Overdry, what the eff is "overdry"?

I am back. I will be short. The excitement of the day was buying a new washer and dryer. My washer seems to have corroded at its bottom, which I assume is a bad thing. The dryer has not worked well for a while. I like the fact that I paid about three hundred bucks, six years ago, to have a heating coil replaced. On second thought, it would have been cheaper to buy a new one back then. Dopey me.

Anyway, the new dryer, in reading the blurb on the company website, says it has a sensor in it so as not to "over dry" the clothes. How the fuck do you over dry something? I mean it is a state, it is either dry or it isn't. It is like death and pregnancy. You either are or you are not, there are no degrees. These are a few of the absolutes in life.

Now, I have to wonder whether to cancel that purchase and buy something different elsewhere. I cannot be seen having bought that bit of bullshit about over drying something. What happens the thing becomes so dry it blows away, like it is in the desert? Give me a break. Think about it. Have a great weekend and ciao!

Can you say Chernobyl?

I am back. I wanted to mark the 20th anniversary of the Chernobyl nuclear "accident" in the Ukraine. For those keeping score, or the mathematically challenged, that was back on this date (April 26th) in 1986. The damn Soviets tried to keep it a secret and hush it all up. As a bit of a digression, I am so damn unsure why most environmentalists lean left politically, considering all the environmental degradation created by communist/socialist regimes. I guess it is just another inconsistency that they must live with.

Anyway, it was also the year that I did the Europe tour, solo. Of course, nobody in his, or her, right mind wanted to spend eight to ten weeks with me. Hell, I had trouble spending all that time with me, and I like myself. Given all the fear on this end given Chernobyl and the US bombing of Libya, a lot of tourists were scared off from traveling to Europe that summer. Not me, lessen the crowds and increase my risk of a violent death, sign me up! In fact, unbeknownst to me, my father renewed his passport at that time, just in case he had to fly to some European country at a moments notice to identify his eldest child's body (I would be that body, by the way). He was such a good father, I am not sure I would do that for my son (Awwww, who is kidding who, I would).

I did not think that there were any ill or lingering effects of the radiation after my trip. However, about ten years ago, I found a third arm growing out of my back. I think it was my twin, just late to develop (32 years late). Anyway, nothing other than that, well I can shoot lasers out of my eyes, but that is kind of cool and very useful. So I have that going for me, which is nice (name the speaker, film and actor who said that line).

The other Chernobyl story has to do with the number of people affected by that accident (those Soviets had high safety standards for everything, nothing like using concrete slab construction to make buildings in noted earthquake areas. All it serves to do is allow tons of concrete to fold and fall onto people, like a house of cards with a REAL heavy deck, when the earth shakes. Is it any wonder why the Soviet "dynasty" could not sustain itself. They needed much more land to degrade but they would even shit in their own backyards, so what does that tell you? What is the lesson?). The numbers differ from the IAEA and Greenpeace. Greenpeace pegs the number at 400,000 but then again Greenpeace LIED about the Brent Spar oil rig and the amount of oil it lost at sea to make a point (it was the old the ends justify the means argument so prevalent in Nazi Germany) so I have to question the credibility of Greenpeace. You see, you fabricate once for a just cause and then you throw any future conclusions you may have in doubt forever.

Enough pontificating for me, ciao! I have to drink my Mountain Dew.

This is how the weekend began

I am back. This will be short, sweet and yet rather sad. We had the outlaws over for dinner on Friday. Thursday evening, I say to my wife that the "over-under" on when my father in law will be clamoring to leave is 8:12 and I took the under.

They arrive at four. They were waiting when my wife walked up with the lad, after walking home from school. I know they were trying to avoid traffic on a Friday, but still. In fact, there have been times, too numerous to mention, where we have had family barbecues, called for six and they were told to come at five so they could play with the lad, and they would arrive at four. Whose problem is that? I can safely say it is not mine.

I am like my uncle, who happens to be in town presently, habitually late. I am NEVER late when there is money involved (business) but personally I am very laid back. It was said about my uncle and would apply to me, that we will both be late for our own funerals, what fun. We would both be the very late....but I digress.

