If you're like me (and that is very doubtful) you enjoy barking questions at Trebek of an evening, while enjoying a repast of veal saltimbocca, or Boy-Chef-Ardee ravioluses. And so it was tonight (the meal was a homemade tostada marsala, if you must know).
Stefan is a true Jeopardy! champion: a young, blond stoner kid with a jones for the knowledges and an obvious hankering for the sweet bud. Heading into tonight's game he'd won $65,000 this week, a three-time champion. Stefan's real job? Video game tester. I fucking kid you not. Claims he's not even good at it. The kid is just awesome.
So Stefan begins to cold smoke the competition tonight in very impressive fashion. I can run a board one night and yet get skunked in an entire category the next. Not Stefan: even as I struggled in a rare off night, baffled by evil and esoteric answers, he was ripping off shit you've never heard of. He was kicking so much ass I began to suspect a set up in the making for our boy, given the mobbed up tendencies of the quiz show triads.
Sure enough, at Final Jeopardy! Stefan has $21,000, even after losing huge on some big time Daily Double gambling. His opponents have $200 each. Got that? That both have $200. That's how badly Stefan had run the table on them. No pool hustler alive could have put on that kind of a beat down in the final game.
Here's the set up: the final category is Food, so of course the lad bets ginormous, as we later learn. $20,065, to be precise. He still wins, of course, but these asshole producers are tired of paying him the fat coin, so they sandbag the poor fucker.
The Final Jeopardy! answer? A cheese that was created in 1892, and named after a popular singing quartet, or some shit. The question? What is Liederkranz, Alex?
Now excuse me, Alex, but that is a fucking bullshit Final Jeopardy! It's not that the cheese is that obscure (I'd guessed Limburger, which it's based on). It's the goddamn clue that's so obscure. Research Liederkranz and see if you see anything about a popular New York quartet. Doesn't exist.
They set that boy up. And I liked Stefan. What's not to like about a fucking stoner with a head packed full of shit like HAL 9000? He didn't care, of course. He still has $66,000 and change, and will compete tomorrow.
I encourage everyone to watch Jeopardy! tomorrow, and see if they neck fuck my boy again. I say the fix is in. His competition will be two home sewing matrons, and the categories will be Treadling, What's Bobbin'?, That Crazy Singer Family, Quilting 'B's, and Patterns by Butterick.
And memo to Stef: If you're not sure who the mark is, you're probably the mark.
I don't think I'd get much traction as the hardboiled black police captain who calls the hero/heroes into his office, closes the door, then screams so loudly everyone outside can hear:
I don't care how goddamn good you think you are! We follow rules around here! I don't need no goddamned Lone Rangers running around out there!
You're too emotionally involved in this case! You're off it, as of now! Go take yourself two weeks vacation! And that's an order, goddamnit!
I do think I could make a good career out of being the guy at the end of the movie who closes the ambulance doors and then smacks the door twice to let the ambulance driver know it's all good to proceed to the emergency room, however. That role has action, decision-making, and emotional closure. Not bad for ten minutes of work.
What clichéd movie character would you be good at?
Have you noticed how the supposed taxes on carbon dioxide are actually a tax on carbon content?
That's a big fucking difference. Everything has carbon content. Even that slowly degrading two million year old catfish fossil buried in your yard is emitting carbon through radioactive beta decay.
You'd better be prepared to pay a tax on that, homies. And a hell of a lot more. Because carbon is the 4th most abundant element in the fucking universe.
The fact is, they won't stop with taxes on carbon dioxide emissions. They're going to tax the carbon before it ever changes state. From your expected next exhalation to your carbon-based life form pet.
Crazy? I set aside my chortles of derision a long time ago when it comes to this crowd. Nothing they can do, including taxing my goddamn farts, would surprise me.
Well, he certainly outlived all those South Vietnamese he helped herd into the reeducation camps. Not to mention the Cambodians in the Killing Fields.
Fuck him. I was a Chet Huntley man myself.
And that, asshole, is the way it is.
July 16th marks the 40th anniversary of the launch of Apollo 11. I explain to my daughters that once upon a time we were a great nation that strived for the stars. No more. Now we are ashamed of glory, because some fucking crackhead might feel neglected if we don't dote upon her, and slather her with our largesse at the expense of the Great Things. Obama is sacking the Constellation program. We won't be going back to the moon, and forget Mars.
But once upon a time the Senator packed us up in the station wagon and drove to Titusville to see my aunt, and to witness the launch of Apollo 11. It was a goddamned beautiful thing, too.
We arrived a few days early to visit my aunt. A couple of years later the Senator ensconced my grandparents, his in-laws, in a nice condominium highrise on the Indian River there in Titusville, so that they could watch space launches and such. But at this point they were still living in a government subsidized hovel in Birmingham, like the poor-assed crackers they were.
