tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53234193668506413382024-03-14T13:31:59.464-04:00If I were God...your plug-ins for existencenotactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.comBlogger160125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-24364019201793848182013-02-28T02:12:00.000-05:002013-02-28T13:10:50.129-05:00No, that's not all<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">I was all set to run the table on this blog challenge days ago when real life came crashing in. I found out my brother was suddenly feeling very strange and described stoke-like symptoms; dizziness, loss of equilibrium, weakness on one side etc. He's only 33, but his father had had a stroke so there's a history there. I dropped everything, picked him up at his job and took him to the nearest ER. Seven hours and many tests </span><span style="color: blue;">-including a CAT scan- later he still had no answer. So he signed himself out and I drove him home in his car. Thankfully his symptoms are fading by the day. I did stay overnight at his house and not get home until it was just about time to get my daughter from daycare. So, no submissions for 2 days. (It's a better story than 'the dog ate my blog')</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue;">ANYway, I missed two days of this thing and wasn't even able to post the piece I had all ready to go. So here it is, only two days late and in just before this thing is over. Don't mind the teeth marks.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
DEAL WITH THE REAL</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<i>Challenging yourself is good, until you realize you've bitten off my than you can chew. Your choices then are but two; back down or deal with it.</i><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcEqHdpezq0PKna95KX44FvHLFCl1ZdNiR2c7fTegDn6XHcjA7yT5T-SN8GIGEH5kpmro2Syq52VXLOclAnj91xI6gaZqA200KbyQM_Qv0YSJfZbF6XyIZN8kztWtSeRyTZRRWut0x84p/s1600/yellowstone-waterfall-roger-mullenhour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcEqHdpezq0PKna95KX44FvHLFCl1ZdNiR2c7fTegDn6XHcjA7yT5T-SN8GIGEH5kpmro2Syq52VXLOclAnj91xI6gaZqA200KbyQM_Qv0YSJfZbF6XyIZN8kztWtSeRyTZRRWut0x84p/s400/yellowstone-waterfall-roger-mullenhour.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nature always looks pretty <br />
and harmless from a distance.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was 1993 and I was still recovering from my ankle surgery less than two months prior. Not coincidentally it followed my one and only attempt at skydiving. Which I will not get into now. Moving on...<br />
<br />
The doctors told me the rod and pins would make it stronger than the other one, but it was still stiff and sore. Perfect time to go climbing, right?<br />
<br />
I was on the left coast and briefly had a one time opportunity to go to Yellowstone national park. Of course I jumped at it (clearly not having learned my jumping lesson. Moving on...) and while I was there I saw the signs for one of their waterfall climbs. The recent weeks of convalescence had driven me stir crazy so I was eager to push the envelope.<br />
<br />
The trail was long, but it was basically an unchallenging well worn path that I could see led to a sturdy wide wooden bridge before going out of sight up into the woods.<br />
<br />
Off I went and after the bridge the path got thinner and slantier. Despite the stiff ankle I didn't want to back down from my own challenge so quickly, so I continued -feeling brave and proud of myself. I couldn't see the falls from this part of the trail, but I could hear it.<br />
<br />
Soon the slant became a real slope, and the path became ascending notches cut into the rock every few feet. I looked up and saw it gradually getting more extreme. and starting rethinking my 'no guts no glory' mantra. In my head it began to sound more like 'no guts is gory'.<br />
<br />
Then I saw a family coming down from the top. A couple in their forties and their teen kids descended easily and slid past me. Well, I thought, obviously if they went up and came back down and don't even look tired or sweaty it can't be too much further or that bad. The sound of the falls was louder here, reinforcing the thought that it couldn't be far. I soldiered on.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiypbGxIltNpf59eG85WZDeWFKvNa77Q2v7YB6tgVVMbho5tQSV7Kxw8jgZif9DPR1YFAXYesay3ReXd_uWQ37Lw_hRWcC-62zPEhl9ppuiQTso4zMvz17xkxZKmXDlF4dtc3DBWJyM-Nu1/s1600/mountain+goat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiypbGxIltNpf59eG85WZDeWFKvNa77Q2v7YB6tgVVMbho5tQSV7Kxw8jgZif9DPR1YFAXYesay3ReXd_uWQ37Lw_hRWcC-62zPEhl9ppuiQTso4zMvz17xkxZKmXDlF4dtc3DBWJyM-Nu1/s1600/mountain+goat.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It kinda felt like this</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By now my elevation was over fifty feet. I could see the waterfall finally, crashing onto the blunt rocks five stories below me. The slope started to get so serious the park authorities had installed a thin metal railing on the fall-to-your-death side of what can only now be laughingly called 'the trail'. I inched on and on halfway along the rail when I noticed some of the rail anchors ahead had pulled free of the rock some time ago and were hanging unsupported and swaying gently in the air, like some sort of republican designed health care plan. It did not look safe.<br />
<br />
This was too much. A challenge is a challenge, not a death wish. I decided to turn back. But then I saw them. An elderly couple coming down the <ahem> trail. Again, neither tired nor sweaty. There was no turning back after that. If ma & pa Kettle can climb up and back down again, <i>so can I</i> -even if it kills me! I soldiered on, determined to 'leave it all on the field' or <gulp> on the rocks below.<br />
<br />
A few grueling minutes later, tired, sweaty and scraped, I finally pulled level with the edge of the falls, now only yards away. What a heady experience. Just before the falls there was a shallow pool with very cool-looling water. There was a sign at the edge. It warned not to enter the water claiming that several people had, been washed over the edge, and died on the rocks below. No. Sh*t. <br />
<br />
So the urge to do <i>that</i> was easily quashed, but I still felt triumphant. The fact that families and oldsters had made it look easy while I was panting like an overly targeted asthmatic fat kid after a dodgeball game only took the edge off my victory high a little. I marched all puffy-chested over the crest on my throbbing ankle to the blessedly level ground on top. -To find the road and parked buses from which all the people who passed me on the way down had ridden up in air conditioned comfort.<br />
<br />
This repressed memory brought to you by the sadistic monsters at We Will Force Confrontations.<br />
You may want to see <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2013/02/is-that-all/" target="_blank">whom else</a> succumbed to their ever more inventive tortures, but it won't be pretty.</div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-33658507314063124472013-02-25T13:52:00.000-05:002013-02-25T13:59:35.048-05:00Fat Fact or Pulp Fiction?Y<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFiLg_hEpuzwLR_CmRKqswOxjmZzFPKT3o7EKfETbzYvdCFTKHwbg0tI_i9Cilf5g34OX9lH4HKOsGvKi3YJbj4Nz1fCyFs3K8s-JH4MQbM00HUxI90C1RGK1oiNdfEAMFRiND9jsmzdI/s1600/escher_penrose_stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFiLg_hEpuzwLR_CmRKqswOxjmZzFPKT3o7EKfETbzYvdCFTKHwbg0tI_i9Cilf5g34OX9lH4HKOsGvKi3YJbj4Nz1fCyFs3K8s-JH4MQbM00HUxI90C1RGK1oiNdfEAMFRiND9jsmzdI/s640/escher_penrose_stairs.jpg" width="482" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You climb and climb yet never get anywhere<br />
-seems like real life to me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: blue;"><i>This is a reprint of my comeback post announcing my return from, well...</i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
How does one explain three months absent from here<br />
not writing one damn thing since before Halloween<br />
it's not because I've become jaded, bored, or cavalier<br />
it's that I'm only just back from the bizarre and unforeseen<br />
<br />
have no doubts that the wild tale you're about to hear<br />
can be verified thru police records, new scars and X-rays<br />
it's teeming with villains and heroes and gallons of beer<br />
across national borders and time zones -and back in 90 days<br />
<br />
It all started so quietly with no hint of trouble in sight<br />
I was home by myself settling in to rub one out<br />
when an urgent knock at the door ruined my night<br />
I tried pretending I wasn't home but they started to shout<br />
<br />
Twas my old friend Randolf just back from the coast<br />
and with a whole troupe of I guess his new homies<br />
Still, I didn't really want to play the good host<br />
until I saw the cold keg and pizzas with pepperonis<br />
<br />
So over many a pint and hot slice<br />
they told me a sad sad story indeed<br />
they were jockeys from Canada with a gambling vice<br />
and in a poker game with a lonely mountie, lost every steed<br />
<br />
their poor treasured horses were now kept by him<br />
near a factory spitting pollution thick as fog<br />
they had sworn to try though their chances were thin<br />
to regain their treasure from the lonely mountie and smog<br />
<br />
they asked me to join them and make their group complete<br />
so stupidly I went with Randolf and his troupe of littles<br />
singing and wobbling merrily through the street<br />
with only our last pints of beer and a few leftover vittles<br />
<br />
I fell in a puddle, cut my knee, and moaned like a wimp<br />
then felt like a wuss for wanting to slink away like a rat<br />
but that woulda made me a wet bloody puss with a limp<br />
and nobody wants to be that<br />
<br />
I could but nobly hobble thereafter<br />
and that was too slow for these guys<br />
one slinked into a clinic slick as a grafter<br />
and slipped out with a gurney to my surprise<br />
<br />
thus came the name of this tale<br />
and the first of our crimes on this journey<br />
but worry fades after pitchers of ale<br />
and down hills we all rode drunk on my gurney<br />
<br />
but we couldn't go on this way like a bunch of retards<br />
clearly a new plan was in order<br />
so I led them down to the train yards<br />
and dearly snuck on a train bound for the border<br />
<br />
the freight car was out of an old Hollywood classic<br />
complete with a band of mean hobos ready to jump us<br />
so it was ninety pound jockeys versus men from jurassic<br />
I could see it would take 'em all of ten seconds to thump us<br />
<br />
was it Falstaff who said the better part of valor is discretion?<br />
plus I had a bum knee for which I was on medication<br />
so I decided to hang back for the coming aggression<br />
while the jockeys fought like bears -stuffed for decoration<br />
<br />
in ten seconds they were out cold and piled in a sad little stack<br />
and the hoboes took a break to slake their thirst<br />
they drank wine from a cooler they'd set up in the back<br />
while they argued over which one to corn-hole first<br />
<br />
I then saw my chance to redeem my poor showing<br />
and while their backs were turned I started to creep<br />
into the cooler went all my meds without their knowing<br />
and one round of drinks later they all went to sleep<br />
<br />
slipping off the train in some Canadian town<br />
we were finally there but felt as if we'd hit the skids<br />
me dirty and limping, and them crying over their beat-down<br />
people gave money to the homeless man and his wretched kids<br />
<br />
we took that cash to a bar for a round and a snack<br />
serendipity followed in the form of a beer delivery truck<br />
the driver left it running and wheeled his load far to the back<br />
we all looked at each other and said 'What the fuck?'<br />
<br />
luckily jockeys are small<br />
for the front seat was cramped<br />
cases of red bull was part of the haul<br />
and soon we were amped<br />
<br />
as it turns out it's not hard to prove<br />
that stolen trucks are an unwise choice of transportation<br />
the local police were less than pleased with our move<br />
and chased us down forcing a quick debarkation<br />
<br />
fleeing on foot while drunk and injured is no fun<br />
but I hobble/ran quicker that my short-legged hell-raisers<br />
thankfully Canadian police won't use a gun<br />
but their not shy about using their tasers<br />
<br />
getting hit wasn't the worst of it by half<br />
nor were the bruises from awkward falls<br />
I got away but it was hard not to laugh<br />
seeing old Randolf take two hits to the balls<br />
<br />
another jockey and I made it to the docks and hid quick<br />
we rested in the shadows behind an old barge<br />
he said he knew where to hide because he's psychic<br />
I said that made him a small medium at large<br />
<br />
we had to work but lay low while our pals were in jail<br />
-he as a garden gnome whom they paid in beets<br />
-I as a gigolo making a rich lady wail<br />
for which I got paid all the pie I could eat<br />
<br />
the rest sat weeks in the pokey before their trial began<br />
on account they had no bail money to tender<br />
lucky for them I had hatched me a plan<br />
and went in posing as their public defender<br />
<br />
I said 'Your honor, though their crimes are bountiful<br />
surely deserving conviction and a hard life in chains<br />
the freakishly small can't be held accountable<br />
on account of their equally small brains'<br />
<br />
their size being undeniable<br />
the judge relented with soft heart<br />
the 'stupidity' defense is reliable<br />
if the defendants look the part<br />
<br />
finally we made our way up to the county<br />
and after some 'hair of the dog'<br />
it was time to confront the lonely mountie<br />
and get the treasured steeds away from the smog<br />
<br />
It was all of us against one so I felt in fine fettle<br />
a few cases later and we were all half in the can<br />
I lead my jockey troupe ready to test our mettle<br />
beer muscles will do that for a man<br />
<br />
through the woods I led them like a modern day Moses<br />
