Well, duh.

W1nn1ng 7H3 PhU7UR3™, noob.

Chortle.

Oh, if you wish to click on that link, I'll need your social security number.
& a credit card number for future purchases.

Halloweenie

Sock it to me?

& you dare stomp on the Ohio matters, dammit! biennial bloom. Such silly seasoning's a small price to pay -- especially since I don't work Sundays & won't have to deal with internal combustion engine slow jams -- yet no matter how much the state & local asses-that-be yearn for

Cleveland is a contender to host the 2012 Democratic National Convention, at which Obama would presumably be renominated. No date for a decision on the convention city has been set.

until the distinct lack of hotel space is rectified -- stop drooling, Comic Sans, you gotta get your casino up & running first --  forget it, Marge. It didn't happen with the goopers last time 'round & it ain't happening now & for that, O indifferent cosmos, Callahoogian sentience extols thee.

In the spirit of the season, imagine the following is spoken by the late, great Vincent Price: The slimy, rotted claws of soulless bureaucrats, hideous cocktail & talking hairpiece cliques unfurl their foulest witchcraft here, this most decayed midwestern tomb of all decayed midwestern tombs, an eldritch gurgling en route to a festspielhaus choked with morbid singalongs, inhuman demagoguery, devilishly choreographed phantasmagoria & booze.

Now that's scary.

Speaking of scary



there's a review 'a-comin', once I get the CD in. Hey, where are you all going?

Eat, drink & be lazy, for tomorrow, who cares.

What reading this blog is like.

As usual, I have a gruel of nothing prepared for the equally dismal aftermath of my trop court weekend in which I solemnly celebrated labor by not laboring -- the five minutes of flashing (fiction, pervs, the other'll cost you) counts not, mirror mirror on the wall, what's the raison-d'être-iest of them all?

Too much, no entry. Too little, illusory brilliance, because this site exudes a fine mist of psilocin-laced electrons. A post, a post, my kingdom for a post, or a mushroom pizza.

Snarky joy on not being employed today at this institution? As a hidden grey fold recently opined inside the innards of my inner ear, such an itchy irritant cannot compare to the annual, late summer return to Cleveland of the mosquitoes of Jehovah, swarming in each & every eatery for a five-hundred block radius. Praise ye, brain, for this remembrance; brown bag 'tis & more, for, when finished consuming, brown bag is saved, praise Jesus!, to consume its own meal of phlegm & bile & oh, who cares.

In a speech scheduled for delivery Wednesday afternoon in Cleveland, Obama will restate his long-held position that the nation cannot afford to extend tax cuts for the wealthiest 2 percent of families, White House officials said.

The officials added that Obama would not threaten to veto any compromise which extends the upper-bracket cuts

I'm poorly skilled in two-dimensional, thus these seventy-two dimensional boards are beyond the scope of my mere mortality, knight to toilet 4.

The Enemy

No, no, certainly not because of systemic codification of various aspects of Chimpyism such as continuously blowing the fuck out of overseas brown folks nor his faux BP outrage on one hand while the other is held out in the shadows, ready to receive fat corporate cash. Heads of empires do these things, the sun rises in the East, sets in the West, I like onion rings.

But this outrageous tampering?

That's going too far!

(Don't Fear) The Reaper

"I'll take that one. 10 million Kroner's a lotta scratch."

Lighten up, Xtreme filthy hippies, don't you think you should first wipe the blood and brain matter of a million wingnut explosions off your hands before wringing them? Anyway, relax, I have the perfect solution to everyone's philosophical dilemma:

Instead of Predatoring and Raptoring Afghans to death, we round up a fleet of C-5s and airlift crates of this:














Much more humane -- at least until the searing pain of the cardiac event, but how long does that ever last -- don't you think? And tastier!

To Google Read makes our speaking English good

Okay, so I'm a dirty, dirty liar. I simply didn't feel it was appropriate to avoid the internets until Wednesday. All those posts in the reader, coupled with all those requests and periodicals and patrons to process -- oops, I didn't say anything about soylent green -- would only result in a bloody conflict with the historical importance of Actium entre my primitive, lizard desire to slack under the sun and my edumacated, modern-day drone programming to attend to the agendas and subcommittee-forged goals of the monolithic state.

