Dumbidity

Have a New Year...

...or not.

I'd wish you a "happy" new year, but that would presuppose you want it to be happy - far be it for me to intrude on anyone's self-indulging psycho-depressive trip.

And what if the new year isn't, through no fault of your own, happy after all? Stuff happens y'know, and I'd certainly hate to put a happiness vibe out there if it can't be realized.

Wishing someone a happy new year might also put undue pressure on them to perform, and that's not very fair, is it? I mean, what if they get all crazy because they feel obligated to achieve happiness and they get this happiness block and the more they concentrate on it, the less happy they are. That would be cruel.

All this occurred to me after I realized I'd been stumbling along the face of the Earth, merrily wishing people Merry Christmases, and they're throwing Happy Holidays back at me with those sort of "he's too clueless and retro to even know this is a condescending look on my face - poor ignorant bastard" looks on their faces.

Nope, no more happy new years, but at least we can say it so that it sort of sounds like it use to: Havvay New Year!

Hokey smokes! How intolerant of me. I'm just bashing along in my own little world thinking how convenient it is to have a calendar used by everybody and BOOSHTA! You might not even start your years on January first!

OK, last try: Have a Year!

Ooooh - what if somebody dies and doesn't get a whole year...

[I hope the PC crowd gets trampled by a stampede of Mad Cows. Any time now, I'm sort of patient...]

Mad Cows, Part Three - Bovinofacism on the Hoof

The biped society we know and love may be doomed. Yes, Mad Cow disease might simply be an early indication of the gathering danger of Bovinofacist Cows infiltrating everywhere.

Did you know that cattle are found on all populous land masses? These cattle are not monitored in any centralized system. Tracking is done only as a convenience of inventory, with little or no reporting to responsible governments (assuming there is such a thing).

In 1994, the obscure singer/songwriter Dana Lyons produced a prescient little ditty about the real and potent danger of Bovine Rebellion titled "Cows with Guns." I recommend you check out this animated version. It takes a minute or so to load, but we should all heed its warning.

Not that it isn't funny enough all by itself, but I was particularly gratified when I read the end credits to note that it was drawn and animated by one Bjørn-Magne Stuestøl who was undoubtedly among those sacked some 20-odd years ago in the infamous movie subtitle-contractor purge that vaulted the career of "RALPH" The Wonder Llama.

Mad Cows, Part Two - They've Been Mad for (Mooing) Years, Absolutely Years

(And it's) "...very hard to explain why you're mad, even if you're not mad..."

Recent news reports of Mad Cow disease in the Pacific Northwest point to Canada and the incident where the disease was reported there back in May - as if we're not having enough troubles in our relationship with our Northern Neighbor™. Stupidangrycanajun rightfully asks how they/we know that it's just Canadian Cows® going mad?

Good question.

But I suppose I could understand why a cow would be mad. They get left outside in all kinds of weather, rain, sleet, snow - and in Canada? I don't recall many cows having those shaggy coats like buffalo, so as cold as it must get up there - who could blame them for being mad about the weather?

Then there's that milking business. I don't know what it's like to lactate, but in my brief experiences with lactating human females, it's as much a curse as it is a blessing. The blessing seems to be wholly related to nourishing one's young, but cows...

No wonder they're mad. Hell, even if the calves get weaned at a reasonable age, the dairy farmers go at 'em with machineries! They splash some nasty disinfectant all over their udders and hook 'em up to these electrified calf snoots and suck all the milk out of 'em every so often. Another thing I picked up about lactation is that it's a supply/demand deal - the more demand, the more they supply - a vicious circle of milk.

They've also got that delicate artificial insemination process - boy, I bet that's romantic. The cows probably get some indication that more mechanical indignities are imminent when they notice those electric teat milkers getting wheeled over to the bull runs. Next thing they know, all the bulls are laying in the shade, smoking Lucky Strikes™ and telling dirty goat jokes.

When Farmer Jacques saunters over and starts talking all sing-songy to ol' Bessie, I bet she's thinking "Yee-frik-kin-ha. Thirty seconds with a narrow, stainless steel probe. What a slutty cow am I." After that unsatisfying, yet humiliating experience, a certain amount of madness might be expected.

Branding. They must still engage in that sadistic practice. Mash a red-hot iron on your hip one time and see how mad you get. Maybe if they did that right before the narrow stainless-steel probe, some of the more eccentric cows might appreciate it.

And let us not forget that one-way vacation trip to the "stockyards." You'd think by now enough narrow escapes would've put the true story on the slaughterhouse into cattle lore. To this day they still line up and get slaughtered without putting up much effective resistance. Maybe they're just relieved that the never-ending boredom - cud chewing (yecch), making cow pies (yeccch), standing around in mud (yecccch), sexual repression (ye... oh, you get the point) - is about to be over.

