Home Made Booze Takes A Walk

The other day my pal X24 called me to wish glad birthday tidings. He interrupted my first attempt at making beer. See, in Florida you have a great choice of beer, you can get all of them-- Budweiser, Miller and Coors. Sometimes you can find something different, odd or independent, but it is rare and expensive.

My sister bought me a homebrew kit for Xmas and I thought I'd fire it up. I gave the homebrew craze a decade to dissipate, now it was safe. Remember back in the early 1990's when every geek decided to spend a lot of time and money making carbonated pissy scumwater? I sure do. Luckily for us the internet came along in the late 1990's and gave them free porn, Klingon Discussion Forums and international gaming. The homebrew niche sagged, now I can make my own and not seem like "them". I'll report on this later.

X24 reminded me of when we tried to make booze by fermenting various juice products in a cabinet in my college apartment. It seemed like a good idea, hell, if they could do it during Prohibition we certainly could do it now. Soon the bottles swelled with pressure, the high-alcohol swill concocting within. The liquid smelled like hell-- the sharp stench of spoiled fruit loaded with alcohol, potent poison that would even repel Kitty Dukakis. After 6 weeks of fermentation, we decided to abort the plan. We took the dozen 2-liter bottles to the curb in front of our apartment to abandon them.

We moved the last bottles outside and a woman walked up and inquired about what we were up to. "What's in the bottles?", she asked.

"I don't know, smells like booze", we said.

"Are you guys going to take it?" she asked.

X24 and I looked at each other and at the same time replied, "Nooooo".

She started to pick up the bottles, looked at us like we were idiots and said, "What are you, FRESHMEN?"

Her insult fell flat with us. We didn't reply, we just smiled and watched her gather up rotten juice. She waddled off with the products of our fermentation, intent on making a cocktail or two, or two hundred.

Turn the clock ahead 17 years to 2005. Right before Xmas I walked by a Salvation Army kettle and I had to look twice at the bell ringer. The blind woman was strangely familiar, but I could not figure out from where... I dropped a bottle cap and a button into the kettle, she acknowledge the ping.

I asked, "What are you, a FRESHMAN?"

The jingling bell ceased. Perhaps her booze bottom feedling and insulting demeanor were not so visionary after all.

Size Matters

Today I stopped for a coffee, seeing as though I left my coffee cups in the car and they were filled with stale coffee backwash. I went to buy a new refillable coffee mug and it said on it, "First refill is free". The mug was supposed to be $2.50, but my total came out to $2.60.

When I told the woman that she forgot to charge me for the coffee she told me that the first refill was free. Then I reminded her that I didn't get a refill yet, that it was still at the "fill" stage. A "refill" would be the second one.

She decided to charge me for the coffee. When I asked her how they'd know that my refill was the free refill when I came back she got really mad and asked me to leave.

Coffee places are a little too wiggly when it comes to what words mean. At Starbucks a small is a "tall", a medium is a "grande" and a large is a "vente". WTF? This is especially problematic when I really want a lot of coffee and order the "tall" thinking it will be big, when it really is rather pudgy. I don't know what the fuck "vente" means, but I thought it meant "vented" or something so I thought it was without a lid.

The worst is when I go somewhere and ask what size of drinks they have. I love when they say that they have medium, large and extra large. I'll always argue, "So you mean you have small, medium and large?"

They say, "No sir, we have medium, large and extra large".

This always throws me off because I think a medium is the one between the two other sizes. Silly me.

Battle of the Glands

The year was 1983 and I was the vocal lead for the band Dangling Units. We played a lot of dumps in Chicago; we were 15 and 16 and reasonable musicians for our age. We were all pretty smart students, so smart that we started a band without a drummer. We used a drum machine instead so it wouldn't smoke all our dube.

In 1984 my high school announced a "Battle of the Bands", a time-honored tradition where the kids with all the money fake their way through pop songs to the delight of football players and cheerleaders. I, on the other hand, had forged my niche in scum rock. I played in a punk band, a loud and hysterical band with clever lyrics. We were musicians, we knew how to play, we were tight and played a great set for kids. Everybody at my high school hated my band, but we actually opened for decent bands in Chicago- from the Effigees to Circle Jerks, so we had a following and I didn't care what suburban brats liked.

