perfidy

I don't expect to be given the choice, but if I am, I hope the list of options is at least a bit more varied than this:

• Hacked to death
• Brain aneurysm
• Old age

For the record, those are listed in increasing order of both preference and age of demise. Coincidence? You decide.

[wik] Preference? "Peacefully, in my sleep, like my grandfather, not screaming and hollering like all the passengers on his bus"

And this might be one of those times. Or not. Minister Buckethead's call, completely. From the "What do you think?" feature in today's Onion email, "Door Open for NJ Gay Marriage", answer #1:

Inventory Control Specialist
“This will go a long way toward expanding the variety of punch lines about New Jersey.”

To be honest, I think Buckethead had the matter preemptively covered, with his last two items in the post linked above, but I'm pointing it out, just in case.

What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?

"You will be smothered under a rug. You're a little anti-social, and may want to start gaining new social skills by making prank phone calls." Quiz here.

Social networking sites have been quite popular in the last several years, few more so than MySpace.

It turns out that, as in many other ventures, it's possible to get too much of a supposedly good thing. In Thursday's WSJ, there was an article entitled "MySpace, ByeSpace", exploring a trend away from MySpace and Facebook. In it, they report that a lady with several tons of "friends" on the site decided they might not be true friends:

After Ms. Thompson created a MySpace page two years ago, she found herself sifting through dozens of requests daily from would-be acquaintances seeking to link to her page. By early this year, she'd amassed 4,000 such "friends," most of them strangers. Many flooded her page with remarks like "omg" -- shorthand for "oh my god" -- "you're so beautiful." By June, Ms. Thompson, who resides in New London, Conn., was sick of the comments and posted a farewell ode before deleting her page...

No shock, really - sites that facilitate the social equivalent of pretend popularity whoring may provide entertainment, but they're surely not building social networks worthy of the name.

Social networking "spam", both from people trying to build their imaginary networks and from advertisers has become a real problem, we're told. And I don't doubt it for an instant. I was about to abandon the article as "dog bites man" news, until I came across the portion of the story dealing with James Kalyn, "a 30-year-old technical writer in Regina, Saskatchewan".

He kept receiving friend requests from half-naked female strangers through his MySpace page. Clicking on a request usually led to a profile that turned out to be an ad for a pornography site. At first, Mr. Kalyn was excited that "these hot girls allegedly wanted to be my friend." But after looking at a few profiles, he realized: "
If it's a picture of someone fairly attractive, they're probably not my friend in real life."

He's officially disqualified from being my friend in real life, solely for admitting to having thought random, half-naked women wanted "to be his friend". However, based on the sole criterion I could glean from his quote, I'm otherwise qualified to be one of his friends in real life. Which is a bit of a shame, both for me and for all his actual friends in real life.

In a development that will have thousands nationwide tearing their garments and gnashing their teeth in despair, the Yakima (WA) Herald Republic reports that fully 4% of the US hop harvest this year went up in smoke when the warehouse they were being stored in burned to the ground.

There's just one thing for it, of course; drink more vodka until the shortage is alleviated. Stiff upper lip, all that.

I'm sure you've heard the old saw about not starting fights with people who buy ink by the barrel?

Addendum: Don't ever piss off Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers' Tom Perkins.

Quick chronology (sans copious and specific links, since anyone who cares already knows, anyone who doesn't know probably doesn't care, and really, this is all about the juvenile punch line):

• HP's board was considering changing leadership
• Not all members were on board with doing so
• The board got leaky with the press
• George Keyworth was fingered & drummed out as a board member
• Tom Perkins didn't like seeing his friend pilloried (even though his friend {ahem} was the source of the leaks)
• Perkins pitched a bitch, raised holy-hell, and got a Congressional hearing scheduled
• Now Patricia Dunn, the former chairman of HP's board, stands a chance, however slight, of a career change into the "license plate stamping industry"

Coincidence? You decide. I guess it could be.

