WHAT IF GOD IS CHEATING ON US? part II

Eartha finds out she's not the only one to have god.

Next time; the question.  (Hint: ok, it's only the title)
Hope you enjoyed it so far.  As always, your comments and edits are most welcome.

WHAT IF GOD IS CHEATING ON US? part I

(and just when she was finally cleaning up her act too)

[technical problem:  The last line got dropped from the above text box.  It should read "could you start in the Middle East?"]

I hope you enjoyed the first few pages.  As a writer always willing to edit it would help me to know which parts of these critical first pages 'grabbed you', which bored you or if any part dragged or disappointed.  Don't be too afraid or too polite to be honest people, thou shalt not lie.

Unfortunately technical issues have cropped up again and may delay the next installment.  I'll try to get it sorted out this weekend so I can post the next few pages on Monday. 

-NO PROMISES; after all I am not actually... (you know)

"Let there be walls!" and lo, there were walls.

Yes, I know it's a very dark picture.  I said 'let there be walls', not 'let there be light'.  I shoulda said both.

So now there's walls. 
Walls, walls everywhere's a wall.
Here, there and in the hall
unpainted still, but very tall
screwed in tight so they don't fall
can't you hear me y'all?
listen up and hear my calls
I'm up to my balls in walls

(and it feels good)

Not only have my drywall guys finished their job, but nobody's lost any body parts for over a week!
Now the baseboard heating can go in and be hooked up to the new furnace that's been waiting for days.
And then Lo!  There will be heat.  But there will be no post titled "Let there be heat".  Let's be honest; these posts aren't very funny, and this blog hasn't been much fun since Irene gave us a bath.  (Flood joke, still not funny)

So it's time to resurrect the funny.  I while ago I promised pages from a book I finished last summer, mostly so I could just throw those up here quickly and get back to wiring/tiling/plastering/painting.  I immediately ran into problems transferring the layout from its PDF format to Blogger.  I could get the prose in easily enough, but the color-coded text boxes (packed to their little lids with humor, I promise) would not translate.  I tried using my new Mac to take pictures of entire pages, which it did, but they would not digitally transfer over here.  Nothing's been easy lately, my friends.

With my main focus on making my house livable by Halloween Thanksgiving Christmas, I didn't spend a whole lot on time on the solution (selfish, I know.  No non-deity is perfect)  But recently my brother Robinhood, who is every bit as sharp a techie as a marksman, was able to load a *discounted* version of Photoshop onto my new Mac, and using that I can now convert the pages with their text boxes into jpegs which Blogger takes to like Jerry Sandusky takes to little b-, oh never mind.  Anyway...

Tomorrow: the first installment and (probably not too) eagerly awaited world premier of  (drumroll please...)

What if God is Cheating on Us?

Then he CUT HIS FINGER OFF

So I get home to find the cabinet guys nearly done, but the crown moulding we had ordered was not touching the ceiling as we arranged for in the showroom last week.  I knew it was wrong the moment I saw it, but I did not 'hit the ceiling' myself.  I told them and the three of us had an uncomfortable conversation before the main guy, a pleasant older fellow I'd dealt with before, called the showroom to bawl them out.

Then he went outside in the fading light to his table saw set-up in my driveway to cut extra pieces to extend the moulding up.

Then he came back in clutching his bleeding hand.  His assistant grabs a towel, wraps it and off they rush to the hospital.

I continue on my own project in another room for another ten minutes or so.

Until the assistant comes back, breathless.

He needs a strong flashlight.

To find the thumb.

I.  SHIT.  YOU.  NOT.

I swear to Me, the man cut his thumb off.  Now we have to find it.  In the dark.  And of course, I do.  About an inch or so of it, severed at or below the joint.