We submitted a cassette tape to our high school referees. They hated, "Skid Marks", a song about soiled undergarments and "First AIDS" a homophobic tribute to HIV (it was 1983 and AIDS was creepy). Our teenage edgy lyrics went over like a lead balloon. We were officially disinvited to join the Battle of the Bands. A penalty for coloring outside of the lines. They said our lyrics were "too obscene". What do you want from a band called "Dangling Units"?

If you can't beat them, join 'em. We knew lot of other rejects, other twits that everybody hated so they played their instruments all the time. We formed an alliance of dweebs and learned all of the most favorite pop songs of the time.

We dressed in ripped clothes and spiked our hair to the ceiling with ivory soap and eggs. We played crappy pop rock in our scumpunk uniforms, clean, happy and palatable like we just rolled out of Hot Topic. We were pefectly digestable for suburban Chicago. Everyone actually liked it!

It was time for the last song. We started into Billy Idol's "Dancing With Myself" only we changed the words. The guitarist and singer was my friend Chris. We exchanged a knowing winks and started into the song. When we got to the chorus we replaced the sanitized vanilla lyrics with our own...

Playing with myself... (Oh, oh oh ohhhh)
Playing with my-sel-elf,
and if I had the chance I'd get inside my pants
and I'd be playing with mysel-elf
Oh, oh, ohhhh
Oh, oh, ohhhh
Oh, oh, ohhhh
Oh, oh ohhhhh

and with each "Oh, oh, ohhh" we made an exaggerated crank stroke in the air.

We kept it up for about two minutes when the power wound down and all we heard was drums. Our time was done.

The best part is, we finished second and would have finished first if the vote was not split between our stupid band and Denied Remarks, a band from Downers Grove North that actually was good. Some crappy metal act won with a tribute to Judas Priest. Go figure.

The best part is that we scammed our way into a contest and then shoved it up everyone's tail.

Why I Hate Flying

I like traveling and I love the sensation of accelerating down the runway and pulling some g's as the plane ascends. The flying part is okay, its the fact that I have to do it with 200 other assholes that makes me cringe. As the cost of flying comes down and rivals Greyhound, the great toothless hordes of the unclean take to the skies to vex me.

It all starts at the gate. Why is everyone in a hurry to get on? It isn't going to leave without you! On most carriers they board by zone; Zone 1 in the front of the plane, on up to Zone 6 in the rear. When they start to board Zone 1 every mutant dweeb feels like they have to stand in the immediate proximity of the gate so when their zone is called they can be first in line. But, they always stand in the way of others trying to board, screwing up the entry order and forcing people in front to get on toward the end, slowing the process.

I like to fly Southwest because you get to pick your seat. The best move is to sign in online, get a "B" boarding pass and then get into the middle of the line. If you are an "A" then you get the exact seat you want, but some psycho scab-picking, booger-eating, zit popper will sit next to you. Being a "B" means you get to pick your poison.

I hate when someone demands on eating some stinky ethnic culinary creation they brought on board. It never fails. I always am assigned to a seat next to someone that had to wait for the free 4 oz of Diet Pepsi before he could eat his blood sausage and cabbage sandwich. Usually it is the same guy that has his shoes off and a sleeveless t-shirt so I can enjoy all of his aromas. Then there's the farts. I can't stand knowing that molecules spawned from someone's rectum travel into my nose, into my lungs, into my bloodstream where they are assembled into the fatty tissue around my abdomen. I am composed of others' effluvia. It bothers me.

To combat stinky travelers I turn the air blower on full blast and conceal myself in a flowing cone of marginally untarnished air. It also keeps the snot, spudum, wheeze and crud off of me from the infected scum queen that is sneezing and coughing behind me.

Sound is a tyrant. I always end up sitting in front of two people that love themselves and want to share the details of their stupid existences with each other, but do it so loud that half the plane has to hear it. On a recent 4 hour flight from San Diego I learned more about Maltese breeding and scrapbooking than I ever wanted to learn. They were so loud, like anyone cared.

