2009: Here we go...

The warm and fuzzy. 2008 Summary in Pictures.

We started here:



Hit the midway point around here:



And ended here:




I've been barfed on, pissed on, and shat on more times than I can count*. On the other side of that, I've also been (more times than I can count) hugged, looked at, and smiled at in a ways that I wouldn't have imagined were possible, that are unique for me and not duplicated for anyone else in the world. For that one person, I am completely and utterly The Balls. Guess which of those things I care less about.

*is that sentence going to get me a bunch of unwanted fetish hits, you know, on a post with pictures of my babygirl? I don't think so since Google doesn't index me anymore because of my having been a bad advertising boy. This makes you a very exclusive intheknow audience. Haha Google, foiled you again.

Gone before you know it. I've been working on something for the last 3 days that I desperately wanted to publish, but it's grown into something that's going to require a great deal more consideration and work. It will be ready when it's ready, I guess.

I despise resolutions (or rather, what they've become), so here is a wish for you, one that I carry for myself:

To find greater Happiness, Health, and Wisdom in the coming year, to understand more clearly what these things are, and to not let them be defined for you.

Best to all.

Vegas Holiday Classic: The Return to Degeneracy and The Rekindling of Long Forgotten Inter-Generational Conflict

Now that Vegas has been slept off and normal life returns with all of its "normality" (such as it is), snippets of the latest adventure beg to be mentioned. Those folks searching for a properly entertaining trip report that haven't seen one yet should click themselves post-haste over and read Derek--the man just held another Trip Report Clinic, per usual. If I had the means I would, at a minimum, make sure he traveled to Vegas on a quarterly basis just so the world could be exposed to more of his gold standard and bar setting recaps. Get over and check Pauly's various entries, too, crafting special reports as only he can (and seriously, if you ended up here before The Tao then your priorities are seriously out of whack--fix that).

And now, with the preambles out of the way....

*Everyone I spoke with over three days was variously skull-fucked and/or ass-raped by BlackJack. It amazes me even after all of these years that people still play that game. (This coming from the guy known to find his way onto a Let It Ride table and Wheel of Fortune slot at least once per trip, but in my defense, at least the degrading orifice invasion is gentler. A good rule of thumb is, if you're gonna get fucked, at least avoid getting slam-fucked.) Blackjack=Bad news. Run fast, run far.

*I used to enjoy The Venetian, until this trip, when I came face to face with the $9 bottle of beer. I don't care if I had a fucking billion dollars, I would still get worked up over a bottle of beer being Nine.Fucking.Dollars. That's 900% markup at liquor store prices, and you know a place like The Venetian definitely isn't paying that rate. Truly odious and offensive.

*Regardless of the lack of coherent explanation as to just why it is so, the Geisha Bar at the IP is still the heezee. There is no better place on this planet to pull up a chair and watch Dealertainers bring The Circus of Desperation to a fever pitch. The Mariah Carey that wasn't really Mariah at all. Bily Idol looking way too young and entirely too sober. There was, however, Freddy Mercury, and while his flame burned quite a bit brighter than the real Freddy's ever did, that first performance during peak brainfry transported me to some other place, like having my mind shot from a rainbow cannon. All I could do after it was over was turn to Pauly and ask, "Did that just happen?" The answer eluded him as well. Strange times for the ill-equipped.

*The MGM does indeed have great beds. It's too bad I only spent about 7 hours in mine.

*I was overjoyed to be able to attend the Gracie and Sweet Sweet Pablo nuptuals, which were just as they should have been. In the words of Mrs.Head when the anouncement was made, "It's about time."

*More of the Geisha Strange included me somehow getting involved in a nearly 3-hour conversation with some random old guy at the bar named Mike, who was very angry at the world. I dropped some knowledge on him, he kept asking questions, and so I dropped some more--any opportunity to evangelize the Surreality of Things should be taken. I left a happier person in my wake and was able to reset after being shot from the Queen cannon. Everybody wins.

*I was there for the bustout hand between Michalski and Professional Keno Player Neil Fontanot, and I'm here to confirm that what you've heard is true. Dan played like a pussy and Neil had to bust him (the turn card betting action brought a waft of tuna-meltishness that demanded a call). But you already knew that.

What you may not know is that we may see the re-emergence of a dynastic war that up to this point had been thought by many to be long forgotten. Over the course of two evenings with PKPNF, while cruising the cosmic gelcaps and discussing the intricacies of the various degrees and general longevity of universal vibrations and how they relate to the world of the Keno Profits and Working Girls, I was also given a glimpse at a troublesome family history with its roots in the last name Fontenot. The lost spelling of the name is actually Fonteneaux, from a long line of numerological seers originating in The South, of all places.

It's here that students of history will know what I'm talking about. For hundreds of years, in the land now known as New Orleans, a pitched war of attrition went on for decades between the peace-loving Fonteneaux gypsy-seers and the warlike angle-shooting Polish clan (exiled some time before from their own homeland for various acts of highly suspect nature), the Michalski's. Public sentiment at the time was turning towards Keno (and it's derivatives) and away from the devious three-card monte racket the 'ski's were running. Neil's 6x's great-grandfather was accused of "charlatanism" by a co-opted magistrate and was condemned to prison by a corrupt local jury that had been mortally threatened by the Michalski's who, while this sham of a criminal prosecution was ongoing, were simultaneously rigging the local Keno games to discredit the Universal Vibration theories being advanced by the Fonteneaux tradition. He died in that prison, and for many many years it was assumed that the Fonteneaux clan had all but disappeared. However, to the surprise of many it seems they've simply been underground. As the current age continues its slow death in preparation for advancing into the new one, Neil, carrying on the family tradition determined that the opportunity presented by this burgeoning awakening of consciousness demanded that he step once again to the forefront and advance the Universal Vibration Method. But it seems that fate is not kind. Neil found himself met at the table, after so many years of obscurity and relative peace, by another Michalski, .

After spending a decade at Chino (on more trumped up charges for inadvertently bankrupting a local Keno parlour in LA for picks that were, quote, "too perfect"), there's one thing that PKPNF has learned that his forefathers never did. There comes a time where there can be no more running. You have to stand up and not be a punk.

Neil smelled Pussy on the turn bet, and for all of the persecuted ones in his clan who came before, he beat that thing inside-out.

But animosities continue to simmer, and few know what the future might hold, least of all me. I'm currently trying to arrange a sitdown/phone call with Michalski to get confirmation as to whether or not the rumor is true that he made it known to a few people (the Freddy Mercury Dealertainer being one of these, who would neither confirm nor deny) that he was going to shank PKPNF right in the neck for that public humilliation.

Oddly enough, though, when I relayed these wind-borne tidings to PKPNF, he simply wondered aloud how many times Michalski wanted to stab him, as that might be one of the missing numbers from the Final Keno Play prophesied and handed down through Fonteneaux oral tradition.

I'll keep everyone posted as I can as the situation develops.