He grabs it with a gauze square they gave him at the hospital, puts it in a baggy already set up with ice and a gauze bed, and off he goes to help his boss get whole again.  It's too early to know if they'll be successful reattaching it.  His whole family went to the hospital and is with him.  As I am not actually all-knowing and couldn't guess as to the protocol for this flavor of madness, I asked his assistant if we should go.  He said not, he's sedated and not receiving visitors anyway.  At least we know he's getting good care.

And that's where it stands.  True story.  Just happened.  Swear to Me.

Let there be floor! said I

And lo, there was floor.

And low, was how I had to bend to do all that shit.  It took a while and was hell on my lower back, but the kitchen floor is IN.  The cabinet guy is doing his installation today, so the B part of this post should show a much improved kitchen.

The kitchen tile, 18" x 18" Tavertino Beige porcelain, is meant for most of the first floor.  The kitchen represents only about one fifth the square footage and four fifths of my aching lumbar region.  The money saved on labor is substantial.  The money spent on future chiropractors might be as well. 

If I were God... I'd snap my freakin' fingers and it would be done.(possibly by the Swedish bikini team)  But since I'm not, I'm going to have to think about it.

And so we build

I've gotten bids from a number of
contractors.  None of them looked
anything like this.  Why is that?

After the flood we felt drilled
and the losses just killed
but the possibilities thrilled
and now it's to us to build
and so we build
AND SO WE BUILD

More than two months after 3 feet of flood water flowed through our home we have turned the corner on DEstruction and graduated to CONstruction.

Today was a big day in that process.  We had already ordered our cabinets, and today we went to the stone yard and picked a light marbled pattern for our counter top.  It'll be one piece, which is nice.

After that it was back to Home Depot, to submit a list of the most expensive materials we need to get into their 'bid room'.  They had told me about their build room a month ago when I explained I'd be buying a shitload -I'm sorry that's wrong to say.  I'd be buying a fuckload of building materials to rebuild my house.  As it was explained at the time, their 'bid room' was a place you submit your $2500+ item list wish they would offer discounts on.  So I spend the ensuing weeks building that list to exceed that threshold and garner said discounts.  When I spoke to them on Saturday they told me they had recently changed the rules on bid room acceptance; it's contractors only now.  Rather than argue with the innocent counter person I asked for a manager.

Everything a boy needs to rebuild his kitchen
(and make his wife happy) -almost.

I was in luck, he had been flooded also.  He told me the rule was company-wide since management felt it was being abused and was originally intended for contractors only, but he would make an exception for me and let me in for one week.  I took advantage and put in for 4K worth of materials, mostly tiling.  They came back within minutes of my submission with $350 worth of discounts.  That's 8% on top of their already low prices.  We done good.

I had taken a tiling class there just the day before, so I collected enough of our selected tile, quick set and grout to do the kitchen.  Our cabinets are due in later this week, and the tile should be laid before hand.  (If you knew me at all, you'd know I'm a fan of getting things laid early)  So it's all starting to fall into place.  Finally.  Yay us!

Halloween Snow



The way home; BLOCKED



Going around the back way was only PARTIALLY blocked.



These are not the bottoms of huge fir trees, these are branches who
cracked under the weight of wet snow and collapsed outwards.
OR
An inebriated all-powerful being stumbled by and squashed them
-but I can't prove that.



Now my Weeping Willow will NEVER stop crying!



And afterwards He just shines His rays down upon His handiwork;
"Yeah, I taketh away too, beotch."

 So flooding me out wasn't enough for YOU, huh?  YOU gotta drop wet snow all over my 'burb while there's still leaves on the trees to catch it and break under the weight?  Or maybe you though I'D break under the weight?  WRONG.  Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stron-
(what am I, crazy?)

Uh, let me stop right there for a timely disclaimer. 

THIS IS IN NO WAY A CHALLENGE TO KILL ME.

And in closing, let me just say thank you for the snow, it's very pretty.

First Blogiversary! (feel free to send cash)

It's been a year to the day that I published my first post here.  As it was my first and given the blog's name I thought I was oh so clever calling it In the Beginning and styling it as a satire of Genesis I.

