My pick for the next Republican Presidential nominee

Don't worry about the gun. I'm fairly certain she's impervious to head trauma.

God

Can someone explain to me why an omnipotent being powerful enough to create everything in the known universe, would chose flaming topiary and pedophiles as a communications medium? Why not run some radio spots or rent some satellite time, I'm sure they'd give the guy a discount.

Bill Burr at Montréal 2007

Nice to know I'm not the only one with this kind of stuff running though the back of my mind. He's bang on with the bit about trying to explain why you're suddenly laughing for no apparent reason.

The Surprisingly Complete Adventures of Sir Digby Chicken Caesar

The Stafford version of an ice cream cone

My dog, Angus, crashed out on the old futon doing what he does best

Dick the dog trainer

Calgary's Homeless

I used to think of the homeless as gin-soaked adventurers: colorful vagabonds, embarked on the mother-of-all camping trips; mischievous scamps liberated from responsibility and absolved from all expectation.

And then I moved downtown.

And someone puked on my shoes.

And his friend tried to mug me.

Now I just want them dead.

Ok, that might be a little harsh. I’m a reasonable man. Tell you what, I’ll meet you halfway and settle for relocated.

Not that I’m volunteering to be the one working the trapline, but somehow I don’t think it’ll be too tough; many of them appear to already be tranquilized, so trapping them should be a walk in the park, so to speak…

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure many of Calgary's homeless are fine people, first-rate citizens of the highest order. After all, as an institution, homelessness doesn’t have much in the way of admissions requirements: a job lost at the wrong time, a few missed mortgage payments and a new found fondness for crack cocaine, and you’re in!

Maybe it’s not even your fault, maybe mom was a kickboxing rodeo clown with taste for crystal meth and tequila, who worked till her third trimester; or the other thing your father ever gave you was an extra chromosome.

Hell, maybe you worked hard, applied yourself, made it all the way through bartending school, woke up the day after graduation and said, “Fuck it, I’m gonna work from home.”

Or maybe you’re just crazy.

Whatever the reason, they scare me. One homeless man is a tragedy. A thousand of them, the makings of a George Romero film (see Dawn of the Dead).

Playmobil Security Check Point

What's next, the Namcom-Nerf Waterboard action set?
Make sure you read the customer reviews, some of them are great!

http://tinyurl.com/bez2vc

Gaza: Residents waving white flags 'shot dead as they flee their homes'

Hmm..take away their land; cut off the food and water; bomb their schools, hospitals and mosques; shoot their children and gun down their spouses: I wonder what drives them to become suicide bombers?

I say we give both sides 48 hours to come to a peaceful and equitable solution—if not, we nuke them both and move on the next issue. Think of it as overly enthusiastic gunboat diplomacy. Making the world a better place, one way or another…

Angus at 6 months

The response: I'm fucking Ben Affleck

Sarah Silverman is fucking Matt Damon

Can't...stop...chewing!

Finishing out the year with a teething Angus (our 12 week old staffy puppy)

Great seats. Good show

Good article re: Stephen Colbert

A duck I met in Stanley Park

From the would make a good t-shirt file

"I'd have more empathy for me, if I were you"

Burning down the house

Looks like they're having a very realistic fire drill over at Mount Royal College.

Asian Tattoo Artist Inks Revenge Behind Bars

“I wanted a stack of skulls on my back,” said murderer Jimmy Drake, “and that Asian prick gave me a giant Winnie the Pooh!”

Wow, a tattoo artist with a sense of humor and a death wish!

US druggists refuse to give out birth control because of "moral values"

This is classic.

"I'm sorry sir, but I refuse to fill this prescription as I believe God wanted you to have tuberculosis."

Police Blotter: November 4, 2004

Unable to stand up to the spray's superior kung fu, the man staggered back into the house, where he was promptly taken into custody.

Funny stuff. This is the police blotter equivalent of the Daily Show. Check it out.

"No Child Left Behind" turns ugly

LITTLE EGG HARBOR, N.J. (AP) - A National Guard F-16 fighter jet on a nighttime training mission strafed an elementary school with 25 rounds of ammunition, authorities said Thursday. No one was injured.

The military is investigating the incident that damaged Little Egg Harbor Intermediate School shortly after 11 p.m.

Police were called when a custodian who was the only person in the school at the time heard what sounded like someone running across the roof.

Bloody end to Christian challenge in the lions' den

A man with "psychological problems" leapt into the lions' den at Taipei zoo yesterday to try to convert the king of beasts to Christianity.

He was bitten on the leg and arm for his efforts.

The intruder approaching the lions at Taipei zoo

"Jesus will save you!" the 46-year-old man shouted at two lions lounging under a tree a few yards away at Taiwan's main zoo.

"Come bite me!" he shouted, with both hands raised. And they did. Without panicking, the man fell back on a stone ridge, as one lion jumped at him, biting him in the arm. It then clawed at his trousers before retreating in a scene captured by television news cameras.

Guards and other zoo workers were alerted by the crowd and drove the lions away with water hoses.

Police shot the animals with tranquilliser darts.

The man, identified only by his surname, Chen, then calmly picked up his jacket and climbed out of the pen. He was taken to hospital for tests. "He had bite marks both at the front and back of his leg," Dr Wang Yao-ching said.

Teng Hui-wen, a psychiatrist, said Chen had psychological problems.

"He took this dangerous action today because he imagined he heard voices," Dr Teng said.

Last night Chen was under observation in hospital.

Fuck handing out the Watchtower, this guys proselytizing to predators. I'm impressed. And I’m also pretty sure we can leave out the quotes around “psychological problems.”

What can we learn from this? Three things, I guess:

Lions are very accommodating. He asked them to bite him, and they did.

I’m not the only one who reacts badly to being woken up by these clowns.

Self serve has gone too far. Bagging your own groceries was just the start. Now we’ve got Christians throwing themselves to the lions.

The people get the government they deserve?

Help Bush celebrate the win by sending him a gift from Amazon.com!

MS Mad With Power Wizard v3.0

One cup of coffee a day 'risky'

Three days after they open a Tim Hortons in my office building. Now I have easy access to half-decent coffee, that will apparently kill me. Wonderful.

Scott's random insult #2073

I'd challenge you to a duel, but I never got around to learning the banjo

Now is the time

On Wed, 08 Sep 2004 12:23:57 GMT, Black Jacque Shellacque wrote: Why didn't any of you Saddam supporters join the Republican Guard to defend Iraq against the invading Americans? You seemed keen enough on supporting this tyrant.

Exactly. You're either with us or against us. This is a time for patriotism and hyperbole, not cognition.

On Thu, 09 Sep 2004 01:15:51 GMT, "veranda" wrote:
Are you being sarcastic?

With enemies of freedom around, now is not a time for sarcasm. Now is a time for action, not reflection.

On Thu, 09 Sep 2004 19:55:52 GMT, "veranda" wrote:
Wouldn't be wise to first make sure who the enemy is?

Now is not the time for surety. Now is the time for action.

Look, fighting terror is complicated. It's messy, and it's incredibly time-intensive. If we're to win, we need to get moving. We need to quite wasting time arguing about the best way to get there. Or the terrorists will get there first.

What we need is a take charge kind of guy. Someone who's not afraid to tell the family to STFU and get in the truck. Someone who's not going waste time stopping for coffee, or asking for directions. Someone strong enough to drive all through the night. That's right, we need a hero.

It's like in the movie Cannonball Run. You didn't see Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise planning; you see them doing. It's an action movie and these are men of action. Talk is over-rated. Besides, it's not like we can phone them up and say, "Hey, Abdula. Are you an enemy of freedom?" Because, you can't trust the terrorists. They lie.

Make no mistake, this is war. And in times of war, sometimes innocent people get hurt. It's the price of doing business in a dangerous world. Look at Iraq, maybe you can argue they were never a threat to use, but you can't argue they didn't have oil.

And really, besides seabirds, who doesn't like oil?

A dog I recently found on my bed

The terrorists have already won

"The unit can also be fitted with defensive devices customized to the requests of the purchasers such as tear gas spray, robotic arms, or projectile weaponry. It is designed to enable the person(s) inside the unit to see out and prevent those outside from seeing in."

The best options are obviously the microwave and the stereo system.
Just think, you could alternate between dousing the intruder with tear gas and batering him with the robotic arm, while your spouse lovingly prepares finger food for you and the attending officers. All to your favorite music!

Or you could just buy a gun.

How to get rid of pigeons?

As a long-time internet addict, I do my best to give back to the community.

On Wed, 14 Jul 2004 16:12:11 GMT, in calgary.general Eat Dirt wrote:

The damn pigeons that make my balconi their holiday spa are driving me crazy. I need a solution and I am welcoming creative ideas. I have thought of poisoning them but my concern is that a bird of prey (like a falcon or eagle) could end up eating the carcass and dying too. Or someone's pet, should the carcass end up in someone's backyard.

Shooting them isn't an alternative, since it apparently is illegal to fire a weapon - even a pallet gun, it seems - in the city.

Likely a good thing. I'd be mighty pissed if a pallet came crashing through my wall--even if I lived in the country.

I have tried to bath them in gasoline, which seemed to have worked for a while. Guess the stentch of gas in the balconi was enough a deterrent for the little critters but it only kept them away for a couple of weeks.

If they're trusting enough to let you bath them in gasoline, you might consider giving them some sparklers to play with and let nature take it's course. Failing that, you could marry them off to someone in Mumbai and include an insultingly low dowery.

People I need a solution here. Looking for ideas before I end up chasing
them out of haste and end up face down on the street below.

Or you could use google.

An army of truckers and rest-stop workers

So how exactly does one spot a terrorist on the highway? Members of Highway Watch are given a secret toll-free number to report any suspicious behavior — people taking pictures of bridges, for example, or passengers handling heavy backpacks with unusual care. "We want to hear from you when something just doesn't look right," Beatty said. "Say you're out at a truck stop and you see someone hanging out near your truck, wearing a jacket. Maybe it's too hot out for a jacket. Go back inside, alert someone and check him out through the window."

Full article here

These are good times to be writing comedy.

DNA Explorer

I was reading a list of this year’s new toys and apparently one of them is something called “Discovery Kids Ultimate Labs DNA Explorer.”

That’s right, a miniature DNA lab for children.

Who’s the marketing genius behind this fucking thing?

From the makers of “Fun with Forensic Accounting” and “What’s inside the Dog?” comes “Ultimate Labs DNA Explorer. Be the first on your block….to get beat up at school.”

Jesus. A couple gifts like these and kids will be begging for clothes.

(shakes box by ear)

“Oh God, I hope it’s a sweater...”

And imagine the look on your youngster’s face come Christmas morning, when they leap out of bed, race to tree, and discover: you’re not really their Father--after completing the experiments on page number three

Hell, forget about junior, imagine the look on your face.

Why, learning has never been so exciting!! This is a voyage of discovery the whole family can embark on.

"Dad, why does Mommy keep hiding the cord to my centrifuge?"

“I always wondered why the little bastard was so good at basketball. Damn you, Kobe Bryant.”

And sibling cruelty, well, it just got scientific.

"Oh you're adopted all right, Timmy. See the proportion of noncomplementary nucleotides in the interspecific DNA duplexes? That’s definitive proof you’re not my real brother. And that gene over there? That one means you’ll be going to summer school.

And you can forget about deceiving your little CSI propeller-head.

"So, Dad--assuming I can even still call you that--you claim Mr. Whiskers ran away sometime on the night of December 1st? Is that your story? Uh-huh. And you're sticking with that? Because fur and fiber evidence from the trunk of your car say different!”

Governments lie, and wrestling is fake

Governments lie, and wrestling is fake.
If either of these revelations shock you, I suggest turning off your television and maybe reading a book or two. You can always tape the Home Shopping Channel, and really, how many crystal unicorns does one mobile home need?

Fact: The Gulf War was not about freeing the people of Kuwait.
Fact: Gulf War: The Sequel wasn’t about freeing the people of Iraq.

And, no, it wasn’t about installing democracy. If it was about overthrowing a totalitarian government that seeks to control its citizen’s every waking minute, well…let’s just say Washington and Ottawa and are a lot fucking closer than Baghdad, folks.

It was about Oil. And if the Middle East wasn’t swimming in the stuff, Bush wouldn’t be able to find Iraq on a map, much less try and remove it from one. And whether you were for the war or against it, I think most of us can agree the government needs to quit fucking lying to us, man.

Stop making shit up!

Level with us, that’s all we’re asking.

“They have oil. We need oil. The bombing starts Monday. Any questions?”

There, how hard was that?
Of course, you’re still going to have to lie to the military—no one’s going to charge a machine gun nest just because you don’t like riding the bus.

Now I’m not saying this new policy of truth wouldn’t have drawbacks—for one thing, it’d take all the fun out of those Whitehouse press conferences. No longer could you turn on the news and hear discourse like:

“I am pleased to announce that major combat operations in Iraq have ended.”

“Uh, Mr. President, if that’s the case, why are our troops still dying?”

“That’s a good question, Tom. I can answer that in two words: recreational accidents.
Now a lot of people may not know this, but Iraq is something of an extreme-sports Mecca, home to some of the best rock climbing the Middle East has to offer. And don’t even get me started about their rodeo.

Now surely, you're not suggesting I deny our hard-working men and women in uniform the opportunity to do something as American as blow off a little steam? Work hard. Play hard. That’s what I say. Bring’em on. Next question.”

“Mr. President, we've been hearing reports about rocket attack and car bombs..."

[The President touches an earpiece, cocking his head and listening intently]

"I hate to interrupt you, but I have good news, our brave troops have captured Saddam!"

"That’s wonderful news, Mr. President, but back to the question of attacks on our troops."

[Looking increasingly nervous and more than a little desperate, the president fiddles with his ear-piece again]

"What's that Dick, you're talking too fast. Weapons of Mass Destruction? I think we already used that. West Nile? Orange Alert? Duct tape? North Korea!

Ladies and Gentleman of the press, I regret to announce we've just launched attacks against the dictatorship of North Korea. I'd also like to announce tax credits on all new SUV's! And our brave troops have surrounded the Jackson compound know as Neverland…”

My grandmother was always encouraging us kids. “Reach for the Stars!” she’d say. Which sounds like great advice, until you actually try it and get beaten up by security.

Freedom

Now maybe it’s just me, but lately I’ve been getting a little tired of people protecting me from everything.

Look, I realize our anemic dollar can only offer limited guard against those that would conspire to import products from abroad. And I’m comforted by the fact companies like UPS care enough to include a forty dollar brokerage fee on packages entering this country--making that U2 CD you picked up on EBay wind up costing you more than front row seats. But having recently experienced the inbred brilliance that is the Canada Customs and Revenue Agency, I think it’s fair to say our Federal Government really needs to fuck off.

It’s not that I don't appreciate and respect the men and women of Canada Customs. I know they're out there day and night; rain or shine; sleet or snow; on holidays and on weekends. Bravely manning their little booth, and putting it all on the line. Armed with little more than a clipboard, an attitude problem and a big box of latex gloves.

These heroic servants of the people are the sharp end of the spear; our last line of defense; the only thing that stands between us and a country teeming with discount auto-parts, gray-market satellite and affordable tobacco.

And let's not forget the real reason they’re out there: to fend off the waves of Americans ready to risk it all for a shot at making it across our border. These crazy, desperate souls have a dream: The dream of starting a new life in the glorious country we call Canada. They yearn for the freedoms that we as Canadians so sadly take for granted on an almost daily basis.

Freedom means never having to choose, an escape from the stomach-churning stresses of the decision making process. It means not having to allocate a disposable income after paying taxes and being charged interesting tariffs when you buy blank CD’s.

Freedom means you’ll never have to worry, “Am I getting enough Canadian content?”
Or being forced to decide, “Do I watch HBO or MTV? VH1 or The WB?”

It means you’ll never have to pick between a multitude of successful sports franchises or any number of viable political parties.

Freedom means never having to experience the horror of opening a newspaper and being confronted with a bewildering array of major air carriers, each running ads claiming lower prices than the competition. Or wandering into a health food store with the family and having the saleslady brazenly offer you amino-acids and melatonin in front of the children.

And yes, it can be argued that firecrackers and free speech have their merits, but one need only look to America’s haphazard regulation of their soft drink industry to see how much they truly care about their citizens. We're talking about a government that continues to allow its citizens to sell and consume clear caffeinated beverages.

You think the “dudes” in the Mountain Dew commercials are high on adrenaline and extreme sports? Think again.

A single can of American Mountain Dew contains enough caffeine to power a small Starbucks for a week, and its all state sanctioned. Something to think about the next time you see our government banning a book or a pretty protester being pepper sprayed.

It’s a small price to pay for what we’ve got. When everything is said and done there is no greater gift than freedom and no price too great for that gift—even if the price of that freedom is, well, freedom.

RIDGEFIELD: Woman breaks both legs protesting loud music

The Associated Press

Toni Lynn Lycan, 44, got so mad about the music blasting from the apartment downstairs that she jumped up and down as hard as she could - and broke both her legs, according to police in Ridgefield. The injury accured after Lycan yelled at her downstairs neighbor, Allen Haines, 27, to turn down his music. Haines responded by grabbing a broom and banged the handle on his ceiling, an action which infuriated Lycan, who responded by jumpeding up in the air and slammed both feet on the floor, hard enough to break both her legs about 4 inches below the kneecap, Hall said.

Comment:

Well, I hope he learned his lesson. Don't mess with Toni Lynn, or she'll lie on your ceiling and sob quietly. Let this be a lesson to large women everywhere: chocolate is not a good source of calcium.

Jesse Venture, Arnold Schwarzenegger...is it just me? Or is America slowly electing the cast of Predator into office?

You know what this means, Carl Weathers is next. Is the world really ready for Governor Apollo Creed?

Fuck, I remember when being a politician meant you could act. Now you just have to have appeared in a few movies.

Between action hero Governors and the Republicans talking about making Dennis Miller a senator, pretty soon you won't know if you're watching C-SPAN or Saturday Night Live.

"Oh look, The Chili Peppers are on Congress tonight."

Quote of the day:

"In this time of war against Osama bin Laden and the oppressive Taliban regime, we are thankful that our leader isn't the spoiled son of a powerful politician from a wealthy oil family who is supported by religious fundamentalists, operates through clandestine organizations, has no respect for the democratic electoral process, bombs innocents, and uses war to deny people their civil liberties. Amen."

- a censored boondocks comic strip

Coke Machines

So whose idea was it to put warning labels on all the Coke machines?
Was this really necessary?

"Warning! Never rock or tilt. Machine can fall over and cause serious injury or death. Vending machine will not dispense free product"

It won’t? Well there’s a real shocker. I mean, who would have thought a device called a vending machine would be trying to charge people money?

