It Must Be the First of the Month: New Billboard Day!

It Must Be the First of the Month: New Billboard Day!

Just wanted to make a note that tomorrow is the first of November. This means two things.

First, the aforementioned New Billboard Day.

Second, I plan on using this little blog as my platform for participating in NaNoWriMo. Don't know what I'll be writing about. Come back tomorrow, and be surprised along with me.

And remember: This year, give her English Muffins.

Knuckle Cracking

Knuckle Cracking

A note on Knuckle Cracking. Not bad for you.

If I do it just after waking up, I can usually get 17 cracks on my right hand, 18 on my left if you count my wrist.

The best part about cracking your knuckles, though, is doing it around somebody who thinks it's gross. You find that person who gets close to puking when you pop a thumb, and you've got no need for cable TV, my friend. There's almost no entertainment that matches it.

Little known fact: You get 4 bonus life points if you successfully run a person out of the room with knuckle cracking--6 if they vomit.

The Teddy Roosevelt Birthday Post

The Teddy Roosevelt Post

I still like this, originally posted in late October 2003, on what would have been Teddy Roosevelt's 145th birtday. Well, yesterday would have been #148, and we're still missing the Illustrious T.R.....

A belated Happy Birthday to Teddy Roosevelt...

Death of the Enumerator--A Short Play

Dramatis Personae

Edwinus, the Ternary Enumerator of the High Court of his Royal Majesty
Krimdall, the Stablekeep of the High Court
Dan, the Stable Boy, who is 6'7" and 37 years old.
Theodore Roosevelt, who is celebrating on this day his 145th birthday

The Setting

The Stables of His Royal Majesty (King Bob the Indomitable). On Tuesday. Two-ish.

Scene, the first

(Krimdall and Dan are eating lunch, at a round wooden table)

Edwinus (enters the stable area) o: Good Day, Stablekeep. I'm here to count the apes.

Krimdall (through a mouthful of food): We have no apes, here. We have only horses. And a cow. And a couple of chickens. And (points to Dan) a stableboy. But no apes.

Edwinus: None?

Krimdall: Just horses. And the other things.

Edwinus (opening his ledger): I don't believe you, what is your name?

Krimdall (rises from his table, where he is eating with Dan): My name is Krimdall. You know that Eddie.

Edwinus (making a note): Good for you. My name is Edwinus.

Krimdall (pointedly): Do you have other business have you here, crowfoot?

Edwinus: Crowfoot?

Dan: You 'eard 'im!

Krimdall (to Dan): SHUT YOUR CREMDIDLIENT MOUTH, WHELP!
(to Edwinus): Crowfoot is an old English expression, meaning "Man with a Vulva."

Edwinus (rolling his eyes): Must everybody make jokes about that?

Krimdall: I tend to think so, yes.

Edwinus (explaining): There was magic involved. I was cursed.

Krimdall: Well, I kind of guessed, since I've been kicked by horses a few times, and never once did it cause me to grow female genitalia.

Edwinus: Um.....yes.

(There is an uncomfortable, protracted silence, like when grandma begins discussing her favorite porn during Thanksgiving dinner)

Dan (breaking the silence): Why is 'e 'ere? Is 'e talkin' about apes?

Krimdall (raising his hand to the boy): SO HELP ME JEEBUS!

Edwinus (stopping Krimdall): Stay your hand, Stableman! And use not the Man-Jeebus's name in vain.

Krimdall: You're right. My apologies.

Edwinus: Don't apologize to me. Apologize to Jeebus.

Krimdall (taking a penitent stance): I'm sorry Jeebus.

Theodore Roosevelt (entering, stage left): s'cool!

Dan (rising from his seat): 'Ey! You ain't Jeebus!

(The Illustrious T.R. takes his baseball glove off, and slaps Dan with it).

Edwinus, Krimdall (together): Good morrow, Mr. President.

T.R. (putting his glove in place): Ahh! Gracias, mi amigos. Donde esta el bano, por favor? (placing a hand against his stomach) No mas chalupas...ay!

(Krimdall points off stage)

T.R. (pulling his football helmet off): Much obliged.

Edwinus: Oh, Mr. President?

T.R. (pausing): Yes?

Edwinus: Happy birthday.

T.R.: Ass kisser.

(T.R. exits)

Krimdall: Now, about those apes.

Edwinus: So, you admit that they're here?

Krimdall: Well. We have one. But he's really rather ornery.

Edwinus: Ornery?

Dan: He got quite cross with me when we played Connect 4 this morning.

Edwinus (quietly incredulous): He plays Connect 4?

Krimdall: He cheats.

Dan: 'e does cheat. That's why he got cross with me when I called 'im on it. He damn near killed me.

