Thursday, July 31, 2008

Skeleton keys

Hmm, that's quite odd.

Holy hell!

Ah, it burns!

There are some weird motherfuckers out there. Glad I'm not one of 'em.

Not a very bold statement, I realize, and when one compares this place to others that get even weirder motherfuckers for whatever reason, legitimate or not, it'll seem even less striking. And after I humorlessly discuss a few keywords of The Google® that led people to unlock the hidden cubic zirconia treasures of this mediocre blog, it'll seem even less than that. That's a lot of less. Which is what I seem to specialize in.

At We Lick Toxic Imports Clean!, we have lots of less!

I know, I should have majored in marketing.

I don't have fourteen billion readers, thank Beelzebub -- only a deranged lunatic ready to snap at a moments notice into a bloodthirsty spree killer would want to have an über-blog -- so the words and/or phrases that the socially maladjusted porn-surfers (as opposed to us suave, debonair porn-surfers) typically use in their neverending search for [collection of various body parts] [action] [smutty residue] -- Adult Entertainment Mad Libs are the future of fun! -- are quite limited chez Randal, so here are the ones that, for some reason, occurred the most:

mrs bradley franiam. Um, Fran, any ideas?

Variations on ennui such as the properly articled l'ennui and the quick-and-dirty ennui. No explanation needed. We are legion, a joyless lot, neither happy nor sad, but merely 'meh.' The title of this blog in myriad permutations and misspellings is also quite popular.

A few fete nationales also appeared, some with the accent circonflexe, most without, some with bonne, some not. Vive la France and all that jazz, fellow honorary frogs. Now go eat a hamburger.

satan's coming around the bend. Aw yeah, now we're talkin'! Sabbath, motherfucker! Either that or some minion of LaVey is really quite hopeful. Don't forget your goat leggings!

Wait. Isn't Satan already here?

"Why yes, future Happy Meal, I am."

The rest of the keywords are smaller in number, but here are a few that, good, bad or bizarre, caught my eye.

amour sorcier parfümleri. I'm not familiar with any literary reference to heavily-cologned French love wizards, so I don't get what this dude (chick?) was searching for. Did les Français invent a new subgenre of skin flick I don't know about?

I can totally get behind the chris matthews terminated campaign.

Yeah sure, like you're gonna buy me a billion hamburgers and watch them change the sign. There are better uses of your time. That sign ain't going nowhere, son.

how do you spell crazy in german. I don't know, maybe we should ask Barack Hussein X since he's so tight with them. Though I guess any lie-brul will do since they are, by definition, fascists.

press play media lusty grandmas. Sorry, you want the abodes of the future president and vice president.

the sickness of ennui. Whomever you are, I've got it, too. Solidarność!

you re fucking weird award. He also won the no apostrophe award.

tentacles squid pussy fuck. Jeez, I'm even getting the hentai dudes.

But my personal favorite has to be when husbands go to work xxx. Why? Because I haven't had so much as a u, v or w experience here, let alone an x.

Well, there was that one time...

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Salute Your Solution*

The solution?

Start salutin', motherfuckers. (How's that for a campaign slogan? Very Commander-In-Chiefy and sure to please both the jingoistic patriotic right and the vulgar, angry left.)

Now come on, Madame Future President, doesn't that kick a wee bit more campaignin' ass than ska? Loud guitars will bring down the bloodthirsty plutocracy! (Yeah, I know it didn't work before. That's because it was too mellow, man, ya dig? Damn hippies.)

Know what else loud guitars kill maim indefinitely imprison deafen besides fascists? Thieves!

Do we really want anymore of those?

First, campaign employees, next, your chocolate cake!

Kleptomania steals children's dreams.
Vote Diva/Nunly '08.

*I'm assuming Diva approves this message. Paid for by someone.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

X-rated entertainment

"Hey, Scully, check this out."
"That's not your usual fare, Mulder."
"True, but can you believe how bad this site is?"
"I can see that, Mulder. And what's with that stupid monocle?"

I am an X-Files fanboy (and given that the movie took in a paltry $10 million over the weekend, there must be less of us still around than I had assumed. I wanted to believe. Oh well, go see Batman for the 38th time, you superhero fuckers. Give me a shadowy conspiracy any day.) I thought that such a public admission was necessary so you can take whatever I say, good or bad, with however many heaping bowls of salt you feel is required.