Is the beverage-buying public made up of morons?!

If the machine was going to hand out free soda, it’d be called a sample machine, or maybe…a fridge!

And if everything was free, there wouldn’t be a rocking and tilting issue.

Or, if there was, it would at least be limited to a very narrow cross-section of society, more specifically: angry illiterate people.

“Damn thing…won’t take…my…money!!”

“Dude, calm down. It’s free.”

And gee…serious injury or death. All I wanted was a soft drink and here you’ve handed me a dilemma.

“Well, we can submerge you in sulfuric acid or we could hit you in the throat with an axe.”

There’s a Fear Factor I really don’t want to be on.

But since you were kind enough to give me a choice, I guess I’ll go with serious injury, thanks.

And why does it have to be a serious injury? Maybe I’m fast—this might not be my first caffeinated beverage of the day. Isn’t it entirely possible the machine just grazes me or rips my shirt?

Who comes up with the criteria for Coke machine injury severity?

“Welcome to team Coca-Cola, Tom. I think you’re going to like here. You’ll be joining research division S, where we’ll have you working with “volunteers” from a local senior’s home.

What we’d like you to do is have them rock one of our machines. Now, I should probably warn you, this may take several seniors. The current batch is a little light. Fucking osteoporosis! We had to recalibrate everything.

Anyway, what I want you to do is observe their rocking and categorize the resulting injury. Or I guess I should I say: injuries.

Now, we really don’t have much in the way of guidelines for you—this only being our second week of testing and all, but what I can tell you is: if they’re no longer breathing, it probably doesn’t go under serious.


And Tom, whatever you do, don’t help them rock the machine. I’m getting sick of interviewing you people.”

And if their apocalyptic warnings about the dangers of vending machine operation aren’t enough to make you rethink your thirst, they've included a little hieroglyph of a stick man patron being slaughtered by a ten foot high vending machine.

You don't seem him rocking or tilting. He's not even kicking it. The machines actions are totally unprovoked. This guy isn't looking for trouble, he just wants a Coke.

Oh sure, killing the customer will save them the cost of a can of pop and they won't have to refill the machine, but what about repeat business? And who cleans this up? Someone would have to.

I mean, if I go to buy a Coke and find a thirsty dead guy lying crushed under a toppled pop machine does the Coca-Cola Corporation really think I'm going to take the time to get a bunch of friends together and put their murderous machine back up against the wall?

And even if I did have the time, they've lost the element of surprise. Now I know what to expect.
You'd have to be pretty stupid not to make the connection.

Hmmm...The Coke machine is on its side and the flat guy is dead.

“How strange, I wonder if they’re somehow connected?”

And in the unlikely event the machine malfunctions and you actually live through the beverage dispensing process, they've taken the liberty of installing a metal bracket that makes it impossible to get the bottle out; that way, worse case scenario, they're only out one soda.

And, when you're bent over trying to figure out the physics of getting your Coke past the bracket, the machine has a chance to reset.

So it can try falling on you again…


[comments?]

Off to see Frank Black and the Catholics tonight. Should be good. Hopefully U of C picks a better theatre than the concrete bunker they stuck Rollins in. Otherwise I may be deaf tomorrow.

Update: Great Show. Many Pixies tunes were played. More on this later, maybe. How's that for commitment?

Drive-Thrus (last edited 04/02/03)

Can someone please tell me why drive-thru employees now feel the need to introduce themselves?

"Hi. My names Tom. Welcome to Taco Bell."

Taco Bell! So that's where I am. Thanks Tom!

I guess the big backlit menu and your colossal fucking sign were a little too subtle; I was thinking this was a toll booth or the entrance to a national park.

Guess there’s not much point in asking about the fire risk now, huh.

Do I sound like I’ve been drinking, Tom? And what makes you think I even want to know your name?

Are your expecting me to return your little introduction?

"Honey, this is Tom. Tom operates a headset in the FM band and works with melted cheese."

Look Tom, I've got enough stuff to remember without you burdening me with extraneous information.

I'm trying to remember what everybody wants, and there are cars filled with hungry people lined up behind me.

No. Don't start making suggestions. I don't care if I do save forty-three cents by going with the combo. I shouldn't be eating this shit in the first place.

The only reason I'm here, Tom, is that I didn't get around to buying groceries. You're here, so you can buy groceries.

I'm not so sure you're the one to be giving out financial advice.

You're a vending machine with arms, Tom. Just bring me my fucking food!

Look, I don't want trouble. I just want three Quesada’s and three large Cokes.

What do you mean, "Would Pepsi be ok?"

If I'd wanted Pepsi, I'd have asked for Pepsi. What's that? You don't carry Coke?!

What kind of place is this?

Fine. Give me 3 large Pepsi's. No ice.

Do I want to upsize that? There you go making suggestions again, Tom.

Let me explain something and maybe you can pass this on to head office.

There are three sizes of soft drink: small, medium, and large.

It's been like that since the dawn of time. There is no such size as up. Up is a direction, not a size.

And for the record there's no such size as "super" or "biggie" either.

I know what you’re up to, Tom. You’re about as a subtle as first date who shows up at the door carrying condoms and a camcorder.

This isn’t about you being concerned I might be really thirsty or could use extra fries. It’s about money.

It’s about maximizing your margins: charging fifty-five cents for another two cents worth of syrup and telling me it’s the BEST VALUE.

Best value for who, Tom? Your shareholders? People who make large pants? Practitioners of liposuction?!

I’m hungry, Tom. Not stupid.

That’s right. I’m hungry and I’m smart and the food you sell has no value.

Your fucking menu reads like a business plan for a cardiology clinic.

Jesus, this place’s “treat of the week” should be an angioplasty balloon.

The last thing anybody needs is more of this stuff.

And what, a 300% markup isn’t enough for you people? You’ve got to make more?

First it was too much ice in the soda. Three good sips, no more beverage.

Then it was napkins. You’re selling people deep fried finger-food and you guys leave out the napkins.

“Well, his steering wheels all slippery and he might accidentally swerve into oncoming-traffic and kill someone, but we saved a penny. Hi-five. “

And now it’s ketchup. Ketchup costs what, three cents a package?

Do you know how many times I’ve driven away without ketchup so you guys can save three cents?

Who orders fries without ketchup? I’ll tell you who, no one!

When I order fries, ketchup, by its very nature, is implied.

What’s next? “Oh, we didn’t know you wanted it cooked. Would you like to upsize your beef tartar? “

Sarcasm is my sword and cynicism my shield.

Ever wondered how they come up with those names for military operations?

Yuppies

There once was a time, long before MTV, when the drummer for Def Leopard had not one arm, but three.

The people were simple. They all dressed in pastel. A time before boy bands made radio hell.

We had “Men at Work” and “Men without Hats” and Ozzy was still biting the heads off of bats.

Ferris Bueller was still cool; Michael Jackson still black and Meatloaf had yet to have his third heart attack.

But it was also a time long before Nine Inch Nails. No Weezer. No Korn. No DVD sales.

A time of excess, when it was all about ME. A time of great evil that spawned…the Yuppie.

“Look at me I’m so trendy. I live right downtown. I can power walk to work and push the homeless around.”

They like Jettas, and Beetles, and Volvos and Beamers. They throw upscale parties with foreign non-dairy creamers

They own ThinkPad’s, and Palm Pilots, and digital PCS phones. Pay cash for their houses. They never need loans.

They like pagers and day timers and digital crap. Pay $49.95 for an LL Bean cap.

They drink coffee at Starbucks, and then shop at the GAP. Fill their carts at Ikea with unpainted crap.

Never seen dirt but somehow need an SUV. Have cell phones with ear-things so they can talk when they pee.

Trade stocks on E-trade. Buy stuff on E-Bay. Take Prozac to keep fucking smiling all day.

They drink organic smoothies that look like mulched grass. Have fat pumped into tits that's been sucked from their ass.

They buy bottled water from far away places. Have collagen stuff injected in faces.

They golf and they jog and they drink protein shakes. Take care of their lawns with Tommy Hilfiger rakes.

They Tai Bo and yoga and run on treadmills. They hope to stay young by tossing back pills.

One pill for breakfast, another for lunch. Making sure you take calcium or you'll end up all scrunched.

They buy solo-flex, the ab-rocker and elliptical cross trainers. Have transparent braces and dental retainers.

Put bleach on their teeth and then go tanning in beds. Have micro-graft hair plugs installed in their heads.

With salt-water breasts and calve implants too. Why bother working out when parts can be flown in for you?

Only eat dolphin friendly tuna that's been raised free range. Don't talk to their neighbor’s cause they think that they’re strange.

They like sushi, and sake and things from afar. Watch for them at red lights. They make fun of your car.

They are greedy and vain and materialistic. Conversation revolves around them. It’s damn near sadistic.

They lust after money and stocks and material riches. They don’t make good wives as they’re generally bitches.

It’s not nice to poke fun. But I’ve noticed one thing.

They’re all trying to grab the same damn brass ring.

Morocco offers US monkeys to detonate mines
From the International Desk
Published 3/24/2003 6:43 AM
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RABAT, D.C., Morocco, March 24 (UPI) -- A Moroccan publication accused the government Monday of providing unusual assistance to U.S. troops fighting in Iraq by offering them 2,000 monkeys trained in detonating land mines.

The weekly al-Usbu' al-Siyassi reported that Morocco offered the U.S. forces a large number of monkeys, some from Morocco's Atlas Mountains and others imported, to use them for detonating land mines planted by the Iraqis.

The publication quoted a highly-informed source as saying, "that is not a scientific illusion but a well-known military tactic."

---

I picture them out there with cymbals. Jumping up and down "looking" for mines


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Unconfirmed (by me), but interesting and potential comedy material.

One of the major US manufacturers of duct tape was a big Bush supporter (read: big campaign contribution) and suddenly Americans are being told to run out and buy duct tape and plastic sheeting.

Cheney is on the board of the company that gets awarded the contract to rebuild Iraq. Supposedly said contract was soliciting bids long before diplomacy "failed"

Afghanistan: warring tribes fighting over rubble (no city left). Why don't they just take the "Welcome to Tora Bora and move it to another pile of rubble?

"We've captured the city!"
"No, we've captured the city!"
"F*ck you, Amid. Tora Bora is ours!


People in Afghanistan are being killed by air-dropped humanitarian aid. (sure I read that somewhere last year)

Afghani 1: "It's a soup that eats just like a meal"
Afghani 2: "It's a soup you can eat with a Fork!"
Afghani 1: "Spoon!"
Afghani 2: "Fork!"
Afghani 1: "Spoon!"

When suddenly, can's of Campbell's Chunky Soup start raining from the sky like chicken and beef cluster munitions: punching holes in buildings, oblitorating vehicles and indiscriminately embedding in live stock.

Afghani 1: "Run Amid. Run! The Americans are feeding us again!"



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Quick review of Henry Rollins spoken word show at UofC:
Rollins was great. The venue was not.

From 7:00pm till 8:00 they had us waiting in what appeared to be an oversized concrete bunker (actually the theatre) which wouldn't have been a big deal, but there was about 700 people there and not much airflow. To make matters worse they were playing Beach Boys songs at roughly 200 decibels. Not all of their songs, mind you, but maybe five of them in an endless loop. Which makes perfect sense when you think about it, because we all know how much punk rock fans love the Beach Boys.

After about 30 minutes of this shit, I was ready to punch someone and we all know how even-tempered I am. I wouldn't have been at all surprised if a riot had broken out. In fact, one fan was so enthused he went in to an epileptic seizure about half-way into the show, which shut everything down for about a half-hour. Fortunately, campus security responded quickly, strolling in about seven minutes later. After sizing up the situation, they broke into a short huddle and then left the theatre. Five minutes later they came back with hot coffee for the guy (who at this point was still on the floor).

I'm not so sure superheated stimulants are really what someone who's actively epileptic needs and apparently somebody else felt the same way as they took a bottle of water off Rollins and gave it to the guy. The security clowns wandered off looking dejected, but managed to stage a triumphant return about fifteen minutes later with a stretcher in tow. And the show eventually continued.

If you get a chance to see Rollins, take it. You won't be disappointed.


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Product Placement [2nd draft]

As someone who's recently spent a disproportionate number of his waking hours sitting slack-jawed in front of a satellite television feed, recovering from the trauma of having been monetarily raped by the money-hungry whores that run this nation's movie theatres, I've had the unique misfortune of having recently observed the time-lapsed evolution of a phenomenon know as product placement.

Product placement, for those of you unfamiliar with the term, is the practice whereby companies pay to have their products placed in a movie. Hence the term: product placement. It started back in the forties when advertising agencies working on behalf of the De Beers company brokered a deal to have several studio’s starlets appear onscreen wearing jewelry made from chunks of compressed carbon: a substance then considered to be worthless.

Now I know you’re thinking, “Scott, did they really believe the public was so gullible, so easily manipulated, that they’d willingly hand over their hard-earned cash for a few shiny rocks, just because they were perpetually presented against a backdrop of Grade-A girl-flesh?”

Well, after careful consideration and a detailed analysis of all the facts, I would have to say: Yup

Thank God we proved them wrong.

I mean, if they had pulled it off there’s no telling knows what their next evil initiative might have been. They might have tried something insane, like associating their crazy “diamond” product with love or trying to incorporate it with Western marriage traditions.

And why stop there? Why not tell everyone that, gosh, a good rule of thumb would be to spend two months salary on these things. Or maybe six? Just to be safe…

Why not say diamonds make you thin? Or that they’ll lower your cholesterol? It could be true, right? I mean, if you’ve just spent two months pay on a transparent fucking rock, you probably can’t afford food!

But I digress. Undeterred by De Beers’s experience, companies continued the practice of product placement with little success. At least until the early 80's, when somebody got lucky and hit the jackpot with a movie I didn't like called "E.T, the Extra-Terrestrial", featuring Reeces Pieces: a candy I still don't like.

Now these pieces from Reeces were not the director's first choice, Spielberg had originally want to cast M&M's to play the part of the movie's sole candied confection, but apparently the Mars Corporation claimed that they “didn't want their candy associated with an alien" and therefore were not interested in paying for the privilege of having their product appear in a movie.

This, of course, makes perfect sense. I mean, you wouldn't want to take something as homespun and apple pie as "The Mars Corporation" and risk sullying it's down home charm by associating it with a creature...from another planet.

The Mars Corporation, fuck... It sounds like the name of an Orwellian asteroid-mining company in a made-for-TV movie.

So, Spielberg went with Reeces. And Reeces's sales went through the roof. And for the first time in the history of film, companies were falling all over themselves to pay huge sums of money to pimp their products on the big screen. All because a Muppet looking like nothing so much as the byproduct of a drunken one-night stand between Dr. Ruth and that Smegel the Gollum thing from Lord of The Rings, pretended (it’s a movie; the little guy was just following the script) that it couldn't get enough of the stuff.

Once companies realized that there were people—with jobs—so stupid that they’d rush out and buy something based solely on a ringing endorsement from a thing whose head is filled with foam, all bets were off. Suddenly products were getting more screen time than Tom Cruise. The last Bond film made seventy million dollars US in product placement fees alone!

And as I sit here in traffic, enjoying the heated seats and incredible fuel economy of my 2003 VW Golf TDI and savoring sips of my Starbucks Venti Latte between typing this out on my IBM ThinkPad T23 Notebook with its Linksys WPC11 Wireless Network Connection and stunning active-matrix screen, I can’t help but feel depressed at the sad state of today’s cinematic arts.

And I’m not talking about the kind of depressed that one could counter with high doses of fish oil or herbal remedies like Saint John’s wart, but a dark brooding melancholy best treated with Paxil™, the only medication approved for the treatment of depression and social anxiety.


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Edward Gorey's rhyming, illustrated alphabet of horrible things happening to rotten children (A is for Amy, who fell down the stairs)


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Looks like this is shaping up to be a good year for concerts: Rollins this month (this sunday) and Frank Black and the Catholics next month. And I didn't even have to drive to Vancouver.


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On behalf of Canadians everywhere I'd like to offer an apology to the United States of America. We haven't been getting along very well recently and for that, I am truly sorry.

I'm sorry we called George Bush a moron. He is a moron but, it wasn't nice of us to point it out.
If it's any consolation, the fact that he's a moron shouldn't reflect poorly on the people of America.
After all it's not like you actually elected him. I'm sorry about our softwood lumber. Just because we have more trees than you doesn't give us the right to sell you lumber that's cheaper and better than your own.

I'm sorry we beat you in Olympic hockey. In our defense I guess our excuse would be that our team was much, much, much, much better than yours.

I'm sorry we burnt down your white house during the war of 1812. I notice you've rebuilt it! It's very nice.

I'm sorry about your beer. I know we had nothing to do with your beer but, we feel your pain.

I'm sorry about our waffling on Iraq. I mean, when you're going up against a crazed dictator, you wanna have your friends by your
side. I realize it took more than two years before you guys pitched in against Hitler, but that was different. Everyone knew he had weapons.

And finally on behalf of all Canadians, I'm sorry that we're constantly apologizing for things in a passive-aggressive way, which is really a
thinly veiled criticism. I sincerely hope that you're not upset over this. We've seen what you do to countries you get upset with.

Thank you.

-Rick Mercer, This Hour has 22 mins.

Does someone you know have a gambling problem?

Enter to win valuable counseling!

Speaking of Rollins, looks like he's coming to Calgary March 9th.
Thanks go to Jason, for using work's valuable time and resources to find out about this and let me know in time to get good seats.
Update: $25.50 a ticket before Ticketmaster burns you on service charges, picked up two.

An interview in The Observer with Henry Rollins

Warning Labels on Coke Machines

Whose idea was it to put warning labels on all the Coke machines? Was this really necessary?
I mean, I made it through childhood and adolescence without them. So did most of you.

So why do we need them now?

"Warning! Never rock or tilt. Machine can fall over and cause serious injury or death. Vending machine will not dispense free product"

Hmmm...serious injury or death. Given the choice, I think I'll go with serious injury, thank you.

And what exactly is serious injury? I don't recall ever being presented with a list of options.
What other types of injury are there?

I don't know about you, but if we're talking about a two ton fridge filled with carbonated beverages and change toppling over and driving me into concrete, it's pretty much an all or nothing event.

In fact, I can't think of an injury that isn't serious. Look up the word in the dictionary:

"Damage or harm done to or suffered by a person or thing."

Sounds serious to me.

And if their apocalyptic warnings about the dangers of vending machine operation aren’t enough to make you rethink your thirst, they've included a little hieroglyph of a stick man patron being slaughtered by a ten foot high vending machine.

You don't seem him rocking or tilting. He's not even kicking it. The machines actions are totally unprovoked. This guy isn't looking for trouble, he just wants a Coke.

