Rock on, motherfuckers!

Once again, I've got nothin' - I really have to stop with the emotionally revelatory crap, be it sappy love or venting vitriol, 'cause it drains the creative juices something fierce - so let me join the endless cavalcade of faux musical hijinks.

Let’s Make a Band:
1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

3. http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

You then take the pic and add your band name and the album title to it, then post your pic.














I have no photoshoppin' skills -
or any programs that
approximate photoshoppery -
so all digital wizardry
crafted with supremacy
via juicy creativity:
the flowing computer key
of the groovy Freida Bee.

C. R. E. A. M.

The savior of the republic?

Unpaid bills.

Telephone companies have cut off FBI wiretaps used to eavesdrop on suspected criminals because of the bureau's repeated failures to pay phone bills on time.

A Justice Department audit released Thursday blamed the lost connections on the FBI's lax oversight of money used in undercover investigations. Poor supervision of the program also allowed one agent to steal $25,000, the audit said.

Well, I suppose we could handle this problem in the short term without too much harm. A few American criminals might escape, but we're waging a greater war, an existential conflict that's been going on unabated since 632 A.D. between the shining and humble armies of light, and the grotesque minions of darkness.

In at least one case, a wiretap used in a Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act investigation "was halted due to untimely payment," the audit found. FISA wiretaps are used in the government's most sensitive and secretive criminal investigations, and allow eavesdropping on suspected terrorists or spies.

OHMYGODWE'REALLGONNAFUCKINGDIE!

Why do the telecoms hate America?

Fine's report offered 16 recommendations to improve the FBI's tracking and management of the funding system, including its telecommunication costs. The FBI has agreed to follow 11 of the suggestions but said that four "would be either unfeasible or too cost prohibitive." The recommendations were not specifically outlined in the edited version of the report.

OHMYMOTHERFUCKINGGODWE'REALLGONNAFUCKINGDIE!

Even the FBI, the organization of Rudy's! fashion guru, hates America?

Have the Islamocommunistofascistojihadists infiltrated every level of power in our great nation? No expense must be spared to rid our Christian body of this disease, of this - er, what? Really?

Nevermind, FBI, go on not paying those bills. Bush says everything will be cool.

Truth or consequences

"Think we should let him out?"
"Why not. Let bygones be bygones, I always say!"

The following is a prime example of why I really don't fucking feel like subscribing to the progressive and humanist ideal of finding some common ground with those on the other side of the proverbial aisle at the moment. Which seems to be happening more often every day. Why? Because for a lot of them, and the entire administration itself, this doesn't bother them in the least.

Suddenly, on that May day in 2005, the copter dropped CS gas, a riot-control substance the American military in Iraq can use only under the strictest conditions and with the approval of top military commanders. An armored vehicle on the ground also released the gas, temporarily blinding drivers, passers-by and at least 10 American soldiers operating the checkpoint.

“This was decidedly uncool and very, very dangerous,” Capt. Kincy Clark of the Army, the senior officer at the scene, wrote later that day. “It’s not a good thing to cause soldiers who are standing guard against car bombs, snipers and suicide bombers to cover their faces, choke, cough and otherwise degrade our awareness.”

Yeah, uncool might not be my first fucking choice of word.

Golly gee, Beav, who might have been the perpetrator?

Both the helicopter and the vehicle involved in the incident at the Assassins’ Gate checkpoint were not from the United States military, but were part of a convoy operated by Blackwater Worldwide, the private security contractor that is under scrutiny for its role in a series of violent episodes in Iraq, including a September shooting in downtown Baghdad that left 17 Iraqis dead.

Blackwater. Being paid by your tax dollars.

Pissed off yet?

“You run into this issue time and again with Blackwater, where the rules that apply to the U.S. military don’t seem to apply to Blackwater,” said Scott L. Silliman, the executive director of the Center on Law, Ethics and National Security at the Duke University School of Law.

Is this your United States of America?

Blackwater says it was permitted to carry CS gas under its contract at the time with the State Department. According to a State Department official, the contract did not specifically authorize Blackwater personnel to carry or use CS, but it did not prohibit it.

Yes.

Army Staff Sgt. Kenny Mattingly also was puzzled. “We saw the Little Bird (Blackwater helicopter) come and hover right in front of the gate, and I saw one of the guys dropping a canister,” Sergeant Mattingly said in an interview. “There was no reason for dropping the CS gas. We didn’t hear any gunfire or anything. There was no incident under way.”

