Really officer, she forced me to eat her, er, virus!

Belyeve I cannot that thou hadst the audacité of hope to re-infect me, and aftyr Bubs and thee made outsyde insyde with that tubbe of I Shant Belyeve It's Not Butter! Hast thou been forgettynge alreadye of my slaying of the Dragonne of Dordogne for thee and the lusty half-assed blog proposall? Sob, sob, sob. Verily, by the grayce of Ower Lordd and Right Kynge, I shall proceede nonethelessère.

[Okay, I'm pretty drunk right now -- a toast to you, Beach Bum, and the rest of us assholes who had a shit week and even you fuckers who had a good week, so I want all you fuckers to take a step back and appreciate the fact that I cleaned up quite a few typos above and below, that means a lot, especially above with that made-up Anglo-Norman-English fuckery. Wait, A-N uses a bunch of Zs and Ks I think. Just be happy because it's harder than you think when you're all fucked up.]

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

I couldn't believe my eyes. Surreptitiously, I tried to establish, without giving it away, if anyone else had seen what I had. For ten years I had been looking for that box. What looked like an ordinary cardboard box to most contained something most precious. Only by the small golden "P" was I able to identify what I was looking at. (Freida Bee)

How the box got here, or how I happened to be on this bus with it now--these questions were immaterial. I just had to get that box. The bus slowed to a stop, so I steadied myself. Just as I was about to make a grab for the box, however, it moved. Someone else was picking it up to take it away! I had to stop her! (Dguzman)

What? This couldn't be happening--to get this close and watch some quick-footed little dwarf just up and snatch it away from me...no! I got up and just as I did the sweaty hillbilly in front of me stood up and stepped into the aisle. Moving like a bad mime imitating a man in a box he extended his arms and stretched, looking up at the ceiling as he did so. The dwarf with the box--I couldn't be sure if it was a man or a woman, but something about her seemed feminine--slipped out the front door and off the bus. I took a deep breath and slumped back down into my seat. (Bubs)

I sized up the chances of getting bodily fluids on me for a few seconds before I decided to risk it. I needed to get that box back.

"Sir, do you think I could get past you?" I ventured, standing stiffly, hoping to move near the front door to catch a quick exit at the next stop.

"Ah's gettin' off a' tha nex' stop," he said as he wiped his brow and placed his hand squarely on my shoulder.

"Well, fuck," I thought, getting more and more irritated each second his residual touch seemed to burn itself permanently into the fabric of my sweater. "I need to ask the bus driver about the next stop, really quickly. Do you mind?"

I could see he was challenged. His size alone made the bus an unfortunate place for him to endure, but I was concerned I would not be able to catch up with the thief who stole my box this time.

"Ah know these parts real good-like an' kin tells you anythin' you wants ta know."

"Sir, I really just need to be ready to step off the bus as soon as it stops," I said irritatedly now, as the bus jerked to a stop in its typically abrupt manner. I fell forward smack dab into his chest, catching a whiff of a strange smell that simultaneously made me gag and feel groggy only moments before I felt my head spinning as he caught my fall, grinning knowingly. (Freida Bee)

A maelstrom, an undulating circle of dwarven moustaches twirling faster and faster, was the last thing I saw before I passed out. Or at least that's what I seemed to recall upon waking up -- and it had to be the truth for I hadn't taken a hit of acid since the Great Acid Scare of '78, which later became a major made-for-television event starring Christopher Plummer, Fred Gwynne and a young and vivacious Halle Berry.

Upon regaining my sense of direction, I directed my eyes directly around the room. I saw neither the ordinary cardboard box with the golden "P," the miniature thief nor Halle Berry.

What I did see in the wretched gloom that would have otherwise been black as pitch if not for the faintest light whose source I couldn't locate despite using the entire repertoire of my faculties was a series of immense, framed images on the wall whose dull sepia tones were so reminiscent of a daguerreotype yet were obviously painted -- painted with violent, erratic strokes as if applied, not by a brush, but with a quivering tentacle.