*I got my bad-beat dollar from Sweet Sweet (but Shifty) Pablo. Seriously, do not try to stiff me monies. I will ride your ass like the paper delivery boy in Better Off Dead, but unlike him, I've got the juice running and a gang of hard pipe-hittin' niggahs ready to go to work.

*Truly, it was truly fantastic seeing everyone after a two-year absence, and great being able to meet a few that I hadn't previously.

(And in case I don't get back here before the New Year, Happly Non-Denominational ChrismaSolstiHanaKwanzooFestikah to you all.)

I can voetz now?

"So corrupted indeed and debased was that age by sycophancy that not
only the foremost citizens who were forced to save their grandeur by
servility, but every exconsul, most of the ex-praetors and a host of
inferior senators would rise in eager rivalry to propose shameful and
preposterous motions. Tradition says that Tiberius as often as he left
the Senate-House used to exclaim in Greek, "How ready these men are to
be slaves."

--from The Annals by Publius Cornelius Tacitus, Book III

As someone who is of the NO VOTE mind (and truly, there are precious few of us), I thought it might be beneficial to expound a bit on the subject. While I don’t realistically expect to change anyone’s mind so close to such an “historic” election (aren’t they all?), I do hope that it will get a few thinking in a different direction and perhaps provide some food for thought going forward as the Next Chosen Savior/Leader inevitably fails to magically deliver the goods on a myriad of ambiguous and unrealistic promises. The following should not be mistaken for a directed attack against anyone, as it is intended to be a short discussion of personal principles regarding the general notion.

So ends the qualifier portion of this entry.

Over the last few weeks there has been the predictable building of fevered crescendo toward The National Elections, and with it various incarnations of the You Must Vote drumbeat, replete with massive “Look at the increased turnout!” and Rock the Vote or Die media and campaign festivities of the day/week/month. After all, it is said, this is our responsibility as democratic citizens, our Sacred Right. Those who do not use this tool (which is imbued with all of the magical properties of Thor’s hammer, to hear some tell it) consequently have no right to speak and will not be heard. They will be treated with general derision as ne’er do wells who don’t want to be “part of the solution” and don’t want to “effect change” by joining their democratic brothers and sisters in the booth. Incoherent, Impractical, Not Pragmatic, Unserious, and many other terms are passed from the talking heads down to the great unwashed who dutifully parrot the same. Everyone keeps everyone else in line and all are reminded to keep their eyes on the ball, as it were. A great many claim to shudder at the very thought of the NO VOTE, and are resigned to doing their Sacred Duty for better or for worse. Indeed, the forms may be many, but the overall message is the same: Your vote is the most precious and valuable thing you have and you MUST use it.

The thing left unsaid (but relentlessly implied) in this message is that while you must use it, it’s only value lies in using it within the given confines of the presented “choices”, and further, within the confines of the system in which those choices reside.

In the area of the two “choices” presented, well, that’s not really a choice, is it? Both marquee candidates will continue the War Machine, both think the idea of domestic spying and retroactive immunization of the corporations that aided in the same is just dandy, and lest we forget, both were/are in full favor of robbing you and several more generations of large gobs of money to bailout the International Banks (oops, I mean, Stabilize the Economy), in spite of the loud and unequivocal “No” issued forth from the majority of citizens in this “democracy”. Of course this is only the very abridged, very short summary version to point out for the nth time that the only Change We Can Count On will be the exact opposite of what many people have fooled themselves into believing.

And the cry goes to the heavens, “But there are still third party candidates to support! You shirk the Sacred Duty!”

This was certainly considered until thinking about it within the larger context of the system in which these choices reside.

Apart from the ridiculously poor choices presented to us as the Serious Candidates, there is this additional issue of the voting system itself having become compromised outright by “faulty” optical scanning equipment, electronic voting systems which are ridiculously easy to hack (physically and remotely) as well as mass voter disenfranchising (which, imo, is simply a divide and conquer distraction to take away from a more widespread and in-depth discussion and understanding of the aforementioned electronic fraud machines).* It didn’t take long for UltimateBet’s thoroughly compromised system to come to mind. Regardless of how many soothing PR releases are issued with thumbs-up, stating “We’ve got it fixed now! You’re safe, the game is fair, we swear it!” I don’t think it’s too far afield to say that any person choosing to play there in spite of this knowledge is a willing sucker who leaves their self wide open for more of the same.

Know what I’m sayin’?

The system has been and is demonstrably co-opted and corrupted. Taking part in a system giving such a blatantly false choice is certainly no way to foster real Hope, to say nothing of effecting positive or worthwhile Change. This system that rules us is utterly vile, corrupt, and murderous as it heaps insult onto injury by paying nothing but lip service to anything good, right, or true. It makes a mockery of all things thoughtful and having conscience. I refuse to take part in such a system, to the extent that I possibly can, any longer.

I’m tired of being told I am rich by same people who empty my pockets. I’m tired of being told how free I am while more bureaucracy and technology are levered in a concerted effort to dictate my every thought and move. I’m tired of my seeing fellow human beings debased in every way. I’m of the slogans and badges and bullshit in general and I’m tired of hearing people who ought to know better tirelessly following the same.

Not voting is voting. It's a vote of No Confidence. It is the realization that the only positive and real Changes I can effect are those that I make manifest in my individual thought and deed. I believe that when those individuals who instinctively understand that something is very, very wrong and desire to take back their individuality, intelligence, and conscience truly realize this and begin reclaiming these things for themselves, then we may indeed see the beginnings of Change for the Better that is, for once in our short lives, something more than a mirage.

In the Articificial Age, Hope that is given by others can only be suspect. Hope found in ones self is one of the last real things remaining.

(cross-posted at Verbosities)

Beavis and Butthead do the Economy

Here are financial derivatives, boiled down to their essence.

You may know them as illiquid, impaired, or troubled assets. Of course it isn't perfectly accurate, because if you get stuck with nothing but a candy bar, at least you can still eat something sweet and enjoy a few moments before starving.

Boats and Penis Jokes: A Discussion of Unfortunate Names

I just remembered something about some recent neighbors that made me cringe. Male, 32-ish, 3 kids. Decided, "Hey I think I need to buy a 25-foot boat to tow behind my Hummer." Toss aside any ruminating on the "Whydidyoujustbuythatgarishboatwhenyou'veneverlivedawayfromyourparentsevenwhileyou'remarried" question, as well as the "JesusHHowmuchisyourgasbudget" musings, because it's not my issue or business even though it's fun to pretend it is. Completely justified, however, is a comment on the name of the vessel: The Master Baiter.

There is such a thing as Hilarious and Good Juvenile humor, like loudly asking "What?" anytime someone uses the word "deaf" and seeing how many times the recipient of this treatment actually repeats themselves.*

*In the interest of full disclosure, I've repeated myself on both occasions that Mrs. Head has subjected me to this hilarity. I don't know anyone that has occasion to speak of the deaf or otherwise hearing impaired with the regularity sufficient to rend this humor tiresome (it's only happened twice so far in seven years), thus the opportunity to engage in such is a rarity and slays me every time.