Oh sure, killing the customer will save them the cost of a can of pop and they won't have to refill the machine, but what about repeat business? And who cleans this up? Someone would have to.
I mean, if I go to buy a Coke and find a thirsty dead guy lying crushed under a toppled pop machine does the Coca-Cola Corporation really think I'm going to take the time to get a bunch of friends together and put their murderous machine back up against the wall?

And even if I did have the time, they've lost the element of surprise; now I know what to expect.
You'd have to be pretty stupid not to make the connection.

Hmmm...The Coke machine is on its side and the flat guy is dead.

Coincidence? I don't think so.

And in the unlikely event the machine malfunctions and you actually live through the beverage dispensing process, they've taken the liberty of installing a metal bracket that makes it impossible to get the bottle out; that way, worse case scenario, they're only out one soda.

And, when you're bent over trying to figure out the physics of getting your Coke past the bracket, the machine has a chance to reset.

So it can try falling on you again.


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I've added a new and improved comment option. Actually, it's more like a message board and it's got some really nice features, though most of them are hidden unless you set up an account. But all you need for an account is your name, email address and a password. Check out the "Warning Label Post" for more info (the links at the bottom).

Didn't get much done this weekend, but I did get a chance to listen to a bunch of standup.
If you like comedy definitely check out: Bill Hicks and Lewis Black.
Without Hicks, I don't think Dennis Leary would have a career.

Stephen Lynch and Dane Cook also have some decent material.

Well, it's a new year and a new look for the site. Didn't really want to change the format, but I kept getting template errors when posting, making it royal pain to update the site. Nothing quite like having to click though 20 error messages to update the site to curb one's already lagging enthusiasm.

The downside is, everything I'd customized has gone out the window, including the comment feature. So I'll have to get around to figuring all that shit out again. I like what you can do with the web, but html has got to go. It's like having to forge your own fucking tools before you can work on your car...and that's being kind.

Nothing much new here. I've been going to work, going to the gym, reading and watching the odd bit of television. Working though a second draft of "Birth of a Salesman" after taking a couple weeks off. I've got until the 15th to finish it, if I want to enter it and "Pound of Flesh" in a short story contest. I'm also wading through some really dull Windows XP material for work and am planning on getting some SQL certification. Just to make myself less disposable.

I'm thoroughly sick of computers and IT but it pays the bills. So until something else takes off (business idea, writing, standup, or a lottery win) I'm stuck doing what I've been doing all along. If nothing else it makes me angry, and that's a good thing -- assuming I can channel it. Things could always be worse and being comfortable means getting complacent.

Got to love the net. I was reading an interview with one of my favorite authors and this jumped out at me:

"Palahniuk is part of Portland's "Dangerous Writers" community, which is led by Tom Spanbauer, author of The Man Who Fell In Love With The Moon and In The City of Shy Hunters. Spanbauer created his branch of minimalism based on his own studies with editing wunderkind Gordon Lish at Columbia University. Palahniuk often says Spanbauer and the class changed his life by making him realize he could be a writer."

A quick google search later and I see Spanbauer is teaching a course this summer:

Tom Spanbauer has published short stories, reviews, and three novels: In the City of Shy Hunters, Faraway Places, and The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon, which was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize, a PEN/Faulkner Award, and the National and American Book Awards. His new novel, In the City of Shy Hunters, has received wide and enthusiastic recognition.

July 22-26, 9am-4pm Wr 410/510, 3 Credits $435, Noncredit $415

Over to mapquest and I see Portland is only 1300km away. That's only one tank of gas!

Assuming I'm still working next summer, and can find a decent deal on accommodations, I think I'm going to do this.

One more day until I get the on call phone again.
Words can not express just how happy I am about that.
It's like having a small child. A small child with a shrill ear-piercing ring that shakes you out of sleep three or four times a night on servers that you don't even look after, because the small child is possessed by evil spirits that don't their ass from their elbow and have implemented an automated system so fucked up it makes my love life look functional.

Career of the future my ass...

Wow. I never saw this coming. Buckle up kids, looks like we're going to war.
All I can say is there better be smart bomb footage. I loves smart bomb footage.

Short story update. Well, it's up to nine pages and I've thought up an ending, and it only took what, 2 weeks? Stephen King I am not.
At my current rate, a book would likely take about 3 years -- for the first draft.

If you've ever felt that the world is fucked and everything is being run by big corporations who control us all though a seemingly endless series of puppet governements, well, maybe you're right:

They said, 'You know, this issue doesn't seem to resignate with the people.' And I said, you know something? Whether it resignates or not doesn't matter to me, because I stand for doing what's the right thing, and what the right thing is is hearing the voices of people"

--George W. Bush (verbatim) / Portland, Oregon 10-31-00

Just finished watching Sword of The Ninja. A 1982 "Crime Drama" featuring Scott Glenn and a bunch of unknown japanese guys. Pretty cheesy stuff, but entertaining in a 3am lateshow kind of way. A step up from infommericals anyway. The Showcase Extreme channel plays this kind of stuff 24 / 7.

Been reworking a second short story, but figured I'd take a break and crank out some bad standup based on some stuff I scribbled down a ways back. Figured I'd pick a topic that had been done to death and claw my way upward from there.

STAR TREK: Standup First Draft

Have you noticed the same shows are always on television?

Try this at home sometime, flip though the TV guide and pick a day, any day, at random.
I guarantee some flavor of Star Trek will be on at least five times.

The “Space Channel” may as well change the name to “Trekie TV” because that’s all they fucking show.

I mean come on, how much Star Trek do these people need?!

Folks, I’ve seen what Star Trek can do, and it isn’t pretty. I’ve visited a Sci-Fi convention. I’ve seen the walking wounded. Color me a chauvinist, but overweight middle-aged men testing the tensile strength of replica Kirk tunics as they stand around arguing about Klingon syntax is funny; a three hundred pound one-eyebrowed woman wearing a skintight cat suit and pretending she’s Seven of Nine is downright disturbing.

Honey, I’ve got news for you, you’re a lot closer to being all nine of nine, than your are seven.

I figure, if the government can force big tobacco to put a full-color glossy of a cancer-riddled lung on 90 million packages of cigarettes a year, then the least they can do is make the networks run a public service announcement before every Star Trek.

It wouldn’t have to be fancy. How about a thirty second “day in the life” of a forty year virgin; who dresses up like a Vulcan and still lives in his parent’s basement? I think that might get the message across.

If there’s anybody from “Space” here -- and I’m talking about the channel sir, so don’t be putting up your hand just yet -- why don’t you guys take a risk and do something hasn’t been done a million times before?

How about a reality TV show based on a Russian space station?

Then again, what would they show you? Stuff breaking?

[Said with bad Russian accent]
"On today's show Mir's shower is again not working. In truly spectacular display of Russian ingenuity Vladimir and Nicoli manage to bathe using nothing but vodka and left over insulation."

Ok. Maybe not.

Of all the Star Treks I’ve seen, Voyager is by far the worst. Now I’ve only seen it a couple of episodes, but the show seems to revolve around Captain Janeway: an uptight starship captain that's somehow managed to get the ship and everybody in it is hopelessly lost, in space.

Wow. Talk about original. I wonder how long it took the writers to come up with that one?

The only thing I liked about that show was the replicator. How cool would that be, get home after a long day at work, press a button, and your chowing down on a medium-rare charbroiled steak with garlic bread, baked potato and an ice-cold beer?

Kind of makes you wonder why somebody doesn't think of replicating a gas station, so they can stop and ask for some fucking directions on how to find their way back home.

And then you’ve got Deep Space Nine.
This time they aren't lost, they're in a stationary space station. Talk about excitement.
I'm guess the federation learned their lesson after Janeway went and lost their big expensive ship. They’ve probably got this thing tethered to a nearby planet, like the pens in the bank.

I think they should let me write one of these shows. The first thing I'd do is lose the morality play thing. The "Oh we can't interfere with their fragile developing culture. The prime directive expressly prohibits our interference"

My show? It would be like:

Look, I don’t give a rat’s ass about the prime directive! Let’s actually use some of this cool shit. Here’s an idea, instead of floating here all calm, rational and morally superior. Why don’t we actually DO something for a change?

Ok people! Everybody into the teleporters. Once you get down there, I want you all to fan out and blast everyone unconscious. If you see anything that looks valuable, bring it back.

If you come across any of the planet’s indigenous wildlife, shoot to kill! And bring that back too, I'm sick of eating mystery meat from this goddamn replicator. For all we know the fucking things hooked up to the chemical toilets.

And bring back any attractive women you encounter. And by attractive, I don’t mean weird-looking alien chicks with ridges on their faces. Ok?”

No scratch that. My show, we wouldn’t even have replicators.
Once the food ran out the crew would have to resort to eating each other like that soccer team that crashed in the Andes Mountains.

Now that's entertainment.

"Friends don't let friends drive drunk. Unless they have a really pretty wife" - Me

Ecofreaks & Fasting

You know what really bugs me?

Environmentalists.
Eco-freaks.
Granolas.

Those tree-hugging, Soya-swilling, Hemp-clad, Birkenstock-wearing little malcontents.

I remember a time when, unless you spent your days clubbing baby seals and clear-cutting redwoods, the only place you’d see these people was on the news, and even then it was usually just Greenpeace trying to get press; entertaining the viewers at home by lashing themselves to aircraft carriers or trying to ram a whaling ship with a zodiac.

We didn’t have Fear Factor back then, we had Greenpeace: the one enemy even the French were brave enough to fight.

“Your ship, she is called “Rainbow Warrior”? Mon dieu, we surrender! What, you don’t have guns? Only little inflatable boats and a banner? I see. Then we…are at war!”

But that was then, now they’re everywhere.

And they don’t believe in deodorant.

I think they’ve even managed to worm their way into General Mills and Kellogg.

Have you read the back of cereal box lately?!

“This preservative-free organic granola was grown in foothills of Burma in 100% organic soil. Milled by a commune of free-range not-for-profit painters and packaged in unbleached recycled sun-dried Soya paper. All proceeds go towards restoring the rainforest to its once pristine state.”

That is not what I want to read on my cereal box.
What’s happened to “Prize inside!” or “Warning. This product can cause hyperactivity. Repeated use may result in diabetic shock”

And these people, they bike year-round!

Like it’s not bad enough it snows in this country six months out of the year.
No, I want to be outside in minus fifty trying to pedal my way though a fucking snow bank. I want to wobble down icy avenues and back up traffic till it’s over the horizon.

Cause nothing showcases my commitment to mother earth like an eight mile string of angry motorists.

And it’s not enough they all wear helmets, now they’re starting to wear filter masks like Michael Jackson; These are the ones that make me nervous, looking like any minute they’re either going to start doing unauthorized body work on my car or try and give me an appendectomy.

You want to protect yourself from the pollution?

Ride in a fucking car like the rest of us.

These are the people that roll their eyes and sigh when you order a cheeseburger.
These are the same people that give you a hard time about your tuna sandwich.

"Dolphins died for that Sandwich!"
Yeah, well, so did Tuna.... what's your point?

I'm at the top of the food pyramid. If any of God's tasty creatures wants to get off their ass; grow opposing thumbs and learning to walk upright--then we can talk. Until then I'm going to keep happily munching my way though the food groups.

And one day just bothering people about what they eat isn't good enough. The rush they once got from explaining how the apple you're eating is a ticking time bomb, chock full of carcinogenic pesticides, starts to fade.

They have to move on to harder stuff:

"genetically engineered food will kill us all!"
"bovine growth hormone is poisoning our children's milk!"
"Irradiated food is damaging our nation's produce!"

This works for a while, but eventually, even this isn't enough. To
recapture the rush, they have to do something really radical.

Like NOT eat.

You know that we as a society have it far too good when people start doing
things like fasting.

And once they start they’re shameless. They’ll use any conversation to let the world know what they’re up to.

"Oh no, I can't have a muffin. I'm on a fast."
"I'd love to go for lunch with you guys, but I'm fasting."
"Coffee? Oh, no thanks. I'm fasting"

"Look at me. Look at me. I'm fasting. I'm eliminating all the chemical toxins that have built up in my body. It's a cleansing fast." "No, it's not bad for me. I'm losing weight--like fucking tofu was
fattening--and I'm getting in touch with my spiritual side."

No kidding your losing weight, you moron. What you’re doing is called STARVING.
Yes, STARVING.
You know, very big in those trendy Third World Countries. Everybody there
is doing it there. In fact it's become so popular that organizations like the UN and the Red
Cross are constantly over there trying to get them to stop.

"C’mon guys, PLEASE eat something"

"No way! Our people may not have housing, education, medical infrastructure, roads, or even clean water but look at all the weight we've lost--if we had clothes you can damn well bet we'd fit into them. You only want us to give this up because you're jealous.

Go eat pizza, you western devil."

And what’s with Sally Struthers in those “Save the Children” commercials? I mean, my God, look at the women. It looks like someone threw a blonde wig on Chris Farley. Who exactly is my donation buying food for? At least show someone that’s making an effort.
How tough could it be to find another pseudo-celebrity? Just grab somebody off Fear Factor.

"Hi, remember me? I’m the guy that ate all those bugs. Right now, there are children in the third world without running water or bugs…”

This fasting thing has gotten so stupid, that there’s even "recipes" for fasting now.
Have you seen the one that has you drinking a mixture of maple syrup, lemon juice and cayenne
pepper? What the fuck? Somewhere out there is a very wealthy health guru laughing his ass off.

I guess there's money to be made. I’m tempted to write my own book: The Tequila Fast.
At the end of every meal you down a 40 of tequila. Using my scientifically proven method, you can rid your body of toxins AND get an efficient fat-burning abdominal workout, while hanging your head over the toilet.

Hey, Lean Cuisine could come out with their own brand of Fasting Food:
"Little empty microwavable packages that smell like your favorite foods"
"mmm...chicken. I remember that..."

Even Richard Simmons could get cash in on the craze with:

Richard Simmon's Fasting Deal a Meal

"Don't know about you, but I got nothing here. Hit me"
"Again"
"Nothing....damn it"
"What the hell. All these cards are blank!"

She was a runaway car
He was a parking brake
She was completely out of control
He was constantly trying to make her stop
Little wonder he eventually burnt out

First draft of a 69 word story for a magazine contest. The story must be exactly 69 words. Harder than I expected.

A Changed Man

"I don't understand. Why now? After ten years,"

"Look," she said, stifling a sob. "You're not the man I married. You've changed."

"But babe, I love..."

"Don't you 'dare babe' me! For years, you've spent every waking minute poring over books and obsessing about a dead language. And now this. I hope you're happy; you're not even human anymore!"

"Yeah, but I passed the Bar on my first try!"

Freedom

Now maybe it’s just me, but lately I’ve been getting a little tired of people protecting me from everything.

And while I realize that the anemic Canadian dollar only offers us limited guard against those that would conspire to import products from abroad; and I’m comforted by the fact that companies like UPS care enough to include a forty-dollar brokerage fee on packages entering the country -- making that U2 CD you picked on EBay for three bucks wind up costing you more than front row seats; I still find myself occasionally scratching my head at the policies and practices of the collective brilliance that is our Federal Government.

It’s not that I don't appreciate and respect the people of Canada Customs; I know they're out there day and night, rain or shine, sleet or snow. On holidays and on weekends. Bravely manning their little booths. Putting it all on the line, armed with little more than a clipboard, an attitude problem and a box of latex gloves. These servants of the people are the sharp end of the spear; our last line of defense; the only thing that stands between us and a country teeming with discount auto-parts, DirecTV and affordable tobacco.

And let's not forget the real reason they exist: to fend off the waves of Americans ready to risk it all for a shot at making it across our border. These crazy, desperate souls have a dream: The dream of starting a new life in the glorious country we call Canada. They yearn for the freedoms that we as Canadians so sadly take for granted on an almost daily basis.

Freedom means never having to choose, an escape from the stomach-churning stresses of the decision making process.
It means not having to allocate a disposable income after paying taxes.
Or having to decide “Do I watch HBO or ESPN, MTV or VH1, TNN or the WB?”

Freedom means not having to pick between a multitude of successful sports franchises or any number of viable political parties. It means you’ll never have to experience the horror of opening a newspaper and being confronted with a bewildering array of major air carriers, each running ads that claim lower prices than their competitors or wandering into a health food store with the family and having the salesclerk brazenly offer you melatonin and amino-acids in front of the children.

And yes, it can also be argued that firecrackers and free speech have their merits, but one need only look to America’s haphazard regulation of their soft drink industry to see how much they truly care about their citizens. We're talking about a government that continues to allow its citizens to sell and consume clear caffeinated beverages.

You think the “dudes” in the Mountain Dew commercials are high on adrenaline and extreme sports? Think again.

A single can of American Mountain Dew contains enough caffeine to power a small Starbucks for a week, and its all state sanctioned. Something to think about the next time you start complaining about our government banning a book or a pretty protester being pepper sprayed.

It’s a small price to pay for what we’ve got. When everything is said and done there is no greater gift than freedom and no price too great for that gift—even if the price of that freedom is, well, freedom.

From the 'here put on this helmet, and I'll sell you a car' files:

The illusion of free will

Boston Globe article about a scientist who says your brain sends signals to perform actions before you consciously decide to do them.
What Libet did was to measure electrical changes in people's brains as they flicked their wrists. And what he found was that a subject's ''readiness potential'' - the brain signal that precedes voluntary actions - showed up about one-third of a second before the subject felt the conscious urge to act. The result was so surprising that it still had the power to elicit an exclamation point from him in a 1999 paper: ''The initiation of the freely voluntary act appears to begin in the brain unconsciously, well before the person consciously knows he wants to act!''
Then the experimenters would use magnetic stimulation in certain parts of the brain just at the moment when the subject was prompted to make the choice. They found that the magnets, which influence electrical activity in the brain, had an enormous effect: On average, subjects whose brains were stimulated on their right-hand side started choosing their left hands 80 percent of the time. And, in the spookiest aspect of the experiment, the subjects still felt as if they were choosing freely.

Unexploded quote of the day: "God was my copilot, but we crashed in the mountains and I had to eat him."

Dear Policeman

Open your eyes.
Take a good long look.
It’s not easy to spot; they know what they’re doing.
Practice makes perfect.
Power corrupts.
Orwell was right; it’s just not so obvious.
The big corporations, they control everything -- including you.

You’re a mouse in a wheel, running a road to nowhere.
Selling your life for paper.
Lusting after things you don’t need.
It’s sick, but I think I can help.

Some find salvation in helping those less fortunate than themselves.
Some find their solace in the arms of religion.
Me? I kill people.

I'm saving you all, one round at a time

Quote of the day:

""If child molestation is actually your concern, how come we don't see
Bradley tanks knocking down Catholic churches?"