Chimp and Darth, we should listen to the army, right? Listen to that.

All of you fuckers on the right who support this either tacitly or openly, civilian or administration can fuck off and I hope your life turns into abject misery. I have nothing in common with you. Nothing. You are a poor excuse for a human being and if you dropped dead right now, the world would be better off. And all of you on the left who think the Democratic leadership is a viable alternative, let me know when the first high-ranking official associated with these fuckers is frogmarched off to jail. Henry Waxman can't fucking do it all by himself. But please, fucking save your change is slow/we don't have the votes/we're trying to win an election/they're trying the best they can/you're so naive/just have faith bullshit, because I've fucking heard it all before. The Reagan administration got away with fucking treason on a consistent basis only to be cowardly bailed out first by technicalities then by Bush. And now a new batch of fuckers runs the show, even more insidious than the psychopaths under Tricky Dick and the Saint, many of whom have returned to gorge with renewed greed on the living flesh of a fresh batch of humans both home and abroad.

Evil men will do evil things until they are prevented from doing them.

So how about you let me know when crime no longer pays.

And if by some miracle of miracles, a Democrat gains the White House, it's only temporary until the next Republican gets in, when the cycle will begin anew. And once more, after yet another slate of pardons for war criminals and traitors, that'll be the end of it and we'll be told that what the nation needs is healing. As we were told in 1974 and 1992.

Oh, by the way, any of you fuckers out there jonesing to get your rape on, apply for a job with KBR, also paid by your tax dollars. Apparently, there are no consequences. Noticing a theme?

I'm sick of healing. Aren't you?

Since I've Been Loving You

Why Zeppelin? It's the birthday of this dude. Pay your respects, bastards.

Why this song? Nice musical coda to yesterday, perhaps.

Why this post? I can't think of anything to write about.

"Why all the black?"
"Why all the pearls? Why all the hair? Why anything?"
"You look a little nervous, Dad."
"No, YOU look a little nervous, Lisa!"
"You're up to something, aren't ya?"
"No! I'm just going out to commit certain deeds. Suckers."

Le mot juste

What's in a name? that which we call a word
By any other name would drive us just as mad.

Sorry for taking liberties with your immortal lines, Will, but I have good reason. As a few of you may know, the one creative act that I've made a concerted effort to explore - because I'm that much worse with everything else - is poetry. And as all of you should know, the building blocks, the soil, the rocks, the clay, add your own cliché, of verse are words. The meaning they hold - literal, personal, abstract or, as is usually the case, a dash of each - the way they look on the printed page - or the screen - the way they sound to the ear, both by themselves or in relation to the words and lines embracing them, all of these linguistic, visual and aural textures come into play when writing, and for those of us not gifted with genius, we have to work all the harder to hopefully rise even a smidgen above mediocrity, trying our damnedest to avoid the syrupy, the maudlin, the mundane.

Often, a phrase or an idea will pop into my head out of nowhere and without thinking - if I'm lucky enough to have a notebook or any piece of paper nearby, though the skin is always present as a last resort - I'll transcribe it, not giving its quality a second thought. Just get the words down now and worry about the rest later. Even more often, as I'm lost in daydream, something will come, something is borne on the images and colors and sensations that filter through that hallucinatory mist to become words. Those too will be recorded on paper.

There is one final, broad category that I must address, for it is the most troublesome, nerve-wracking and sleep-depriving of all: the solitary word. Sometimes excised from verse I am working on, sometimes manifesting out of the blue or chosen with a purpose, a lone word can be the perfect starting point to a wonderful piece or a tough, thick vine twisting around my feet keeping me from moving any further. Perhaps it's broad enough in sense and meaning to be the quotidian seed from which a rich bouquet will grow, a clean palimpsest of cultural or personal experience that hides secrets, seen if only I'd look closer. Maybe I simply like the sound, the way it appears to the eye. In each instance, the word is insistent in its continued existence, in the same way a disdained melody or song throbs in your head without cease, no matter what remedies you apply.

But this? This is much worse. You know that in time, that godawful music will disappear. This word will not until it is transformed into the root of a creative act and nothing you do, not ignoring it, delving into another activity, putting up a blogpost full of scantily-clad ladies, writing an angry letter to your Congressperson, nor drinking heavily can hope to change that universal truth. This beautiful, maddening seductress cannot be sated. There is no protective circle, there is no crucifix, no silver bullet. There is no escape.