Krimdall: Yep. Tore Dan's arm off and hit him with it.

(Dan displays a stump, proudly, and Edwinus is a little disgusted)

Edwinus: Perhaps you should visit the apothecary about that.

Dan: Can't. Not on the insurance for another month.

Edwinus: Pity.

Dan: Yeah. Got a daughter at home's had the rickets something terrible.

Krimdall: Would you like to see it?

Edwinus (disgusted): What? The Rickets?

Krimdall: No, Crowfoot. The Ape.

(Edwinus ponders this. For quite a long time, actually. In fact, Krimdall has left his lunch break, and is hard at work by the time Edwinus makes up his mind, some 39 minutes later).

Scene, the second: 39 minutes later

Edwinus: Marvelous. May I see him?

Krimdall (from the back of the stable): Beg pardon?

Edwinus: May I see the ape?

Krimdall (reminded): Oh. Certainly. Dan! Get the key!

(Dan walks over to Krimdall, takes the key off Krimdall's belt, and gives it to Krimdall)

Krimdall: What do you say?

Dan: Thank you. (under his breath): Jeebus.

(Edwinus violently slaps the boy. Krimdall kicks him once for good measure. Since Dan is so huge, it affects him little at all.)

Edwinus: Don't take the Man-Jeebus' name in vain.

Krimdall: Yeah!

(Krimdall directs Edwinus to a door, moves to unlock it)

Krimdall: Now, I have three rules about seeing the ape. One: No cussing. Two: No overt references to any Brit-Coms. He has a terrible aversion to anything coming off the BBC, and I don't want to have to be cleaning intestines, again. Stops the hell out of the sink.

(There is a pause)

And third: Don't mention anything about his wings.

Edwinus: His wings?

Krimdall: His wings. He's really sensitive.

Edwinus: Okay.

Scene the Third

(Krimdall opens the door. Edwinus enters. After 22 minutes, he comes out)

Krimdall: What did you think?

Edwinus: He beat me at Connect 4.

Krimdall: Did he cheat?

Edwinus: No. He beat me fairly each of the four times. Really rather remarkable.

Krimdall (nodding): Yep. Did you play red or black?

Edwinus: Black. Like my soul.

Krimdall: I guessed as such. By the way. Dan's dead. I think it's the Plague. It really messed his arm up.

Edwinus: I thought the ape ripped his arm off.

Krimdall: Oh yeah. You're right.

(Suddenly, T.R. bursts onto the scene)

T.R. (screaming): Deus ex Machina! Deus ex Machina!

(T.R. takes a samurai sword from the sheath on his belt. With a quick slice, he eviscerates Edwinus. Blood sprays in a gush that drenches Krimdall.)

T.R. (screaming still, at the audience): I Am the God in the Machine!

(Exeunt, through the audience, T.R. occasionally loosening the intestines of random audience members, all the while singing "Happy Birthday To Me").

The End.

Moral: Sometimes, it just seems funny to write "vulva," and then other bad stuff happens, and you get a story that makes absolutely no sense, and you get to a point where you just want to go to bed.

Good night, everybody.

Deer Jeebus...

Dear Jeebus...

Is it not enough to torture me with one of the most agonizing Cubs seasons in the past handful of them, but to have that same year end with the fucking St. Louis Cardinals winning the World Series?

I mean, come on! Most of their fans can't even pick up Fox on the rabbit ears in their trailers.

What did I do?

Or what didn't I do?

Have I not smitten enough infidels, Lord Jeebus?

Do I need to smite Kevin Federline? Because I will. In fact, consider that one done before Trick or Treating's done.

Voices that Care

Voices that Care

This is what I found on YouTube as I ate my lunch and got ready to go to work:



There are so many things I could point out, and may still. But the one bit I want you to pay attention to comes just after they go to the group shot of the Hollywood stars singing the chorus to the song. I want you to look for Gary Busey, and just how much he is into that song. It's amazing, and it's worth watching the whole video just for that one moment.

I also like the uncomfortable look on Brooke Shields' face as Chevy Chase has his arm around her.

Other things: Don Friggin' King and Mike Tyson...

Others to spot: Mickey Dolenz, Brian Bosworth and (I think) that guy who played the Kobra Kai/Mercy is for the Weak karate instructor in Karate Kid...

Today's Reading

Today's Reading

The U.S. Army vs. the UFO. at the Battle of Los Angeles.

Or, as it's known in interstellar circles, "The Incident of the Militant Monkeys."

There is a moral here, and it's: "Don't ever stop near land on that primitive mudball to grab water for the hydrogen cells...them apes has got itchy trigger fingers..."

