Smell Your Dog's Foot

Does it smell like Fritos?

Why?

Erection Day

My news junkie Chineese pal Yin called me and exclaimed to me that it was "Erection Day". He was not referring to his new viagra prescription, he was talking about the elections in Iraq. He can't speak an "L" to "Save his Rife".

We won't know the results for a few weeks, but I think we can predict what the Iraq "electoral map" will look like:



From my vantage point the winners will be extensions of Bush cronies, lackies, puppets, frat buddies, associates, corporate stooges and yes-men. You won't hear about how it was all fixed, you see, they have freedom now, freedom to vote for people the US government appoints. I may be wrong, but the national council that will be "elected" will look a lot like the Bush cabinet. You'll see a mix of ethnicities, religions, colors, sexes, ages to give the impression of diversity, yet you'll find one opinion. You'll find complete agreement and capitulation with the USA. That was the deal for the vote to be rigged in their favor!

The small sects of blue on the map are nomadic bands of goofballs who voted Kerry/Edwards as write ins. Nader got some votes too. They all will be dealt with appropriately.

We don't know who the 'winners' are yet, but I bet:

1. They will overwhelmingly dress in western clothing (ties and suits, not cowboy stuff)

2. They will speak English well

3. They will have ties to the oil industry.

Just my guess, maybe I'm wrong. I'm hoping for someone to win that is not in good standing with the Administration, just to see if they let it stand. Of course, you need a fair, unrigged election to support this outcome.

Maybe the Iraqis went to the polls, pushed the right buttons and elected leaders that serve individual needs over self interest and corporate influence. Now there are no professional politicians, so maybe a carpet maker from Bacuba can win, serve a term and go back to carpet making. Maybe they can have a representative government, grow as a world power and then come liberate us. I doubt it. In January of 2006 there will be Bush puppets in high places, American soldiers battling daily with insurgent resistance, more expense the American taxpayer and profits for all connected to the harvesting of oil of Iraq.

These are my predictions, immortalized in time for my accounting. Can some of you Bush supporters offer your predicitons so we can revisit this in a year? I WISH I could have done this with the invasion time table and the WMD issue!

Porta Potty Story #2

"The Wizard of Ooze"

"40th and Fairview" got its name from the adjacent intersection. It was a park named after nearby streets while waiting for a local treasure to expire. The park was the home of Downers Grove little league. I was 12, I played on Palace Carpets, and on one afternoon before the playoffs my team gathered for one last practice.

The weather was clear and sunny, but thunderheads rumbling in the west gently reminded us that our practice would be finite. The thunder grew louder and louder with each pitch, and soon the sky was dark as parents arrived to take players home.

Soon, I was the only player left aside from Coach Peters and his son. My parents were never late to pick me up from practice, so I suggested to Coach Peters that they head home, as my folks would be there at any time. They left. Nobody came for me.

Within minutes it was pouring rain, complete with lightning, wind and thunder. When the hail started I sought shelter in the only available structure, a portable toilet.

I was soaking wet and standing in a stinking fiberglass box, nervously conversing wtih a giant box of excrement ripe from a warm day's sunshine. The rain and hail were coming down harder and the wind was picking up. Trees were swaying and the gusts would rock the porta potty hard on its base.

The emergency air-raid sirens ignited and roared of the dangerous conditions. Branches were snapping off like toothpicks and the rain blew horizontally. The wind was so strong that the porta john lifted onto a corner and then slammed back down tossing me to the floor.

Seconds later I stood up only to feel the porta potty rise on its front corner... it balanced frozen in a battle between gravity and wind, poised on edge. Seconds seemed like hours. Then, a strong steady gust toppled the toilet forward, slamming to the ground, onto the door. I was trapped inside trying desperately to push the unit up so I could crawl out, but it was too heavy. I was screaming like a wounded piglet, and fear turned to terror when I witnessed the approaching tsunami of human waste encroaching behind me.

The seat area was oozing a disgusting orgy or feces, toilet paper, urine and stinky blue disinfection fluid. It was enough to consume the area I was in, engulfing my shoes and pants. I then realized that it didn't matter much because the impact of the topple splashed fecal greaseballs on me and the inside of the porta john. The smell was overwhelming. I knelt on my baseball glove and pressed my face into the ventilation screen, gasping for air. All the while the storm pounded outside and I seriously felt that I was going to die in a green plastic trap, buried alive in dookie. My life flushed before my eyes.