Then someone brings their screaming kid on board. I know they have to move their offspring somehow, but this is why god made drugs. They make me sedate my dog on the plane, perhaps they could knock out their infant. I am a little tolerant about babies because they can't obey commands. However, when someone's freaking kid insists on getting up every two seconds, when they kick the seat behind me, or when they don't shut up it drives me insane. Recently on a trip to Chicago I heard a brother and sister go on for 2 hours, "I see a car", "I see a farm", "I see a road", "I see a lake"... this went on for 2 hours where they kept trying to one-up the other with what they saw and how loud they said they saw it.

Meanwhile mom sat there, smiling.

It ended when we landed in Chicago and they amped up to "I see a plane!", "I see a plane!" and the guy behind them said, "It's an airport, there are planes here!" and everyone applauded.

Then there was another traveler that decided that he would delay his personal hygiene program until he was on the plane. He started flossing, then he cleaned his ears. The floss and amber-frosted Q-tips sat on his tray, poked into the ice in his little beverage cup. I wanted to puke.

I also hate the assholes that are mean to the flight attendants. I see it all the time.

Just when I think it is all over, the plane lands and taxis to the gate. As soon as that seatbelt light goes off everyone has to stand, even though they are going nowhere. Some people have flights to catch, some people are in a hurry. Why not let them up first? I usually am the last off the plane. What's the hurry? To go wait for luggage?

This is the last part of my always shitty flying experience. Everyone gathers on the luggage carousel, waiting for their bag to come around. Meanwhile, everyone else that has a bag is forced to stand in the back, waiting for the people in front to get theirs. But they can't get their luggage because the carousel if full of the stuff from the people in the back. Maybe if everyone stood a few feet back...

Flying is a necessary evil. I'm not going to pay for first class, but maybe the division between first class and coach is too harsh. They should have a "second class". I'm no damn Prima Donna, hell, I roll out of bed, put on my short-order cook pants and go to work. I just want a place for semi-clean people with jobs that don't need to eat, fart, clean, fidget, belch, wheeze or punish me with the results of their wanton reproduction. I'd pay a little more to arrive uninfected and unfrazzled.

God Answers Prayers of Miners' Families

"NO!", he answered!

Over the last three weeks, if you were paying attention, you got to see the psychosis of religion in action. While the Sago 13 were trapped, families prayed, and prayed, and prayed and prayed. The Conservatively-biased media visited churches and watched families ask their lord for assistance at their dark hour.

When it was revealed that 12 were alive and one dead, it was considered a miracle! One man even said that the Lord saved those miners.

Of course, a few hours' time would reveal that 12 were dead and one alive. Instead of holding their almighty accountable for not answering their pleas, they claimed that the one survior was a miracle... praise the Lord! The other 12 were "brought home to Jesus", praise the Lord there too. It's a win-win.

The same thing happened this week. Two were trapped in a different mine and died. Rather than get out a shovel and start digging, the families went to church and prayed for their almighty to intervene.

He didn't. The miners died. So, god either hated the miners and let them die, hated the praying families, or perhaps, doesn't really exist. Certainly the lack of intervention might conclude with the later.

Again, with a customer service record like his, I'm surprised God Inc. can still be in business. There's a sucker born every minute and these people submit to praising something that never seems to deliver. Of course, the 1 out of 15 is held up as evidence of his power.

I just don't get it. How do they get it both ways?

Three Assholes: Asshole One

As I mentioned back around January 1, 2006 has found me waffling rapidly between cantankerous and evil, crying and broken down, or exceptionally joyful. The states have no bearing on chemical influence, they all have to do with freakish life stresses that are beyond manageability. I have made a vow to point out all that is wrong, and insert myself into situations, no matter how painful or inappropriate, to offer simple remedies. This comes after three cases when I did nothing and should have.

The first was in Victoria’s Secret, a dazzling pink store adorned with fluff and cleavage. It was the last place I would think to encounter a scathing prick, but so it goes. He was loud and angry, banging the counter as a sheepish clerk skillfully and correctly addressed his complaint. Apparently he was upset because he was given a gift from Victoria’s Secret and wanted to return it, having the full credit assigned to his credit card. He didn’t purchase it with the card, he just wanted the refund assigned there, and as per universal convention she denied him such transaction.