A parenthetical: my grandparents had eight kids, all successful to some degree in their lives, and none of them ever lifted a finger for their parents except for my mother and father that I saw. Moving his in-laws to that condo from the slums of Birmingham was probably the noblest thing the Senator ever did. Then again, my grandparents were pretty stingy and crabby old fuckers, and I can't speak for the upbringing they gave their kids, so maybe it was just a karma thing.
While we were in Titusville we drove down to Plant City to see my great aunt May, my crabby grandmother's sister. May had been well-to-do at one point, partying with Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald in Mexico and such, until a slick fellow swindled her out of an assload of Piggly Wiggly stock, and she became an indigent and crabby old woman like her sister.
Another parenthetical: when Aunt May finally died I attended her funeral, and shamefully ransacked her house for the Underwood typewriter legend told us Fitzgerald had given her. It was not to be found, apparently having been traded for dog food for supper some years before.
At this point May was still alive, though, and tending to two retarded sons, who were my parents' ages. Gulf Oil was giving away cut-and-fit cardboard lunar modules with a tank of gas, and we boys had several. Unfortunately, as soon as we'd try to work on them, Gene and Joe would want to help. They ruined them all, the fucking tards. I was very bitter about this for several years. Which I suppose makes me a stingy and crabby old fucker like my grandparents.
At any rate, the lift-off was a gas. Civilians were only allowed within eight miles of the launch, so the Senator had bribed a motel owner named Smith to allow us to set up lawn chairs on his riverfront establishment. Smith was a transplanted Yankee. I know this because my only recollection of the man was the fact that he studiously shaved the profuse black hair on his legs from the top of the sock line down to the ankle, and he was wearing sandals that day. It was really quite grotesque, and only a Yankee would do such a thing. Then again, southerners are predominantly Scots-Irish white trash, and are not as a rule as hirsute as our ethnic cousins to the north, so perhaps it was just a culture shock thing for me.
There is nothing quite as ball-quaking as a Saturn V lift off, Intrepids. Like an earthquake, and the shock wave hits a minute or two later. One of the finest moments of my life. Afterwards the Senator took us boys to Islamorada deep sea fishing. Life was grand.
I'll remember that trip the rest of my life, even when I'm selling off my valuables at garage sales to pay for the surgery Obamacare will deny me. I might even score some dog food for supper.
And here's the picture from the deep sea excursion. 52 king mackerel. Your faithful scribe is chillaxing in his Beatle boots on the left:
I ran across this encounter in the early morning forests of Orlando, Upper Hispaniola:
A black stallion squaring off against a unicorn. Very awesummus. So who won that fight? The unicorn, of course, because it has the magikal powers. No way a mere black stallion beats a fucking unicorn.
Now, Pegasus versus the Unicorn? Pegasus wins that battle every time, on account of his superior angle of attack and more efficient reverse gear.
Of course, this could just be a statement on colonialism, form cast in fiberglass by a disgruntled Namibian artist. But I swear I saw them moving.
So I'm over at Barney Frank's place the other night, and he's sucking my cock, and I'm like, hey, you're not gonna charge me for this, are you? Because that would be unethical! Heh heh heh!!!
Since most conservatives can't even decide if they like or loathe the soon-to-be-ex-governor of Alaska, perhaps our time would be better spent creating Palinskys. A Palinsky is any inappropriate comment, joke, or ad hominem attack on a politician or their family. It's a portmanteau of Palin and Alinsky, of course.
Being inappropriate, they're usually funnier coming from Jobie:
Say... I was just at Malia's birthday party at the White House. Eleven years old! In Barack's old Luo tribe that'd be considered an old maid! Or a midnight snack! I wonder if Barack will let me break her in? Heh heh heh!!!
Well, I have a new hobby. Time to rummage through my cocoanut head clip art.
As I came out for Sarah Palin for Veep in October 2007, it's no secret I find her an attractive candidate for high office. And despite the fact my prognostication skills have been suspect since I bragged in seventh grade that Johnny Unitas was going to kick Joe Willie's ass in Super Bowl III, I believe I can unequivocally state that you've heard the last of Sarah Palin until about 2014.
Her resignation as governor bears a striking resemblance to Richard Nixon's exasperated "You won't have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore!" after his unsuccessful bid for governor of California in 1962. Like Dick, she knows the media is stacked against her, and if there is any inkling that she will be running against the polished turd currently occupying 1600, the attacks will never stop. It's akin to the sinking of the Indianapolis, only she's the only sailor in the water as the circle of sharks grows tighter and tighter.
She certainly can't run in 2012 after resigning her governorship, as that would 1) exacerbate her lack of experience, and 2) show a presumption of being a quitter when the going gets tough. She will raise her disabled infant and tend to her bastard grandchild for a few years, taxing enough work for anyone. She may never return to public life.
