LO2

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Driving home on the highway, I saw one of those big electronic roadsigns near a construction area that said "Lane closings Wesneday and Thrusday."

Is that before Bleensday or after Frippycycle?

Jon Lovitz singing "I Will Survive" in an electric blue wetsuit at a giant Dinner Club/Waterpark, falls into the water, busts an underwater spotlight, and is promptly, and comically, killed.

Nationally distributed commercials with bad actors using stilted awkward dialogue. I might call one of your credit counselors or but your $200 diet pills if the banker/doctor didn't seem to be mildly retarded. There are thousands of fine actors out there that would eat a bug for a step towards a SAG card.

The term "Pre-Owned." Used. It's used.

1.89% asssssssss
1.89% nader 2008
1.89% sombrero mr. t
0.94% blanks underdog mp3
0.94% eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
0.94% fetish girls in tight lycra shorts
0.94% funny soccer
0.94% grope
0.94% homemade flamethrower
0.94% japanese bohemian rhapsody
0.94% masonic handshake
0.94% national association of w lovers mp3
0.94% panda pants
0.94% walking down jovanotti
0.94% women in heels

Kudos to Carolyn for sending me this awesome link. I took too long for me to get to it, so the Halloween significance is lost, but it doesn't matter. Ass rockin' funny.

Been meaning to blog this forever.

My friend Keri is a hardcore anime nut, and she's into collecting cels. She sent me this message (and a picture, no longer available, so I just put up a google search result for "unknown cel."):

"I received a freebie cel from a friend and neither of us knows where it is from. All of you have seen more anime than I have, so I was hoping maybe one of you has seen this anime. Thanks!"

I responded:

"Easy. That’s from 'Lunnakrugjotti: The Corn Harvest of the Eastern Region,' the harrowing tale of Captain Harlock’s farm living relatives, and their attempts to exorcise tentacle laden hentai demons from their corn harvest. Almost as good as the OVA 'Lunnakrugjotti: Okra of the Damned,' but not nearly as funny as 'Lunnakrugjotti: Beets!'"

I don't know anything.

Ah, the grand comfort chair designed by le Corbusier in 1929. A knockoff version, available for $525. Not so bad, really.

Until you find out the measurements.

4.75" x 4.9" x 4.6".

THAT'S INCHES PEOPLE! WHAT THE HELL???!?!?

I've only read through the first of three parts of this article, and it's already one of the most startling pieces of war journalism I've ever come across. Everyone should read this. Especially anyone who knows nothing about Iraq.

Apocalypse Now (Pay Later) by Janet Reitman

They CANCELLED The Screen Savers! Shit!

Well, at least Cliff will be happy.

Bob Carlos Clarke's Domestic Appliances For The Modern Housewife (Iron) Print, 2004. Found at Eyestorm.

From The Bob Jones University Newspaper.

This is Margaret Hassan. British born, she moved to Iraq 30 years ago, and worked for CARE International, providing humanitarian aid to the country for nearly three decades. She long stood as the head of the entire division.

Margaret Hassan was kidnapped, to be used as a pawn against the placement of British troops in Iraq. Some time in the last few days, she was videotaped as a man put a gun to her head and killed her with a single bullet.

This woman spent 30 years helping prople in Iraq. Thirty years, and she's thanked with a bullet to the head in the same country. I'm at a loss for words. I'm sickened by this. I've fucking had it with the entire situation, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

I'm sick of all the killing, I'm sick of the utter lack of logic behind everyone's motivation. I'm sick of religion being used on all sides as a motivation for murder. I'm sick of people getting rich because of it. I've just had it.

This is the Citroen C4. If you haven't seen the commercial for it, you need to now. Warning: video won't be up forever.

Found via Gizmodo.

Warning: Involves fake poop. Possibly NSFW.

Chocolate Chip Cookie!

This kid is screwed. Like Star Wars Kid screwed. Poor Bastard.

Adorable, yet sad.

HOW TO TELL IF YOUR PROSTITUTE IS AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL
from the Weekly World News.

Here, from government experts, are 10 warning signs that the prostitute you've picked up is a sinister space babe:

1. Looks too good to be true -- If that curvy cutie working the street corner is a dead ringer for Catherine Zeta-Jones, odds are the gorgeous star isn't moonlighting. A shape-shifting ET has probably adopted the form of your dream girl.

