Long Time No Blog

The most overused blog cliché is "sorry I haven't written/blogged in a while/lately."

Well I am too original for that.

And I am not sorry either.

I also hate the phrase long time, no see. It is supposed to be Native American or something. I don't know but it doesn't sound like a native speaker to me (at least not in this country).

All I have to say is that I replaced my iPatch with sunglasses.

I hate wearing them. I feel like a phony. And I just know people are judging me for wearing them in the grocery store and at night.

I guess I shouldn't mind, because we both know I am judging the heck out of them.

Long time, no bloggy.

Oll Korrect

Yes I had a job interview today.

No I wouldn't recommend going to an interview hopped up on narcotics and steroids.

Yes I walked in sporting my nifty (stupid) eye patch.

Yes I am super sick of having to wear it but the uncomfortable darkness is better than the painful brightness.

Yes I sat facing the window and four people and one on the phone during the interview.

No pressure.

Yes I did cry afterward, but only in my ill eye I promise.

Yes I did ask questions.

No I didn't ask good ones.

Yes I am qualified.

No I am not sure I proved it.

Yes the future of my career rests on the success of a hazy drugged up interview.

Yes I do want to be a weekend janitor the rest of my life.

Yes I know this post isn't at all funny.

Yes I am sorry about that.

Yes I think everything will be oll korrect.

Care for the Foodless

So the homeless huh? That a tough one. They are without brick and mortar to call their own. They have no place of residence. OK but what the real issue is (or most relevant issue) is more of a dietary nature. A roof is a luxury, at least in non-winter times. Either way it's a moot point because I don't have a bunch of extra houses in my pocket. I'm not made of wooden frames and windows people.

But they can live (at least temporarily) without a house. They can also live without stuff, junk, things, property, possessions, and belongings. They can live without goods, clutter, and "crap." They can live without ribbons. They can live without tags. They can live without packages, boxes, or bags!

But what they need is food, food for hungry bellies. So what if they have no houses. Yes I feel bad, but I can't get them a house and no offense, but as bad as I feel, I am not letting some stinky possibly insane vagabond stay in my apartment where he can strangle my wife all night while I run away in terror.

But food. Food is relatively cheap. They need it more than anything.

I have means to procure it. I don't think a Royale with Cheese is too much to ask.

Here is the problem though. In my experience, I have seen supposed foodless people turn down food at the bequest of money. I heard a guy once tell my friend he wouldn't take her lobster tail because he couldn't handle that fancy stuff, but then asked for money. Too good for lobster?!

But I figure why not give 'em money if you got it. If they are gonna spend it on liquor, then they probably need a good vacation away from their memories. If I were them I would probably need a fix too. Either way, I think hey, I probably gave a fraud a few bucks but it's a good deal for me. For a few dollars I bought a clear conscience.

He gets what he wants. I get what I want. That's capitalism my friend.

But since my subconscious knows I gave money to a fraud, I still have to donate to the food bank, so my subconscious is clear.

Now if I can only buy a clear unconscious.

Happy Look like a Pirate Day!

This a picture of me wearing my nifty iPatch. Why would I be sporting a nifty iPatch you say? It has nothing to do with this weekend's eye water boarding fun; technically, yes it does because it keeps me from crying and having headaches but nonetheless, today marks the first annual Look like a Pirate Day! Hooray!

Yep it's that time again (for the first time). Save your poor pirate lingo for Talk like a Pirate Day; this holiday focuses on pirate garb. Dust off your old Halloween costumes and bust out your typical pirate paraphernalia: parrots (or parakeets if you that's all you got), wooden appendages, monkeys (with or without cute cymbals and vest), plastic swords and flint lock pistols, temporary tattoos, and of course hook hands. Oh and you mustin't forget the iPatch (boasting one for both eye makes you look twice as piratical).

So enjoy the day swabbing the deck matey, or whatever pirates do. Go get ye some Spanish doubloons to add to your booty.

Eye Water Boarding

So for the last few days my right eyeball felt like it was about to reach critical mass and go Chernobyl all over this place. So I agreed to go to the InstaCare, only because I thought I would earn me a sweet eye patch to wear (arrrrrrrr matey!) which it didn't. Basically I was lured to the hospital under worst kind of pretenses, false ones.

Care at InstaCare is hardly insta, especially considering they are too hurried to spell that last nt. But it was quick enough. The doctor prescribed a heavy dose of steroids for my eye. He apparently wants to pump my eye up. Great, now my eye will have to drop out of the Ocular Olympics.

So Rachel had to "administer" the eye drops. In a nutshell, eye drops are water boarding for the eye. I would have told her anything to get her to stop, including revealing the hidden rebel base of any number of rebel groups. Dantooine, they're on Dantooine! I shouted to deaf ears.

But the sadist didn't even ask any questions.

Couldn't she see that my eyes wouldn't stay open because they don't want to drown in steroid juices!

Many tears later, she finally finished her routine torturous "treatment."

And she laughed through the entire procedure. What part of me flailing about like a three-year-old and whimpering like a hurt puppy is funny?

In conclusion, I feel eye water boarding should be reserved for only the worst enemy combatants.

