Dumbidity

Having a Hot Cuppa Vindication!

According to an AP syndicated art tickle, my favorite beverage - which I consume rapaciously - has been found to reduce my odds of liver cancer.

Yes that's right, you heard right, the secret word for tonight is COFFEE! (And for those of you who still have the mudshark in your mythology, I don't know if anyone has composed a Coffee Arpeggio, which would undoubtedly be a marvelous little arpeggio.)

Not only does coffee appear to be an effective liver cancer deterrent, it finally comes out that coffee contains oodles of Auntie Oxidants.

Auntie Oxidant has been long recommended by the Health Fringe, but generally from health nutty type sources like skunkwort, dryer lint and green leafy vegetables. Who knew you could fill up with the internal power to eliminate Free Radicals by schlurping down the requisite daily Pot o' Joe? And the benefit appears to accrue to those who drink 2, 3 and 4 or more cups! YIPPPPEEEEE!

Next week they'll probably counter this positive report with some grim finding that coffee grounds cause global worming, but until then, you wonderful scientists, this mug's for you!

*schlurps*

BNN: Dark Side of Philbin Record

Remember when the old folks told you to sit at least 6 feet from the TV so your chromosomes didn't get radiationated? Well, they didn't know the half of it.

BNN exposes the tragic side of Regis Philbin's endurance record for live TV broadcasting.

Talking heads of the TV world will henceforth be wearing cellophane ribbons to call attention to their unique plight as suffers of PDS (Photon Depletion Syndrome).

Better Wrap Those Pipes!

YIKES! The ICE AGE is coming back!

Here it is, not even mid August and it's flat COLD outside. OK, it's cold by Louisiana standards which means it's in the mid 60's at daylight.

What makes it remarkable is that the air is dry. OK, it's dry by Louisiana standards, meaning the relative humisery isn't 90-plus percent.

ANYway, it's mighty darn comfortable out on our patio drinking coffee and reading The Avocato which is stretching what little real football news as much as it can with 4 Saturdays until LSU hosts the Oregon State Beavises.

Temperatures are supposed to be moderate - like in the moderate 80's - today and Sunday.

Good job, God.
Ah bleeve Ahmon' work outside this day.

Barbieeeeee! Ken I Wear This?

Let's be clear on this: I am NOT fashion-challenged. To use this term in my case would give the impression that I have a sense of fashion that is impaired in some way.

Nope. It's much worse than that. I am fashion-inept.

Unlike those select few that are the subject of those reality shows where fashionistas of varying skills apply their craft to the fashion-inept (only to leave them to their own pitiful devices a month later), I had to compensate for my disability the old-fashioned (no pun intended) way - I married an enabler.

My Dear Sweet Wife ensures that I don't walk out of the house wearing clothing combinations that might get us a spot on the local news. She knew this from the start and actually gets a certain satisfaction in knowing that I can't assemble an ensemble without her.

From a practical standpoint, I can dress myself without assistance. In fact, once I memorize specific combinations, I'm even marginally sartorially autonomous. Good thing too, because I have to get dressed WAAAY too early in the morning to have to devote any brainpower into deciding what goes with what. Any time I get a new tie, I have to either get her to physically hold the tie against the suit(s) with which it goes or show her my proposed fashion experiment. Occasionally I get one right (like a random chimpanzee that types out a sonnet by Shakespeare).

So I am currently functional with my professional attire and have been (thanks to my DSW) for many years, but it's always a new ball game whenever I add to the wardrobe. It's business casual and dressed-better-than-a-slobmonkey social events that are the bane of my fashion existence, hence the title of this post. While my overstressed DSW is busy getting herself ready (and less frequently these days, one or more of the schmedlets), she'll ask me what I'm wearing. (Will she ever learn or does she just enjoy making fun of me? At least she's never demeaned me by sewing little matching animals on my clothes.)

My response is either to present some combination (and risk having to wince at her reaction) or simply respond: "I don't know Barbie, what shall Ken be wearing?"

And yes, I'd drive the pink Corvette too.

Spring Fever

The Vernal Equinox is upon us. I think this day gets short-shrift compared to other events related to the Earth's revolutionating about the Giant Light Bulb. We're not in a mad rush to come together and exchange material goods and hoist toasts like we do at the Winter Solstice, nor do we gather and roast dead beasts over live coals and hoist many toasts to the joys of midsummer during its solstice.

Well, come to think of it, we in Louisiana do celebrate it by boiling small crustaceans in large quantities, liberally seasoned with enchanting spices and hoisting many a toast to... well, to just about anything that's convenient. And some folks in Dallas observe it with baked ziti, don't know if they serve it on toast.