2. Out-of-date lingo -- Alien prostitutes try to fit in by using streetwalker slang -- but often use outdated terms. A hooker who sees a police car and whispers, "Cheese it, the fuzz!" likely hails from deep space.

3. Evasive about identity and origins -- Few gals in "the life" are forthcoming about their full names. But a scarlet woman who refuses even to divulge where she comes from -- vaguely describing her birthplace as "the Midwest" or "overseas" -- could be an ET.

4. Odd, hard-to-place accent. "They have trouble pronouncing the letter 'R,' " Manling reveals.

5. Unusually petite -- The average alien hooker stands roughly 5 feet tall, but may attempt to disguise her size with ridiculously high heels.

6. Sex was "unbelievable." If the encounter was "everything you've always fantasized about," chances are the memory was implanted by ETs.

7. Missing time -- If you paid for an hour with a hooker, but your watch indicates four hours have gone by, this suggests part of your memory of the encounter has been erased.

8. Seems telepathic -- A fallen woman who finishes your sentences or slips up and mentions your real name when you've given her a bogus one, is probably invading your thoughts -- and our planet.

9. Over-perfumed -- Hookers from outer space often try to mask their peculiar ET body odor.

10. Squeamish about spanking -- Terrestrial prostitutes are willing to perform virtually every sexual act if the money is right. But ETs don't like having their butts touched.

A Sony Jumbotron on eBay. $10,000. Oh dear sweet baby Jesus. I don't care that it's attached to a giant-ass scoreboard. Don't care that I can't get it into my house without tearing out a wall. Don't care it costs ten grand. I have to watch Family Guy on this thing!

I dreamt that I overslept, but upon waking, discovered myself in the 70s. Robin Williams, dressed as Mork, enters the room and says "I really tried to wake you, but you just wouldn't get up. Nanu-Nanu."

The gadgetblog site Engadget can kiss my ass. I sent them a link to my blog entry about the Nixie Tube wristwatch in September, and they put it up two weeks ago, without a submission credit. They suck.

Note: If you're thinking "hey, they probably found it on their own and posted it," that just means that they suck for not paying attention to my submission, and they got scooped by two months on a gadget by a guy who gets like eight visitors a month. Screw it, I'll go to Gizmodo.

Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me by TISM and Bernard Derriman.

If you feel you need the lyrics, find them here.

If it's worth owning, It's already been sold.
no batteries included, none needed.
all mechanical barriers and gears,
whirring and spinning in an offbeat syncopation,
the correct time? close enough.
missed cues that bring to mind Jazz after too many drinks,
the skewed appeal of rock and roll,
what separates it from the metronome,
the circuit board,
music made livlier by human error,
lack of skill justified by the need to breathe.
your head bobs, your feet count
1,2,3,4,1,2,3,4
snare bringing back memories of kindergarden,
trumpet heralding the fond memory of a Charlie Brown Christmas,
Woodstock and muddled adult voices.
Airborne doghouses and the most heartfelt monologue ever recorded.
you see the appeal of the location,
almost wish for some smack,
an apple and a revolver,
and the ability to smoke a cigarette indoors.
less light, more smoke, nothing blended, nothing single serving,
small cups or no cups at all.
The wheeze and hiss of the only necessary metal machine,
doing battle with the bass, the sax, the trumpet,
the need for a double making the four a quintet.
all the better,
anything to help me with the wish it was earlier,
that I was further West,
that I could find myself in a fortunate conglomeration of souls
that could manage to encourage each other towards a unified artistic goal,
without falsehood,
without pretension,
without lies,
without intellectualism,
without condecension,
without all the elements that bring the gentle erosion of creative hopes,
the influence that makes things fall apart,
like jazz musicians,
after too many drinks,
searching for the way to end the song,
and not finding it.
keep playing boys,
just keep playing.

Note: I wrote this over the course of a single song this jazz combo was playing. More of an experiment than a true finished work. Haven't been writing as much as I want to lately, trying to jumpstart myself.

Konfabulator for Windows is now available! Sweet little customizable thingies for your desktop! Neat!