“I Hate Cheeseburgers”

You know, crazies are no longer cuckoo for just Cocoa Puffs. You know some "people" are now cuckoo for racism. You know they are racistists, ready to label any animal, vegetable, or mineral (sometimes even people) as racist.

You know, some moron blogged a clip of Shirley Sherrod, you know, giving the appearance of a racist looking story. You know Fox News published the moron's clip as-is without an ounce of research. You know, Barracki Obami fired someone based on this "news" coverage. You know, it must have been a slow day for factual stories.

You know, I have plenty of disagreements with President Barrack Insane Obama. You know, this week my biggest criticism of him: he got his news from Fox News. You know, that was a dumb thing to do. You know they hate him. You know they (including Obama) didn't even do 44 minutes of research before posting the story. You know it takes 1 minute to do a Google search and 43 minutes to watch a whole speech. You know Fox could have had an intern watch it between runs to Starbucks. You know Obama could have had one of his frisky little aides do it. You know he could have appointed a YouTube Czar to watch it.

You know here is the best part, there is a whole speech that no one bothered to listen to until after they forced Sherrod to quit (I believe the word is fired), not even the idiotic CNN pundits (sorry for the redundancy). You know, I don't agree with many of Sherrod's views: rich vs. poor, healthcare, low interest loans, and the fact that every sentence in her speech begins with, is interrupted by, and is concluded with the words "you know." You know.

You know, but I really don't think it is even at all possible to think she is a racist if you watched the full story she was telling. You know, the whole speech which was a pretty decent speech. You [should] know, the point of the story was that she was at first wrong to wonder if she should focus on helping only blacks because of a promise she made to herself. You know (actually you probably don't know).

You know she said lots of things that make her very unracist, but you can just, you know, watch it for yourself.

Just so you know 2 minutes out of a full 43 minutes speech shouldn't be labeled "FULL video." You know. Well you know, anything taken out of context can look you know, racist.

You know, a portion of this blog post could be used to make it look like I hate cheeseburgers. MMMMmmm cheeseburgers.

You know you could just quote my blog out of context stating, "Jonathan said, 'I hate cheeseburgers.'"

You know, you don't know unless you have seen the whole speech in its entirety. You know, you can enjoy a bowl of Cocoa Puffs while you watch. Mmmm Cocoa Puffs. You know I'm cuckoo for them.

Tenny for Your Thoughts?

Per Nicky's request, I am blogging about the dispute some idiots have with the 99¢ Only Store for jacking up their prices to 99.99 cents.

Where to begin?

First the nonsensical ravings. I just want to say, what the obligatory! This is a travesty of unparalleled terror. Ah! Scoundrels! Absconders!

Now to the sensical nonravings. The biggest argument is that the store's name and the prices aren't the same. This whole case is a moot point because I have been to plenty of dollar stores claiming "nothing over a dollar" yet I always point out while shopping there, "hey this thing here is 2 bucks. Liars!!" Did you know Taco Bell sells more than just tacos and has little to no bell?

Also rounding up sub-cent numbers is nothing new. Stores literally do it all the time. The people referred to as "least able to discern the difference" by their lawyers (do they even know there is a litigious lawsuit?) must assume the numbers are truncated (the .99 is simply cut off) even though the precedent used for these "seniors" entire lives was the rounding method.

Now the satire. Those greedy corporations have gone too far this time! First they give poor people loans. Then they spill my precious oil. Now they are profiting off rounded numbers!

You know we're in a tough recession when people are quivering over a tenthcent, or a tenny as I call 'em. I coined the term tenny. Get it. Coined!

Still, it is their right to charge incrementally miniscule amounts of money if they want. It's their right!

I blame Obama of course. If he spent less time hiring, then firing, then rehiring people and more time meeting the demand of micro money minting, people could pay exact change.

The solution is obvious. Uncle Sam needs to start minting the .01¢ coin (of course the profile of Obama would be featured on the iron tenny). And for convenience, so we won't have to carry around a pocket full of .01 cent pieces, we should print the .05¢ aluminum piece. I propose a caricature of Bob Hoskins to be commissioned for that.

I suppose they will have to build some very tiny machines to mint the very tiny money. They will be adorable won't they?

And on the plus side, I can buy and sell people's thoughts for an even smaller denomination.

Tenny for your comments anyone?

The 5 People You Will Meet in Hades

Everyone thinks when they get to heaven (as if) they will mingle with celebs like Gandhi and Mussolini and Steven Seagal (as if).

Note: an easy way to remember how to spell Seagal: mermaid = sea gal.

Well they are too busy for you (except sea gal maybe because he is technically alive even if his career is basking in Tartarus). If they have eternity does that make their time any less valuable? They don't pan on meeting every fan and chatting it up for eons like old pals. I know I don't plan on meeting a billion strangers just because I will have the time. Not when I could be doing what I want, racing dinosaurs.

Besides what if you don't make it to heaven? Like anthropomorphized Nazi-esque hyenas about to commit regicide, be prepared.

If heaven's high rollers are too biz-ay for you, the same goes for heck's do badders. You think Big Papa H has time to kiss every unbaptized baby and shake hands with every jerk who failed to report garage sale income on their tax return? Don't plan on spending all your time kicking it with FDR (stole from the rich) and Mark Twain either (the dude lied about his name).

