perfidy

The faithful, Christians and others, are parodied as mouth-breathing lunatics in some quarters. One reason, I'm afraid, might be that too much attention is paid to stories like this: Lioness in zoo kills man who invoked God

Witness the story of this former genius/stupid loser:

KIEV (Reuters) - A man shouting that God would keep him safe was mauled to death by a lioness in Kiev zoo after he crept into the animal's enclosure, a zoo official said on Monday.

"The man shouted 'God will save me, if he exists', lowered himself by a rope into the enclosure, took his shoes off and went up to the lions," the official said.

"A lioness went straight for him, knocked him down and severed his carotid artery."
...

Granted, some might consider this story proof that there is no God. Consider the possibility, however, that God does exist but just thought the man from Kiev was a faithless schmuck who deserved to die. Or had made a promise to the lioness. Whatever. Because lions are people too, ya know.

We can all see that there is a need, or at least an available niche, for those wishing to provide ideologically filtered news. In a broad sense, both CNN and Fox do exactly that. On the interweb, home of a billion schismatic communities, one would expect to find a website tailored to the mind of the conservative. So, of course, someone stepped up to the plate.

But did it have to be so... gauche?

Pat Robertson, gadfly and messiah-in-waiting, has announced to the world that God told him that storms and possibly, a tsunami will strike the United States in the coming year. During a prayer retreat this past January, it seems that the almighty interrupted Pat's prayers to deliver this surprisingly vague warning. Maybe the Lord God was mumbling, for as Robertson relates, "If I heard the Lord right about 2006, the coasts of America will be lashed by storms, [and] There well may be something as bad as a tsunami in the Pacific Northwest." I know from personal experience that I, at least, make an effort to pay attention and listen attentively when my Savior gives me hot stock tips or warnings of natural disasters. I am surprised that someone as publicly religious as Mr. Robertson was nodding off while the Lord of Hosts gave him knowledge that is of life and death importance to his fellow countrymen.

But then, he has a history of not paying attention. For instance, in his twisty little mind, he managed to translate "Thou shalt not kill" into "Venezuelan President Hugo Chaves shalt be assassinated by agents of the US government."

As it happens, Robertson is wrong on the particulars of his revelation. The Holy Ghost stopped in for a beer the other night, and told me that the Tsunami will hit the east coast as a result of the collapse of the west face of a volcano in the Canary Islands, and it will be in 2008, the day before the election in November. And of course, storms hit the coasts of the United States every year, and 2006 will be no different.

Myself, I have been waiting for God to demand that Robertson be given a 100 million dollars lest he gathered into heaven. That will be must see tv.

Every Friday, weather permitting, I walk with the Li'lest Lethal. Lady Lethal takes him every day, pretty much, but Fridays I have him to myself. We have a pretty good time, I like to think, and getting out of the house a little is good for both of us.

Oftentimes we go one town over, which is alot nicer than the town we actually live in. Not that we live particularly shabbily, but THAT town has longer and nicer sidewalks, many of which wrap around its stately olde towne common. The historic homes overlooking the olde towne common advertise their historicity with placards declaring how old the place is and who built it: Elihu Jehosephatt, 1713. Fitzhugh Broadwinnings, 1805. Jeremiah Broadwinnings, 1842. They're interesting in their details and pleasing to the eye. But in the back of my mind I think what a drag it is to own such a house, needing the local historical committee's permission to drive a friggin nail.

The war memorial sits in the center of the common, an arc of dry-stacked stone and aging words facing a single simple flagpole. The memorial includes the names of the town's men who fell in battle as far back as pre-Revolution campaigns against the native tribes. Some of the names on the cold, weathered bronze tablets are the same as on the houses we just walked past.

The only business near the common is the cosmetic surgeon and day spa, but even they are set up in small, restrained structures that fit the neighborhood. It's almost as if they were always there, where George Washington got his DaVinci veneers, and Paul Revere had a little nip and tuck after one too many Boston winters.

It's a nice place to walk, overall, on a cool spring day.

'Cept for the gay-bashers.