Hardly anybody read it.

I soon became a lot less self-impressed.

I had been under the delusion that my obvious genius would stand head, shoulders (and maybe even nads) above the rest, be recognized quickly, and go viral faster than Lindsay Lohan lands in court. 

Other than the flu last winter, I have yet to go viral.  (sadly, Lindsay's court appearances have instead.  Hey, maybe if she was my blog... No, too many guys would be hanging around waiting to do my blog when it got drunk.  So that won't work.)  My goal was to build a huge following, a base from which to launch a humor book I'd recently finished called "What if God's Cheating on Us?" (If you think about it, it would explain a lot.  A lot.)

But I kept writing anyway, for the fun of it.  I'm glad I did.  I cyber-met a number of cool people and talented writers whom I encourage everyone to check out; they're in the 'gotta read' section on the sidebar.

Though I honestly appreciate them all, there are two that deserve special mention.  I looked back to the first comments I ever received, and it was Fred and Tessa bringing encouragement and positivity to this then fledgling effort.  Thank you guys, you're good people and a good couple and it showed from the start.  I want to thank everyone who took the time to write something back.  I appreciate it, all writers do.

Also encouraging was the trickle of foreign countries that began dropping in.  After the US, it was Taiwan and Norway oddly enough in that first week or so.  I started keeping track, and one year later (after Mongolia and Cambodia finally show up) the number has grown to 98 and counting.

I didn't have time to blog much in the last seven weeks and I won't again for at least for the next month or two.  Rebuilding and refurbishing our floodhouse demands attention now and writing and drawing takes time I just can't afford.  On the other hand I don't want to abandon this space or my core readership either.  (One should always try to strengthen one's core.  Richard Simmons said that, ergo you know it's true)

So I thought why not just drop the book in here, a few pages at a time.  Maybe it won't be terrible and maybe I'll get a few helpful comments and suggestions from you guys.  What do you think? (insert encouragement & positivity below)

I kissed Snow White on her birthday

(I get to do that, as her daddy.) My Kayla, previewing her Halloween costume.
HAPPY TWO TO YOU MY BOO!
Love,
Dad

So there I was, stealing my own damn car back

I'm not saying god has it in for me, but it's starting to look suspicious.

After my house was flooded and gutted (old news, I won't rehash that) I've spent most of my non-work hours preparing and arranging for the rebuild.  It was on one of these trips to floodhouse that the unforeseen struck again.  (Unforeseen = GOD, maybe.  Struck = ouch! Damnit!)

We were driving (myself, wife and 2yr old daughter) in our 1yr old Santa Fe and stopped at a light.  It just happened to be directly in front of the dealership we bought it from last year.  It just happened not go again when the light turned green and wifey hit the gas again.  It gave us a threatening grinding sound, but no forward motion.  So there we were, waiting on a tow truck.  Once again out on the street, once again losing use of another major purchase.  Wife weeping, daughter confused, me pissed (and scowling suspiciously skyward).

After being towed to the sister dealership's service center (the one we broke down in front of was just a sales showroom) we found ourselves carless.  The then-helpful service manager, let's call him Crank -not his real name, but not that far away either- said they didn't provide loaners any more but offered us a rental and would only charge for 'a day or two'.  After losing most of their fleet to the flood they had very little left to offer us so we drove off in a mud splattered Mazda3.  It wasn't ideal for our needs, but it did go when you hit the gas so we took it.

The next weekend I'm in Wildwood, NJ, at the other end of the state for the yearly fighter fighter convention.  It's been planned for a while and we needed the break so we went.  My first morning down there I get a call from the service center.  The part and labor are covered by the warranty.  That's the high point; now follow me downhill.


I could use a license to kill right about now.

They don't stock that part because it 'never' breaks.

Nobody stocks it.  Anywhere.

It must be fabricated.

IN KOREA.

It will take 30 days.