Maybe they think they'll be reincarnated as something better, like a dog or a horse, or even a Majestik Møøse. I dunno, but I'd still be mad about it if it were me.

Mad Cows, Part One - Mad Dembots™ with Hooves in Mouths

You just know that the Nine Dembots™ wake up every morning and rush to see if anything interesting happened - anything at all - about which they can make talk and for which they can cast blame in Bush's general direction.

The sad subject of Mad cows is no exception to this delusional behavior. What amuses me is that they're paying some very creative individuals to sit in a room, whacked out on stale coffee, to generate this putrid verbal froth*.

And some of them are getting the exact same froth - else that or the very creative individuals are cheating off each others' papers. Witness the choreographed dumbidity by John Effing Kerry and Howard "Mad Howie" Dean espousing a "Big Bovine Brother™" system:

"The current mad cow investigation underscores the urgent need for a national system to make diseased livestock easier to track and contain," Kerry, a Massachusetts senator, said in a statement.

"We need a system of instant traceability for all cattle," Dean said in a statement.

Apparently, both were riding around in identical 2003 Kia Statements paid for by George Soros.

What's it going to cost to install GPS devices in each little calf so we can track that sucker wheresoever it may roam? The Global Warming™ people are gonna love it, because they'll expect the Government to be able to track 'em for flatulence and the dangerous bovine methane they produce.

But the funniest quote came from Mr. Miserable Failure himself, Missouri Rep. Dick Gephardt. Let me make sure I set this up properly, because as obvious as it is, Ol' Dick's people turned him loose anyway.

"We need a president who is committed to the right of American consumers to know where their meat is coming from..." Dick Gephardt said.

For generations, the fight song for the Democrat Party has been "Happy Days Are Here Again," but with this bunch of Dembots™, the 2004 version will simply have to be "Send in the Clowns."

* Yes, it occurred to me that Putrid Verbal Froth would be a good name for a Rock Band.

Movie Review: Something's Gotta Give

My DSW and I went to see this movie over the weekend with some friends who also said "to heck with it" about Christmas shopping.

We found it enjoyable, perhaps because we were literally escaping the whole Christmas prep thing and the listening to our respective DNA replication experiments do the me-me-me thing, but also perhaps because it's a fairly decent movie.

I've seen Jack Nicholson in better movies and I've seen Diane Keaton in worse, so no great shakes there. I did have a lot of trouble trying not to picture Bill S. Preston, Esquire popping in to leer at Amanda Peet and say something like "Whoa Ted, you're poochin' an egregiously old chick, dude!" as Keanu Reeves' character's antics progressed. That thread was a little bit cheesy.

The old-people as leopards-changing-spots mechanics were tolerable and the conclusion was developed in a way that tweaked the standard formulas. I do wonder what the intent was to have Ms. Keaton's character be the famous playwright - was it some sort of jab at Woody Allen or a tribute? A coincidence?

Last but not least, Nicholson has aged into the point where he's reminding me of my Old Man - the resemblance starts with his overall looks (hair, belly, facial expressions) and his general antics - not of his character in this movie, mind you - just his zaniness (especially as the Alpha "Dancing Henry" which was a complete and total hoot).

Once in the theatre was enough. Would I rent it? Maybe.

Would I buy the DVD? No, but I'm a guy and it's a chickflik and my house is fulla chicks, so it might just get bought without my sayso.

Not The Betty Ford Clinic

Sorry if you're one of the daily dozen or so folks that come across this site after searching for "The Betty Ford Clinic" this isn't it. It can be found under Betty Ford Center dot org.

Sure I posted an humorous entry invoking the name of the clinic without really having anything to do with it other than its reputation for treating addictive disorders. I don't know why it pops up in the first page of a Google search - I've mentioned other famous people and places and don't get the same level of traffic for them.

For obvious reasons, I don't like the idea of distracting someone who might really need to see their site. With any luck, perhaps something here might brighten their day - I sure hope so.

And I suspect I'll get even more hits now, but what's a blogger to do? If I place a link in the sidebar, would it help or make it worse?

Anyway, thanks for visiting and best wishes.

Readin' it as it's Writ

[UPDATE: 12/23/2003 - WAFB confirms the ammonia leak story on its website, and includes a link to their video coverage. No mention of any pneumonia outbreaking. The Baton Rouge Advocate also reports the incident which resulted from criminals stealing anhydrous ammonia for use in a meth lab. How uplifting.]