I was locked in this position for about ten minutes when Coach Peters' station wagon pulled into the parking lot. They returned to verify I was taken home. His son saw my face in the vent hole and within seconds they heard me wailing like a speared spider monkey. It took the coach and his son to lift the toilet to its base, a move that would cast me one more shake-n-bake coating in the slippery stew of fermented waste. I emerged soaking wet, covered in liquefied crap.

They threw my clothes and baseball glove into a garbage can and then wrapped my shivering carcass in a dirty blanket. I flipped out all the way home, crying hysterically.

-----

Time would reveal that a small tornado touched down a block or so away from the park. A few roofs were destroyed and many trees knocked down. My dad-parent was on the way to pick me up but was delayed in storm-related traffic.

I probably should have received counseling and extensive therapy. I still approach a porta potty with jaundiced suspicion, but in other ways those moments have set me free. After the trauma of that ordeal I no longer fear eternal consequences for my actions, as I survived a tornado in a tipped over porta potty, coated in the decaying efluvia of strangers. There is no way hell could be any worse.

Porta Potty Story #1

"Paging Dr. Dookie"

Before cell phones we relied on pagers to instantly access persons of interest. I still don't have a cell phone because I have to answer it. A pager was sweet because it could go off all day, I could see who it was, and ignore it. Just like email.

In the Summer of 1995 Chris and I were in Minocqua, WI winding down from a productive day of hoisting monster muskies from the depths of area lakes. We retreated to The Thirsty Whale, a local beer purveyor. After a significant numbing we ventured out to the next bar.

All day on the boat I resisted the need to shoot a deuce. I held it in to the point where my body decided to archive it for a bit longer and not pester me with normal progression. After we left the Whale my last sphincter was growing anxious from the alcohol. While on the way to the next watering hole I was stricken with the immediate, that second, NOW, need to grow a tail.

I bun clenched with all the gluteal force I could produce, waddling rapidly in circles like a penguin after an iced frappacino & ground glass enema. In the shadows ahead I spotted the boxy silhouette of an outhouse. Upon closer inspection we determined it not to be a mirage, but rather, a construction site portable toilet. After a quick sprint I entered and got down to business.

Apparently my panicked lumbering sprint caught the honed eye of a policeman who proceeded to pull up next to the box where I was successfully downloading. Chris was standing outside and realized that I may be polluting a facility not intended for public droppings. Like the mother duck that feigns injury to draw interest from her young, Chris told the cop, "She had an emergency... pregnant" and yelled towards the vent, "Are you okay in the honey?"

The cop didn't buy it an asked, "Is HE okay in there?".

Busted. It turns out that the cop didn't care, the whole incident occurred shortly after the George Michael thing and he wanted to make sure that there was no sausage party going down in another man's mobile crapper.

The cop left and I started to put myself back together. I stood up and went for my belt. As I pulled the strap end up my pager flew off of my belt. Instead of hearing a clunk on the floor I heard a pause, then a "THWACK" sound, like a wet ball of paper towels thrown against a wall. I had precisely cast my communicator through the air and into the crapholder. Nothing But Net.

I didn't want to loose my pager, they were like a million dollars then, but it was not in my soul to dig in a dark box of construction guy dookie. I exited the porta john disappointed. I was uncharacteristically glum for the rest of the night, and all the booze and troublemaking couldn't save me from the funk.

Chris came up with an idea, "Maybe we could give it a call!"

We dialed the number and ran back over to the porta potty. Sure enough I heard my poor pager, beeping and vibrating a desparate cry for help. Eventually the muffled screams grew harder to hear until they ceased.

I don't know if the battery died, if it sank in the muck, or if the toxic fumes corroded the internal circuitry. The precise cause of death will never be known and it is perhaps best left that way.

72 Virgins in Paradise?

The previous post about Extra Virgin olive oil conjured more thinking about the recent headlines and topical discussion about virgins. As I understand it, the 9-11 terrorists and other Islamic jihadists believed that there was a heavenly reward for comitting militant acts resulting in their own demise. I think our Department of Defense may wish to expand on my thoughts herein to slow, or possibly thwart terrorist motivations.

The reward, as allegedly stated in the Quran, is scrumping time with 72 virgins in the afterlife. This is used as a recruiting tool, as it sounds like a keen plan to the 20 synapses that comprise the male primordial reptile brain.