But, dig this little-known fact - he also caused her to lose some of her good looks and most of her hair, as evidenced by this pictorial chronology:

Coincidence? I'd like you to believe I think that's stretching it.

[wik] Speaking of "stretching it", I mashed all those pictures so they'd fit. The last one is distorted such that it's worse looking than the one in the WaPo story, and that's unintentional. So I added a link to the pop-up, full size picture, which is unfortunately, like the mashed version, less than flattering. Also unintentional - she was quite the looker at one time, anti-glamour shots notwithstanding, and Congressional hearings are surely a complete pain in the ass. I blame Tom Perkins.

See Allah, Via Ace.

The entire matter may not be as cut and dried as some of my colleagues believe.

That said, coercively interrogating the wrong guy due to bad Canadian intelligence and embarrassing American operational standards is inexcusable. So is anything to do with Syria's government.

But it might be time to dispense with fiction that the sole value of coercive interrogation is that "...someone being tortured will say whatever they can to get it to stop."

Sometimes, perhaps many or most times, there's more to be gained than false confessions.

The Pope said something the other day, and pissed off a lot of Islamic nutbags. Lucky for him, he appears only to have pissed off the ones he was actually referring to - the irony-challenged ones who think the answer to any such perceived sleight merits a murder threat or a bombing. BFD - I have nothing else to add to the matter that's not already been said by others.

However, I thought I'd bring to your attention, in case you hadn't seen it, a snippet from Scott Adams' blog, entitled "Pope Stirs Up P o o p", that got a chuckle out of me:

...I love the fact that the Vatican’s official position is that Muslims should be treated with “esteem.” According to my dictionary, esteem is a very weasely word. It can mean “high regard,” and that’s a nice compliment. But it can also mean “the regard in which one is held” which is a broad concept encompassing everything from “really groovy” to “bearded turds.”

My hope, I guess, would be that Benedict XVI meant the latter interpretation, not the former, but as a long-lapsed Catholic, my vote on such matters no longer counts.

To be honest, I didn't even know she was here.

If Google happens to be broken and you're curious (Google's already got 30 hits for that quote), I'll make the topic even more obvious with another:

If I was her adviser, I would tell her to go kick all the ladies' tails around for about four years and if she wants to try again when she's 20, 21 and grown up more, and maybe a better player, come on back.

(emphasis mine) Not a good week for the girl who claims to want to beat the men at the mens' game. I wonder how much of this silliness is driven by her sponsors?

...just by their faded Dream Theater t-shirt.

Dr. David Thorpe at Something Awful unveils his Your Band Sucks Aptitude Test.

I was already hemorrhaging points by the time I had to admit former affiliation with a semi-metal act. I knew the final result wasn't going to be good, but never reached it thanks to this question:

27. I tend to dress:

a. In a zoot suit (-15)
b. In leather and safety pins (-5)
c. In tight jeans, Chuck Taylors, a faded t-shirt and a half gallon of hair-shellac (-10)
d. Like a normal human being (Automatic fail)

Mmmmm, the familiar kiss of failure.

I checked the answer key at the end anyway, and found I was well within the "play air guitar forever" category. Which is really not so far off the mark.
It was plain as the moles on Lemmy's face that my band sucked; I knew it, but did it anyway to alleviate my stifling boredom. But this quiz might be very helpful to those who are not well-adjusted enough to notice the level of their own suck. By taking it, and applying the result, they might save the rest of us minutes of face-pinching displeasure the first time we hear their noise and, grimacing, turn their shit off.

It makes me proud to be an American to learn that the United States Marines responsible for the care of ex-Dictator and genocidal fucko Saddam Hussein have been making him watch the South Park Movie.

Once upon a time, in a place far, far away; well, not that far, it was Pittsburgh – Minister Johno’s conscience wrestled with a plate of high test jello shots. The jello shots were triumphant; his wiser self was exiled, bruised and tattered, to a back corner of the room. And the jello shots then had their way with Johno.