Shorter plot: the present day. An FBI agent is missing. A defrocked priest (an excellent Billy Connolly) claiming psychic powers is helping them. They're stuck. Who ya gonna call?

Strictly considering the plot, it's decent, if not terribly creepy à la The Host or Irresistible, thriller fare, with the strongest nod to both Beyond the Sea, for Father Joe's connection to the realm of the dead -- on both sides of the divide -- and All Souls, for the religious/protector component that surrounds Scully, not merely for her role on this missing persons case, but her real life as a practicing doctor. Mention is made by Agent Dakota Whitney (Amanda Peet), in between her googly eyes towards Mulder, of such characters as Clyde Bruckman and Gerald Schnauz (hey Carter, thanks for the shout-outs to us geeks), though to be technical, Father Joe sees more than simply how someone is going to meet the scythe-wielding dude.

My biggest problem with l'intrigue is when you utilize someone (Alex Diakun) so well known to X-Philes as a first-class oddball with a master's degree in unsettling, well, you'll see. Actually, you won't. Did you forget about Millennium's Dr. Ephraim Fabricant? Xzibit's Agent Drummy is serviceable as the new skeptic in a Kersh/old school Skinner sort of way, but both he and Peet are there merely as window dressing, nothing more. The stars of the show, literally and emotionally, are David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. Their dialogue and relationship six years after The Truth are eminently believable and nearly exactly how I pictured them to be living. The snarky Mulderisms remain (as do the sunflower seeds), and Scully herself has ratcheted up her verbal edge while maintaining her inner strength.

As a thriller, it's solid, but won't knock your socks off like the most classic episodes of the show. Though there are some suitably gruesome moments, which were nice to see and the wintry locales definitely fit the detached mood of the piece -- Scully and Mulder from their past (or at least trying -- and failing -- to be in certain instances), at times from each other, the remote, obscured air of these crimes -- and while I'm beyond, er, thrilled that there is a well-done, emotional nod to an important part of the most recently televised past, there is nary a mention of any super soldiers! Woo! But the further development and exploration of the characters of Mulder and Scully is where the film knocks it out of the park. There's nothing gratuitous, nothing forced in for the sake of pleasing us whiny, loudmouthed dorks, or even Chris Carter himself. It flat out works. Beautifully.

The American public may still not believe, but I do.

Monday, July 28, 2008

It's a miracle!

"Wow! Photographic evidence that Bush can walk upright!
Pulitzer, here I come!"

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Le football américain*

Look here fine francophiles, rednecks, capitalist pigs, commie pinkos, straight arrows, homersexuals, fence sitters, switch hitters, relief pitchers, Catholics, jihadists, bilinguists, nolinguists, prudes, hedonists, teetotalers, drunks, democratic republicans, republican democrats, Whigs, bomb-throwing anarchists, mellow peaceniks, angry ranters with throbbing veins about to pop, and anyone else vaguely interested in The Church of the Ellipsoid Orb, I'm thinking it would behoove us to travel down yet one more avenue of opportunity for slacking at work and avoiding family responsibility; in short, of sticking it to The Man, both foreign and domestic: fantasy football!

No cash involved, obviously, since we're living under a Bush economy, so I've set up a free league for us blogging types through Yahoo, and with training camps underway, we've no time to lose! Send me an email if interested, and I'll give you the league ID# and password. I'd like at least ten suckers -- which means there will probably be three of us. Yes, I have Carson Palmer, Adrian Peterson, Brian Westbrook, Randy Moss and Reggie Wayne. Why do you ask? Then we'll see whose team can avoid a devastating ACL tear by their starting quarterback in week two kick as much ass as John McCain does during a speech.

No weirdos, though. This means you.

*This product meant for novelty purposes only. All models verified over 18 years of age. Use only in a well-ventilated area. Keep away from open flames. Keep out of reach of children. Product may contain nuts. This unit not labeled for individual sale.

Friday, July 25, 2008

What a great day!