Gentlemen, do the math. I remind you that eternity is a pretty long time. Just for the novelty the average terrorist guy (who likely isn't getting much tail in the first place) is going to blast through 3 in the first day, 10 in the first week. Plus, I'd guess about 40 are virgins not by choice but probably because nobody wanted a piece. That leaves the potential suicidal kook only 19 quality virgins to stretch out over eternity. That's approximately one for every gajillion years. Of these, most will be in the 18-22 year old range, and I defy you to put up with that crap for 20 minutes let alone eternity! You'll end up busting open a lot of oysters to maybe get one decent pearl and just get irritated by the process. Bum deal.

Plus, 72 virgins had to come from somewhere. These must be earthly souls that met a premature fate. My guess is that female spirits assigned to martyr maintenance are going most resentful of their eternal chore. They are going to take it out on you, the recently deposed. Imagine, you're a terrorist and painfully blow yourself to smithereenes with plastique just to be hen-pecked for eternity! Some reward for killing yourself! Like most ideas in scripture it looks great on paper but upon careful scrutiny ain't such a hot idea. Leave it to God Inc. to pull a bait-n-switch on you.

Perhaps the US military could flyer the mountains of Tora Bora with this eye-opening information. Maybe the disincentive will sway a young Osama-to-be into a productive life where he could earn his harem in paradise the old fashioned way.

We are E-V-O

Roxanne is intelligent, hilarious and beautiful, yet she is unable to discern the difference between edible oils. I am glad to say that this is the most contentious issue of our marriage. She drives me absolutely bananas when she insists on using extra-virgin, first-cold-pressed olive oil to brown a piece of grouper. Recently we had been blowing through expensive, high-quality olive oil like Mary Kate Olson goes through ipecac syrup, and our domestic oil policy was in need of revision.

She was heading to the store and asked me if I had any requests. I suggested she pick up some olive oil, not the extra virgin kind. Then it hit me, how can something be extra virgin? The oil has either been sexually violated or it hasn't, there's no grey area here. Perhaps it is oil with a chastity belt.

Now even more unclear, she asked me again what she should buy. I guess what I was requesting was some promiscuous oil, maybe even something slutty. Olive oil of ill repute? She returned from the store with a gallon of the most trampy, sleazy, cherry popped, deflowered olive oil, and once again there was peace beneath our roof.

$upport Your War!

It is time for the rah-rah war supporters to put their money where their collective mouth is. I don’t believe in killing people, and I certainly don’t support brave American soldiers being put in harm’s way for profit, so I never have supported the Bush Imperial Invasion. Therefore, I’d personally rather not fund it.

The president has asked for $80 billion to continue the war. That’s $320 for every man, woman and child in the USA.

In my mind, the 50% that support the president and believe in the Iraq invasion should be solely responsible for the bill. Those that don’t believe in it or support it should not have to pay. Think of it as a War Tax!

That works out to $640 per zombie warmonger, $2560 for family of four with a Bush/Cheney sticker on their minivan, and $6400 for a good-Christian-no-birth-control-God’s-planet-populatin’ family of ten.

Time to pony up Bushies! It’s your war, your guy in charge and technically your cost! When you voted for him you voted for unbridled spending! Let’s have some personal responsibility and some fiscal responsibility here!

The war will stop the day after Joe Six Pack can't afford his Budweiser, McDonald's and Moon Pies.

It's All in the Modifying Hypen

Would you rather have a bad-ass tatoo, or a bad ass tatoo?

The Dutch Oven Truth Test

My recent political rantings have prompted an email message from someone requesting "less about the stupid president, more about farts". I shall not disappoint.

A few years back I worked with a woman that claimed no sense of smell. Her name was Ann, and every freaking day was a whining sob fest about "I can't smell it", "too bad I can't smell it", "I wish I could smell it".

While the deaf navigated sensory barriers with subtle hand gestures and the blind bravely probed the ground in front of them with a white stick, Ann went on and on about her inabilty to sense olfactory stimuli. If I had to endure the story about her mother's fever and how it caused her to be nasally blind one more time, I was going to puke.

Methinks thou dost protest too much. I started to think of her constant complaining as more of an excuse and a crutch than a disabilty, and decided to truly assess her alleged impairment. She was going to get a test, The Fart Test.

Being a vegetarian, I'm not just lactose intolerant, I am a milk-sugar biggot. If I stand downwind from a glass of milk my insides inflate like the Hindenberg, and O' the Humanity when they explode. Taking one for the team, I drank a glass of chocolate milk before work. For the next 60 painful, inflating minutes I listened to it gurgle and churn as it fermented away in my midgut.

