Now that the apes are tool-enabled, it's just a matter of time.
I hope they go for the Muslims first, since they are way prejudiced against our simian
Here's my opinion, for what it's worth.
And all sweet mahalias to Jonah and the Lone Star Times.
Man, I'd never even heard of a fucking bush baby until I read today where chimpanzees have been discovered crafting spears (hunting tools, dammit!) in order to spear these little beasts in the hollows of trees for consumption purposes.
So I figured if the apes have learned to fashion weapons to hunt bush babies, I should show you a picture, because they will soon be extinct. The poor little whatzits.
Tomorrow: pictures of the soon to be extinct high school English teacher.
What the fuck? First James Brown, now Anna Nicole Smith. Bodies in limbo, contested, necrotic, decomposing before our eyes, sloughing into terrible disgusting blobs of stank. If we are lucky enough they let our eyes oogle on them, or, God forbid, sniff them.
It takes a lot of passion to force your beloved's body into tuxedo'd rot down. To love someone so much you let their mortal remains melt unto lard, and allow the blowflies and bluebottles feast upon them. To let them become crab bait. Whilst papparazzi are allowed to surreptiously photograph the rot for further abomination.
Which is, I am sure, the fate that awaits me. Of course, I deserve it, so that's different.
March 10 and 11
GPS coordinates 32.10.603333N 81.53.816666W
Chou wondered in an e-mail if rednecks might die.
My personal belief is they're a pretty wary bunch with the snakes, so we'd have to snuff one ourselves to scratch that particular itch.
And if that tragedy/mishap occurs, I vote Yabu and Eric must dispose of the body. I caucused myself, and they appear to be the most expendable of the tribe.
Thems not being from Georgia, and all.
My attorneys tell me I can post Chili Pepper videos. I just can't post pictures of my penis. I can live with that. For now.
Me fuckee you long times, Intrepids. And we enjoy, no?
But my Spidey Sense is tingling, harrots. And dar a black hole my personally beloved ass is heading into, and it would not surprise me to see my most gammon and vitriolic statements hurled back at me in a rather public forum. And we wouldn't want your comments attached, would we? Nay!
Ach, well. Fun is fun, but I'll be running along now. Maybe I'll resurface as
Whorus Publius, or something. That domain, incredibly, is still available. Can you believe it?
Anyway, Auf Wiedersehen, my babies.
Plan Your Retirement! Create a Life Strategy!
Handwritten notes in Dreambook commercial: Move to Napa. Buy a vineyard.
Velociman's opinion: Fuck You!
My Dreambook retirement notes: Move up from KalKan to Iams for Saturday night dinner. Have clusterwarts removed.
I guess it's an expectations game.
I'm done with the History Channel. It be history. It was bad enough that 90% of their content quit being history, as such, but had become a bizarre series of interviews with obscurantist fringe puppets of academe, who'd somehow managed to obtain a PhD in such esoterica as "Did the Incas Fly?", "Jet Airplanes of Ancient Egypt", and "Alien-Built Pyramids of the Yanomamo Tribes ". It's like In Search Of..., except there ain't no Leonard Nimoy as Francis the Talking Mule. What the fuck is with the conspiracles??
When I turn on the History Channel, I want to see brutality on the Eastern Front. Xerxes' battles. Fredericksburg. The Hiroshima firestorm. The occasional Marquis de Sade documentary.
No. Now I get an entire series on Jesus statues bleeding from the eyes, Edgar Cayce and Nostradamus dream sequences, crop circles admittedly created by drunken pubcrawlers, and tonight: a lactating Virgin Mary. And, yes, they capture the lactations, although I turned the channel before I could be horrified by what they do with it. It appeared they were going to scald it slightly, then drink it. Must have been Coptics.
Where are the stories of Mussolini's head being kicked down the streets like a soccer ball, anyway?
Is it too much to ask for a little, you know, fugging HISTORY???
I'm still hot for Jayne Mansfield. Forty years after she was decapitated. Hmm.
Oops. That was a Further Comment, wasn't it?
I am truly remiss as a friend. Look up Remiss in the dictionary and thar, surely, is my picture. Of course, my picture also shows up under more opprobrious words, too. I pay them extra for that, by the way.
At any rate, Rosie has kiddies. Little goaties. How cool is that? Lookit:
I'm sure they have the Satanic irises goats are reknowned for, but we won't hold that against them, will we?