lurching in circles up the hill taking nearly a day<br />
the factory smog made rotten eggs smell like roses<br />
and the jockeys and I puked most of the way<br />
<br />
at his door I said "Let's kick it in, and on him descend!"<br />
They said "Whoa man, we'd better go slower.<br />
He's not just a mountie, my friend.<br />
He's a marine with a flame-thrower!"<br />
<br />
"Now you say it?!" I hissed<br />
they said "I guess we should've told you."<br />
I said "Screw you! I'm pissed!<br />
I should've let those hoboes corn-hole you!"<br />
<br />
being as drunk as we were<br />
we were not as quiet as we thought<br />
what happened next is a bit of a blur<br />
but I will try to relate what havoc was wrought<br />
<br />
the front door flew open and there towered the brute<br />
not just mountie or marine with flame thrower in hand<br />
he was a wacked-out wild-eyed meth-head to boot<br />
and I thought to myself "this was poorly planned."<br />
<br />
it was clear he meant to bake them<br />
I myself bolted with speed unsurpassed<br />
the jockeys ran as quick as their legs could take them<br />
which is to say my friends; not very fast<br />
<br />
he shot fire like a dragon of lore<br />
or better yet, an ancient dragon king<br />
but I thought "Maybe we're not done-for,<br />
he's so high, he probably can't hit a thing!"<br />
<br />
apparently there's a flame-thrower marksman school<br />
at which his kill record must have been heinous<br />
for he managed to nail each little fool<br />
right in his little fool anus<br />
<br />
with flames and smoke trailing after<br />
they ran about shrieking like bitches<br />
he began rolling in laughter<br />
as they shat their little britches<br />
<br />
they jumped in his pool to put out the flames<br />
and pleaded "Stop! You win! It's not right!"<br />
but he just laughed, called them names<br />
and bounced rocks off their heads with delight<br />
<br />
I couldn't tell for a man of his brawn<br />
if it was too much for his heart or his head<br />
but after all this and the binge he'd been on<br />
his eyes crossed with an "Erg!" and he fell over dead<br />
<br />
so in the end the jockeys got back every horse<br />
they swore off gambling; their lesson's learnt<br />
but they couldn't ride 'em just yet of course<br />
not with asses so horribly burnt<br />
<br />
though they couldn't pay me in cash I'm still in the pink<br />
I deserve something for all that wouldn't you say?<br />
a slightly used flame-thrower's worth more than you'd think<br />
if you put it up for bidding on ebay<br />
<br />
now that this saga is finally complete<br />
I'm sure you'll excuse my being away<br />
feel free to de-rivet yourself from your seat<br />
as I've only one last thing to say<br />
<br />
Now that it's over I have a small confession to make<br />
about this epic tale and three months of my year<br />
these forty-three stanzas of story are fake<br />
I've been gone because I was jaded, bored, and yes -cavalier<br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It's a little soon for a repost, but it seemed perfect for today's prompt. There's <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2013/02/fact-or-fiction/" target="_blank">plenty more</a> to enjoy.</span></div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-66072504096440020642013-02-24T14:19:00.000-05:002013-02-24T14:19:07.667-05:00Confucious say<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhypFuupc8-wFggrvzNdnjK97ZQ9Ff-XQzlNcs8FdvLZjw2g9T4DW40vSAmZKy20shTT69JnuexMBq_Z0zeec83Gg8e7u_DjS6m4D67-856LVn8KPMAJFTFg8fDbrm_HQauEpA9Ho1twF-N/s1600/Confucius+say.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhypFuupc8-wFggrvzNdnjK97ZQ9Ff-XQzlNcs8FdvLZjw2g9T4DW40vSAmZKy20shTT69JnuexMBq_Z0zeec83Gg8e7u_DjS6m4D67-856LVn8KPMAJFTFg8fDbrm_HQauEpA9Ho1twF-N/s400/Confucius+say.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;"><b><i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">And more cases of reverse </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">plagiarism:</span></span></i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who walk through airport turnstile sideways going to Bangkok.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who run in front of car get tired.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who run behind car get exhausted.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man with one chopstick go hungry.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Baseball is wrong: man with four balls cannot walk.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">War not determine who is right, war determine who is left.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who drive like hell, bound to get there.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who stand on toilet is high on pot.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who live in glass house should change clothes in basement.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who sit on tack get point!</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who jump off cliff, jump to conclusion!</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man stuck in pantry have ass in jam.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">When called an idiot better off quiet than to open mouth and remove all doubt.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who behaves like an ass will be the butt of those who crack jokes.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">He who thinks only of number one must remember this number is next to nothing.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who put head on railroad track to listen for train likely to end up with splitting headache.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">He who buries a man's wife alive, should not expect to sit at that man's dinner table without the subject coming up.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who eats photo of father, soon spitting-image of father.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who pushes piano down mineshaft get tone of A flat miner.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Wise man never play leapfrog with unicorn.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who fall in vat of molten glass make spectacle of self.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Man who fly airplane upside-down bound to have crack up.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Confucius say too damn much.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">These wearls of pisdom were shamelessly lifted from </span></span><a href="http://www.mustsharejokes.com/page/Confucius+Say+Jokes" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" target="_blank">MustHaveJokes</a><span style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"> at the behest of those chubby-chasing philosophy groupies over at Women Wild For Confucius. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">If I Were God say, wise clams like you should check out their other pearls of wisdom.</span></span></span></div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-82760166081431481552013-02-23T15:49:00.002-05:002013-02-23T15:49:18.859-05:00Absurd<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0RQxUFyjcFIB_wC2s92RlxlH3ase7ag1l2dzwqBauOHzWjUEagXBbKhLDBaQRH0IuGkiVuk0mU-3qlAjMLRiSGx_qUO4zXX5D33zhQV9s0uJj3APBoq7aTS0XyviYHyWgz6YH1vwUymq/s1600/President+Palin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0RQxUFyjcFIB_wC2s92RlxlH3ase7ag1l2dzwqBauOHzWjUEagXBbKhLDBaQRH0IuGkiVuk0mU-3qlAjMLRiSGx_qUO4zXX5D33zhQV9s0uJj3APBoq7aTS0XyviYHyWgz6YH1vwUymq/s1600/President+Palin.jpg" /></a></div>
Coulda happened, people.<br />
<br />
Of course, if it had happened (McCain wins then dies) it would fit better under a 'Cataclysm' prompt than WWFC's actual prompt for today. Also I wouldn't be posting absurdities today from the comfort of my couch. I'd be too busy fighting zombies and dodging horsemen as the rest of the apocalypse plays out...<br />
<br />
The other <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2013/02/absurd/" target="_blank">bloggers</a> are likely to be far less disturbing, why not go see?</div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-46413440907622087042013-02-22T13:55:00.001-05:002013-02-22T14:12:40.682-05:00I HAD to<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggp9Ai97JDVSBTI2DSgvhhokFTiPSIB-npBx0BgRAJtpKpaBXj2im4O10YnTF1YVfWL9xEVUZ8Xe5j5KD0zcsXSajfhmyIiJeOWuacTy343LhheKrseCHZoQTmHc9FhVUF3WyTuQEN8i8l/s1600/compulsive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggp9Ai97JDVSBTI2DSgvhhokFTiPSIB-npBx0BgRAJtpKpaBXj2im4O10YnTF1YVfWL9xEVUZ8Xe5j5KD0zcsXSajfhmyIiJeOWuacTy343LhheKrseCHZoQTmHc9FhVUF3WyTuQEN8i8l/s400/compulsive.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I'm not going to publish the first post I wrote for today's Compulsion prompt. It was ominously called 'Slave, know your master' and ran on at length about how we're really just running our individual base programming which exposes itself through our compulsions. <br />
<br />
I opened with a poem describing some, put up the poster for Nicholson's AS GOOD AS IT GETS, and used likes like "10 GOTO 10" is a famously useless loop, and ended it as a proof as to why diabetics eat themselves to death one amputation at a time.<br />
<br />
I wrote furiously until I got it all out; because I had to -writing compulsion.<br />
<br />
The prompt led me to a thought that I had to follow to the end; because I had to -thinking compulsion.<br />
<br />
As I was writing I realized how dark and disturbing it was, but I have a thing about writing the truth as I know it. So I pulled no punches and put it all down on virtual paper; because I had to -testifying compulsion.<br />
<br />
When those three get together they go off on a mental bender like a bunch of too drunk, too loud, and too sure of themselves frat boys out for a night on the town.<br />
<br />
And I woke up intending to post it... but can't. It just wasn't funny, not even a little. IIWG is a humor blog and that one doesn't fit. And my compulsion about <i>that</i> has seniority. Like an obese cigar-smoking head teamster at a contentious union meeting, it stood up and sent the other three packing. Writer, Thinker, and Testifyer had to go shuffling off into the night shaking their heads in disbelief and mumbling about how hard they'd been working and how unfair it all was.<br />
<br />
Know how bad it is? It was originally Writer, Thinker, and Honesty. But 'honesty' doesn't end in 'er' like the first two, and my list have to match -HAVE TO-, so I had to send <i>it</i> packing.<br />
<br />
So if you read because you have to, here's a <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2013/02/compulsively/" target="_blank">link</a> to some posts written by people who have to, organized by other people who organize challenges because <i>they</i> have to.<br />
<br />
Free will my ass.</div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-86175834091790753762013-02-21T13:26:00.000-05:002013-02-21T13:26:25.963-05:00The last train<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: purple;">And, the three men I admire most: </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple;">the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple;">they... </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple;">Caught the last train for the coast </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple;">the day the music died</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple;">and they were singing 'bye bye -mother f*ck*rs!'</span></div>
<br />
Well they'd have to be if they were abandoning us at such a dark moment, wouldn't they?<br />
And why is Don McLean the singer/writer such an admirer then? One can either conclude he's either an idiot or masochist with a diety fetish.<br />
<br />
OR maybe, just maybe he's the wisest philosopher ever; smart enough to see we <i>have</i> been abandoned, but canny enough to slip it into a pop song so he can't be brought up on heresy charges!<br />
<br />
No wonder mankind has been acting out all these centuries, it's got repressed abandonment issues. Now I'm pissed. I hope that 'last train for the coast' went off the friggin' rails!<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">And I hope they wound up worse than these:</span></i><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3MJMoito1glpOOYc61-d4l6OnWZDz6ufjMgC1KFTE0ScAiTA2nYu-YPgCIGe7CAdTN047SmVG-aOJBl6h6cbY53GiiP1d8gvIX43z_xvZd8xnaOM25G-SJeZNCQTj_rsCkJR2BRGHTSo/s1600/Train_wreck_at_Montparnasse_1895_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3MJMoito1glpOOYc61-d4l6OnWZDz6ufjMgC1KFTE0ScAiTA2nYu-YPgCIGe7CAdTN047SmVG-aOJBl6h6cbY53GiiP1d8gvIX43z_xvZd8xnaOM25G-SJeZNCQTj_rsCkJR2BRGHTSo/s320/Train_wreck_at_Montparnasse_1895_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the most famous</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwUvR-FVDyEPGt4VdCQxlkiRG2xSaYSwU7ig_38t06PFlPTAHqdrywI5mJSHL2sEET6FrXw6hviXFKIVwOjDD7mBK0AXv9vBeorTbiuBxwX-G605l-dzqKrD-2iwHtgPuyP3oB5KjGkVzU/s1600/train_wreck+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwUvR-FVDyEPGt4VdCQxlkiRG2xSaYSwU7ig_38t06PFlPTAHqdrywI5mJSHL2sEET6FrXw6hviXFKIVwOjDD7mBK0AXv9vBeorTbiuBxwX-G605l-dzqKrD-2iwHtgPuyP3oB5KjGkVzU/s320/train_wreck+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the most inexplicable</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoBdPHBLYs06axPqsmoJwY9CEBelOF1LN08wzlfQFSBrF5v9XX6cgteY5ItQPxzqqzEtCjUsygAuswNe8fq8EUjEL6WIVWUtRO1gbxIwJ0HDWtqMUhR043OtoJ2lJ30Rt1YxFcSJ_ol6fw/s1600/China_high-speed_train_wreck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoBdPHBLYs06axPqsmoJwY9CEBelOF1LN08wzlfQFSBrF5v9XX6cgteY5ItQPxzqqzEtCjUsygAuswNe8fq8EUjEL6WIVWUtRO1gbxIwJ0HDWtqMUhR043OtoJ2lJ30Rt1YxFcSJ_ol6fw/s400/China_high-speed_train_wreck.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the most well attended</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRMZzt6qR3vmnIllp9cKY9f2SFSdGMz8ICVlq2qOTTv-bj8N7Ucc0WBKw-XfudtZdt3NoKUxK-KG9YvYayutXCNi24YNWTLWIuwxgJ1PyKHm-2kG5uVyXcUk7ox4-MYe8jdnnSs6vENbn/s1600/train-wreck+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRMZzt6qR3vmnIllp9cKY9f2SFSdGMz8ICVlq2qOTTv-bj8N7Ucc0WBKw-XfudtZdt3NoKUxK-KG9YvYayutXCNi24YNWTLWIuwxgJ1PyKHm-2kG5uVyXcUk7ox4-MYe8jdnnSs6vENbn/s320/train-wreck+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the most dangly</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLaAuilAh7zs8IKvedKCfM3fgb4O4CNlyQ88mPLtH6XEDDVvSBPG9zTBaBoRFUG2Eu2RiI2oSWdvSaUZX5vxO4xu3bvuFMiKX4hIuU1Y9r6qD67mWfJWZH-uwQO_Tadk9KDAtiBWVC_US/s1600/train_crash+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLaAuilAh7zs8IKvedKCfM3fgb4O4CNlyQ88mPLtH6XEDDVvSBPG9zTBaBoRFUG2Eu2RiI2oSWdvSaUZX5vxO4xu3bvuFMiKX4hIuU1Y9r6qD67mWfJWZH-uwQO_Tadk9KDAtiBWVC_US/s400/train_crash+4.jpg" width="351" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the most fiery</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZX8OxAgjVIrd4K5DFQV17weM9qDKEopshIQ6DUjCRAI8XCcyp2OUBhh10aEVjUObDEnTBecAmeUc8Wo-RzMKboGgw9rq3Ubmi2lz5-eC7gA74PqzK8Ki50a5WxktsBDs8Yb5T_XyZwcf/s1600/lindsay-lohan-train+wreck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZX8OxAgjVIrd4K5DFQV17weM9qDKEopshIQ6DUjCRAI8XCcyp2OUBhh10aEVjUObDEnTBecAmeUc8Wo-RzMKboGgw9rq3Ubmi2lz5-eC7gA74PqzK8Ki50a5WxktsBDs8Yb5T_XyZwcf/s320/lindsay-lohan-train+wreck.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and the most tragic -because while all other train wrecks<br />were at least over in moments, this one never ends.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: blue;">The motive for this loco piece is of course WWFC's <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2013/02/last-train/" target="_blank">writing challenge</a>. Go see who did manage to stay on the tracks. I'm sure you'll enjoy the ride.</span><br />