I worked in close quarters with Ann, sharing an office that was little more than a glorified janitor's closet. That morning I initiated the silent but deadly release of my high internal pressure before she arrived for work. Within minutes the stench in the room hung as an invisble fog of sulfuric evil.

I heard her steps down the hall and her keys jingle in the door. I had delivered the ultimate blanketless Dutch oven and now would unveil her for the fraud that she was!

She entered the room, her face turned sour and she exclaimed, "Tastes like a fart in here... pig".

GWB --- The "G" is for "Genius"

I don't know why it took me so long to realize what an incredibly amazing scheme the war on terrorism truly is. The Administration and their think tanks are truly evil geniuses, as they have put themselves in the proverbial high-profit catbird seat for decades to come. Why is it so smart? Simply, the perceived fear of terrorism guarantees that they will be in charge, and their friends will profit FOREVER!

Why? If you are running a war on terrorism, how do you know that you have won? Can you ever prove that there are no more terrorists? Certainly we have not been attacked in the USA for almost four years, but the sustained war on terrorism was central to the president's re-election. The Administration's trick is to provide perfect balance, to not fail by allowing an attack while always convincing the population that an attack is imminent unless they support its actions! Excellent!

This fact is why the plan is so diabolically perfect-- a leader can always scare a dipshit population with a terrorist boogieman, whether he/she/it exists or not! There will always be threats, there will always be chatter, the Administration will always point out some "brown-skinned creep" ready to take your Happy Meal. Coupled to ample payoffs to radio talk-show dupes that parrot the danger and there ALWAYS will be another evildoer poised to strike, with bonus WMDs!

And Americans will buy it, support it, and pay billions of dollars for invasion of sovereign nations to stop it, even if it does not exist. We will never hold our leaders accountable because "they are protecting us
and I have a soccer game next week". Of course, lands granted freedom will be pilfered for natural resources and labor so we can have $10 DVD players, gas for our Hummers, and fresh telemarketers. Keep an eye on who has profited thus far! Plus, the more we force our ways against the will of others, the more we will legitimately irritate people worldwide that will speak out against us and bolster the Administration's point! Did I say "genius" yet?

How will we ever know when the War on Terrorism is over? Answer, it will never be, for when it is, the King loses power. As soon as Americans feel safer, the threat level will elevate to orange. An empire built on fear.

Of course, eyes might open when their defective offspring mature into camofauge-wearin' age. 1300 dead soldiers ain't much when they are someone else's children. Maybe people will revisit history are remember that being a patriot means questioning a government gone wrong, not lining up behind it.

Yeah sure, don't hold your breath. Put a fork in us, we're done. The idiots have taken over. Welcome to the New World Odor.

Freedumb.

In his inaugural speech, President Bush spoke the word "Freedom" 27 times.

Smiling crowds of invited ideologs heard about how the President has spread freedom. They heard his message after walking through metal detectors, in front of bomb-sniffing dogs, while being viewed through the scopes of snipers, after being criminally frisked, while monitored by cameras, under hovering helicopters, in a no-fly zone, where protesters were confined to off-site camps, after they had their shoes x-rayed and had their nail clippers confiscated.

Freedom.

All Americans had the freedom to attend the event that they financed through tax dollars, as long as they had one of a few secure, non-counterfeitable invitations handed down from the select Bush Inaugural committee, typically in exchange for a healthy contribution, favorable political deeds, or lockstep endorsement of policy, after a stringent background check.

Freedom.

The President vowed to bring freedom and democracy to oppressed peoples of the world. Over the next four years many will embrace democracy whether they want it or not. They will be freed from tyranny, and if they resist they will be jailed and/or killed. They will be free to vote, even if it against the will of the majority, and they will freely elect someone we install. "America knows what is good for you backward people, here's a Game Boy. Shut up."

Freedom.

Don't be fooled by happy buzzwords of liberty. Freedom must be earned, protected and cherished. By definition, it cannot be installed with a heavy hand. Ironically, while our nation attempts to install freedom elsewhere, those forced to accept it resent our actions and strive to create an environment that compromises freedom here. Then we freely give it away.

That's Freedumb.

