating as the girl.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:14 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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I like dogs. In fact, I like dogs more than I like people. But this idiotic bill will allow people to dine with their dogs at outdoor restaurants. I have a huge issue with this.

For starters, my idea of an obedient dog most likely differs from other peopleÂ’s. For some reason a lot of people allow their dogs to bark incessantly, jump on people, dry hump people and assume youÂ’re cool with it. IÂ’m not.

Some peopleÂ’s dogs bark at every other dog that comes near them. Not the dogÂ’s fault mind you; most people canÂ’t take car of themselves let alone a pet. When I think of a dog I think of a friendly lab or golden retriever sitting quietly at my feet happy and panting. Unfortunately, a lot of dog owners have nasty, yapping half feral rat dogs that bark continuously with impudence.

So now they have a brilliant plan to let people bring dogs to patio restaurants, where they can piss and shit where people eat. And before you call me an asshole, remember that I love dogs. While your dog may be gentle and obedient, the guy down the street may have a completely different idea about his dog’s behavior. I’ve said it many times—most people are assholes. And you know what? So are their dogs.

I can see it now, little kids and strange dogs put together in a dining environment. Pitt bulls and yappy rat dogs, owners constantly yelling at their pets and waiters having to work around it all. Sounds great, huh?

Some people advance ideas that are so stupid I cannot fathom how they get by in the world. ItÂ’s shaking my faith in Darwin.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:39 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Can you imagine how much people must have stunk in the middle ages?

Most people had one set of clothes. They slept in them, they worked in them and God knows what else. Their underwear must have been absolutely disgusting.

I suppose the rich and the nobility took a lot of baths, but the average serf must have stunk to the high heavens.

I really need to focus my thoughts in a more productive direction.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 12:27 PM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
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He resembles an overweight dugong. I have way too many questions.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:13 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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The times they are a changinÂ’. Steve writes an interesting piece about changes in the blogging world over the past few years. He points out that Instapundit has been overtaken by Maulkin, which to those of us whoÂ’ve been around long enough realize is a milestone of sorts.

Oddly, I donÂ’t read any of the most popular blogs, right or left, because I think everyone is full of shit, but IÂ’m a jaded bastard and my interests modulate weekly. He also points out something I noticed recently myself:

Looking at the ranks now, I'm amazed at how things are changing. People who used to count on 10,000 visits per day are sucking along at 4,000. Blogs I am sure I've never heard of are in the twenties and thirties. What a fickle public we have.

The dynamic has certainly changed. IÂ’m sure much of it has to do with the fact that new blogs are springing up at the rate of one million per day or something. And of course most of them suck. A lot of people still think theyÂ’re famous, by whose standards I surely donÂ’t know. A lot people still think theyÂ’re going to be discovered, like this whole thing is some kind of digital ShwabbÂ’s Drug Store. And some people are still trying to make a buck without actually working, what I like to call Ralph Kramden Syndrome. And some people think theyÂ’re running a media conglomerate:

I see Wizbang has offshoot blogs now, and apparently they're pumping up their traffic count by putting the same Sitemeter code on every blog! Of course, it's possible that every one of their blogs was averaging 34,482 visits as of TLB's last snapshot. It could happen. Quantum mechanics tells us things like that happen. I wonder if I could get all my friends to put my Sitemeter code on their blogs. Then I could charge $900 for a BlogAd.

I live for stuff like that. I think most of us who’ve been around three years or more have pretty much stopped trying. I stopped trying a couple of years ago. It’s tiresome. Leaving comments and linking people who post complete shite—the whole thing stinks of prostitution.

Many have matured. Folks who used to link every day are now writing more and I have a lot more respect for that. I find it hard to believe that people still check the ecosystem. I guess thatÂ’s one thing thatÂ’ll never change; the enormous ego of the blogger.

One thing IÂ’ve learned over the past few years is that being a link whore is futile. I also learned how to maintain a narrative, and through forced daily writing IÂ’m able to write other things much easier. IÂ’ve submitted writing to people and have had checks mailed to me, which is what IÂ’d hoped for from the start. IÂ’ve developed a lot of friendships as well.

Of course IÂ’ve angered people, run off JimÂ’s readers and been called a lot of nasty names too. ItÂ’s a fickle thing, blogging. And IÂ’m oddly at home in my obscurity.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:00 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I donÂ’t do politics here. A few people do it well, and hundreds do it so poorly that the whole thing is a turn off. We like to consider this an oasis where you donÂ’t have to deal with that, since so much bandwidth is already hogged by people who, for the most part, really donÂ’t understand what theyÂ’re talking about.