<br /></div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-51847523783811746632013-02-20T13:46:00.000-05:002013-02-20T13:58:48.194-05:00The other shoe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've got a tip for life for ya's;<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOIWjEnzV5YasJ30iebmWPhlzu2De_O2tD1nGznGr5MBCNCoM_N167pbYyPKKNdOD-G4SARuOnImb0llQTpLZiEFlnd0EXl0eYhz592YjwjzSajhip3vpvBQQDX7WfEFdUcn2Fz4HxPtt/s1600/the+other+shoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOIWjEnzV5YasJ30iebmWPhlzu2De_O2tD1nGznGr5MBCNCoM_N167pbYyPKKNdOD-G4SARuOnImb0llQTpLZiEFlnd0EXl0eYhz592YjwjzSajhip3vpvBQQDX7WfEFdUcn2Fz4HxPtt/s1600/the+other+shoe.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here it comes...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Whenever the first shoe is good, don't get happy until the other one is dropped.-chances are it's covered in doodie.<br />
No matter how good any fresh piece of news sounds, the follow-up is usually crushing. The examples are legion, so I can't rant on about all of them. I'll just drop a few of the all-stars on you.<br />
<br />
Take the sexual revolution. After eons of sexual repression and recrimination, now it's okay to screw whomever you want; pre-marital, interracial, swapping, orgies, whatever you can think of -it's all okay! <em>Awe-SOME. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
UNTIL THE OTHER SHOE DROPS<br />
<br />
- VD, crabs, gonorrhea, AIDS<br />
- cheating becomes so easy and widespread people have to worry about their spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend like never before<br />
- you find out you're really not that good, and now everybody knows it. Now you have to move to Cambodia or Pakistan or some freakin' place where nobody knows you and repression is still the rule, so you can find a virgin who'll never realize how small or inept you are. Even now the other shoe kicks you in the ass. Sure you've got a spouse for whom you are the best they ever had so sex is great again, BUT you have to live in freakin' Cambodia or Whatthefuckistan to get it.<br />
<br />
See? You know a lot of people back then got too happy too fast and then the other shoe didn't just drop, it drop-kicked their ass.<br />
<br />
Ready for more? Modern medicine.<br />
Medical advancements are saving and extending lives like never before. There's either a cure or a treatment for just about everything. How advanced and wonderful we are!<br />
<br />
Here comes the other shoe.<br />
<br />
- It's become safe to be stupid. All these treatments give the population a false sense of indestructibility and ruined the perceived value of eating right, clean living and exercise. Now we have an obesity epidemic and I can't get a McRib anymore because the line at McDonalds is half a mile long and I have to get to work by tomorrow.<br />
- the medical safety net inordinately bolsters the ranks of the stupid by saving them from their own bad decisions and silly household accidents that used to thin the herd for the rest of us. The marketplace had to shift to cater to their exploding numbers so there's no more good family restaurants opening anywhere, but there's miles of Taco Bells, Popeye's Chicken, Wendy's and the like. Original movies are extinct. They can't make it in a world where Transformers 5 and Twilight 8 rule the box office. Ditto for TV; it's mostly reality shows and CSI spin-offs.<br />
-nobody dies when god intended, they just clog traffic, lengthen the lines everywhere you go, and when they're finally done with all that they retire and help bankrupt social security<br />
<br />
I'll finish with a quick one; Food.<br />
<br />
The human taste bud is a formidable tool in that it can not merely help you discriminate between spoiled food and food that's safe to eat. When it samples certain things, like chocolate truffles, or a perfectly cooked T-bone, the pleasure it sends to the brain can be near orgasmic. Fan-TASTIC.<br />
<br />
Enter shoe number two.<br />
<br />
- beef clogs arteries and leads to heart disease and/or failure<br />
- chocolate and other sweets lead to obesity, diabetes, and lonely prom nights<br />
- know what doesn't? Brussels sprouts, spinach, and tofu.<br />
- know what sucks? Brussels sprouts, spinach, and tofu.<br />
<br />
WHY IS LIFE LIKE THIS? Time to bring it all back to "If I Were God..." sensibilities. <br />
Maybe it's to give us a taste of paradise while reminding us that we 'aint there yet. <br />
Maybe it's to keep us from getting so lost in consequenceless pleasures that we forget to live.<br />
Maybe it's just to remind us that despite how far we've come, He's still god and we are so not.<br />
<br />
And finally, the big question nobody but me cares about: What would I do IF (well, you know)<br />
I were you-know-who.<br />
- There'd be no sex diseases. Frankly, it would have never crossed my mind to make one.<br />
- Self-inflicted acts of stupidity would be fatal. Instantly. No medical intervention possible.<br />
- Steak and chocolate would still taste heavenly, but not if you've over 250. At 251 your own taste buds would quit in disgust and <i>everything</i> would taste like Brussels sprouts.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">This meager offering has been part of WWFC's <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2013/02/the-other-shoe/" target="_blank">writing challenge</a>. WWFC is of course the infamous hook-up site 'Women Wild For C___" Go there quick and check them out before the FCC shuts them down. Just a matter of time, really. (Though why they'd target women who like cookies is beyond me)</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue;">PS: This is the first entry of mine the public has been allowed to see, day 20 of this thing, because the ruling junta at WWFC felt my previous 19 were overly-awesome and would drive the other writers to withdraw (or suicide or whatever). Don't bother protesting or marching on my behalf, power-mad plutocrats are like that. It's their damaged brains I think; the air's pretty thin on Pluto...</span></div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-58728291877111506892013-01-25T14:19:00.000-05:002013-01-25T14:19:05.029-05:00Fake Girlfriends FOR SALE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXiLjfiEJjv_1RQtPcvm_MTgN7eZl_ErIX_8vdNsTaQZ5ReYz4y90Dgb4fWQV7C0fPJ6dWcZp9I-bKsgUzo6PgH89raaOcA5zXyaek1LedLkDN2Ec-ptYyHnyE1XY6Sxhw-gdbqzw64BQJ/s1600/Mannequin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXiLjfiEJjv_1RQtPcvm_MTgN7eZl_ErIX_8vdNsTaQZ5ReYz4y90Dgb4fWQV7C0fPJ6dWcZp9I-bKsgUzo6PgH89raaOcA5zXyaek1LedLkDN2Ec-ptYyHnyE1XY6Sxhw-gdbqzw64BQJ/s1600/Mannequin.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She might be immobile and non-<br />
communicative, but on the upside<br />
she can't leave you and won't ever<br />
give you any lip.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As if Fakebook wasn't fake enough, now you can <a href="http://gma.yahoo.com/blogs/abc-blogs/website-selling-fake-facebook-girlfriends-232429663--abc-news-topstories.html" target="_blank">purchase a fictitious girlfriend</a> to enhance your online profile. No kidding. It even comes with comments, pictures and 'status change' to make it all seem real. It's supposed to help your self esteem, or make you ex jealous, or make you seem less of a loser to whomever you're trying to impress. It's sad. Not just for the people who use, but for all of us as a society. And it kind of makes me a little nostalgic.<br />
<br />
What happened to the good 'ole days when only <b><i>parts</i></b> of a girl were fake, such as<br />
<br />
skin - makeup, tanning booths, spray-on or 'Snookie' tans, plastic surgery<br />
tits - pushup bras, miracle bras, tape, implants<br />
hair - extensions, wigs, dye<br />
lips - lipstick, botox<br />
eyes - makeup, colored contacts, crows-feet surgery<br />
belly - spankx, liposuction<br />
nails - press-ons, polish<br />
teeth - veneers, whiteners<br />
height - stilettos, high hair<br />
<br />
I understand. They're trying to enhance their natural assets. And the less of those they had, the more enhancement was needed. I not only understand, I appreciate it. Just the effort, regardless of how successful a woman is at it, is deeply appreciated. <br />
<br />
Sometimes the illusion is absolutely necessary. It's often made the difference between 'undoable' and a few drinks later 'oh shit, now that I can barely focus, she don't look half bad'. Why do you think they have dim lighting at the club? To protect that fragile illusion. Why is the music so loud? Same reason; to keep her nervous chit-chat and/or whiny voice from ruining said illusion. So speaking for for all (straight) men, thanks for the show. The illusion is <i>everything</i>.<br />
<br />
-but underneath it all is a real girl with a real who-ha you could what-what in all night long -in actuality three to five minutes on average. But what insertion point are you supposed to use if your girl only exists online? I checked all sides of my MacbookPro and there's no port for <i>that</i> anywhere. (There is a phone jack port that is vaguely the right shape, but you'd have to be a Chinese mini-midget to use it.)<br />
<br />
And to be fair -and before I start getting neg comments- along with the real woman underneath all the visual subterfuge is a real person you could relate to, and speak with for hours on a human level. (Happy ladies?) You know, if you were into that.<br />
<br /></div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-1614568417816801352013-01-09T23:40:00.000-05:002013-01-09T23:43:13.162-05:00The Hobble; An Unexpected Gurney<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaj2gZneA-mWsQyw4JWddBcSZ2PQZhsymTPbC2akURrD2BerWpZ253NQmqYgbKquYogY_XDR025u5Cezp3UU8Dkau7CaugHuhaOvSETYqMg6Yk4N3umAp4uaKeod-UojBc2I-EKb_fh5Ru/s1600/Sauron's+eye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaj2gZneA-mWsQyw4JWddBcSZ2PQZhsymTPbC2akURrD2BerWpZ253NQmqYgbKquYogY_XDR025u5Cezp3UU8Dkau7CaugHuhaOvSETYqMg6Yk4N3umAp4uaKeod-UojBc2I-EKb_fh5Ru/s640/Sauron's+eye.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Either the Great Eye of Sauron, or a hobbit butt after he's had his first Taco Bell.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
How does one explain three months absent from here<br />
not writing one damn thing since before Halloween<br />
it's not because I've become jaded, bored, or cavalier<br />
it's that I'm only just back from the bizarre and unforeseen<br />
<br />
have no doubts that the wild tale you're about to hear<br />
can be verified thru police records, new scars and X-rays<br />
it's teeming with villains and heroes and gallons of beer<br />
across national borders and time zones -and back in 90 days<br />
<br />
It all started so quietly with no hint of trouble in sight<br />
I was home by myself settling in to rub one out<br />
when an urgent knock at the door ruined my night<br />
I tried pretending I wasn't home but they started to shout<br />
<br />
Twas my old friend Randolf just back from the coast<br />
and with a whole troupe of I guess his new homies<br />
Still, I didn't really want to play the good host<br />
until I saw the cold keg and pizzas with pepperonis<br />
<br />
So over many a pint and hot slice<br />
they told me a sad sad story indeed<br />
they were jockeys from Canada with a gambling vice<br />
and in a poker game with a lonely mountie, lost every steed<br />
<br />
their poor treasured horses were now kept by him<br />
near a factory spitting pollution thick as fog<br />
they had sworn to try though their chances were thin<br />
to regain their treasure from the lonely mountie and smog<br />
<br />
they asked me to join them and make their group complete<br />
so stupidly I went with Randolf and his troupe of littles<br />
singing and wobbling merrily through the street<br />
with only our last pints of beer and a few leftover vittles<br />
<br />
I fell in a puddle, cut my knee, and moaned like a wimp<br />
then felt like a wuss for wanting to slink away like a rat<br />
but that woulda made me a wet bloody puss with a limp<br />
and nobody wants to be that<br />
<br />
I could but nobly hobble thereafter<br />
and that was too slow for these guys<br />
one slinked into a clinic slick as a grafter<br />
and slipped out with a gurney to my surprise<br />
<br />
thus came the name of this tale<br />
and the first of our crimes on this journey<br />
but worry fades after pitchers of ale<br />
and down hills we all rode drunk on my gurney<br />
<br />
but we couldn't go on this way like a bunch of retards<br />
clearly a new plan was in order<br />
so I led them down to the train yards<br />