Last Friday a friend from my part time job, whose name is Storm (really), came over before work to hang out. Instead of lunch we got some beverages and walked on the common. We were just gabbing about this and that, work, that sort of thing. Storm was digging all the eye-candy in the area at that time of day, between a local college, random passers-by, and a heavy MILF concentration. At one point I said something along the lines of, "You know Storm, we probably look like a coupla homos with our adopted baby, between the big baby stroller and the Starbucks cups." Which, don't get me wrong, was fine- just that Storm is always on the lookout for female companionship, and with me looking a little bear-ish and he looking a little femme (he can't help it), well...well, it didn't happen for him that day.

But it turns out we weren't the only ones who thought we looked like a gay couple.

Not a half hour after making that observation, two peckerwoods cruising down the street in a car with crappy music blaring from crappy speeakers shouted something to us at the top of their lungs. I think I know what they said, but you know what, I won't even repeat it. It certainly wasn't welcoming, and absolutely wasn't an invitation to discuss evolving paradigms of modern life and marriage.

So we're in the middle of Idyllic Suburb USA, broad daylight, middle of the day- and get hassled for being gay.

Now, here are a couple of things that those two punks completely missed, in the same order that they occurred to me at that moment:

-My baby son was in his stroller, at arm's reach. When I heard the shouting and the language, surprising me and coming from behind- which could only be construed as threatening- I kicked into ultra defense mode. It was like, threat-baby-defend-adrenaline spike-defend-destroy. It's the kind of feeling that causes people to go from calm to rage in a straight-for-the-windpipe sort of way, which I did not fully appreciate until I was a parent, and for which I would have been in a heap of trouble had those two clowns been close enough to throttle. Dunno if that's a new daddy thing I'll grow out of, or what, but there it is and I don't have alot of control over adrenaline.

-On Fridays it seems I'm walking alone, but usually I'm not. Sure at the time Storm was with me, and of course the baby's always there. But I keep a close friend nearby; ideally you won't see him.

-My close friend has 8 little buddies he never leaves the house without.

-If you just shout stuff at people out of your moving car, you're not cool or even funny. You're just a douche.

-Oh, and I'M NOT GAY.

Fucking imbeciles.

ABC News has excerpts from a - no shit - Zarqawi Blooper Reel up on their website. It's evidently outtakes from one of his anti-American screeds, featuring hi-larious incidents like: Zarqawi trying to shoot a Kalashnikov, failing, and being shown how by an associate; that same associate grabbing the gun back and being burned on the barrel; and a pair of amusing bright blue tennis shoes that just totally don't make it with the post-Viet Cong black pajamas ensemble our boy Z is rocking.

Remember, people, this is the face of our enemy. Anyone got a cream pie?

(h/t QandO)

This is just about the dorkiest thing I've seen since, well... ever. Captain Ed has started a group he's called the "101st Fighting Keyboardists. they've got a logo and everything.

Our friends on the port side of the blogosphere have had quite a time tossing around funny little nicknames for those of us who support the war on terror and use our blogs to express our convictions about it. We've seen the names here at CQ in the comments section -- the term "chickenhawk" has appeared more than once, and others in the blogosphere have assigned us to a unit called the 101st Fighting Keyboardists.

I've thought about that for a while, wondering what exactly about both epithets appear so fascinating to left-wing bloggers. As a middle-aged grandfather supporting a chronically ill wife, I have few options for doing my part in the war on terror. After 9/11, I spent weeks looking into different options for service while trying to balance my family obligations. Our family found out just three weeks after the attack that the Little Admiral would soon join us, and the implications of terrorism and war weighed heavily on my mind. I resolved to use the skills I had -- writing -- to make the case for fighting a forward strategy against terrorists. Eventually that led me to this blog, but in the interim I argued for a continued muscular offensive against the Islamofascists that had murdered thousands of our fellow Americans.

Is that the same as military service? Of course not. The men and women of the military do the real fighting, and we salute them and support them by supporting their mission. Milbloggers give us the best of both worlds by not only defending our nation and fighting (and beating) terrorists around the globe, but also by reporting on the fight first hand. There is honor in engaging in public debate for policies which we believe are in our nation's best interest as well. For many of us, we know that without presenting our arguments in the national forum, many in the media and the public will quickly overpower the debate and threaten the policies we feel give us the best long-term opportunity to defeat terrorism and the states that fund and shelter them.