The Presidential Oaf of Office

Today I watched the swearing in of George W. Bush, an appropriately named event, as I was "swearing in" the direction of the television. His job, as defined by the Oath, is to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, which he has been doing swimmingly when White House servants haven't been wiping his ass with it.

Under his rule the First and Forth Amendments have been subverted by the Patriot Act. We could have guessed there'd be trouble by the use of the term "patriot", as in, "If you don't vote for it you ain't a patriot". Chris said that the only better name would have been the “If You Don’t Vote for this You’re Gay” Act.

Under this administration:

-The number of public cameras has increased one-thousand fold.
-The power of big government has increased while our freedom has decreased.
-His failure to stop the 9-11 attacks has led to unprecedented security screens, random arrests, and suspension of habeas corpus.
-His economic policies rob the future by borrowing against it today to the profits of corporations.
-His “improvements” in Medicaid benefit the pharmaceutical industry and barely affect the patient at great cost to the America’s depleted finances.

In his inauguration speech he talks about spreading freedom and his supporters blindly applaud, hanging on his words rather than gauging his actions. That's called freedumb.

With each page that gets torn from the calendar, it gets closer and closer to 1984.

Inauguration Just a Shameful Party

In two days it is projected that we will spend close to $50 million to formally install W as president again. The only thing different between Thursday morning and Thursday night will be another substantial chunk of our money wasted. Private funds you say? The police and security are being funded by you and me, and the parties will be write offs for corporate dupes that we'll get to pay for later. Like any Washington plan, Democrat or Republican, it will cost more than projected and we'll get the bill.

President Bush should be ashamed. We should be ashamed.

Remember, the government is broke and massively in debt.

Remember, we only originally offered $15 million to the tsunami victims.

Remember, there are inadequately armored soldiers eating goop out of a tube so Iraqis can "elect" another US puppet.

Remember how democrats and republicans alike whined about the $44 million dollar price tag to impeach Bill Clinton.

Remember, the party price tag would pay for 50 teachers, with benefits, for life.

Remember, we can't pay soldiers injured in combat their full pay because they are not actively serving.

FDR had his World-War II inauguration in a quiet ceremony on the balcony of the White House, followed by chicken salad, pound cake and coffee. Quite conservative, and the proper thing to do. However, GW Bush, the most liberal spender posing as a conservative, will have no such thing.

Being a fiscal conservative I want him WORKING on Thursday, not pissing away $50 million celebrating his thin victory and re-installment. He could win my respect if he were to say that he was going to forego the pomp and circumstance, make a sacrifice, and perform the ritual in the privacy of the Oval Office. A hint of sacrifice would be a new theme of the Administration. It will NEVER happen. Sacrifice is for soldiers and the poor.

The Department of Homeland Security says that there is little security risk and limited chatter surrounding this event. I completely understand. The continued royal Bush reign is an important part of the terrorist plan. All that hate this country and wish our demise know that King George will continue to destroy America with increasing massive debt, discrediting scientific achievement, continuing erosion of the Constitution, and furthering the codified hatred for the USA by the rest of the planet.

Enemies of America have an easy job. They now just have to sit back and admire the great guilded self-flushing toilet. The best way to destroy this country is to let it keep going as it is-- and President Bush is a critical part of its undoing.

Martin Luther King's Paradoxical Holiday

I was in Las Vegas and I ran into a local loser who was full of more booze than a Ted Kennedy's office scotch cart. He told me a lot about his unusual rash, then said he could get wasted because "I can sleep off my hangover all day because of Marvin King's birthday". This scene likely played out in watering holes throughout our nation, sans the rash part.

Celebrating the life and accomplishments of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King by shutting down schools, closing government and letting a brain-dead populace sleep until noon, is like commemorating Arbor Day by cutting down trees. This back-handed political gesture was a political bone from the Reagan Administration thrown to a subset of African-American activists that racist Joe Sixpack could get behind. What racist intolerant brainstem doesn't want another day off work?

Dr. King was born on January 15, 1929, but commemoration of this event is celebrated on the first convenient Monday that follows. This places Dr. King into the same hopper as another great American, Christopher Columbus. If it is that important, celebrate is life on his birthday. If it falls on a weekend, too bad. Moreover, instead of giving everyone a day off, let's make a hard decision consistent with the teachings of Dr. King. Let's make EVERYONE work an extra day and use the money to fund a charity of their choice. Make kids go to school on a Saturday and learn about tolerance. Replace desperate housewives and everybody loving Raymond with recitations of "I Have a Dream", "Strength to Love" and "A Letter from Birmingham Jail". Remind everyone born since 1962 that people with an excess of skin pigment could not vote here until the last 20% of our nation's history.