I also saw that I was lying on my back on something large, flat and comfortably plush. And that I was tied up. And that I had been stripped of all my clothes.

"Admiring the Order's past presidents, are we?"

Half-expecting -- for when can one fully expect anything when faced with a frightening yet alluring oddity such as the situation I found myself in -- that broken voice spewing forth its hideous patois, deeply stirred were my loins when I heard instead the sultry sound of a woman. The nauseating stench of greasy, sweaty hillbilly was nowhere to be sniffed either, in its place a lovely, yet understated perfume reminiscent of wildflowers on the steppe.

"Ouch!"

"Oh, so sorry dearest," said the sultry voice from an unseen mouth in the darkness engulfing everything save the taper of a single finger and its radioactively neon nail drawing blood from my bare chest.

I blinked. And there she was, her unnaturally green eyes piercing me, her breath rolling over my mouth as she moved to speak, causing me to shiver despite its warmth; whether from fear or arousal, I was afraid to know.

"You really must save every last drop of strength." Her lips brushed against mine as she languorously formed each syllable, moving away as quickly as they came. A kiss from this strange woman, for that is what I now wanted, along with an answer as to why, would have to wait.

"For the wild, cosmic sex orgy?," I nervously deadpanned in a feeble attempt to avoid solving my unspoken query.

"You watch too many made-for-television movies. If you had watched too many made-for-cable movies, my sweet, sweet morsel, you'd know that you're destined for something much greater." (Randal Graves)

Some of you have been tagged 73 times already -- and I'm trying to miss those who've recently been; you're welcome -- but for the lucky few listed below, here's a 74th. Muahahahahaha, etc.

Madam Z, dusty, JNRR (because you need something to do when you get back home), LBR (here's your chance to Cthulhu-ize L.A.), and Freida of the Bees (you didn't think I'd pass up a chance for re-re-infection, did you?)

Image from here.

Reverie

Tried writing last night while listening to some Robert Schumann. That remains a deceased end -- the writing, not Robert, as he's been a corpse for a good while already -- like everything else, so here's a couple of legitimately talented dudes, Heinrich Neuhaus playing parts one and two of Schumann's Kreisleriana.

Dear Mr. Miss Fantasy

Like I want to discuss fantasies with a dude.

"That's what Mrs. Graves says."

Hey, that's only with me. And surprisingly, this isn't that kind of fantasy.

"You're right, it is surprising."

Normally, I'm not a fan of burning things, though kindling is okay. And despite the overt misogyny displayed up top, I can actually cook and generally don't burn things on or in the oven, even if the result is nowhere near Michelin quality.














"I bet some of it tastes like tire."

But when it comes to blue books, pass that gas can.












"Hey you kids, get off my lawn outta my library!"

Of course, the sexiest part is when I have all you millennials too fucking spaced out to carry not even one pen or pencil even though you're ostensibly college students but I wonder about that because you cannot tell me what the name of your class is or who's your professor despite the fact that classes ended last week but lo and behold, listen to that hark! you've got a dozen credit cards and iPods and iPhones and Blackberries and Borg earpieces and wires linking all of them with the subcutaneous entryways of your central nervous system topped by Luke Skywalker haircuts and naughty punk pixie bobs clean up the smouldering, ashen mess.

Lysol is over there. Oh no, please, let me get it, for I want to pass by the television which is tuned to CNN yet thankfully muted -- praise Cthulhu -- so I can watch some talking hairpiece engage in pointless blabbery with The Esteemed and Honorable 87-star General Colin Powell, A Very Serious and Credentialed Person just look at those Medals none of which are for Typing, and wonder why that freaky gaff of a motherfucker, along with the rest of the Traveling Brigade of Freaks, Gaffs, Motherfuckers and Associated Blockheads, will never see a nanosecond behind bars for being war criminals but some lower class pothead will.