At least a few things haven't changed:
1. The Browns still suck.
2. The Indians still suck.
3. Hussein X still hates options and Vans. What a major league asshole. Okay, I hate 99% of the music on the Vans Warped Tour as well. I'll give you a pass on that one, puppet.

Wait. Does this post constitute labor? Did I just throw the proletariat under the bus, on today of all days? But the bus is public transportation, which is what many of us working stiffs take along with our medication, so if I'm going to throw them under anything, it should be that and not a fleet of limousines, right?

















Try the vodka, it's made collectively!

Bedtime stories

No, there's nothing sexual about this post despite me remaining ever sexy in that 'get away from me you creep' kind of way, though, as is my wont, there might be a photo of a scantily-clad lady in good time if I'm not too lazy to use The Google.

"The title is misleading. It's not the evening, dumbass."

Then pretend the bedtime story is a soap opera.

"But your life is boring."














Why must you be so -- so -- cruel?

Am I the only one that hears the cheesy organ? Probably tinnitus from decades of HEAVY FUCKING METAL SATAN BLEAAAAAARRRRRRGGGHHH.

Speaking of instruments with keys, cruelty might be giving this slice of Alkan to some unsuspecting yokel at their first lesson:








Looks as coherent and legible as the shit I pen when I'm drunk. Of course, mine remains waste whereas, in the hands of a master, the above rightfully earns accolades such as 'fucking hell, that's good."



Hussein X is in town today, ostensibly to sell Dr. Obama's Universal Tincture -- my advice: a top hat, twirly moustache, bikini babes and fire-breathing midgets -- but thankfully he's on the east side of Thieveland so the motorcade of sunglassed earpieces won't fuck up this afternoon's Tales From the Wheelie Bus. En plus, a Dum circus is never as entertaining as a wingnut one.

"Maybe Vader's kid will show up, leading a moran of birthers."

A man can dream, brain, a man can dream.

"You promised scantily-clad ladies."


















Here's a shot from a recent blood sacrifice. What, you thought I was relying on my charm to achieve world nation household domination? I tried that, and ended up at the library, which speaks voluminously.

Sheer madness

This is national security.














This is national security on transparency.

Any questions?

This message brought to you by

Lost In Translation

Pestilence. War. Famine. Death.

These ancient horrors pale before --


















Foreign language citations either in-text or in end-/footnotes that are left untranslated for us mono-and-a-half linguists!

The other day, Sherry whipped up a post reviewing the new book by noted Biblical scholar and sometime teevee talking head Bart Ehrman, and this got me thinking of stuff that I enjoy reading, which is, like the Prankster's Bible itself and the characters within -- and some are quite the character. Oh, Yahweh, you little narcissist scamp with all your incessant smiting -- generally old.


















Sniff.

Oh no, not you, big cheesy. Did I say Yahweh? I meant Methuselah.

I destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah so long ago.

No, don't be silly! You're quite the spry deity. In fact, you're a spring chicken.

That's just what every imaginary sky fairy longs to hear.

Relax. I know what the problem is. Gents?



Betcha feel better now, huh.















See, big guy, it'll be alright. Look at that youthful mane. You'll be chatting up the cheerleaders in no time. No last temptation for you, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Now that I've dazzled you with purty pictures, here's a bunch of whiny, boring words giving you the chance to escape to sexier pastures. And you people think I'm as cold and heartless as Yahweh.

Specialist texts are the worst for obvious and completely expected reasons, but there are a few kind souls (thank you, Ashgate) that usually translate or at least summarize these bits and pieces. French I can manage, as long as I have mon dictionnaire that's wearing its taped-up-Rocky treatment surprisingly well after years of abuse. It's a miracle!

Latin? The faintest whiff of eons-ago semesters, the Wheelock and dictionary on the shelf, and my increasingly ineffectual noodle make a four-course meal low in sodium and high on migraines. Lucky for me that the English language is one of the world's most accomplished kleptomaniacs, rivaling Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger and Dick Cheney.