"And you can't keep our car that long unless you pay full price."
"What?!  30 days at $35/day is over a thousand.  No way.  Not gonna hap-"
"Then bring it back today, or we're charging you for every day."
"I'm 200 miles away in Wildwood for the weekend!  I'm not trashing our vacation just like that.  You can't give people same-day notice.  And why does it take 30 days to get this @$#%& part?  Is it coming from Mars?"
"Korea, as I said."
"By mule?!"

I did not give up our weekend, and we had a blast.  I didn't even tell the wife all this until we were back.

Next day I called Hyundai USA and got them involved and though they couldn't/wouldn't promise reimbursement at the moment, they would contact Crank and try to mediate.  A few hours later I'm on the phone with him and I'm very direct. 
"I wasn't in a position to return your car on Friday, but I am today.  If you plan on charging me for all these days-" 
"No, no.  Don't worry about it.  We'll work something out.  Keep the car.  We'll work it out."

So I keep the car.  And deeper we go...

The next day I get a voicemail from somebody in service.  (It's day 10 now.)  "We got that part in today, and we can start on it now."

Not 30 days after all?  That's fantastic -if it's true.  I don't tell the wife pending confirmation.  I call service and get a nasal-voiced woman.  "No, your part's not in.  Sorry."  Reaaaaaalllly... 
"I received a voicemail saying it was.  Can you go to the service area and ask them, please?"
"No, I'm sorry.  I'm not located there.  This office is in a trailer outside the building."
"Yes, I've seen it.  You're directly outside of and right next to the service garage."
"I'm sorry I can't leave the trailer."
I call Crank directly and ask for the story.  He confirms that it is in and they're starting today.  They might finish by tonight, if not tomorrow.

Two days later I get a call saying it's done and I can pick it up.  Oh, and by the way the rental charge is $375.  What now?!  What happened to only charging for "a day or two" and "keep the car, we'll work it out"?  They don't have an answer on the phone for me.  I go there after work, around 7pm.  Crank is gone and service is closed.  Some sales guy opens the file and reads the strict instructions on not releasing my Santa Fe until $375 is paid for the Mazda3.  He sees my face and says "Please, I'm just the messenger here.  Why don't you talk to the night sales manager?  Right over here."

That guys turns out to be a dead ringer for the fat Russian in 'Borat'.  He opens the clear plastic envelope with the service paper, the rental paper and my keys.  He slides them all out, reads the papers and comes to the same conclusion.  I must have been smoldering like a tanker fire because he looked scared.  I look down at my keys on the desk.  They're right there.  He sees me looking.  After an awkward moment he leans forward and covers them with the papers "Why don't you talk to Crank tomorrow?" 
"He's going to try to add another day on this bill." 
"He won't, I promise!  Just talk to him, please."
I leave without my car.  It's being held hostage.  Ransom: $375

It's about to get ugly.

I get Crank on the phone the next day and we debate back and forth and it's getting tense.
"You said you'd charge for a day or two."
"No, I said I'd knock a few days off.  It's 13 days and I'm only charging for 10."
"You said we'd work it out.  This isn't working it out.  This is you picking a number you like and handing me the bill."
"I never said that.  Look, you're lucky I'm only charging you for 10 days.  Bring the rental back and get your car."
"I'm not paying $375.  You said we'd work something out, so let's do that."
"That's the charge.  I'm in business to rent cars here, I told you there are no loaners.  You either bring our rental back or I'll call the police and report it as stolen!"

Now it's ugly.  NOW IT'S ON.

He's threatening to call the police?  I actually call the police.  I get a detective from the local precinct on the phone, tell the whole story as honestly as I can because I need a solid answer based on the facts.  He tells me that unless they have a lien or part ownership on the Santa Fe, or there's an unpaid bill on that car, that they have no legal right to withhold my keys -even if there's an unpaid bill on a different car.  This confirms my own suspicions, which I earlier ran by a senior counsel at my law firm who also agreed.  The detective said "If they give you a problem, you can call us and we'll send a car over."
"I don't want to call 911 for this, right?"
"Well, you can if you have to.  If it gets hairy."