Oh, and $14 billion is far too much, but $700 billion plus another trillion for overseas romantic adventuring, graft and fully-vetted and approved chicanery is just peachy, raspberry and mango. If only the Army were unionized.

And this shit? I hope every single one of you who gets a fuzzy feeling in your special area at the thought of laws like this dies a horribly painful and agonizingly slow death by a minion of nature such as perhaps getting a leg ripped off by a bear but you've seen enough bad made-for-TV movies -- but I repeat myself -- to know you have to stop the blood flow and you do but you're stranded out in the middle of nowhere and after getting sick and tired of the taste of frozen earth and the occasional worm you are barely able to dig out of the ground, you resort to eating yourself alive, finally expiring from the fright of having bitten off a chunk of your own flesh and then some poor kid from a nearby reservation steals the money in your wallet that was destined for a high-class call girl after your impassioned pro-family speech on the House floor.














Come on black death, we need you to put the fear of the Flying Spaghetti Monster back in the world. Start with all the politicians, the Nazi stooges on the right -- yeah, I said Nazi, fuck you, Nazi Nazi Nazi Gestapo achtung sieben lieben fascist assholes -- and their spineless candyass pussy cunting enablers on the cough cough left. Then you can move on to the rest of us.

One more sexalicious thing: HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!

Hmm.

"Don't feel better?"

No. Got any booze?

What a delicious wrap, but with sports instead of chicken or hummus

Frankie may have gone to Noo Yawk, and the Metropolitans may have landed themselves a Putz -- imagine how annoying it must have been growing up with that as your name -- but we got Joe the Everyman!

"Smith."

Same thing.

"And he throws side-arm, no doubt reminding you of Bernie Kosar, the quarterback the last time the Browns didn't suck acres of smelly ass, which will certainly help be the salve to the painfully venomous sting of the inevitability of The Fucking Yankees signing A.J. Burnett."

I hate you. Now, onto to the best part of the wrap. Yum!











This is what I see on my teevee.












This is what the other 29 teams see.

Speaking of things that look like death, can you believe what's happening to Skeletor, a man who has single-handedly protected our borders from hordes of Mexcans, flocks of Canucks, gaggles of geese, Osama bin Laden, Osama bin Laden's driver, Osama bin Laden's tailor, Ayatollah Khomeini, Dr. Doom, Hitler's brain in a jar, those aliens from Independence Day and Roland Emmerich? I know what my gut says, but let's ask a real gut for its opinion:
















"I think somebody spit in this."

Empty as a really empty thing

For you fellow creative types, whether skilled or unskilled like your host, you're no doubt intimately familiar with that numbing sensation that comes long after having temporarily halted whatever project you were working on and now that you've waited too many days, weeks, months, the word stuck doesn't do anyone justice, certainly not the blindfolded lady with the exposed rack. Sorry, John. Look! Even more boobies! Boobies! Boobies!

Yes, the above paragraph was a flimsy excuse to put that picture of a scantily-clad naked Greek babe over there. You should know by now just how much of a predictably predictable monolith of duh I can be.

Anyway, that sensational numb has crawled its way into my blog the way a Lovecraftian beast from beyond the stars would shamble out of Old Whatley's decrepit, rotting abode, over the rolling hills creeping hither and yon, through the gnarled, ancient backwoods concealing evidence of the darkest arts and, after gnawing on the flesh-and-blood world and getting its fill, into the computer itself to murder the creative impulse through some heretofore unknown electrochemical cosmic, yet invisible, death ray.
















"It's the hair, isn't it. Jealous?"

I was actually leading towards something else but now I can't remember what it was, though I can say with much confidence that it wasn't political. Nevertheless, I will admit to getting a chuckle out of Rod the Helmet -- best porn name ever? It's close, but it's no Schnapps Monticello -- getting so much Dem grief while Bush --

"Really? You're going to write political gobbledygook?"