So at last here are the five people you will actually meet in hell.

1) The guy that invented car alarms that just make irritating noises. How did this guy profit off that??

2) The first guy to discover you could club a baby seal to death. He is a real jokster. You might also meet the first guy who learned you could club baby seals for profit.

3) George Lucas. Where do you think the idea for Howard the Duck came from (and is burning)? The inferno of course.

4) Julie Powell. Man she sucks. I actually look forward to visiting her there (briefly). Because she sucks. I just need to confirm said darnation with me own peepers. She sucks.

5) And for some reason that guy that killed Julius Caesar for some reason. Don't ask me why. This is all I learned from my college degree. Yay English majors.

Unsolvable Puzzle

I have a word problem that even Marilyn vos Savant, the [I guess] smartest person alive couldn't solve.

If two burritos can be cooked together in a microwave at 2 minutes, what would possibly make me think that 1 minute and 50 seconds would be the appropriate cooking time for one burrito?

The iGeneration Has too Many Ds

So I was just thinking about technological advances and how unpredictable they are. In the 50s people envisioned a future (now present) of flying cars, robot butlers, jet packs, teleportation devices (hopefully the kind that doesn't create human-fly hybrids), and rocket ships. Aside from the robo-butler (who may or may not have been built with optional hover boots) these are primarily innovations in the transportation field, most being immediately obsolete with the advent of teleportation (depending on cost and availability of course and a rational/irrational fear of becoming a fly-man or woman).

So instead of flying cars, we have iMacs. In place of robotic servants, we have iPhones. In lieu of rocket ships, we have iPod Nanos. And who needs a jetpack when you have an iPad in your iBackpack?

Essentially all leaps in transportation technology have been laid on the wayside in favor of smaller and smaller (then a little bigger again) computer technology. And just as all cars are really just variations on the infernal [sic] combustion engine, all our recent inventions of note revolve around the word App. Who saw that coming (beside Stevie Jobs)?

Instead of calling us the Me
Generation they should call us the iGeneration. But only out of mockery.

Also I Googled (one of our best recent inventions) the term iGeneration. There is I-Generation pro wrestlers featuring Dennis Rodman (I assume the I stands for idiot). It also stands for Internet Generation, another name of Generation Z. Lame.

Did you know the i in iMac, iPod etc., stands for Internet? That's stupid because the first several iPods didn't directly use the Internet.

The only thing I can think of that people actually looked forward to having that did actually come to fruition: 3-D television. Guess what the D stands for? Hint: it starts with the letter d and rhymes with gum.

Wasn't Captain Eo enough to last us a lifetime? After watching that emotional disturber prancing into my lap, I say "no thanks, I'm good" to 3-D from then until the end of my emotionally scarred days.

3-D is just too gimmicky. I want the right amount of gimmick. Besides the real world is already in at least that many dimensions.

What is the point of this blog? I think it means we have too many i's before things. What's that rule again? i before c [everything] except after what? And also 3-D is either too many or not enough dimensions for me. Not the right amount of Ds!

Hot Charity

The following is a true story.

Part 1: Hot Charity

Yesterday we saw some guy getting harassed by the man for selling water on the street corner. Then we saw that his minivan said he was selling the water for his wife who has cancer. Sad story. I wanted to buy one but the fuzz was all over him. Later we saw him again but was on the wrong side of the street to stop. Nobody's dying wife is worth making a U-ey so I said all well but felt bad about not buying any cancer water.

This morning Rachel and I went to get Mimi's for breakfast. Then we saw the guy again, this time with a tot in tow. We did make a U turn to get to him. Yes, we made the big sacrifice of turning around. We bought one. It wasn't until after the fact that we realized we had more than the one buck Rachel found in the glove box (it's no longer just for gloves!). Too late to go back for a second helping.

But we made a couple U-turns because of this guy (two is our limit). We = awesome.

The water was a little odd. It was in a pouch like a Capri Sun. When we got out of breakfast we tried some. It was literally hot (from being in the sun for an hour I guess).

Rachel thought it tasted like hot tap water. I thought it tasted like charity. Hot charity straight from the tap.

I ended up spraying our dying geranium with it (we'll see if it dies) and squirted the rest onto Rachel like a boiling fountain.

Part 2: Hot Politics

While at work doing my part-time job which I took to subsidize my full-time job, I was thinking about the water guy. Then I felt a slight trickle of blood in my cardiovascular pump. My heart bled (metaphorically only as far I know). I actually thought, I know it's wrong to take someone else's money by force and give it to this guy's wife, but I feel bad enough for him that I no longer care if the government steals from the rich to do so.

I felt this way for hours until I found out how much the government had taxed Rachel's moving and living stipend from her internship. They taxed $500 out the total $1,500 she got. Then I thought, beep that guy: I want to keep our money. Enjoy your dollar.

Yes I am a selfish, terrible person. And that's the way I like it.

Mrs. Information

So I was just thinking about the time I took Rachel to the hospital to see a gynecologist for her pre-wedding check up. We couldn't find the office so I asked the old lady at the information booth if she knew where the gynecologists were located in the building. She must have been the world's oldest candy striper [click on this link and you won't regret it] but that was four months ago so I have to assume she's probably long dead by now.