....

That's why Frank J of IMAO, Derek Brigham of Freedom Dogs, and I have decided to create -- for real -- the 101st Fighting Keyboardists and adopt the chicken hawk as our mascot. First of all, the term "fighting keyboardist" describes our efforts pretty well, and we think the pseudo-military terminology is pretty danged amusing. Derek himself designed the logo.

....

Make of that what you will.

I mean, my esteemed coblogger Buckethead jokes about being a "Chairborne Ranger" or a member of the "Keyboard Brigade," (okay, half the time it's me calling him those things, but that fact is inconvenient to my current point so let's overlook it, mmkay?), but that's with the understanding that blogging is in no way a noble sacrifice that contributes in any way whatsoever to the actual shooting war that's going on half a world a way. Because that's the actual situation.

Anyway, hop over there and read the comments, which are totally priceless: "sign me up!" "Can I join?" "John Kerry, reporting for duty!!"

As a liberal who never trusted the Bush administration to not f*ck up there little adventure in Iraq, and who has said so publicly while simultaneously mocking the overwrought conviction of the loony fringes on each side (which evidently makes me one of the people they think can go suck it), I am frankly cowed into silent submission at the resolve and frankly incredible insight of these men, these dorks, this band of brothers. Or whatever.

Well, really it just makes me tired.

[wik] idiosynchronic of low and left (coblogger of our valued loyal reader "iamcoyote") notes something I'm grateful I didn't have to point out myself, because the fishinbarrelicious frission of the whole deal would make me feel a little dirty. That is, idiosynchronic noticed something I was trying not to notice, being the sporting and fair-minded chap that I am, namely a surely unintentional resemblance between the Chickenhawk logo and the German Eagle, a national symbol that once symbolized the stiff-necked greatness of the Empire, but which came to seem unspeakably crass circa, oh, 1946 or so. Its use by the Chairborne Rangers (unofficial motto: "We'll Beat You Down With One Hand Ti... Well, Let's Just Say The Other Hand Is Busy!") has to be the single shiningest example of AutoGodwinPwnage ever seen in the history of the internets.

[alsø wik] Dr. Sanity, now of the "Fighting Keybees," as the 101st is styling itself, want us all to know that they

stand for TRUTH, JUSTICE, and the ultimate DEFEAT OF TYRANNY. [And, that includes all of you tyrants or tyrant wannabees out there in the blogsphere who are completely without a sense of humor; and/or who take those vapid and banal exhortations for "peace" so seriously you are unable to see that you represent the greatest threat to peace and freedom in the universe. All humorless and ideological cretins can just suck it up--because we mean you!]

Oh, I got a sense of humor all right. I think all this big-talkin' steely-eyed internet resolve to fight 'splodeydopes and liberals alike through their heavy, heavy words is hilarious.

The mind is a curious and terrible thing. One would think, that in the ordinary run of things, your average Joe would at some point prior to a vast scheduling conflict realize that three very big things are happening more or less at once.

But not your favorite Buckethead. For weeks, I blissfully and uncomprehendingly prepared for:

A) The first annual Milblogger Conference, hosted here in DC.
B) A weekend of watching my son while Mrs. Buckethead enters the studio with DMH to record their second album.
C) Pascha, or as you heathens call it, Easter. Which is only rarely on the same weekend as the more famous Easter.

How I managed to so completely compartmentalize my mind as to remain unaware that I was planning and organizing (at Blackfive's request) a post conference pub crawl and helping the wife assemble the traditional Orthodox Pascha basket for the midnight Easter liturgy – two events that were to occur at more or less the same time, and are almost completely contradictory in purpose – is totally beyond my poor power to comprehend. All while simultaneously willfully ignoring the side effects of the wife being in the studio.