So I make up my mind.  I'm on my way in their car to get my car.  I've got a plan.  A plan that could go horribly wrong fast.  I dial the precinct one more time and hang up before it rings.  Now they're the latest on my cell's "most recently called".  Maybe I'll only have time for two keystrokes if it gets hairy.  I'm not paying them $375.  I just need to get my hands on my keys.  That's 80% of it.  And get out again, that's 180% of it.

I've got a plan. 
I've got my words lined up. 
I've got my timing down.
I've got 5 minutes until I'm there.
I've got more butterflies in my gut than there were Japanese torpedo bombers over Pearl Harbor.

I get in there and walk through their creepy abandoned first floor.  It was lost in the flood, only half rebuilt and left sparsely lit.  I pass through quickly and go up the wide spiral staircase to the battlegroun- I mean the second floor.

It's brightly lit, many people around; staff, salesmen, car buyers.
My mouth is dry, desert dry.  Drier than any martini ever shaken not stirred.
I breeze past the night secretary and head for the men's room.  I need water.
There's a water cooler there with a stack of those mini dunce caps they call cups.
I down about five.  I knew Crank would be gone by now, that's why I came extra late.  But 'Borat' is there and he waddles over to chat.  Wonderful.  "I read your contract and I'm sorry to say there is no loaner provision."  I only smile and nod.  I don't know how many words I've got and I'm not going to waste any on him.  I go in the rest room.  It's a one-at-a-time.  Quick splash on the face and I'm out.  If he goes in then I have to move fast; he already knows the story so I'm better off with him off the floor.  I leave and he goes in.  Perfect.

Quick march across the floor to the night secretary.  Wouldn't you know, she doesn't know where the late pick-up file is.  I need the staff to be a little ignorant of the situation for this to work, but not that ignorant.  It's at her feet.  I point it out.

I know how the next part will go from the night before.  She must fetch a salesman who would have the authority to release cars.  He's going to tired, bored and hiding his annoyance.  He's going to be surprised at there being a rental form behind the expected service form.  And he is all of the above.

He takes out the paperwork with one hand but keeps hold of the clear plastic envelope still holding the all-important keys to my Santa Fe in the other.  That's no good, but I wait for him to see there's two forms and not the usual one.  It takes him a moment to get there, I see his brow crinkle a little.  He puts the envelope down so he can hold one paper in each and peruse both at once.  Perfect.

"It looks like you owe $375 here and-" And here we go.
"No, that's wrong.  The Santa Fe is under warranty and there's no charge.  See that there, zero."
"There is a charge on the Mazda which is in dispute.  I'll settle that with Crank later.  These (holding the Mazda keys at eye level between us) are your keys.  Your car is now returned.  These (and I pick up the clear plastic envelope, tilt it and slide Fe's keys into my waiting palm.  I remember the soft swoosh as they slid down the plastic and the little tinkle as they landed) are mine." 
I put them firmly in my pocket.  Awesome.  80% there.
"Uh, um, just wait a minute, I need to check it on the computer."  He walks towards a glass office.  I'd like to bolt the other way but that would be so obvious.  I march after him instead.  He bars the way at the door.  "You can't come in here.  There's, ah, confidential customer information that you can't see."
"Fine."
He closes the door and disappears from view.
So do I.

All I have to do is leave.  If God lets me.  If He's not out to get me.  I'll find out soon enough.

At a controlled pace I walk past the night secretary and glass offices filled with salesmen.  Any second I might hear somebody call after me or a "stop that guy!".  I've already decided to ignore it and keep going if somebody did yell.
To the stairs, unchallenged.
Down the long spiral, unchallenged.
Through the dark abandoned first floor, unchallenged.
To the wide double doors, unchal-  LOCKED.

NO!!  Goddamnit it! (Did God do it?)
Keep cool.  Peer around in the shadows.  Small door in the corner.
Open.  YES!  Outside.  Cool fresh air.  90% there.