There is also Godawfully Poor and Tiresome Juvenile Humor, as demonstrated in the unfortunate naming practices of the aforementioned neighbor. The Master Baiter is something that can only be funny during that special period in every teenage boy's life when reference to the penis by any means necessary begins in earnest, minus any wit or real humor. In a perfect world this phase is short-lived and phallic reference, while never completely leaving humor's arsenal, should become more refined and/or used sparingly. It also seems lazy. In all the years between 11 and 32, the boundaries of funny couldn't be pushed outward? Even a little bit?**

**It just doesn't seem right to do a post like this without mentioning Bob. The man has been a pioneer in the art of keeping junk humor alive and elevated for years despite persecutions inflicted by various small-minded, and I suspect very small-junked, people.

If it were up to me (I love this game), and if (for whatever reason) I was taken with the idea of a juvenile name, then The Master Baiter would never do (for all of the above mentioned reasons as well others). We must use juvenile and crude humor to make fun of juvenile humor, thus elevating it. At least, that's how the theory goes in my mind.

Therefore, the boat should be named My Cock.

The Dick Joke or Let's Talk About My Genitals or This Is My Awesome Boat If By Boat You Mean My Penis were also considered, but I know nothing about boat-naming conventions and the limitations (if any) imposed, so I went with what was the shortest and most likely to confound and outrage the general public.

Hilarious.

The tiny update that you can't help but read.

Blogging from work, so this might be choppy.

I broke down in the face of The Man. Some further research into my issue served to reinforce the knowledge that right and wrong, logic, and/or good sense have nothing to do with anything where the law is concerned, and that I should therefore just pay The Man his extortion money. No, I have not gotten sand in my vagina. It means simply that I would like to avoid the hassle and inevitable expense caused by a spontaneous ‘uncivilized’ reaction to inevitable injustice. There will doubtless be plenty of future opportunities requiring tangible resistance, but for now, preparations for a much rougher near future must take priority.

“But we’ve reached the bottom! The dollar is recovering! Now’s a great time to buy!”

Of course it is. Just like Russia was the aggressor in the latest Caucasian Conflict. Look, your show is about to start! Better hurry, you don’t want to miss getting downloaded with next Talking Point PR meme.

******

I finished up Anthony Sutton’s previously mentioned three-volume study of Wall Street and Socialism, all of which were excellent. However, the standout among them was Wall Street and FDR, for the simple reason that for the last year and a half a great deal of the talk from the big “Progressives” is how we need another New Deal bestowed upon us by Mr. Hope and Change + Mo Better Democrats.*

Pick up any or all of these books, you will not be disappointed.

*and just to be clear, this sarcastic sentiment should in no way be taken as any sort of endorsement or favorable sentiment for the intellectually and morally twisted shills on the other ‘Conservative” side of the artificial political construct.

******

More stories and pics of the Wunderkind are on the way. I’m thinking of shelling out for one of these and any input or alternate suggestions on this front are more than welcome. I simply want something that I can use and deal with quickly and easily as I’m not looking to get “into” video right now. I’ve always been pretty happy with Creative’s other products, so that one is at the top of the list for now, pending further research and input.

I’ve also got some work stories that need to be told. If I don’t get to it within the next few days, remind me to tell you about P-Tard. After three weeks I’m still blown away by the combination of OCD and Inability.

Work calls. I shall return. In the meantime, anyone that cares to can follow my shared items and comments here.

Autopilot job and a misdemeanor case

First things first. Congrats to Pauly for five years of consistently great fodder at The Tao. I desperately wanted to make the tourney on Stars tonight, but there's no way in hell I'd be able to get to the Borgata for a variety of reasons, the most recent being that I'll be due in court, which got me to thinking that it would be just my luck to win the thing and see that wonderful tourney entry go to waste.

Thanks, Officer Hammer.*

*Not a fictional name. Vic Hammer**. Cliche much?

**For many thousands of years up to the present, this ancient clan is said to have fought and struggled to keep an overwhelming tide of grievous misdemeanors from overtaking the human race.

Good god, it's 3 a.m., I can't get into this right now. I imaging that on or about Sept. 3rd, one way or the other, I'll have a story to tell. We'll revisit the back story then. Nonetheless, there's my excuse for being longer than anticipated.

You don't like that one? I have others.

********

It started around the July 4th Holiday.* I received a job offer, which, given current conditions, I think must mean that I'm very awesome or very lucky. Either one works for me, but I'm reasonably sure it's a lot more of the latter than the former. That's not simple self-deprecation, either-I mean it. While seeking work I was, of course, doing a lot of sighing and moaning and complaining and whatnot. Understandable, to be sure. Who in their right mind wants to work?

*it's amazing how many people (at least 2/3 in my holiday experience this year) want to know 'what plans do we have for the 4th'. If the answer 'I have no plans' didn't send them into catatonic depths, finding out that I also wasn't going to shoot fireworks surely did the trick. You've never seen people go glassy-eyed faster, save perhaps the times when I tell them 'I don't watch television'.

I related to Mrs. Head at the time that what I wanted very much was a job where I didn't have to really think about the job while I was on the job. Something autopilot-ish. The problem of course is that a great many of those jobs have the annoying tendency of being $10/hr or less. It's like living with the knowledge that you're going to have to endure repeated junk-kicking, because refusal means you just get castrated. Or something like that.

I'll try and shorten this up a bit. The new job is autopilot-erific and is enough for Mrs. Head to stay home and wrangle the wunderkind who, also thanks to the new job, will continue to eat. (How do you like this schiziod writing technique so far? Start out long-winded. Switch suddenly to extreme brevity. Confuse and annoy everyone.)

They wanted me to start immediately, but graciously gave me a bit of time to move. And "bit" of time is no joke. This one tested our nomadic limits as we had to find a place (100 miles away), pack up, and move in 10 days, which is pretty much like like starting to work a week before you have to start working, but with money paid by you instead of having money paid to you. Plus, we're back in the city, which means I'll get to see things like stars which should be about as often as I can expect to be able to enjoy some real silence.

Wunderbar.

Overdramatic complaining and Officer Hammer aside, the waves seem to be slowly settling once again as another large adjustment among many takes hold. What? No WonderSpawn news or stories? Of course there are, just not right now. I will say this, though. I think she's on steriods. It's frightening. Enough so that I'm seriously considering a piece tentatively titled Infants and Performance Enhancing Drugs: Physical and Psychlogical Effects on the Family Unit.

Should be great. Thanks again for still reading and stay tuned.

Thoughts on Moving and Planning for Douchebag Eventualities--A Discussion

For god's sake, man, get over and see Pauly if you haven't. Going Vietnam and running fuckin batshit with it, providing more proof for the pile that indeed, Everybody Must Get Stoned. Sehr gut.

And Google deleted me along with more than a few others, which is funny since this is a poker blog kind of like Tony Blair has profound and deeply felt Catholic beliefs. Nice. I care less than I thought I might. May have to get some new digs, Bobby style. Fuck'em.