A Leap Day Re-Run

A Leap Day Re-Run

This is a repost of something I posted on February 29, 2004. I won't get another February 29 for another couple of years. Which may have fallen into the category of "Absolute Fuckin' Bullshit," if I had a bit of liquor in me. Yep. I'd have been willing to start fights over it. Epic fights.

Alas, I have no liquor in me. All the pity.

As the calendar stands today, I won't have another leap day to post on until 2008. If a super-crazy dictator were to take the reins of this country, I might choose to support him if he were to correct this poverty of leap days....

But until then, here's yer re-run:

February 29

You know, our culture's got a huge mad-on for days that happen once a year. Fourth of July. Thanksgiving. Super Sunday. I mean, we start getting ready for Christmas five months in advance.

You'd think the furor surrounding February 29th, the day that happens once every four years, would be four times as big. Maybe it's my math that's faulty.

(Voice in my head: Yeah...it's your math that's faulty...)

But you'd figure there'd be parades, and games, and prizes and rides. A national...nay, International...Day of Celebration.

Facts compiled by Joanne Mamenta, found in the Tennessean:

--If it's your birthday today, you're one of 187,000 leap day babies in the U.S., and 4.1 million worldwide.

--Why do we have leap year? To keep the calendar in line with the seasons.

[The article asks if I want to see it snowing in September. Yes. Yes I do.]

--The Egyptians were the first to come up with the idea of the leap year. Later, the Romans adopted this solution, and designated Feb 29 as leap day.

--Leap year became the traditional time for women to propose marriage to men. According to English law, Feb 29 was ignored, and had no legal status. Folks assumed the time's stricter rules of courtship went out the window, such as the taboo on her asking for his hand in marriage.

--A few leap year babies: Dinah Shore, singer-songwriter Gretchen Christopher and rapper Ja Rule.

--It's also Superman's Birthday.

A few other facts about leap day, that may or may not be true:

--In Wyoming, each citizen is entitled to one pre-meditated murder, without fear of criminal prosecution, on Leap Day. You must be a natural born citizen of Wyoming.

--Ricardo Montalban invented Leap Year, Leap Day, and the Cotton Gin.

--Your chance of being born on February 29 is one in 3.1 billion.

--Children born on Leap Day have wondrous, magical powers. These powers include, but are not limited to: Flight, Telepathy, Transmigration of the Soul, X-Ray Vision, Blaster Heinie, Healing Factor, Big Wings out of the Back, Optic Blasts, Manipulation of the Weather, Communication with God(s), Invulnerability to Advertising, Inability to Recognize Texas, Eye of the Tiger, Gator Jaw, Zombification, Leprousy, Super Speed and Really Big Left Hand.

--Free Will technically does not exist on February 29. Or is it Free Willy?

--Here's a neat trick: Bite the ends of your pinkie fingers. Hard, but not painfully. For about a minute. Then hook them together, and try to pull them apart. That weird, kinda painful feeling in your fingernails? That couldn't have happened without February 29th. I'm not sure how that works.

--It is possible to communicate with each of the dead Presidents of the U.S. on Leap Day. But you have to know the phone number. If you find out what the phone number is, remember that William Henry Harrison's kind of a prick, so don't ask to talk to him. History doesn't teach us all of these things.

--It's best not to leave the house at all on Leap Day.

--The concepts of the "mob mentality" and "mass hysteria" were both invented on Leap Day. But they work any day of the year. But it just feels special on Leap Day.

--The technical name of Leap Day is "Anybody Can Be an Astronaut, Especially You, so Let's All Eat our Quaker Oats and Make a Leap for the Stars" Day. But that won't fit on calendars.

--Mmmm. Leap Day Stew. Secret Ingredient? Hamster.

--The Laws of Thermodynamics have occasionally been known to fall out of whack. For one day, Perpetual Motion is possible. If you have the cash. That's why it's not such a special day. The only two people who could afford a device capable of perpetual motion? Bill Gates and Ricardo Montalban.

So. Go Enjoy your February 29th. Wish your family Happy Greetings, and enjoy the Leap Day Brunchelsupper. My Leap Day Feast: Broccoli, Carrots, Diet Mt. Dew, 3 Gallons of Water and the Travel Section from the Sunday Paper.

Notes

Notes

Just a couple of notes I gleaned from the interweb.

Gooseneck has rebooted the blog, and you can now find him at Thirsty Ego. Once upon a time, I said that if I picked a blog that was closest in intent and tone to mine, it was Gooseneck's. He's got good stuff.

And he's won tickets to Las Vegas, so he's got that going for him.

-----

Anybody catch the difference in the "D's" on the Tigers' uniform? I never had. It's over on the page 2 column, which also references Kenny Rogers and his bending the rules....