And there's Fe, waiting like a faithful old dog, nose in against the fence.  But the spots are slanted.  Easy when pulling in from the street, but not enough room to turn around right there -nasal girl's trailer/office is there.  (It's a shame she wasn't standing in front of it when I pulled out!)  You can only back out of that space, and that leaves you pointed further into their lot.  It's over 100 yards behind me to the only exit.  Back out that distance in a dim lot with lots of cars on both sides to hit if I'm off?  Can't risk a collision now.  I could try going all the way around their huge building, but I've seen that way blocked.  Tick-tock, better do something.
Quick decision made.  I go further into their lot, find enough space to do a K-turn and head towards the front.

It's been over a minute, maybe more than two since that salesman closed his door.  I doubt he was looking anything up.  He was calling Crank at home.  And what would he say?  "Don't let that bastard leave!"

Pulling away from the back lot and past the building again.  Nobody dashing out the door after me.  I can see the 2nd floor and the spiral stairs through their big window.  Nobody.  95% there.


Gotta admit, I felt a little like this.



Out onto route 23. 

Three lanes, few lights, frequent speeders.

One thought: don't crash

Despite what the detective said, they could still call the cops on me and it's possible I might be cuffed and held overnight before a judge decides they are my keys and Fe is my car and I was within my rights.  No likey jail.

I made a quick set of rules for this final leg:
No speeding.
No drifting in the lane.
No blowing any lights or stop signs.
And No Accidents.

Flashing reds and blues up ahead, half a mile.  COPS.
Little hairs bristling on my neck.
Relax, could be anything.
Somebody else is pulled over.  YES.  Keep going.
One eye on on the road, one eye on the rearview, and one eye on heaven.  -In case somebody tries dropping a plane, meteor, asteroid or something on me for good measure.  Yes, I know that's three eyes.  I'm a multitasker.

My floodhouse in town, which Crank has the address to, is not where we're staying.  He doesn't have that address to give to the police even if he wanted to.  That's my destination, I just need to get over the county border. 
Driving...  Driving...
A speeder zips by, his wind nudging Fe.
I will not speed.  Not on this stretch.  Not now.
The highway out of Dodge is just another mile.  98% there.
...99 and there's the ramp to 287 North
 ...100.

So maybe He doesn't have it in for me after all.
The flood, then the car, then the Crank -maybe it's all just the randomness of the universe.
So now I don't trust the universe.

Of course Crank tried billing my credit card for $375.
Of course I had to call and have it stopped.
He'll have to negotiate in good faith now, truely 'work it out' with me or he won't see a dime.

The bottom, before the bounce

  

Our garage, as seen from our den



Our den, as seen from our garage



The remains of our den and garage, as seen from anywhere



Believe it or not, this is a kitchen





We're at the point where we're all about the process now.  It doesn't hurt at all, and hasn't for days.  It's much more of a worksite  now than a home lost.  The kitchen cabinets are out, the stove, dishwasher, refrigerator and even the kitchen sink are all out and on the lawn.  The final section left was the workbench in the corner of the garage.  I designed and built it myself a month after we moved in.  I made and fixed so many things on it and with it over the last two and half years -more projects than I can count.  I took it apart today and tossed the remains on the lawn -and felt nothing.  I'll build another one after we're up and running again.  Demolition had become just a job now, and that's a good thing.



Now we're just waiting on insurance adjusters and contractor's estimates.  The former to give us our budget for the rebuild, and the latter to tell us how much we can get on that budget.  The goal: a second bathroom.  Not very big dreams for a would-be deity (See?  I do know how to spell it!)

Of course, IF I WERE GOD...

There would be a another flood, a minor one -half inch or so, to wash away the dirt on the floors.

Followed by a minor tornado, a half yard high or so, to dry the newly washed floors.

Followed by a squad of Tolkien's dwarfs (renown for their construction skills) to rebuild my house.