So what are you waiting for, fool? There's the discarded word. Write.

Cryptic.

Most would be hit with visions of the mysterious, of the dead upon seeing or reading that word. I've woven patterns of the former in some of my works, not too much of the latter, save the occasional vampiric metaphor. But only in an alluring, come hither kind of way, not with a 'I vant to suck your blut!' I very much dig the old Universal and Hammer Horror flicks, but those aren't all that romantic, now are they? I'm certainly not aiming for things associated with a crypt, at least not in a motif of dark, dank limestone slabs housing rotting corpses. Though something is indeed sleeping, a feeling long dormant, or long searched for and found - possibly - at last. Here's where the mystery comes in.

Mystery. What does that word conjure up? Or the penultimate word of the previous sentence? No, despite the apparent ease of A linking to B bringing up C, the verse itself remains unclear. Yet there is a definite accumulation of related concepts: mystery, ambiguity, conjuring, magic, sorcery. Not in a cheesy, MMORPG sense, though many would no doubt interject a "hey, Randal, the other way is just as cheesy, you dumb fuck." You're right. To you, probably, it is. But being a big sap who won't write about my cat or my job or doing the dishes or strangely attired passers-by or existential problems or politics no matter how much I may want to because I simply cannot regardless of how hard I try, I'm stuck with, aside from the occasional nature poem with impressions quietly pilfered from John Clare - shhh, don't tell anyone - the emotion that, above all others, drives humanity fucking insane.

Thus, I build around that word floating in a sea of reverie, waves of consonance and assonance and rhyme battering, smoothing out the rough edges, leaving jagged those that need to be sharp. The word itself, with Greco-Roman roots, has a whiff of the Anglo-Saxon, not exactly ponderous, yet still heavy. A disruptive sound in need of softening. Both literally and emotionally, another word beginning with a hard C fits as the perfect suffix: caress.

Cryptic caress? How fucking stupid, no? Yet, find opposition between ideas of death and life, of the unseen obscured in the dark and the tactile feeling of a lover's hand on your flesh - another word that will find place in a line in time - all which circles back to the shadows in twilight, the red of the setting sun flush with the imprint of love, both won and lost, despised and longed-for, the shock of that touch, soon soft, then gone. And what is more mysterious, more damning than love itself, a sentimental ouroboros that we hope will protect us yet can just as easily be nothing but a prison? In my mind and heart, at least, I know and feel what this one word, now two, means, so it must be moved from the first line to the last of the first stanza. The foundation, though remaining visually so for these four lines, becomes the emotional denouement, the pinnacle, the spire in the clouds, before le deuxième acte.

Yet, the lines that lead to this climax remain unknown. They must be uncovered syllable by syllable. So many structures of antiquity were shaped in stone; they were permanent, both a guardian and a barrier. Thus,

Raising the stone

removes the obstacle and permits the passions to be free,

allows the fire to roam,

forsaking the sleep, the hibernation that maliciously dulls the senses, that lulls desire to become dormant, creating emotional inertia -

leave the void of velvet slumber behind.

Now awake to burn away the veil that deadened our perception, that left a placid heart beating unfulfilled; a perception true for so long begins to melt with that fire

Spreading throughout the nightmare of the soul,

returning with a gentle fury, the inflamed hope of our being, welcoming the turbulence one can only find with another,

in spirit and flesh, your cryptic caress.

The entire piece remains in the dark, but there, where I could not see very far, was dappled with the merest light whose spell began to break through, pushing me to write further, capturing the unspoken that offers the gentle illusion of you, the cause of this joy lost in the firmament. Stormy, unstable passions you give to me, those barriers crumbling to dust as does my strength, my resolve. Cursed with the inability to handle the ideal, my pleas collapse as your fire vanishes, the last chords of your grand symphony, along with the terminal sounds of my feeble verse, fading into silence. The stone is replaced, shutting out the final strains of light, your imagined caress now my crypt. Through the course of twenty-eight lignes en decasyllable I am brought to hinted-at ecstasies far too short in duration - and the inevitable return to the precipice, the plunge back into darkness where I hope that another perfect word in the days ahead can gift to me one more moment, however fleeting, of love.

Give me liberty, and give me death

Once again, those Frenchie snobs kick our ass.

Bill O'Reilly must be rolling over in his grave.