He raged and raged, asking again and again. I asked my wife if I could go talk to him, she said no. Then he started in on the clerk, that happened to be the manager. He insulted her, her job, her position. The attack got personal and she was visibly shaken.

I asked the wife, the lovely Roxanne, if I could go talk to him, she said no.

He continued to go off on her while 100 customers stood and watched, thinking he was the supreme asshole. Nobody said anything. My heart was beating, my brain engorged with blood to supplement the logical and appropriate battery of requisite correction I was about to implement. Roxanne said no.

The confrontation ended when the manager called security. He left the store in a contiguous streak of unacceptable verbiage.

I should have taken him aside and explained his delinquency to him, or at least asked him if the panties he received were just too small. I could have threatened to go to his work and knock the fries out of his hand. He should have not ever been allowed to talk to that woman the way he did. He is a sick and abusive jagoff, and I hope for the day he talks to Roxanne in a way she feels inappropriate. She’ll rip him a deserved New One.

To my puss credit, I did talk to the manager and offered my phone number in the event he causes trouble upstream for her. I told her that I saw everything and she was 100% right. Her eyes welled with tears and she offered me a limp handshake. She just had been clobbered, needed a hug and there was nobody there to do it. After all, she was the manager, a professional, solid, loyal employee that Victoria’s Secret of Oakbrook IL should be proud of.

Next time, I’m involved. I have no tolerance for abusive behavior, especially when inflicted against someone just doing their job to the best of their ability.

Biblical Discharges

In my frequent travels I stay in a host of hotels, and in each I deface the bible. I always write a warning message inside the cover or I wipe my hiney with critical passages because the softness of the Gideon’s Holy Book rivals the butt maintenance properties of hotel toilet paper. Most of the warm fuzzy feeling is spiritual.

Today in a pre-wipe fiesta I cracked the text to a random page and now I found the Lord.

Just kidding. I don’t know why people revere this book of weirdness. Here’s a random passage from page 125, Leviticus 15.

(GOD)… AND the Lord spoke to Moses and Aaron saying “Speak to the children of Israel, and say to them: When any man has a discharge from his body, his discharge is unclean. And this shall be his uncleanliness in regard to his discharge—whether his body runs with his discharge, or his body is stopped up by his discharge, it is his uncleanliness.”

(Schmootzie) The holy book is trying to figure out diarrhea and constipation? I guess you could also think of it as jizz and blueballs. I’m unsure. I read on to the sacred words…

(GOD) Every bed is unclean on which he who has the discharge lies, and everything on which he sits shall be unclean.

(Schmootize) Bed? Ok, it is unclean to sit in your own Snail Trail, that’s why you leave it for the wife. Duh, that’s the bed thing and God probably is referring to some ejaculation thing…. But wait, “everything on which he sits is unclean”? I guess if you don’t clean your can after a bad case of squid farts and sit on chairs/beds with no pants on (like me on this hotel bed) then it is unclean. No argument there God.

(GOD) He who sits on anything on which he who has the discharge shall wash his clothes and bathe in water, and be unclean until evening.

(Schmootzie) I guess the bible tells you that if you sit in poop or semen you might wash your clothes and contemplate what circumstances brought you to that complication.

You know, this idea is not so good. I was going to parse the entire Leviticus 15 chapter but it is so fucked up I can’t even articulate what a wreck this shit is. Next time you are in a hotel check out Leviticus and think about the brilliant content within.

Outta Town Klown

So, the clown goes out of town to attend a conference. I’m in San Diego at Harlequin-Know-How 2006, a hands-on workshop on balloon animals, magic and associated topics. It always is hard to write on the road, mostly because the damn conference hotels charge for internet hookup. Sure, it’s $10, no big deal. However, if I wasn’t staying at the $129 a night dump and was staying at the $49 a night dump I’d get it for free.

Today I blew out of the conference to take in some whale watching. I attended the event with Stinky from Charleston S.C., Buttons from Indianapolis and Jacky-Jack-Jacko from Atlanta. Needless to say, there wasn’t a face unsquirted from a lapel flower and not a hand left unbuzzed. No, it didn’t get old for those aboard.