- in reference to the Waco siege - Bill Hicks

A Pound of Flesh

No matter how many times we do this it never gets old. We’re only halfway there and already I’ve got butterflies ricocheting off the walls of my stomach like bullets in a bank vault, and I’m starting to sweat, in spite of the air conditioner’s Arctic chill.

I yank a Naya water from my rucksack and take a long pull from the bottle, wiping away condensation with the back of my glove so I can watch the bubbles boil up. The water’s cold, but it doesn’t make a dent in the sweet metal tang of adrenaline that floods my mouth and makes everything taste somewhere between blood and battery acid.

I reseat my earpiece for the umpteenth time and cough quietly into the throat mike to test it. Everyone’s got their own pre-game rituals: tying and retying a bootlace, adjusting straps, playing with a piece of kit, or in Kel’s case, tunelessly humming some unknown rock song in an endless loop. I look over and see he’s a million miles away. Zoned right out. His eyes busy boring a hole in the map on his lap with a glassy thousand-yard stare.

Typical, nobody ever seems to talk on the way in and it ends up making the trip seem that much longer.

Under my fatigues, my legs tremble and occasionally twitch. My breathing’s shallow and fast. Heart’s battering the back of my sternum like a Golden Gloves champ working a speed bag. And my pulse, it’s booming large and loud in my head, impervious to the rumblings of the Econoline van’s diesel engine and Jason’s ever-present sonic assault: currently Massive Attack’s “Daydreaming”.

I got them into this. It was my idea. If it weren’t for me, we’d all still be sitting in an air-conditioned office tower, drinking coffee in comfortable chairs and talking about last night’s television. Making personal calls on company time and sneaking out for the occasional long lunch. Covertly surfing the net.

Anything to try and claw back lost time.

Working for somebody is essentially the act of trading minutes of your life for money. But when that’s all your doing and everything you accomplish is intangible; when job satisfaction is a concept as foreign as musical talent in a boy band and each client is ruder and more irate than the next; when every word you utter is recorded, analyzed and criticized, and you have to answer to a legion of middle-management Muppets parroting corporate-speak platitudes – well then you’re likely “enjoying an exciting career in the fast-paced world of information technology”, aka working on the helpdesk: a place somewhere between air-traffic control and your neighborhood McDonalds. Where it’s all about solving other people’s problems as quickly as possible, because there’s always more problems on hold.

It’s more than a little ironic that the people running the helpdesk are the ones most in need of help.

You’ve read how fast food and inactivity is rapidly transforming America’s children into a nation of diabetic little zeppelins, or that more than forty percent of American adults are now morbidly obese?

Well, it’s true, and most of them work here.

These people are what you’d call “early adopters”. Ahead of the curve when it comes to the bulge. Fat, before it became faddish.

Let me be blunt: we’re talking about a place where employee seniority seems to somehow map to pant size.

But then, that’s kind of how all this started.

There are four of us in the van and we’re ready. I mean really ready. Ten months of this has turned us into a well-oiled machine; we’d put most S.W.A.T teams to shame. Each man has a specialty: Jason’s wheelman, Kel the navigator, I handle ingress, usually by way of a Thunderbolt MonoShock. Essentially, a one-man battering ram clipped to a quick release sling. Its thirty-five pounds of door destroying destruction, complete with SEMI-FLEX™ handles that soak up ninety-seven percent of the impact stress while letting me deliver more than 19,000+ lbs of kinetic force.

Think of it as a skeleton key for the type-A personality.

Tim leads the initial rush and usually gets to make the dispatch, dropping the victim quickly and quietly -- at least when everything goes right.

These days we’re using Advanced Taser’s M-Series pistol: a compact conducted energy weapon. Using compressed nitrogen as a propellant, it can send two small metal probes on wires rocketing out to about fifteen feet. These things will punch right through clothing, even if it’s something thick, like a tracksuit or a terrycloth robe. Besides ruining your wardrobe, the darts do something else: they complete the circuit between you and the Taser. After that, waves of electricity interrupt the conversation between your brain and your muscles. So you make a funny face – and then fall on it. Before you can do anything stupid, like fight back or dial 911. And if by some miracle you start getting back up, another squeeze of the trigger will give you a generous second helping.

Hard to believe the whole thing runs off a single nine-volt battery.

His name was Craig Gittel, and he was obviously a veteran analyst. I don’t remember where he worked before he started with us, but the man had experience. This much was evident from impact alone. The first day he started I was sure we were experiencing a minor earthquake. Evacuate, or hide under my cubicle’s particle-board desk. I was trying to decide which approach would waste more of my work day, when he came plodding down the aisle like Godzilla in diving boots, his every step a seismic assault on the senses.

At five-foot six and maybe three hundred and fifty pounds, he was constructed of a material entirely unlike the “solid” flab you find on linebackers and wrestlers. Think garbage bag filled with cottage cheese. Or overstuffed beanbag chair, sporting arms and legs. However you described him, he was the perfect poster boy for everything wrong with the American diet.

Now, you could argue that maybe Craig had a thyroid problem. Or that he might be insulin resistant. It’s possible he was cursed with a slow metabolism. It’s conceivable the man possessed a super-efficient digestive system, capable of wringing out ever last calorie and storing it for future times of famine.

Or it could just be that the fat f#@k stuffed his face every chance he got.

And if that if that wasn’t enough, he was constantly whining about it. You’d ask him how he was doing, just to be polite, and he’d say something like, “I’m ok. But, I’d be a lot better, if I could just lose this weight,” or, “Not bad, for somebody that can’t find his own feet.” How he was able to deliver these lines with a straight-face, a straight-face full of snack food, is anyone’s guess, but ultimately it’s what pushed us over the edge. There’s a limit to kindness. A quota on compassion.

There’s only so much a man can take.

You want to spend the rest of your life held captive by a couch, shoveling pork rinds into your face and watching television? Be my guest.

Want to take up two airline seats? Knock yourself out.

I don’t even care if you need a fire crew, a crane, and Richard Simons, just to get your cellulite-covered carcass from the bedroom to the bathroom; but you had better not stand there spattering my shoes with cupcake crumbs and sucking a slurpee and try and tell me you’re doing everything you can to try and lose weight. Or you’re gonna end up like Gittel. And by the time we’re done, your own family won’t recognize what’s left of you.

We turn off the freeway and head into suburbia, rolling past the usual assortment of standard issue strip malls and costly convenience stores you find feeding on suburbanites. Traffic is light. School’s still in, and rush hour is at least a couple hours away. It’s as close to perfect as it’s liable to get.

Kel snaps out of his coma, “Two minutes out,” He says. Everybody nods.

He peers out the window, shading his eyes with his hand so he can read off each street sign we pass, “Harvest Road, Harvest Place, Harvest Way… What happened to Harvest Close?”

Jason turns the stereo down slightly, looks over at him and says, “What?”

“I said ‘Where the hell is Harvest Close?’”

“How the hell am I supposed to know, you’re the one with the map”

“Wait! I think we just passed it,” says Tim, “back there on the left.”

Jason rolls his eyes, pretends to shoulder check and yells, “Everybody hang on! I’m gonna pull a U”.

He stomps on the brake petal and spins the wheel round with a crazed enthusiasm that makes me think of the U-boat crew in Das Boot frantically sealing flood hatches. Tires squeal, my seatbelt locks out, and everything that’s not tied down starts working its way across the van’s cheap burgundy carpet. And then we’re up on two wheels and everything’s shifting into accident-in-progress slow-motion. I picture myself attempting to explain to the responding Officers why exactly we’re dressed like this.

I mean, I’d like to see you explain all this gear. Halloween isn’t for months and nobody I know wears Kevlar to paintball. I’m currently looking more Columbian death squad than corporate commuter.

The van levels out. Abruptly. We touch down like a myopic Naval Aviator on his first carrier landing and go careening into a cul-de-sac, narrowly missing a lime-green Toyota Echo before pulling back onto the main road and turning down Harvest Close.

“Whoa...that was close. This thing handles like a real pig,” says Jason.
I’m about to say something not nice about Jason’s livestock handling prowess, when the van squeals to a stop. We’re there.

“Mike check,” says Kel.

Tim goes first, “One. Check.” His voice buzzes in my ear, all flat and mechanical, like an evil airline pilot. Encryption stripping his words of all warmth.

I’m next, “Check two.”

Then Kel, “Check three.”

And Jason makes four, “Check. Check four.”

Thirty seconds till go.

I breathe out. In. Back out again. Hard and fast.

I do this three, maybe four times, then roll down my balaclava.

Tim flings open the sliding door. The afternoon sun floods in.

We storm out.

I charge up the front steps like a rocket-assisted Brahma Bull, hitting the door full out, driving up with my legs and back, lineman-style. And the door not so much opens as implodes, disintegrating into a cloud of splinters and dust and carrying me stumbling onto the entranceway floor.

I roll to the side and Kel and Tim blitzkrieg on by, vaulting up stairs two at a time. Pulling myself to my feet, I hurry after them, cresting the top of stairs just in time for the main event. The victim: he’s male, about thirty years old and grotesquely overweight. Rolls of fat from his belly completely obscure the front of his food-stained boxers. He’s still standing in front of an open fridge, drumstick in hand, doing his best imitation of a moose caught in headlights.

He opens his mouth, and chicken falls out. He’s just about to say something when Kel’s Taser goes off with a serpentine hiss. Twin probes plunge deep into the side of a massive man breast and the room fills with that now familiar bug zapper sound.
He falls headlong into fridge, sending condiments and cans of Pepsi skittering across the kitchen floor. Touchdown!

Tim stays in the kitchen, keeping an eye on captain cellulite and while we’re securing the house, he’s emptying the fridge of anything unhealthy—which is pretty much everything. We clear the house room by room and cut the phone lines. The house’s front door is quickly replaced with the one from the van.

Now comes the unpleasant part
.
Working in teams of two, we lug in a Lifecycle™, an elliptical cross-trainer, and a Bowflex™ machine. Then hockey bags filled with Myoplex™, MET-Rx™ bars, and Designer Whey™ protein. Four coolers filled with skinless chicken breasts. Three dozen oversized cans of tuna. Three blenders, a smokeless grill, and a Costco-sized bottle of no-fat mayo.

All in all, it’s enough food for about sixty days, and that’s likely how long it’s gonna take to make things right.

Think of this as an intervention.

We’re here to save you—from saturated fat and artificial flavoring; cheese-filled crusts and MSG; from Trans fatty acids and hydrogenated vegetable oil; Coca-Cola, cocoa butter; sodium, nitrates, fountain pop, fried chicken, potato chips and pizza…

From a life-time of McDonalds commercials.

And any sentence that starts with words “super-sized”.

We work using the squeegee kid business model: You don’t ask for our services, you don’t get the choice.

But when we’re done, you’ll happily pay our fee.

Redheads need more drugs. Something to keep that in mind if you're ever buying me a beer.

And now, while Scott's busy writing, a brief word from Mr.Dennis Leary and friend:

Life's Gonna Suck

By Denis Leary and Chris Phillips
(Originally performed on MTV Unplugged)

Spoken:
This is a special moment right now,
We'd like to take this time to tell all the kids at home,
Send your parents out of the room.
This is a kid's song.

Life's gonna suck when you grow up, when you grow up, when you grow up.
Life's gonna suck when you grow up, it sucks pretty bad right now.

Hey, if you know the words, sing along!

You're gonna have to mow the lawn, do the dishes, make your bed.
You're gonna have to go to school until you're seventeen.

It's gonna seem about three times as long as that!

You might have to go to war, shoot a gun, kill a nun.
You might have to go to war when you get outta school!

Hey, cheer up kids, it gets a lot worse!

You're gonna have to deal with stress, deal with stress, deal with stress.
You're gonna be a giant mess when you get back from the war.

Santa Clause does not exist, and there is no Easter Bunny.
You'll find out when you grow up that Big Bird isn't funny!
(Funny...Funny...Yahahahahaha....)

Life's gonna suck when you grow up, when you grow up, when you grow up.
Life's gonna suck when you grow up, it sucks pretty bad right now!

You're gonna wind up smoking crack, on your back, face the fact.
You're gonna wind up hooked on smack, and then you're gonna die!

AND THEN YOU'RE GONNA DIEEEEEEEEE! HEY-HEY!

Scott's cheesy simile of the day:

I was drawn to her like an oversexed sketch-artist working a broken etch-a-sketch: everything I wanted was curved, but all I could come up with was more predictable lines.

Scott's quote(s) of the day:

"'Don't judge me!' is the battle-cry of the dysfunctional"
"Even a Buddhist dog will bite...if you kick him enough"

Hip Check

by JCook, music correspondent to Unexplodedscotsman.com

Kingston Ontario rockers The Tragically Hip played the first of two sold-out shows last night at the Jubilee Auditorium in Calgary. Playing to a mostly white male audience (The Hip are the quintessential Canadian College rock gods), Gord Downie and company roared through a heavy guitar-laden set that clocked in at about one hour, 45 minutes. Few songs were played from their decent new album, In Violet Light, as this was mostly a greatest hits show. Show Highlights included the venerable New Orleans is Sinking, Grace Too, Fireworks (wholly appropriate considering the high number of Team Canada hockey jerseys in the crowd) and Blow at High Dough. Also included was a lengthy At The Hundredth Merdian, complete with a funky mid-song jam. I think Gord actually forgot to finish the entire song as he kind of tailed off mid-verse, but either way it worked. Spliced in to many of the songs were his various incoherent rants and mumbles, as well as his trademark trance-like dance movements. Overall the Hip delivered energetic, passionate sampling of their two-decade career. The venue was the right size for their sound (don't see this band in a stadium) and the crowd was it's usual worshipful self.
Diehard fans of the band will always love anything put out but for your more discriminating music fan, there are several other choices out there that deliver meaningful music with a more creative sound.

JCook concert rating: 6.5/10
Further listening recommended songs: Little Bones, Nautical Disaster

Safeway [rant in progress]

My first job after high school was working for Safeway.
Sure, it wasn't what you’d call a cool job, not like working at a record store or being a lifeguard; but back then as long as it didn't involve power tools, children, or the phrase "Do you want fries with that?" then it was ok by me.

The starting wage wasn't anything special either, but because we fell under the protection of the United Food & Commercial Workers Union, we all received regular pay increases. These were based not on anything as complicated and archaic as employee productivity or job competence, but rather on the sheer number of hours one worked. It was like one of those really fucked-up Japanese game shows, where they tie University students down and then burn their nipples with a magnifying glass to see just how badly contestant Hiro really wants that stackable washer-dryer combo.

Endurance, that was the name of this game. All I had to do was keep showing up for work (and not hit anybody) and my hourly wage would continue to inch forward in tiny claymation increments, propelling me towards the good life with all the surety and swiftness of a tranquilized three-toed sloth swimming upstream though a river of molasses.

They also used to hire their cashiers based on looks, so other than some surplus dinosaurs we got stuck with when Safeway bought out Woodward's World of Food; the place had some hot looking women. This was a good thing, as the pains in one's loins helped drown out the pains in one's head, brought on by the continual fielding of the questions and concerns of the geriatric hordes that frequented our mall. These curmudgeonly men and women had worked and saved their entire lives and were now using their twilight years to live out the dream of getting up at an obscenely early hour and aimless wandering Chinook Center like some kind of demented orienteering team with Alzheimer's.

At least until about ten minutes before eight, when some unseen force would begin drawing them to the gates that separated Safeway from the rest of the mall, causing them to accumulate rapidly - the way calcium and lime deposits build up on a showerhead fed by well water. There, they’d mill around the entrance like cattle at a feedlot; stopping occasionally to peering in through the slats, frantic to make eye contact so they could ask, "what time do you open?” for the tenth time that week. Eventually, management would send someone over to open the gates. This lucky individual would then be swept off their feet and dragged along the floor as the saggy gray mob spilled into the store, shuffled over to the shopping carts grumbling and then went thundering down the isles towards the back of the store, like the Bulls of Pamplona on a timed shopping spree.

They were on their way to the bargain bin, to do battle over dozens of unlabeled and half-crushed cans, containing such culinary treasures as pie filling, spaghetti-o's and dog food.

Mimicking the Human Animal

I’m surrounded by you people, but I still feel alone.
It's like, somehow, I'm not quite human.
That I've just been sent here to observe;
to try and understand the human animal,
for reasons nobody bothered to explain.

Oh, I can pretend. I can fit right in.
Say the right things at the right time.
I can smile and nod knowingly.
Give a firm handshake.
Hold open the door.
I know all of your rituals.

I watch your mouth moving and I'm conscious of you speaking,
but it doesn't mean a thing.
It may as well be whale song for all it means to me.
Everything's a documentary. Life a second-hand experience.

Sometimes, I’m accused of not feeling, but the truth is:
I feel too much.

Handle with care

Hey, what’s this thing?” She asked, picking up the baggie by the bedside.

“That? That’s my heart.”

“Really?” She held the bag up by its corners and peered in through the plastic.

“It looks kind of fucked up. What’s with all the black lines and the grey parts?”

“Scar tissue, it’s been through some shit”

“Is it broken?” She asked.

“It was, but I think I’ve just about got it all back together”

“Can I have it?”

“Well, it’s kind of soon. Would you take good care of it? The fucking thing took forever to fix last time. I’m still not sure it’s 100%”

“Oh, I’d look after it. You can count on me.” She said smiling, her fingers crossed behind her back.

And look after it She did.

It's been said that the best comedy comes from heartache and pain. If that's the case, I should be well on my way to being one funny motherfucker.

I'm almost speechless. This is the guy that runs our country. Is it any wonder our dollar is worth .50 US?

The prime minister wants UN inspectors to return to Iraq to find evidence of nuclear, chemical or biological weapons. When asked exactly what kind of proof he needs, he put it this way: "A proof is a proof. What kind of a proof? It's a proof. A proof is a proof. And when you have a good proof, it's because it's proven."

**Update**
When reached for comment the Prime Minister's Office had this to say:

Go right to the source
And ask the horse
He'll give you the answer that you'll endorse
He's always on a steady course
Talk to Mister Ed!

Oh, a horse is a horse
Of course, of course
And this one'll talk 'til his voice is hoarse
You never heard of a talking horse?

Our people make the difference. Just not in a good way:
The following is an actual trouble ticket from the helpdesk to the second-level NT group. It has not been modified in any way. Almost reads like song lyrics.

September 3, 2002 11:45:38 AM fdoolaar
whenever Alexa prints the printer rates the process of locking out finally locked out then had to reboot in right but wew know why is working

Severity of: 3

Problem Assigned To: COC-NT-SI Notified By: MS-mail

WTF?
Hey, let's not mention the printer name, location (or even province), or server name. Maybe Miss Cleo can take this one, "You're a Libra, aren't ya darlin...."