Followed by a platoon of Elrond's elves (renown for their decorative flair) to paint and decorate.

Followed by a troop of sexy wood nymphs (renown for -mind your own business, Me-dammit!) because I swear to Me, I deserve it.



Worst. Diety. Ever.



Perfect expression on my daughter's face, next to new shoes never worn, next to my parade cap worn exactly once,

on a solid oak bar I had just received but never used, in a yard full of other flood tainted now-garbage on our lawn.

Irene, you were the nastied bitch I ever regretted meeting.

Granted, mass flooding is kind of a God trademark, but not to his own house!  That's like Wyatt Earp hunting down outlaws and shooting himself in the foot.  Seven times -emptying his revolver, reloading, and shooting himself once more for good measure!  This kind of incompetent mishandling of executive power hasn't been seen since the Bush administration.  This is supposed to strike other people, elsewhere, in a different town other than mine.  Not here.  Not my house.  And yet...

A yardful of memories, waiting for the trashman.





My lovely kitchen





Floodline at the door handle





My lovely bedroom



My lovely den



But it was in my house.  38 inches deep in the living room, kitchen, lower bedroom, bath, and den.  We'll be gutting it out for days.  Drywall and insulation must be ripped out up to 4 ft.  The hardwood floor in the den must be ripped up.  Fun times over at not-actually-god's.

  There are very nice people in this town though and they've banded together to supply all the flood victims with hot meals, all manner of dry and canned foods and other supplies, use of the showers at both local spas, clothing, and volunteer work crews to help with the demolition so many need.  A local mom and her 3 cheerful preteen kids showed up to help us rip up our soaked carpeting and padding.  She had been flooded out also, but a team showed up at her place the day before to help her and she's paying it forward with us.  So we'll all get through it together.  If I were god and I were making people, I couldn't make them any better than these.  So help Me, Me.

 

Kayla Khan, scourge of daycare

KNEEL BEFORE KHAN !!

My nearly two year old daughter Kayla hit her first kid in daycare last week.  With a toy.

There’s no way to prove for sure that my daughter is not a descendant of Ghengis Khan; ancestry.com does not go back that far.  Alarmingly, I understand she struck from the east, as he did, and with little warning, also as he did, but I am fairly certain her attack was not aided by fast moving groups of mounted archers.  (Thankfully there are no reports of the presence of mounted cavalry of any kind)  This gives me hope she is not indeed a distant progeny of the elder Khan nor is she likely to sack eastern Europe and lower Russia in the foreseeable future.  I am quite sure that kind of aggression would get her kicked out of daycare, which would be terrible as this one is close, clean, cheap and her aunt Betty works there.



Why does she line them up like that, and call for reinforcements in Mongolese?

And who the hell taught her Mongolese?

But she did use a weapon.  I have a nagging feeling it may be my fault.  I have HBO and can stream Netflix.  As an infant she was in the room as I was watching all manner of unedited guy films, including Pulp Fiction.  Nobody was close enough to hear what she was saying as she struck that kid, but I dearly hope she wasn’t quoting scripture like Jules “And I will smite thee with a furious vengeance…”  I’d hate to think she was taking lessons from Tarrantino’s favorite hired assassin.  

You CAN hold it sideways for extra
menace, but that's punk.



Jules was only (pulp) fictional, but Khan was real as death, which he and his heirs meted out liberally on their various bi-continental tears.  Nobody could stop them either.  They out maneuvered and outfought every European army that tried to stand against them.  The only thing that stopped their epic onslaught was being called home.  When old Khan died, three princes were in the army rampaging through Europe at the time and had to return for the election of the new emperor.  That’s what saved Europe in the 13th century.

Daycare will have no such luck.  The only think that will stop a rampaging Kayla Khan is being recalled by the sound of her favorite show, The Fresh Beat Band.  It’s a live action song and dance show, quite gay, but kids love it.  Once that’s on, she’ll run over to cheer for Kiki, her favorite.  So heed this warning helpless villagers of daycare; once Kayla Khan yells “KIKI!” you’ve got a half an hour headstart to get the hell out of Dodge.  That’s time enough to reach minimum safe distance if you don’t screw around. 