I discovered quickly that the waters outside of San Diego teem with mammalian life. There were countless grey whales, dolphins and sea lions. At first there was not much to see and I just kept pissing off the guide by asking stupid questions, like “Maybe if we sprinkle some bread on the water….?” They also didn’t think it was funny when I suggested changing the snack bar orange drink to “harpoon-tang”.

They are pretty amazing creatures and it makes one wonder why some would be intent to slaughter them for cosmetics. When I asked the question aloud the guy behind me said, “If you were an Inuit then you’d understand”.

I told him that if I were an Inuit I’d get with the program and find another way to make your cosmetics. He didn’t like that idea.

Of course, Native Peoples are exempt from such behaviors because progressive thought can’t shit on tradition. Isn’t that ironic. Traditions like religion are fun to dump upon, but don’t make Chief Blubber Harvest capitulate to environmentally-sound practices that help a threatened species.

Oh well. Like usual I was the turd in the punchbowl.

Four Stupid Seconds

Yesterday I celebrated my birthday by blowing out of work at 4 pm. I drove home, gassed up the power washer and settled in for a sundown of liberating the film of Florida from my vinyl siding. Down here everything outside turns to mold, algae and scum. Technically, the house is itself outside, qualifying it as a petri dish for filth and crud.

A power washer is a must here, but not a puss battery-operated one. You need the power of internal combustion-- Jefferson, Wisconsin, four-stroke, Briggs and Straton 6 horsepower, power. My power washer is awesome; stripped of safety mechanisms and fitted with illegal North Korean nozzles I bought on Ebay I can cut a kitten in half with surgical precision at 20 paces.

I washed half of my house before the steady hum of the engine purred to a halt. Out of gas. I grabbed my gas can and filled the tank, only in the deepening dusk of near nighttime I dumped gas all over a hot engine. It smoked furiously and made those weird patterns and hissy dogfart noises indicative of immenent ignition.

To be safe, I let it cool... for 10 whole seconds. I started the engine and continued washing the house.

I looked over to the power washer just in time for the puddle of gas to ignite. The flicker of flame caused me to misfire... what to do!!!!? In four of my stupidest seconds I pondered, "If only I had a way to get some high-pressure water on that...", "I could use my garden hose, but it is going into that pressure washer that's on fire... what to do??????????"

On the fifth second I put two and two together, aimed the nozzle at the base of the flame and extinguished it without incident.

Life's odometer clicked over to 39 years yesterday and I deny that I am affected. However, I saw my grandpappy's sloth-like mental gymnastics in those 4 seconds, and I sadly have to admit that I am getting less un-dim every day.

39% Done!

It is my 39th birthday, so I'm 39% of the way done. Confused? I decided long ago that one of the problems with life is that you don't know when the end is. If you are freaky about planning then you can't adequately schedule the time from birth do demise efficiently.

To remedy the situation I decided that I should make my existence finite. In such a scenario I can plan the course of events I can control, including life's end itself. Of course, I have no control of lightning stikes, car wrecks or disease, so I can't sweat that stuff. What I can control is my general health, and it isn't bad, or at least potential ailments are stuff that can be remedied with transplants, cell goo or complementaion with aborted baby parts.

It also allows me to celebrate other self-important milestones, such as my 33 1/3 party, which was May 15, 2000. We listened to LPs and split a gallon of Jack Daniels 3 ways.

The plan is simple-- My punk rock band will play a show on January 10, 2066. It is booked for the Cabaret Metro in Chicago, I'm going to make flyers soon. At the stroke of midnight I'll kill myself on stage, using a method predetermined by the audience via a website. The proceeds will go to a suicide prevention group. Irony.

A lot of people think this plan is morbid and sick, but I feel exactly the opposite. With a defined end, still 61 years off, I can delegate life events to predictable windows. I'll work like a maniac until 70, then I have 30 years to dick around. Cool. If all continues as planned I'll be filthy rich by 70. There's a few solar eclipses to catch and other long-time horizon events to consider.

To most, age is an enemy, time is a threat. To me, I like what I've become and get excited to think about what I will be. Living in a career of discovery, in a happy life of creativity, things keep getting better. I haven't measured, but I think it is still getting longer too. I get to daily combine the benefits of age with the benefits of youth, as I am acquiring, while not letting go. Kinda like Michael Jackson, only with guitars instead of face lifts and a good dinners rather than sex with cub scouts.