Some witnesses to the event claim that I had something responsibility for Johno’s otherwise unaccountable consumption of most of a plate of colorful, solidified alcoholic death. Johno’s testimony can be discounted, he was drunk at the time. And let’s just say that others who may have witnessed the event had axes to grind. I may have suggested – kindly, and with good intentions that maybe Johno (if he was feeling up to it, and not a sissy or anything) would like to have another. I may have done that several times. No more, certainly.

But to paint me in the role of red-clad devil hovering over his shoulder whispering, “Eat the shot Johno! Eat the shot! You know you want to!” well, that’s just going to far.

I relate that story so I can tell you, the reader, about a new product that I think may just bring Johno back from the wilderness of his decade long abstinence from le shots jello.

This product rejoices in the euphonious and not at all suggestive trademark of Suck & Blow. It is, not to put too fine a point on it, a device that enables two people at once to partake of the experience of consuming a jello shot. Is there no end to the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the American entrepreneur? Not yet.

Witness some of the testimonials:

I am a police officer down in Sulphur, LA and I recently hosted a post hurricane Rita party, after things calmed down. I had never heard about Suck & Blow’s, nor had anyone at the party. I only purchased thirty of them, only to find out that it was not nearly enough. The suck & blow’s were a big hit and I plan on making another order soon. Hurricane Rita was a big strain on everybody at our department, but having the Suck & Blow’s at the party helped everyone relax.

We just got back from the Harley Rendezvous in New York State where we met up with some friends from Boston. He had some of your suck and blow jello shots and shared with us. We have had many jello shots before but these were awesome. Everyone was having a blast deciding who was going to suck and who would blow, not to mention how much fun it was to watch the participants! I couldn't wait to come home and check out your website. I will definitely be buying some of these tubes. We'll be taking them to Fall Bike Week in Myrtle Beach this October. Of course I am sure we'll put them to use before then! Thank you!!!!!

Who could not wish to possess a device so confidently touted? The company’s website is a veritable gold mine of jello shot related informational material. There are recipes for making your very own jello shots. Johno, did you know that you can make Jamaica Jiggler Suck & Blow shots, Berry Blue Suck & Blow shots, and even Bloody Mary Suck & Blow shots? I remind you, these names are not meant in any way to be suggestive of sexual situations or innuendo. But certainly, the art and science of a jello shot manufacture has advanced considerably since the days of our youth. How can you resist sucking (or blowing) a Jamaica Jiggler?

The website also provides a useful tutorial in the use of Suck & Blow shots. Not that Johno needs any help in this area.

Step three is uncomfortably close to Steve Martin’s step one in how to be a millionaire and not pay taxes. First, get a million dollars. But for the inventors of this Fun and EXTREMELY interactive, not to mention patented, party-fun enabler - we will cut slack. Happily, Johno has found a partner, once who is tolerant of many of his foibles. I feel confident that she will be an able helpmeet as Johno reclaims his lost passion for sucking and blowing.

SAB Enterprises offers empty tubes that you can fill with your own gelatin. Or, for those who just can’t wait to fill a tube, they offer pre filled, ready to blow tubes in a variety of pleasing flavors. Johno, just ignore the similarity the opened box of blow tubes bears to medical refuse. This should not stand in the way of your mounting the pedestal of champion sucking and blowing that is rightfully yours.

With an invention like this, one its creators lovingly describe as “Great fun for BARS, CLUBS, LARGE PARTIES, or any SOCIAL GATHERING where adults mix and mingle, Suck and Blow is the one shooter that will have your customers and guests coming back for more,” I don’t think it can be long before Johno once again gets back in the saddle, so to speak, and starts sucking and blowing like the world class sucker and blower he knows (in his heart of hearts) that he truly is.

There are numerous examples of distorted language I, and I expect you, hear every day. Mangled pronunciation. The dearth of subject-verb agreement, and the new tyranny of the pronoun "they". Weird pluralization too, like the time in Atlanta when an airport announcer implored passengers, at least three times, to retrieve their "luggages"; I about had a hot, frothy fit on the spot.