France, Japan and Australia rated best and the United States worst in new rankings focusing on preventable deaths due to treatable conditions in 19 leading industrialized nations, researchers said on Tuesday.

If the U.S. health care system performed as well as those of those top three countries, there would be 101,000 fewer deaths in the United States per year, according to researchers writing in the journal Health Affairs.

Ouch, neocons, that number's gotta hurt. Just imagine all the extra battalions you would've had for the next surge! And Iran, too!

"I wouldn't say it (the last-place ranking) is a condemnation, because I think health care in the U.S. is pretty good if you have access. But if you don't, I think that's the main problem, isn't it?" Nolte said in a telephone interview.

Then it's a good thing health care access in the United States is the best in the world. I don't know how many times I've told you unbelieving fuckers that the immoral corporate con game free market solves all problems!

The researchers compared these rankings with rankings for the same 19 countries covering the period of 1997 and 1998. France and Japan also were first and second in those rankings, while the United States was 15th, meaning it fell four places in the latest rankings.

All the countries made progress in reducing preventable deaths from these earlier rankings, the researchers said. These types of deaths dropped by an average of 16 percent for the nations in the study, but the U.S. decline was only 4 percent.

They fell 16 percent whereas we only fell four? We fell less than they did, hence, we win! There's your mathematical facts, potsmoking liberal wonks!

USA! USA! USA!

Six steps to a better you!

"Don't worry, Mushy, we have a plan for mis-der-eck-shun, heh, heh."


Step one: send in the inspectors.

Step two: conveniently ignore salient points.

Step three: ratchet up the rhetoric.

Step four: send in the big cheese.

Next week, we'll learn steps five and six: how to conveniently ignore his findings and then blow shit up.

This time-tested program worked for Iraq, it can work for you, too!

Mid-morning mis-der-eck-shun update!
"Those wacky Iranians, what are you gonna do!"
"Oh, I don't know, buy everything hook, line and sinker, I suppose."

Breakdown

Why Breakdown? Serendipity, mes amis.

Screaming last night at the Floridian parade of second-half defensive breakdowns. Tom Petty is from Florida. Breakdown is my favorite Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers song because it's a dark, quietly menacing, bitter lament which somehow seems appropriate for a moment, fleeting, soon to be gone.

Is it in the cards?

Think we'll see something as memorable as this?



Fast forward to 5:31 for our special guest star!

So pumped up was I after a pretty thorough beatdown of the Flailing Forty-Niners last Sunday, that I started typing up my hotly anticipated Wild Card preview immediately after the game. Think of it as one of those mysterious IPOs that everyone's talking about, that makes everyone millions in the first minute and has them in the bread line the next. Wait, that analogy isn't very funny and its application is negligible. As I type these words, I'm nervous about the Colts game (they're down 7-3 but fuck, Bob Sanders can fucking hit), so bear with my bout of idiocy. Yes, staring me in the face was quite a quandary: what if my beloved Browns didn't make it?

After much internal deliberation and outward yelling at my vaguely visible reflection in the monitor - so that's where that crack came from; sometimes it's hard being an ugly motherfucker - I decided to write up both previews and simply cross out the one that proves to be as false as a neocon with a soul. Pretty please, kick large amounts of ass, Quartered Peyton Manning and Keeper of the Kubiak Flame, Jim 'Motherfucking' Sorgi!

10:11 pm, touchdown, Colts! 10-7! [think of this as live blogging that I traveled to the past to do]
10:18, Young's hurt and now out. Good!
10:22, that's right Kerry, another stupid penalty! Ha!
10:24, fuck, a field goal.
10:39, goddammit, stop them on third down already!
10:40, um, it's KERRY COLLINS, you fucks! Come on, it's time for your poor man's Vinny Testaverde impersonation. Toss that pick!
10:47, a motherfucking 54-yard field goal. FUCK. Titans, 13-10.
10:54, good job, Jimmy. That was a beautiful three-and-out.
10:59, this is turning into a preseason game, a fucking average NFL QB against 3rd stringers.
11:02, Titans, 16-10. One timeout and the two-minute warning. I wish I still had some fingernails to bite.
11:06, an overthrow and an underthrow.
11:07, what the fuck is this flanker screen shit? Stop running that fucking play, it hasn't worked since the fucking first quarter. Well, that's it. I'm going to bed.