Speaking of assumptions, I figured from the giant friendly sign hovering over her head, that this is the go to gal for surplus information. "Excuse me," says I, "we are trying to find the gynecologist by the name of Dr. [so and so]."

The old lady, the one at the information desk, said "the what?"

"The gynecologist. OB/GYN."

She looks at me like I am making stuff up as she says, "I don't know what that is." She then fumbles through her directory before asking, "is that someone who works with children?" Then points to where the pediatricians are.

Ugh. Never mind!

Yeah, why would she know what that is? Dumb question. Stupid me.

She probably grew up before they invented doctors for women. They only had cavemen doctors, not cavewomen; those came much later during the turbulent cretaceous period (stupid cave hippies).

I'd nickname her Ms. Information but she was probably married, married to information that is. Haha! Blegh.

Survey Results in Brown and Red Splatter

The results from my pointless survey are in. The people think I am very non-informative at 22% (doesn't this post count?), fairly dumbish at 44% (that's lower than expected), pretty riduclish at 50% (can't argue with that) and mediocrely funny at 61%.

So basically what I am hearing is a call for my resignation. So I suck. Dang.

61% funnyish? That's a D-. That's horrific even for me. I still need more practice being funny. Maybe there isn't enough practice in the world to make my "humor" palatable.

I should have known the results of this survey would end only one way: a giant brown and red splatter below the SWKT (Spencer W. Kimball Tower).

I know that most of the unfunny votes are from my "family." But that only accounts for most of. Who else would read this blog despite a high enmity toward my [lack of] funnyishnes?

Rachel suggests (though she can't actually believe this) that I am not funnyish because I am funny. Ha! Now that is funny. Good joke, Rachie.

Other possibilities: people didn't know they could choose more than one option (ridiculish is the best option after all), those surveyed thought it meant only the current blog post which may have been one of the powerfully unfunny posts, the chads from the Floridian voters didn't separate properly, or any other form of denial that I haven't thought of yet.

I should have stopped the survey on the third day when I still had 100% funny rate. . .

Don't worry about starting a suicide watch (as if you would after reading Feeling a 'Lil Bloggy); I won't be leaping like a lizard from any rooftops. Instead I think I will just start biting my fingernails and won't stop until my whole arm is bitten off and I die of blood loss.

Thanks for taking the survey.

Medical Miracle Whip

So who hasn't heard any medical miracles about someone who shouldn't be alive and well, but against all odds, is alive and/or well? Who hasn't heard at least a million medical miracle stories?

Some doctor told so-and-so that he/she would never walk/sit/hear/sing/laugh/bowl again. But somehow learns to walk/sit/hear/sing/laugh/bowl again despite it all. Sounds like a good Lifetime original movie.

Then there is the "doctor told me I only had three months to live. But it has been six years and I am still alive!"

Sometimes it's stories about how there was no cure, yet somehow the doctor's love for patient found a way.

And against all odds? Well odds are some of the paraplegics will walk again. Does that mean that the X% that do are miracle cases? God forsook the others? It is not a miracle when someone wins the lottery; it's called chance: someone is going to win just like someone is going to recover from their infirmity.

If modern medicine performs better than promised, I guess that makes it a miracle. We hear about so many quaint miracles occurring every day. It sounds like modern medicine is generally better than society is giving it credit for.

I am starting to see a pattern here. How often do you hear that the doctor gave a patient a year to live but died in a week? How often do you hear, "you will totally for sure walk again," but then they never do? Maybe people just don't repeat those stores (at least not in the Reader's Digest), but from my experience, complaining gets around better than anything.

I think doctors do this on purpose. Probably without realizing it. The term in the service industry is "under promise, over deliver." And that is exactly what they do. Or doctors are just incompetent when it comes to estimating recovery times (I hope incompetence is not a synonym for miraculous).

They could be doing it so people are pleasantly surprised. Or they want patients to prove doctors wrong (AKA give it their best go!).

Except I think they have other motivations, namely, malpractice insurance. This way doctors are saving their own buttocks from getting sued for overpromising and underdelivering.

Oh the miracle of malpractice insurance.

Underpromising health recovery is just a mass produced service of the medical profession. They could almost squeeze some miracles out in a factory into tiny little jars labeled Medical Miracle Whip. Yummy! I know the news channels would buy it in bulk wholesale.

Or maybe we only call these recoveries miracles because usually people just die and the miracle recipients are the lucky few chosen for angelic intervention. Maybe they won the angel lottery.

Wow. I just realized I am the most cynical person alive.

Yet against all odds I can learn to believe in miracles too! Now that would make a great Christmas special (especially if you throw in a fat man with a beard and red coat to believe in). But alas it is July so Christmas miracles are a way off.

The World Goblet of Fire

So the World Cup is over now. Go Spain, the land of my ancestors. Anyway so the good thing about the end of the World Chalice? Now all the anti-soccer hooligans can stop whining already.

Let's do some math (even though math can be difficult at times for football fans). The World Glass is once every 4 years, for 1 month. Football is every year for long periods of time. Ugh life is hard!