The only German I know outside of 101 phrases (guten tag, danke, auf wiedersehen, achtung, schnell, Heil Hitler) is this list of likely incorrect sentences leftover from high school: Wo ist meine brieftasche? Ingo ist mein Freund. Ich gehe in die Stadt. Good times watching those theoretically educational 1960s black and white shorts. The first of the three was uttered by a penguin in the lobby of a sparse, noirish hotel towards a quite dapper clerk played by an actor who was obviously high or rivalled Sean Penn's masterful take on Jeff Spicoli. And you thought Deutschland lost its sense of humor while rebelling against The Man with that whole awkward Nazi phase.

Don't even get me started on fucking Arabic. Since Hussein X, Stringy Puppet of the impending Caliphate, is a fluent speaker, I'd give him a call, but he's real busy doing exactly what an American Pretzeldent, regardless of party, is supposed to do. You know, racking up our deepest regrets during The Global War on the Communist Islamic Threat of the Month and sticking it to everyone not currently running a bank or strapping electrodes to a prisoner's nutsack for the fun of just following imperial orders, all while filling the airwaves with nougat goodness.

Let's compare past candy bars, shall we?

Reagan's chewy center: Latin American death squads, Brylcreem and what's a treason?
Bush the Smarter's whipped goo: vomit, video wargaming and Uncle Clarence.
Bubba's caramel goodness: pasty sexcapades, let's let Rupert own everything and gays? ewww!
Chimpy's peanuts: bathtub social engineering, fields of corpses decomposing in the sun and oops! I lost all the money!

At least those jokers made up for such unhealthy ingredients by being near inexhaustible reservoirs of comedy. I can't say the same for our current overlord and, frankly, that's what really galls my bladder.

Stupid Pretzeldent. Be more funny!

Oh, what the hell. Here's a pic of Scarlett Johansson from that flick. No, not the German one. I don't want to be accused of false advertising.



















Almost makes me wanna take up smoking.

No blood, no foul

Los Angeles Times: Obama and Cheney in a duel for hearts and minds
New York Daily News: President Obama, ex-Vice President Cheney battle over who has better vision for protecting America
Seattle Times: President, Cheney duel over how to fight terror


Dear entertainment wing of the military/industrial complex,

This isn't a duel.

This is.













Or this.


Or, in Unka Dick's megalomaniacal noodle, this.










Wankers. Don't make me return to jihad.

Closed thread

Duuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I've got zip. A shit paper, an oral presentation that I haven't even started on and frankly don't care about all that much, not a single line of verse in about a month has been written, and the mouldering stench of stupid fucks who couldn't operate a simple copier is hovering like a cloud of swine flu.

Actually, all that adds up to - 4. Maybe if I go ohm-ohm.

"Too new-agey. How about a blood sacrifice?"

Though tempting, there's all that cleanup, so here's some purty music to cleanse the noodle -- wait, what's that? Poland is gonna forget about us?



That's the last piece you're ever playing, chump. Now all you patriotic Americans shut the hell up, I've got to think of whom to sacrifice. Perhaps I'll start with, oh, I don't know, Poland, you ungrateful, malodorous, pianissimo nation of terrorist sympathizers. Long live the American Empire®, a subsidiary of China Corp, your summertime fun headquarters.

Where Am I Now?

As I usually do Saturday mornings at work before yokeldom starts streaming in with their electro-gadgetry and questions about how to operate a copier -- yes, you push the green button embossed with the word Start -- causing me to go into apoplectic fits, and if I don't already have anything special planned --

"As if anything at this dump could ever be qualified as special."















Well, isn't that special.

-- see, even the holy rollers are on my side -- I scour the intertubes looking for something to post about because what else am I going to do? Try reading and get interrupted every 38 seconds right in the middle of a long paragraph when you know damn well that my bibliographic biorhythm isn't like others because I try to shut off, even more so than normal, the ambient dumbassery of my immediate surroundings (this is the world's loudest library; it's in Guinness, look it up. Anyone have a Guinness?) which only gives the appearance of being rude to the customers and as everyone knows, I live only to serve you, the public thirsting for knowledge, I, your master of ceremonies at the traveling freak show just passing by on your mystical journey towards enlightenment.