First, my man Dennis, hoping to get by with a little help from his friends, gets to show the Judiciary Committee today what a spine looks like, while everyone else will be hiding theirs under the flimsiest dog-and-pony show finery of actually giving a fuck about the law while these war criminals drunk on hubris, these thugs high on pain, their soulless political operatives and the greedhounds that bankroll them with an avarice that would shame Gordon Gekko continue to walk free in the same town as they do, getting ready to attend the same cocktail parties that evening along with the cackling circle of childish scribblers and plastic talking hairpieces that fawn over both motherfuckers and the motherfuckers' enablers for just the quickest taste of precious access to, mmmm, delicious, a single juicy morsel to fuel their pathetic raison d'être for one more miserable day.

Wait, that's not all that great.

Fucking cowards. You have no idea how much I hate you all.

Yeah, I know Elizabeth won't be there, but given that Dennis is about as handsome as I, why pass up a golden opportunity to prettify this ugly blog?

Secondly, and more importantly -- and to further prettify things in one more shade of red -- I get to perform my constitutional duty and drool at a widescreen Gillian Anderson.

Aliens, hurry.

Oh, dguzman? She's mine.

Before I forget, I wanted to mention that after the movie, we're taking grandpa out for a bite to eat and you're more than welcome to join us.

"My friends, in West Germany, the pfannkuchen are this big."

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Soothing the savage beast

I love me some universal language -- Best. Art. Ever. -- sorry, Marcel -- so I'm claiming executive privilege -- and retroactive immunity -- in stealing this meme that I saw at various tubes criss-crossing the internets. The rules: pick a favorite album from each year of your existence on this soulless hunk -- with a chewy, molten rock center! -- of crusty misery. I'm more than certain that this list could change tomorrow or even later today if my mood brightens or gets even darker, but as of this moment, this is the stuff I'm finding solace in the most.

Although I was hatched in 1973, I'm going to cheat and start my list a little earlier, back to a demarcation line even more important in the grand scheme of things than the K-T boundary: the NFL-AFL merger. The list looks nice and orderly that way, and if we're about anything chez Randal, it's maintaining pristine, unquestioning, orderly order.

1970: How the hell do I pick something from this year? Albums by Zeppelin, Hendrix (anyone got a million bucks lying around?), The Beatles, George Harrison, Bowie, The Doors, Deep Purple, Derek & the Dominoes, The James Gang, Mott the Hoople, Traffic, two by both Sabbath and Creedence? Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to start here. Putting on Cosmo's Factory tells me Ramble Tamble rocks like a sumbitch, but the one I listen to the most, probably, maybe, I guess, I don't know, is Black Sabbath, Black Sabbath. Maybe. Satanic blues?

What. is. this. that stands before meeeeee?

The rest of the list, dumbass.

1971: This isn't all that much easier! Led Zeppelin, untitled. But The Who's finest, classic Stones and thunderous Sabbath are oh, so close. "No one coulda anticipated that if it kept on rainin' the levee was gonna break, heh heh."

1972: Black Sabbath, Black Sabbath, Volume 4. Fuck, is this album claustrophobic. And quite possibly their best. Wheels of Confusion? Snowblind? Under the Sun? Laguna Sunrise? Supernaut? Hot damn.

1973: As much as I dig some Zeppelin -- The Rain Song is probably the top track released by anyone this year; what sublime beauty -- I've got to go with, by the thinnest hair on McCain's cracker scalp, Mott the Hoople, Mott. Go, Mick Ralphs, you aerophobic bastard.

1974: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Second Helping. Sure, the flic-your-bic number (fuck you, pretentious assholes, Freebird is a good goddamn song. "Like OMG there's like a guitar solo on there longer than like three seconds, that's like soooo passé. [insert hipster band here] rocks.") is on the first album, but this is their most consistent platter.

1975: Why must thou torment me so, muse? Oh, fuck it, it's my blog. In alphabetical order, 1. Black Sabbath, Sabotage and 1A. Led Zeppelin, Physical Graffiti. Symptom of Custard Pie. You can keep your jelly donuts, okjimm, custard's the best filling. Ever hear of jelly pie? Didn't think so. But I'm sure you've heard of one Mr. Ian Hunter.

1976: Mention must be made of The Eagles, Hotel California. For me, the title track can never be overplayed. Gentlemen, start your cutting. "I know all about this, heh, heh." But the winner is AC/DC, High Voltage (yes, I'm using the bastardized American version) which, though flush with many other classics, contains their bestest song ever, It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock 'n' Roll). Bagpipes!