Complaint number 1: no one likes soccer (then why is it on TV, dummy?). Maybe if people keep telling me I don't like something, maybe eventually I won't like it (or I'll just be annoyed).

Complaint number 2: the scores are too low; therefore it is unexciting. Yeah I guess if the final score were 1 million to 1 million and 1 it would be more exciting than a 1:0 score. That was sarcasm. When points are of very little value, then scoring a point is hardly exciting in the grand scheme of things. Soccer has much more comeback potential. Whereas basketball games only go two ways (either it's basically a tie the whole game and it comes down to who shoots last when the buzzer runs out or it's a blow out (boooooring).

Complaint number 3: soccer players are whiners. This one is too ironic to comment on so I will let the anti-World Mug complainers whine nonstop about this one unhindered. . .

If the U.S. (aka white Americans) generally don't like soccer, it's because they are fickle about their sports. They only tie their hitches to winners. Everyone is a fan of the Lakers today because they are winners right now. But as soon as they become the Clippers, all the land will despise their stinking guts. That is why the country is glued to the TV to watch Olympic diving and swimming, because we win at those events. One day when the U.S. dominates in soccer (mayhap it will, mayhap it won't) then the fair-weather fans will watch.

Then the World Goblet of Fire will ignite in this country. At least until the U.S. team sucks again (then soccer will be dumb again).

Cool Button Issues

I was reading an article about Prop 8 and the Mormons involvement (as if anyone else was involved!). Anyway, so people are crazy. At least their comments lead me to believe they have no sense and an itchy exclamation trigger finger. I don't want to get too much into that pit of despair, but I am always surprised by how infuriating reading comments to the articles are.

If you ever want to get riled up about something that you didn't know you wanted to get riled up about, try reading the comments on any, yes ANY, article on the Internet.

I went back to another article that was pointed out to me as particularly "mind blowing" about a crazy scientist who thinks gravity is not a fundamental force. Pure insanity! Here is one of my favorite comments:

"Another Idiot trying to prove that there is no gravity! Only in America. Only in America Kids!!"

Whoa calm down pops. I ain't a kid. And nobody is trying to steal your gravity, crazy. Only in America you mean, if by America, you mean the Netherlands, where Professor Verlinde is from and where the University of Amsterdam is. America—Amsterdam, close enough (also he was in France at the time). And I am sure he became a professor because of his crackpot hallucinations or whatever (must be the special Dutch brownies).

I am sure if there is an issue about anything, there are two angry sides to it. You may think you are level headed and unemotional as you read about why milk is yummy or why the earth has a cold chocolate center. But as soon as you start reading reader comments, the heat rises, at least for me it does.

Any button issue (huh?) can become a hot button issue with a few exclamation points and a lot of unresearched assumptions.

I can't wait to read the comments on this blog post (i.e., you are a total moron who knows nothing about comments!). I think we should just try and keep our button issues cool for now.

One more for the road:

"It must be nice to be a physicist. Not only do you have all the time in the world to think and get paid for it, but you are proclaimed a genius even though nobody understands a word you say!"

The Wife Whisperer

So sometimes my wife can be a bit stubborn. Like this morning, I wanted French toast before church but was too lazy to make my own. She says we have no time and that my options are limited to having French toast or a dressed wife. I choose the former but she still refuses.

So I tried reasoning with her, "I am your husband. You have to do as I say." She laughs at this. How dare she.

Then I try appealing to her heart, "If you love me, you'll make me French toast." Clearly she has no love for me. She calls this a false dilemma. I call her insubordination a true one.

Every request to a loved one should begin with the words, "if you love me." I use it hourly. I am just trying to be like Jesus (John 14:15: If
you love me, keep my commandments).

Later that day, she steals my wedding ring and wouldn't give it back. So of course I had to tickle tackle her down a hill until I could pry it from her cold living hand.

So I am a decent wife wrangler as long as physical force and coercion triumph, but she is too much of a wild spirit yet. I need the skills of a trained wife whisperer to tame this wild heart. Or maybe I could just invest in a nose ring and a three-foot chain. That'll learn her.

The Saturday Evening Blog Post

[Insert Norman Rockwell painting here of family eating ice cream on the stoop during a hot summer day while a puppy licks a young child's cone]

I noticed from preliminary survey results, that my blog is not considered very informativish. Well. It's not really.

So let me hit you with some knowledge.

If you are wondering who the frig is Norman Rockwell and why would I need to insert a painting of bygone yesteryear Americana, then you probably don't know what the Saturday Evening Post is. Maybe this whole reference is lost on you. I know the subtly is.

I've never actually read an issue of the Saturday Evening Post, but I do enjoy those Norman Rockwell covers. It appeals to me in a very cynical way, like it's a joke on the old days that only I get (it's not though). Anyway, the next time I go "steal" literature from the suckers at Barnes and/or Noble (i.e. sit and read for hours without buying nothing) I plan to peruse a copy in one of their comfy sofas.