Fine, sports, it is.

Just perhaps, Yankees manager Joe Girardi suggests, Sabathia is warming up to New York, after all.

I'm sure the $140 million over six years $160 million over seven years had nothing to do with it. Fuck The Fucking Yankees, the Dick Cheney of Murkan sporting life. Oh, and Apu's favorite squadron, good luck with K-Fed. And I mean that facetiously and sincerely, simultaneously.

More incoherent ruminations on a bunch of other crap should probably go here, but I can't come up with anything thanks to frogtastic brain drain and other, arcane, offlinery, so I'll let you all get back to joining my sometimes-better-half in blaming me for everything.

Oh, and don't ask to buy one of these --























-- no, not that kind, you didn't see anything, this kind --
















-- or I'll cut your fucking head off, carve all the flesh away and dance a minuet around the skull while screaming at the top of my lungs. And then I'll sell your seat, motherf***er.

The Gleam, the Bad Penmanship and the Ugliness of Homo Sapiens XIII

"We have a 3-point lead with one minute to go. Ten defensive backs!"

The Gleam: Really? I'm guessing a sadistic, walking malpractice suit of a chainsaw-wielding heart surgeon wasn't available. Though in his defense, that fluke fumble on a pick runback in this game wasn't exactly his fault. I'm not going to talk about 1984-1988.














The Bad Penmanship: Though not indicative of my actual prose style which is far more vertical and cramped like the junk that I wedge into the cobweb-drenched corners of my skull but you understand given the limitations of Paint, it's barely legible in any case. Perhaps you youngins with your processed word technothingamajigs are on to something after all.

The Ugliness of Homo Sapiens: Scan the newsies, I'm sure you'll find something. My brain is fried after this weekend's scholarly marathon. And the paper still sucks Seven Wonders of the World-sized ass.


















Up next: does it really matter? Not when the Cavs are destroying chumps to the tune of over 13 points/game. And the best part? LeBron doesn't have to play 48 minutes every night. That means hundreds of minutes of extra rest which further means don't hand that shiny ball to Kevin or Kobe just yet.

The Return of the Return of Splotchy's Viral Globe Theatre Redux Partie Deux

It...is...alive!

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me.

Rivulets of sweat began cascading down my face and I hurriedly wiped one from my brow before its salty bitterness could burn my precious, precious electric eye. No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to my allergy to cardboard that always resulted in patches of bloody pustules and mottled skin akin to a poorly applied KISS® -- see, Gene? Put your lawyers away -- makeup job nor the fact that a fair number of the riders were curiously dressed like a toupee-less, yet masterfully make-upped Chaim Witz nor the fact that motionless tentacles were protruding from a number of randomly punched holes in the cardboard box that bore the hideous label Contents, frozen spawn of Old One, 72 oz. nor the realization that I had forgotten my glasses and couldn't see not whom, but what, was slowly shambling down the aisle towards me, its apparently glistening appendages slopping on the possibly filthy floor of this potential deathtrap of a bus recklessly driven by an attractively miniskirted, yet maniacal, maniac, her lapel bearing a button barely visible underneath a swath of jet-black hair and emblazoned with I worship Dagon, ask me how!, which I never did by the way.

No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to any of those mundane things. My wind wandered, dreaming up all sorts of misadventure where I stared death in the face and he stared back and then we had a series of staring contests of which I think I won nearly 40% of them, an excellent number against an entity bearing a head-lopping scythe, don't you think?

I stared out the window, and the undulating, slowly shifting, tree-saturated landscape stared back. I won that contest but quickly remembered the old saw about looking into the abyss and having it stick its tongue out. I pulled my electric eye back into the bus and stared ahead instead.

Next, a cavalcade of nervous fumbling and rummaging through my pockets to make sure I had an extra nine volt battery. I did -- the apparently glistening appendages slopping ever closer amidst a cacophony of bizarre, intermittent noise -- so I knew I wouldn't have to worry about my electric eye running out of juice until I got back.