So, while others my age are going though a mid-life crisis at 39, wasting money on Porches and hair implants, I'm going to hoist a few 16oz Old Milwaukees and maybe get the wife to wear "The Outfit". My 39% life crisis is more like a 39% life opportunity, as my first half of life is 80% full.

Happy birthday to me.

Reminding Rush

On Sunday I listen to Clark Howard's consumer show. It rules. The problem is, it is on the same station that sports the EIB network on weekdays. Usually on Monday I sit in my truck, turn on the radio and hear the unmistakeable daftness of Rush Limbaugh, the analytically bankrupt mouthpiece of the RNC.

The ideolog spouted, "Why is it that the democrats insist on helping those that terroize this nation... their opposition to Bush's wire taps is clear evidence that they support terrorism and hate our security".

If they would allow dissenting opinions on his show, I would love to remind him that George W. Bush didn't give a sworn oath, hand on that magical bible, to give Americans security, wage war, support troops. He swore to uphold the Constitution. Plain and simple.

Using any kind of covert information gathering against American citizens should raise red flags everywehre, and the fact that the president, his flunkies and conservative media mouthpieces don't see the problem is a clear indicator that they do not understand why they live in America. They love that flag, but they continually wipe their asses on that Constitution.

We are only as great and unfallable as that document is allowed to be.

Help me Fuck with "The Man"

My Representative in FL is a dork. Last week the University of Florida extended rights to insurance to domestic partners-- someone that shares your dwelling, be it your Aunt Hazel or your buddy Bruce.

Today State Representative Larry Cretul rallied the preachers and dickheads in the area to associate this action against homosexuals. He went to Ocala, the reddest part of a red state, and whipped the dittoheads into a frenzy-- assuring that if the homos get health benefits, the welfare niggores will be close behind.

I urge you to send a letter to Mr. Cretul, no matter where you live. Use Googgle address finder to locate an address and send him a message like this one I sent earlier today...

Dear Mr. Cretul,

I support your war on gayness and faggotry, sodomy and deplorable sexual perverty. This should not be tolerated and the family should be preserved! All of these acts are against the Lord and the Bible!

The Florida Family Protection Ammendment is a good start.

You should now support other legislation to expand on this topic, the ONE MAN, ONE WOMAN FAMILY AS A CORE OF CIVILIZATION.

1. First, the bastard children born out of wedlock in Ocala and Gainesville should receive NO insurance, as they VIOLATE the CENTRAL tenets of the WORD of GOD. These scum children are MORE deplorable than homosexuals as THEY are filled capsules of SIN. Parents shall forfeit all rights and priveledges to insurance!

2. ADULTRESSES should FORFEIT all GOVERNMENT BENEFITS. Bill Clinton, Newt Gingrich and the rest of those that demonstrate infidelity should be held accountable! This is a violation of a COMMANDMENT and should result in a forfeiture of all associated insurance and government benefits!

3. Those that STEAL should not receive any government benefits, such as food, medical care, etc. The prisoners should fend for themselves.

4. I've got some neighbors coveting my goods and Lord knows that's against the Commandments. They also should receive NO INSURANCE or government benefit!

Long story short... We should OUTLAW and PROHIBIT any HEALTH BENEFITS to anyone that does not submit to a Christian God. Our Lord should dicate who is allowed to survive! If you get the AIDS, Monkey Flu, Bird Flu, or Yellow Fever that is your problem for not submitting to the Almighty!

God bless you and the Great President Bush,

****signed your name****
Your Town, FL

A Generation of Traitors

The other night I had the pleasure and honor of sharing dinner with my family and my dad's best friend. He's a great guy, I've known him since/before birth, and I appreciate him very much. He's very sick, cancer of the everything, and has outlived expectations with a fantastic attitude, healthy living and plenty of TLC, radiation and chemo.

That night he turned 60, but he's young for 60. He looks great, and if you didn't know he was invaded by hostile cells of rampant division you'd swear he was going to be 100.