1977: Cheap Trick, Cheap Trick. Now that is how you make an entrance.

1978: Again I say, why must thou torment me so, muse? Once more, with alphabetical feeling, 1. Cheap Trick, Heaven Tonight and 1A. Van Halen, Van Halen. Hey, that guy can play. The eponymous debut by The Cars ain't too shabby, either.

1979: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Damn the Torpedoes. It sounds like rock and/or roll. Honorable mention, twice: Motörhead, Bomber and Overkill. "I like these guys, they support the troops, heh, heh." Don't you have a vacation to be on?

1980: Iron Maiden graced us with their presence, there's a raucous album by Lemmy and Co., not to mention a pretty damn good AC/DC record -- though Brian Johnson is no Bon Scott -- but the correct answer is Van Halen, Women and Children First. Grungy.

1981: Don't listen to the jokers who claim that 1984 is their best album. This, unquestionably their darkest, is. Van Halen, Fair Warning. "I gave Saddam plenty of fair warnin', heh, heh." Lord, strike that poor boy down.

1982: The last album with the classic lineup. Sniff. Motörhead, Iron Fist.

1983: Metallica, Kill 'Em All. My sentiments exactly, gents. Honorable Mention: The Police, Synchronicity. Hey Sting, your solo stuff still blows Mickey Kaus, but thanks for this.

1984: Ouch. All kinds of demonic guitar riffing to choose from here. By a nose, Metallica, Ride the Lightning. Dig that wall of reverb. Death is creeping.

1985: Celtic Frost, To Mega Therion. Oh, that Crowley, what a cutup! Cyclopean riffs aplenty.

1986: Metallica, Master of Puppets. RIP, Cliff. Hey, Slayer, let's Reign In Blood. "I'm tryin', Randal, I'm tryin', heh, heh." If there's a new way, I'll be the first in line. But it better work this time. Can you put a price on peace?

1987: Bruce Willis, The Return of Bruno. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Let Me Up (I've Had Enough). Hey, that's what I said when MTV played Willis' video. Hey, what about Anthrax, Among the Living? Follow me or die! "Hey, that was my campaign slogan. Hey, I've got an appetite for destruction, heh, heh."


1988: Metallica (noticing a theme?), ...And Justice For All, their finest hour, arguably the greatest metal album of all time and, sadly, as topical now as it was upon its release twenty years ago. One remains one -- ha -- of the most powerful antiwar songs and videos of all time.

1989: Faith No More, The Real Thing. It really is more than Epic.

1990: Man, there were nine blazing circles of hellish riffing this year, though Megadeth, Rust In Peace stealthily sneaks up on the competition, bludgeons them into a bloody, gruesome pulp and takes the devil's food cake. Why? Extra angry. Holy Wars will tear your goddamn head off. Too bad Dave cleaned up and found Jeebus. Oh, how I miss the Clash of the Titans tour. No, I never saw Ursula Andress Undress. But that's fine. Why?

"Dearest husband, I too love the heaviest metal."

1991: Not counting my better half, the lovely Alessandra, Brazil's finest export. Okay, Pelé was pretty good, too. Sepultura, Arise. But don't sleep on albums by Pearl Jam and Soundgarden that are bucketfuls of guitar. And Metallica's big 'sell out' is actually pretty fucking good save for a couple of bonehead missteps.

1992: As brilliant as both Faith No More's follow up to their big breakthrough and the second Black Crowes album were, nothing can be chosen here but the spiritual successor to Sabbath's fourth album, Alice In Chains, Dirt. We don't need no stinkin' light.

1993: My Dying Bride, Turn Loose the Swans. Greatest romantic doom album ever. I think I just lost the last person still reading this. Thanks, whomever you were. Before you leave, go listen to Alice In Chains, Jar of Flies.

1994: The Black Crowes, Amorica. For all of the countless examples of how the hard stuff can fuck up a musical entity -- I'm not talking people here, obviously -- here's proof that they can sometimes be beneficial. Musically speaking, just say sometimes. But watch that precipitous drop, it comes on quick. Ask Joplin, Bolin, Parsons and Staley, for starters. On second thought, better stick to the weed.