Which, of course, turned out to be the case, for how else could you be reading this erratic, poorly-written account of horror, unless you stumbled upon the abandoned wreckage of the bus and were rifling through my strangely mutilated corpse severely underdressed for the freezing weather and found this sheet of crumpled and charred paper riddled with poor penmanship along with my wallet that contained a drivers license, library card, work ID, three singles and a bus ticket!

But you didn't because I'm not dead, for I just handed the bus ticket to the shambling beast which indeed was slimy for it -- and it, despite its general human visage, was the most accurate description I could muster -- was close enough that I didn't need my glasses.

"Last stoop fer yew vis'turs."

Ahead in the distance, beyond the cardboard box's melting water -- at least, I assumed it was water, and you know what they say when you assume: Nyarlathotep tears you a new one, chump -- pooling at my feet, the creepy troupe of riders and the inhuman coughing of it, bathed by the light of the red moon, I saw the low, yet eerily distinct skyline of Arkham.

Hey, Utah, Susan, Bull, MRMacrum, Beach Bum, get writing!

Eradicate this!

It's finally frigid enough so when you scrunch and contort your face you can literally feel the tension in your freezing flesh. Ah, brisk!













While the wheels on the bus go round and round, I'd be a fool to not take advantage of such a golden opportunity to brainstorm --

















"Ahem."

-- relax, that's not what I meant. I'd never kill you, brain -- and, wander through scenario after scenario, the exact manifestation depending on what music is blaring out of my headphones: pillaging Lindisfarne, getting intimate with my special lady, getting intimate with my wife, wondering what the hell I'm going to post about today.

The last is the issue at hand, ladies and germs, but first, let me correct an egregious wrong, one that has contributed to yet another bout of insomnia. No bizarre dreams after finally falling asleep this time, I'm sad to report.













I apologize profusely, unknown patron, flush with sadness and regret am I, for verily no longer an ancient myth the Ink Eradicator is! God bless German engineering piracy!

I wonder if they make pens to eradicate lack of inspiration.

Wait. Woo, the collapse of the annum is right nigh --














-- no, better save that one for the The Apocalypse® in 2012. Quetzalcoatl is so going to fuck our shit up. Brain, a little help.













-- gee, what a lovely replacement that truly captures the essence of both the New Year's festivities and the current state of the world at large. Thanks, fucker, you might be alright after all -- and that means it's time to commence work on the predictable and predictably boring end-of-the-year lists. Only saw one movie this year -- I don't get out much; all that raunchy PG-13 sex keeps me well occupied -- and I haven't read anything published this year book-wise so that only leaves mighty music.

Hey, where are you all going?

Ungrateful bastards.

It's just you and me brain. Again.

"Sigh. Fine. Go ahead, Mr. Predictably Predictable."

Asshole, I'm not surfing for porn at work. I've got standards. Why do you think I wear this monocle? In fact, read my classy commentary on a great matter of the day.

The agreement came after another round of confrontational hearings, pitting exasperated lawmakers against desperate corporate heads.

Facing the automakers who returned to Capitol Hill seeking money, Rep. Jeb Hensarling, R-Tex., said, "Can you name me three industries in this economy that aren't hurting that couldn't use $34 billion? Name one that couldn't use it."

Shit, Jeb, that's easy. This, this and this.

I see Alexiy II finally kicked the bucket. Think they'll be putting this on eBay?













Now those are some swanky duds.

The wages of insomnia

"You know, um, something strange happened to me this morning."

Was it a dream where you see yourself standing in sort of sun-god robes on a pyramid with a thousand naked women screaming and throwing little pickles at you watching your best friend star in a porn flick and when she's done, pass her a robe and nonchalantly resume debating whether Baron Davis will be a good fit with the Clippers, which is more difficult than one might think because you don't know whether the porn was made before or after Elton Brand signed with Philly?