This morning at about 6:28 a.m. Coordinated Cox Cable time, Pat Simonsez, the local talking head of WAFB's inanely repetitive morning show (9Spews This Morning) gets a breaking news bulletin and dutifully reads it to us.

What I heard him say was that there had just been a report of a pneumonia leak. I don't recall where in the local vicinity this might have occurred, but I was concentrating on what he said was leaking and waiting to see if my trick ears were up to their usual foolishness or what. Between the petro-chemical plants up and down the river and the tank trucks hauling stuff back and forth between 'em, these things can be important to know.

Nope - he said it again: "...a pneumonia leak..." and if he said it once, he said it three more times. I kept waiting to no avail for him to do that head jerk as the producer screamed "AMMONIA, you IDIOT!" in his earpiece.

Of course, the producer might be as big an idiot and wrote it down from some phone report as "pneumonia" for him to read on-air and is getting a new one chewed for him/her by the GIGO (garbage-in-garbage-out) News Regurgitator that is sure to be getting laughed at by friends, family and foes alike, not to mention the Station Mangler.

Now an ammonia leak is pretty serious stuff in its own right, but with the media scarin' us all half to death with stories about the shortage of flu vaccine and the (I'm serious now) deaths of two local young people from meningitis, it might pay to know if there is some pneumonia leaking out somewhere threatening passersby.

And I left for the jobsite before they could clarify *cough* precisely *hack* what was *croup-snark* leaking, so just maybe...

I'd Like to Buy a Floral Arrangement

There is another jewel of Huey Long's patronage legacy being examined under the long loupe of the law. Back during his second stint as governor, Huey's brother Earl established certain licensing requirements that gave him a Horticulture Commission to which he could appoint his loyal supporters.

Since 1950, anyone wishing to arrange flowers for a living had to get a Florist's License from the State of Louisiana. Sounds simple enough, but oh, no - if you're going to be the only state of the several states to license florists, by dingies you better do it up in style!

First there's a simple matter of an application fee of $150 and a written test. A written test - that was liable to cull out a lot of people in 1950 and an inordinate number even today, although that isn't the Horticulture Commission's fault. But most folks interested enough in flowers and the tasteful arrangement thereof are probably sufficiently grounded in botany to pass the licensing exam.

Just to add to the third-world socialist governmental intrusion, the other critical requirement is to pass a practical exam which consists of creating four floral arrangements in as many hours. You'd think that ought to be fairly easy - and it's not like you're performing surgery, rebuilding a transmission or calibrating a pressure-relief valve - but you'd be soooooo very wrong. No, these arrangements have to be judged by licensed florists who might, just possibly, have an interest in limiting the number of licensed florists with which they have to compete in the marketplace.

The story you about to hear is true, the names have been changed and the dialogue Montypythonized for your entertainment.

(The story appearing in today's edition of Baton Rouge's Advocate is even truer, but it's not as funny. Seems the FLORISTS in question are filing a suit against the Horticulture Commission to repeal the licensing requirements.)

(To add to the embarrassment of our state, syndicated columnist Rich Lowry got ahold of the story, detailed the foolishness and noted the Pythonesque quality.)

What about the STORY schmed?

Right. Here goes...

[MAN enters a florist's and walks up to the counter]

FLORIST: Good morning! what can I do for you today?

MAN: I'd like to buy a floral arrangement.

FLORIST: Ahhhhh, an arrangement. I see...

MAN: Yes, something festive - you see, my mother-in-law is deathly ill in hospital and I thought flowers would be just the thing to, ahhh ...

FLORIST: [helpfully] To lift her spirits, sir?

MAN: Oh, no no no - she's comatose, no. I just thought they'd look nice in my office. I'm sort of in the mood for flowers today.

FLORIST: I see. [gesturing] Well then, please come along through here and I'll show you our flowers.

MAN: No need for that, I'm certain you can put something together that will be most satisfactory - I'm in too good of a mood to be particular.

FLORIST: [troubled] I'm afraid it's not quite that simple...

MAN: [sensing trouble] Not simple? Just put a few posies in a pot and I'll be on my way.

FLORIST: [resignedly] I can't. It's illegal.

MAN [incredulous] ILLEGAL? I'm not asking for opium poppies!

FLORIST: No not the flowers themselves - got lot's of them - it's the arranging. I can't get a license.

MAN: A LICENSE? For arranging flowers? Why in hell would you need a license?

FLORIST: Not in hell squire, but close - it's state law. Have to get one from the Horticulture Commission. I've paid the fee and passed the written test 6 times, but I can't get the judges to pass me on the practical exam.