So I was bumbling about the Giant Mug this morning and it hit me...

[SpringFeverEgo] Ahhhh - Spring is here. What a beautiful day - the Sky came up; the Sun was blue; the flowers chirping; the birds in full bloom...
[SNIIIIIFFFFFF]
I can't wait till tomorry when I get to balance the Equinox Egg on its end. Spring is wonderful. It's full of a...
[music]
...a certain,... special... something!

[SensibleAlterEgo] Stop that! Stop that! You're not going into a song while I'm here.

[SpringFeverEgo] Oh. Right. Baseball then? Yardwork? Excessive pollen-induced sneezing?

[SensibleAlterEgo] Yeah, that's much better - now get on with it, and not so much loopy raving about the Flees and Trowers and Burping Chirds...AAAGHH. Now you've got ME doing it.

I've got to go to work, so behave yourself, and DON'T GO OUTSIDE! I don't want your muddy footprints all over the saltmine.

[SpringFeverEgo] OK. [UnderbreathMode]...you big meanie.

[SensibleAlterEgo] I heard that - knock it off. Look, take your meds, and for lunch we can defrost some of that groundhog sauce-picante from February you liked so much.

[/UnbearablySillyMode]

I'm really glad Spring is finally here. Can't wait to stress the lawnmower, sweat like a pig and get a little color on my fish-belly white, bandy laigs so I don't scare little kids so much and make folks avert their eyes. Might catch a few ball games and go fishin' too.

So now, (finally) an Equinox Carol to sing while you discover which muscles want to secede from your body after you overdo the yodwork the next few weekends. I call it...

"The Twelve Days of Springtime"

On the twelfth day of Springtime, my true love gave to me...
12 neighbors laughing,
11 bags of pine bark,
10 sprinkler spigots,
9 drums of bugspray,
8 flats of "color",
7 dwarf azaleas,
6 pink flamingos,
Five Garden Gnomes!
4 potted ferns,
3 trench tools,
2 canvas gloves,
And bird-bath for the back yard.

No, I don't know where this stuff comes from - it must be bad coffee.

schmeditor's Note: If you think you've seen this before, you're probably right - it's yet another retread from now-defunct message boreds.

"The Twelve Days of Springtime" lyrics ©2001-2004 and are the intellectual property of Schmedulov Jostikovitch. Unarthurized use is not arthurized unless specifically arthurized in writing by schmed, or certain Arthurs designated in writing by said schmed.

To a Finity and Begone!

There is a lot of buzz in the land of the Opinionistas about George Bush's recent proposal that the United States go back to the Moon and beyond it to Mars. Mostly they want to praise or criticize it to make political hay and boy, are they doing a good job of it - so good that I don't have to.

I just wanna go into space. Not in 2015, not 2010, tomorrow.

I wanna buy a space ticket on Spacelinedotcom or Moonpedia. I wanna rent a space suit that smells of that spray they use on the shoes in bowling alleys. I wanna say 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, ignition, BLASTOFF! and mean it. I wanna give the folks back home my "G" face through the onboard webcam. I wanna see stuff float in zero gravity. I wanna entertain fellow passengers with my "HAL" voice anytime the Captain speaks to us over the intercom.

I wanna go to the Moon. I wanna weigh 1/6th of my Earth weight. I wanna trot clumsily across the craters. I wanna shot-put for 500 yards. I wanna write "schmed wuz here (date)" in moondust. I wanna sleep in a hermetically sealed box. I wanna recycle the carbon dioxide out of my breath. I wanna eat Space Food Sticks and drink Tang.

I wanna go to Mars. I don't have to be first. I wanna Mars guide named Marvin. He doesn't have to be green. I wanna get a little vial of Certified Martian Sand. I wanna see if any stories from The Martian Chronicles were true. I wanna see if Earth is as blue of a bluish dot in the Martian night sky as Mars is a reddish dot in Earth's. I wanna be bummed that it's the last day on Mars when I leave.

My Dear Sweet Wife doesn't wanna do any of that, so when I go to tote up all the tickets and spacetel bills, I'll need to add a small bundle to send her to Disneyworld so she can ride the Buzz Lightyear ride she likes so much while I'm away.

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.

Then He Turned Them Into Newts!

Hysteria struck the Sudanese capital of Khartoum as rumors spread of a certain man or men possessed of special powers who, upon shaking hands with their victims or giving them combs - MADE THEIR PENISES DISAPPEAR!

AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! RUN AWAY!

To quote Professional Newspaper Columnist Dave Barry, "I'm not making this up." While Dave does not appear to be on this one yet, the story has been extensively researched, documented and footnoted by the Middle East Media Research Institute (Memri) here.

I was struck by the profound similarity to the "Witch Scene" in Monty Python and the Holy Grail in which Sir Bedevere is petitioned by a mob to condemn a woman as a witch. As evidence, one of the rabble makes a similarly silly claim:

Rabblist: She turned me into a newt!

Bedevere: You don't look like a newt.

Rabblist: (Suddenly self-conscious) Whuh... I got better.

Evidently, they all got better...

Without exception, all "victims" examined by medical professionals subsequent to their alleged penile sublimations were pronounced "normal" with respect to the aforereferenced organs.

The witch hunt in MPATHG was motivated by either boredom or some deep-rooted animosity toward the alleged witch (who, thanks to the screenwriter's cruel sense of humor, really was a witch). There appear to be a number of motives behind the induction of mass hysteria in Khartoum.

One motive is simple criminal extortion:

It was also claimed that once "'Satan's Friend' drains a man's virility," he demands that his victim pay him over four million Sudanese pounds (about $3,000) to get it back.

I don't think so. If some weirdo tells you your one-eyed pal is AWOL and won't return until you shell out a bunch of money, what is the FIRST thing you'd do? Right - me too.

Sudanese journalist Ja'far Abbas (no word if he is descended from the famous Grand Vizier and Sorcerer from Aladdin) proposed other motives ranging from feminism run amok...

"…Our women dominate in public services and university classes. [In my opinion], men in Sudan today have a right to found an Association for the Rights of Sudanese Men; all that remains of our masculinity are our most prominent biological features, and now someone wants to rob us of them!"

...to Zionist plots:

"That man, who, as it is claimed, is from West Africa, is an imperialist Zionist agent that was sent to prevent our people from procreating and multiplying…"

I didn't see where Mr. Abbas presented any evidence of either of the nefarious plots he ascribes to all this fuss. He did exhibit some common sense when he addressed the victim who claimed to have been "altered" after following the Emasculator's instructions to comb his hair using the comb he provided.

"You jackass, how can you put a comb from a man you don't know to your head, while even relatives avoid using the same comb?!"

Then again, perhaps Mr. Abbas needs his neck bolts tightened down a turn or two because he purports to know the inner workings of the Evil, Unit-Removing Comb of Impotence:

"No doubt, this comb was a laser-controlled surgical robot that penetrates the skull [and passes] to the lower body and emasculates a man!!"

What are we going to do if this laser robot technology isn't controlled? It's bad enough that the Feminists of Zion are using it to further their ends, but what if they sell it to others, like Microsoft, Motorola, Sony or (gasp!) BUDWEISER!?!

I mean, if those laser-robots can pass through a man's skull and make his penis disappear, then it's an even shorter route to start on his hand, so watch out for cell phones, TV remotes and beer cans. It's just a matter of time.

Freudian Football Follies

Saturday night, I had occasion to listen to LSU's football game at South Carolina on the radio. I like watching the Tigers play on TV or even better, live and in-person, but I've enjoyed listening to games on the radio since I was a little kid. I even had to learn how to convert audio-text into mental images throughout the entire John Ferguson era.

Mr. Ferguson was famous for calling the play-by-play out-of-sync with things - often things like reality. My Grandfather would occasionally rant about his inaccuracies and opined a fair probability they might be alcohol related. I learned to wait for the sound of the crowd before mentally locking down the results of any big play. A couple of John Ferguson classics (paraphrased):

Bert Jones brings the Tigers up to the line on 1st and ten... Jones hands to Cantrelle who pushes ahead for nine yards... It'll be 2nd and nine for LSU...

...a pass downfield to Ledoux and he's got it at the Ole Miss 22... no, incomplete... it's INTERCEPTED!

The sound of the crowd murmuring (at home) or cheering (away) let me know if Cantrelle got one or nine yards and that the pass intended for Ledoux wasn't successful.

Since Mr. Ferguson hung up his mic and passed the play-by-play chair to Jim Hawthorne several Head Coaches ago, things aren't necessarily better, just different.

During LSU's opening possession of Saturday's game, the Tigers are driving and past midfield when Coach Saban makes a substitution at tailback who gets in a great play (paraphrasing):

Into the game at tailback is number 22, Ali Landry... Mauck gives to Landry who breaks a tackle INTO THE SECONDARY... Ali Landry brings it down inside the TEN YARD LINE!...