You’ve been warned.



The day may come when only Kiki, on guitar, can save you.



As always, If I Were God appreciates comments, ad-clicks and sharing of His articles.

AT LEAST CLICK THE +1 AT THE BOTTOM ! (for judgement day xtra cred)

He sees all; disappoint Him not.

Uganda and Fox News

Some things will never make sense to me, nor is their much chance of them ever being explained.  This site has never before received visitors from Uganda -which as we all know is the true measure of international acclaim- but since I was interviewed by Fox News the other day about the Conde Nast/Twitter thing and threw up

-a quick post about it (gotcha! No, I didn't barf) I got 10 pageviews from, you guessed it: Uganda.

And I can't imagine why.  Uganda?  This is weirder than when Guam made me president.  They were damn near crashing the server with all their hits.  Things have since cooled off with them, they're down to -let's see- zero?!  Oh, WTF Guam?  Is this over Australia?  All I did was take her to the prom.  Nothing happened, I swear.  C'mon baby, I miss you.

Anyway, UGANDA-

I didn't know they even got blogs in Uganda.  Or the Internet.  Or electricity.

Alright, I'm sure they have electricity.  But this blog is in English.  Maybe there's a few right wing fans of Fox News over there hungry for any snippet of their favorite western media outlet?  Maybe they're fashionistas hungry for news on fashion publishing titan Conde Nast?  Is Uganda a first-floor-only country jealous of our elevators and were following the elevator conversations angle of that twitter feed?  I may never know.

If somebody in Uganda could give me a call and explain this, I'd appreciate it.  -Borrow a phone from neighboring Kenya if you have to.

Okay, now I feel bad.  I'm not anti-Ugandan.  The Idi Amin days are far behind them now.  I'm sure Uganda has plenty of phone service, with mostly nice friendly people building their country up and just trying to make a decent living -like regular folks anywhere else in the world.  It can't help it if it's the Alabama of Africa.  Peace, Uganda.  Nobody stays Alabaman forever (except of course ...Alabama)

As always, If I Were God appreciates comments, ad-clicks and sharing of His articles.

AT LEAST CLICK THE +1 AT THE BOTTOM ! (for judgement day xtra cred)

He sees all; disappoint Him not.

So I was on Fox News today

Fox news finally recognized my (not really) divinity and swung by to ask for pearls of wisdom.  Finally, some recognition!

Actually it was just man-on-the-street interviews about the controversial new Twitter feed on Conde Naste elevator conversations.  You'd think with the current ongoing stock market cataclysms, the 3 dozen killed in the chopper shoot down and the sub orbital counterstrike of so-called "rods of god" (more on this blasphemy in a later post; but spoiler alert- I DID NOT KILL ANYONE WITH MY ROD) and the unfolding saga of the Norwegian killer would be more than enough fodder for their broadcast, wouldn't you?  But no, a cheesy twitter gimmick on par with 'people of walmart' seems equally newsworthy this of all weeks.  I guess in the age of Jersey Shore and Real Housewives we can't expect better anymore.  Oy

If you're not up on this non-story, somebody opened a Twitter feed of transcriptions of conversation fragments overhead on the elevators of magazine mega-publisher Conde Nast.  Priceless nuggets like "If she didn't want to know if she looked fat in that dress, why'd she ask me dude?  I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know!"  So apparently they went for the dumb and offensive as entertainment.

Anyway, they asked what I thought about it so I told them "I think that you hear a lot of stupid people saying a lot of stupid things.  But it's entertaining." Which if you think about it, is actually what Fox News is all about in the first place.  So I guess this is the perfect story for them.

-LATE BREAKING NEWS

that feed is now silent.  Somebody's trying to save their job.