and dearly snuck on a train bound for the border<br />
<br />
the freight car was out of an old Hollywood classic<br />
complete with a band of mean hobos ready to jump us<br />
so it was ninety pound jockeys versus men from jurassic<br />
I could see it would take 'em all of ten seconds to thump us<br />
<br />
was it Falstaff who said the better part of valor is discretion?<br />
plus I had a bum knee for which I was on medication<br />
so I decided to hang back for the coming aggression<br />
while the jockeys fought like bears -stuffed for decoration<br />
<br />
in ten seconds they were out cold and piled in a sad little stack<br />
and the hoboes took a break to slake their thirst<br />
they drank wine from a cooler they'd set up in the back<br />
while they argued over which one to corn-hole first<br />
<br />
I then saw my chance to redeem my poor showing<br />
and while their backs were turned I started to creep<br />
into the cooler went all my meds without their knowing<br />
and one round of drinks later they all went to sleep<br />
<br />
slipping off the train in some Canadian town<br />
we were finally there but felt as if we'd hit the skids<br />
me dirty and limping, and them crying over their beat-down<br />
people gave money to the homeless man and his wretched kids<br />
<br />
we took that cash to a bar for a round and a snack<br />
serendipity followed in the form of a beer delivery truck<br />
the driver left it running and wheeled his load far to the back<br />
we all looked at each other and said 'What the fuck?'<br />
<br />
luckily jockeys are small<br />
for the front seat was cramped<br />
cases of red bull was part of the haul<br />
and soon we were amped<br />
<br />
as it turns out it's not hard to prove<br />
that stolen trucks are an unwise choice of transportation<br />
the local police were less than pleased with our move<br />
and chased us down forcing a quick debarkation<br />
<br />
fleeing on foot while drunk and injured is no fun<br />
but I hobble/ran quicker that my short-legged hell-raisers<br />
thankfully Canadian police won't use a gun<br />
but their not shy about using their tasers<br />
<br />
<br />
getting hit wasn't the worst of it by half<br />
nor were the bruises from awkward falls<br />
I got away but it was hard not to laugh<br />
seeing old Randolf take two hits to the balls<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
another jockey and I made it to the docks and hid quick<br />
we rested in the shadows behind an old barge<br />
he said he knew where to hide because he's psychic<br />
I said that made him a small medium at large<br />
<br />
<br />
we had to work but lay low while our pals were in jail<br />
-he as a garden gnome whom they paid in beets<br />
-I as a gigolo making a rich lady wail<br />
for which I got paid all the pie I could eat<br />
<br />
the rest sat weeks in the pokey before their trial began<br />
on account they had no bail money to tender<br />
lucky for them I had hatched me a plan<br />
and went in posing as their public defender<br />
<br />
I said 'Your honor, though their crimes are bountiful<br />
surely deserving conviction and a hard life in chains<br />
the freakishly small can't be held accountable<br />
on account of their equally small brains'<br />
<br />
their size being undeniable<br />
the judge relented with soft heart<br />
the 'stupidity' defense is reliable<br />
if the defendants look the part<br />
<br />
finally we made our way up to the county<br />
and after some 'hair of the dog'<br />
it was time to confront the lonely mountie<br />
and get the treasured steeds away from the smog<br />
<br />
It was all of us against one so I felt in fine fettle<br />
a few cases later and we were all half in the can<br />
I lead my jockey troupe ready to test our mettle<br />
beer muscles will do that for a man<br />
<br />
through the woods I led them like a modern day Moses<br />
lurching in circles up the hill taking nearly a day<br />
the factory smog made rotten eggs smell like roses<br />
and the jockeys and I puked most of the way<br />
<br />
at his door I said "Let's kick it in, and on him descend!"<br />
They said "Whoa man, we'd better go slower.<br />
He's not just a mountie, my friend.<br />
He's a marine with a flame-thrower!"<br />
<br />
"Now you say it?!" I hissed<br />
they said "I guess we should've told you."<br />
I said "Screw you! I'm pissed!<br />
I should've let those hoboes corn-hole you!"<br />
<br />
being as drunk as we were<br />
we were not as quiet as we thought<br />
what happened next is a bit of a blur<br />
but I will try to relate what havoc was wrought<br />
<br />
the front door flew open and there towered the brute<br />
not just mountie or marine with flame thrower in hand<br />
he was a wacked-out wild-eyed meth-head to boot<br />
and I thought to myself "this was poorly planned."<br />
<br />
it was clear he meant to bake them<br />
I myself bolted with speed unsurpassed<br />
the jockeys ran as quick as their legs could take them<br />
which is to say my friends; not very fast<br />
<br />
he shot fire like a dragon of lore<br />
or better yet, an ancient dragon king<br />
but I thought "Maybe we're not done-for,<br />
he's so high, he probably can't hit a thing!"<br />
<br />
apparently there's a flame-thrower marksman school<br />
at which his kill record must have been heinous<br />
for he managed to nail each little fool<br />
right in his little fool anus<br />
<br />
with flames and smoke trailing after<br />
they ran about shrieking like bitches<br />
he began rolling in laughter<br />
as they shat their little britches<br />
<br />
they jumped in his pool to put out the flames<br />
and pleaded "Stop! You win! It's not right!"<br />
but he just laughed, called them names<br />
and bounced rocks off their heads with delight<br />
<br />
I couldn't tell for a man of his brawn<br />
if it was too much for his heart or his head<br />
but after all this and the binge he'd been on<br />
his eyes crossed with an "Erg!" and he fell over dead<br />
<br />
so in the end the jockeys got back every horse<br />
they swore off gambling; their lesson's learnt<br />
but they couldn't ride 'em just yet of course<br />
not with asses so horribly burnt<br />
<br />
though they couldn't pay me in cash I'm still in the pink<br />
I deserve something for all that wouldn't you say?<br />
a slightly used flame-thrower's worth more than you'd think<br />
if you put it up for bidding on ebay<br />
<br />
now that this saga is finally complete<br />
I'm sure you'll excuse my being away<br />
feel free to de-rivet yourself from your seat<br />
as I've only one last thing to say<br />
<br />
Now that it's over I have a small confession to make<br />
about this epic tale and three months of my year<br />
these forty-three stanzas of story are fake<br />
I've been gone because I was jaded, bored, and yes -cavalier<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-47129060690626941672012-10-09T02:10:00.000-04:002012-10-09T02:11:48.932-04:00Did Sleeping Beauty sleep on duty?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="360" id="yui_3_2_0_1_1349761584720116" src="http://us-mg0.mail.yahoo.com/ya/download?mid=2_0_0_1_37036223_AEDPjkQAAD%2FWUHO8OwK8mVUtwmE&pid=1&fid=Inbox&inline=1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's never good to sleep on duty; but it's better than sleeping on doodie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="360" id="yui_3_2_0_1_1349760840476116" src="http://us-mg0.mail.yahoo.com/ya/download?mid=2_0_0_1_37035542_AEvPjkQAAG%2BoUHO4QwJqmysSzwo&pid=1&fid=Inbox&inline=1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Too bad he was in the steam shovel. If it was an earth-mover then he'd be a bull-dozer. Get it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To be able to sleep on the edge of a fully lit Times Square has got to be some kind of accomplishment.<br />
What kind, I don't know. But a word to the wise. If you don't want your picture taken while you catch some Z's (and possibly posted for the internet's enjoyment), don't snooze in an elevated glass enclosure on the edge of Times freakin' Square.<br />
<br />
Maybe he's some kind of blue-collar narcoleptic exhibitionist? Anybody got any better guesses?</div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-1057213875442703752012-09-13T03:35:00.000-04:002012-09-13T03:35:20.934-04:00He needs money for weed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEG1PVCQ9zOfujRrKcIZB0VHR9Ki-4DZ85LbqnHaazsIK8Gex_xy-C14MS6QtUvHAAj9ijvRotEAHbM6nwqa6c4QEzUT1MTNUVP1tQu-VkIf99Bk9kX56YKhgO_xbLo9utl_QXrmNDj4SP/s1600/yo.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEG1PVCQ9zOfujRrKcIZB0VHR9Ki-4DZ85LbqnHaazsIK8Gex_xy-C14MS6QtUvHAAj9ijvRotEAHbM6nwqa6c4QEzUT1MTNUVP1tQu-VkIf99Bk9kX56YKhgO_xbLo9utl_QXrmNDj4SP/s640/yo.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
-and isn't the least bit shy about asking for it either.<br />
<br />
I work late nights at my Times Square office, and take a break to go out and have a cigar at midnight. There's still plenty of tourists and others around at that time. As you'd expect, you see more than a few weird things in the square at midnight. What you wouldn't expect is a blatant plea for drug money in full view of dozens of cops. There's a police station in the square and this dude regularly goes past it with his sign in full view for the 1-3 dozen officers milling about at any given time. Nobody bothers him as he gets money for getting his picture taken.<br />
<br />
I guess it's only illegal to buy or sell weed, but not to panhandle or scam with a funny sign that claims that's what the money's for. He wasn't smoking anything at the time.<br />
<br />
I took this as somebody else (the fat man in pink) took his shot. The guy spotted me and jingled the plastic change-cup he had dangling around his neck and called "Hey buddy." without a smile or even the slighest attempt at charm or humor. "No cash." I answered and walked away. I've got my own dirty habits to support!</div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-66915691604258216952012-08-30T22:24:00.001-04:002012-08-30T22:24:05.833-04:00Don't tell ME it could be worse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 19px;"><b>-because it just might happen!</b></span></h2>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mUErON7rF86AsOwUXJbz0E4vK_SsQZlhOIw8svc1yKNfIpTv4ktauRN-OyE9uOQxnRXoJ8rmb0IxUCx9eUVpfQLBqGnWFOgAt5nNw6vfBomMscKiNM7omSWBxndZM3NM5aZaVe1RAg0V/s1600/Could-be-worse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mUErON7rF86AsOwUXJbz0E4vK_SsQZlhOIw8svc1yKNfIpTv4ktauRN-OyE9uOQxnRXoJ8rmb0IxUCx9eUVpfQLBqGnWFOgAt5nNw6vfBomMscKiNM7omSWBxndZM3NM5aZaVe1RAg0V/s400/Could-be-worse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">I don't much like that "It could be worse" platitude. It either sounds like they're devaluing your tragedy, or noting that it might be about to actually GET worse. Like, if you're hanging by a fingernail they'd be saying "You know, human fingernails are not meant to support your body weight, it'll probably tear off any second so not only are you about to fall to your death, it'll be incredibly painful on the way down (what with the fingernail being ripped out and all).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">If somebody were in a car accident and stumbled away cut and bruised would you say "It could be worse" to them? Why? Because it could? How does that help them deal with whatever they're going through? What if fate is bored that day and hears that crap and decides to explore the possibilities?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">"It could be worse." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Well, yes, true, it could be. They could be pinned under the car with broken ribs.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">One could go on </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">"It could be worse." True; the car could be dripping gasoline on them.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">"It could be worse." True; the gas could ignite.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">"It could be worse." True; this could be happening during an earthquake.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">"It could be worse." True; the quake could have been triggered by a nuclear attack.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">"It could be worse." True; this could all portend the imminent apocalypse.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">"It could be worse." True; one of the four horsemen storming by could trample your hand as you reached out for help. So not only do you enter the afterlife with crushed ribs and horrific burns, but now your hand's all fucked up and you can't even self-apply the burn cream. If they had any.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">"It could be worse." True; they might <i>charge</i> for the burn cream in the afterlife (it might be a republican afterlife) but you lost your wallet and cash in the car fire that deformed you for eternity. So now you have to sit there steaming (figuratively and literally) while the trust fund babies saunter past you to buy up all the burn cream on the way to their tanning salons. (If it's a republican afterlife all the country clubs there will have tanning salons)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Could it be worse NOW? Yes, dear soul, it could. It could've happen to <i>ME</i>. (and I thank Me that it didn't!)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.792969); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">[Inspiration for this post came from one of <a href="http://www.angie-uncovered.com/2012/08/pity-party-of-one-your-table-is-ready.html" target="_blank">Angie's</a>, who's always worth a read]</span></div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-22758769252241845832012-08-29T04:42:00.000-04:002012-08-29T04:42:11.032-04:00A year from the flood but, no longer a mud hut<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="505" id="il_fi" src="http://0.tqn.com/d/architecture/1/0/U/i/Neuschwanstein.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="608" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isn't my rebuilt home beautiful? Ok, I'm not actually at this stage of reconstruction yet...<br />