But nothing in spoken English gets up my ass so thoroughly as vacuous business-speak, and one simple word in particular makes me want to climb up the tower and either ring the bells madly or snuggle into a cozy sniper perch: "solution".

I'm not completely unaware of the use of the word as a noun largely devoid of meaning. Every technology company since 1994 either provides solutions, builds solutions, or can help you find your solution. I often wonder, in fact, what companies were doing before they all devoted themselves to making solutions. What I didn't appreciate though was that the word had filtered down into everyday simple ad copy.

Last Sunday I was going through some prices on laptops by a certain electronics distributor. It was there I read not one, not twice, but several times, text describing a model as a "solution". The ad would read something like, "This is IBM's most rugged solution"; or, "Look no further for a solution under $1200"; or, "ACER's new frammis chip is the solution that drives their portable solution". A what? For what?! I thought I was after a computer...

Solutions answer problems. And wanting a new computer is not neccessarily a fucking puzzle.

Let me put it another way. Say you and I are working on my non-green, hippy-hating SUV. Let's keep the example simple, and we're doing something routine...say we're, I dunno, replacing the razing wire strung around the roof. And let's say that at one point I tell you I need a 3/4" wrench, you hand me a 3/4" wrench, and say, "there's your Craftsman bolt solution." I would take it, rap the top of your mushy head with it, and ask you whether that felt like a solution or a wrench. Because it's a fucking wrench.

Your car is not your "transportation solution". It's a fucking car. Your steak is not your "nutrition solution". It's a fucking steak. My scroty bag is not my "reproductive portability solution". It's my nutsack. Um, and so forth and so on.

So. If you use this word regularly yet you are not a scientist or mathematician, fucking cut it out already.

This concludes this installment of The English Bitch. We now return to The Buckethead Show, already in progress.

While sorting through old files in the Ministry Bunker, Catastraphorium, Grill House and Archive, I ran across this gem:

On a transatlantic flight, a plane passes through a severe storm. The turbulence is awful, and things go from bad to worse when one wing is struck by lightning. One woman in particular loses it. Screaming, she stands up in the front of the plane. "I'm too young to die!" she wails. Then she yells, "Well, if I'm going to die, I want my last minutes on Earth to be memorable! I've had plenty of sex in my life, but no one has ever made me really feel like a woman! Well, I've had it! Is there ANYONE on this plane who can make me feel like a WOMAN??"

For a moment there is silence. Everyone has forgotten their own peril, and they all stare, riveted at the desperate woman in the front of the plane. Then, a man stands up in the rear of the plane. "I can make you feel like a woman," he says. He's gorgeous. Tall, built, with curly black hair and jet black eyes. He starts to walk slowly up the aisle, unbuttoning his shirt one button at a time.

No one moves. The woman is breathing heavily in anticipation as the stranger approaches. He removes his shirt. Muscles ripple across his chest. When he reaches her, he extends the arm holding his shirt to the trembling woman, and whispers......

"Iron this."

Ministry crony and recent comment grouch Phil has changed the name of his blog. Again.

Clearly worried about becoming someone's bitch, convicted Enron founder Ken Lay decided to die to avoid prison. Perhaps we will see nigerian email scam letters from Mrs. Lay in the near future.

[wik] Geeklethal reminds me that that's "Federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison."

Picked this up from Wizbang. I so very much want this to be true. If this actually happened, it retroactively gives meaning and purpose to the SCA.

Iowahawk is running a beauty pageant, of sorts. For a year, now, he has been running a regular feature - famous throughout the blogosphere - The Hoosegow Honeys. Now it is time, he believes, to pick Miss Hoosegow 2006. This is not merely a popularity contest - contestants will also be judged in a talent competition, where one point will be awarded for each $100 of bail demanded by the magistrate.

As of this moment, the two Jessicas are in the lead, but that must not be allowed to stand. I encourage all Ministry readers to go and vote for Hoosegow honey #15, Lacey, whose sorrowful Madonna expression cries out for comfort. Winning the Miss Hoosegow pageant might bring a smile to that morose, regretful, yet still beautiful face. Please help her.