During a rather somber and tear-jerky dinner, he reflected upon his life and how he contributed to the movement known as "The Baby Boomers". I don't remember exactly what he said, but it was something like this...

We built this country. We took it from our working parents and we worked... we built the roads, we built the cities. We created suburbia, malls and even a working guy could raise a family that could go to college. We advanced medicine, we revolutionized the computer industry. We were the ones that made this country great!

Gosh, it stung me in the pit of my little black heart to burst his bubble, but I had to do it. I chimed in...

You are the generation in charge now, you are the generation that has elected failed president after failed president and lousy representatives for 30 years. You are the generation that got your money, got your benefits, got your healthcare and pensions. You are the generation that emptied Social Security, you are the generation that will bankrupt the Medicare system. You are the generation that loves war, loves to invade soverign nations, even at the expense of America's future. You are the generation that will happily destroy the earth and mortgage the financial well being of your children and grandchildren so you can drive a bigger SUV. You made the world hate us for our excess and our politics. You brought us Wonder Bread, Cheeze in a Can, New Coke, designer jeans, the pet rock and the Bee Gees. You might be the generation that made the America great in the short term, but at what expense? You made it great, but you made it big, irrelevant, stupid and broke. You call yourselves patriots, but you sold out America's future for your selfish motivations. You destroyed this country, all of you just will never see what you did. I get to pay for your lack of vision.

The table was quiet for a bit and my mom ordered dessert. We talked about the weather and plans for the new year.

I guess I made a point.

Psychic Fraud Exposed!

Okay, I promised a distillation of holiday asshole intervention, but this one takes the cake. Self proclaimed "psychic" Sylvia Browne was on Coast-to-Coast AM with George Noory last night. She gave her psychic predictions for 2006 and discussed some recent events. I'll post her 2005 predictions and outcomes tomorrow.

The most stellar blunder occurred. The news was buzzing about 13 miners trapped in a West Virginia coal mine. The most recent story indicated that suprisingly, 12 were alive and one dead. Of course, she said that she knew all along, that despite evidence to the contrary, that 12 lived and one died. After all, she was a psychic.

At the top of the hour the news broke!!! The authorities had the numbers reversed, 12 were dead and one alive in critical condition.

Of course, Coast-to-Coast AM was mysteriously derailed and the news story remained on the air. When host George Noory returned the psychic was gone and he was covering for her incorrect "prediction". He said that she didn't really say if they were alive and then played back small portions of her interview that supported a less-than-certain tone to her discussion. I was not fooled. She said, in no uncertain terms, that they were alive, except for one.

Again, a psychic exposed as a fraud. She claims an "87%" success rate. Tell it to the families, Sylvia! As I always say, it is easy to predict stuff that already happened.

Her 2005 predictions tomorrow!

2006: The Year of AssertiveMan

The New World Odor achieved unexpected hiatus, owed mostly to a bittersweet visit to my boyhood haunts of the Chicago area. In 17 days I completed a mountain of uninterrupted work, saw an old friend tie the knot, met with more old friends that are going exciting places, visited family and others that ride life’s foibles like a broken record and some dear people I won’t see again except in a well-appointed box. Needless to say, the mix of good and bad, happy and horrendous, has left my soul stretched like a overtaxed rubberband. I’m an emotional wreck, so bad it is at the point where booze will only make it worse. That bad!

The trip was punctuated by Three Assholes, a triad of evil twits that graced my presence in deplorable ways. In a flurry of regret I sit now wishing I would have taken action against all. All cases were minor crimes against my insignificant humanity, and certainly if there was an atrocity I think I’d stand up and say something. These were minor annoyances, yet unpleasantries that should not have occurred. I watched them unfold, against my judgment. In one case I even asked my wife if I should go do something and she told me that I should stay out of it.

2006 will be my superhero year. I’m going to be AssertiveMan, half citizen, half counter-asshole asshole. I can fight fire with fire with the best of them and I’m not physically afraid of repercussion. My quick wit and evil disposition represent a sturdy shield.

This is the year when I sharpen the tongue and dull the judgment. I’m going to solve more problems than I start and give pause to some pricks that need to simmer down. Tomorrow I will tell you about the Three Assholes.