but you can see I've got plans! There's also going to be a helipad and a bunnycave 'round the back.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So it's been a year to the day that mother nature saw fit to send her bitchy daughter Irene to <a href="http://if-i-were-god-or-had-his-powers.blogspot.com/2011/09/worst-diety-ever.html" target="_blank">drown my home</a> -for no good reason whatsoever. I did <em>used to</em> <a href="http://if-i-were-god-or-had-his-powers.blogspot.com/2011/03/this-is-why-i-dumped-mother-nature-in.html" target="_blank">date her</a>, but frankly speaking; bitch be crazy. So I was very careful when we parted ways, and it was so <em>long</em> ago that I thought I was safe. Some dishes are said to be best served cold. And believe me, it was.<br />
<br />
I guess it goes to show you, you've not only got to be careful <em>how</em> you break up, but also <em>who</em> you break up with! Now I feel like I should've done it with a shovel and tarp rather than flowers and a break-up dinner at the Olive Garden. (No, not the crappy restaurant. The very first olive grove, in Galilee. duh)<br />
<br />
But when life hands me lemons, I make a lemon orchard, and then I make a drought at neighboring orchards so as to drive up the price of my produce. (Who settles for making lemonade? Really? What are you, a mortal?) Well, each to his ability.<br />
<br />
In any event, as you can tell from the un-retouched photo above I've really done wonders with the place. Or will, when I'm completely done. (I fantasize in 14-meg HD full color images. Don't you?) And why not? Even gods get to dream. Especially wanna-be's. <sigh><br />
<br />
</div>
notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-63891524897110719222012-07-30T05:41:00.004-04:002012-07-30T05:43:04.314-04:00A TOOL of the Lord<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.staticflickr.com/38/76310521_b5270ce906.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm1.staticflickr.com/38/76310521_b5270ce906.jpg" width="201" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't care what I look like;<br />
chicks dig me!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">I can remember eavesdropping on a series of talks my parents had with my older sister regarding not smoking, not drinking, not hanging out with the wrong crowd and absolutely not being one of ‘‘those types of girls”. <i>They might seem cool and popular</i>, they cautioned, <i>but it was an illusion</i>. Boys only wanted them for one thing, then they’d throw them away like yesterday’s newspaper.</span><br />
</div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span>I ignored most of it because like all young teens, I knew it all and my parents were dopes. But they did pique my interest with all that talk about 'those types of girls'. I wanted desperately to meet some. Or at least one. And one would do because I didn't accept their disposability theory.<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Their “yesterday’s newspaper” analogy sounded purposefully misleading. To a hopelessly horny virgin teen sex was like gold. If I found a goose that laid golden eggs and was willing to give said eggs to me? -I would never never throw that goose away. Years went by before I got to test my theory. But it was worth the wait. And I was proven correct. And it was worth the wait. Did I mention how much the wait was worth it? If not let me reassure you, it was.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">When I found a girl like that I didn’t treat her like yesterday’s newspaper. Not one bit. I treated her like yesterday’s dinner plate. Sure she’s all sloppy and covered with crumbs, oily stains and whatever other detritus from yesterdays fantastic meal. So what if that plate was now a little crusty and beginning to smell? You don’t throw out a good dinner plate. You wash it off and use it again. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">And the same goes for easy girls. Wash, rinse, repeat. The great thing though was unless she was a real skank you could count on her to do her own washing and rinsing. The repeating was, heh heh, up to you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Still on a doomed mission to save my eternal soul, the folks tried to convince me I was hurting girls like this. I was prolonging their suffering by giving them a cheap substitute for love, when love was what they really needed. As I pondered this I'd sometimes hear them talk about somebody who'd hit rock bottom by sagely stating "Best thing for them. Now the only way is up. I think god set that up." If it was a drunk driver hitting a tree, then that tree was a tool to stop them dead in their tracks. If it was a punk getting arrested and doing some time, it was god who dropped a dime on them. Whatever it was, the misfortune was deemed a blessing in disguise. I tried calling them on it once and all I got was a lofty "The Lord works in mysterious ways. That *whatever* was his tool."</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
And that ended any doubts I had about 'using' any of 'that kind of girl'. Yes, she may have felt cheap afterwards, and lost even more self esteem. Especially if I only called her when I felt like it, and only for sex. I'm just helping her hit rock bottom, so she can rebound and find her higher self. It's kind of a public service if you think about it. The Lord does work in mysterious ways. And me? I was happy to be the tool.</div>
</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-85945808344219993792012-07-25T05:39:00.000-04:002012-07-25T05:39:05.232-04:00I Rule the Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Or so I imagine.<br />
<br />
As I walk through Times Square to get to my office I also imagine the city as somewhat like this. All manor of <a href="http://if-i-were-god-or-had-his-powers.blogspot.com/2012/06/cemetery-scene.html">night creatures</a> skulking about on business best left unquestioned.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="596" id="il_fi" src="http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2010/047/c/b/I_Rule_the_Night_by_RiNymph.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="404" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was found appropriately enough at <a href="http://rinymph.deviantart.com/art/I-Rule-the-Night-154234665">DeviantArt</a> after I googled<br />
"I rule the night"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Actually it only feels like this, like I'm some creature unfit for the light of day, but empowered by the glow of the moon. Anybody can walk the Square at noon. Try it at midnight. Try it again at 3 or 5.<br />
<br />
But I don't out in the Square. My office is clean and safe. It's actually quite nice; temperture controlled, well lit, and regularly patrolled. They keep the vending machines well stocked too and the bathrooms are always clean. <br />
<br />
I'm starting to adjust to my new slot. It suits me well. There's no distractions in the office at all and I get plenty done. After I get home, sleep and wake again it's early afternoon and I have hours to enjoy the sun, the pool and get things done before my family gets home to find I've made dinner. Then a few quality hours with them before hopping a quiet bus back. <em>Back to my realm.</em><br />
<br />
My realm.<br />
<br />
Where I<br />
<br />
RULE<br />
<br />
<br />
...my cubicle. (let's be real)</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-22528634919661691642012-07-19T07:51:00.001-04:002012-07-19T07:51:58.024-04:00Celebrating 5 Years -with wood?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Not that kind of wood, perverts! (Well, maybe a little after dinner and a nightcap)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I am actually referring to the traditional gift for a 5 year anniversary. A googled listing says it’s wood. <i>Wood</i>. Perplexing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After sealing our love with 5 years of marriage, one new house, two adopted dogs, one child (my finest work ever), and one new family SUV (to safely transport my finest work ever), one devastating flood, and one endless rebuilding process -I should mark the most important half-decade of our lives with the momentous gift of</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmdPnX3rJhKqAftomsMnjRwfhVY6SRUIz0O4uexV4BazcGlCNaJlkBM5l1efdO9Hu_aA_gV3SWR0AergQqsY8VfbZr83RmafpfkbdiMUVDMefpvNBL05ZFjWeDMInxR2C3EjeImPOnlil/s1600/Klompen+rack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmdPnX3rJhKqAftomsMnjRwfhVY6SRUIz0O4uexV4BazcGlCNaJlkBM5l1efdO9Hu_aA_gV3SWR0AergQqsY8VfbZr83RmafpfkbdiMUVDMefpvNBL05ZFjWeDMInxR2C3EjeImPOnlil/s320/Klompen+rack.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So many to choose from! -but which pair of Klompen (good<br />for stompin') says "Happy 5th Anniversary" the best?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">...toothpicks?</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">...chopsticks?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">...Dutch shoes?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Seems a little underwhelming.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">IF I were God… I could gift her that which she’s working so hard for lately; a remade body. I’d wave my, uh, wood (to be traditional) and just give it to her. Afterwoods of course, I’d give it to her.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But since I’m (regrettably) not god, what should I give her?</span></div>
</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-72174429524376036392012-07-13T09:50:00.000-04:002012-07-13T09:51:17.263-04:00Friday the 13th, TEST DAY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s here again; the day those of us with mental means -rich of reason, if not actual riches- gets to separate ourselves from the mentally meager, the logically lacking, the steeped in superstition. Yes, there are still some people even in this, the 23rd century, who hold superstitions (or as some would mock ‘stupidstitions’) like a second religion. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">These are the kind of people who take great care in not stepping on any cracks in the sidewalk, lest they cause traumatic spinal injuries to their female parent.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They will turn away and change direction if they spot a feline with black fur about to cross their path.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://i717.photobucket.com/albums/ww173/prestonjjrtr/Holidays/Friday13thCartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img _prototypeuid="5" alt="Friday 13th Black Cat Walk Under Ladder Mirror Break Cross Your Path Unlucky Lucky Happy Killer Weekend Icon Icons Emoticon Emoticons Animated Animation Animations Gif Gifs" border="0" class="media" galleryimg="no" id="fullSizedImage" src="http://i717.photobucket.com/albums/ww173/prestonjjrtr/Holidays/Friday13thCartoon.jpg" style="height: 250px; width: 246px;" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They’ll believe they’re screwed -and not in a good way- if they break a mirror.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They won’t walk under a ladder not because it’s inherently unsafe, but because it’s ‘bad luck’.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It gives me an idea for a ethnic-neutral IQ test I could sell the government; a ladder <i>made</i> of black cats and broken mirrors, placed over a path riddled with cracks, -and we’ll see who walks under without a problem, who hesitates, and who refuses. It can be timed and graded accordingly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In fact I think they should have this set-up at the front door to all standardized testing facilities; the SAT’s, MCATs, and LSATs. Kind of a pre-screening if you will. Only those who pass under should be allowed to take those standardized tests. Do you realize what we’re all risking by not?</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You could be on the table for emergency brain surgery when your superstitious surgeon comes across the blackened blood clot. It’s shaped like a cat. He runs screams from the operating theater. You on the other hand, never scream. Or run. Or go to the theater. Ever again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You could be facing a double homicide charge, on trial for your life, and your superstitious lawyer decides on a ‘bad luck’ defense; “Your honor, although we concede my client chased the two deceased for blocks and fired a total of 27 shots -after reloading twice- we feel it is of paramount importance to note that the victims not only ran under a workman’s ladder, but collapsed between the Black Cat dress shop and a Friday’s eatery, ON 13th street! And though several of the shots passed through their bodies, exactly 13 slugs were found still lodged inside them. THIRTEEN, your honor. Thirteen. It’s obvious these two were inherently and profoundly unlucky. Something bad was <i>bound</i> to happen to them. And since we all know luck is part of the natural order of these things, it really just makes my client a tool of fate, of nature even. I move that all charges be dismissed as the victims clearly died of natural causes! Defense rests.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So beware the menace of the superstitious. They should not just be mocked, but carefully avoided. The risks are too great.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It wouldn’t even be a bad idea to have the mirrorcat ladder at the emergency room entrance. If somebody is badly injured, but still doesn’t want to enter under it then we <i>don’t force them</i>. Do we really need them surviving and diluting the gene pool? Isn’t the shallow end dangerously low enough at this point?</span></span></div>
</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-16747209719423500662012-07-05T11:55:00.002-04:002012-07-05T11:55:49.615-04:00A Night Stalker Again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is <em><strong>not</strong></em> my job, though I do like the hat.</td></tr>