Another Airplane short story idea:
It's September 11th and the hijacked jumbo-jets are screaming towards their targets. Military jets have been scrambled but there's no way they're going to reach one flight. It's decided that the only course of action is to down it by crashing a couple of business jets into it. But who the hell's going to volunteer for that?
Enter a couple of terminally ill pilots (maybe with cancer?), who load themselves (complete with IV's) into two lear jets and blaze off in hot pursuit of the hijacked airliner. Maybe one of them could sound like Ned from Southpark. "Mmmha...raising gear Mmmha."

Comedy idea: You know the way they break bottles of champagne on new boats to christen them? We just got a new Pepsi machine in the office. Maybe Brittany could show up and try and bust an implant on the side of the machine to celebrate it's arrival. Of course, if it didn't break the machine would be c-u-r-s-e-d

Riding the bus home

The bus is crowded today; filled to the brim with hot, sweaty office workers thankful to have made it though another dull day. I take the last seat remaining. It’s right behind the bus driver and must be handed over to anyone claiming to be elderly or handicapped. They’re welcome to it, it faces sideways. I hate sideways seats. I always end up feeling sick when I ride the bus like that. Sideways is not a normal motion, unless you’re a crab.

The bus I take is called the 112. It’s an express bus.
That means it doesn’t stop all that often and gets you home faster.
For some reason they always seem to use old buses for the express routes. This one is no exception. It’s probably older than me, full of rattles and vibration.
Traffic is heavy and the bus driver can’t drive. Either that or she hates us.
She’s playing a game. Every time the traffic moves slightly forward she stomps on the gas, then the brake.
No gradual deceleration for us.
Everyone braces to avoid flying forward and someone falls down hard.
This process is repeated over and over.
Full throttle. Full brakes. Full throttle. Full brakes.
I can feel color draining from my face and I’m now sweating freely.
There’s a sign on the bus that says “Catch our Pride.”
And below that it says “To provide safe, accessible and courteous public transportation services in response to the needs of our customers”

I guess two out of three isn’t bad…

Civilization as we know it

There are days when I tire of this game we call civilization
I had no say in its rules.
Nobody even asked for my input
And I don't recall ever signing anything
Yet I'm still expected to play nice and follow their rules.
To trade minutes of my life for paper. To pay taxes.
Follow the posted speed limit. Be polite. Wait my turn.
Take out the trash. Return phone calls. Follow up on action items
Get married. Have a family. Buy a house. Consume
Lather. Rinse. Repeat
Be kind and rewind

It's time to simplify.
To take what I want.
Just try and stop me...

"There are three things men can do with women: love them, suffer for them, or turn them into literature."
-Stephen Stills

Notably absent is: throw them from high objects.

I put an add in the bargin finder the other day to sell my old car after buying a new VW Golf.

It's a Suzuki Swift. Which is like a luxury version of the firefly; it's what you'd drive if you lived in the affluent side of the trailer park.

This was the ad:
89 Suzuki Swift, 4dr, 4cyl hatchback. Lots of pep. Great student car! $1000 obo

The phrase "great student car" is code. It's shorthand for "this car is a piece of crap, but it's all you can afford, if you still want to buy beer and stereo equipment with what's left of your student loan"

What's sad, is I'm told this actually works. Some student will be thumbing though bargain finder and go, "hey...I'm a student. This car would pefect for me.

I think the only reason this works because they're still students and have yet to finish getting an education.

You wouldn't see somebody trying to pull this on a somebody with a degree.

2001 BMW 535i. Very expensive. Leather seats. Chrome Mags. Great Doctor car!

Been on a bit of a book buying binge this week. So far I've picked up -- mainly via ebay or used books stores:

Herny Rollins
The Portable Henry Rollins
High Adventures in the Great Outdoors
Art to Choke
Pissing in the Gene Pool
Bang!
See a Grown Man Cry, Now Watch Him Die

Hunter S Thompson
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Hell's Angels

Michael Moore
Stupid White Men

Dennis Miller
The Rants

And an audiobook version of Fight Club. It was cheap, new, and still sealed. Figured it would make a good gift.

Now I just need to find time to read all this stuff. *g*

An Unexploded News Flash

"Here I come to save the day!"
Scientists create 'endurance' mouse

Dead Again
'Body' in morgue freezer was alive

T-Shirt Ideas:

My other body is in shape.
I'd rather be f*cking.
Witness Protection Program
I'm naked under this shirt
For internal use only
Safe for ages 17 and up.
Alcohol Testing Facilitator
I'm spending your kid's inheritance
Working is the trading minutes from your life for money
Ask me about my therapeutic touch
Ask me about my vow of silence

Bumper Sticker Ideas:
No Rust

An Angus McTavish Adventure

"So, how was the trip?" asked Jason, looking up from his as the desk at the mahogany-colored man trying to slip unnoticed into the cubicle to his right.
Angus froze mid-sneak, doing his best to look casual as he plunked into his chair, "Shhh....I'm like fifty minutes late. Trip was amazing -- best vacation ever," He levered himself up to cubicle eye-level and played periscope, slowly spinning round to survey the office, like a U-boat captain scanning the sea for signs of an enemy ship. "Where's management?"

"They're all off in a meeting, probably trying to come up with a replace phrase for 'action item'. Say…didn't you used to be white? Looks like you got some sun down there."

"Yup. Nothing but sun -- I don't think it rained even once. The tan’s just from the first couple of days -- I spend most of the trip in the hotel room."
"Food poisoning?" asked Jason, raising an eyebrow as he leaned back into his chair.
"Nah -- blonde. A school teacher from Calgary of all places," said Angus with a wry grin.
"Whaat? Let me get this straight, you travel all the way to Barbados and you hook up with a girl from here?"
"What are the odds, huh. Oh shit, I'm supposed to be in a conference call."

Angus hooked his headset over an ear and dialed in to the call already underway. After about five minutes of listening to people he didn't know talking about things he didn't care about, he found his mind wandering; soon he was back on the bed in the hotel room watching the ceiling fan slowly spin round. The room’s venations swayed slackly in the early-morning breeze, occasionally thunking up against a window and the light that filters though them paints the room in broad sunlit stripes, lending everything a jungle feel.
He sat upright and immediately regretted the decision.

Ouch. My aching head…feels like somebody’s taken a meat clever to it. Where the hell am I?

A quick look around revealed a room that looked almost as bad as he felt. The previous night’s festivities had left the place looking more like an air crash debris field than a luxury suite: chairs lay overturned and broken; a shower curtain (complete with rail) lay in a crumpled heap in the hallway – obvious victim of a tragic miscalculation in load-baring capacity; the room’s walls were tattooed with a collection of oily handprints and footprints, occasionally punctuated by the potato-stamp imprint of a buttock or breast(s); a clutch of cushions from the couch lay scattered around the Jacuzzi, bearing soggy witness to the struggles of a half-empty bottle of baby oil caught in the current. A trail of clothing led up to the bed, some of which he recognized as his own. Mixed in with the clothes was an assortment of small bottles – the results of an early morning raid on the room’s mini-bar.

Jesus. It looks like a tornado ripped though this place.

Glancing over at his bedmate, he finds her asleep on her stomach. She’s blonde and attractive, maybe mid 20’s, all curves and soft angles with silky smooth skin. He brushes a lock of hair off her face before lightly running his fingers over a set of generous lips. He glides the back of his hand slowly across her face and on down her neck. His hand crosses a shoulder then drifts along her side to trace out the crescent-shaped softness of a breast. He makes his way along her hip and then up and over her sweet, sweet ass – fighting a strong urge to give it a playful smack.

He vaguely remembers chatting with her in the hotel’s bar. They had things in common: they were both from Calgary, both recently single, and both had been drinking heavily since noon. He didn’t remember how they had eventually ended up in his room, just that they had; stumbling in though the door which he then slammed shut by pinning her up against it -- biting and kissing the back of her neck and ears as she arced her back to grind up against him. Her turning to face him set off a frenzied flurry of activity, as finger found buttons and tore at clothing and their mouths met wetly. Kissing didn’t quite describe it: it was nasty and raw -- unbridled. Gone was any pretense of culture and civility, replaced instead by sheer primal lust.

Wow. Lawyers with a sense of humor. Will wonders never cease.

From the what can Scott write in 3 minutes without editing file:

It all started the summer we ran over a mime. No, that’s not a typo, that’s exactly what we hit – a fucking mime. What this sorry spastic was doing sprawled out across the middle of the I-5 is anybody’s guess. I don’t know if he was drunk, stoned, injured or lost. All I know is he royally fucked up my shiny new GTI and it returned the favor.

The girl was driving, having recently learned how to drive stick under my personal tutelage, but I don’t think I could have avoided the poor bastard either. Everything just happened too fast, and the fellow was dressed all in black, as mimes so often are.
VW’s GTI is a low-slung car, so I don’t know if it’s entirely accurate to say we ran over him, more like distributed him across several hundred meters of pavement at a high rate of speed, though he did eventually pass under us (taking the car’s oil pan with him in the process).

“Poor bastard,” the girl later remarked, “he didn’t even have time to scream.”
“I’d like to think he was just staying true to his art right to the end.”

-----Original Message-----
From: Clifford, Alicia
Sent: June 27, 2002 11:58 AM
To: Whiteley, Scott
Subject: RE:

Thanks for all your help it does not go unappreciated.

-----Original Message-----
From: Whiteley, Scott
Sent: Thursday, June 27, 2002 11:38 AM
To: Clifford, Alicia
Subject: RE:

Be over in a sec

-----Original Message-----
From: Clifford, Alicia
Sent: June 27, 2002 11:31 AM
To: Whiteley, Scott
Subject:

Oh my god please stab me in the eye to stop the madness of this place.

Kind of dated, but I don't think I ever posted this one (it's also my first draft, so be gentle):

"Last Kiss"

Oh where oh where can my baby be
The Firestone Corporation took her away from me
She’s gone to Heaven so I got to be good
So I can see my baby when I leave this World

We were out on a date in my Daddy's Ford SUV. Her constant cell phone calls, they were bothering me.

We hadn’t driven very far when there in the road, straight in front of me: A Pinto was stalled, the engine was dead. The back was on fire and the night was all red.
I couldn't stop so i swerved to the right
I'll never forget the sound that night
The busting tires, the breaking glass
The painful scream that I heard last

Oh where oh where can my baby be
The Lord took her away from me
She’s gone to Heaven so I got to be good
So I can see my baby when I leave this World

When I woke up the rain was pouring down
Dad’s Explorer had rolled, we were upside down.
We were surrounded by people. The EMS and the Police. My dad was gonna be pissed. This thing was on lease
My latte was dripping down into my eyes
But somehow i found my baby that night
She was curled in ball with that damn cell phone. It had pierced her head and gone straight though the bone
I lifted her head, She looked at me and said:
"You can use my daytime minutes after I am dead"
I held her close, I kissed her our last kiss
I found the love that i knew I'd missed
Well now she's gone, even though i hold her tight. She not as much fun as she was before that night.
And though we no longer argue and she’s never on the phone. I think She’s got to go as she’s smelling up my home.
I lost my Love, my life, that night
Oh where oh where can my baby be
The Lord took her away from me
Shes gone to Heaven so I got to be good
So I can see my baby when I leave this World

Operation "Bring Lunch from home" is officially underway and off to a good start. I brought in a loaf of rye bread and a big package of sliced turkey. The idea was that I'd make sandwiches and save hundreds (if you recall I've been spending almost $500 a month on eating out) of dollars a month. I ended up eating just about EVERYTHING over the course of the afternoon--so lunch cost about 8 dollars (and my stomach kind of hurts).

Note to self: next time make sandwiches at home, thus limiting the amount of food I have access to. The plan still has merit, its just that there still some details to work out.

I've been reading a bunch of car reviews and they're all saying the VW Golf is a great car for the first couple years--then it rapidly falls apart on you. Wonderful. This coupled with their 8.6% interest rate has me rethinking getting one. So I started playing on Toyota's web site and put together a killer RAV4 4WD (did you know they everything on for 3.9% for this month only) and within 20 mins I had been approved for financing and had a salesman calling me within the hour. All this from filling out a half page of fields and picking some parts on a web site. Scary...

Downside: with a $2000 down payment I'd be paying $700 a month over 48 months. Upside: I just did the math and figured out I've been spending almost $450 a month on eating out. An average of $15 a day...and that's not really counting breakfast.
Ooops. Assuming my insurance isn't too crazy and I start packing food around I suppose this is an option.
Though the thought of dropping like $900 (guessing insurance will be like $200) a month in car expenses isn't overly appealing.
What to do. Part of me want to just go buy a $3000 mountain and bike and say fuck it and the other part wants to run out and buy this thing.

If the plan wasn't to eventually weasle my way back to a 30hr work week (so I can take more classses) this would be a no brainer. Ack. I'd also like to play adult and top up my rrsp's.

Update: to make things worse I've been reading lots of good things about Mazda's new protege 5. Supposed to handle real nice, be good on gas, and is a decent price to boot. Maybe that's the ticket.

too..many choices...can't focus....so much...shiny...meettal...

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning Apokalypse" - Captain Benjamin L. Willard
I've got five choppers circling the college (and my place) against a backdrop of some very black clouds. Must be something to do with the G8.
Whatever the reason it's very very cool.

Reporter: How do you tell if they're VC?
Gunner: If they run, they're VC.
Reporter: What if they don't run?
Gunner: Then they're well-disciplined VC.

You'll have to forgive me. Military aviation turns me in a kill-crazed red-meat munching 'merican.
Hoo ya.

You should see the "Bomb Threat Information Sheet" they gave us. It's pretty funny.

From the "Questions to Ask" section:

"What time will the bomb explode?"
"Where is the bomb?"
"Why did you place the bomb?"
"What does the bomb look like?"
"Where are you calling from?"
"What is your name?"
"How old are you?"
"What are you wearing?"
"Are you hot?"

Ok..I may have added the last two. Personally, if somebody is nice enough to phone me and tell me there's a bomb in the building, I'm going to thank them and then go for a early lunch. I may let a couple friends know on the way out. *g*

I was seeing red a couple minutes ago. I was buying a 2000 VW Golf off somebody in Autotrader. I went and checked it out and it looked great. So I told him I'd take it. He wanted a deposit, so I drove all the back home and got him a cheque and then drove all the way back to give the guy a $500 deposit. The only condition was that he bring it in to get checked out (on my dime) and then I'd buy it. We'd booked an appointment for this morning.

Well, I just got a call from the Auto Diagnostic place saying he was a no show and then got a call from him saying he sold it yesterday night for $300 more. $300!

Nice of him to give me a fucking phone call and a chance to counter offer and what was the point of the deposit?

So, I spent the next five minutes verbally eviscerating him, which is not something I typically do to the general public (unless you count politicians). It was really pretty inspired stuff -- wish I had it recorded. I was just gonna say "Whatever...thanks for nothing" and leave it at that, but he kept asserting that anybody in his position would have done the same. Which in turn prompted a very spirited lecture on ethics.

Should have known not try and buy anything from somebody named Goron.
Goron -- sounds like something that should be battling Godzilla and terrorizing Tokyo, not fucking up car deals involving yours truly

That's it. I'm buying new and I don't even know if I'll go for black now -- and it's all Goron's fault. He's sullied the color somehow.

Silvers kind nice, as is the Blue.

-----Original Message-----
From: Smigel, Jason
Sent: June 19, 2002 8:50 AM
To: Whiteley, Scott
Subject: RE: morning

Must have tried to speak some common sense around here and was "silenced".

-----Original Message-----
From: Whiteley, Scott
Sent: June 19, 2002 8:46 AM
To: Smigel, Jason
Subject: RE: morning

There's one here under my desk. I don't think it's breathing....

-----Original Message-----
From: Smigel, Jason
Sent: June 19, 2002 8:44 AM
To: Whiteley, Scott
Subject: RE: morning

Cant you smell the pungent perfume of joy? All thats missing is the chirping bluebirds.

-----Original Message-----
From: Whiteley, Scott
Sent: June 19, 2002 8:42 AM
To: Smigel, Jason
Subject: morning

Another day in paradise begins. ;-)

This just in: Kim has just handed me half an avocado to try (I've never had one). The verdict: without salt it's a bland tasteless fruit with a texture and constancy of margarine and no apparent redeeming qualities --other then a convient form factor. I was ready to give the go ahead for it's removal from store shelves, and then I tried it with salt -- with salt it's actually pretty tasty. Thank you Kim, the advocado is spared for now.

When pets go wrong:

The duckling is also not wired to know what kind of thing it will mate
with when it grows up: The early imprinting experience teaches it that,
so in adulthood it tries to mate with things that look and move the way
their mother did, i.e., female ducks. The ducklings that imprint on
people (like the pet ducks of Konrad Lorenz, the discoverer of
imprinting) will at adulthood try to mate with people instead of ducks.
But this outcome would not have been possible in the EEA, where the
duckling that followed people instead of ducks would have been eaten
long before it could ever reproduce.

I've had a couple recent requests from people, asking me if they can link to my page. My answer? Sure thing, knock yourself out and thanks -- thanks for the links.
Though I think it's only fair to warn you...I'm dangerous. So dangerous in fact that in my previous statement, the word "dangerous" should have been in bold AND italics.

Also, how come I don't really get hate mail like some of the other sites? That would be cool, I could post it on here and mock it, but nooo you people expect to go find things to make fun of.

I'm currently riding an endorphin buzz and it feels g-o-o-d.
Flopped on the bed, slumped up against the wall.
Just sweating -- and watching it rain.
Big thunderclouds roll by, black as ink and flush with lighting.
Thunder and sunshine, an odd mix if ever there was one.
Lush's "Sweetness and Light" on in the background.
An oscillating fan shoves heavy air across the room.
Everythings taken on the feel of a vodka commercial.
I find myself thinking -- mainly about the past.
Memories of people I used to know and things I used to do.
Curiosity about things unshared, secrets kept and bullshit fed.
Time, trust -- and maybe alcohol -- can sometimes buy you a catch a glimpse at the machinery behind the curtain, but it's rare that anyone is ever truly honest.
Still, I wonder: What their lives are like now? Have they done the things the set out to do?
And if so, are they happy?
I think about the places I've worked. Trips I've taken and others I've not.
Promises made and later retracted -- but not by me.

Wait a minute. I forgot to eat today. No wonder I'm sound like I should be chewing tofu, clutching crystals and wearing Birkenstocks as I hand out leaflets on my way to my tarot card reading.

Red meat. That's the answer -- just gonna take a quick nap first.