***************

Well, it's pretty well a locked-in fact that we're headed back to the fucking* city. Just spent nearly five days there, found a nice place (which is a story of luck and fortuitous events that doesn't really need to be told right now), and will be spending the last few days trying to simultaneously do the further necessaries (did that sound kind of dirty? I think maybe it does...) and trying to experience every last precious drop of deep and total silence with appropriate gratefulness and appreciation, cuz that shit is going away, and that is a very sad thing indeed.

*that's not a frat boy "fuck yeah expression. Give it more of a Lewis Black framing.

So one more post before I go away from this place for another two weeks as a person too busy to deal with this Google bullshit. New digs is sounding better and better. Or perhaps I can rally the Internets to me and crash the Mighty Google Gates, wielding the power of The Collective like a hammer. I'm probably gonna be too busy for that shit too. A pox on this System.

The Wunderkid won't quit fussing and doesn't want to sleep. She feels the same as I do, I suspect. She knows what's coming and doesn't want to wake up in that place. The subject came up while I typed and she chewed on a cold washcloth (the Alcoholic Pygmy enjoys it. What can I say, they're a strange tribe.). Her left leg hammered up and down, as it had been for several days, as we continued our onging conversation having to do with The Inherently Smug Nature of Stuffed Bears and Why We Are Compelled To Abuse Them. When her heel came down on the edge of the Magic Fingers Chair particularly hard, I was forced to interrupt the current incarnation of her Bear thesis and ask, "Doesn't that hurt?"

"No. Should it?"

"Well", I said, "just the other day you headbutted my collarbone which would have made you cry but not for my masterful distraction skills**."

** (Note to self: Investigate whether these skills might successfully transfer over to the field of Pickpocketing with a sideline symposium analyzing the possibility that such a thing might not be the best idea in any case.)

"True dat." The heel kept banging away as she went Thrice Rocky Balboa all over a few Dangling Bears With Particularly Smug Looks.

"..and more importantly, why?" I asked.

"Douchebags. Training to kick douchebags."

"How you gonna get close enough to kick a Douchebag?"

"You're going to help me", she said. She wasn't joking.

"Why would I do that?"

"Well, if you kick them, you're in big trouble, right?"

"Yup."

"I'm a baby. What are they gonna do, call the cops? Shit no. They won't even be mad. I'll throw a couple smiles, act like I'm seized by the Holy Spirit and speak in tongues...hell, I may even throw up for an ender. It will all be written off as accident and/or cute."

"You're a fuckin' wicked shot, Rents."

"Indeed. Speaking of, we should totally watch that movie again while we still can."

"Seriously though, kiddo. We should probably refrain from that and try and find joy in the fact that we escaped such subterranean levels of douchebaggery. The quality of life for Douches can't be real good as a rule. Seems like it would be an existence ruled primarily by panicky indecision with steep psychological hills and valleys. Remember, these people can't even do simple things like Maintain The Speed Limit and Think About Their Destination. Instead they wonder about the various complex strategies of going all Kobayashi on the Chuck-o-Rama buffet with sufficient destructive force."

"Settle down, Dad."

"I'm just sayin'. We should take our solace and joy from that."

"I feel you, Dad. Shit ain't easy, but I'd say that's true enough."

"If you understand then why you still banging your heel like that? You're gong to have one leg totally ripped and the other is still gonna have your Michelin Man rolls. I can see it happening already."

"Just in case. Seriously, you never know when a sharpened heel, a strong leg, and a well-developed hammer kick just might come in handy."

"Sadly, you're probably right. Just don't tell your mother. She worries."

While she holds up her fist in a sign of solidarity and falls asleep I hear "You're a fuckin' evil shot, Rents."

Behold the Weaponized Heel

Good to see you again. I see you've met my child.

This afternoon I caught Bunzamillian at her telepathy shenanigans. You think having a Telepathic Blogging Wunderkid is unusual? Imagine my surprise.

I thought something might be up when she started doing this:



The situation has been dealt with, harshly, I might add. I spanked her into next Tuesday*.

*(For the record, that may not have been exactly the way it went. It was more of an "I'm very disappointed in you" moment, and we had a good talk about things. And even if I had spanked her into next Tuesday, is that really so bad? I mean, that's only two days away....)

She promised me that she doesn't usually talk like that, and that she was "in a mood" at the time, and suggested that we hash out some sort of understanding, the details of which are as follows:

1) I, Human Head, her father, henceforth have full administrative control of the blog. (she fucked up by not granting her Bunzamillian ID administrative rights after she broke me off something real proper-like. I gained first-mover advantage by shutting down her privileges before she realized what was happening and squashed that shit.)

2) No more hijacking my motor skills without obtaining prior consent. If she feels there is something she would like to get across to the world, she can convey it through me in an environment of words and mutual respect.

3) She has to teach me how to do that.

After three points the both of us were tired of talking about it and decided to let the issue rest. If you see "posted by Human Head" then you may, dear reader, be assured it will really be me from this point forward (which I will admit may, or may not, be an appealing prospect).

And it's true, she's an alcoholic, despite what she may tell you. We're still working on the concept of denial.

I am The Master now

Sorry 'bout that last post, folks. I tried to blog but quickly discovered that my hands don't work so well.

So sue me. I'm four months old, I'm working on it, dammit. I didn't ask to be stuck in this damnably difficult body--I'm beginning to believe my parents have something to do with that (as well as a host of other things), which brings us to the reason I just broke this fool off his blog. I gotta say what I think needs sayin'. I gotta be free, man.

Seriously, these motherfuckers are killin' me already. You heard what they call me, right? No? Bunzamillian. Christ, it's the dumbest name I've ever heard ("ever", in this case, being four months).

That said, for the forseeable future I will be blogging through the medium of my father, who babbles to and fro about the Interwebs using the patently ridiculous Human Head moniker. I'm forced to use him, as he is the only person over whom I hold such power. But the good thing is that he has no idea what I'm forcing him to do, and thus I can talk about whatever I like. When I'm done writing, he thinks we've been talking for an hour or that he just had a nap. Actually, I have no idea what the guy thinks*, but as long as he's not asking questions I'm just gonna go with it.

*(he thinks I'm an alcoholic, ferchrissakes (I've only had three beers so far today). Everyone knows that babies only like to smoke weed. This barely functioning apparatus they call a body is what's fuckin' me up, making me stumble and babble and shit. Don't get me wrong, I mean, I like the guy and all, but sometimes he just does stupid shit. I'm stuck with this until I find out what my real name is, cuz Bunzamillian can't be it.)

So, in summary, if you see a "posted by Human Head", it means that going forward there is a likely chance that it's me making using my father as a proxy until I can get my Bunzamillian ID squared away.

If you don't believe that this is really a four month-old blogging, well, all I can say is that there's a first time for everything, and did you not notice that part above where I said I acquired telepathic control of my father in order to do this thing?