1995: Drown your sorrows, my dear. My Dying Bride, The Angel and the Dark River. But what about The Carnival Bizarre by Cathedral? No, I don't think it's about the United States, but big-time bonus points for penning a song about a Hammer Horror villain.

1996: Opeth, Morningrise. No one ever made thirteen-minute songs more memorable. Okay, Yes was pretty catchy, but I like these guys better because Åkerfeldt has such a beautiful cookie monster voice and they're fucking heavy. What isn't heavy is black tape for a blue girl's Remnants of a Deeper Purity. Oh, I how I loathe leaving that piece of beautiful melancholy off the top of the mountain, but there can be only one.

1997: Emperor, Anthems to the Welkin At Dusk. Black metal by people who can actually play their instruments! But it's still evil, don't worry.

1998: Opeth, My Arms, Your Hearse. My ears, your overachievement barely edges out Thine's A Town Like This. I can never tell a lie, that was determined by a best 3-out-of-5 coin flip. I bet Chimpy would like Monster Magnet's Powertrip. "Already got one, stretch, heh, heh."

1999: You've got debuts by folky metalheads Agalloch, the neo-classical Unto Ashes, The White Stripes, Hollenthon and Jill Tracy, plus yet another Opeth chief d'oeuvre, but Katatonia, Tonight's Decision is the right one.

2000: The Gathering, If_then_else. Europe makes the best mood rock. Plus Anneke van Giersbergen, in addition to being a wonderful singer, is love-lee. But that trippy and hoppy Ulver is a gas. Didn't you guys used to shred faces with unholy power chords before you moved to Perdition City?

2001: I'm cheating again, but it's the motherfucking monstrous duo of 1. Opeth, Blackwater Park and 1A. Katatonia, Last Fair Deal Gone Down, two albums that sit comfortably in my all-time top ten. Oh, what the hell. 1B. My Dying Bride, The Dreadful Hours.

2002: Holy fuck, this is a difficult year. Opeth, Agalloch, black tape, a Jerry Cantrell double album. Okay, put the gun to my head. How about those crazy Norwegian Baudelaireian circus freaks, Arcturus, The Sham Mirrors. Kinetic!

2003: Katatonia, Viva Emptiness. These guys are so good, this might be their best album. I'm afraid I'll have to refrain from writing on it, though.

2004: Nicki Jaine, Of Pigeons and Other Curiosities. One of the great lost albums of this decade. Sardonic singer-songwriting at its bitter best. If there was any justice, this husky-voiced chanteuse would've sold ten million copies but instead, you've never heard of her, nor have you heard of Italian neo-classicists Lupercalia -- nor their brilliant Florilegium -- whose mainman Riccardo Prencipe has since gone one to form Corde Oblique, yet one more group you've never heard of. Do people really buy what's on the Billboard 100? That's almost as scary as a pack of neocons with unlimited access to oil cash.

2005: Opeth, Ghost Reveries. And this was an off-day for them. Cover me with those Blessed Black Wings, I'm High on Fire, baby! I really have to stop picking two or three. At least I'm almost done.

2006: Agalloch, Ashes Against the Grain. For my money, the best band in America.

2007: Moonsorrow, V:Hãvitetty. For my money, the best band in Finland.

2008: Opeth, Watershed. I dig this a whole lot. I hope Jilly Tracy doesn't come and murder me 'cause there's already enough murderin' goin' 'round. Okay, she's co-winner. The Bittersweet Constrain is on the board. Whew, that was a close one.

I noticed that a majority of the lists seem to be more varied than mine, but it is asking for a single album. I can't help it if the same bands continually release the best music in a given year. There's a reason why I love them so much, though I feel bad for artists like Ataraxia and Dead Can Dance -- and I'm sure they feel simply awful -- who consistently put out top five material. It's all about the mood and since I'm usually about 51% bitter and angry contre 49% wistful and melancholy -- thanks, RTA -- well, loud power chords by a note. And if I had to come up with a top ten list for each year, the post wouldn't be finished until December and it would approach 72 scrolling pages and who the hell would read that? En plus, that sounds too much like work.

I tag no one, but I'd love to see what the rest of you clowns choose.

Have at you!

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

"Working is for chumps."

"I know that's right, I haven't worked in eight years, heh heh."