MISSILETOE

Vapor streams off the wingtips of the little gray jet as it rolls into a hard left turn, slashing through a half circle of sky with the easy power of a top marine predator. Viewed head-on it exudes carnivorous intent, an illusion only reinforced by the gaping mouth of its air intake, slung below and behind a sharp steel snout. Sleek metal skin flows over an underlying musculature that leaves no doubt as to its rightful place in the food chain.

This, is an F-16 Falcon: $40 millions dollars worth of carbon fiber fun and titanium mayhem. And it’s currently on the prowl, hunting for prey in a staggered two-ship formation under the watchful eye of its occupants: a pair of faceless twins decked out in matching green nomex. Two mirrored black visors swivel with a machine-like cadence, scanning the skies for threats—their shiny slick surfaces reflecting and distorting the green slow of weapons systems metrics scrolling across a heads-up display. The occasional chirp signals a data link update from an AWACS surveillance aircraft loitering somewhere over the horizon, scanning the sky for hundreds of miles in every direction with its massive rotating rotodome. Stenciled on the side of the lead fighter in bold black lettering is the name of its pilot: Capt. Craig ‘Soup’ Campbell. Soup and his wingman, Lt. Mike ‘Slush’ Davies, are just coming up on the halfway point for this evening’s sortie. They’re not over Kosovo, or patrolling a no-fly zone in Iraq, this mission—and the sixty before it—has them flying combat air patrol over downtown Manhattan—a direct result of the terrorist actions of September 11th.

Campbell looks out over the city lights, watches traffic on a bridge. Three months of these patrols have done little to temper the sense of awe this view evokes. He spends his days playing tourist, passing the hours by watching the city’s various landmarks slide by. He finds Liberty Island particularly unsettling. Normally it swarms with tourists; now there are none. Their absence somehow changes the statue, lends it an aura now more post-apocalyptic relic than tourist attraction.
Some days he finds himself daydreaming, imagining what it would be like to roll into a long strafing run on the endless rows of shiny BMW’s that line Wall Street; feeling the staccato thrum of the jet’s M61 rotary cannon reverberate throughout the airframe as it spews forth six thousand 20mm shells a minute—rapidly transforming German luxury automobile into burning metal shreds. He suspects these thoughts are somehow related to his recent tech stock losses, but he’s no psychologist.

Come nightfall the cityscape transforms into a living lightshow, takes on a kind of cosmic other-worldliness that often leaves him feeling more astronaut than aviator. Day or night, this all seems vaguely surreal. Never in his wildest dreams would he have ever expected to be flying CAP (Combat Air Patrol) over New York City.
Normally, if you made it through four grueling years of the academy, endured a phonebook’s worth of medical tests and then somehow managed to survive the interview and selection process, you’d graduate to flying fighters in the middle of nowhere: Nevada, maybe, or South Carolina. Someplace big—big and empty.
The kind of place where everybody was a fighter pilot, save the odd toothless local. Now here he was flying fighters over the very city he’d grown up in; where his wife and six year old son had returned after the divorce. The same city paying the salary of that fucking cop she was now living with.

A cop? She claims my job’s too dangerous and then shacks up with the NYPD. Go figure. Not even a detective, just some brain-dead patrolman. Your boyfriend gets to drive a police cruiser and carry a gun? Wow, you must feel really safe at night. I could take out your entire neighborhood and be over the horizon before the shockwave hit. He’d almost said as much when they last spoke, but had managed to bite his tongue long enough to make arrangements to see Mikey over the Christmas holda....Jesus! That’s what he’d forgotten: a gift for his mother.

“Aw…God damn it!”
“What?” asks Slush.
“I completely forgot to get my mother a Christmas present. I’m a dead man”
“Maybe you can get her something when we get off work,” suggests Slush, somehow still managing to sound amused though an oxygen mask and an encrypted radio link.
“At 2am? Where the hell am I going to find her a present at 2am on Christmas morning?”
“Well…some of the gas stations will still be open”
“Oh great, I’ll get her an ice scraper and a handful of pine-scented air fresheners. I’m sure she’ll just love that.”
“Hey, at least your family lives in New York. Mine are way the hell up in Idaho.”
“And you’re not going home to the compound for Christmas?” says Campbell, “Just going to mail everybody their Christmas ammo?”
“Yup, you got it. I’ll be out drinking and chasing women with Spider, while you’re home handing out travel mugs and anti-freeze to the family.”
“Bastard,” snorts Campbell, head down in the cockpit checking fuel levels, “Say, how you doing for gas?”
“Sec…at our present burn rate, I’d say maybe thirty minutes worth,” Slush says, cycling though the various displays, “enough to make it to our next waypoint, at which point we’d better start thinking of hooking up with the tanker.”
“Roger that. Say Slush, ask you a question?”
“Well it’s not like I have anybody else to talk to up here. Those guys in the AWACS are no fun; always telling me to go here—go there—do this—do that. Jesus, you’d think we were married or something.”
“I take that as a yes. Ok, why ‘Slush’? I mean my call sign was a no-brainer, but naming you ‘Slush’?”
“If I tell you, you can’t spread it around. I’ve been getting enough ribbing about the glove incident as it is.”
“Glove incident?” asks Campbell.
“Don’t ask and maybe I’ll tell you about that one later. Ok, when I was growing up I saw ‘Top Gun’, right. It’s one of the things that made me want to fly. So when I finally get to the academy I’m asking—actually pleading is more like it—that my call sign be ‘Ice’.”
“Like in the movie?”
“Yeah, like in the movie. Only my so-called ‘friends’ didn’t think I was cool enough to be called Ice. So I end up getting ‘Slush’.
“Ouch.” offers Campbell.
“Yeah, well, coulda been worse. I went to school with a ‘Mongo’” says Slush.
“Jesus. Hey, you ever think you’d wind up flying CAP over a US city?”
“Hell no, but that’s not to say I’m not loving it anyway,”
“Yeah? Why’s that?” asks Campbell
“Well for one thing it’s nice to see something other than sagebush and desert. And then there’s the women. I mean, man, this is like getting to fly at an air show, but the air show is everyday. No ticket required. Chicks dig pilots.”
“So I hear.”
“I’m serious. You would not believe the women. You should come out with us sometime; I mean you’re divorced not dead, right? And you gotta stop spending so much time on that computer. It can’t be healthy,”
“Hey…I’m trying to write a novel. You know, not everything is like your sex life. Some things actually take longer than five minutes to finish”
“That’s cruel, so very cruel. Just for that you can be the first one to tank.”
“Fine by me,” bluffs Campbell, reluctantly thumbing through waypoints on his nav. display as he plots out the quickest route to the big KC-135 tanker.

If there’s one thing Campbell hates, it’s aerial refueling: a process that requires him to constantly mirror the tanker’s exact altitude, course, and airspeed. All while being bounced all over the sky by wake turbulence rolling off the huge lumbering craft and while having to constantly compensate for his own aircraft’s rapidly changing weight as it takes on fuel. And if all this seems unpleasant by day, its sheer torture by night. At night you had a chance at vertigo: that horrible, stomach churning spatial disorientation that leaves it’s victims chasing the horizon like a recent graduate of the John Denver School of Flight, literally no longer able to tell which way up was—a very bad thing in a high performance jet fighter. His stomach does a slow roll, limbering up in anticipation of the event.

“I’ve got a visual on the tanker,” says Slush, watching the massive aircraft loom from the darkness like a man-made mountain, “After you…ladies first.”
Ignoring the jibe, Campbell concentrates instead on holding his airspeed and staying level, glancing up every so often to keep an eye on the Air National Guardsman—who looks to be all of about seventeen—operating the flying boom now working its way towards his face. He holds his breath as the boom slowly traverses the length of his canopy; watches unblinking as it bucks and twitches like a skittishly colt each time its operator makes a control input. And then it’s behind him, giving Campbell a chance to resume breathing—at least for a second—then he’s jarred back into apnea by the tanker’s boom docking into the fueling receptacle. As sounds go, this one is horrible: metal grinding metal followed by a resounding thud that reverberates throughout the aircraft, making the fighter shimmy and bounce and setting his teeth on edge.
One of these days that thing is gonna keep on going and punch right though the jet, he thinks, feeling his gloved palms grow damp.

The full moon makes for great visibility and refueling ends up going surprisingly smoothly. Soon they’re both topped up and ready to continue the mission. With a wave from Campbell and a one-finger salute from Slush, they peel away from the tanker.

“Say what you will about the guys driving that thing, I envy the hell out of their bathroom,” Slush says.
“One too many lattes?” needles Campbell
Slush’s retort is cut short by a radar intercept officer onboard the orbiting AWACS, “We’ve got a bogey. Unknown radar contact inbound. Approximately 100 nautical miles out. Bearing 175 degrees. Angels 11. Contact is not responding to radio contract. I repeat. Contact is not responding.”
“Roger. Will intercept and eyeball,” says Campbell, “You got that Slush?”
“Yup. Probably just another weekend flyer—some Cessna driving doctor that’s forgotten how his radio works,” he says, tightening his shoulder straps with a sharp downward tug.
“Probably, but we can always use the intercept practice, and I was getting kinda tired of flying in circles. What say we go in low and come up under him.”
“You got it.”
Campbell rolls the fighter inverted and pulls back on the stick, executing a U shaped half-loop known as an immelman. The maneuver leaves him nose down and in a shallow dive, heading in the direction of the radar contact. Slush follows after a three count, watching the pitch ladder roll by on his HUD as the world around him turns upside down.
“Hey Slush,” says Campbell.
“Yeah?”
“First one to get a visual buys the beer”
“You’re on!”
“Still got nothing on the radar. Lets see if we can’t do something about our rate of closure—going to afterburner,” says Campbell, sliding the throttle all the way forward. He’s rewarded with a solid kick in the back as the engine’s afterburners ignite with an impressive thump of displaced air, causing the jet to leap forward like a goosed geisha. Behind him, night turns to day as a twenty foot long tongue of flame blossoms out the jet’s exhaust. It’s accompanied by a vision-blurring roar worthy of a shuttle launch. Acceleration shoves him back into his seat, narrows his field of vision, and starts to flattening out his face. Under his oxygen mask Campbell is grinning, all the while fighting a strong urge to let loose a rebel yell.

They drop out of afterburner just short of the speed of the sound, thundering along at just under five hundred knots. New York City flashes beneath them like something out of a video game for the hyperactive: billboards, skyscrapers, freeway onramps, the snow-dusted trees of a park, an outdoor skating rink—all of it blurring into a rolling carpet of textures.

“I’ve got radar contact on the bogey!” yells Slush.
“Likewise, we’re about five minutes out at our current rate of closure. Looks like he’s heading away from us,” radios Campbell.
Slush does the math, “You know, that’s kind of quick for a Cessna. Hell, that’s fast for most airliners.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Fighter?” asks Campbell.
“Maybe. But one fighter? What…we’re being attacked by Canada?”
“Maybe they’re still pissed about us stealing all the good hockey players? Better bring up your ECM (electronic counter measures) just in case it ends up being something with teeth.”
“Done. Maybe it’s a business jet. Some of the newer ones haul ass,” suggests Slush.
“Could be, either way, let’s try and get a good look at whatever it is before we start throwing missiles around. I’d hate to be responsible for shooting down The Backstreet Boys”
“Really?”
“Ok. Bad example, but you get the idea. Make sure it’s hostile before doing anyway, unless you want us to end up on CNN.”
“Roger that. You know, given the choice, I’d rather it turn out to be a hostile vs. an airliner. I sure as hell don’t need to be painting a 747 on the side of my jet.”
“Took the words right outta my head,” says Campbell.

They continue to work the intercept in silence, each man lost in his thoughts. Campbell stays busy by reviewing the rules of engagement—going through the motions of checking and re-checking the various avionics and weapons systems around him—tightening straps—adjusting oxygen flow rates—doing anything but letting himself focus on the series of images running though the back of his head. They’re that of a missile—one of theirs—tearing into the side of a hijacked airliner. Exploding. Sending the mortally wounded aircraft pin wheeling out of the sky, trailing behind it a spiraling stream of burning luggage, debris, passengers…

Campbell watches as the blip on the radar grows slowly closer. He decides to break the silence, “Jesus. My stomach is doing calisthenics. So…tell me about the glove thing,”
“Now?”
“What. You’d rather be thinking?
“Good point. Ok, I’ll give the short version. My last stationing before this one was with 147th Fighter Wing.”
“Out in Texas?” asks Campbell
“Yeah. Anyway, a bunch of us got invited to go up north to participate in Maple Flag—Canada’s version of our Red Flag. Well, it’s not exactly a short commute from Houston to Cold Lake, so I get bored and started doodling on the back of my glove to pass the time. It’s not like they were new gloves anyway.”
“Ok, I’m with you so far.”
“Well, we get their and the Canadian press is there in force, looking to interview us. I end up talking to this hot little blonde from the CBC. They’re broadcasting live and halfway though the interview she asks me ‘Lieutenant, what’s that on the back of your glove?’ So I showed her; it was a picture of two arrows: one pointing up, the other down and a house in the middle—with some text at the bottom.”
“And what did the text say?” asks Campbell, already half-guessing the answer. “It said ‘push forward on stick: houses get bigger’ and ‘pull back on stick: houses get smaller’. I thought it was hilarious; my commanding officer did not. I ended up catching holy hell for it--something about ‘not presenting America’s military in a positive and professional manner’ or some such thing.
“You know, I think I actually heard about that. Gee Slush, you’re famous—or at least infamous.”
“Lucky me. Hey, I’m getting a pretty good radar return off the bogey. I’m going to lock him up—and yes, my weapons are still on safe,” says Slush as he checks the range—it’s a little over ten miles—then designates their contact as a target, watching as the targeting pipper chases after the bogey and begins encircling it. A full circle and a solid tone means a successful weapons lock. He’s just on the verge of getting both when his intended target lurches violently to the right, nearly going right off his HUD and ruining any chance of a successful lockup in the process. He watches, slack-jawed as his radar screen shows the bogey standing still for a second, then suddenly gaining almost two thousand feet of altitude in a heartbeat.
“Umm…what the hell was that?!” yells Slush.
“Damned if I know, but it’s definitely no airliner. Going weapons hot. Bogey is bandit. Repeat bogey is bandit, “radios Campbell, doing his best to sound calm.
“Roger that. Holy shit, it’s turned around and is headed our way fast Estimate rate of closure at twenty-eight hundred knots!”
“There isn’t an aircraft in the world that can accelerate like that,” replies Campbell.
“Not this world, anyway. Oh man, we’re going to end up on the front of the National Enquirer.”
“Look on the bright side. Maybe they’ll pay for the story. Ok, here’s the plan, I want you to do a chandelle, get some altitude and circle back towards me. I’m gonna stay level and blow right on though. He’s only going to be able to engage one of us, so whoever doesn’t get asked to dance can circle around on his six—and fast. Got it?”
“Affirmative. Roger. Oh fuck….” says Slush, as he breaks formation and pulls up into the vertical.

Looking down at his infrared display, Campbell gets a blurry monochrome preview of the object screaming his way. What he sees is long, thin and apparently wingless. Stranger still, it moves with an undulating shimmy—which for some reason reminds him of horses. He’s unable to get a better look at it, as something on the front of the craft is radiating massive amounts of thermal energy, causing the image on his screen to resemble an overexposed photo of a floodlight. And then it’s on top of him, scorching by his wingtip like a red-hot meteor, accompanied by a shockwave that smashes into him hard, violently buffeting his aircraft and leaving Campbell blinking repeatedly in an attempt to dislodge the lingering red swath now painted across his retinas. Cursing, he slams the engine into afterburner and pulls back hard on the stick, sending the fighter screaming skyward. Struggling against the mounting g-forces, he looks back over his shoulder, scanning the sky to reacquire the target. He finds it. It’s now headed directly towards Slush. He radios a warning, “Slush! Heads up. Your UFO is at your 12 o’clock low. Headed your way and moving like a bat out of hell.”
“Roger. Fights on.”

Campbell continues his climb. When he rolls the fighter inverted at 20,000 feet, he’s treated to a birds-eye view of the battle. Slush is pulling out all the stops, working the vertical and pulling some serious G’s, but it’s soon apparent that he’s entirely outmatched. Whatever it is that they’re fighting is maneuverable as hell and despite Slush’s best efforts the dogfight rapidly degrades into a classic flat scissors: with Slush frantically reversing and re-reversing his turns and the bandit stuck on his six, matching him easily move for move.
“Campbell. I can’t shake him. Get this guy off me!!”
“Hang in there. I’m on my way,” radios Campbell. He pulls the fighter into a steep dive—watching as the hands of his altimeter begins to unwind like a broken alarm clock, he thumbs off the safety and selects a sidewinder, listening to the missile’s familiar growl as it begins seeking a heat source. The growling grows louder, growing in pitch and intensity until it becomes an angry wail—indicating a sold lock on target. The question is, is it locked on the bandit or locked on Slush? There’s no sure way to tell.
“Slush, I think I’ve got a lock on it. I’m going to count to three and then I want you to roll inverted and head for the deck.”
“Got it. Hey, what do you mean you think you have a lock on it”
“Three. Two. One. Firing!”
There’s a half second of silence after Campbell pulls the trigger, then the missile screams away, corkscrewing wildly as it streaks towards its target. At first it looks like it’s going after Slush, but at the last second it cuts hard to the inside, carving an almost ninety degree turn before slamming into the bandit and detonating; resulting in a fireball that lights up the night sky and rattles windows for miles. The bandit explodes into a thousand small pieces, sending flaming debris tumbling toward the city.
“Scratch one bandit, yesss! Let’s see you out maneuver that you Alien motherfucker,” roars Campbell, throwing his jet into an air-ripping victory roll.

Slush tears off his oxygen mask and wipes the sweat from his eyes. He’s surprised to find he’s hyperventilating. His flight suit is soaked in sweat, legs are trembling and the feeling in his stomach reminds him of shoes tumbling in a dryer. Once he gets his breathing back under control and is relatively sure he’s not going to throw up, he keys his mike and congratulates Campbell, “Nice one. I was starting to think you had chickened out and gone home—guess I owe you a beer.”
“A beer? Come on, that was worth at least worth a steak dinner,” says Campbell. “I radioed for a hazmat team to check out the debris while you were changing your pants.”
“Great. Maybe somebody will be able to tell us what the hell that thing was.”
“Hope so. Let’s return to base, we've got some serious paperwork ahead of us.”

The pair are in high spirits as they break towards home: Campbell is thrilled to have finally had a chance to perform the job he’s spent the majority of his adult life training for and Slush is just happy to still be in one piece. They carry with them the knowledge that they’ve made a difference--it’s because of their actions this evening that New York City is safe once again. America has won this round in the fight against terrorism and those that would do evil have been brought to justice. And as the sound of their engines fades off into the distance and silence settles back over the city, a gentle snow begins to fall, drifting down past streetlights standing sentry on a decrepit apartment building before settling on an assortment of beaten-up cars that litter the curbside.