Anyway, I come home and they are sitting there. My father in law in his coat, all covered up. He was cold, but it is my home so he cannot close my windows or turn up my heat, which was off by the way. He is starting to ask about eating at five fifteen. He asks who else is coming and it told my brother in law, his son. He asks when he will be here (as if that has ever changed, but remember his ability to remember is poor) and is told. Now he is clamoring for my mother in law to call him and tell him to get here at once.

I would have handed him the phone and tell him to do it himself, but that is me, and I do not have the desire to be anybody's hand maid/personal assistant. That explains my responses when my son looks to me to hang up his jacket or get him ketchup in our home. Again, I digress.

My brother in law arrives early, by his standards and we are eating before seven. We finish eating, it is near seven thirty, and my father in law says he "has" to go. Did I call it earlier? He does not drive anymore, so he is at the mercy of my mother in law, but like any three year old becomes cranky and annoying, so you give in to his demands just so you don't have to hear the endless loop of lame excuses and reasoning, or just the sound of the voice.

My wife insists that they stay for Jeopardy. He then says they will leave right after, no dessert or tea. They have to leave because it is getting dark outside and he is "afraid" of the crazy drivers that apparently only come out when the sun drops. I think he is mistaking them for the "voices" of which he must be hearing plenty. I listen to this logic(?) and call him on it. It is a sort of "What the fuck are you talking about?" though not as blunt or condescending, I mean I do like the guy and respect him and understand he is not fully of sound mind, if he ever was.

We get through Jeopardy and he immediately wants to leave. The excuse this time is that he has been up since seven. I look at him and tell him I have been up earlier. I look at him and tell him that considering he has given up the shop and was getting up at five then that seven is a sleep in and he should feel very well rested. I will stand for bad excuses, give me bullshit that is at least plausible. I cannot let that shit pass, it would ruin my reputation. Then again, ruining my reputation may be a good thing, but that is a story for another day.

We conned him into letting my mother in law have some tea and cake. It hit a point that it looked like she was going to take her cake in the car, to go. Anyway, they were out of here by 8:10, so I won my bet by taking the under. It is always such a pleasure having them over. It is becoming quite entertaining watching his discomfort and aggitation when he is away from home and out for dinner at somebody else's home. Anything I can do to increase the level of discomfort, please let me know. The funniest part is that this is his new normal. What can you do? Ciao!

The bastard daughter of Scientology

I am back. I am just so tickled pink (or should that be tickled by Pink? Which I think I would enjoy because there is something sexy about her in a drunken empowered anti-pop star sort of way, but that is just my opinion) about baby TomKat. Though, I guess this makes her, baby TomKat, the bastard daughter of Scientology (damn, I am going to get so much Scientologist hate mail now).

I hope I have not offended anybody, well, to be honest, I do not care. I mean, if your a Tom Cruise fan, given his dumb ass, half wit (and this is an insult to all half wits out there but quarter wit or eighth wit just does not have the same panache) antics, fuck the antics, he is a half wit, mental defective, well it is I who should (and I am) be offended. How is that for taking it to a personal level?

I think it was because of Tom Cruise that our cow now gives sour milk. I mean, we have fucking yogurt coming out of her teats. It is disgusting for me to even think about it. Damn, curdled milk products! It is all because of Tom Cruise. Fucking Tom Cruise! As I read that it does look like a gay porn title, not that there's anything wrong with that, unless of course you are Tom Cruise's butthole, in which case, it might, I repeat, might, sting a little. Then again, if it has been stretched out with a butt plug before hand, there may be no discomfort. Then again, what do I know and how did I get on that tangent. I am going to some dark places here (damn puns) and I had no intention of bringing all of you along with me.

Enjoy the ride into the dark tunnel. I could see some enjoyment if we had Racquel Welch (even though she apparently does not move her arms when she dances, so I have been told) ala "Fantastic Voyage". Then the trip into the dark tunnel may actually be a lot of fun and quite titillating. But no, I have taken you up Tom Cruise's poop chute. This is no way to end the week. So I will stop that here (leaving you all wedged in the colon of Scientology, now THAT is a horror movie).