However, every once in a while I find myself worked up about something and I need to get it off my chest. Today, itÂ’s the worldÂ’s largest, stinkiest, gaping asshole: the president of Persia. I wonÂ’t type his name here because I find it personally offensive. This guyÂ’s been running around waving his bare ass in everyoneÂ’s face for a long time.

When the leader of a country keeps telling the world that another country, in this case Israel, needs to be wiped off the map, I take issue with it. YouÂ’d think that everyone would take issue with it, but youÂ’d be wrong. Plenty of other world leaders donÂ’t really care, for a variety of reasons.

Regardless, it really gets under my skin that this walking, talking rectum gets immunity from the world while he constantly threatens civilization. Today one of his underlings stated:

"We have announced that wherever America does something evil, the first place that we target will be Israel," Revolutionary Guards Rear Admiral Mohammad-Ebrahim Dehqani was quoted as saying by Iran's student news agency ISNA.”

Well, IÂ’m here to tell you that if Israel feels threatened enough, theyÂ’re going to take action. I donÂ’t know if it will be a strike on the nuke lab or one shot to that assholeÂ’s head, but itÂ’s coming.

Sorry. Back to regularly scheduled idiocy.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:35 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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IÂ’m pretty sure I figured out why most blog names are embarrassingly bad. I mean aside from the fact that most people arenÂ’t very creative and/or clever.

Most bloggers never created any serious plan or anything. They just started blogging, and in many cases they started on blogspot or something and I think they chose a name in thirty seconds or less. And thatÂ’s always a bad move. Long term decisions shouldnÂ’t be made in fifteen seconds while youÂ’re trying to register on blogspot and watching for your bossÂ’s office door to open at the same time.

The ones I find to be horrifically bad are the long tongue twisters like “Ramblings of Inter-terrestrial Musings of Thoughts of an Introspective Geek.” You get the picture. In fact, don't use any of those words if you're starting a blog.

IÂ’m not too thrilled with the puns on political parties either. The whole right and left act is stale an unimaginative. Unlike Shank, I donÂ’t have a problem with eponymous blog names. ItÂ’s honest and straight forward.

Blog names are important. I simply will not visit a blog if the blog name is shitty, boring or cliché. I think a lot of people know they fucked it up but it’s hard to change once it’s out there.

My advice for anyone starting a blog these days is stay away from the words:

Rantings, ramblings, thoughts, right, left and “the.” It’s been done. And re-done.

In addition, don’t look through the dictionary or thesaurus for long words with too many syllables. Certainly don’t look in the thesaurus for new versions of rambling, raving and thoughts. In fact, stay the fuck away from all words beginning with the letter “R.”

There. Now off you go.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:24 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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1 hmmm.. eponymous.. OH! A new word for me ! Yay Paul! "of or relating to an eponym" wait what the... "A name of a drug, structure, or disease based on or derived from the name of a person" Yeah, definitely... blogs are a disease

Posted by: Oorgo at May 02, 2006 04:19 PM (lM0qs)

2 No "R"?!?!?! Fuck.

Posted by: Ted at May 02, 2006 08:33 PM (+OVgL)

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A lot of blog names turn me off. I could give some examples but I donÂ’t have the heart.

On a related note, have you ever watched a really bad TV commercial from a major company and think to yourself, “Who the fuck signed off on that?”

IÂ’m not talking about low budget local ads; IÂ’m talking about Fortune 500 companies. It makes me wonder how people can put out complete shit and still keep their jobs. And you know the thingÂ’s been screened by the biggest of wigs in many cases because the placement contracts are for a gazillion dollars. There are enough of these things out there in rotation where you must know what IÂ’m talking about. Confusing ads where you donÂ’t even know what product theyÂ’re selling, bad jinglesÂ…the whole nine yards.

I know that many things are subjective, but Christ, almost everybody has a benchmark for just plainbad. You know it when you see it. And I can picture a bunch of jackholes sitting around a conference table at the agency, slapping each other on the back and taking notes as they murder someoneÂ’s budget. And back at the ranch when they preview the 30 second spot, the head jackhole, the overpaid, under qualified friend of a nepotistic friend nodding approvingly, because it was, after all, his responsibility to relay the expectations and message to the ad agency.

I play these scenarios out in my head a lot. Sometimes IÂ’ll be sitting in front of the TV completely spaced out for five or ten minutes and then realize IÂ’ve been writing the back story for a bad commercial. I can see the faces of these people sitting around the conference room brainstorming, making critical errors, scratching their noses. ItÂ’s very real. Times like that make me realize how much I could benefit from a good prescription.

Take twice a day or as needed for unexplainable insanity.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:49 PM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
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