So, my weekend looks like this:

10:00 miss work Friday drive over to the studio, drop off Mrs. Buckethead so she can warble into the microphone for ten hours.
11:00 go to Home depot to pick up a large waterproof tarp to cover the 35 Ford that my Dad left in my driveway weeks ago, because Dad isn't sure the top of the car or the car cover is sufficiently waterproof.
12:00 McD's for my little McChicken Nugget addict.
1:00 Get home, read condescending email from Dad about how irresponsible I am to not have already gotten the waterproof tarp I just got.
2:00 Inexplicably decide that rather than just clean the house and then relax, it would really make more sense to completely disassemble and then reassemble my office, Steve Austin style. Better, faster, stronger. Of course, this completely and near permanently trashes a large portion of the rest of the house.
8:00 Look up from the wartorn wreckage of the den, and realize that I am supposed to be an hour away from that room at this very moment, and I haven't showered yet.
8:02 Showered and ready, leave for studio to pick up Mrs. Buckethead and baby Jocelyn.
8:30 Having made the 40 minute drive in 28 minutes, pick up fam and head back home.
9:15 Drive into DC for the pre-conference drinkfest.
10:00 Commence drinking.
2:30 Last call.
3:00 After cadging a few final beers from admiring waitress, am the last warblogger to leave the bar.
3:30 Very carefully drive home
4:00 Collapse into bed.
7:00 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Dora the explorer.
7:30 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Little Einsteins.
8:00 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Dora the explorer.
8:30 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Little Einsteins.
9:00 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Dora the explorer.
9:30 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Little Einsteins.
10:00 Awoken by Mrs. Buckethead, who wonders, isn't the effing Conference starting?
10:30 Awoken by Mrs. Buckethead, who wants me to change effing diapers.
11:00 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Dora the explorer.
11:30 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Little Einsteins.
12:00 Awoken by Mrs. Buckethead, who gently suggests that I should effing get up.
12:30 Awoken by Mrs. Buckethead, who gently suggests that I should effing get up.
1:00 Awoken by Mrs. Buckethead, who not so gently suggests that I should effing get up.
1:20 Showered and mostly awake, I head downtown, and manage to find the conference center.
2:00 Attend the first (for me) or third (for the conference) session on blogging in theater. Fascinating, and Col. Hunt, famous military commentator is even more like Col. Hunt than you thought possible.
4:30 Princess Cat, in an act of stunning generosity, finds an XXL conference tshirt for an XXL Buckethead frame.
4:35 Finally meet Murdoc, who was too wussy to actually come drinking night before, and offered some lame excuse about driving eleven hours.
4:45 Murdoc and I, reconciled, head south to observe as much of the nation's capital as possible in the 45 minutes remaining before all the tourist crap closes. In the pouring rain.
5:15 Like Chevy Chase at the Grand Canyon in Vacation, we stand on the mall and nod at the Washington Memorial and the Capital building. We couldn't see the Lincoln Memorial, really, because of the rain.
5:30 Through increasing rain, we walk to the Metro, and decide to start the pub crawl early.
6:00 We arrive two hours early for the pub crawl, at Finn MacCool's Irish Publick House and Non-Smoking Establishment.
7:00 Murdoc is clearly feeling uncomfortable filling the awkward silences I leave in the conversation thanks to my inability to focus.
8:00 Three beers later, I am beginning to awake. I am interviewed in the rain by an attractive young lady from the conference. I do not know who she was or what she was associated with. Though it had something to do with veterans.
8:30 Milbloggers begin to arrive as the rain deepens. More beer keeps me awake.
9:00 First message from wife about estimated departure time.
10:00 Fourth message from wife about estimated departure time. I decide in the interest of self preservation to make the painful separation from the festivities, and move closer (at least geographically) to God.
10:30 Arrive at home, shower and put on suit.
10:40 Am now ready for Easter. We leave.
11:35 Arrive at Church. All the effing seats taken. Like that matters, though, if you're Orthodox. If you sit through the service they beat you up at the end for being a puss.
12:00 We make the procession around the church. An inspiring and frankly beautiful tradition that means that there is two and half hours of church left.
2:30 Church ends. Feast begins. We eat sausage, cheese, bread and other comestibles that we did not, well, actually quite get around to, not eating during the Lenten fast. Also, our friends Wine and Vodka!
4:00 Leave Church.
5:00 Collapse in the general direction of bed.
7:00 Wake Mrs. Buckethead so she can go to effing studio.
7:30 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Little Einsteins.
8:00 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Dora the explorer.
8:30 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Little Einsteins.
9:00 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Dora the explorer.
9:30 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Little Einsteins.
10:00 In the interest of self preservation, start cleaning up the mess I made Friday.
12:00 Order pizza just so I can get more diet coke, and wheedle the pizzaman into bringing me cigarettes.
2:30 Awoken by John, who wants to watch effing Little Einsteins.
2:45 Resume cleaning.
8:00 Almost done cleaning.
8:01 Mrs. Buckethead calls to say she won't be back for another couple hours, which means I needn't have hurried.
10:00 Mrs. Buckethead arrives.
10:30 Begin ten hours of sleep.