In short, let's use this time to remember his important messages. If we as a nation were actually brave enough to follow his lead, our nation would be stronger and the world may be a peaceful place.

Las-Ve-GAS

HAIL CHEESE-AIR! Kevin yanks a digit on a Sin City icon in an attempt to unravel a fetid question.



Everywhere I walk in Las Vegas I occasionally move through a fart cloud. Perhaps there's some $2.99 all-you-can-eat buffet that is not agreeing with a lot of people. It is mysterious, a pungent vapor that seems to punctuate the city. I frequently encounter the stink on the automatic walkways. Some lactose intolerant Asian shutterbug or a geriatric cotton top with irritable bowel syndrome drops an air biscuit right on the people mover. It's like in the old movies where the conveyor belt inches the restrained heroine toward a spinning buzzsaw. Then once consumed by the evil cloud I don't just drift through... it either sticks to me or stalks me at the speed of cheese, because I can't purge it from my nostrils for minutes afterward.

I'm not sure what it is or where it comes from, but I now have started to become parnoid that it may be me. Perhaps I had a dog yummy on my shoe. There's no evidence of any reeking from my person, at least so the guy handing out escort flyers tells me. It's easy to find someone to sniff you for a buck or two.

Tonight I spend my last night here and hope to get to the bottom of this malodorous mystery. Hopefully what stinks in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Viva Las Vegas

I have been unable to document my daily discontent because I have been assigned to monitoring civilization from Las Vegas, NV. I will continue to describe my travel over the next few days. There is much to report on.

Essentially, Vegas is where all American Evils coalesce into a small, artificial smudge in a barren corner of nature. Greed and exorbitance meet poverty and debt head on in a festival of facade and conspicuous consumption. Banana Republicans, Kens and Barbies, Pinks and Twits abound, and an Uberman like me can only observe and partake of the excessive free cocktails.

I'm here for a good reason, to celebrate my dad's 60th birthday. That is cool. The rest of this is a freaking shitshow and I will present it in photodocumentary form once returning home. Stay tuned, for I will roll the ugliness!

Now YOU Wait, Dickweed

Roxanne and I navigated the busy parking area and saw some slick guy enter his Mustang intent on leaving. He saw us waiting for his spot. He entered the car gingerly then paused a few beats before introducing the key to the ignition. After digging under the dashboard and lighting a smoke, it was clear that this was his exhibition of the pathetically little control he had in life. He was going to flex his time-wasting muscles to make us wait.

Our turn signal flashed. We waited. Patiently. Our turn signal flashed. Ka-blink. Ka-blink.

Suddenly, the backup lights ignited on a car three spots down. Instead of waiting for the original space, we pulled up a few feet, blocking Mr. Slowpoke in while the further car backed out.

Of course, now that we were exercising the pathetically little control we had in life, he didn't like it, and started backing out into the side of our car. Clearly he was irritated that now we were making him wait... he might be late for a date rape or a Bush rally or something.

I give Roxanne a lot of credit. She held her ground before slowly inching the car forward into the vacant spot, a deliberate molasses-paced "F-you" to Mr. Powertrip.

As we parked the car we heard the words, "I'm a loserrrrrrrrr" emanating from the squealing rubber on the pavement as he sped away, all the while continuing to exercise the pathetically little control he had in his life.

Age Against the Machine: Happy Birthday to Me.

A Personal Note From Kevin on January 11, 2005...

Fuck you*.

Yes you, you websurfing twit.

Today marks the beginning of my 39th year. I am one year older and a bit more crusty, and I am generally NOT PLEASED.

38.001 years ago I exited the warm comfort and nutrition of the womb to visit your evil wretched planet. If it were not for the efforts of a slim few of you I would have promptly exited. Unlike the majority of you writhing little pinkies I was born aware. I've been in tune with this bullshit since day 1. I thought Vietnam was a crock of crap. I remember the Republicans expounding on their good guy Nixon and how "Watergate" was a left-wing conspiracy. I was a baby... what could I do?

As a toddler I scrounged for release in poisons that would make me dizzy, and before kindergarten I would spin in circles to make reality less harsh or possibly wacky. It would be 16 more years before I could legally purchase intoxicants that would allay my distain for the status quo.