Me? I say "So what if Kenny cheated?" He's simply counteracting the advantage the Cardinals have with Albert Pujols in their lineup. And we all know that he's not human. He's some manner of god/human hybrid. Some kind of Sumerian Superbeing with superior reflexes and strengths not of this world.

If Kenny Rogers can't rub Crisco, Pine Tar, Grape Jelly, Vaseline, Snot, Garlic Butter, Jeri Curl on the ball, then the Cardinals can't have some Holy Superman on their team.

-----

Maybe it's just me, but it seems like the Senate race here in Tennessee between Harold Ford and Bob Corker just gets shittier and shittier. I keep thinking about the SNL series of ads, where one candidate attacks the other for having a colostomy (He Craps Through His Stomach, Into a Bag!), and I keep thinking that this Corker/Ford race isn't much better.

Me? I think I'm voting for Rex Camino, so I don't have a dog in the fight between Corker and Ford.

Still, this ad attacking Ford alternates between making me laugh and pissing the shit out of me. Depends on the time of day, I reckon.

And how santimonious and melodramatic I feel--I mean, just once I'd like a candidate who appeals to the very best of our natures, instead of spending three months interrupting My Name is Earl with TV spots detailing why X is a douchebag or why Y is a butt-toucher.

What's more, I'd like something that works to appeal to more than the lowest common denominator--I'd like my vote to be won, not mongered. And it makes me...I dunno, sad I guess...maybe fearful...that there are people out there who have a say in our government who are swayed by such broad and poorly defined ideas...I mean, the people in the commercial are little more than cartoon characters.

Or pro wrestlers, which is maybe why I like the commercial.

Anyway. It's neither here nor there. This ad does its job, I guess. I look at it every time it comes on my TV. Tonight, it makes me smile. I can't decide if my favorite is the guy in hunting gear or the porn producer (who looks strangely like the WWE's Batista).



There are similar ones, bashing Corker...I don't want anybody to think I'm trying to lift up one candidate over the other...I really don't care much for either, at all.

But none of the anti-Corker ads are nearly so hilarious.

-----

Earlier in this post, I said something "pisses the shit" out of me.

I'm not sure what it means, because I'm not literally shitting myself because the political ad pissed me off so badly.

I'm shitting myself for other reasons. I'm not sure exactly why. But medical professionals have determined that it's not anger or politics.

Dear Bud

Dear Bud

To the used car salesman ostensibly in charge of the game:

I realize that I've turned into papaw at the ripe old age of 29, but I gotta be at work at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow. Could we get these World Series games started at a decent hour? I'm gonna be worth shit and a coke tomorrow because of the 41-year-old tossing a one-hitter.

Gracias.

Names

Names

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 25 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

What I like to picture is 25 of me wandering around the country. Presumably fighting evil. And I like to think we'd have a convention. Every three years or so. Probably around Wrigley Field.

Actually, my Dad is another Thomas Acuff. So we know that there aren't 25 of me wandering around. Thank Jeebus. That'd be a lot of ugly to foist upon the country.

And once upon a time, when I was 8 or so, we had a guy from Ohio visit our home, out of the blue. His name was also Thomas Acuff. He was wandering across the country, looking for other Thomas Acuffs. I don't know if he's alive or not, so that we can number him in the 25. He didn't keep in touch.

By this math, we can also infer I am better than 1 in a million. I'm 1 in 12 million.

I also want to include this result, because I don't go by Thomas Acuff. Rather, I prefer Tommy, for no real reason other than that my Dad's both Tom and Thomas:

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 2 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Just 2. How about that? (1 in a hundred fifty million, for those keeping score at home...although I'd reckon that number figures for people with "Tommy Acuff" as their legal name, so I can't really count myself in that count...)

Anyway. Saw it over at Bill McCabe's. He outnumbers me by a friggin' bunch.

Sightings

Sightings

Seeing a live possum? That's one thing. But this is a whole other hill of beans....

Maybe I'll one day tell of my bravery in removing a possum from a trash can at my parents house.

Wally's Filling Station

Wally's Filling Station

Just a note on a search string. Somebody was looking for "the name of the gas station in Mayberry."

The name of Mayberry's gas station is twofold. Originally, it was simply "Wally's Service Station." In its time, it employed on Montgomery "Gomer" Pyle and his cousin Goober (Montgoobery?) Pyle, among others.

It was known colloquially (and later officially) on the Andy Griffith Show as "Wally's Filling Station." It was called that on account of that's where you'd go to get your gas tank filled, and possibly because Wally ran Mayberry's only brothel in the back of the gas station.

None of the characters on the show frequented the brothel regularly, with the exception of Howard Sprague.

They never did an episode about it, either on the Andy Griffith Show or Mayberry R.F.D. Partly because the show was ostensibly about Andy Taylor, the Sheriff of the town, and they didn't want to shine a bad light on him, what with his tolerating a brothel in the Bible Belt (the same went with Ken Berry's Sam Jones for Mayberry R.F.D.).