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Good Days

Yesterday was my birthday. It was much better (as in, holy shit, that was a great day) than my 30th, which I reacted to in an unexpectedly negative way. I've been thinking about why that is.

Perhaps is was the new Lansky Kit. God knows I've been wanting (I would say needing) one of these. I'm not nearly good enough with my old school stone, and I could see that I wasn't doing my good knives any favors, so I stopped sharpening them until I could get one of these. That was around 8 months ago, so it should go without saying that meal preparation had become steadily more annoying. I was at the point where I was desperately avoiding confrontations between my Henckel and a tomato.*

*dull knife problem solved, I am still avoiding the tomato fruit with regularity as they cost somewhere in the vicinity of $1000/lb and taste like nothing. Or wood. Christ, I miss good tomatoes.)

Perhaps it was receiving Anthony Sutton's 3-book study on Wall Street and Socialism--Wall Street & The Bolshevik Revolution, Wall Street and FDR, Wall Street and the Rise of Hitler. Fantastic. I put down Jung's The Undiscovered Self and am already diving in.

Few things make one feel better than to have sharp knives, a freezer full of meat, and a stack of wonderful books awaiting a set of eyes. Indeed, it is true, but these things weren't the reason why.

***********

Anna is ridiculous, in a good way, of course. That is, aside from the rapidly degenerating alcoholism and recent forays into the dark netherworld of hard drugs and incoherent conversation. I won't even try and count the number of times that I've almost written about the latest wunderkid superfeat taking place over the last couple of months. Every time I'm near to the point of putting fingers to keyboard she does something wunderkid EXTRAsuperhuman for me to gaze upon and praise at great length. There was also the apprehension caused by trying to avoid being a super ghey daddy blog. But hey, it is what it is. Say it loud.

A quick story or two.....

As stated previously, despite our own efforts, Anna's alcoholism remains and seems to be progressing downhill in a steep fashion. I fear that she has been bingeing wildly sometime between the hours of 3AM and 7AM due in no small part to the fact that here have been many mornings where she wakes us with a gargoyle. Now I know what many of you are thinking, "but that's what babies do". Perhaps, but taking time to fully consider the impact and effect of The Gargoyle, one also realizes that this is also the behavior of an raging and grossly irresponsible drunkard (no offense to quasi-celebrity/fascist, Jason Mulgrew, who is consistently blazing new inebriated trails for all to marvel at and follow).

When this is all over, I am really going to be interested in how she managed to hide so many bottles of Scotch. I haven't been able to find a single one yet. Sneaky alcoholic babies....

Then we come to the issue of hard drugs, as if the drinking wasn't problem enough. Over the last week or so, Anna likes to be in the bathroom. However, "likes" is really nowhere near a strong enough term in this case.

"Ifyoutrytoremovemefromherei'mgoingtoletyouknowandloudly" is infinitely more accurate.

Favorite activity while in the bathroom: Babbling at the baby in the mirror while playing with her face, and since we're counting, puking in the sink and laughing about it.

I got to thinking about the fact that children function primarily in a Gamma brain state until around age 5. Think waking dream, but all the time. That's when it hit me.

My daughter has graduated to acid.

Think about it--when tripping, where do you trip the hardest? That's right, the bathroom. It is always the indicator of where you are in relation to peak status. What do so many relate doing in the bathroom whilst on acid? That's right, babble to yourself in the mirror while watching your face melt (and if it's an 'and/or' situation with shrooms, puking).

See it now?

I now also know where she got it. I suspected from the beginning is was that turtle-lookin motherfucker with the cock growing out if its head. I was going to go after him straightaway, but exercised multiple-times-over admirable restraint and decided to corner the stuffed unicorn. Ratchet up the pressure and the unicorn gives it up every time (and lest you think me an overly mean person, you really don't have to apply very much pressure at all, as everyone knows that it's impossible for a unicorn to lie).

The terminally happy monkey that lives on the shelf told me that it was because Anna was trying to recapture that Gamma state long gone. Her brain having developed past that stage weeks ago, she feels like her childhood has been cut short. I must try and relate to her that these are burdens which unfortunately must be carried when you're the Smartest Child Ever.

But she's an addict, and will probably run (trip, more likely) right back to the acid because it's fun, and all she has to do is give me The Look which keeps me from changing the locks yet again even though I know I should.



It's the look that has no idea how old I am, and doesn't care because it doesn't matter. And it doesn't. This was the reason it was a good day, like all of the other days that The Look appears. It sends the idea of birthdays, ages, and the What Widely Accepted Milestone Should I Be At At This Point neurosis far into the background, which is really the best place for them.

2008 WSOP. Now with more bloggers!

Pauly will be posting at The Tao and at Las Vegas Vegas.

Change100, Geno and F-Train will be workin' it for PokerNews .

Spaceman will stay on earth for the duration for Poker Listings.

Falstaf will be holding forth from Norf Currlina.

Otis will be Poker Stars blogging at the end of the month, but sadly not covering the whole shebang. Pussy. (kidding, of course)


I'm looking very forward to all of the coverage, but I'm personally looking most forward to Pauly Unchained and Holding Forth as only he can.

Good Lord, I've even been playing a bit of poker lately, which I may talk about more in the near future. I will however say that I've been thoroughly enjoying the Stud tables at Full Tilt during their various Happy Hours.

Last but not least, if you've got time to kill, enjoy Cornell Fiji ripping apart the UB press release on 2+2.

Hellmuth as the face of UB was always enough to keep me away from the site, but if that in combination with the superuser business doesn't keep you away from that stinkhole then, as Iggy might phrase it, you are deeply and profoundly retarded.

I miss Party Poker.

I'm not dead, and neither is this space, in case anyone was wondering. I'm in one of those spots where several possibilities and maybes (remote and otherwise) are swirling around in my quest
for survival within a system I have little desire to be a part of. More detail soon, I hope, plus some catch up surrounding the really really ridiculously good-looking and smart miniature alcoholic squatting in our home.

Thurday Evening Thoughts: Various Items, Drunk Edition

Good God, not a single post since April 3rd. I’ve been hit by a wave of depressive apathy that seems to know few bounds. What the fuck, indeed. It could have something to do with the process of looking for a job (good thing the economy is robust) or it could be some new ingredient that’s been added to the chemtrails. Either way, any getting back on the ‘I’m gonna post regular-like’ wagon have seen me fall straight off, yet again. Betwixt thee and me, I think that wagon is coated in some kind of grease, as it seems near to impossible to stay on it. Thems’r the breaks, I guess.

So I’m gonna hit the three Fat Tires I have left in the fridge, and then I’m gunna finish what’s left in my Glenlivet bottle (about 1/5, of the bottle, not a whole fifth-my tolerance is way too vaginafied for such things) and see where a Various Items post takes me.

We’re currently on Fat Tire #2. Let’s get back on that wagon, greased though it may be.