Howsomever, if the makos have gravitated to newer, fresher targets, and the Democratic field looks weak for 2016, she'll make her move then. Having spent five or six years doing unglamorous but resume-enhancing work at think tanks, conferences, and party enclaves. She could possibly come back stronger, less ignorant of key issues, more mature, slightly less sexy (lending her some gravitas), and ready to kick some ass.
But 2012? Not a chance. No matter how abysmally Obie is doing in the polls, he'll win a second term, so it is ridiculous for Palin to expend what little political capital she has left tilting at that particular windmill. And that race, in traditional Republican fashion, is Mitt Romney's to lose. I'm wishing Mitt well in advance, but he won't be seeing a dime of my money. I don't bet on losers. Except for Johnny Unitas. And that was just lunch money.
And one other thing: although this may seem like an unintelligent move right now, Palin has proved herself smarter that the bright guys on many occasions. Certainly smarter than Joe Hymie the Robot Biden, whose current undisclosed but secure location is apparently under an Amtrak station in Dover.
I have a small problem. If one considers an infestation of blue-tailed skinks a small problem. And by infestation I mean two or three, possibly another. My skink tolerance ranks up there with my rodent phobias.
I have no issue with your standard chameleonic tree lizard. If fact, I lived in harmony with a feral herd of about two thousand at my Florida abode, so I really had no choice. No, my issue is with the dread skink. These two or three beasts lay about my front porch and sun garden with great insouciance, as if challenging me. I would as soon have a dozen Norwegian wharf rats with human tissue in their bloody fangs sunning themselves by the front door.
The blue-tailed skink is an amazing piece of creation and evolution, however. Consider: when threatened, they disengage their shocking neon blue regenerative tails, which immediately begin writhing in muscle spasms, distracting the predator, while the skink slinks away to safety, and the grim task of growing a new tail. To my knowledge the tail does not even have to suffer trauma to detach; it's pretty much an at will thing.
That's beautiful stuff in the survivor sweepstakes.
Here's an interesting thing: when my mother was in high school in the 1940's there was a fad, wherein girls would capture your basic tree lizard, and tie a piece of thread to its thorax. They'd tie the other end of the thread to their lapel, and wear the little critter to school as an exotic piece of adornment. I'll wager they never tried that with skinks.
Here's another thing: I equate your garden variety leftist with your garden variety skink. For when leftists feel threatened, usually by facts, they pop off a piece of rhetorical writhing blue tail, which substitutes for debate, while they slink away to the safety of their preconceived notions. And that bit of writhing blue tail screams diversionary alarums like Racist! Fascist! Gitmo is a torture camp! There were no WMD's! You get the idea. But a weak and small creature must have some survival skills, after all, so I don't hold it against the leftist, or the skink. It's just their nature.
Oh, didn't get enough of blue-tailed things? Here's Burl Ives singing Blue Tail Fly. Consider it a gift. With a string attached.
I spent my youth trying to join one of these awesome fraternities. Alas, they only exist in the fevered minds of leftists. You'll still get an even 242,000 hits on Google for that rather biased term, but the provenance of any article is suspect, to say the least. Mostly, it was Commos executing villagers, then calling AP and saying Lookee here at what the right wing death squads hath wrought. And Seymour Hersh trying to recreate another My Lai in between bouts of suicide drinking.
Memo to self: start yet another garage band. Name? Oh, I don't know...
That's the face of democracy in action from our brothers to the south. Not only are the Honduran Supreme Court, Congress, and armed forces unanimously opposed to the mad power grab by the fat fellow who fancies himself the next Hugo Chavez, so, apparently, are the populace.
In fact, the only individuals in favor of allowing the supraconstitutional bastard Zelaya to stomp upon the constitution of the nation of Honduras and enthrone himself for a second term are the Castro boys, Chavez, and Barack Obama.
That's pretty thin and shitty company to keep, and what even the most mellow amongst us would call "being on the wrong side of history".
Is there anything Barack Obama touches that he does not get wrong? From the fawning obeisance to the mad mullahs of Persia to this Communist power grabber in Honduras, Barack is 100% on the wrong side of the table. Every fucking time.
By God, Obama is so consistently wrong on everything, every day, I have a new rule of thumb:
If Obama and Dr. Smith from Lost In Space are for it, I'm agin it, godammit.
And fret not: by my reckoning the Venn diagram of Obama vs. Dr. Smith appears to be two completely inclusive circles, one nesting inside t'other.
Look, young Will! A coup d'etat! Hold me!
As an unnecessary but enjoyable aside, in 1981 my cousin and I bought a piece of shit ski boat of seafoam green for four hundred dollars, with a plywood floor, and no cowling cover. I christened it Danger, Will Robinson!, and said name was graced upon the transom of that boat for the entire three weeks of its existence, before it tragically sank in a mild rainstorm.
All by way of saying I know my Dr. Smith.