It was also not shown in part because Wally's brothel was a fairly racy place, and it's hard to film that for 1960's TV without offending a major portion of your viewing audience.

There were plans to have a 2-episode story-arc concerning the I.R.S. (revenuers) unwittingly uncovering the brothel while trying to root out moonshiners. They would spend the rest of the story trying to shut it down. The episodes were scrapped, ultimately, because they were deemed "too racy" by Network executives. Mayberry R.F.D. was cancelled for the perhaps ironic reason of being "too rural" later that year by CBS executive Fred Silverman.

Carlin

Carlin

Sunday night, the brother-in-law and I headed down to the Tivoli theatre in Chattanooga and caught George Carlin's show.



Sorry about the quality of the photo. Walking and the zoom function on a picture phone do not make for a great picture. It tells me that one of you needs to buy me a nice digital camera this Christmas.

Anyway, I don't get much into the hero worship thing, but if there's a standup that gets close to that realm, George is it. I've always appreciated the way his mind works. His humor has the right mix of satire and the outright bizarre...mixed with a healthy dose of anger, especially in those years when he got off the coke.

So as soon as I found out he was coming to Chattanooga, I jumped. I've had a couple opportunities to see him live, but had circumstances work against me. Had to jump at the chance...George is 69, and you never know when that ticker's going to go....

Tickets were for the tenth row of the Tivoli. It was the first time since I was in the eighth grade that I'd been in the Tivoli, when I went to see a play adaptation of some of Edgar Allan Poe's work. It hadn't changed much...great hardwood floors...red velvet seats...ushers showing you to your seat...definitely a trip outside ordinary for this kid, who struggles to find time to hit the movie theater once a month.

Anyway, Jeff and I sat in the tenth row back from the stage. It was a decent crowd on the bottom level, though not a packed house...George, when he started his act, made of the point of talking about how he was playing to an "intimate crowd..."

Got to see a folk musician open for George...his name is Vance Gilbert, I believe (or something close to that). Good guy. Works with a guitar and a powerful voice. Give him a look next time you get a chance. His act was good enough to turn me, at any rate...I was kind of expecting (and hoping for) a good opening comedian. But this guy did good work, including a great a capella piece to finish his set....

Anyway. George came out, folder of papers in hand. He let us know up front that what he was working was 55 minutes of newly written material, that he was still getting down. I get the feeling this was a warmup for another HBO special down the road. Not many comedians have that kind of weight, where they can tell you up front that they're using crib notes, and they don't give a shit if you like it or not.

He did assure us that it made for a better show....

Started with his "Modern Man" bit. Did a bit of background, let us know how he was doing. Told us he enjoyed being age 69, because he got to shout "Sixty Nine" at the top of his lungs...

And launched into his 55 minutes of new material. I won't go into much of it, but I did enjoy the section on how Dogs get to shit wherever they want, whenever they want. The only repercussion is being called "Bad Dog." If that was the only problem, being called "Bad George," was the only punishment, he'd shit in the street, too.

Some of the material wasn't completely new...I get the feeling he gauged crowd reaction to a couple of bits and used a little proven stuff, if only to get a laugh or two after a new bit had kinda fallen flat...(at one point, George tells a joke, and I can't even remember what the line was, but it got little to no reaction, good or bad...George simply says "okay" and moves on to the next bit).

He didn't change everything for the benefit of the audience. It was funny sitting in a crowd who hails from the buckle of the Bible Belt as George starts railing on the nature of "rights," and whether God gives Americans the same rights or not as somebody living under Kim Jong Il...there were parts of the crowd that seemed to clinch up a bit around that section of the show.

Good show. Wasn't the end-all be-all of comedy shows. Me being the type of guy who gets his hopes up without realizing it, my immediate reaction was one of slight disappointment...I hadn't been rolling in the aisles....

Still, good show. I left with a smile on my face, at any rate....

Tuesday Morning Re-Run

Tuesday Morning Re-Run

Eric brought this one up at the blogmeet the other day, so I think I'll repost it. From May of 2005, it's just a musing on the possum:

Possum

You know, in the dictionary, it's spelled opossum. Which is ridiculous. English being the evolving, ever-changing beast that it is, I say we all agree to make a conscious semantic leap forward, and just start spelling the North American marsupial "Possum," and be done with it.

I bring the possum up because I saw a live one on my drive home from work tonight.

It's kind of a rare thing for me.

See, I've seen plenty of possums in my time.

But most of them have been dead. Crushed to death on a road, somewhere.

Is possum Latin for roadkill?

Tonight, I saw a live one.