Italian police arrest the grand poobah of the international La Cosa Nostra in Sicily. In Corleone. I mean, didn't the guy watch the Godfather?

So NBC really doesn't get most of this country, a revelation which should not surprise anyone overmuch. In an attempt to engineer controversy for a Dateline segment on anti-Muslim sentiment (which seems to be conflated with anti-Arab sentiment a lot of the time in both press and popular perception) in the US, they Sent a cadre of Sikhs to Martinsville Speedway on race day, looking for them to get hassled.

Leaving aside the fact that Sikhs are neither Muslim nor Arabs, the gentlemen did not, in fact, get hassled. Perhaps if NBC had gotten a bunch of guys from Central Casting in turbans and tunics to fake a gas tank explosion on a GM pickup with an effigy of Richard Petty in the back while ululating and burning an American flag they'd have gotten what they were after. I mean, no sense in holding back if you're trying to bring out the worst in people, right???

All kidding aside, this really goes to show you how little NBC's producers understand about the sport of kings (a sport they have lucratively televised for several years) and the people that love it. All you needed to do to get those dudes hassled at a race was to put them in hand-lettered t-shirts reading"#3 was a pussy." Turbans and dusky skin don't matter so much, but don't you dare question the manliness of The Intimidator.

Hat tip to loyal reader #0016, EDog.

[wik] A big shout out to the Possum for the post title.

I've always thought the biggest mistake I ever made was being born in Ravenna, Ohio.

This prank's exactly the kind of thing my smart-and-bored younger sister used to get up to in Ravenna, Ohio no less, when she was in high school. Except that fifteen years ago, the cops were merely overzealous because they were raging pricks, not because they were raging pricks ennobled by their li'l anti-terror crusade. As if, of course, the terrorists who so famously hate our freedom can't pick strategically significant targets, letting their hatred of town squares, hardware stores, pickup trucks, Dairy Queens, and underutilized faux-historic downtowns recently renovated at significant cost overruns on the backs of taxpayers overwhelm whatever other beefs they might have with said freedom &c &c.

In the town of Ravenna, Ohio, five teenage girls, ages 16 and 17, crafted some life-sized power-up boxes modeled after those in the NES classic [video game Super Mario Brothers]. The cardboard boxes were covered in shiny, gold wrapping paper and had the black question marks familiar to most gamers. As an April Fools joke, the girls laid 17 of these boxes around the town in public spaces Friday morning.

The humor was lost on some residents, however. After noticing one package on the steps of a church, a concerned citizen reported the "suspicious package" to local authorities, who called in the county's hazardous materials unit and the bomb squad.

. . . . .

Ravenna Police Chief Randall McCoy told the online edition of the Record-Courier that one girl came into the police department with one of her parents and claimed responsibility, saying it was just a joke.

Apparently, the girls got the idea from the Web site Qwantz.com, which gives detailed instructions on how to make the boxes. The Web site intended the posting to inspire art projects, and several subversive artists have submitted photos of their Mario blocks in action across the country.

. . . . .

The girls face possible criminal charges for their actions. While most in the online community think the authority's actions are a tad extreme, McCoy defends the proceedings of his department.

"The potential is always present when dealing with a suspicious package that it could be deadly," McCoy told the Record-Courier. "In today's day and age, you just cannot do this kind of stuff."

Actually, the real lesson is never admit shit to the Portage County cops even when it seems like the right thing to do. I'm glad the girls are learning now the value of subterfuge and the horrible price you pay for creativity, honesty, and coloring outside the lines.