OK. Phillip Torrone and Peter Rojas from Engadget commented on my previous Engadget related entry, and now I feel bad.

To be completely honest, I've still looked at Engadget every day since that posting. It's a good site.

I'm a poophead.

This poor bastard's got his work cut out for him. Note to the non geeky. You might have trouble "reaching out" to con kiddies when you write stuff like "I hate fantasy roleplaying games. I will state here and I will state elsewhere that I never want to be solicited with a request to join an online roleplaying game. Ever. Nor do I want to advertise for such games on my website or endorse paraphernalia associated with such games. Don't even send me your character's stats. It might insult me."

Keri's gonna love this.

Alistaire Stuart: Have you tried...?
Shadowcat: Yup.
Alistaire Stuart: Perhaps then...?
Shadowcat: That, too.
Alistaire Stuart: Alternatively...
Shadowcat: First thing.
From Excalibur: Mojo Mayhem by Chris Claremont and Arthur Adams

Ricochet Rita: Ohhh, if you weren't kids, I'd say something really rude...
Wolverine: Say it. Say it!
Also From Excalibur: Mojo Mayhem by Chris Claremont and Arthur Adams

This is one of the wreaths put up for the holidays at Common Grounds, a coffeehouse I often frequent. It's made of dyed green feathers. Dyed. Green. Feathers.

Here's my problem. This may well be the tackiest thing that I have ever seen in my life. However, the tackiness is so extreme that it seems to have moved all the way to acceptable (or at least nondescript, and therefore acceptable). I'm confused.

Thanks to Nikonius for the cell phone photo. I don't gots such fancy toys and whatnot.

This is real. Gotta love Target.

http://www.target.com/gp/detail.html/602-0525973-8003047?asin=0823916839

Props to Nikonius for the link.

Well, I just started the biggest set of eBay auctions I've ever put up at one time. 900 books in 260 auctions, at 99 cents a pop. Note: If you're a local Waco friend of mine, and you win some of these, you can just come get them, you don't have to pay shipping or anything.

I would tell you how much the listing fees were for 260 auctions, but I was too scared to look.

Now I have to get started on my record collection.

Breakdancing Transformers.

I couldn't stand it. Every time I shot at someone, it was a mistake. Every time I blew something up, some kid's head blew off. It was always a mother and a child, and those sumbitches are gone, you know?
Soldier Y, interviewed by Kenneth Cain in "The War Comes Home," a study of the current lack of PTSD treatment for soldiers returning from Iraq

He tells her about the dead-eyed cellmate who, when arrested in a nightclub, had a beer in one hand and a sack stuffed with a woman's head in the other.
Andrew Corsello, "The Wronged Man," about Calvin Willis, a man who spent 22 years in prison for a crime he didn't commit

God damn it, the movie better be the greatest movie ever made. If it's not, I'm gonna kill Anderson. He's a dead man. If it's not the greatest movie ever made, or in the top ten, he may as well just move to China and change his name to Chin, and he better get himself a small room in a small town - and even then, I'll hunt him down.
Bill Murray, on The Life Aquatic

I'm gettin' on the ferry at Martha's Vineyard, and some guy yells out from across the way, 'Bill, what'd ya say to her?' Everyone hears him ask, and I pause for a second with my mouth open and begin to speak. As I start to speak, the foghorn sounds, about a twenty-five second blast, and I just, I acted it out like I was saying something really sincere, and the crowd laughed so hard. It was great. I couldn't have bought that moment.
Bill Murray, telling an anecdote relating to his refusal to tell anyone what he whispered to Scarlett Johansson at the end of Lost in Translation

Katherine had retreated into a compact ball on the other side of the bed. I worried that she'd staked out this far margin to escape my snoring. This was a small concern, but a concern nonetheless, and I was happy for the chance to worry about such a thing before moving on to larger worries like how and why I'd managed to sleep with my girlfriend's best friend.
Benjamin Alsup, "Happy?"

When we hugged, I smelled the familiar combination of recent smoke and more recent chewing gum, and I wanted to climb inside him, wanted a place in the pocket of his jacket, snug between his wallet and his secret pack of Camels.
Benjamin Alsup, "Happy?"