I'm sure that birthing was tough work on a cold Smokey Mountain night. Go give Rosie congratulations, and read that post. It's very elegant. I'm jealous, as I'm way too impatient to spin my yarns so eloquently.
My company had a big sales kickoff meeting at Alltel Stadium this week. It was a football themed gig, naturally. And so we were given these tiny helmets as tokens. Genuine Riddells, only smaller. See?
Now that will look fine on my office bookshelf, thinks I. But it's missing something. A little bit of, I don't know, sumpin. And then it hit me. Why, yes. And so I just purchased this on eBay:
A vervet monkey skull. Looks like a perfect fit, too. That's going to kick it. Actually, I wanted an entire monkey skeleton for that helmet, but I have to choose my battles. They have a dozen lawyers on salary, and they hate me. I can only push it so far. Still, nice.
It was a sunny, crisp autumn Saturday. Not as crisp as bacon; more the crispness of lettuce. I was outside in the front yard of the farmhouse, attempting, in my 11 year old way, to learn how to kick a football. To punt, precisely.
"Boy!" I heard, while chasing my errant punt.
"Football is the game, is it? You got to be a football hero, to get along with the beautiful gals!" the Senator sang, as he walked out of the front door towards me. I tensed. Even at 11 I knew that song was like Roaring Twenties vintage, way older than the Senator. But evidently he liked it, or he surmised it was a satisfactory substitute for the birds/bees talk. As I recall, that talk took place three years later, when he asked me if I knew what a rubber was. I said Yes, he nodded gravely, and we successfully weathered that passage into manhood.
I took my eye off the ball there, Intrepids. Sorry.
So, the old man said "Let me have that football, son. Kicking, are we? Yes. I was a hell of a kicker in my day." And I believed him, because I'd seen clippings or something, where he was the pole-vaulting champion of the entire city of Atlanta when he was 15. Something like that. Track and field, I recall.
So the Senator assumes posture, and attempts to punt the football. He shanks it horribly. Now, he was only 43 or so then, but he hadn't exercised in 25 years I reckon, and he was overweight. Greying crew-cutted 250 ell bee overweight.
"Damn!" he hollered. "Cockfrigamsumpin!" Out of practice, he assured me. "Fetch me that ball again, boy," he commanded. He attempted several more kicks, each more spastic, more futile, more embarrassing for me than the last. He finally spiked the ball triumphantly, with finality and disdain.
"Why, there ain't no air in that ball, boy. They don't fill 'em up like they used to. In my day a football was like a car tire with a hundred pounds of pressure in it. Fellas used to lose a foot kicking a really tight ball sometimes. They'd explode if you weren't careful. Wait right here."
He went in the house, and returned with a drink. And pulled a chair off the porch. "Now you kick, boy." He lit a Kool while I flailed about, shanking my own punts up and down the yard. The Senator found it very amusing. Every time I shanked another kick he would guffaw, and literally slap his thigh. Finally he'd had enough.
"Damn, boy. You're worse than me! And I can claim old age!"
And his annual bonding was done, and he dragged the chair back on to the porch, and no doubt redoubled his spree drinking efforts.
I kicked the ball a few more times, but my heart wasn't in it anymore. Because I had seen the future that afternoon, and knew that genes win out. I was going to be a suck-assed punter the rest of my life. It was preordained. The big question was, what else was I predestined to be?
I think about that afternoon from time to time, and hate to admit I struggle more often than not to mold myself into someone, something, that is my old man, and not my old man. We all want to inherit the good traits, and not the bad. But the truth is, we are what we are. I figure if I avoid the abysmal depths, I won't miss the exhilarating highs so much. Just a thought.
I can't believe the shit you people slanged at Borgnine. Especially since you were all about He'd whip Moe's ass!!! when I conjectured upon a death match between B-9 and the Stooge. Bastards.
Hey: I found this at Drudge. In 1954 a sick and evil Russian scientist sewed the upper torso of a puppy onto the shoulder of a Mastiff. Then paraded the freak thing around for the cameras. THAT is killer footage. It's also an indication of why the Soviets lost the Cold War. That's serious talent there, wasted. Squandered sewing dogs together, when he could have been sewing soldiers together.
Got your back, comrade. Because I really don't have a fucking choice.
Hell, he could have sewed Borgnine and Moe Howard together. Rock.