Here are alternate links to stories in the Akron Reekin-Urinal and to the Portage County Record-Courier, whose site is currently slashdotted. From the Urinal:

Boxes were found at the Immaculate Conception Church on West Main Street, the Portage County Courthouse, Deluxe Pastries, the corner of Cherry Way and Main Street, Reed Memorial Library, Ravenna High School and a residence at Sanford and Main streets.

Clearly, the terrorists know what we value most as a society. Deluxe Pastry make the best cream sticks, which other parts of the country may know as Bismarcks.

The Record-Courier, by the way, had their finest hour the week of May 4, 1970, with a series of triumphalist feature stories about the "dirty piggies" (in the words of several contributors to the letters and even op-ed pages) who got what was coming to them at Kent State. The May 5 headlines ran something like, "STUDENTS RUN RIOT...BURN PROPERTY....." and over to the side "(four people killed)."

But I digress. It's always a little touching when the long arm of Roscoe P. Coltrane reaches out and touches something it plumb don't understand. Omigod, Skeeter!! The terrorists are bombing Deluxe Pastry! They hate our freedom and our maple-frosted cream sticks!

Feh.

[wik] It's stories like this that throw cold water all over my occasional urge to quit Massachusetts for Ohio, to take advantage of lower costs of living.

[alsø wik] Is it wrong of me that I almost put a "Crazy Foreigners" tag on this story?

Those of you who are married... what would happen to you if you came home from a long day in the word-mines, hung your nice grey fedora on the peg by the door and said, "Woman.... Fix me a plate!" And what would happen if, after an evening of Ed Sullivan and a desultory game of bridge with the neighbors, you said to your wife, "Woman, it is time to service me! You will get in the bedroom and strip, now!"

Would you even do that? Even in jest? And what would you expect to happen afterwards? In the experience of every married couple I am friends with, joking about this would be like juggling with live grenades, and saying something like this in seriousness would be... well... unhealthy.

Well, how about writing your authority to do so in your pre-nup? Meet Travis Frey, an Iowa man currently up on charges for kidnapping his own wife and for child pornography. The Smoking Gun has a copy of his insane pre-nup draft, unsigned, that his wife submitted as evidence of his crazy-man insanitude, after the break.

Excerpts after the cut:

Hygiene & Self Care: You will shave every third day which includes underarms, chest, legs and pubic area (navel to anus), all areas are to be completely clean shaven. Above your vagina you may have a patch of pubic hair in any shape, that must be centered above your vaginal slit. It will measure no greater than 2.0” x 1.0’ and will maintain a length of less than 1/3”.

Sleepware: I will select all your sleepware for you, and you will find it under your pillow if there is none then you are to be naked. You are to have your sleepware on within 20 minutes of the kids being in bed.

Clothes & Other Apparel: You will wear only thigh highs & garters and only thong panties. The only exception will be during your menstrual cycle at which time you could wear either or both. Half of your shoe purchases will be high heels, 2’ or more. You will wear these high heels more often.

You will give me all non-thong panties and all panty hose, all tights, all knee-high and/ or ankle high nylons. You be able to keep 5 pairs of non-thong panties of your choice for use during your menstrual cycle.

My Time: When we are at home and alone as a family from when you are to be naked until 12:00am or for three hours, whichever is later, will be MY TIME. This time will be time you will devote solely to me, whereas you will be in my service to do Anything and Everything I want, which may or may not be sexual in manner.

Good Behavior: Since there will be no trading, negotiations, or concilations of any kind you are given chances to earn Good Behavior Days (GBDs). TO receive GBD's you are to be totally compliant with everything requested or expected of you, and perform everything with complete and total enthusiasm. In addition GBD's will be given when you do things from the descriptions below when not expected. If you try to perform something not expected and I tell you no you will recieve half GBD's. Specfic GBD info is listed at the bottom right of each description.

I'm not even going to get into the detailed parts about "noncompliance" and "misbehavior" or the lists of do's and don'ts (No complaining to or about me; No whining, crying, sobbing our pouting; Do be loving and devoted at all times). It is very important to read all four pages of this incredible document.