John Ferguson would've been so proud.

Mr. Hawthorne's color man, former LSU Great and Baton Rouge District Attorney Doug Moreau, didn't say a word about Jim's faux pas, he simply used the running back's correct name, Alley Broussard, in his inter-play comment. I'm sure Mr. Moreau, like many others listening in got this mental image of former Miss America, Ali Landry:

Can't you just picture her trotting down the sidelines in her bikini, heels and Miss America Tiara, tossing Doritos at approaching tacklers?

I'll give you a minute...

...You're welcome.

For your reference, here is picture of Mr. Broussard in action (which links to his roster page at LSUsports.net).

Other than the fact that he's from Lafayette, LA, which is near Miss Landry's hometown of Breaux Bridge, you'll note he has very little in common with, much less any resemblance to, the former Miss USA.

Nonetheless, it turned out to be a prophetic Freudian slip on the shabbiness of the South Carolina Gamecock defense which gave up 482 yards in offense...

...A team that let Miss America rip off a 33 yard run.

Another Old Story from the Troll Wars

Now - before you go any further and read this, let me just warn you that if you're even mildly religious it's liable to make you rather angry - unless maybe you see how I twisted it around to jab a St. Michealean spear into the troll and those of his ilk.

:moustachetwirl

A far time ago, on a message board long since intentionally nuked by its host, there happened the Troll Wars. One of the major skirmishes involved a radical, activist atheist troll who sought to sow dissent and dissonance amongst not only those with faith, but also those who had deliberatively chosen no faith.

The battle raged long and furiously, with invective and vituperous vitriol spewed heatedly by most all. Even our resident atheist - whose benignly amused opinion of the faithful being in for a rude postmortem surprise was similar in tolerant bent to my own concern that ultimately, he better hope he's right - was struck with grievous wounds as he allied himself with us against the malevolent troll.

No, the troll was not satisfied that we tolerate his anti-deity opinion. Oh, no - unless we recanted all faith and joined in the supreme-beingless mindset he espoused, peace would not exist. No measure of "you go your way, I'll go mine" sufficed to appease his soulless quest to conduct a version of the Spanish Antinquisition. DO NOT REPENT! GET OFF YOUR KNEES! NO PRAYING!

After this had gone on for cyber-eons, something occurred to me that hadn't before: the radical atheists don't have anything like the hymns us religious folk do. From time-to-time they might need some sort of song to rally 'round when they get together, so without anybody asking (my SOP), I put together the Activist Atheist's Anthem:

(It'll help if you're familiar with that old, obscure Christian hymn "How Great Thou Art.")

How Not Thou Art

I have come to - a de-fi-nite con-clu-sion
That there is no De-ity ov-er man.
I see the stars and call them blobs of gasses,
Placed by cha-os, not from a Master's hand.

And when the poll results come in, You'll see:
How not Thou art, how not Thou art!
I won't console myself so foolishly.
How not Thou art, how not Thou art!

I am so wise that naught to me's a myst'ry
From the Big Bang to human D-N-A.
When I look down my nose at pious cretins
And their quaint Book, I laugh and walk away.

Had but-tered rolls in houses of cof-fee,
How not Thou art, how not Thou art!
I won't console myself so foolishly.
How not Thou art, how not Thou art!

In my denial, I spout so ar-rogant-ly
Disdain for all those mindless sheep galore.
Some get en-raged, oth-ers just shake their nog-gins
And mum-ble quiet prayers of yore.

Re-mote control is not my deal, you see.
How not Thou art, how not Thou art!
I won't console myself so foolishly.
How not Thou art, how not Thou art!

But when I dream that life is just time pass-ing
Spent in pursuit of things I want to do;
That when I die, it's just the Great Big Off-Switch;
No final judge, nor consequences too.

I'll have a bowl of the Gazpacho please.
How not Thou art, how not Thou art!
I won't console myself so foolishly.
How not Thou art, how not Thou art!

No Pearly Gates or Book of Earthly doings
To make me hope for life e-ter-nally.
I'll just feed worms until my whole bod's eaten
And leave my bones for arch-ae-o-logy.

I have no soul to carry off with me.
How not Thou art, how not Thou art!
I won't console myself so foolishly.
How not Thou art,
How - not - Thou - art!

Take my word for it, this is not for amateurs. The whole time I worked on this, a black cloud hovered nearby flashing lightning in my direction. It's still there, and now that this is posted, it's really popping. I'm starting to get a little concerned that it... ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!