On the road, actually. In the other lane.

We locked eyes as I passed. I think in passing him by, I saw in that possum's eyes that I may have denied him his destiny.

Maybe possums live in a strange warrior-type society, where the only way to possum heaven is under the tires of a passing automobiles. A possum who dies of old age is not a true possum. He will spend his eternity at the gates of Possum Valhalla, never to sup at the Warrior's table.

Maybe. I don't know. There just hasn't been enough scientific study into the religious implications and belief structures of possum society.

If I had to think about it, and even if I didn't have to think about it, I'd say that I've seen just a handful of live possums in my life. Maybe a dozen, give or take. They're nocturnal. I'm basically a day person. They're woodsy. I like the woods, but mostly I sleep indoors. And really, possums and I just don't run in the same social circles.

Conversely, I've seen several dead possums. In fact, I would think the ratio would run somewhere close to 8 to 1. Maybe even 10 to one. It seems excessive, but I think the math would bear me out.

Just thinking out loud.

A couple of questions that I ask myself, here at 1:30 in the morning.

1. ) Is it possible that there are possums, alive, that I am not seeing? I'm thinking this is probably the case.
2.) If there are live possums that I am not seeing, I wonder how many of them there are.
3.) And as a followup to that, those possums that I cannot see, why are they hiding from sight? Are they planning something?
4.) As a follow up to that: Should I be doing anything to protect myself from a possible possum plundering?

Ah well. I don't have any real way to tie up this bit of nonsense, so I think I'll close by saying I think "Possum Valhalla" would be an awesome name for a band, or perhaps a bar.

Just a quick thought on the direction of the blog

Just a quick thought on the direction of the blog

Thinking of dedicating November to doing the NaNoWriMo thing...you know, national novel writing month. Using the blog as a platform for it. Anybody else who reads the blog doing this? I think that's what November will be.

Just been thinking.

Here lately, I'm having to constantly remind myself and reacquaint myself with the idea (and ideal) that what I do for a living is not who I am. It is simply a means to an end, and I've put just a little too much emphasis on running a store here lately.

Meanwhile, I've written very, very little here lately. Very little substantive, outside the blog and the occasional shopping list, lately.

So. Going to rectify that last part. I made a half-assed attempt at the whole novel in a month thing last year. Do it better this year. Write for more than a couple days...

Anyway. Just thinking out loud. Spitballing.

On the interweb

On the Interweb

From the e-mail...

One day a first grade teacher was reading the story of Chicken Little to her class. She came to the part where Chicken Little warns the Farmer.

She read,"....and Chicken Little went up to the Farmer and said, "The sky is FALLING!"

The teacher then asked the class, "And what do you think that farmer said?"

One little girl raised her hand and said,

"Holy SHIT! A talking chicken!"

Grown up

Grown up

You know, I'm within spitting distance of 30. Yet I sit, this moment, staring back at the ass end of a quandary that had been bugging me for days. Literally days. Three of them.

For the record, the Silly Putty I'd been missing was found on the window sill next to the front door. It had not slunk off the sill onto the carpet, which is fortunate. After a few minutes of squishing the putty in my fist, it was pretty much in like-new condition.

Which is good. I didn't want to have to get out into this cold and rainy night on a Silly Putty run.

I mean, I'd have to put on pants.

Quick Note on a Blogmeet...

Quick Note on a Blogmeet...

Quick note, so I'll warn in advance that I may leave somebody out... I'm really not all that bright to start with. My sincere apologies...

Made a cameo appearance yesterday at a blogmeet held at the home of Eric, the Straight White Guy. Had a couple beers, hung out. Got to put a face with a few blogs that I read regularly or semi-regularly, as well as a face with a few blogs I'll read a bit more starting this morning.

Want to thank Eric and his lovely wife Fiona for the invite and the hospitality, first.

Got to meet Elisson in person...I met Elisson and Jim from Parkway Rest Stop right off...

Had the pleasure of discussing socks with Yabu...

Met again with the Closet Extremist...

Took in a little Drunken Wisdom....

Likewise, I got to meet RedNeck, Zonker, the Grouchy Old Cripple, Boudicca, Velociman and Cal Tech Girl.

Good folks all...wish I'd gotten to stay a little longer to meet everybody a little better. Have to try one of these blogmeets again....

Note: I also met Teresa from Technicalities....and apparently she has my luck with travels...

M & M's Movie Game

M & M's Movie Game

Via Busy Mom comes this game. Dark M & M's as a painting up, with visual clues for you to use while naming 50 Dark movies.

I quit after 20 minutes. I got 29 out of the 50. I know there are several there that I'll feel blinkard stupid after finding out the answers....