[wik]According to the commentors at Demure Thoughts, Frey sprung this contract on his wife well after they were married, which makes this into a pathetic airing of petty grievances. Somehow that's even sadder, like Hitler in his bunker giving orders to phantom armies as the Russians burn Berlin.

Loyal Reader #0016, EDog, forwards this priceless discussion board in which new doctors discuss the crazy things they see in the ER.

I tell ya, no matter how many times you hear a story about some guy needing a pickle jar fished out of his cornhole, it just doesn't stop being funny.

I like the one about the guy who got a script for Vicodin and got on his cell phone right there in the ER to sell it, in full earshot of the doctors what gave him the script.

From the diseased mind of confessed Star Wars geek and Ministry Crony Phil we find the bizarre intersection of two divergent forms of obsession.

Behold, "Stormtrooper Elvis:"

"A little less conversation, a little more action."

Does he sing Blue Suede Shoes with that tinny little radio voice all the Stormtroopers have? Does the Empire supply him with free quaaludes and peanut butter and banana sandwiches? A costume like that would make it much more difficult to expire sitting on the throne, wouldn't it? Yeesh.

[wik] You can see the entire parade of hopeless wannabes, with entirely free bonus snarky commentary starting here.

I supposed it's not such a fine line between going out in grand epic style and bleeding to death because you comically screwed up your own suicide, but a Belmont, NH man achieved just that nonetheless.

From the Mancheste rUnion-Leader:

With common items such as concrete blocks, a saw blade, bare wires and gasoline, a despondent David Moore devised systems that would first kill him and then turn his home into a funeral pyre.

Neither worked as planned.

On Monday, Belmont police discovered Moore dead in his bedroom, some 20 feet away from a homemade guillotine he had built in his living room. He had gone as far as bolting tracks of metal piping to a ceiling beam to guide the blade, authorities said.

Flawless it was not.

Upon entering Moore’s home, police found dried blood throughout the living room. Moore’s body had a deep gash to the back of the neck, said New Hampshire State Police Sgt. Andrew Parsons, the commander of the state police bomb squad.

The badly wounded Moore had crawled or staggered from his guillotine to his bedroom to die, Parsons said.

Police also discovered hard-wired Molotov cocktails that had never detonated at the 10 Silkwood Ave. home.

Belmont police called in the bomb squad when they found eight to 10 plastic water bottles stuffed into holes punched into the living room wall. All held a couple ounces of gasoline. All were wired to two electrical timers and a power strip.

But the strip’s switch was in the off position.

All kidding aside, imagine for a moment not dying in a flash but instead groaning in agony as you drag yourself bleeding through your house, having managed to cut your own head halfway off. What a sad way to go.

Hawkins posted his now-annual top ten list of worst utterancesfrom the Democratic Underground, and I couldn't help but go look. It's like rubbernecking adn accidents. You know it's not quite right, but you do it anyway. The sampling of quotes is predictably tendentious and irritating. Of course, you could find equal amounts of goofiness (if not bile) at a UFO convention, Evangelist Tent Rally or a Burning Man festival. But this one just tugs at my heart:

3) seabeyond: "i refuse kentuck i just refuse. why do you think the (American) people are so dumb because they have been being dumb down consistantly alst decade especially during bush time. i refuse and tell my children i refuse to allow them to be dumb down. they had better use their brain to follow me. i have high expectation,. i will not feed into the dumbing down of america. i tell my friends, exactly i expect more out of them, i especially tell my older nieces and nephews and their friends, i will not play their dumb down game

no no no"

I'm afraid that unless his or her) fellow gene donor is a damn sight smarter, his kids have little hope but to play the dumb down game.

When one thinks of stealing, what generally comes to mind is items of easily portable value - jewels, cash, cars, and the like. What doesn't come to mind is silos. Tall, cylindrical structures for storing grain. If you had asked me, I would not have thought it possible to steal a silo. Nevertheless, an Akron, Ohio man was convicted by my mom for doing just that. Retired, and readily available for civic duties like jury service, mom was one of twelve upright citizens who put the kabosh on this silo-thieving maniac.