"No."

Why am I the only one who has that dream?

Les plus grands tubes de la bibliothèque

So I'm slacking working carefully, diligently and effervescently with one of my homies -- do the young people still use that word? -- when someone inquires, with a seriousness akin to bearing the soul-crushing weight of having to announce The Apocalypse® and thus ultimate terror and unavoidable doom and without any translation difficulties that I know all too well from my froggy travails as he appeared to be 100% Murkan, if he could borrow our ink eradicator.

After exchanging glances of bewilderment, my coworker, skillfully avoiding the dreaded burst of laughter, deduced that what the gentlemen was inquiring about was this:












Okay, perhaps a case of You Had To Be There. It's hard work making your own fun, I know that. At least I stayed on topic this time.

Nunquam pigmentum!

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?"

Midlife Crisis

No, I'm not having one, but these guys might be -- or more likely just need some cash -- and thank Cthulhu, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Super Magical Jesus Baby, Odin, Zeus, Allah, Buddha and Dick Cheney for that.

grrr...Grrr...GRRR

Sexy Fran the Catholic Wizardess (yeah, I know it's not a word, but if you don't get the reference to one of my finest acting jobs ever, that's your goddamn loss) expressed her anxiousness at He Who Shall Not Be Named actually following through with my tag and filling out this meme.

After coming to grips with the fact that I'm still running on fumes post-wise, a sentiment wonderfully encapsulated here -- thank you sir, you're forgiven for being a fan of all things Bah-ston -- I used every last one of my connections to locate the location of the The Undisclosed Location®, managing, through much gnashing of teeth, not to mention sticky, coagulating pools of hours-old blood and putrefying flesh which is more difficult to scrape off the bottom of one's sneakers than you might think, to convince the most effective, fearless and patriotically patriotic vice president Murka has ever had to do just that for posterity, Red Dawn enthusiasts, Wayne Lapierre and the corpses of Ronald Reagan, Charlton Heston and Augusto Pinochet.

You're welcome, oh ye of little faith.


















"Get on with it, young man. I'm very hungry."

Er, yes sir.

1. Five names you go by: "The Angler, Unka Dick, Darth Cheney, The Lord of All Fevers and Plagues, Honeybunch. If you tell anyone about that last one, well, I'm sure you've heard of extraordinary rendition."

2. Three things you are wearing right now: "The skin of the last person I ate and a Salvatore Ferragamo Lynne got me last year for Christmas."

3. Two things you want very badly at the moment: "A steaming hot cup of coffee and George to get out of my hair so I can finally jack off to last week's batch of torture porn tapes from Syria. I know how I'm portrayed by you bastards in the liberal blogsophere, but I don't think I'm being too demanding, do you?"

4. Three people who will probably fill this out: "Hmm, three people with a lot of free time. McCain, Senator Tubes (I've got to hand it to you hippies, that's pretty funny. Sorry, Teddy) and George, if he gets some help."

5. Two things you did last night: "Continued coming up with strategies to fuck with Barack the Magic Negro -- thanks, Rush! Surprised we're leaving without a fuss? Don't be. First, we know you pansies won't dare prosecute us and second, think he'll be able to fix our carefully calculated misdeeds in four short years? With the media in our back pocket, you'll be clamoring for us soon enough. Oh, and listened to my man Manilow."

6. Two things you ate today: "A nice, piquant but slightly stringy third world refugee child and a Supersize Big Mac, fries and a Coke. Go fuck yourself, Lynne, you lesbian cunt, my ticker is just fine."

7. Two people you last talked to on the phone: "George and Chemical Ali. Sorry, old friend, we tried to get you off, but you know how the game is played.














As the Frenchies say, je voudrais manger maintenant."

I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying!

8. Two things you are going to do tomorrow: "Watch the new batch of torture porn tapes from abroad then take Lynne out to The Ground Round to celebrate the incredibly flimsy indictment against me being dropped."