Just when I've begun to master in a soulful, serene, Kung Fu style the ancient art of obligation avoidance, along comes a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. That requires *gasp* work.

I'm not saying that lovely and talented presidential candidate DivaJood isn't sharp as a Ginsu, but as her campaign manager, my primary job is to both formulate and disseminate her platform which proffers a major paradigm shift in -- hang on, I know I left that Politician Gobbledygook Translator's Manual around here somewhere. Ah, here we are: Turrists! 9/11! Muslims! Libruls! Tax cuts! God Bless 'murka!

Man, that bullshit hurts. Wingnuts must be born without nerve endings.

Anyway, part of this platform is the requirement of fabulous dress. Given my notorious lack of a suave, sartorial nature, being tapped for this position is highly comical, akin to putting a Republican in charge of anything and hoping for a beneficial outcome for anyone but major corporations.

But I'll give it the ole drunken college try, as she promised, being a guru of all things travelin', that I'd get to go here on Air Force One. So everyone, vote for Diva so I can finally, officially, get my frog on. Yeah, we'll deal with the economy and all that crap. Bunch of fucking whiners. Sheesh.

Oh yeah, the platform. Almost forgot.

Wow, this is just like work.

1. Universal health care. There's a no brainer if ever there was one.

2. Free donuts for everyone to wash down with your choice of beer, grainy or rooty, also free.

3. Protecting our precious interment heritage.

4. Sorry, Pentagon, gotta slash your bank account. We have met the real enemy and it is global warming, not some asshole goatherders once bankrolled by us, now by lunatic royalty in togas. Plus we have to pay for all those free donuts and beer. Wanna fund your next illegal and immoral intervention? Try a bake sale.

"What, me worry bake?"

5. Mandatory military service for pro-war citizens and their offspring.

6. Hmm, now that's interesting. Oh, hey. You taxpayers think Iraq is a money pit? You really should take a gander at these off-the-books military projects. Why, we could fund deep and long-lasting -- easy there McCain, this ain't a Viagra commercial. Look! That woman is buying birth control! Get her! -- nationwide support for music and the arts, and not that piddling 'please Mr. Government, can I have $100 for some new easels and sheet music stands if all my students pass your vile NCLB tests?'

See what you can spend your money on when you are no longer an empire?

7. Since we're on the subject of things that we could better spend our money on, how about our infrastructure and public transportation systems? I bet some of that Sweet N' Stealthy black budget cash can fix a whole lotta bridges.

8. Warrantless wiretapping will be limited to Republican targets. You've got nothing to hide, right? Lighten up, we're just kidding. Maybe.

9. No more sports championships for the cities of Noo Yawk and Bah-ston for awhile. Although given that the candidates for President, Vice President and Secretary of the Treasury, Homeland Security and Supreme Commissioner of Sporting Events (dude, when are you going to sleep?) all hail from Chicago, this Clevelander remains skeptical at the chance of a Brown, Indian or Cav raising one of those shiny trophies any time soon.

"That's right Randal, can't trust a Chicagoan. Ah-roo!"

10. Now there's a face you can trust. Activist Supreme Court justices that actively work at being activisty for everyone. Yes, I too was shocked to learn that entities other than corporations do indeed exist in America. Quelle surprise !

11. The NHL back on regular cable teevee. (This one's mine, I hope the next president doesn't fire me. Proactive is a good quality, right? Hey, what am I supposed to do with this pink piece of paper?)

12. Oh, that fancy dress ball thing? Better go buy a tie. Don't worry, if you can't afford classy duds, we'll just shift those SUV tax breaks to the purchase of quality threads.

Vote for Diva '08 or we'll send you to The Undisclosed Location!

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Rumor control

Did this happen?
(Sorry, Flying Nunly, like I would post a naked dude.)

What about this?

Generally speaking, only these three things possess enough gravitas to prevent me from lurking in the shadows of the tubes:

1. The call of the muse,
2. laziness rage at a power/internet outage, and lastly,
3. the prospects of naked romping.

Since I'm actually caught up on my electric and cable bills for once -- there's cause for a fucking party; too bad I spent the booze and cake batter money on my electric and cable bills -- and I fell asleep watching the Indians' game -- isn't it time for you bastards to go back to school? -- well, you know what happened. J'ai mes priorités, mes amis. If I may humbly borrow steal a phrase from a fellow blogger, because the world needs another poorly-written, unpublished book, that's why.