But snow is not the only thing falling from the night sky: something big and meaty arcs earthward, tumbling end over end with a lopsided spin before smashing through the roof of a late model Honda Civic hatchback; hitting with a force that sends its poorly-tinted windows geysering out in a flashing fountain of shattered glass shards. Smoking presents begin raining from the sky set to a rising chorus of car alarms. Inside the Honda a leg with a cloven-hoof kicks and then spasms, sending a small brass tag plinking to the ground. Engraved in the tag is a single world: Blitzen.
The leg kicks again then falls still.
America is safe once more.

The End

Quote of the day:

America... just a nation of two hundred million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns and no qualms about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable.
-Hunter S. Thompson

Best band name I've come up with (not that I have a band or want one):
Rufus and the Factory Irregulars

An ongoing list of my favorite movies:

Shallow Grave
Fight Club
American Beauty
Glenngarry Glen Ross
The Usual Suspects
Hollywood Confidental
Strange Days
Saving Private Ryan
Reservoir Dogs
Pulp Fiction
Trainspotting
Snatch
Lock Stock & Two Smoking Barrels
Swingers
Very Bad Things
Evil Dead 2
The Breakfast Club
Plane, Trains and Automobiles
The Matrix
Falling Down
The Princess Bride
Goodfellows
Clerks
Chasing Amy
Hard Boiled
The Killer

This is kind of funny, very similar to the article I was writing on children and over-protective parents (the helmet, sunscreen thing):

The problem with America is stupidity. I'm not saying there should be a capital punishment for stupidity, but why don't we just take the safety labels off of everything and let the problem solve itself?
- Mexican Philosophy major

Today was fun -- as work goes. Show up late, go for coffee for an hour, return to my desk and then go for lunch with some friends at Saigon Y2K, get back to my desk and the fire alarm goes off and everybody tromps down the stairs to stand over across the street by the French Maid "Sports Pub" -- not sure who they think they're fooling with that one (unless silicone has become a sport) might as well say "Over-priced beer / Naked women with issues".

It was warm, the sun was shinning, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky as our building steadily disgorged office workers for the next 30 minutes -- until ever last cog had fall out of the corporate machine. I had fun watching little groups of office workers (many of which I'd never seen before) milling around -- many of them mirroring the same little groups we have on our floor; often looking strikingly similar to people I work with. It was like they came from an alternate universe. I kept looking around for Evil Scott, complete with goatee (all evil twins have a goatee, if you didn't already know), but was unable to find him. It's quite likely he called in sick (probably had an evil hangover -- after an night of evil excess).

I'd go on, but it's 5:30 and it's time to go home.

Total accomplishments for the day: Read my email and consumed several cups of tea and a bottle of diet Coke.
Welcome to the fast paced world of information technology....

I've been feeding the plant (you remember -- the one with the tarantula legs) coffee in an effort to kill it, but my plan appears to be backfiring; it's growing faster than ever and it currently appears to be trembling -- I'm hoping it's just moving from the air vent above it, but you never know. I'm hoping it'll go after Roger first, so I'll have enough time to run for the door.

So here I am, stuck in an office with half dozen other people on the NT team. Nobody paticularly wants to be here, but there are bills to pay and things to buy -- so here we all are: slaves to the wage. Really all I want is to go back to school full-time, but I'd be a fool to leave when I've already got what's considered a good job -- so I'll stick with going part-time and eventually either get a degree or start selling my writing (good to dream). This screenplay is driving me mental as I still can't come up with an acceptable plot.

No sign of the sun outside, it's overcast in a oppressive, smothery sort of way and I'm fighting off the tail end of some kind of killer cold / flu (I hope) and have had a fever for almost 4 days now. It's kind of nice, though I dislike sweating for no particular reason and not being able to breath occasional makes me a little claustrophobic. I made it back to the gym yesterday night for a brief (20 min) bought with the weights. I found myself overheating pretty rapidly, but it still felt good to get back in there after an almost seven days off.

I think I'll go find some food. Maybe pseudo-Edo. I've got an hour for lunch (unpaid) and I usually try and go as late in the day as possible, thus allowing me attain a Zen-like low blood sugar state, as well as giving me something to look forward to --other than going home.

Two random thoughts before lunch:

Someday's I think it'd be nice to work with children, maybe I can open a textile mill?

Head Trauma is Nature's Novocain

Ok, does somebody want to explain to me why all the crazy roomates I've had are now getting published?
First we had Geoff with his Doom book, then Nihil with a Broadway Play, and now kleptoboy with a book on firewalls.
If I didn't know me better I'd say I was almost jealous. *g*

Oh well, good for them. It just shows it can still be done.

Actually now that I think about it, that would be a good writing exercise. Little stories about the various roomates I've had. Give me something to do this afternoon if things get slow.

Ok. It's still pretty weak, but I've come up with a couple of possible scenarios. Use the comments option to either vote for your favorite or add your own. We're all gonna be really sick of this story by the time this is eventually done. *g*

----
Treatment for Health Home Invasions Screenplay (1st draft)

When Scott lands a job in the fast-paced world of information technology
(supposed career of tomorrow), he is immediately struck by two things: the
Orwellian atmosphere of the place (his every action is monitored, recorded
and scrutinized) and the fact that employee seniority seems to somehow map
to pant size.

He quickly finds out why: working on the helpdesk is both stressful and
Thankless; a cross between air traffic control and your neighborhood
McDonalds. Faced with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of idiots with
Issues (clients calling in), the pressure of having to constantly "make the
numbers" (calls per day, resolution rates, etc...) and the ever-present
surveillance, it's little wonder that the employees of SDE are prone to
excess.

Things start out fine, but the novelty of the new job soon starts to wear
thin. Boredom, and the pressures of fielding a never-ending barrage of
angry calls, eventually leads him to succumb to the siren song of the staff
room's vending machines. Things rapidly spiral out of control as Scott gains
nearly forty pounds in three short months. Disgusted with himself, and now unable to fit into most of his clothes, he runs into an ex-girlfriend, who's
cutting remarks about his new look leave him reeling. Confronted with the
prospect of never again getting action, he decides the time has come to
take action.

He embarks on a quest to fight his way back to fitness: buying armloads of books on exercise and nutrition and eventually joining Gold's Gym. Within a month he's in the best shape of his life and in the process becomes a born-again fitness fanatic. Fitness has become his religion. In between the almost hourly consumption of a bewildering array of health supplements and protein shakes, he begins encouraging his co-workers, many of whom have tried dieting and exercise at one point but have never had the willpower to stick with it, finding it easier to rationalize or ignore their sorry physical shape. Like most of today's society, they prefer instead to hide behind a wall of cynicism, cellulite, and denial.

His persistence pays off and he manages to convert several of his
co-workers. Enter Kel, Tyler and Jason. The four come to the conclusion that since the majority of people lack the willpower required to overcome
the lure of readily available, highly affordable fast food (not to mention a
life time of manipulative advertising from both the fast food cartels and
the soft drink manufacturers) then there is only one reasonable course of
action: forcible intervention.

They beginning planning and eventually execute a series of "healthy home
invasions" - breaking into the homes of several grotesquely overweight individuals and holding them captive while forcing them to exercise vigorously and eat properly.

Possible Scenario 1:

Their numbers begin to growing with each success and soon they've started a movement of sorts, and it quickly spreads across the country like a metastasizing cancer. Things turn sour as the American desire to do things bigger, faster, better begins to bastardize the groups original ideals. Two radical factions form splinter groups and our hero's find themselves in a race to stop a group of renegade plastic surgeons (currently kicking down doors and giving people forced liposuction and implants) and a gang of hardcore bodybuilders intent on speeding up the slow and arduous intervention process by forcing the "target" to consume massive doses of performance enhancing drugs and protein shakes.

Possible Scenario 2:

Their numbers grow just like in scenario 1, but things go south when one of the people they’re “saving” thoughtlessly dies on them. Now they’re on the run from the law in a cross country road trip to Canada - stopping only for workouts and food. Advantage: lots of possible wacky scenarios as they make their way across the US. Disadvantage: it turns into a road trip movie.

Possible Scenario 3:

Ok, maybe their numbers don’t grow, but maybe the four of them eventually get more and more into the bodybuilding lifestyle - eventually forgetting that all this was originally all about health. Things spiral downward as the group becomes more and more narcissistic and begins to use performance enhancing drugs and cosmetic surgery in a race towards “perfection”. They could be trying to compete in the Mr.Olympia. Possible twists: maybe the find they can’t afford the drugs needed to compete at this level and end up having to resort to crime to pay for their new found obsession? Or maybe they all come up with their own unique ways of getting the needed cash: selling exercise junk on the home shopping channel, robbing McDonalds, finding a “sugar mama”, or appearing on game shows in an attempt to win enough money to pay for all the food…
Maybe they rob a drug dealer to finance their obsession and must deal with the fallout from that.

Possible Scenario 4:

Maybe things really catch on and soon the group’s antics are brought to the attention of the fast-food industry - who doesn’t take kindly to our hero’s guerilla war against fat or that they’re undoing decades of brainwashing and billions of dollars worth of advertising. So they out a contract on them. Maybe one of them is killed but eventually they get their hands on the people running these fast food monoliths and get them to change their evil ways.

Possible Scenario 5:
Add your own

Wow. This is very cool. It's quite likely I would never again leave the house if I was to somehow get my hands on one of these babies. Bet you they are at least $30,000 US. Money may not be able to buy you happiness, but it can certain set the stage.

Make sure to zoom in on the picture to get the full effect.

It's another sunny day here in Calgary. Giddy-Up.

The second best thing to be doing on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Finally gave in and went a doctor about my eyes. Somebody at work brought in a "cathouse" (and not the good kind) to give to one of her co-workers and ended up leaving it there for almost a week. The result? Much eye rubbing and an eventual eye infection of some sort. Knowing me I likely rubbed food in there or something. I got a prescription for some kind of uber-eye drop - one whose incredible power necessitates that it be kept behind the counter and only dolled out to those patient enough to sit in a waiting room for half their afternoon. Which brings me to my second point: why do they even bother selling all those over the counter products? We know they don't work. I bought over-the-counter muscle relaxants when I hurt my back last year, and what did they do? Nothing. They may as well have been PEZ. And their over-the-counter eye drops? Probably over-priced tap water.

I'm on to you drug stores.

Been listening to Henry Rollins spoken word stuff. What can I say, the guy is entertaining. He's had an interesting life. I suppose I have too, but I already know everything I'm going to say and I don't have any good stories about about fronting various rock band for 20 years.

Just waiting to find out where this birthday party thing is. It better be good. I turned down icecream for it.

Wow. Went to the gym and then decided to take a little nap when I got home. It's now 12:30am, so much for that plan. I’m speaking to you from the bathtub - how weird is that? I'm sure the novelty will eventually wear off, but in the meantime I'm having fun. Got streaming mp3's coming in over the wireless network, email downloading in the background and I'm - obviously - updating blogger. It would totally serve me right if this thing fell in the tub.

"Dear," said Janet, "your past isn't something you escape from. Your past is what you are." - Douglas Coupland

Yippee. The laptop I bought just showed up (a shiny new IBM ThinkPad T23). I sold off off most of my computer stuff to pay for the thing, but it'll should allow me to spend more time away from home, so maybe I'll start cranking out a reasonable amount of material (namely two short stories and a screenplay) - finally. Plus it'll get me out of the house. Did I mention it'll get me out of the house? It's nice, even got a wireless network card so I can play on the net when away from home or wander the house without any cords. Life is good and better yet, I've returned the oncall phone and can now resume having a normal life (at least until next time).

Went to the premier of FUBAR on thursday night. Cool movie.
Not fall down funny, but continually amusing. Well worth renting when it hits video or seeing on a tuesday. We didn't even bother going to the after party with the cast, just went out for food instead. A good time was had by all.

----- Original Message -----
From: "The Unexploded Scotsman"
Newsgroups: calgary.general
Sent: Saturday, May 25, 2002 10:46 AM
Subject: Re: To whomever was looking for an Invisible Dog Fence


> "NoRm" wrote in message
> news:r6eveugaum2b9d2ck1f6auk8bvq4csubhd@4ax.com...
> > Canadian Tire has them, they are on sale
> > for $150 (reg $180) until May 30th.
>
> It doesn't seem like they put much thought into this product.
> I mean how would you know he's escaped in the first place?
>
> --
> ---
> Plaid+Plastique = ?
> http://www.unexplodedscotsman.com/
> Short stories. Rants. Things better left unsaid.
>

Calgary. You'll come for our traffic, but you'll stay for our weather.
WTF?! Can somebody please explain why I just spent my lunch hour trudging though snowbanks and worrying about the windchill?
It's supposed to be summer, not whatever the hell this mess is.

Hands down IFilm has got to be one of the best sites on the internet (if you've got the bandwidth). There are some very talented amateur film makers out there. I'm constantly amazed by some the shorts that show up.

Arghh!
I just lost an entire page of updates (blogger timed out instead of publishing).
There's no way in hell I'm going to type that all out again, so here it is in point form.

Got new roommate. Seems friendly enough. He's Arabic, but not a terrorist. From Algeria.

Bought couch off this guy. Seems friendly enough, also not a terrorist, though he did attack my steps with his elbow

Picked up the stand for the Ubertelevision and spend 2.5 hours putting it together. Looks great, despite Sony's crappy instructions

Have second roommate moving in on weekend. She's journalism student on work practicum will only be here till August

Have recovered my ability to spot bullshit a mile away. I've been biting my tongue frequently ever since.

Still working on screenplay / book. Slow going. Words not co-operating somedays. Make brain hurt.

Still saving for replacement car and laptop

Have been playing on here as of late

Well, hotmail is still a big mess. Thank you microsoft.
Every wonder if you were epileptic?

Rock Star
I felt like I was gonna pass out--or throw up, maybe both.If I do, I hope I have the presence of mind to pass out AFTER and not before.
You get that order wrong and you're dogmeat. History. Just ask Bonn Scott. Hard to imagine: one minute you're partying down, at the top of your game, a rock'n'roll GOD; the next you're a crumpled smelly heap on a hotel room floor, victim of a half-digested cheeseburger and the autonomic nervous system.

I don't know what this is, but at least it's out of my head now.

Bakesale Militia

I've got a plan
I'll start a militia
And fund it though bake sales and bingo's
Garage sales and gelato
Popcorn and poetry
Lawsuits and landscaping

We'll buy camouflage fatigues and spread throughout the land
Each with a picture of a politician
and a gun in one hand
We'll remind them they're accountable to those they would rob
We'll march right up to them in a gathering mob

Speak to them slowly so they don't get confused
We're your electorate and we're tired off being used
You lower those taxes.Screw off at the border
I'm sick of being gouged when I try mail order

Quoteable?:
"No, no, no, Lisa. If adults don't like their jobs, they don't go on strike. They just go in every day and do it really half-assed." - Homer

"You'd think she would have figured it out eventually. I mean, fuck, the whole time she worked here she was hemorrhaging friends like a hemophilic Eskimo at the UFC. I'd sure as hell wonder what I was doing wrong. Wouldn't you?" - Bill Lowman (Birth of a Salesman. A short story in progress)

Maybe it's just me, but this does this trophy seem a bit...ummm...male?

Updated: Now with french to english translations, so everybody can stop emailing me the same question.

Is something wrong, she said
Well of course there is
You're still alive, she said
Oh, and do I deserve to be
Is that the question
And if so...if so...who answers...who answers...
I, oh, I'm still alive
Hey I, oh, I'm still alive
Hey I, but, I'm still alive
Yeah I, ooh, I'm still alive
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

Ok. Well, it sounds better when sung by Pearl Jam. For some reason it popped into my head on getting a phone call out of the blue from my ex, currently holed up a few blocks from my old elementary school in scenic Kingsland with this month's king. She was asking about Student Movers. Anybody know if they're a company like Student Painters? I don't think they are and said as much, but figured I'd ask here anyway as she sounds like she's having a rough time (likely paying no small price for her currently lodging). I was nice about it (big shock. what else is new). Now that I've had some time to reflect, I actually feel sorry for her. I've got the feeling she's in for a long rough ride. There's no shortage of people out there ready to use and abuse the confused, besides conscience coupable n'a pas besoin d'accusateur (A guilty conscience needs no accuser). Non?

That's right I'm still kicking, boys and girls. Things are going well, very well in fact.
I'm back into the gym in a big way and just in process of building up my neck and back so I can resume, you guessed it, squats: the best damn exercise / torture going.

They're something indescribable about staggering away from a workout, body drenched in sweat, skin stretched taunt over muscles engorged with blood, pulse pounding, endorphins flowing, pupils dilating, metallic tang of adrenaline painting the back of your mouth. Even the simple act of breathing feels larger than life. For once, I stop thinking and revert back to pure animal bliss. It’s what horses must feel when they run.

When a work out goes well, it’s almost on par with sex--if I recall correctly.

I've also been getting out more. Integrating back into social society. Yeah, I've still got a tendency to spend too much time at home, safely squirreled away from the potential pain that is woman, trying to get this damn screenplay out of my head on down on to paper, but I'm tackling that too, slapping the introvert unconscious and letting my inner extrovert get a little closer to daylight—something it hasn’t seen in a long time (about six years now). What once was will be again.

I refuse to believe that one can’t succeed with honor, ethics, and morals. Call me old fashioned, call me delusional. I’m just coming to realization that I’ve spend the last five and half years being nice to the point of stupidity—and then some—to somebody that didn't deserve (or even appreciate) half the effort, sacrifice, or pain. And you know what? I’d probably do it all over again. Life is tough enough without us screwing each other over. Nice guys finish last? Yeah? Well, we’ll see about that.
Do me wrong and you'll know what I'll do? Nothing.
I'll just sit back and let fate take it's course. I’ve got the armor of cynicism and a sword made from karma. I’ll be standing here smirking, as you run yourself through. [Note: offer does not apply to those that burn me financially--sometimes karma needs a court date. Hi Brett.]

Bring it on…

Unexploded @ 12:55pm Sunday April 21, 2002

Everybodies a comedian.
I'm surrounded by some funny people here at work. Must be a coping mechanism for this place.


-----Original Message-----
From: Jason Cook [mailto:cookjason@shaw.ca]
Sent: Monday, April 22, 2002 11:02 PM
To: help@dairyqueen.com
Subject: frozen treats


good evening

My name is Jason and I am a loyal Blizzard buyer. As a best guess, I would say that I have bought 57 blizzards in the last 1.75 years (yes, over two a month!). Right off the bat, let me assure you that many of these blizzards were a size 'medium' or larger.
My favorite kind is actually pretty sneaky. What I do, see, is get an oreo blizzard and then have the clerk boy add some chocolate covered cherries. I think it's called a 'combo.' They're delicious. Sometimes I just get Oreo. Tonight I got the new Chocolate Extreme blizzard. I'm not sure exactly what makes it extreme though. I mean, come on, it's ice cream. Who's the marketing genius that came up with that one. (New.....from McDonald's.....Extreme Orange POP!!!) See - it's dumb.