Thirty years ago I was eight. I was into dinosaur models. Part of it was for the buzz of science and paleontolgy, part of it was for the love of heady adhesives that would make my brain bubble.

Twenty years ago this day I drank a lot of different kinds of stuff. I wound up passed out in my 1973 Ford Maverick, running warmly in front of Mama Lush's house, a local freakwoman that let us use her house as a center of teenage debauchery. While I silently slept off the gallon of whiskey and bong vapors, some local teen hero fueled by a a head full of anti-drunk-driving crap, opened my car door, took my keys and left me to freeze to death in the January cold. Luckily I had an extra set, and then drove carefully home.

Ten years ago I woke up in a Speedo on a mildewed futon with 12 gauge shotgun and an empty bottle of tequila. I don't know if I got the idea to pull a Cobain or what happend, but I was apparently too drunk to pull the trigger. Small miracles. It all came from the fact that my shitstain for a wife left me home and alone on my birthday so she could bone a local yahoo. Scum Queen. Her actions made me feel unimportant and ultimately discardable.

That morning I grew a sack, a big one full of manly content.

Ten years later I am a confident, keen scientist that has insulated himself from the evil minutia of life with an outstanding layer of friends and family. I got rid of all of my dragging anchors. I have a groovy, beautiful wife, a dog, a job and a daily ritual that makes me sharper every single day. I have achieved my nirvana... I surround myself with people that respect me (and know CPR).

Now I am either your best friend or your worst nightmare. Loyalty or distain, you get to pick. I'll give you a big warm hug or eat the eyeballs out of your stupid head with an oyster fork, it is up to you.

38 years ago I was a relatively ineffective hours-old post-fetus. Now I've got a handle on the situation and can't wait to see how 10 more years will shape me. As I age, I need a sturdier crust to contain the substantially ballooning content. I wish I were 48, 58, 108 today! With each year I settle for less bullshit. The future looks damn good and I can't wait to see you there.

With Feeling,

Kevin F.


*Just u im losers that dont spel 4 shit

Chris and His Big New Year's Hat

Part 2 in the Series, "Why Chris is Cool"



I left the warmth of Gainesville, FL to spend the 2004-2005 transition with my best friend in the frozen tundra of Stevens Point, WI. He hosted a rather extensive New Year's gathering, and the combination of booze, friends and holiday meriment would have been enough to generate a good time. However, add to the mix an overdose of Nux Vom and a big cardboard hat and Chris' brain started to purr like a Husqvarna 455 Rancher...

He adorned the hat (seen in photo above) and vowed to attend a matinee the next day. He was going to a show that would have only one person in the theater, and sit right in front of him.

I thought is was genius.

Then he spun the conspiracy theory. That is what happened to Abraham Lincoln! He had that big stupid hat on and sat down to watch the play. The guy behind him didn't appreciate the obstructed view and popped a cap in his coconut!

Again, time makes this history stuff much more clearer.

Read This Dammit!

If you read one thing today, read this!

Open your damn eyes people. Get angry and do something. The terrorists have taken over and you'll be surprised who they really are.

George and Dick's Excellent Infomercial

Today it was revealed that right-wing radio mouthpiece Armstrong Williams was given $250,000 of your money to promote the Bush Administration’s “No Child Left Behind” plan.

Read this twice if you don’t get mad…

This is a quarter million dollars of yours and mine (1% of our initial allocation to tsunami victims) used to pay off a radio talk show host to promote a crappy plan. Does this anger any of your fiscal conservatives out there?

It is illegal for a record label to pay a DJ to play their record on the air. That’s called payola. Yet the Bush Administration can give our money to some jagloaf using public airwaves to promote a political agenda! Huh? Does this transform commentary into commercial?

At least now it can be known that the “opinions” heard on right-wing talk radio are really just Bush-friendly talking points; paid infomercials designed to whip red-necks, bible freaks and NAS-tards into frenzy of bigoted hatred. I didn't think they all could really believe that stuff.

For every one that gets caught you know there are many that have gotten away with it. How many dollars have been funneled to the Limbaughs, Hannitys and Savages? My guess, the bogus WMD infomercial was probably pretty expensive.


NOT MAD YET... Another complimentary treatment of this topic can be read here.