Unrelated postscript:

After checking my email this morning and logging off, I noticed in Yahoo's Today's Top Searches this particular search:

7. French Vanilla Ice...

"Glace, glace, bébé."

Praise Mephistopheles, it had to do with ice cream. That's all I need, a nightmare about that 'musical' monstrosity. Maybe being in the tubes isn't such a good idea.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

I know Degas is expensive, but I've got to get to work!

Self-portrait, 1863.

Not all that comical, I'll admit. But I know who did and didn't chuckle thanks to my new bestest pals at DHS, and, like the man pictured above, I can be surly. So no chocolate birthday cake for those of you who kept your noiseholes shut during yet another edition of The World's Finest Lazy Man Blogging®. When the backlog of goofy Republican pictures is empty (wait, that's lazy too, isn't it) one must resort to DFH Kulturkampf. Sorry.

Oh, don't cry, you can have some ice cream.
After it's sat out for awhile and is warm and mushy.

Buck up little trooper, here's another picture.

L'etoile (la danseuse sur la scène), 1876-1878.

I know it's hard to demanufacture the rage these days, but it still makes you want to bust out the Giselle and mellow for awhile.

"How about some mellow rage?"

"I'll show you death on two legs!"

Friday, July 18, 2008

And a side of freedom fries.

Right. Like we'd ever open up anything remotely resembling diplomatic contact with Iranistan. That would be weak-kneed, Chambermaid appeasement. Mmmm, the naughty diaries of hypocritical society.

I meant Chamberlain.

Shut up.

Anyway, next thing you know, you'll be telling me those goddamn frogs are getting hip to American traditions.

Even if you couldn't be on the Champs-Élysées for Bastille Day on Monday to watch seven parachutists float down in front of President Nicolas Sarkozy, you can still celebrate the greatness of France with a new local tradition.

Eat a hamburger.
This is a bloody outrage, that's what this is! First you steal our beef stew and call it boeuf bourguignon -- made with wine instead of beer? How prétentieux! -- and now this. But go on and play your little game, you cheese-eating surrender monkeys.
"It has the taste of the forbidden, the illicit - the subversive, even," said Hélène Samuel, a restaurant consultant in Paris. "Eating with your hands, it's pure regression. Naturally, everyone wants it."
Subversive? Mademoiselle, you don't know the first thing about subversive.

Take that!

And that!

And that!

Coups! Oil! Hippies! Negroes! Commies! Murder! Hulk smash!

Oh no! Must we resort to cheap and tawdry fisticuffs to get things done nowadays?

Whew! Much better. So, baby, your telephone, or mine?
"I think it's shocking, but at the same time the French are realizing that a burger is real food, it's good," said Boulud.
As us uncultured hand-eaters on the other side of the Atlantic say, duh.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to drag my knuckles over to my Senior Leader Intransit Pallet and chow down on this delicious French delicacy.

Hmm, some soothing music would make the perfect apéritif. Oh, friar?

Now that's what I call Il Convivio!

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Grave concerns

Under Bush, even the dead suffer.

Grave robbers, a curse of burial grounds for centuries, are back for new valuables: metal ornaments that can be melted down for quick cash as copper and other metal prices climb.
As ludicrously comic -- and impressive, in its own diabolic way -- as this is, I think some are taking their righteous indignation, stabbing it repeatedly until the blood splatters everywhere, wrapping it in a filthy cloak of hyperbole, chaining it to a big hunk of granite and throwing it overboard into the churning sea of You Can't Be Serious.
"I don't know what could be more sacred than protecting our cemeteries," said West Virginia state legislator Kevin Craig, who co-sponsored a law against scrap metal theft after a bronze door was stolen from a tomb at a cemetery in his district in 2006.
Yeah, I don't know either. What I do know is that since we've tried sending emails, writing letters, faxing, telephoning, cajoling, begging, mooning -- wait, my lawyer says I can't talk about that and neither can Mrs. Bush, so don't ask -- screaming for anyone with their hand in the Cookie Jar of Power to sort of maybe think about not being a paid shill for the plutocracy for five minutes, pretty please with the dessicating body politic on top, nothing has worked. Trust me, you don't want to see my failed attempts at cloning my man Dennis. So, we're down to Plan 9.
Most commonly, old graves are disturbed by people hunting for Revolutionary or Civil War relics to sell. In rare cases, body parts are removed by groups for use in occult ceremonies, said Nicholas Bellantoni, Connecticut's state archaeologist.