MAN: Practical exam?

FLORIST: Yes - I'm given four hours to create four arrangements deemed suitable by the panel of licensed florists. Two of them practice licensed floristry here in town, and they've blackballed me six times straight.

MAN: So what do you do?

FLORIST: I sell flowers in bunches.

MAN: Well, isn't a bunch technically an arrangement?

FLORIST: Oh not at all - y'see, an arrangement is the mixing of different kinds of flowers.

MAN: Then what good is that? I've neither the skill nor the time to be picking my way past peonies and tweaking tulips 'round renegade roses - I need this done by a professional! Good day!

[departs]

FLORIST: Rot the Government!

Saddam Squirmin' in Vermin

(Originally titled: "Saddam Wallowing in Vermin" - I don't know HOW I could've missed it.)

I'm sure if a bunch of us had sat around brainstorming proper forms of punishment for the former Prime Potentate of Pure Evil, aka "Saddam Hussein," one of the preliminaries might have been to put him in a dank hole in the ground with mice, lice, maggots and wevils (nibble nibble nibble) and deny him various creature comforts.

I just thought that was appropriate for starters, made all the better by the fact that it was all self-inflicted. But now it's time for the main events - inTerrorgation, trial and termination. I'm waiting for the bleeding hearts in league with the World Court, the U.N., Greedpeace, PETA and United Anarchists, LLC to wail and whine about this kangaroo court being set up in Iraq to try him and presumption of innocence and rot like that.

BULLFEATHERS!

We have already afforded him an infinitely more civilized incarceration than he deserves - if the Golden Rule were to have a retributory corollary, he should be suffering some grim discomfort of his own previous use. But we have him all safed up, 3 hots and a cot and more medical attention than the homeless in Williebrowntown.

Saddam's conviction has more or less already taken place. A tribunal will simply prepare formal charges and document a sampling of the heinous atrocities this biped-of-sludge has committed or overseen. Much to the consternation of the EU, there is little doubt that capital punishment will be handed down. Scunge-bucket's only chance might be to bargain critical information helpful in scouring Iraq of the Ba'athist tub-ring. Sadly, much of his plight came from his utter lack of credibility in prior negotiations, so he may have a hard time getting anyone to take him seriously.

Another thing that struck me about "Spidy" Hussein cribbin' in a grimy hole in the ground was the long-enduring image of evil being "down there." The classic image, even before Dante's Inferno, is of Satan mucking about in lakes of fire down in the steaming, sulfuric bowels of the Earth. That fur-bearing, lice-hosting biped is as evil as an earthwalker can get, so having one foot in the doorway to Hell is fitting.

Fitting indeed.

Something to Which We Can Look Forward

There is a syndrome I call "Little Old Catholic Lady Syndrome," largely because I've seen it exhibited by so many of my female relatives - all of whom were Little old Catholic Ladies. I've since found it is not theologically nor gender specific and afflicts Protestants and Jews alike. I can't be sure about Muslims, Buddhists or other eastern religions. It is also not exclusive to those of the female gender, however the Little Old Catholic Men tended to die a good number of years before the Ladies for some reason.

LOCLS tends to manifest itself by there being no horizontal surface in the home that does not have newspapers, junk mail, photographs, recipies, magazines, birth certificates, medical records, books, pamphlets, newsletters, coupons, bills, letters, crossword puzzles, dressmaking patterns, small flat boxes, shirt cardboards, fabric swatches, military discharge papers, obituary clippings, Holy Cards, spiral bound calendars from past years...

*breathe*

...piled on top of it to the verge of instability. Not to mention that the whole thing is covered in dust and/or cat hair and may or may not have been nibbled upon by mice or six-legged vermin.

A common variation includes myriad bric-a-brac items in cabinets and on shelves, which, even though they've been diligently dingled with a feather duster, are still a bit hoary. The Alpha Manifestation (Little Roman Catholic Old Ladies) also includes a BVM niche with a statuette of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a Rosary, Missalettes, dried palm fronds from Palm Sundays immemorial and sometimes even a tiny bottle of water from Lourdes. In cases where non-Catholics own the home, a telephone often occupies the space.

None of this is too noticeable because most of the rooms are kept dark ("you know how sunlight fades the furniture!" - yeah, and it makes the plastic seat covers brittle too) and when the lights are on, the lampshades are so yellow with age and/or smoke that the light from 100w bulbs struggles to illuminate the room.

I expect the schmedlets will have to embark upon a dimly lit archaelogical dig when I'm gone.

heh, heh, heh :moustachetwirl

(Props to Suzette for calling this to mind in 40 watt yesterday.)