"You could do some work."

In this top hat and tails?

"You could study for your Monday midterm."

Pourquoi ? Je suis le maître du Français, idiot. So after scrubbing for a bit with some Spic N Span (do they still make that?) I ran across this shot from this story --














-- and contemplated making a not-even-remotely comical Where Are They Now about how one day you're playing sold-out arena shows laying down a ponderously dull bottom end for Ratt, and the next you're providing material support to Al-Qaeda, having been driven there via the rib cook off circuit, apparently one harsh mistress.

"...."

Yeah, I know. Anyway, there was also this picture:














-- and I suppose I could have gone for a Joaquin Phoenix angle, but that's dead and I don't care because I honestly couldn't tell you what he's done outside of Gladiator and I would have to draw sunglasses using Paint and that would take a far steadier hand than I possess, but then I thought, hey, Rasputin, everyone loves the Mad Monk! but then I couldn't think of even a bad joke so I decided to say hell with it and here you go, today's post, but then.

Wait, what's this? Why, it's the legend himself! Rasputin! We're all so glad you could find time out of your busy schedule to visit us!








Мое удовольствие. Я никогда нет к блогу.

And might I add, that's a wonderfully full and manly beard, much more impressive than the pubescent stubble of those ineffectual mullahs.








Вы делаете потеху меня?

Making fun? Perish the thought, I have nothing but the utmost respect for someone able to help bring down the entrenched power structure that does nothing but enrich their coffers upon the broken backs of the people.








Вы оскорбляли неправильное монах, ленивую сволочь.

Lazy? Bum? That hurts, Grigori.

Obligatory post-Inauguration vapors

Time-Traveling Robot #1: Gar. Bage. Makes. Ba. By. Gore. Cry.

Time-Traveling Robot #2: That. Was. The. Best. Hu. Man. Fes. Ti. Val. E. Ver.

Time-Traveling Robot #1: What. A. Bout. The. Ro. Man. Or. Gies.

Time-Traveling Robot #2: Now. That. Was. Chang. Ing. Part. Ners. I. Could. Be. Lieve. In.

Move over, Rick Warren

"O Cthulhu, ease our suffering in this, our moment of great despair. Yea, admit this kind and spineless president into thy arms of thine White Housely area, up there. And Yog-Sothoth, he lay us upon the band of the Old Ones, and yea, though the Hindus speak of karma, I implore you: give him a break."

Inside the Actor's Studio

I guess Jon Voight or James Woods won't be available.

"There you go again."

I did hear that the new pretzeldent named Leon Czolgosz as company man and much panty twisting ensued. Bet it was torture.

"Groan."












Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Enjoy the veal -- wait! Give me your bread! Look! It's Jesus! I think I'm gonna sell it on Ebay.

Random acts of senseless posting

Normally, unless I was unwittingly exposed to biological weapons of mass destruction -- a mathematical impossibility given the layers of Billy Mays' Mighty Putty® sealing up all windows and doorways chez Randal -- is anyone else feeling lightheaded? -- or lysergic acid diethylamide in my drink or tetrahydrocannabinol in my brownies -- there's my stash! You have no idea how long I've been looking for it -- I would never post anything about anyone intimately associated or loosely affiliated with The Fucking Yankees unless it was to cast an unyielding torrent of scorn in their general direction, but this bit about now-retired Fucking Yankee Mike Mussina is the exception.

No, not for anything he did, is doing or will do, but for what's mentioned near the bottom: has there ever been a better team name than the Oakland Dudes?











"Walter, he peed on my mitt!"

Being a card-carrying member of the International Brotherhood of Misogynistic Piggery and Piano Tuners, Local No. 103175, I'm quite tearful that I'm at work instead of at home getting ready to watch this. Sigh.


















"Go work on you paper about the cheese-eating surrender monkeys, dear.
I'll be home soon enough."

Thanks, babe. Smooches. At least I'm gaining votes!












"I'm the one that's good enough and smart enough, asshole."

I've been trying to come up with a fourth item, but then realized the best things in life always come in threes: triple plays, three-ring circuses, third eyes, Triple Ententes, triple cheesburgers, menages à trois.

"Keep dreaming."