"It's kind of ghastly, but we've seen it," said Bellantoni.
Anyone know a good occultist?

"I'll show you how to rob graves."

"Hey Gein, no one wears the flesh of the dead around here but me!"

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Mexed Missages

On a day -- okay, evening -- okay, morning -- that should have been saved exclusively for the Beer, Brats and Boobs celebration of AMERICAN over those effeminate Nationals from Old Europe --

"I think they're also American baseball play --"

Shut up you fucking communist. It's AMERICAN. Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted -- you guys know what to do, wink wink, nudge nudge -- in lamenting the utter lack of serious coverage this monumental event so richly deserves, a moment in time sure to become a touchstone in the annals --

"Hey stretch, he said annals. That's the butt, heh, heh."

"Yes, sir."

-- of world history, I discovered this bonechilling development:

Iran's national basketball team has been invited by the NBA to train in Utah and play against NBA and NBA Development League teams in preparation for the Beijing Olympics.
Evildoers who take pride in blowing up our women, children and frozen embryos are sending some of their tallest suicide bombers here? Just think of what carnage they can wreak from so high in the atmosphere as they bounce round balls on AMERICAN soil, a verdant, Christian soil that some would say is our Holy of Holies, Utah! (Hey, Willard loves the Lord as much as you or I do. He simply wears haute couture underpants.)

What kind of precedent does this set, allowing these bloodthirsty anarchists from a barbarian land who indeed thirst, anarchically, for the blood of said women, children and frozen embryos to travel through The Shining City on a Hill without fear of arrest, of being thrown in a dark, dank stench of a dungeon where toilets are filled with the urine-soaked pages of the Koran, the tainted innards of the non-believer and the last, uneaten bite of two kinds of fruit, deservedly without hope of ever seeing again the saving light of Republican Jesus?

Are we really going to let the Axis of Evil win the day?

"We've got the biggest balls of them all!"

And who is behind this diabolical plot?
"In an increasingly turbulent world, it is rewarding to bring people together to celebrate teamwork, discipline and respectful competition on the court," NBA Commissioner David Stern said in a statement. "The NBA embraces the opportunity to welcome the Basketball Federation of Iran and the Iranian Olympic team in a demonstration of how something as simple as a game of basketball can promote understanding."

Traitorous bastard!

Heathen criminal!

Didn't you get the memo? Iran is only permitted to survive for two reasons, and two reasons alone:

1. buying our crappy stuff
2. maintaining their status as a Cartoon Supervillain.

"Kneel before Zod! I mean, me!"

Speaking of Cartoon Supervillains, who the fuck are the twenty-eight percenters in this poll? Is there some new strain of Extra-Groovy Technicolor LSD sweeping the nation? I didn't think disaffected suburbanites would get bored this soon with blowing themselves up in their basement meth labs.

And these are people who admit to approving Der Leader. You and I both know there are more who are simply ashamed to reveal such things in any forum, even an anonymous telephone conversation. So, best case scenario, the Wingnut Machine only needs twenty-two percent plus one to keep the White House. Well, seventeen, perhaps. One assumes at least five percent will consist of Diebold thievery.

And I haven't even mentioned the inevitable Really Bad Thing® that'll miraculously occur between now and November 4 to help bolster McCain's one strength among the unwashed masses. Sure, the economy is jury-rigged with spit and chewing gum and you have no health care, but look! Iran-funded Al-Qaeda underneath your bed!

Still think Obama is a lock?

Underestimate the stupidity and paranoia of this nation at your own peril.

Since we're on the subject of stupid and paranoid nations, yes, that Border Patrol SUV is still parked out front of that Embassy Suites hotel. Methinks something big is afoot. For example, a not-all-that-discreet tryst. And no, this isn't the actual machine, which is much nicer and not as filthy. I guess we don't get a lot of illegal aliens and shipments of hockey sticks, SCTV tapes and weed crossing the invisible AMERICAN-Canadian border floating on Lake Erie.