On another note, I want to mention that today my grandmother would have been 96. Given that she passed away about 13 years ago, I do not want to think what she would look like at 96. My son did ask an interesting question the other day, given the recent death and burial of my aunt. He keeps asking if I think her hair has fallen out already. I am thinking I should take him to her final resting place, give him a shovel and let him find out for himself. That could make for a wonderful father/son bonding day. What do you think? Ciao.

I am one sick fuck is about the only conclusion that I can draw from anything that I have written today. Sadly, all of it has been floating around in my brain. Lock up the houses! Head for the hills! I am loose! Ciao and have an enjoyable weekend!

This just in

I am back. I will be brief. Katie Holmes had her baby, a little girl. "Father" Tom Cruise, though I wonder if his penis felt Katie's vagina, perhaps the baby is the product of anal sex and the drip down, I do not know for certain. I do wonder if Tom likes the vagina or is more at home in the ass, or more at home with it in his ass. Different strokes and not that there is anything wrong with that.

Brooke Shields also gave birth to a baby girl. Now for some real entertainment, wouldn't it be funny if Brooke, not on anti-depressants, goes into some sort of postpartum depressive rage, though it would be more manic episode, and stabs Tom in his obviously seldom used brain. That would be comedy, tragedy and irony all rolled into a neat little package.

There is the thought that will keep me warm tonight. Ciao!

Short and sweet

I am back. I was just reading that Gilbert Gottfried topped the list of unsexiest men. Well, that is a stretch. I would put Gerard Depardieu on that list, too. He looks like he would smell, or is that because he is French? I am really starting out nasty today. That is pretty good for somebody who should not be throwing stones, and has little to say.

Ted Kennedy should go on that list. I mean look at the size of his cranium (it is Barry Bonds like, I know I used that reference before but in the reverse, sue me). Though he has the Kennedy mystique, or is his from walking away from Chappiquiddick while a woman died, while his brothers all died violent deaths. He, at least, got to drink their share of booze, so there is his upside.

Well that is all I have right now. I would do some James Blunt for you, but it would absolutely kill me to do it. Ciao!

Is Easter the time for cannibalism?

I am back. It is not that the muse has returned it is more that I saw/read/heard some funny things over the course of the long weekend. Number 1 is that they arrested some dude in Oklahoma City when they found the body of his 10 year old neighbor who had been missing. The dude had sexually assaulted her and was striping her body so that he could eat it. The headline stated that cannibalism was the motive. It is sick. Then again, it leads me to ask the question about the sexual assault. Does screwing a dead body make the "meat" more tender? Is that an old chef's technique, I mean it is similar to the dude in Mexico. Now, given the relative proximity of Oklahoma City to Mexico, I wonder if this was a copycat sort of thing, but with a ten year old girl instead of another dude of similar age and without the drugs, though, drugs may have been involved, but I did not care to read enough to find out.

My sister in law and family were in from the US. On Friday, I did work out, and saw, or is that smelled Stinky Guy. He was doing his stinking thing on MY ARC Trainer. I had to go the one furthest from him. In any event, I was not beside him and somehow avoided his stink from wafting my way. Then when I had about ten minutes left, a women comes on the machine between us. She was the buffer if only she were smell neutral. She was not. She was perfumed up. It was rather sweet and then I would get an interesting mix of her sweet perfume and his stanky funk. It was a potpourri of stink. If she were wearing Febreze or some sort of odor neutralizer I would have been happy. Instead, I grumbled, did my time and then went about my day.

The best came later. We headed up to my outlaws so that my son could go for a swim with his cousins. When we arrived, my mother in law was down with my four neices and one nephew and brother in law. My sister in law was up with my father in law who has been diagnosed with some brain impairment (mini strokes with cognitive damage, which proved what I had been telling my wife about her father for the past couple of years. Would she listen? Of course not, but she could or would not read the signs, see her father getting locked in the bathroom with deadbolt lock) so he cannot or will not be left alone. Anyway, my wife, son and sister in law go down to the pool and I stay with my father in law. It had rained in the morning but around three the sun had started to shine through the haze. My father turns to me at some point and says "Am I crazy or is it hazy out there?"