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It's been four years since I was a creature of the night, and in two weeks I'll return to that life. No, I'm not going <a href="http://if-i-were-god-or-had-his-powers.blogspot.com/2012/06/cemetery-scene.html">vampire</a>. My working hours are changing, going back to 9 to 5. <em>PM to AM</em> -as in through midnight and into the next morning.<br />
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With my wife at her normal-houred job and child at daycare my 'home alone' time will triple. This does not mean I'll be playing video games and net surfing. I'll be able to put more time into setting my house right, like a good boy. :o)<br />
<br />
So how did this come about?<br />
<br />
My firm's an international outfit with offices in nearly every time zone. Any one of them can need my research specialty at any time, so there I'll be. All alone. Working diligently. Unsupervised. Not writing or drawing any cartoons or graphic novel ideas I've been mulling forever.<br />
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So don't look for any of that here. But if one (or 50) happen to pop up now and then, rest assured they were done on my free time. Possibly in my sleep.<br />
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Frankly, I can't wait.</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-7630613363310181522012-06-30T12:02:00.002-04:002012-06-30T12:02:38.398-04:00And it kept getting worse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This is the ridiculously true story of Hugh Glass, possibly the unluckiest lucky bastard who ever lived.</span><br />
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That's a big claim, but I'll let you be the judge. Allow me to explain. <br />
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It was August 1823, and the sorry bastard in question was part of a 100 man party exploring the wilds of what is now South Dakota for the government. Though there were hostile natives in the territory as well as large predators, it could have been worse. He could have been alone.<br />
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So he found himself alone, scouting for game, when he got surprised by a mother Grizzly and her cubs (not Sarah Palin but an actual momma grizzly). It could have been worse. He could have had too little time to grab his rifle.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZWMWZLAzBE7KQda1uQa9pJS2N3W5YDx86ggTfCM88K6xM-GZ57BpjAEenw78fuG86Nb3MY9DoHzIMuDpp8XDPP5rU6n82cvV8laH5fEB-4Z7zsmX_iLp63l5Kf9SP2mZtQ8ymcQZyeTr/s1600/Grizzly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZWMWZLAzBE7KQda1uQa9pJS2N3W5YDx86ggTfCM88K6xM-GZ57BpjAEenw78fuG86Nb3MY9DoHzIMuDpp8XDPP5rU6n82cvV8laH5fEB-4Z7zsmX_iLp63l5Kf9SP2mZtQ8ymcQZyeTr/s1600/Grizzly.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I never said it was a <i><b>fair</b></i> fight.</td></tr>
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So he had too little time to grab his rifle before the charging bear (let's just call her Sarah) was on him in a furious rage. It could have been worse; he could've had just a knife instead of a pistol. <br />
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So all he had was a knife instead of a pistol. He fought like hell and scored some hits, but getting in a knife fight with a grizzly is every bit as unlucky as it sounds. It could have been worse; Sarah could've ripped the hell out of him before help arrived.<br />
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So Sarah ripped the hell out of him before this comrades arrived to finish her off. Hugh Glass lie unconscious at their feet. It could have been worse; his back could have been ripped open right down to exposed ribs.<br />
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So Hugh's back had been ripped open right down to exposed ribs. It could have been worse; his expedition leader Andrew Henry could've assumed he'd die shortly and decide to move on, leaving only a pair of men behind to dig a grave for him.<br />
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So Andrew Henry assumed Hugh would die shortly, decided to move on, and left only a pair of men to dig a grave for him and wait for him to die. They dug the grave and simply waited, but at least he had company. It could have been worse; hostile indians could've scared the two into abandoning him while he was still alive.<br />
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So approaching hostile indians scared the two into abandoning him while he was still alive. Eventually he regained consciousness, back ribs still exposed, with nothing for company save the open grave intended for him. It could have been worse; they could have taken his knife, rifle and other equipment when they fled -leaving him with nothing.<br />
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So they had taken his knife, rifle and other equipment when they fled -leaving him with nothing. He know the closest white settlement was over 200 miles away, at Fort Kiowa on the Missouri River. It could have been worse; Hugh could've found out that on top of his other devastating injuries, his leg was broken and he couldn't walk.<br />
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So Hugh found out that on top of his other devastating injuries, his leg was broken and he couldn't walk. It could've been worse; he could've found himself without food either and having to subsist on berries and roots.<br />
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So he found himself without food either and had to subsist on berries and roots. On one occasion he came across a freshly killed bison calf loaded with fresh meat. He had no way to cook it. But it could have been worse; there could have been a pair of wolves eating it at the time.<br />
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So there were a pair of wolves eating the bison at the time. Hugh had to drive them off before he could get a bite. He ate heartily and it gave him strength to go on. Soon he reached the friendly Cheyenne who gave him what aid they could. It could have been worse; their idea of medicine could've been so primitive that they'd sew a bearskin onto his back to cover his still-exposed ribs.<br />
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So their idea of medicine was so primitive that they sewed a bearskin onto his back to cover his still-exposed ribs. Taking his chances on a makeshift raft he got down river and eventually to the safety of Fort Kiowa.<br />
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He recovered and lived another ten years, working as a trapper and still daring the frontier. Had he lived in this day and age he'd be an instant celebrity with a book deal, a movie deal, probably a reality show, possibly a sex tape, and all the millions that go with it. But he lived in the early 1800's, so he had to go back to work and take his chances on the frontier. It could have been worse; he could've been out trapping game with a few others and got attacked and killed by hostile natives.<br />
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So in 1833 Hugh Glass was out trapping game with a few others when they got attacked and killed by hostile natives. I did mention that he was the unluckiest lucky bastard ever, did I not?<br />
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The whole of this tale was recounted in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Grizzly">Lord Grizzly</a>, a 1954 finalist for the National Book Award.<br />
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This marks the end of the <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2012/06/it-could-have-been-worse/">30 days of writing</a>, a creative challenge so grueling the participating writers may feel like <i>they've</i> been mauled by Sarah Palin, abandoned by friends, starved in the wild and eventually killed by hostile nativ- but really, what a bunch of whiners! Our 30 days in the wilderness are over and after posting ever single day and not shirking a single challenge I do feel like I've accomplished something. <i>What exactly</i> I'm not sure...<br />
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Such is life. Thanks for dropping by.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-24195112433650495802012-06-29T09:00:00.002-04:002012-06-29T09:01:47.931-04:00Thou Shalt Do What I Tell You, Damnit!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It was a very long time ago, even for me, when my parents gave me my first universe kit. I was only four or five millenia at the time so naturally not yet possessed of all the skills or maturity I have today. It really was a wonderful present for a developing deity; it came semi-assembled with 'gravity spray' already on all the matter, a vial of anti-matter labeled 'use with care', (an envelope of star seeds -just add neutrons) a fully stocked "bag o' planets" and two big jars of creation clay. That clay was the best part; you just molded it into any creature you thought up, blew into it and voila! You had a living breathing thing, dashing and leaping about, - and ready to be stomped on.<br />
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Of course to a 4 mil old it was more fun to chase and stomp on them right after animation (then remold, blow life back in...), but mother put a quick stop to that and warned me that she'd take the whole thing away if she caught me being cruel. I was too young to recognize foreshadowing when I saw it, but in retrospect it seems things had to work out the way they did.<br />
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Believing (or pretending to believe, who can remember?) "no stomping" to be the only rule, I settled on other ways to smite things that displeased me; simple things I could handle at the time like fire or lightning. I still had the desire to stomp, but fear of the rule's consequences prevented me. Inevitably fear led to fascination. And what began as a juvenile fascination with rules and consequences gradually progressed to obsession. I opened the second jar of creation clay and started on a higher level creature than the reptiles and early mammals I had started with. None of those had had the capacity to understand rules. This new line would be smart enough to understand rules, make decisions, and most importantly be responsible. Or more to the point, I could hold them responsible.<br />
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It was remarkably easy once I got the hang of it. The first pair I made, who lived in the first garden I made, broke the first rule I made. And so it came to pass, I handed down my first punishment and it felt good. I can remember wanting badly to stomp them both for breaking the rule I held over them, but felt restrained by the rule held over me. I was less confident as to whether or not fire or lightning counted as a form of stomping. But I wasn't about to draw attention to it by asking or just firing away -not after so much work. I settled on eviction. They had to tough it out in an area I hadn't developed much and without any extra help from me.<br />
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They survived anyway and eventually prospered. They were fruitful, as I originally asked them to be, and they did multiply. But I was keen to make them prove themselves. I started making rule after rule with the spirited creative whimsy of a child; don't eat this, don't dress like that, cover your head outside, don't say this, don't work on this day, worship me...only me...a whole day for me -no working on my day either! I got very into the worship aspect for whatever reason. At some point I started making different rules for different groups and they really took it to heart. It was remarkable how they leaped at any chance to polarize themselves and exaggerate even minor differences. Whole nations arose out of being different from the neighboring group, and each vied to be my favorite. It really was a lot of fun for me, appearing in different forms here and there, demanding this or that and watching them scramble to please me. <br />
<br />
But a bubble was building, and as is the way with bubbles a bursting was inevitable. Too many arbitrary rules led to a lot of shirking, and too many shirkers made individual punishing a chore. It wasn't long before I began to suffer from a stiffness and swelling in my index digit later diagnosed as "lightning finger". The forced hiatus from smiting only emboldened the shirkers, which only enraged me even more. I warned them and sent signs, but they acted with an impunity and autonomy even I didn't enjoy. That was infuriating. Infuriating and intolerable. I remember thinking "Stomping may have been banned, but nobody said anything about drowning."<br />
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I laid a flood on them gradually, over a period of days. At the time I told myself it was to give them time to think about what they've done so I could watch them squirm, but it was really so I could try to pass it off as a natural occurrence if mother took notice. Well, mother was of course omniscient. She not only took notice -she took me to the therapist.<br />
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"But I deserve to be worshiped! I made them! They won't listen!" I pleaded my case "If I want them wearing funny hats and whittling pieces off the tips of their-"<br />
"YES, but why would you even <em>want</em> that?" Dr Sidemigoge had a way of freezing you in place just long enough to hold a metaphysical mirror up so you could see yourself "Little God, at your age you should be orchestrating your first galaxies, not punishing primates on a mail-order planet." I will always remember him for his patience and his preference for informality. He let me call him Sid.<br />
<br />
When Sid pointed out that my studying people so closely, and caring so much how they acted to the point that I took individual and destructive action on them was akin to one of <em>them</em> spending all day pulling boogers from their nose so they can chastise and then eat them -one at a time- It became obvious and effortless to give it all up.<br />
<br />