[wik] While we're on the subject of Iowahawk, show your support for the troops by mailing your surplus-to-need refrigerator magnets to Operation Mag-Neato. Sgt. Darren "Doc" Lee is attempting to completely cover his humvee with refrigerator magnets. Help him in his quest by mailing those fridge magnets to:

Dr. Darren Lee
310th PSYOP Co.
COB Speicher
APO AE 09349

Cover the Dumb-Vee with your love.

[wik] Lacey has moved up, and is now tied for sixth. Vote early and vote often!

For your amusement, this photograph from my personal blackmail files:

Since the Maximum Leader is making posts out of chat conversations, I figure there's no harm in me doing the same. The other day - not that day, but the other one, I had a conversation with a friend of mine. She is having relationship difficulties. I referred her to ASI, but that wasn't what she needed. The discussion turned to the problems with the traditional method of breaking up. Face to face confrontation is so pre-industrial era. So, I gave her advice. As only I can. We join the action in media res:

9:13 PM me: Alternate means of breaking up with an insignificant other:
Carrier Pigeon.
Voicemail
Smoke Signals

9:14 PM me: Heliograph (not effective at night)
Shortwave Radio
CB (Must use lingo from movie Convoy)
Email
IM
String connecting two paper cups
9:15 PM me: Tell a friend or two, and hope it gets back to him before he sees you with new, improved insignificant other.
9:16 PM me: Lay out forty-foot high letters in a park, and encourage him to take a helicopter ride over the park. (dangerous, as that is often lead up to proposals of marriage.)
Hire a skywriter. (Nothing says get lost like millions of people seeing "Dave, you suck! Get out of my life.")
9:17 PM me: Classified ad (Tricky, but devastating)
Cable access talk show
Singing telegram (Gorillas work best.)
Hire a hit man
9:18 PM me: Hire a stunt double to break up for you.
Graffiti
9:19 PM me: More alternatives:
Date his relatives
Date his friends
Crucify and boil his pets, a la that weird movie with Glenn Close
9:20 PM me: Hire a prostitute to seduce him. Then, burst in and say, you philandering fuck! We're though!
I always wanted to write that sentence.
Troubled Girl: well good ... something good should come of all this
9:21 PM me: Telegraph. (Difficult, now that Western Union stopped the telegram business.)
Put a message up on the jumbotron.
Goodyear blimp
9:22 PM me: Paint it on his car
Or his dog
Or both
Troubled Girl: I don't have a key.
me: The outside of the car
Troubled Girl: makes the dog an unlikely target
me: Wait. Lurk. You'll get your chance.
9:23 PM me: Spell the message with gasoline on his yard. In a couple weeks, he'll know.
Troubled Girl: he already knows ...
me: Hire a process server. They can find anyone.
Hire a telemarketer to call him fifty times a day.
9:24 PM me: Forward him this chat.
9:25 PM Troubled Girl: what I would write right now is dramatic and self-centered
me: And that is holding you up why?
Troubled Girl: and pathetic
me: Okay.
9:26 PM me: Write "I break up with you" on the side of a 500lb. bomb like the ordnance techs do on the carriers.
Troubled Girl: does the world really want to read about the emotional mish-mash in my head that goes back and forth between crying and screaming about every hour?
me: Or, on a brick, and throw it through his window.
Does the world really want to read this chat? I think they do.
9:27 PM Troubled Girl: so they can call and check if I'm ok?
me: They don't know you. And I'll use some other depressed chick's name.
That'll put a spoke in their wheel.
9:28 PM me: Have a sign painted, and put it on his way to work.
Or a billboard.
There is no try, only do.
9:29 PM me: Or something equally pithy and oriental.
Lucas really has a thing for that.
Star Wars Lucas.
The trade federation, the little annoying kid in the second Indiana Jones. Yoda.
9:30 PM me: I bet there was an obnoxious asian character in American Graffiti. I just can't remember.
Don't make me say, "Buck up, little camper" again.
Oh shit, I said it.