9. Two longest car rides: "To the hospital after I shot Harry in the face. All he did was whine, whine, whine. Be glad it was buckshot, you candy ass. Now that I think about it, that was so annoying, it counts as two rides."

10. Two of your favorite beverages: "Human blood and prune juice. Keeps me regular."

A regular guy you are, sir. Joe the Vice President, one could say. Why are you looking at me like that? Er, thank you for helping contribute to the storied history of this great land, a beacon of freedom and justice to people of all races, creeds and beliefs on God's good earth. Of course except the Muslims, sir. Um, why won't this door open?

Oh, shit.

Meaningful meaninglessness

"Keep those mutants memes coming!"

Ask, and ye shall receive. Amen. (I've got zip.)

"Really? Nothing to say about this?"

Should I be surprised? Another self-loathing, diaper-wearing, wide-stancing, pasty-faced, hypocrite goober gooper.
















I'm too sexy for the FCC!

"You've got the wrong cracker politician."

Bah. They all look the same to me.

1. Five names you go by: Randal, RG, real life #1, real life #2, real life #3.

2. Three things you are wearing right now: who says I'm wearing anything? Wink, nudge. Sorry, didn't mean to make you throw up. Jeans, sneakers and a black shirt.

3. Two things you want very badly at the moment: you honestly think I'm going to answer this question honestly? Be honest with yourself. Okay, here are a couple of nondescript yet perfectly plausible desires: a Browns victory in the Subpar Bowl and a Cavs victory in the NBA Finals. Those would be quite groovy. Honestly.

4. Three people who will probably fill this out: you, you and you.

5. Two things you did last night: watched the Texans/Jag-wires game and work on my increasingly unwieldy final paper for class.

6. Two things you ate today: ham and eggs.

7. Two people you last talked to on the phone: two unknown jokers Saturday when I was last at work. Je déteste le téléphone !

8. Two things you are going to do tomorrow: go to class and work on my increasingly unwieldy final paper for said class.

9. Two longest car rides: Cleveland to DC in 1984 which didn't seem as long as it would seem now because I was a kid and therefore either busy doing kid-related activities (drawing, playing these cool fold-up magnetic travel games which they don't make anymore, mooning passers-by) and asking "are we there yet" an infinite number of times; and Cleveland to Elimira, NY in 2001 for my sister's college graduation which, though only about five hours, was sooooooooo blooooooooody loooooooooong. See the boring shit I do for wingnut kin? Where's my fucking Presidential Medal of Freedom?

10. Two of your favorite beverages: wine and coffee. Though I probably drink water the most. Now, if I could only manage to eat healthier, exercise and become adept at magic, I'd be the BMOC.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly XII

The season summed up.

The Good: surprisingly, the defense. Holding a red-hot Peyton Manning and gang to no touchdowns, 215 total yards (less than 100 on the ground!) and 4.3 yards/play, a colossally wonderful number for us, and nabbing three turnovers.

The Bad: unsurprisingly, the offense. Less than 200 yards gained in a skillfully applied masterclass in unimaginative conceptualization. Is Jerome Harrison still on the team? Is the passing offense that inept that throwing anything beyond five yards is akin to sticking your head in the gaping maw of a rabid lion while draped in raw meat?

The Ugly: hope everyone has fun watching Ken Dorsey the rest of the way. We're not the first team that failed to meet high preseason expectations, but the schizophrenic showing week-after-week, the fourth-quarter collapses (Baltimore and Denver) the injuries, the missed opportunities (Pittsburgh and Washington) the disappearance of Donte Stallworth before he even set foot in Berea, the failure to get help for extremely young cornerbacks, both of whom are talented, neither of whom are Deion Sanders; it'd be nice to have decent back-to-back campaigns, that's all. Thank the FSM for the Cavs, the 14-3 Cavs.

Up next: a loss at Tennessee.