In truth, it was a relief to let it all go. Mother took the kit away anyhow, and donated it to a local school if I recall. In any event I never bothered with it again after that. I thought the whole episode was behind me, but I didn't know that Sid had decided to write a paper. Apparently all one has to do to get published is call something a 'complex' and name it after the poor child whose parents over trusted in the assumed privacy of therapy.<br />
<br />
I've long outgrown that need for worship and obedience. I became a performance artist. These days I coordinate intricate patterns of sequentially timed supernova explosions across dozens of galaxies as a form of art (commonly referred to as 'echo sculpting' but usually called 'echo orchastration' in formal reviews). Each exploding supernova sends a pulse which echoes across the length of the universe in every direction like a ripple in a pond. These echoes eventually cross each other in the center of the universe for a brief instant, and if the sources are timed and selected correctly the intersecting echoes can form a coherent image for an instant before continuing on through each other. A really good supernova echo sculpture is breathtaking to behold. I've recently taken to having mine move; an eagle landing or dolphin jumping. They are of course insanely popular. Mine have been called 'a stately maturation from the neo-angular puberty that had been dragging down the form' by more than one appreciative critic.<br />
<br />
The several prestigious awards I've won for them are common knowledge, of course. And yet that old complex from my childhood is still named for me, a lingering embarrassment. And if it comes up at a showing or dinner party, brought up by let's say a non-award winning rival "Didn't they name the God complex after you?", I usually resist the urge to just shrug and say something like "Yes, that was me, but c'mon I was only like five at the time. And I did make living things in balanced self-sustaining ecosystems. Didn't I hear you just ate the clay straight from the jar at that age?" It's beneath me, so I don't. Usually.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">This tale of an age gone by was first published in January 2011. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">It is brought to you today as part of the </span><a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2012/06/facing-the-consequences/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+WeWorkForCheese+%28WWFC%3A+Rantings%2C+Ravings+and+Cheese%29"><span style="color: #741b47;">30 days</span></a><span style="color: blue;"> of creation, er, crea<em>tive</em> writing.</span></div>
</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-74131656989497297182012-06-28T14:33:00.001-04:002012-06-28T14:33:58.028-04:00For all the marbles, and half the world<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<img height="493" id="il_fi" src="http://www.fasttrackteaching.com/ftap/T_M16_JapWW2CP300g15.gif" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="622" /></div>
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The 15 planes pushed on alone through the clouds. Far below the Pacific stretched beyond the horizon in every direction. The two man crews strained their eyes all about but saw no sign of anyone else; not the bombing squadron or fighter escort that was supposed to be with them, not the Japanese invasion fleet bound for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_midway">Midway Island</a> and most frustratingly not the Japanese fleet of attack carriers leading the way.<br />
<br />
They knew what they were up against and they knew what was at stake.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
They knew the planes they flew were slow and obsolete; the torpedoes were faulty and often failed to go straight or even go off when they did hit something. They knew they most of their crews were undertrained and had never dropped a torpedo before. They knew they only had two full strength aircraft carriers with them, and another still sporting heavy damage from the last battle. Yorktown had put back to sea hurrily with an army of civilian mechanics and welders still trying to piece her back together. Midway was that important.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT5BL-JMJNcGCuAz-81_KcS-jysxdMMRRmtSa06TmlfV5Y0fmgFOA" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="211" data-width="239" height="211" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT5BL-JMJNcGCuAz-81_KcS-jysxdMMRRmtSa06TmlfV5Y0fmgFOA" style="height: 211px; width: 239px;" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The champs of the '100 heads' contest</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
They also knew a bit about the Japanese.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<em>They</em> had had four full strength carriers with them, which meant a lot more aircraft.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<em>They</em> had experienced pilots, verterans from China, and plenty of them.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<em>They</em> had modern planes including the very fast and deadly state of the art fighter the Mitsubishi Zero.</div>
<br />
They also knew the Japanese were brutally cruel to those they captured. When they took Nanking 300,000 were massacred. There were untold numbers of rape, looting, burning, bayonetting contests, and beheading contests of POWs and civilians alike. It was celebrated in Japanese newspapers.<br />
<br />
And now the Japanese, having overrun much of asia and already threatening Australia, were now headed east, towards the US. Their first stop would be Midway, then ...Hawaii? California?<br />
<br />
The fifteen flew on.<br />
They knew they had to win. <br />
They knew there was no way they could. <br />
It didn't matter, they had to try if they spotted the Japanese fleet.<br />
<br />
At 9:20 they did. <br />
The four carriers were grouped together and Torpedo Squadron Eight made their attack. The Japanese fire from both their surface ships and the fighter umbrella of Zeros decended on them with murderous fire. None of their torpedos struck. Every one of their planes was quickly shot down. 29 of the thirty men were killed. Another american torpedo squadron showed up, with similar results. Dozens of planes and scores of American airmen were killed. Not one torpedo detonated against a Japanese ship. Not one.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>And it was the turning point of the war.</em></strong><br />
<br />
Those fruitless attacks forced the torpedo dodging Japanese carriers out of position, and brought their umbrella of fighter cover down to sea level. When a squadron of American dive bombers arrived a short time later the Japanese were caught with their pants down -their decks covered with aircraft, refueling lines and stacks of ordinence (high explosive bombs and torpedoes). The Americans fell on them like thunder and lightning. Within six minutes three of the four carriers were burning out of control.<br />
<br />
Now facing a single Japanese carrier, the Americans had a decisive advantage. Though Yorktown took some hits in the counter attack but stayed afloat. Another American attack saw the last Japanese carrier destroyed like her sisters. It was something of a miracle.<br />
<br />
Shaken to the core, the Japanese had to abandon the Midway assault and all their other plans for eastern expansion. Their four newest, biggest and fasted carriers now decorated the ocean floor. They could not replace such a monumental loss, not quickly enough to make a difference. Nobody could outbuild the American shipyards.<br />
<br />
The Japanese public was told it was a great victory -as expected. Only the emperor and naval high command knew the truth. The navy didn't even tell the army what happened, though they eventually found out.<br />
<br />
Japan never regained the upper hand and were eventually beaten back to their home islands over the course of the next three years. Even then, with their navy and air force destroyed and no hope of victory whatsoever, they still refused to surrender after the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. Only after a second was dropped on Nagasaki did the Emperor prevail upon the high command to give up.<br />
<br />
Of course the story is more complicated that I've had time or room to lay out, but the decisive turning point was triggered by Torpedo Squadron 8 at Midway, playing for all the marbles.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="390" id="il_fi" src="http://s4.hubimg.com/u/6599151_f520.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="520" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yorktown listing after taking a few hits, but survived. A Japanese submarine found her after the <br />
battle and put yet another two torpedoes into her. It was too much, she sank the next day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This, the most important action of the Pacific war inspired the memorable quotes:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"They had no right to win. Yet they did, and in doing so they changed the course of the war. More than that, they added a new name - Midway - to that small list that inspires men by example – Marathon, the Marne, the Somme, and Rorke’s Drift. Even against the greatest odds, there is something in the human spirit – a magic blend of skill, faith, and valour that can lift men from certain defeat to incredible victory."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- military historian Walter Lord</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"This memorable American victory was of cardinal importance, not only to the United States, but to the whole Allied cause…At one stroke, the dominant position of Japan in the Pacific was reversed…" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">-British Prime Minister Winston Churchill</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"The annals of war at sea present no more intense, heart-shaking shock than this battle, in which the qualities of the United States Navy and Air Force and the American race shone forth in splendour. The bravery and self-devotion of the American airmen and sailors and the nerve and skill of their leaders was the foundation of all." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Winston Churchill</span><br />
<br />
This impromptu history lesson brought to you courtesy of the <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2012/06/the-turning-point/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+WeWorkForCheese+%28WWFC%3A+Rantings%2C+Ravings+and+Cheese%29">30 days</a> of scholarly epics.</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-88229406869454735742012-06-27T09:21:00.000-04:002012-06-27T09:21:31.422-04:00Beware the side of the road<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuyI7dJwhADa4FzcxjnNXo4UTqU0kF48DHyNGIMuBOOwhLyo7B9afl_0orSRMWuELaxHjvWyV8dPUJmxpBuGX0f2wVKF1S8P68qG4dL5SValVt14C9JeEcswQw5f5IWGNKl6MFBeQfjpT/s1600/Hitcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuyI7dJwhADa4FzcxjnNXo4UTqU0kF48DHyNGIMuBOOwhLyo7B9afl_0orSRMWuELaxHjvWyV8dPUJmxpBuGX0f2wVKF1S8P68qG4dL5SValVt14C9JeEcswQw5f5IWGNKl6MFBeQfjpT/s1600/Hitcher.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goin' my way?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Has anything good ever happened on the side of the road? </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s where some hitchhikers wait to either find victims or become one (depending on the movie). It’s where Lorena dumped John’s severed penis. It’s where the mob dumps the whole body. It’s where the spit, garbage and used condoms land after they’re thrown from countless car windows. It’s where guys who can’t hold it anymore stop to urinate. It’s where drunks who can’t keep it down anymore lean out of the car to spew. It’s where animals struck by cars go to die. It’s where flies feast on them once they have. It’s where cops pull you over so they can give you tickets and superior looks. It’s where you pull over on your own after you’ve had an accident, blown tire, overheated engine, or run out of gas. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If you ever find yourself on the side of the road 99% of the time it’s for something unpleasant. </span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But the other 1% of the time, it can be something fantastic, like finding… </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">a <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504083_162-57452613-504083/pablo-picasso-lithograph-stolen-from-mansion-is-found-on-the-side-of-the-road/">stolen Picasso</a>,</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">a collection of <a href="http://www.arrowheads.com/forum/welcome-to-the-forum/19751-found-on-the-side-of-the-road">ancient artifacts</a>,</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">an autographed <a href="http://hardballtalk.nbcsports.com/2011/11/04/autographed-cardinals-cap-found-on-the-side-of-the-road/">World Series cap</a>,</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">half a key of <a href="http://blog.al.com/spotnews/2010/01/cocaine_found_on_the_side_of_t.html">cocaine</a> (if you're into that),</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12px Helvetica; margin: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">or <a href="http://www.news.com.au/money/money-matters/motorists-showered-with-cash-on-western-ring-rd-reports/story-e6frfmd9-1226352947901">$22K</a> in cash (and who isn't into that?).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Of course the odds are long against you finding any of those. Winning the lottery is much more likely -that happens a few times a day across the country. You're much more likely to have a Rutgeresque type stuff you in your own trunk. Just keep your gas full, oil fresh, and for Chrissakes stay in the middle!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This curious pitstop on the shoulder brought to you by the 30 days of roadside oddities.</span></div>