And now this crap is starting. Guess it's better than having no quarterback, which has pretty much been the case since current genius and professional jackass Bill Belichick ran Bernie Kosar out of town. Fifteen years ago. Anyway, here's my Browns-less picks. Blah.

Washington (9-7) @ Seattle (10-6): I had the Redskins (people, can we please retire that name already? It really is fucking racist, as bad as Chief Wahoo) pegged as a wild card team - serious kudos for coming together after the senseless death of Sean Taylor - and the Seahawks winning their division, so eat it, Jimmy the Greek, you fuck. Anyway, Seattle is the better team, records notwithstanding - I trust Matt Hasselbeck more than whomever Washington tosses out there (but only on the field as Matty is a fucking Republican) - but Shaun Alexander is turning into every other brokedown running back on the wrong side of 30 and they can't seem to get much juice out of Maurice Morris either. If Seattle gets a lead, their smallish D can rush the passer like a brigade of Hessians charging a lone Mel Gibson Patriot. Should be a good game - and it wouldn't shock me to see Washington imitate the 1995 Colts, another tough, but flawed 9-7 team winning two road games before falling short in the conference title tilt - but Seattle wins in the wind and rain, 24-19.

Jacksonville (11-5) @ Pittsburgh (10-6): First, I had these picks nailed, too. All Hail Randal. Secondly, what the hell has happened to the Steelers' offensive line? I know that Willie Parker was leading the NFL in rushing at the time of his injury, but with a nondescript 4.1 yards per carry. Yes, left tackle Marvel Smith is out, but yikes. The fear of The Chin is long gone. And now you can run on them, as well. Roethlisberger is the shiftiest big quarterback I've ever seen, but Jacksonville plays Steeler football better - hell, Ben is always chucking the ball down the field - than the Steelers themselves nowadays and they'll do it a second time. Don't turn the ball over, smack you in the mouth on D and run it down your fucking throat. Jacksonville, 27-17. Sorry, Megan. Muahahahaha!

N.Y. Giants (10-6) @ Tampa Bay (9-7): I had neither of these teams making the playoffs. Hey, my batting average is still better than Condi's in diplomacy. The Buccaneers might want to fumigate their stadium and facilities, as there seems to be a lingering stench of Dungy-itis. I'm all for resting key players - and Jeff Garcia is banged up, so better protect him from the league's top sackers, Chucky - but they've barely tried at all the last two weeks. They also don't turn the ball over (+15, tops in the NFC), while the Giants certainly do (-9, worst of the twelve playoff teams), and when is the last time Tom Coughlin won a playoff game, you ask? With the Jaguars in 1999, 0-3 since while being outscored 79 to 34. The Bucs win 21-13, because they have home field and a less stupid quarterback.

Cleveland (10-6) @ San Diego (11-5): Yeah, make us wait until fucking Sunday afternoon, you bastards. San Diego's defense isn't as brutal as it was last year, but it's still decent which is certainly more than I can say about ours. Sure, we're improving, but our glaring weakness is against the run, and lest we forget, the best running back in the NFL plays for the Chargers. If we don't turn the ball over - ARE YOU LISTENING, DEREK? - we can make a game out of it. Otherwise, even Norv Turner can't screw this up. Unfortunately. Chargers, 34-24. Sigh.

Tennessee (10-6) @ San Diego (11-5): No miracle this time. Chargers, 30-13.

That's no lie, but this one may be

"No, that really happened. I think, heh, heh."

Bloody hell, thank you so much everyone for allowing me to barely have to come up with a goddamn thing these last few days! Snave, the craziest character affiliated with Oregon since Bill Walton, has ordered up another heaping bowl of obfuscation to be passed around the internets. The problem with these memes o' the lie is that they show just how difficult it is for us bleeding hearts to mislead when compared to our wingnut brethren and sistren, as you will see below.

There are six separate items of bullshittery. Encased within that shining, gold and diamond-encrusted display of deception is one quotidian truth of cubic zirconia. Do you possess the eagle eyes of perception to figure out which one? Good luck!

1. When guitarist Fast Eddie Clarke departed Motörhead after the Iron Fist album, I was Lemmy's first choice as his replacement, but I broke my hand something fierce in a knock-down, drag-out three-hour bar fight - you shoulda seen the other guys! - so they nabbed ex-Thin Lizzy six-stringer Brian Robertson instead.

2. On my first trip to Paris the summer after I graduated from high school, I made out with Sophie Marceau in the Louvre.