Pujols and Glavine

Pujols and Glavine

You know, I've got little use for either the Cardinals or the Mets, so I wasn't going to put much of an eye toward this series. But I do enjoy watching a Tommy Glavine game, so I taped My Name is Earl and the Office, and watched some good old beisbol.

Albert Pujols, with his "he wasn't very good" quote points to exactly why.

See, the Cards got themselves shutout against Mr. Glavine. There's just something I enjoy about watching guys swagger to the plate, secure in their knowledge that they've managed to hit the ball every time they've gone to the plate, only right at somebody, so this time they're gonna hit it into a gap.

And the result's the same.

Tom Glavine's made a friggin' career out of that. It doesn't work EVERY time, but it has worked, at least 290 times, not counting the postseason....

It pains me to say this publicly: I respect the hell out of Albert Pujols. I hate seeing him coming into Wrigley with the rest of the birds and if I had my druthers, he'd be playing over in the A.L. West, where we'd see him once every three years.

But I've never heard something so godawful stupid come out of his mouth.

Albert's stance is why I think Tommy Glavine's a sure-fire win for whichever game he pitches next in this series. Glavine's made a career off of getting out .250 hitting jokers who think that they can hit him hard every time...if Glavine can get a .350 hitting joker to think that Glavine's lucky instead of good, then he's won 2/3 the game already.

Heh

Heh

I enjoyed this one.

Today's Recommendation

Today's Recommendation

If you're ever in my neck of the woods, try the Lemon Pepper chicken wings from Mexi-Wing. They've been a favorite snack of mine since I wandered back to this end of the state. They do an exceptionally good job on that fowl.

I've often wondered just how many wings I could eat in a sitting. Go in with an empty stomach and a mind for culinary mayhem. You know, just see how many wings I could put down before I passed out or little men in hairnets dragged me from the eatery.

It also gets me to wondering: How many chickens have I eaten portions of? In my life. You know, I rarely pull a Joliet Jake, and order four fried chickens. In a sitting, I'll generally just eat a piece or two of the chicken. In fact, I'm hardpressed to think of a time that I've actually sat to eat a whole chicken.

Usually, I'll eat the breast. Fried, or grilled. That's what I'll go for.

Which is not to say I don't eat drumsticks. The drumsticks are my dad's favorite part of the chicken. And I grew up getting punched in the throat anytime I went after a chicken leg, so I have something of a mental block around the leg--nay, any of the dark meat of the chicken.

I will say I've eaten my share of wings. Probably your share, too. Hot. Barbecued. The aforementioned Lemon Pepper.

But back to the question at hand: How many chickens have I eaten portions of? Today, I ate a chicken breast (as the entree), and a grand total of 8 chicken wings. The law of averages says that I ate the wings off four chickens. Now, that's a thought that pleases me to no end, to know that I'm responsible for putting to such tasty use an appendage on a chicken that works about as much as the exercise bike sitting in my parents' basement.

But we also have no clue as to whether each pair of wings actually belonged to an individual chicken. In point of fact, it is all the more likely that I could have eaten 1 wing from 8 different chickens, along with the breast of potentially a ninth chicken.

It's a day's work, I reckon. Becoming a scourge to the chicken populace of the world. If chickens had more than a peanut-sized brain, and the ability to form even a makeshift religious structure, I tend to think I'd end up on the devil's side of things. At the very least, I like to think of myself as The Chicken Boogeyman. A monster who comes out of the night to eat pieces of chickens, leaving others to my throat-punching father.

I should note that I've probably never eaten a Whole chicken. I can't think that I've ever chowed down on the head of a chicken, as I'm a whole different breed of geek. And I can't point but to seventeen or eighteen times that I've actually eaten the feet.

Never eaten the feathers, or the beak, now that I think about it.

However, I've eaten McNuggets, so I don't think I can rightfully claim to have never eaten a chicken's butthole.

Anyway. To answer a question posed previously: to put an estimate on how many chickens I've eaten part of...

We'll give a conservative average of 5 chickens a week, pieces eaten....
52 weeks a year....
27 years (give or take) of eating solid food...

My calculator says: 7,020. Damn. I should have had a party four weeks ago. I do love round numbers.

But it's a conservative estimate. I've been known to down a dozen wings without batting an eye...that's anywhere from 6 to 12 chickens right there.

My number of chickens eaten could range well up into the 5 digits.

If only I'd been keeping track of these things.

Anyway...back to the original point. Those folks at Mexi-Wing do a fine job on wings. They should. Wing is part of the name.

And when I eat the Lemon Pepper wings, it only makes me wonder how many more chickens I could have eaten, if only they'd been coated in the delectable sauce those folks use.

I wonder where that sauce came from.

Probably God.

Or a cookbook.