</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-21990131616795935252012-06-26T08:54:00.002-04:002012-06-26T08:55:10.116-04:00I'm done with interventions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Once was a time I believed in guiding the wayward. I wanted to save them from themselves. Set them on the right path. Light their way and... and... I'm <i>so</i> over it now. Stepping back was the best move I ever made. Plus, now my afternoons are free.<br />
<br />
But once was a time I really cared what people did and felt it was my responsibility to show them the error of their ways and set them on a better path. But if they wouldn't see, wouldn't change... well that used to really piss me off. Too much.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It puts me in mind of two sisters in particular from way back in the day. If I remember rightly Sadie and Gema were their names, or something like that. Not to put too fine a point on it, they were filthy drunken whores. They gambled, they drank, they fought in the street over nothing, they fornicated with both man and beast, refused to change their ways despite repeated warnings and worst of all <i>they showed me no respect at all</i>. -So I set those bitches on fire. Not figuratively, <em>literally</em>. Harsh I know, but at the time... let me think a moment... They may have been sister <em>cities</em>; I really can't remember it straight, it was a loooooong time ago.<br />
<br />
Anyway, in the aftermath some learned the lesson, some only until the smoke cleared, and believe it or not, some not at all. It left me at a crossroads. What was I going to do, burn every other one down? The thought alone was exhausting, not to mention depressing. So I just stopped, and let go. The stress went with it and the relief I feel to this day is, well -heaven.<br />
<br />
They can all do what they want now. It's on them. But when I retire for good I'll throw a massive party, literally the best <em>ever</em>, and it'll go on for-<em>ever</em>, AND not everybody will be invited. You get to make your choices, and I get to make mine.<br />
<br />
Oddly enough, I still get requests for intervention all the time. Most of the time it's either for things they haven't earned, don't deserve, or are simply downright wrong. <em> And yet they ask ME</em>. As if.<br />
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<img class="CSS_LIGHTBOX_SCALED_IMAGE_IMG" closure_uid_31a6n2="41" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4Pugq_QrW9Y7gfCj1uKPW0oLf20Fphq2M7t8j4QyhfIhZZ9Sz2dMDfLBmS2aHY8fEAiWuNok6s2eSvjf-xjM6gGjX1CXCe_tWjf9esK3G5dOSPkCaAU7W7mNaEhTpK4AWhPe91NQw3Ar/s640/As+If.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<br />
The prose is new, the original art first posted here last year and reappears for the <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2012/06/an-intervention/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+WeWorkForCheese+%28WWFC%3A+Rantings%2C+Ravings+and+Cheese%29">30 days</a> challenge.<br />
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</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-73006256787515871472012-06-25T12:55:00.001-04:002012-06-25T12:55:45.670-04:00Bastogne<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you know your history that one word says it all.<br />
<br />
We're in the home stretch of the <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2012/06/worst-christmas-ever/">30 days</a> of kibbles & bits, and as subjects go today's 'worst Christmas ever' prompt is stretchin' it a bit -it's summer! I'm not thinking about snow or Santa or anything Christmassy, but therein lies the challenge, right? Very well.<br />
<br />
Let's go back to Christmas. Not the last one, we're looking for the worst. Ever. Let's go back further. Past the any sour eggnog incidents you may have had. Past aunt Gertie's sticky fruitcake. That wasn't the worst ever, even if you got the piece she lost her fingernail in. 'Ewwww!' -I know. Still not the worst.<br />
<br />
You can go back through childhoods Christmases; wrong presents, wrong dolly, wrong color power ranger, too many clothes as gifts instead of toys, got your tongue stuck to a frozen flagpole, put your eye out with your new <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_christmas_story#Red_Ryder_BB_gun">Red Ryder BB Gun</a> ... might be a personal worst, but it's still not <em>the</em> worst.<br />
<br />
For that we've got to go way back, before most of you were born even.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
BASTOGNE 1944</div>
<br />
December 14<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The war in Europe was nearing it's end, anyone could see the 3rd Reich was teetering on the brink of collapse, and up and down the front thousands of American GI's were settling in for a picturesque snowy Christmas. It was no different in sleepy, out-of-the-way Bastogne, Belgium. This was olde Europe, the kind of town where Hansel met Gretel, and Red Riding Hood bought her first basket. (It was so quiet their commander had <em>left the continent</em> and was back in the US for a conference.) The line was thin here, but the war was all but over so the men were relaxed. It was nice quiet place to spend the holidays.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
On the German side, the 55 divisions (500,000+ men) of operation <strong>Unternehmen <i>Wacht am Rhein</i></strong> were ready to attack. They'd been massing in secret for weeks, stripping hundreds of thousands of men, tanks and artillery from the Russian front and sneaking them in at night to avoid detection. Hitler, not known for his sense of humor, wasn't kidding this time either.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Their plan was to surprise the thin American line in quiet, sleepy Belgium, overwhelm them quickly and storm to the critical port at Antwerp, thereby cutting off allied supplies and splitting the US and British armies in half. It wouldn't win the war for them, but it might force the Western allies to negotiate a peace. Both luck and the weather were with them.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
December 15</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The winter storm moving in grounded most planes, negating US air superiority and further masking the German divisions. When they struck they achieved near total surprise. They advanced quickly and the short handed and under-gunned Americans could only manage a few brief delaying tactics. The only American close enough to help were paratroopers. With no heavy weapons or even winter clothing they moved into Bastogne in time to get completely surrounded by German armor. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.gold-speculator.com/attachments/quinn-advisors/8866d1271977402-nuts-featured-article-bradleyeisenhowerpatton-20a-20bastogne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" jquery1340642152146="55" src="http://www.gold-speculator.com/attachments/quinn-advisors/8866d1271977402-nuts-featured-article-bradleyeisenhowerpatton-20a-20bastogne.jpg" style="max-width: 624px;" width="158" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Town got messed up a little bit.<br />
McAuliffe, Ike, and Patton</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">
December 21</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
All seven major highways leading into town were now firmly in German hands. The siege was on. Both sides knew there was no escape for the trapped GI's. Both sides knew the Germans had all the heavy tanks. Both sides knew that the intense storm would keep the American air force from providing either tactical support or supplies by air (food and ammo were both desperately short). Logic dictated that the Americans had no options.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
December 22</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The following borrowed directly from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Bastogne">Wikipedia</a>.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
General von Lüttwitz sent the following ultimatum to Gen. McAuliffe:</div>
<blockquote class="templatequote">
<div class="Bug6200" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
To the U.S.A. Commander of the encircled town of Bastogne. The fortune of war is changing. This time the U.S.A. forces in and near Bastogne have been encircled by strong German armored units. More German armored units have crossed the river Our near Ortheuville, have taken Marche and reached St. Hubert by passing through Hompre-Sibret-Tillet. Libramont is in German hands.<br />
There is only one possibility to save the encircled U.S.A. troops from total annihilation: that is the honorable surrender of the encircled town. In order to think it over a term of two hours will be granted beginning with the presentation of this note.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:General_McAuliffe.jpg" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" class="thumbimage" height="293" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/77/General_McAuliffe.jpg/220px-General_McAuliffe.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">McAuliffe square near Bastogne</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If this proposal should be rejected one German Artillery Corps and six heavy A. A. Battalions are ready to annihilate the U.S.A. troops in and near Bastogne. The order for firing will be given immediately after this two hours term. All the serious civilian losses caused by this artillery fire would not correspond with the well-known American humanity.<br />
The German Commander.</div>
</blockquote>
According to various accounts from those present, when McAuliffe was told of the German demand for surrender he said "nuts". At a loss for an official reply, Lt. Col. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harry_Kinnard" title="Harry Kinnard">Harry Kinnard</a> suggested that his first remark summed up the situation well, which was agreed to by the others. The official reply was typed and delivered by Colonel <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_H._Harper" title="Joseph H. Harper">Joseph Harper</a>, commanding the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/327th_Infantry_Regiment_(United_States)" title="327th Infantry Regiment (United States)">327th Glider Infantry</a>, to the German delegation. It was as follows:<br />
<blockquote>
To the German Commander.<br /><br />NUTS!<br /><br />The American Commander</blockquote>
The Germans took this as 'Go to hell!' -and didn't care for it much. They began relentless attacks on Bastogne day and night. First they shelled the American positions, then their armor and infantry stormed the positions. Over and over. The Americans threw them back time after time but paid in blood; 2500+ casualties not counting 500+ missing -and it went on through Christmas. -the worst ever BTW- <br />
<br />
The Germans, warm in their winter gear, enjoyed steady supplies of food and ammo. The Americans shivered in their frozen fox holes with no resupply of either. Right through Christmas.<br />
<br />
When the storm lifted the allies filled the skies with war planes and supply transports. General George S Patton's 3rd army broke through the day after Christmas and finally relieved Bastogne. Though history credits this as a 'rescue', most of the surviving paratroopers of the 101st airborne stubbornly said "We didn't need to be rescued, just resupplied." That's guts. Or nuts. Or both.<br />
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It's worth noting that after their 'rescue' the 101st did not go to the rear for R&R. They got fresh food and ammo and immediately joined the counter-offensive. Bastogne was the centerpiece of the much larger Battle of the Bulge which was considered over and won by January 15. Militarily exhausted, Germany surrendered in May.<br />
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I'm sure there are a lot of Christmas 'horror' stories out there; breakups, bad presents, bad eggnog, maybe a tree fire, but none of those really stack up to Bastogne '44. Unless your story includes 55 German divisions rammed up your ass, <em>I'm not really impressed.</em></div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5323419366850641338.post-69468420777181192722012-06-24T11:03:00.004-04:002012-06-24T11:03:53.257-04:00The toasting of Fred<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today is the 'toast or roast' post for the <a href="http://www.weworkforcheese.com/2012/06/toast-another-blogger/">30 days</a> of the most from the coast, or something.<br />
Since my doctor asked me to lay off the red meat, I won't opt for the roast. Instead I will pay homage to an early mentor who not only encouraged the growth and development of If I were God... but was my very first commenter, <a href="http://thefredeffect.com/">Fred Miller</a>. <br />
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Fred put a huge monkey 'WOW' button at the top of his page specifically to showcase new writers to his large audience. He graciously linked it to me on at least three occasions. Quite a guy, right?<br />
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He hasn't posted for two months -an unprecedented time away for him. Tessa, his beloved of many years, has serious health issues so I'm hoping nothing terrible has happened. I prefer to image they're sailing the world together on a boat he built himself. But Fred's probably a terrible carpenter, so this would mean they've both drowned a few hundred yards outside the harbor. Scratch the sailing idea. Maybe they're in Tibet meditating at a monastery and unraveling the secrets of life. This sounds more like them anyway, let's go with that.<br />
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It's a shame for his fans that he's gone so long. He had been getting pretty good at producing short animated satires featuring Obama, Palin, Romney, Gingrich, Beavis & Buthead. Curious yet? Give him a <a href="http://thefredeffect.com/">look</a>.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/s3-bCtvPtLU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
This one features Fred himself, and Howard Stern and a talking dog. Don't ask. Just enjoy.</div>notactuallygodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08012309932420090710noreply@blogger.com4