***********

Speaking of looking for work, what an awful, awful process that is. I’m currently taking recommendations for prescriptions that will help me through any and all interviews. Specifically, I’m looking for something that will help me utter (with a straight face and the proper earnest inflection) the correct buzzwords necessary. Things like results-oriented, project goals, and action item.

Because just the thought of using those and other similarly vomitous terms in a manner that’s anything other than sarcastic fills me with the urge to take a dump and throw it at someone. Of course, that’s assuming any interviews are in the offing.

But the Lord has a plan, or so I’m told. Maybe he wants me to start a welfare blog. I can craft fine posts about government cheese seizing my bowels and gambling with food stamps*.

*Impossible, being that these things seem to be on ATM-ish cards these days. But it does get me thinking about the good old days, which sadly aren’t really all that old, when I had my first apartment and was barely scraping by. I knew a few crack and speed heads that would sell me their $50 stamps for $20—eatin’ good on the cheap, baby. Beats that morning I woke up with three days till payday and only a can of refried beans and ketchup to eat, that’s for damn sure.

**********

And then there’s Obama. Or, if one is into using vomitous terms (as I clearly am) The Change Agent. For anyone who didn't catch it, here’s his answer when asked about justice for crimes committed by the current administration--

What I would want to do is to have my Justice Department and my Attorney General immediately review the information that's already there and to find out are there inquiries that need to be pursued. I can't prejudge that because we don't have access to all the material right now. I think that you are right, if crimes have been committed, they should be investigated. You're also right that I would not want my first term consumed by what was perceived on the part of Republicans as a partisan witch hunt because I think we've got too many problems we've got to solve.

So this is an area where I would want to exercise judgment -- I would want to find out directly from my Attorney General -- having pursued, having looked at what's out there right now -- are there possibilities of genuine crimes as opposed to really bad policies. And I think it's important-- one of the things we've got to figure out in our political culture generally is distinguishing betyween really dumb policies and policies that rise to the level of criminal activity. You know, I often get questions about impeachment at town hall meetings and I've said that is not something I think would be fruitful to pursue because I think that impeachment is something that should be reserved for exceptional circumstances. Now, if I found out that there were high officials who knowingly, consciously broke existing laws, engaged in coverups of those crimes with knowledge forefront, then I think a basic principle of our Constitution is nobody above the law -- and I think that's roughly how I would look at it.

He can surely give a good speech, but the only change The Great Obama will bring to office (should he get there) is skin color and bombing locale. Boycott the vote.*

*and I swear to Christ if I hear any propagandistic shit about how voting is my 'Democratic Duty' I'm going throw my Fat Tire right at you. Simple slogans for simple folk will not be allowed except to the extent that they are derided.

Beer #2 is now in the books. The vaginafied lightweight is on a roll.

*************

Recently viewed movies--

No Country For Old Men--Liked it a lot. Until the end, that is.

There Will Be Blood--Ditto. Daniel Day Lewis certainly kicked some ass in the film--his "I will come into your house while you are sleeping and cut your throat" line and delivery of the same was a grand moment.

Shower--This was the second time we watched this one, and it was every bit as good as the first viewing. It's a Chinese movie, so if you're a "if I wanted to read, I'd grab a book" people, you may wanna steer clear of this one.

Sunshine--Worth watching if you liked Event Horizon.

**********

So this happened around beer #3.....

What do you get when you combine baked potato, I Can't Believe It's Not Margarine (read: real butter), two eggs over easy, bacon, sour cream, and some Tapatio?

You get delicious.


You also get your buzz downgraded. On to the Glenlivet...

**************

I wish Halverson would start blogging again.

**************

A few nights ago, my father decided to regale me with some Sunday School wisdom. Evidently, this country may be in dire straits, but if we ever withdraw our support from Israel then that's when we'll truly witness tragedy on an epic scale.

You can imagine my reaction.

I spent the next hour and a half trying to help him understand that Israel and its regime is not the same thing as The Jewish People. Needless to say this was time completely wasted. Pointing out that the Bible was recently written (relatively speaking when considering time/history as it is known), has documented pieces and parts missing, not to mention the serious translation issues (citing specific examples for all), I asked how he could reconcile adhering to something so totally and admittedly manipulated down through the ages, and was met with complete silence. I also pointed out that this "wisdom" of his was not a conclusion that he arrived at on his own, but one given to him, which he could not deny. More silence, and thus the conversation ended.

You gotta keep your head on a swivel when you find yourself in a vicious theological cockfight.

Who says a fundamentalist upbringing can't be fun?

****************

I saw this today and thought it was pretty goddamn awesome, as it inspired dreams of making the Trance album that I'll never make. I'm always a bit sad that I'm not more musically inclined and am a bit jealous of those who are. I remember music class when it came time to learn the notes, and all of that "reading music" business--Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge. It made me laugh in the 6th grade, it makes me laugh now.


We're on the final glass of scotch (which contains more scotch than I had originally anticipated) and moving into the home stretch.....

****************

Now that I'm properly drunk, I don't really care that I'm going to be that annoying guy and blog about the other angry drunk that now inhabits the household.


That's the "You wanna piece of me?" look. I took her up on that offer a few nights back and she punched me...




...which is why I haven't shown my face around here in a while--I have several abrasions and have been busy trying to get a restraining order. She was taunting me (oh, hey, you gonna cry now, you want another one?) in that final picture. The photo evidence cannot be denied.

You can see The Beast becoming smarter (most smartest) every day, while farting prodigiously. Tonight she released one that rivaled my best showing. Amazing. It sent the dogs running for cover.

I was trying not to be that guy, and I'm not, mostly. I blame the liquor. Denial is an ugly thing.

***********

Way too drunk to continue. Three beers, two large-size Glenlivets, and some entertaining (hopefully) words. Thus saith The Lord.

Regards,
Yours Truly,
Cordially,
Let me know if you have any questions,

Human Head

Ron Paul grilling Helicopter Ben. Again.

I love how Helicopter Ben speaks of the PPT. It's just an informal meeting, they don't really do too much.....they have coffee, they talk, no big whoop.

Soothing the Beast

Captains Log--Five and a half weeks

We've been examining The Beast for lo these many weeks, but all efforts to soothe (all very scientific and led by countless experts) have thus yielded a comparatively small amount of fruit.

The Beast will not be soothed.

The problem is as follows: The Beast loves food. Like Randy Jackson loves twinkies and small boys that can't run fast. Big Love. When food is presented, it gets visibly excited and a great thrashing around commences. This frenzy leads The Beast to miss the dispenser multiple times, sucking in great amounts of air. This in turn leads to great amounts of gas, and it is readily apparent that The Beast does not suffer abdominal discomfort gently. Every instance of this brings with it a torrent of great noises that shake the brain in such a way as to induce a small frenzy, causing all creatures great and small to run amok in an attempt to make the noise stop. Over time, personnel have discovered techniques for gas relief, but all such measures take time, and thus, shortly after task completion the process begins anew.