Here is some more informative information for you to be struck by in the brainage areas. The magazine used to be a really popular source of entertaining prose from the best authors in the "biz." But the Saturday Evening Post eventually waned in popularity. You see after the 60s, general interest magazines like Life were becoming obsolete, as many smaller niche magazines offered more specific content to the readers. I am sure those hippies just flipped their free loven wigs when the first issue of High Times hit the shelves in 1974 (could hippies afford to buy magazines?). Anyway so after some troubled years, the Saturday Evening Post is now published bimonthly. Why the heck would they call it that if it isn't published every Saturday in the evening? You'd expect something with such precise nomenclature to live up to its name. It's a travesty really. Lies from the man.

But here is the trick. I can afford to write this boring informative blog without losing reader interest because like the misnomer in question, you aren't reading this blog on Saturdays. Yes. Weird. You see I recently noticed a trend on my Google analytics thing: my readership takes a nose dive every Saturday. This is probably because who the h wants to be on the computation machine when there is nature and such outside?

This proves that my blog serves an important function in the economy, distracting the drone from his/her/shis "work." See you bright and early for the Monday Morning Blog Post!

New World Record!

I usually leave the movie reviewing to my brother the film specialist extraordinaire. But here is one film critique that is less about the quality of the film (nice editing and camera work, Mr. Director) and more about the [lack of] credibility.

First let me start by saying I don't think all liberals (progressives or democrats or whatever you want to call yourselves) are dumb, stupid, illiterate, opportunistic, lying sacks of gluten, rubber, marshmallow cream, and mayonnaise.

I need the hotline for the Guinness Book of World Records stat! I just witnessed the biggest pile of horse manure ever captured on film. Yes the former world record holder (a film called Sicko) was beaten by the ironically titled Capitalism: A Love Story (hehe so clever!). Obviously the title is just Moore doing what he does best, being humorously glib about the evil corporate conspirators running Washington.

I wonder, does it get harder and harder to blame Reagan and Bush for every factory worker's plight in Flint, Michigan? Not when you're this good at inventing theories of conspiracy.

Like all of Moore's documentaries, he has a ram-fisted agenda. He sums this one up easily enough for us: capitalism is bad and should be replaced by "democracy," whatever that means. He actually literally means socialism, but for some reason thinks capitalism and democracy have to be at odds with each other.

Now I am not a proponent of communist witch hunts, but when someone puts on the pointy hat, shouts a Shakespearian curse, boils a newt, predicts the future from chicken bones, and shouts "I'll get you my pretty!" well you know. Besides I generally admire the passion of real socialists, the idealists (FYI Michael Moore doesn't get to make my list of favorite Marxists). People have a right to have socialist thoughts free of capitalist reprisal. They are totally free to want to take over factories from the bourgeois (or whatever Moore calls big businesses). Seriously I mean it (honest injun). I know I kid about Obama being a commie, though he is a very soft kind of socialist who only wants to socialize healthcare (while buying banks a piece at a time) and villainizing the oil industry. But Moore is the real deal.

This film is just a big bag of contradicting confetti.

In the Love Story, Moore holds up the poor bourgeoisie to this pedestal while simultaneously painting anyone who makes a lot of moola as the devil incarnate, yet somehow with all the success of his documentaries, I don't quite know if he qualifies as one of America's untouchables. He criticizes anyone who would profit from the suffering of Flint, Michigan's sob stories. Not like he is directly gaining anything from his home town's misery (Roger and Me, Fahrenheit 911, Sicko =
chuuuuching!). He of course, is ironically the best paid socialist in America that I know of.

But enough about his socialist inclinations. If you are prone to ulcers of the heart, you should refrain from watching this film. It is filled with sob story after sob story of people who were given loans by the bank then could no longer pay their mortgage and were evicted. I hate to sound like the mean old man from It's a Wonderful Life (and by hate I mean I wish I hated sounding like him) but "so?" What are the banks supposed to do? Moore seems to think they should be allowed to live there for free. I wish I could get a free house too. How about free groceries and a free car. Beep that. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of.

For example, his old Catholic priest says being rich is a sin. Not to get into a Biblical debate with an obvious moron, but doesn't God reward his best servants in the Bible with riches? Guess someone was sick that day in seminary.

Yeah, whatever. If money is so evil then why does Moore want the people to be financially well off? If being poor is soooo much better as he purports in the film, then why is he trying to get his greasy sausage fingers on the money so bad? Poor people should count their blessings for being broke!

My favorite part. Moore tries to find out what derivatives are but is unable to understand the concept. So here we have a guy who openly admits he has no frigging clue what he is even criticizing. Then he criticizes a Harvard professor for not being able to spell it out in terms simple enough for Moore to understand (are you as shocked as I am that Moore dropped out of college?). He then admonished Wall Street for purposefully making the math difficult to understand so we wouldn't get it (though Rachel assures me it's not hard if you took college math).

Bah. I am sure if I really got into, I could talk about how incredibly bull puckish this movie is all day. I don't even know why I would bother. It's like pointing out that the ocean is wet.

By the way, the ocean is wet.

Hoot ‘n Holler

There is a group of white old redneck women who work in my building. I think they work for a home loan place that hires these types of women exclusively. They cluster. You know the type, gruff chain smoker's voice, wrinkly tattoos, loud boisterous (raspy) laughs, and tight clothes meant for (though rejected by) a younger generation.

Anyway as I was riding down the elevator with three of these ladies today, one was talking about a gentleman closing a deal for her. He was described emphatically as "a hoot." The other cacklers of the coven agreed.