Recently I have been working with Dan over at Nabisco with regards to some business with his Oreo ice cream.

Anyway, how're things over there?
I haven't written to you before and seeing as how I am such a big fan of your cold treats (I'm not so fond of the hot eats....hurting animals is wrong. So very wrong) I figured it was time to 'drop an email' as they say. I think your ice cream is the best. I don't know how you make those blizzards, and frankly I don't want to. Kind of like learning how a magician gets the dog in the roaster, know what I mean? Also, sometimes the clerk boy puts the blizzard upside down just before he gives it to me. What's up with that? I know it's frozen.....weird.

So, I figure I have spent about $300 on these things and was wondering if we can get me a frequent buyer card. Basically, I'd like to buy nine and get the tenth free....is that fair? If you want to check my references you can go to www.subway.com I have been using their card system for years and they will certainly attest to my responsible nature. I would never, and I CANNOT stress this enough, abuse this card. I wouldn't even disclose how I got it.

See my projected sample dialogue with a friend:

me: let's hit DQ for a blizzard
Ryan: ok
me: Mine's free today
Ryan: what do you mean
me: it just is, ok
Ryan: where'd you get that card
me: nowhere man, just forget it.
Ryan: come on, don't bullshit me
me: seriously man it's nothing
Ryan: cool.


See? None the wiser.

So what do you say Dairy Queen? What do we have to do to get me some free blizzards.
Also, I'd like to be in some of your ads and/or commercials promoting the blizzards. I would work for free.


your friend
Jason Cook

"In 1995, a crowd of four hundred Danish anarchists looted a McDonald's in downtown Copenhagen, made a bonfire of its furniture in the street, and burned the restaurant to the ground. In 1996, Indian farms ransacked a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in Bangalore, convinced that the chain threatened their traditional agricultural practices. In 1997, a McDonald's in the Colombian city of Cali was destroyed by a bomb. In 1998, bombs destroyed a McDonald's in St.Petersburg, Russia, two McDonalds in suburban Athens, a McDonald's in the heart of Rio de Janeiro, and a Planet Hollywood in Capetown, South Africa. In 1999, Belgian vegetarians set fire to a McDonalds in Antwerp, and a year alter, May Day protesters tore the sign off a McDonalds in London's Trafalgar Square, destroyed the restaurant, and handed out free hamburgers to the crowd."

What have you done lately? Participaction

This weeks quotables:
"We are what we do" - me
"Look...everything can't be be fireworks and fellatio; this isn't a hollywood movie" - me again

You know we're hurting for good quotes when I start quoting myself. *g*

I've been drawing up an outline for a screenplay based on Healthy Home Invasions. It's slow going--as I don't yet have a decent plot (and am still learning the formating). I'm going to keep slogging away at it though.
I should likely crank out a few more short stories before tackling something as ambitious as a screenplay. I've only written one short story (missiletoe) and that definitely isn't enough practice. I still don't have a writing style I can call my own and often find myself writing like the last book I've read.

Canada: A Trainwreck in Progress

Maybe it's just me, but lately Canada seems to be well on it's way to becoming a dystopian banana republic. Let's see, we've only got one political party--oh sure, you can say "what about Stephen Harper and The Canadian Alliance or Joe Clark's Progressive Conservatives”, but let's get real, both these guys currently have about as much chance of becoming Prime Minister as Bill Clinton does of landing that headmaster job at a Catholic girl's boarding school. Sure it’d be fun to see, but let's face it, not gonna happen.

So that leaves us stuck with the Liberals and, god help me, Jean Chrétien: A man who carries with him all the statesman-like dignity of a malfunctioning Disneyland animatronic. The sheer eloquent of this man’s oration more than makes up for his fact his face is apparently working a split shift. Oh fuck it, who am I kidding, every time I hear this guy talk, I think, this is a man that deserves his own animated series or at the very least: an action figure ("now with realistic rictus grin!"). He sounds like he should working a trap line or fixing snowmobiles somewhere in northern Quebec, not running a country.
Which leaves me wondering, whose brilliant plan was it to send Mr. Chrétien around the world to try and promote trade with Canada? And what are other countries left thinking after a speech from this guy?

"Well, in Canada we do da lumber ting and we do also do the oils. We ave many tings to offer”

They’re probably left thinking they can sell us consonants, because obviously if this man is any indication, there’s a serious shortage of them in his homeland. And if that’s not enough, I was just reading in the paper that George Bush is making fun of him. Things are pretty bad when a man that can be outsmarted by snack food thinks your leader is the fuck up.

It used to be the government was relatively harmless. Sure they’d always try and force feed you Canadian content, a dish that's typically about as appealing as plate of refried bat guano and packed full of the kind of intellectual nourishment you'd find in a carpet fiber soufflé, but you could tolerate Nick and Relic; the way you'd indulge an elderly Aunt with dementia, or feign interest in a close friend's particularly ugly offspring. And yeah, there was always that little matter of them taking half your paycheck, but come on, they were using it for good stuff, like free medical care for everybody and F-18 fighter jets to help keep our military strong.

Of course, that was twenty years ago. Welcome to the year 2002. The government is still helping themselves to half your paycheck, but now nobody knows what they're doing with the money. It sure isn’t going into healthcare. If you were to wake up tomorrow and find you needed heart surgery, you'd have to wait for a year--camped out front of the cardiologist's office like some pimply faced kid waiting on tickets for the next Star Wars installment. But hey, maybe you’ll make it. Stay calm, remain motionless, don’t exert yourself—and start throwing back the aspirin and the fish oil like you’re Keith Richard’s Eskimo cousin.

It’s also pretty obvious that the money isn’t being spent on the military, one need only look in the National Post to see a picture of one of our brave infantrymen ready to ship off to Afghanistan: armed with his Future Shop radio, backpack from Mountain Equipment Co-op, his white winterized tent and my personal favorite: forest green camouflage fatigues; an ensemble that should render him near invisible in the arid Afghan deserts. Give me a break, our guys look more like the paintball team from Kinkos than any elite fighting force I’ve seen.

But hey, we won the hockey game and really, when it comes down to it, isn’t that matters? Who cares that buying a book off Amazon.com now mean taking out a second mortgage; that American tourists will soon be buying Canadian strip malls to bring home as souvenirs for the kids or that Mexico is starting to talk about moving it’s factories up here to take advantage of our cheap labor. There’s no brain drain—all those professionals flooding south are just going on vacation—for a really long time. And besides, Americans are all fat and their streets are riddled with crime. Here in Canada firearms are registered and woe be it to those who even think of robbing a bank or breaking into your house without the proper paperwork.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love this country and I think I now know what’s missing in our nation’s capital: a grassy knoll and a book depository.
Of course I certainly don't condone violence—at least not without the proper paperwork.

---
Rantings of An Unexplodedscotsman
http://www.unexplodedscotsman.com/
Short stories. Rants. Things better left unsaid.

Men are from Mars

Remember the book "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus"? Well, here's a prime example offered by an English professor at an American University. "Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person next to them. One of you will then write the first paragraph of a short story. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on, back and forth.
Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be absolutely NO talking and anything you wish to say must be written on the paper. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached."
The following was actually turned in by two English students:
Rebecca - last name deleted, and Scott - last name deleted.
----------------------------------------------------------------
STORY: (first paragraph by Rebecca)
At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.
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Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-head he spent one sweaty night with over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator. "Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far..." But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted hole through his ship's cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.
----------------------------------------------------------
He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth - when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, any television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. "Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully.
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Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu'udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu'udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion which vaporized poor, stupid, Laurie and 85 million other Americans. The President slammed his fist on the conference table. "We can't allow this! I'm going to veto that treaty! Let's blow 'em out of the sky!
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This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent.
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Yeah? Well, you're a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium. "Oh shall I have camomile tea? Or shall I have some other sort of F*CKING TEA??? Oh no, I'm such air headed bimbo who reads too many Mills & Boon novels.
----------------------------------------------------------
A*****e.
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B***h.
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Wanker.
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Slut.
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Get f*****d.
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Eat s**t.
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F**K YOU - YOU NEANDERTHAL!!!
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Go drink some tea - whore..
*******************

Two thumbs up for Jason C's suggestion for a new title: Missiletoe

Oh yeah. If you didn't already know, you might want to bookmark www.unexplodedscotsman.com
The sites finally got a real domain name, and bookmarking it will help you find it if I decide to start hosting it somewhere else.

Hey kids, just a quick message to let you know, if you haven't already figured it out, that I'm going to start posting less. That's the bad news.
The good news is the stuff that I'm going to be posting is going to much longer (1000 words +). I want to start cranking out something like a bi-monthly column--mainly to create something of a portfolio.

That's not to say I can't or won't post the odd thing here and there, just that's it's not going to be a daily thing.
Stay tuned.

Think I've got an idea for a super hero. How's this: The Karmic Avenger. He just hangs around watching television, smug in the knowledge that those that do evil, will eventually get theirs; as people are generally their own worst enemy. Where do I apply for a cape?

I'm actually pretty happy about the whole way I handled the deadbeat roomate issue. God help me, I've become a grown up--at least in this regard.
Don't worry, I promise not to sell out completely. *g*

Coming soon, Healthy Home Invasions: The Short Story: a 5000 word tale based on the wildly popular flash fiction piece (well, those who read it liked it anyway) of the same name. Coming soon to this web site. In the mean time here's the flash fiction version one more time.

Healthy Home Invasions

No matter how many times we do this, it never gets old. I’ve got butterflies—big amphetamine-soaked monarch ones—ricocheting off the walls of my stomach. My legs tremble and occasionally twitch; my mouth is flooded with the sweet metallic tang of adrenaline; heart’s battering the back of my sternum like a Golden Gloves champ working a speed bag; and my pulse, it’s booming large and loud in my head, impervious to the rumblings of the Econoline Van’s diesel engine and Phil’s ever-present sonic assault—currently NiN’s “Sin”.

There are five of us and we’re ready. I mean really ready. A year of doing this has transformed us into a well-oiled machine; we’d put most SWAT teams to shame. Phil’s wheelman, Jason the navigator. I cover ingress, usually by way of a ThunderBolt MonoShock—essentially a one man battering ram. Kel and Tyler handle the initial rush, dropping the victim with AdvancedTaser M-Series pistols: compact tasers that use compressed nitrogen gas to launch small metal probes on wires. On impact they cause uncontrollable contraction of all major muscle groups; the result being the victim goes down hard and stays down, before they can do anything stupid—like dial 911.

The van squeals to a stop. I pull back a long ragged breath and roll down my balaclava. Showtime! The back door flings open and I charge up the front steps like a rocket-assisted Brahma Bull, hitting the door full out—driving up with my legs and back, lineman style—and it not so much opens as implodes, disintegrating into a cloud of splinters and plaster and carrying me stumbling onto the floor of the entrance way. I scramble to the side and Kel and Tyler blast by, vaulting up stairs two at a time. Pulling myself to my feet I hurry after them, cresting the top of stairs just in time to see them dispatch the victim: a male about 30 years old and grotesquely overweight, rolls of fat from his belly completely obscure the top of his food-stained boxers. He’s still standing in front of an open fridge, drumstick in hand, looking very much like deer caught in a semi-truck’s headlights. He opens his mouth to say something just as Kel’s taser goes off with a serpentine hiss—twin probes plunge deep into the side of a massive man breast before emitting that now familiar bug zapper sound. He falls headlong into fridge, sending condiments and cans of Pepsi skittering across the kitchen floor. A quick check to make sure the house is secure and we’re ready to go to work.

We work in teams of two, lugging in a Lifecycle™, an elliptical cross-trainer, and a Bowflex™ machine. Tyler stays up in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the victim while emptying his fridge of everything unhealthy—which is pretty much everything. The front door is quickly replaced with a close match from the van and we take turns bringing in duffel bags loaded with Myoplex™, Zone™ bars, and whey protein. We’ve got provisions to feed the victim for at least sixty days, and that’s likely how long it will take to make things right.

Think of this as an intervention; we’re here to save you—from saturated fat and artificial flavoring; from fast food drive-thrus and convenience store cookies, from snack crackers and greasy takeout food. We work using the squeegee kid business model—you don’t ask for our services, don’t even get a choice—, but when we’re done you’ll happily pay our fee. We’re here to save you, to save you from…yourself.

Today's observation: I've observed a number of cases in the last year of a strange variation of schadenfreude (a malicious satisfaction in the misfortunes of others)
It's similar, but it seems to involve taking an aspect of your life that you're unhappy with (say being single or getting into the IT field), convincing yourself that it's actually a very good thing, and then taking that belief on the road; doing your best to convince the people around you that your choice is the best choice for them.

The best analogy I can come up with is buying a Lada (a known lemon car) and then talking all of your friends into buying the same car in an effort to reaffirm your bad purchase.

Is there a word in German for this as well?

Have to crank out a narrative poem before Wed. This should be interesting.

Note to self. All future roomates will be female, unless I get a male applicant of impecible character. With guys in a house, it rapidly takes on the flavor of a camping trip gone wrong. Let's face it. Most women are more considerate, clearer, and easier on the eyes.

Well, the other shoe has finally dropped. I happened to be home at the same time as the evil roommate and pushed the subject until he finally admitted that he had no intention of paying next months rent (he gave notice that he was moving on the 9th)--and likely wouldn't be paying his late bills or this months bills.

Words were exchanged--several in fact. Personally I wish he'd just pay his bills and skulk away. I have no desire to experience small claims court, thank you very much. But it looks like that's where it's headed.

Tune in for more. Same bat-time. Same bat-channel.

Wow. It's really snowing out there. Cold and windy too.
Still no cash from the roomate. Patience wearing thin. Vision....getting blurry. Must.. remain.....calm.

Select chapters from a highly unsuccessful phrase book for travelers:

Shopping

How much is that in real money?
C'est combien en monnaie réelle ?
¿Cuánto es en moneda estable?
Wieviel ist das in richtigem Geld?

At the hotel

Do all your maids smoke?
Toutes vos femmes de chambre fument ?
¿Es que aquí todo el mundo fuma?
Rauchen alle ihre Zimmermädchen?

There's a corpse on the bed. Please change the sheets.
Il y a un cadavre sur le lit. S'il vous plaît, faites changer les draps.
Hay un muerto en mi cama. Por favor, cambie las sábanas.
Da liegt eine Leiche auf dem Bett. Bitte wechseln sie die Laken.

Making friends

Did your face get that way in the war?
C'est à la guerre que vous vous êtes fait cette tête ?
¿Qué le pasó a su cara? ¿Fue en la guerra?
Ist dein Gesicht im Krieg so geworden?

Don't "imperialist pig" me, my good man.
Fichez-moi la paix avec votre "cochon impérialiste", mon petit bonhomme.
¡Váyase usted al cuerno con su "cerdo imperialista", hombre!
Nenn du mich nicht "imperialistisches Schwein", mein Lieber.
No, I've always enjoyed simple-minded ethnic humor.
Non, je suis passionné par l'humour racial crétin.
¡Pero claro que me encantan los chistes raciales idióticos!
Nein, ich habe schon immer flache rassistische Witze gemocht.

That's not all! I have two more photo albums!
Mais ce n'est pas tout! J'ai encore deux autres albums de photos!
¡Pero eso no es todo! ¡Todavía tengo que mostrarle mis otros dos álbumes de fotos!
Hey, das ist noch nicht alles! Ich habe noch zwei Fotoalbums!

A little romance

You're very pretty for a foreigner.
Vous êtes très jolie [joli], pour une étrangère [un étranger].
Usted es muy guapa [guapo] para ser extranjera [extranjero].
Du bist sehr schön für eine Ausländerin [einen Ausländer].

Sightseeing

Where can I find the dissidents?
Où se trouvent les dissidents ?
¿Dónde puedo encontrar a los disidentes?
Wo sind hier die Dissidenten?

I don't suppose there's anything but churches here.
Je suppose qu'ici, il n'y a rien d'autre que des églises.
Supongo que aquí no hay nada, sino iglesias.
Ich geh' mal davon aus, dass es hier ausser Kirchen nichts gibt.

I bet those machine guns are fake.
C'est du toc, toutes ces mitrailleuses.
Apuesto a que estas metralletas son falsas.
Ich wette, diese MGs sind Attrappen.

Yessir, you folks certainly have made a mess of this country.
Oui Monsieur, grâce à vous, c'est vraiment le bordel dans ce pays.
Sí, señor,ustedes ciertamente han cagado a este país.
Ja, mein Herr, ihr habt wirklich eine Müllhalde aus diesem Land gemacht.

You wouldn't have these ghettos if you people were willing to work.
Vous n'auriez pas ces ghettos si les gens avaient la volonté de travailler.
Ustedes no serían tan pobres, si estuvieran dispuestos a trabajar.
Ihr würdet diese Ghettos nicht haben, wenn ihr wirklich arbeiten wolltet.

Travel

Officer, this is an outrage.
Monsieur l'agent, c'est une insulte.
¡Señor policía, esto es un abuso!
Herr Wachtmeister, das ist eine Unverschämtheit!

Oh, sure, you're going to shoot me, right?
Tu me fusilles, oui? Non mais sans blague.
¿Me van a fusilar? ¡No me haga reír!
Ja, klar, du wirst mich jetzt erschiessen, was?

Understanding directions

I know I'm naked, could you just tell me how to get back to the hotel?
Je le sais bien que je suis à poil; je veux simplement savoir comment rentrer à l'hôtel.
Ya se que estoy calato; sólo quiero saber cómo volver al hotel.
Ich weiss, dass ich nackt bin; könnten sie mir vielleicht einfach sagen, wie ich wieder zurück zum Hotel komme?

Intellectual exchanges

Impressed as I am with the New Wave in cinematography, I must say that this particular film seemed both pretentious and unsatisfying, and that the director's imagery, though compelling, is no substitute for a true cinematic message.
Mais c'est de la merde, ce navet.
A esto le llamo yo estiércol cinematográfico.
Der Film ist Scheisse.

Well, you see, we thought at the time that a limited engagement in Vietnam was necessary to prevent the rise of Soviet Communism.
Hein, vous voyez, nous pensions à l'époque qu'un engagement limité s'imposait au Viet-Nam afin de prévenir l'avance du communisme soviétique.
Vea usted, en esa época pensábamos que una pequeña incursión en Vietnam era necesaria para impedir el avance del comunismo soviético.
Na ja, wissen sie, wir