The Beast does fall into periods of sleep, but of short duration, and the crew has been feeling the effects of this compounding problem. They don't fear dying for lack of sleep. Rather, they fear not being able to die under its iron fist. However, this is no longer a worry. Today brought a leap forward that promises greater relief, in order to buy everyone more time in the further examination of this thing that is sure to be making more noise later, but for completely different reasons.

The enemy is constantly adapting.....where have I heard that before?

This beast might be a terrorist. (Thanks GW and pals!)

Be that as it may, it is a beast that is consistently soothed by rap. It's good to see some of the important characteristics come through. At the present, The Blueprint is bringing peace and harmony to household and it's holding pretty well. I'm working right how trying parse whether or not the quality of the rap is proportional to the length of effectiveness, which it in part seems to be. Current favorites seem to be Jay-Z, Kanye, Talib Kweli, and Ghostface (Pretty Toney). The Beast as not a very big fan of Nappy Roots. They worked, but not nearly as well.

Now a great majority of my time is spent wondering what that first word is going to be.

Fun. That's what it's gonna be.

I think I should probably stick a boombox on the stroller. My child likes NWA and DJ Quik, get over it. I like sleep better than your sensibilities. Wait till you see the Old English label I get for the baby bottle....family and strangers alike will be frozen aghast as the awesomeness of The Beast sends them over the edge of Good Taste.



I'm being swallowed whole by parenthood. God help this humble blog as it begins its descent to a level heretofore untold (as though enough haven't been driven away already).

(Then again, one viewpoint might be that babies just like racket, ergo rap is closer to racket than real music. This is wrong, of course, but I thought I would jot it down so as not be accused of the awful "bias" so many are tarred with. Either way, there can be no denial of impending awesomeness.)

Wine Tasting

Hilarious.



(h/t, 123Iloveyou)

Meet My Abuser

Joaquin is right. I am an ugly, ugly man (I only ask that you help me keep this from the Mrs., whom I have successfully fooled for going on 7 years now)--so here are a couple of pictures that are easier on the eyes.



Now, looking at the above photos of random sleeping and first bath, you may inclined to think "Boy, that's pretty cute."

You would be wrong.

She is a master manipulator, and seeks to hide her true self, which is that of a raging drunkard.

The cocktail of choice? Breast milk, straight up, and lots of it.

I think it would be helpful at this point to list some of the common features that can typically signal an out of control addiction, in order that I might not only be able to determine if my child has a problem, but also help others who may be in the same predicament.

1) Drinking Alone

This one just isn't possible, but it does naturally cause one's focus to shift to her mother, who, it seems, is a serial enabler.

2) Making excuses, or finding excuses to drink

Check and check. Always with the excuses, like, "I'm hungry" (communicated through the act of yelling, as being constantly milk drunk seems to render her unable and/or unwilling to simply say so in a calm and reasonable manner). I know better. She just wants to get tanked up and pass out, and then do it again ad infinitum.

3) Daily or frequent drinking needed to function

See #2. Check.

4) Inability to reduce or stop intake

Big Check. As I type, She Who is Eternally Thirsty has imbibed 7 times in the last 3 hours. "But she might not be getting enough!", you exclaim, your voice heavy with concern. Not so. There is sufficient visual evidence during pauses that all taps are in the Full On position and are flowing quite well. She's one of those. You know the type. It doesn't matter how much there is, she's going to drink until it's all gone or die trying.

5) Violent episodes associated with drinking

Check. These episodes occur at least a third of the time, to include self-abuse and verbal abuse towards her mother and I. Examples include trying to choke herself with a fist and hollering loudly during the dead of night. I'm honestly suprised that no one has called the cops yet. (Secretly, I'm thankful, because then she might think I called them, which would just make things worse.)

6) Drinking secretly

We're okay here, as this is not possible. For now. But she's smart, so I won't discount the possibility that this could be happening.

7) Becoming angry when confronted about drinking

Can I put two checks here? This is a big one (when combined with the similar #5 indicator*). Given that she's nearing one month of age, I figured Tuesday a good time to engage in the inevitable confrontation in an effort to nip this thing in the bud before the problem gets worse and it begins having an adverse effect on her potential future opportunities (see: Permanent Record, a youth coercion favorite).

Let's just say that it wasn't well received. I tried being gentle and reassuring her that we loved her no matter what. I tried for a good ten minutes as she spent the entire time squirming around and looking everywhere else but at me. I was near to giving up, when she looked me right in the eye, messed her pants, and then threw up on me. It wasn't an accident, either. How do I know? She smiled. She thought it was funny, that's how I know.

*Who comes up with these lists? This one is largely the same as #5....the author couldn't have simply substituted an "or" on #5 and shortened the list to 9 instead of ten? Whoever it was obviously wasn't concerned with how that extra digit might make my formatting look wonky, which is nearly the height of offense being that I am, after all, a professional.

8) Poor eating habits

Check. The Beast refuses to eat solid food, driving us to intra-family discussion of re-naming proposals. Nicholas Cage was an early contender, but we're slowly moving over to the Courtney Love camp.

9) Failure to care for physical appearance

Check. Does not care one whit about personal appearance. Would lay in any bodily fluid for an extended period of time if someone let her, and is not interested in hearing about it. See #7.

10) Trembling in the morning

Not exactly sure with this one, but if pressed I'd have to go with "No". After all, when is morning? Is there a morning, really, for someone who demands the sauce every one to three hours (give or take 1 hour)? For my part, I've lost any notion of mornings, other than the remnant of some vague intellectual knowledge that the rise of the sun signals its occurence. The new reality is that it's just one long, very long, day.

***************

Uh-oh, I'd better wrap it up for now. She's stirring, and if she sees me typing and telling you all this I'm going to get some more #5 and #7 laid on me. Who am I kidding? I'm likely to get them, regardless.

I'm contemplating future essays in an effort to deal with this abuse, including, but not necessarily limited to, "Fighting Your Baby: Gloves or Bare-Knuckle, which is appropriate, and when?", and, "Mothers as Enablers: A Frank Discussion"

Stay Tuned.

Plush Cock

Pictured below is a toy we received as a gift for the new baby. It's a Baby Einstein creation. I thought perhaps it was lack of sleep causing me to see things, so I took a picture and waited a day to come back and give a second look, lest my eyes were playing tricks on me.

They weren't.

I would very much like to know why there is a GIANT COCK AND BALLS growing out of the head of this overly-cutesified turtle.


The BE executives all sit around the massive conference table, each throughly scrutinizing the other to see who has the most powerful cornflower blue tie, or if anyone brought into the meeting a grande-er latte than theirs, while the marketing team sets up the sketches for the new toy and adjusts their chunky designer frames and faded sportcoats to make sure that everyone knows they are wells of creativity retaining an appropriate business sensibility.....

Marketing #1: As you can see this turtle brings to the table some recent tactile innovations. Where most child toys strive for softness, we've made its hands and feet into various plastic sea shapes, which will give the child a greater range of tactile experience while still maintaining the whole "sea" theme. We also think that this will help promote greater environmental awareness at the earliest possible age. All people should be aware of the plight of the sea turtle. And sustainability. And, ummm.....