A hoot you say? All I kept thinking the rest of the trip down was "I wish I were a hoot."

Then I began to imagine what this genteel man of high esteem was really like. I imagined a bottle of scotch in one hand. Two glasses for lunch maybe. He tells dirty jokes and wears a shirt that reveals his machismo avalanche of graying chest hair. And when his hand is free from a bottle, it's throttling an old redneck lady's bottom. Yeck. That does sound like a hoot.

But then again who doesn't want to be liked? I still wish somebody would call me a hoot.

McCleaning Check

I have become programmed to only clean my home during scheduled inspections. This of course is because of years and years of conditioning, not the hair kind because I don’t touch the stuff (my hair is naturally soft and fluffy without it).

Anyway for two years while on my mission for the LDS church, I anxiously awaited the monthly white glove inspection, only to trash the place as soon as the visit was over. Thanks for you visit; don’t let the mountain of garbage hit you on the way out!

BYU approved housing tends to follow a strict (sometimes loose) game of cat and mouse (and cockroach).They scare you into preparing for the cleaning inspection of a lifetime, only to not show. Sometimes they show. It really depends on how lazy they are. Sometimes too lazy to even announce cleaning checks altogether.

Anyway, when you save all your cleaning for one late night/early morning a couple behavioral patterns tend to emerge. They stem from these two cynical though appropriate questions. First, why clean today what you’ll have to clean again Friday night before the cleaning check? Secondly, why (or rather for whom) are you cleaning again?

So you start only cleaning for the checks. What happens when Pavlov stops ringing that bell? You see where I’m headed with this. And then you start cutting corners. Because if the cleaning checker isn’t gonna see it, then why clean it?

Which leads me to my bone chilling conclusion (my “dirty” little secret if you will): it doesn’t actually have to be clean; it just has to look clean.

So Rachel and I assumed our days of cleaning were over forever now that we were married and free of BYU approved bondage. When we moved into our new place, the landlady, Mrs. McClean (real name), asks me if Rachel is a good housekeeper. Ha! Good one, McClean. Then she complained about some of the dirty tenants in the past. I acted appalled. I let her believe what she wanted to believe.

So we decided to renew our summer lease to a fall/winter one. We saw her in the parking lot tonight and now she wants to come by for a McCleaning inspection first thing Saturday morning (she wanted to come sooner, the crazy). Here we go again. Looks like we’ll be up late Friday night. McClean means clean!

Eclipsed by a Hack

I watched New Moon with Rachel's family yesterday. We all know Twilight sucks (vampire pun) yet somehow here we are watching it. I don't know why.

I guess it makes for a good accidental comedy.

Now Twilight is not the worst film ever. I reserve that award for Plan 9 from Outer Space. That movie, akin to Twilight, is so bad that it is painfully funny.

Twilight, unlike train wrecks like Plan 9 or the Star Wars Holiday Special, is somehow widely successful.

I am an outspoken critic of Twilight, as a proponent for good literature. And that is what bothers me most. It is just bad writing embraced by the public. Blah.

Still the heart of the matter lies with me.

I hate Twilight because Stephanie Meyer, a halfwit with a word processor, managed to create a very "popular" or at least financially successful franchise. I think I get paid $10 for my poem published in Leading Edge. I still don't have my money BTW (I need those two Hot 'N ready pizzas!).

Anyway so my latest attempt at art was posted today on Jonathan Reddoch University. So I need at least one person to read it and tell me Sisohpromatem
is better than Twilight. Or maybe not that story but something. Anything. Tell me this mediocre blog post is better written than a bunch of dark sullen imagery about crystal vampires acting like twelve-year-olds (no offense to twelve-year-olds). I don't need her lucre. I don't need her fame. I just need to know I am better than her.

I just don't want to get eclipsed by a hack. I hope this is the twilight of her career. All well a new dawn is breaking. Something, something, new moon rising pun.

Happy Fifth of July

Happy fifth of July!

Yesterday was Independence Day. That's good. I like this holiday because hot dogs are yummy, capitalism works out well for us haves, and I get a day of freedom off from work.

However, I have never been really much for fireworks. I don't see how they are much different than a broken streetlight flickering on and off. Lite-Brite never impressed me much either.

Confession time: I have never been overly patriotic. I have sort of kept that a secret, not to rain on anyone's celebratory parade. I guess I should be ashamed or something.

Not like I hate America; I root for the U.S. in sports. It's a great place to live. There is opportunity for everyone (even brown foreigners who are treated like they're undeserving of our awesomeness).

I like the U.S. a whole bunch. I think it's the bee's knees. I guess the problem is that bees don't have knees.

I Am Become Headache

So Rachel point out in her "last blog ever," that the magical "Next Blog" button sending you to similar-ish blahs. Example Mormon blahs tend lead toward other Mormon blogs. Horsie lead to an endlessly exhaust chain of horsey blog.

For same reason I get Asian blogs with awful grammars.