Medicine Cabinet Snoopers

Part 1 in the Series "Why Chris is Cool"

My friend Chris does not appreciate guests in his home snooping through his personal salves. He is not alone. In general, a house full of company means your bathroom medicine cabinets will be pillaged in pursuit of your zit creams, antifungal ointments or the prescriptions that treat your mental illness. Everyone seems to feel better if they see a skeleton in your closet too, or more aptly, evidence of a genital anomaly in your washroom cupboard strangely cools their burning urethra.

Chris was planning his New Year's party, and in anticipation of snoopers, devised a genius plan. Why not just give them something good to talk about... something to make one less of a scourge and more of a legend?

We went to Walgreens and bought a box of Durex giant king-size magnum condoms and a tube of generic "lubricating gel". The box was not subtle; it stated "XXL" right on the front in huge blue letters. A sneaky intracabinet gazer would know they were in the abode of a guy who was hung like a walrus or somehow got the Super Bowl 70 condoms. He emptied his cabinets except for the two items and then proceeded to the levity of the party.

We're pretty sure someone must have looked, as he received a number of knowing glances that night. Within days the word spread like wildfire, augmented by the extrapolations of "telephone". Now he's the neighborhood stud and even strangers claim to have tripped over the damn thing.

Monster rubbers have transformed the neighborhood currmogeon into the cool guy that makes schoolgirls blush and neighborhood men throw an ambitious thumbs up. A well-placed box of giant prophylactics can make one a star. Genius. Size doesn't matter, it's the perception of enormous size that matters!

I Shit You Negative...

This is a mobile billboard in front of a church in Melrose, Florida.

I would offer a comment, but it speaks for itself.

Guess Who is Coming to Town??!!!

When I accepted the job in Gainesville, FL I didn't know much about the South or Florida in general. I like it here. The people are kind, the fishing is top-notch and it has all of the creature comforts a low-maintenence science cat like I need. It has taken two years and one keystone event to remind me of what a strange place it indeed is...

It was a media barrage, radio, TV, print-- all extolling the exciting fact that HE was coming to town. The mayor dusted off the big key and the red carpet was steam cleaned and starched. The homeless were packed up and dropped off in Palatka.

Who was coming? George W. Bush? Pope John Paul II? Jesus?

No. Gallagher. That's right, the male-patterned loudmouth with a clown hammer.



Today I weep, as I am a Gainesvillian.

Soldier Screwed Again!

Part 2 in the Series -- Who Really Supports the Troops?

While the Bush Administration and its legions of loyal dittohead followers believe that they have the best interest of the American combat soldier in mind, the fact of the matter is, they should be ashamed at their current level of support. This has been a repeated theme of this blog.

Military.com details the story of 20-year-old Lance Corporal James Crosby, a marine turned paraplegic in a March rocket attack. He returned to the United States, hospitalized. The military then took the liberty to spit into his wounds as he opened this paycheck. It turns out that his usual payment of $2500 per month was cut to $1300. Why? Because he was not actively serving in a combat role. They did award him a Purple Heart, but the Swift Vets have convinced us how those are easily faked and worthless.

Apparently this is a new policy by the Bush Administration bourne from the desire to cut the costs of war. Maybe a better way to cut the costs would be to have a little competition for the billions of dollars in no-bid contracts offered to Halliburton Inc.

This unfortunate soldier should receive a full paycheck until he can be gainfully employed in his current condition and receive a full Halliburton pension. Right now he is going to have his $1300 paycheck extended for 90 days and will not have to pay federal tax for a year. Thanks W! If that's his idea of compassionate support...

In my opinion those assigned to battle a war for profit should be paid in the stock of the contractors that benefit from their sacrifice. They should be exempt from federal tax for life and should receive all of the health care they need without deductibles and premiums for war-related injuries or conditions.

That is what I call support.

New Year's Resolutions

What is your New Year's Resolution? Put them under comments and I'll post them!

(Pictures from New Year's Eve Party 2004 will be posted when I get back to Florida!-- worth checking back!)

1. Less beer, more hard liquor... I'm getting gooey and need a low-cal way to get through the next 4 years. Also, to master the banjo. kf

2. Rootietoot said... more clint eastwood westerns, less public coughing.

3. greatwhitebear said... More time with my granddaughters, fewer carbs, more canoe time. Spend more time aggravating neo-cons and evangelicals

4. sparky said... less television, more vision


5. Isabella di Pesto said:

My New Year's resolution is, over the next four years, to try, to really, really try, to control my Tourette-like outbursts each time George W. Emperor's image appears before my eyes.


&*###$%@*&&&??!!!!