3. I was the first alternate at strong safety for the AFC Pro Bowl squad in 1992.

4. When I was touring Europe once upon a time, sowing my wild oats, I accidentally left a notebook full of brilliant poems in the corner booth of a Dublin pub. That verse helped propel Seamus Heaney to the 1995 Nobel Prize in Literature. Needless to say, my lawsuit did not meet with success. Heaney, if you're reading this, some words of warning: our paths ever cross, I'll go Beowulf on your ass.

5. I knocked up a chick while still in my teens.

6. During the filming of Underworld, while working my night job as a second unit director, the best boy lost his grip and a boom mic crashed on the head of co-star Scott Speedman. I was immediately recruited to perform the naked love scene with vamped-up über-babe Kate Beckinsale all while Mr. Speedman lay unconscious on the studio floor. That's Hollywood, Scottie.

7. The mythical Excalibur? It's no myth. I found it. I'm just not saying where. Cast your worries aside, though, it's in good hands.

More recruits for the unstoppable army of lying liars: Becca, Mathman, Dr. Zaius.

Your own backyard

Since I opened my big fat mouth, yelling in my best Town Crier voice to hear ye, hear ye, bring on the memes, I got smacked with yet another one. Thanks, Mauigirl. Never trust a chick affiliated with an island. That's all I'm saying. Anyway, put on your best clothes, because this one is serious. Really serious. And no smiling. At all. And no lighting up, either. There will be plenty of time for that after we bury this toxic waste. You green enough? Let's see if I am.

For starters, we certainly don't use paper plates and I won't even mention the other kind which is an environmental abomination. Sure, it means more time in front of the sink, but that's fine with me. I take pride in my squeaky clean plates, a nice companion piece, the perfect foil to my filthy mind.

We do, um, er, use paper napkins a good amount of the time. Which I'm sure qualifies us to be put on Greenpeace's Anti-Eco-Terrorist Watch List.

The lowest water settings on the washer? Of course.

Hang drying the clothes? About half of the time.

Car pool or public transportations? You bet.

Newspapers? Recycled.

Aluminum cans? Recycled.

Plastic and glass? Not so much. I really should be making a concerted effort to check into that.

I would like to quote my tagger, because I have the same question myself:

The question I have, however, is this: What is the balance between the amount of trash generated, and the amount of waste of perfectly good trees, embodied in the use of paper plates, versus the energy and water used to run the dishwasher, or in the case of the cloth napkins, the washing machine and dryer? I would need to know which is worse before I commit to this!

For the longest time, when discussing paper vs. plastic, for example, the answer was inevitable. Now, with the increasing usage of recycled plastics (and other materials) used to fashion reusable bags, paper is no longer the automatic answer. How much fossil fuel is used to fabricate, transport and stock these items versus the water and the gas and/or electricity used to heat that water?

Unless we're willing to shack up Neolithic style, even the most staunch environmentalist is going to generate some waste. The key is minimizing that waste as much as possible. I'm much better at it than I used to be, but I have a long, long way to go before I'm permitted to have the scent of patchouli stifling my liberal guilt.

Oh, almost forgot about my victims: Freida Bee, Marjorie, b.

Bellbottoms, bitchin' Camaros and Foghat

Retro, baby. I've been tagged by the lovely and talented b with yet another meme. Some internets denizens love these things, finding them akin to a soft, fuzzy virtual animal. Others find them as repulsive as a tapeworm painfully eating your gastrointestinal tract. I tend towards the former view because it helps me fill the day's posting quota. In this particular case, I especially love it because I don't have to think one iota, 0.9 above my usual capacity of iotas. Peruse the rules before foolishly clicking on the links, chumps:

Rules of the Meme:

1. Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 keywords given below:

Family
Friendship
Self
Love
Anything

2. Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will) so that you can get to know them each a little bit better.

3. Read the archived posts and leave comments if you'd like to.

Yes, I sort of cheated in that I haven't exactly written anything on friendship, just been forced to do something by my so-called friends. I'm still cookin' up the revenge, just you wait. It's gonna be something nukyular. So, if my taggees have nothing applicable, just change a word around or combine a couple. Self and love, for example.

I tag the following suckers pals, new and old: dguzman, Madam Z, DCup, The Cunning Runt, FranIAm. Randal's Rules Of Order still apply.