For example I tried it today and got this little germ from the blah post "Irresponsible Salesman" on Sqkiki's Island:

I could not believe that I had spent thousand dollar for a so call multi-purpose cooker that does not support the all clad copper core set I bought few month ago! I was thinking to get a multi-purpose cooker to replace the gas stove I am using now, because I am feeling unsafe with the gas smell every time I am open the locker below the stove. I already had done all necessary work to check where the smell come from but could not find it. Then only decided to get the multi-purpose cooker. Now I am become more headache cause no cook ware is support by that so call multi=purpose cooker!! That salesman is cheating me, he said the cooker support all kind of cookware! *angry*

Pretty cool. Except Blogger thinks I am like that Sqkiki in his island paradise. Now I am become headache as to why so? I see no reason why! *confused*

Multi equals purpose? What kind of math is that?

Save Us Antman!

So who's excited for the Antman movie in 2012!?

I used to think the character of Antman a little lame. He can get really big (which is useful) and tiny (might be useful in Wonderland maybe). He also has the ability to control ants. Yes with his mind.

Why ants? What a wasted technology. If he developed a device to control ants why not people. Maybe people are too smart. So how about bees then? At least they can fly. Nope it only works on ants. Ants are the most useless animal ever. Unless you want to dig a bunch of really small tunnels or have a piece of candy eaten tiny bite by tiny bite.

Rachel said to me, "didn't you go to science class and learn about how amazing ants are? The can lift a lot and carry things away and eat them." The only amazing thing about that is that she said this without sarcasm. Especially since the thing she said right before that was, "he can control ants? That's dumb."

True an ant can lift like 10 times its own weight. So almost nothing times ten is how much?

But I did find one use for Antman. He could get rid of our ants. He could send them all below a big magnifying glass for all I care. Just get rid of them, Antman. I am sick of these little buggers getting everywhere. Help us, Antman. You're our only hope (dang).

Survey Says

I posted a survey yesterday and only one person has taken it (it's been a whole 24 hours!). Thanks Kristina (don't worry it's anonymous but she told me she took it and well 1 plus 0 is 1 so ego therefore it was Kristina).

Everyone else is getting punished (and by everyone else I mean even her because she will likely read this too but you don't have to if you have taken it). I was going to write a fun whacky adventure blog about who knows, committing a terrible faux pas while at tea with the queen (pinkies out!) or that leprechaun hunt gone terribly awry or something else wacky and fun. But instead I am going to berate you into taking my survey. It's to the right of this post that you are reading right now this second. So take it. Why are you reading this when you should be taking it? Stop reading and take it already.

Here is an arrow to show you the way à

If you are unsure of where it is still, it is the direction of these words as you read them (assuming you read and don't just have your mom read it to you).

OK claro?

Why are surveys so hard for people to take? You want opinions to improve your product or service?! How dare you! I hope you die, scum of the earth!

Tell you what I will make an impossible bargain to get you peeps in on this. If ten people take it by Saturday night, I will write a blog that will make your wildest dreams come true. Not like the dreams you have at night. Those wildest dreams would probably be too freaky.

You know what. Forget it. The survey is pretty pointless anyway. I only did it because I saw a list of gadgets and this was the only semi-useful one (except for the mesmerizing clock that I watched for 20 minutes).

I should have added an animal you could feed. They should make a cute little pride of lions in a box for you toss a wounded gazelle at to watch it get pounced (the gazelle gets pounced not the box).

I did learn something from all this. Survey says, "You're all lazy."

(Or I am bored and impatient)

Too Legit to Quit [Hey Hey!]

So I have this Google analytics thing so I can check to see if anyone reads this blog. Sometimes loads of people do. Other times not so much. Other than the 4 frequent commentators, I get the occasional coworker expressing amusement at my irreverent ridiculousness. Hi WGU coworkers! But now I am getting new "readers" (even if they don't speak English) by way of the world wide information super turnpike through Internet search functionality technology. The future is near!

Rachel mentioned she got possible weirdos with beardos from Islamabad reading her blog (Islamabad sounds like Islamisbad doesn't it? That's weird). I have had some from the UK, Israel, Iran, Russia, etc. too. But how do these strangers (terrorists I assume) find this thing?

Google shows them the way. In the last month I had 10 "people" or robots (I can't say for certain) find my blog by Googling the following keywords:

• "curtains to the soul" [who are they quoting?]
  
• feeling a lil bloggy [I think this one was me]
  
• full body cast [weird]
  
• http://feelingalilbloggy.blogspot.com/ [why is this searched? Don't they know how to use an address bar?]
  
• japan karoshi [someone was probably looking for a job or they were just feeling suicidal]
  
• massage "post a comment" [possible sicko pervert]
  
• massage parlor site:blogspot.com [definite sicko pervert]
  
• tongan [I don't know. Whatevs]
  
• tranny blogspot [four in a row leading to my trannific rub down]
  
• jonathan "feeling a lil' bloggy" facebook
  

New keywords to be searched to attract new readers from this blog post:

• world wide information super turnpike
  
• weirdos with beardos
  
• Islamisbad
  
• definite sicko pervert
  
• trannific rub down
  

It looks like there were three legit searches looking for my blog. That's cool I guess. Enough not to quit. I am officially too legit to quit. Hey hey!

Incidentally if you don't know what "Too Legit to Quit" (Hey hey!) Is all about, then you better get schooled.