Who knows what might have happened had his criminal career gone unthwarted? The growing epidemic of silo-grifting might be of serious import. Silos might be gateway structures that lead to even more dangerous building theft. Unpunished for abducting silos and selling them on the brisk farm outbuilding black market, he might have moved on to bigger game. Like turnpike tollbooths. Or stripmall yogurt franchises. Or even U-Store-It warehouses.

However, it should be noted that this guy, Thomas Woosnam, was probably not cut out for a life of criminal wrongdoing. When confronted by the authorities, his only defense was, "He thought when he took these (silos) that he could take them." Apparently he believed that since they were abandoned, and not being used, they were free for the taking. Quipped Assistant County Prosecutor Scott Salisbury, "At age 3 or 4 you learn to keep your hands off other people's stuff. (Woosnam) never learned that lesson.'' We all know that ignorance of the law is no excuse. But a corollary of that bit of folk wisdom might be, "lack of a plausible excuse leads to soggy pepper steak at the county jail."

Hats off to mom, fighting crime in the big city.

[wik] At least the accused wasn't the Medina City Mayor, as has often been the case in the past. Medina has more executive malfeasance per capita than any city I'm aware of. Plus corrupt judges with cross-dressing murderous sons. And crack-smoking ex mayors living with prostitututes. And goofy hippie mayors who take out full page adds in the local paper consisting solely of the lyrics to John Lennon's Imagine. And much, much more.

I was walking over to the post office on 14th street, and my eye was caught by this ridiculous building.

Whatever possessed the architect to include one (1) column, and that at the very top of the building? Hey! It's classical! Of course, he got the proportions of the column wrong. And it's stupid. Neoclassical design can result in some impressive, and beautiful buildings. This is just neostalinist pancake architecture lite. Crap.

I know that at least two of my cobloggers are big gun guys, Second Amendment sisters bound together by a common love of self-defense and the smell of cordite.

But if you ever -- ever think of taking matters this far, know that you have departed into some gun-nut cloudcuckooland forever and are dead to me.

My wife and I have taken the plunge and are planning to spend a full week at Forest Hills Nudist Resort this summer. We've been to nudist camps twice before, but never overnight. Since these previous trips were to beaches, my concealed carry technique for those situations was to keep my Makarov in a Ziploc bag inside our cooler. This summer's trip, however will include volleyball, pot-luck dinners, and dances. My cooler can't be within arm's reach in those situations. I need some advice. I've become so used to my CCW, I can't imagine being unarmed. Here are my options, as I see them:

1) Go unarmed, because nudists are generally real nice folks.

2) Carry around a leather satchel or man-purse. With a shoulder strap, of course.

3) This one's kind of hard to explain. My wife and I are into a rather unusual type of entertainment, and I've discovered that normal duct tape adheres very well to human skin. You should also know that I'm quite overweight, bordering on obese. In a flash of revelation one fine morning, I realized that one of the advantages of being rotund is that I'm able to conceal a NAA mini-revolver between the two largest rolls of my belly. A bit of duct tape holds it in place. Its completely invisible when I'm standing or sitting upright. It does show a bit when I recline or lie down, however.

Other than those three choices, I'm stumped. Any suggestions?

I say the guy should hide his gun in his fat rolls, because those other options are silly. You never know when you will have to use lethal force against a naked assailant, and a man-purse is always kind of fruity.

I work at a government agency. We were recently forwarded this message regarding the upcoming switch back to Eastern Standard Time:

UNCLAS STATE 196946
INFORM CONSULS
E.O. 12958: N/A
TAGS: ACOA
SUBJECT: DEPARTMENT/WASHINGTON TIME CHANGE.

1. All posts are advised that WASHINGTON will return to EASTERN STANDARD TIME (From ZULU minus four (4) to ZULU minus five (5) hours) on Sunday, October 30, 2005, at 0200 local, (0700 Zulu).
2. Minimize considered.
RICE
BT
#6946


NNNN
UNCLASSIFIED STATE 00196946

Exsqeeze me? Why all of that, when, instead of forwarding some pseudo-cryptic message from the State Department, they could have merely typed a friendly reminder to all staff, that, "Hey, kids, don't forget to set your clocks back this weekend." And further, wtf is up with item two?