I am dumbfounded. I mean are those to choices mutually exclusive? Did he want me to say "yes and yes" or how about just "yes". I am sure he would not follow up with the "yes to which question" question. I just let it slide as there was nobody there to appreciate any smart ass comment I could have made. It is lost on the dude who would forget that he even asked the question. At least he did not yell at me to stop running ten times. Though he does seem to watch a lot of SpikeTV and Star Trek TNG, which is really no worse than his previous enjoyment of Xena and Hercules. If it is in syndication, this is a man who will watch it. If it is first run and in prime time, he won't see it. Go figure. Caio.

Pass Over

I am back. I had a large dinner yesterday with my wife's family. It included two of her aunts and uncles, her sister, brother in law, and their five children, four of her cousins and two of their spouses and children, her brother and us. In all there were 21 people in my outlaws' condominium unit. It was bedlam.

The funniest part was, of course, my father in law, who is losing it, though I am not sure he ever had "it" to begin with. Their unit was hotter than Hades, as usual. I tell him if ever sat next to Satan he would still wear a coat. He was wearing an undershirt, shirt and light sweater over the shirts. I was sweating like Richard Simmons in a biker bar. I had to wring out my underwear. I am opening windows and my father in law is closing them right behind me. The best part was that he could not wait to put out the ice. He puts it out at nine in the morning, ten hours before everyone is to arrive, and he cannot figure out why it melted. The laws of physics have ceased to exist on his home planet.

I should not make fun, but it is a constant loop with no memory. The kids are running around and he is screaming at them to stop and be careful. They do not listen. He keeps on screaming. I am sitting there thinking, well if you want them to stop, shut up and DO something. But when in doubt keep repeating yourself. If after the first time they do not listen, saying it ten times will work. That is a key strategy. I see it play out like that in my home. Is it learned or genetic? Either way.

On a bright note, by smearing the lamb's blood on our doors, the Angel of Death did pass over our house. Of course, the horde of raccoons have been licking our door. The joke is on them, though, with all the lead based paint I used on that door, surely they will end up retarded. Then again, there is little worse than a retarded raccoon, of course, we call them squirrels. Speaking of which there is a mangy one that runs around the neighborhood. It has large patches of fur missing. It almost looks as if somebody has operated on it. If somebody has, I need to know who it was, because I will have to kick him in the nuts. Squirrels are bushy tailed rats, neither cute nor to be tolerated. I have declared war on the squirrels and the raccoons, too, for shitting on my deck and garage roof.

Family, Angels of Death, raccoons and squirrels, you have had it all here today. Ciao.

She still has not appeared

I am back. That muse of mine still has not appeared. I am getting a little concerned or is that annoyed. I am jonesing for her. I want to be funny. I need to be funny. I feel like my body is covered in spiders. Oh wait, it is covered in spiders. Damn, rain and spring season! Excuse me, I have to "dust" off.

I am back. It was like I was a contestant on Fear Factor there for a second. All those spiders crawling around on me. Ahhhh!!!! It is all better now and no bites for my troubles. So let me sum this situation up, no comedy muse, no funny, lots of spiders. Seems fair to me in a karmic sense.

I guess I will just leave it at that. Ciao!

The muse is just giving me the silent treatment

I am back. I figured that I should post, you know post or perish, today since I have not posted since Thursday. I am not sure what that all means but I think I owe you all an explanation. I do not have one, so deal with it.

Let's see what is up in the world. J Lo is suing her ex-husband. Apparently he is shopping a tell all book that has denigrating comments about her. What else is new? You say denigrating, I say truth that she cannot stand to bare or have the world know (for certain, albeit through some dude's eyes). Let's call the whole thing off!

As I said the muse seems to be giving me the silent treatment. That bitch! I guess I should not complain, I mean, I am male, I must have done something wrong. Also, it seems it is one of those "because you do not know what you have done, that makes me angrier" type of silent treatments. Any male who has ever had a relationship, especially sexual, with a female knows that "fight". That is not to say I have sex with my muse, though I wonder if I did would that make me unfaithful? Just another existential type of question.

You know I have scraped the bottom of my mental barrel when I am writing about the muse giving me the silent treatment. Bare with me as I try to type my way out of this funk. I am thinking a good Rip Van Winkle, 20 year sleep, would hit the spot, but like Warren Zevon said, "I'll sleep when I am dead."