There's something missing

Gonna take more than a mop to clean that up, bub.

We have a dog and a pony, now we just need, um, oh, what is that bloody thing called? I can't quite put my finger on it...

The U.S. Justice Department said on Wednesday it had launched a criminal investigation into the CIA's destruction of videotapes showing the harsh interrogation of terrorism suspects.

"There is a basis for initiating a criminal investigation of this matter, and I have taken steps to begin that investigation," said Attorney General Michael Mukasey.

...a show! I knew I'd eventually find it lying around here somewhere. You know, since I didn't have it destroyed.

"Our negotiations with the CIA and (Justice Department) over the scope of our investigation are ongoing. I fully expect their continued cooperation, including relevant testimony and documents," said Senate Intelligence Committee Chairman John Rockefeller, a West Virginia Democrat.

I'm glad that all parties involved are concerned only with the rule of law, with transparency, with being a shining example of democracy to where silliness like negotiations over the size and depth - no, not that, though sometimes it seems that all we're doing is bending over, our impassioned pleas for a dollop of lube drowned out by the incessant, diabolical laughter of a horror movie psychopath.

Good luck, Johnny. Hope you don't throw out your back.

You'll be bending over a long time.

Les trésors de l'ennui mélodieux

Item: a rare and striking find hiding in our vaults hitherto unknown to the world at large!

Our New Year's gift to you, dear readers!


















Alessandra taking a break after an exhausting blogging session with yours truly.
Yes, I'm well aware of the flimsiness of that pretext to put up yet another picture of her. Duh.

After painstakingly going through inventory and cleaning out the clutter - that end-of-the-year drudgery we must all suffer through and I really don't feel like doing a political rant right now, maybe later - we came across something that we just had to share with you! My wife - pictured above - aeons ago - October, to be precise - used her superior loving computer skills to create a sanitized version of a much beloved blog post for upload during reruns of The Breakfast Club on TBS. Seen below, for the very first time by those outside our secret circle, the Diabolical, Yet Sexy Cabal that greases the soul-grinding gears of this world-famous and respected - nay, feared - internets website, is that sanitized post itself. But I warn you, it is not for the weak. If you have a preexisting heart condition, are pregnant or suffer from any number of debilitating ailments, you should turn away now. The language is - my fingers are indeed trembling as I type this - clean.

Talking Head A: Did you see how we flipped The Freaking Yankees?
Talking Head B: Flip The Freaking Yankees!
Talking Head A: And when we flipping flipped The Freaking Yankees?
Talking Head B: Freaking A, how we flipped The Freaking Yankees!

You want insightful, in-depth analysis of the series' major trends such as The Freaking Yankees inability to deal with some bugs genetically-engineered, patriot-eating insects, the assorted minutiae frightening tale of how The Greatest Lineup In The History Of The Known Universe stunk up the joint was deviously tricked by the treasonous Indians in not one, but two God-fearing American cities, and the quirky fascinating trivia epic of why Johnny Damon is a sellout hack capitalist entrepreneur who isn't shunned loved enough, go watch ESPN Fox News, and only Fox News, because all that matters to the proprietor of this ridiculous corner of the internets site nowhere near as honest, genteel and forthright as The Project for the New American Century, and all that should matter to you, godless heathen, unless you're a fan of The Freaking Yankees in which case ha-fucking-ha ad infinitum until your head explodes from the monolithic repetition of that childish taunt here is a year's supply of Kleenex and soothing words, its incessant hammering their constant balm increasing the pressure in your skull until it splatters its contents so violently calming you down so perfectly that even you want to OxyClean couldn't erase such a mess every Republican senator's furniture for free, because is that we fucked we maliciously tricked The Freaking Yankees.

Now that's the sentence Proust would've wrote on this series if he decided to try his hand at replacing his actual talent with my juvenile vulgarity. And if he had not, you know, died 85 years ago. But I think it's pretty safe to say that he wouldn't have rooted for our Madame Verdurin, The Fucking Yankees.
Don't read Proust because he's French. Go Yankees!

I got your resolution right here.

I resolve to be exactly the same as I was last year










with less hair
and in worse shape
while contemplating bifocals to better count the increasing greys
as I complain with greater frequency
before the writing of even crappier poems
after the posting of even lamer garbage
and during half-assed preparations for the end of American democracy.

Alors, buvez, buvez, mes amis!

Then take a nap. The hangover is gonna be killer.