I do, brain, I do. Okay, here we go: how come all you young people rapidly going deaf with your iPods jammed up to eleven have the worst fucking taste in music?

"You're one to talk, Mr. Satan Murder Death Mayhem."

But at least I don't drop passes on Sunday.

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"











Sassafras tea, silly string and shotgun blasts, stupid. It's bad enough that Hussein named closet lesbian, murderer and soap opera starlet Hillary to his cabinet, now he's thinking about an openly gay chick. Super Magical Jesus Baby must be rolling over in his crib. Spin the Tito the Builder mobile to shut his ass up, will ya?

Oh, and Pantone? Go fuck yourself. That's all the world needs. More blissfully happy people.

"Isn't this shit supposed to make you mellow?"

The Name Game

"My name is Guy Incognito. Might I trouble you for a meme?

DCup, if I was a recipient of some of that sweet bailout cash, I'd set you and Mathman up with some swanky digs as a reward for giving me something to post about this evening as I remain here at work. Still. I should just set up a goddamn cot and hot plate in the back.

What, you thought I'd wax wonky on crap like this or this? Yawn. I've got a suggestion of slasheriffic fun to help pare down the debt: it begins with Penta and ends with gon. Speaking of all things R. Lee Ermey, Gates? Really? The one area where Dems are still a bit on the weak side of things in the mind of the unwashed masses but have been improving and you're keeping a gooper around? Not unexpected after all the recent blathering amidst those in-the-know, mais c'est la vie. At least Brennan's out.

That sound? Oh, that's merely the cacophony of lefty purists banging their heads against the wall until their sneakers are lost in the pooling blood while post-partisan pragmatists pound their fists in glee at Obama's chess mastery.

Ignore it, for it'll become background noise like the idle chit-chat of passers-by and the low-grade rumble of planes, trains and automobiles.

Oh yeah, the meme.

The rules are below. No official taggees, but hey, if you're strainin' to do some explainin', here's your chance.

Other Names Meme:
1. WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother’s & father’s middle names): John Anne. Certainly nondescript. Good work, team.
2. NASCAR NAME: (first name of your mother’s dad, father’s dad): Gustav Raymond. Gustav? For NASCAR? Oh well, no Billy Joes in this family.
3. STAR WARS NAME: (the first 2 letters of your last name, first 4 letters of your first name): Grrand. Moff Tarkin? At least I'll finally wield some power.
4. DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal): Black Raven. That sounds like an employee of a burlesque house.
5. SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you live): Michael Cleveland. That sounds like a detective.
6. SUPERHERO NAME: (2nd favorite color, favorite alcoholic drink, optionally add “THE” to the beginning): Grey the Wine. No matter which way I go, it would sound very unheroic. Grey the Pinot Noir! Grey the Chenin Blanc! I'm sure someone is Red the Whiskey Sour.
7. FLY NAME: (first 2 letters of 1st name, last 2 letters of your last name): Raes. That's more sci-fi than fly.
8. GANGSTA NAME: (favorite ice cream flavor, favorite cookie): Neapolitan Oatmeal Raisin. Sesame Street gangsta, maybe. Who picked these?
9. ROCK STAR NAME: (current pet’s name, current street name): Simba Maplecrest. Kinda pales before Mick Jagger or Buck Dharma.
10. PORN NAME: (1st pet, street you grew up on): George Kenneth. I'll be your ambassador to love.

"That's Kennan, dumbass."

Close enough.
















Sexy!

Randal in the flesh! (and other assorted miscellany)

I wasn't called Sexy Randal the Pharaoh Wizard for nothin'.


















This is the reason that my inbox is always full of Christian dating spam. But how come there's never any Satanist dating spam? Minions of Mephistopheles need love, too.












Glad to see Ron Glass will be keeping busy. Now if we can only find posts for Max Gail and Steve Landesberg.

Why do I get the feeling that the wingnuts will have a lot to say on Mark Rich, Eater of Babies and less than a peep on the impeding tidal wave of Pardons By Chimpy? I wonder what the corporate logo for that would look like.

Oh well, guess we'll never know.

Hey Ted, my day, obviously, was great! How was yours?