Just when I think that I have seen it all, somebody is making and selling what can best be described as a dildo cozy. Strange but a very good idea. That way, you can leave your dildo or other favorite phallic item out in the open, covered to look like a reject from Fraggle Rock. It is indeed a good idea, not obese person toilet good, but good enough.

I am done. I may just try to stick my tongue in an outlet to zap my brain to work. I will let you know how that works out for me. Ciao

A Public Service Announcement

I am back. I think that I will make this one short and sweet as I have not been visited by my comedy or writing muse today (who ever that may be). I have that damn James Blunt song stuck in my head and I cannot seem to get it out. I have actually tried to use the toilet plunger, but all I got for my troubles was an earful of wet, soiled toilet paper. The visual on that one is as ugly as it sounds. It is sort of like the guy rescued from the sea but instead of seaweed attached to the body, it is soiled toilet paper. Am I being too gross?

This is exactly what James Blunt does to you. Let that be a lesson to all you kids out there, you listen to shit like that, you end up coated in wet, soiled toilet paper. Don't do drugs, er listen to modern day, elevator music, singer-songwriters like James Blunt.

There that should count as my court-ordered community service, shouldn't it? I need a ruling on that one, any criminal lawyers out there want to let me know?

I am trying to distract myself so that damn tune will vacate my brain. It works for a short time and then it is "....You're Beautiful....." all over again. It is kind of like hiccups, only I have a sure fire cure for those that works for me all the time. We had these ugly or really just plain Duralex drinking glasses as a kid. I found, like a scientist it was test and retest, that a full glass of water ingested at once without stopping, always solved my hiccups. I should have taken that glass with me when I moved out (I was 37 at the time, hahaha) but I did not and my mother got rid of the thing.

The only time there was real problems was a night with my wife's friends. Her friend who now lives in New York was in and it must have been the summer, but we went for a barbecue at another friend's home. The food was good and the drink was flowing (it always comes back to the alcohol and alcohol clouds with me), but as usual I am sure I over indulged. The next thing I know is that I have a wicked case of the hiccups. I use the water cure but not knowing how to gauge the "proper" amount, I am sucking back water like there is no tomorrow. Then it happens, I become bloated like Rosie O'Donnell after she sucks back a tractor trailer load of Haagen-Dazs. No good can come of this. I moan a bit and then take a walk down the street. I am at the side of a church, which was two doors down, and my life flashes before me. Actually, all that I had ingested scant hours flashed out of me (life/dinner what's the difference?). Thankfully, because of all that water, it was a painless, non-acidic kind of puke (damn, I am getting sickly graphic again with my descriptions). To make a long story short, the church's grass may have died, or it was watered in a unique way, the raccoons had a free meal that did not entail knocking over a garbage can, and I felt much better. I was not bloated, had no hiccups but damn was I hungry, and I needed a drink. Speaking of which, don't mind if I do.

Ciao!

Is the Universe talking to me?

I am back. I did read something interesting, funny?, today. Apparently, there is an alcohol cloud, or clouds, out there in the Universe. There is, in fact, one in our galaxy, the Milky Way. Now, I am left to wonder if I have been through that cloud and if not, do I want to go there.

I often feel as if I have been there but I am now thinking that this could be the next global, hot party destination. Picture Lindsay Lohan in the alcohol cloud with Paris Hilton. Given, that it is a cloud of methyl alcohol and not ethyl alcohol, I like that idea. Drinking methanol can cause blindness and death. Drinking ethanol can cause euphoria, sleeping with pigs, puking and perhaps, death, if enough is consumed. In any event, ethanol has the potential for more fun than methanol.

Of course, with methanol the results are bad and assured. With ethanol, there is a lot of fun, or embarrassing stories that you will not remember, before the real bad stuff happens. Then again, what do I know?

But really how cool is an alcohol cloud. I am saying road trip! In fact, I am saying let's steer this MFing planet to the cloud. I think we could all afford to loosen up a bit, have some fun and party down. The Muslims might object but I am thinking they are too busy dealing with cartoons about their beloved prophet, so they may not notice until it is too late, and they have lightened up a bit. I digress as this is not about the followers of Islam it is about alcohol in them there clouds.