Peyton and the Titans

Peyton and the Titans

Rex has a letter to Mr. Manning up on his site. Specifically, it concerns tomorrow's contest between Peyton's Colts and the Tennessee Titans, and how well the Titans secondary will stack up to Peyton's passing onslaught.

I would also like to link to Chris, who reminds us that today marks the 90th anniversary of Georgia Tech squeaking by Cumberland University by a scat 222 point margin, shutting them out 222-0.

I point this out, and bring up a conversation I had with a customer. I asked what he thought the final score of this Sunday's game might be.

He thought for a second, and then said "One hundred twenty-six....to Four."

"Four? How are they going to score four?"

"I figure once it gets to one hundred-zip, the NFL will feel sorry for them, and give them a couple of points...."

I don't think it'll be that drastic...but I did put Indianapolis as scoring the highest point total this week in my pick'em league. Maybe not 222-high. But high enough....

Dammit

Dammit

Buck O'Neil has died.

For the record, Buck got screwed over with his never getting in the Hall of Fame.

Maybe his stats didn't warrant it, his getting in as a player.

But I can't name a better Goodwill Ambassador for the game. Put him in the Hall for that, as that.

Culture

Culture

I just thought I'd whip a little high culture on you assholes.

The Wednesday Throat Update

The Wednesday Throat Update

Well, I went to the doctor's office Tuesday morning, and there I saw a guy in the waiting room who wins the award for "most combover with the least amount of hair." Seriously. He had like 14 hairs, and he had them wrapped in an elaborate ideogram atop his head. I would have attempted to ponder the ramifications of the ideogram, except I was too engrossed in the video ad for some manner of prostate shrinking drug that was playing on the teevee in the corner.

Anyway, the doctor looks at my throat, and my nose and ears. Then gives me a strep test. Which I could write horrid things about, because it's not pleasant. But all things considered, it could have been worse. He could have punched me in the balls right before he'd administered the cotton swab. That would probably have been worse.

So. Then there was 10 minutes of waiting. You know, while the guy puts the cotton swab into the "Strep Throat Machine," which imagine looking somewhat like the #5 Robot from Short Circuit...you put the swap between the eyes, and robot analyzes it, and meanwhile entertains you with ethnic jokes.

Anyway, during the wait, the screensaver on the computer in the room was a clock. I played the game where I closed my eyes, and tried to see if I could open them exactly a minute later. I didn't do badly. I was usually a second or two fast.

The doctor returns. No strep throat, he announces. More than likely, he said, I'd gotten my infection as a result of my sinuses draining, and then the mucus pooling in the my throat while I slept.

Truly awesome.

So I got me some antibiotics. Throat's still sore, but we're keeping that shit in check with lozenges from the nice folks at CVS.

While I waited on my prescription, I stood at the newsstand and read magazines. First I thumbed through Discover, and then Pro Wrestling Illustrated (the PWI 500 issue, dontyaknow). I also thought about buying a Chia Pet, which I can only remember ever having seen for sale at drug stores.

Then I thought about buying 19 Chia Pets. I could go to pay for my prescription, and bring an tottering armload of Chia goodness to the counter. Then get pissed off when they explain to me that my coverage doesn't include Chia pets. Nothing like causing a big scene at the CVS over a misunderstanding about Chia Pets.

But I just bought my prescription. And my throat lozenges. And a bottle of Apple Juice. With minimal scene.

My prescription plan does not cover apple juice, either.

All the pity.

Guesswork in a White Coat

Guesswork in a White Coat

Well, I'm going to the doctor tomorrow for an illness. All home-remedies from the previous post appreciated, I'm going to see the doc tomorrow. Mostly because this is a dry county, and I don't have time to drive to Ooltewah or Turkey Creek to buy Jack or Peppermint Schnapp's. But I'm also going because my throat feels like it's been run through with a wire barbecue brush, and I can't think of a good, healthy reason for it to feel that way.

Other than the throat, I feel fine. Normal, at any rate.

But the throat is pretty horrible.

Remember that scene in Road House, where Patrick Swayze rips the throat of the guy he's been fighting out?

I envy that guy right now. And not just for being in such a badass flick as Road House.

Ain't this some shit?

Ain't this some shit?

Been on vacation for a week. I go back to work tomorrow, and I wake up here in the middle of the night. Feels like I'm getting sick. Head's pounding. Throat's sore. And not just a little sore. It's like I need to dig a bottle cap into my palm every time I want to take a swallow.

At least this didn't happen in the middle of the vacation. I'd have been liable to kill somebody then.

While I take a couple aspirin and drink a couple mugs of hot water, you go have more fun with youtube...go to Chris's and watch

Go and Watch

Go and Watch

A new low...I don't post content...I don't even post video...I post a link to a video.

It's worth it, though....