There I go again, trying to self medicate and drown my sorrows, such that they are, I mean we all have our troubles and mine are really not that bad when I think about it, but of course the worst part of them are that they are mine, but that is a story for another and run-on sentence. Still, given the number of friends and relatives I have who are celebrating birthdays today (Chris, Peter, Megan and my cousin Jeffrey, who does not work for the Parks Department) a short trip to the alcohol cloud sounds like a lot of fun.

Ciao for now as I think that I have my head in the clouds.

Wife or Donkey? You be the judge.

I am back. I was just reading that some Hindu party official in the Indian state of Rajahstan (it is a desert state in the west of the country, my buddy Dave was there about 15 years ago and his pictures were awesome, if you like desert sand and dirt poor people, I leave that up to you) compared housewives to donkeys. The comparison went the way of the donkey as better companions as they do not talk back or complain. (I cannot make this shit up.)

Needless to say, the female wing of the Hindu party was none too pleased by this characterization. It did get me to think, though. Would I be better off with my wife or a donkey (by the way, please do not tell her about this post)?

I should do this in private but I think it is funny. Carrying shit, point to the Donkey. Crapping on the floor, tie (kidding), my wife gets that point, she is not one to crap on the floor and if she did I am sure she would clean it up. I know I wouldn't, but that may be why I am not fit to have house plants let alone non-disposable pets (fish, hamsters, though given the rodent issues of the recent past I am not bringing one into this house willingly, unless I am bringing it in to feed to a pet snake).

Okay, so the running tally is Donkey one, wife one. Objectionable odor, point to the wife. She takes pride in her good smell, using perfumes, lotions and such. I just cannot see that with a donkey. I perfume on a donkey would be like an airwick in a sewer, it just won't help. Sex, point to the wife, but don't think that I did not consider donkey sex, it just seemed to awkward for me. From what these Rajahstani men say, there is no piece of ass like ass ass and once you go donkey you are never the, Hee Haw, same.

So as I see it my wife is leading 3-1. We are heading into the stretch here. The donkey certainly does not talk back, but it does not talk, unless, it is like the dog that talked to David Berkowitz telling him to kill (Son of Sam reference to y'all, to go along with my series of serial killer references, see Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy in the archives) only a donkey. If that is the case, a talking donkey does get extra points. I mean there is big bucks to made there. Do you realize how much money Mr Ed made? He would not have been sent to the glue factory but for his love of the speed ball (cocaine/heroin injection, it was what got John Belushi) and young fillies. He blew his fortune and then was forced to work European porn movies to support his drug habit, or Wilbur just blew his money on liquor and babes, either way, you see my point.

My wife wins, unless you, or I, find that elusive talking donkey, in which case all bets are off. Then we have some real deciding to do.

People, especially my family, just do not appreciate this kind of honesty. Oh, goodie, I am hearing James Blunt's "Your Beautiful" on my radio. Please shoot me now. Paul Weller, the mod-father see the Jam, had it right when upon his induction to the British Musical Hall of Fame he was asked to sing a duet with said James Blunt, "I would rather eat my own shit." Listening to this song, I can see where he is coming from. Anyway, I am rambling now about nothing so ciao!

April Fools and Unibrows

I am back. I will be brief. This was to be my April Fool's edition but the joke is on me. I must be that April fool. There I was in Crappy Tire, after not finding any paper lawn bags at the Home Depot, when I spotted the dude with the unibrow. That is another hair thing I just do not understand. Isn't there supposed to be separation, around the nose, so that we all have two eyebrows? I can only figure it out this way, two eyes, two eyebrows. If it were to be a single, then it would be called a nosebrow and given, one nose, then one nosebrow. Anything else is just plain silly.

So there is this guy with the shaved head and the single eyebrow. He is stylish enough to shave his head, but cannot come to terms with allowing his eyebrows to party apart and freely. They are tethered to each other in a "stylish" unibrow. I think that I like using the term "unibrow". Say it yourself, see how easily it flows off the tongue. Anyway, you have the bald guy with the Muppet brow. It just does not work for me. It is a fashion faux pas, and rather unsightly too. I mean how can you talk to this dude when you eyes cannot be averted from the caterpillar that makes his home above his eyes and nose. I know I could not, but you all may be better people than I. I highly doubt that, but it is possible.

That is all for today. Ciao!