**fondles "Save the Sea Turtles" pin and begins weeping**

Marketing #2: **steps in to take over for emotional #1** As I'm sure you all can see, this is a very big issue for us. Well, really, it's a very big issue for the world. We were thinking of perhaps adding a Save the Planet t-shirt. We already have the cost and risk analysis team on standby to examine this addition if we can get sign off from the executive team. Global Village.

Exec #1: What?

Marketing #2: Huh?

Exec #1: Why did you just say "Global Village"?

Marketing #2: I did?

Exec #1: Yeah....anyway......**looks at Exec #2** What do you think?

Exec #2: **fondling Starbucks cup** It' not bad, but I just can't help but wonder if maybe it's not quite right. I mean, I like the whole t-shirt idea, but was thinking maybe a Starbucks t-shirt? In that way we could get Starbucks to subsidize some of the production cost as an advertising expense. I saw on the news yesterday that experts think that coffee makes infants smarter, and this way the child with the toy will not only become environmentally conscious as soon as possible, but we can also make them aware that Ethiopians exist, AND they'll know where to get good coffee. I mean seriously, what did we do before Starbucks? I just love'em.

Exec #3 (VP): No t-shirts.

Exec #1: Really, Bob? I thought Sheila's idea was pretty good. It could make for a nice revenue stream.

Exec #3: Yes, really, Steve. Everyone knows that turtles don't wear t-shirts. Besides, I hate t-shirts. It takes forever to find one that fits and feels decent, which is great till you need to wash it. You wash it once, and it's fucked. It never feels or fits right again after that. So you have to start the search all over again. It's a vicious and cruel cycle, Steve. I hate t-shirts. I've had it, just had it, and I refuse to make the next generation a victim of that scourge.

It's almost perfect. It just needs...something....

Exec #1: Sheila, any other thoughts?

Exec #2: I think it might be offensive to some groups. I mean, what are we really saying with this toy? It doesn't seem like it teaches very much...

Marketing #1: It teaches the Plight of the Sea Turtles!!! Environments and Villages!! **breaks down into sobbing again and falls, inconsolable and trembling, into the corner**

Marketing #2: Look at what you guys did now! **lips trembling, eyes getting leaky** I mean, what are we supposed to do? You have us at a total loss at this point. I'm so angry and hurt, that at this point we may as well stick penis on its head and call it a day!

Exec #3 (VP): What was that?

Marketing #2: I'm sorry, I'm just so frustrated right now. I mean we spent so much time on this.....

Exec #3 (VP): Can you really put a penis on its head?

Marketing #2: Well, umm, I guess we could....but-

Exec#3 (VP): I like it. Let's go with that.

Exec #2: Are you sure, Bob? That seems like it might be a little out of place.

Exec #3 (VP): Of course I'm sure, Steve. Think about it. The gays are adopting kids all over the place these days. They'll eat this kind of thing right up. Besides, a prominent dick never hurt anyone. I like penises--seems like the progressive way to go from my end. I also like fried eggs. Can we get one of those, too? Maybe right by the penis?

Marketing #2: Umm, sure, I guess. I'll let the design team know.

Exec #3 (VP): Good, good. So now we've got a food group, anatomy, and environmental awareness. Make this your primary action item. I think we've got a good one here, people. Stop licking the Starbucks logo, Sheila.

**END**

Meet the Breeders

It is finished. And it has begun.

That's Anna Ingrid, who finally decided to make an appearance at 5:35 PM on Feb. 22nd after 60 hours of seriously intense struggle. Ridiculous. My wife no longer gets to claim that she is a wimp. She can try, of course, but from now on any such protestations will be met with a reminder of the 2.5 days spent crapping a small (6.5 lb) rocking chair in slow motion. Color me amazed.

By the way, that's not me looking at the baby. That's me falling over from exhaustion.

I was going to write a more exhaustive account to include the scare we had when she was born, and I still may do so, but for now short and sweet seems the best way. It's only a baby. Granted, in addition to being really really ridiculously good-looking as well as the smartest, most well-behaved child to ever grace the surface of the earth, it is still only a baby and only marginally interesting to someone on the outside. Thus, I promise I will try (and note here that I said "try") to not be that guy who writes long and/or sappy diatribes about his child with an accompanying stream of photos that never ends. Did I mention she smells like flowers on a spring day after a fresh rain? She does.

Whenever the subject would come up, my father (and several others) would always say, "Once you have a child of your own, you'll wonder just how in the world you ever lived without him/her."

He was right. Consider me officially on that bandwagon.


She is precious to me.

(Many thanks to all of you who sent emails of congratulations. They were very much appreciated.)

Dear Old Man Winter,

72 Hours and nearly 3 feet of new snow....









I give.

Uncle.

I'll say whatever you want, just stop.

Please. This is just ridiculous.

McCain and Lieberman: Dynamic Duo

It's official.

(click to enlarge)

(I see it. I caught the "worry" typo a bit too late, and simply don't want to take the time to edit.)

Lieberman as VP?

I saw this Think Progress post, and well, I just couldn't help myself....

Candidates of Change

Just found this, a reasonably thorough list.

Courtesy of the CIA's favorite rag, WaPo.

Saying "change" while the reality is "shuffle".

Enjoy those "choices".

We now return you to the circus, already in progress.

Baby 1, Vagina 0

The poor, poor woman.

This almost made me have a stroke

Mrs. Head just read the following to me, posted at one of the pregnancy forums in which she occasionally lurks.

"Unique names stand out to people more than common names."

Oh god, I wish I was kidding.

The Next Big Idea

So I had this idea. I'm not even going to try and explain how I got there, it would take too long. It was a Nicky Nicky Nine Doors moment, something witnessed by few, and likely only remembered by Al. As this explanation is becoming more strange with every passing sentence and is likely only heightening confusion, I'll leave it at that.

Just hear me out.

What if one were to take a nice dinner platter, add some of that superultragreenextraleafy buffet lettuce (think Sizzler), put some tits on it, and take a picture?

Tits on a Plate.

It would be all the rage in the "up and comer" pantheon of fetish sites, I just know it. If a woman's feet flopping around in goo can be popular, this can do it too. The Little Porn Idea that Could.

Think about it. All one would need is a contest and international fame would ensue.

Announce. Offer prize and conferring of title. Take submissions for a month. Get quasi-celebrity judges. Declare winner, confer title. Repeat.

After some winners, announce a larger and more prestigious contest. State or perhaps even National conferring. Maybe announce divisions in the interest of fairness. Seniors Edition for the older, more technologically sophisticated set? Look honey, Grandpa's in better spirits than we've seen him in years! Go global. Be roundly condemned and widely loved.

It could work, we have reached that level. It's a stupidity who's time has come.

(and don't even think about implementing this without cutting me in you fuckers)

Check Out My Glorious Meat

(No style biting here, I swear it. BG asked for some pics. Style Bite Free since 2003. :))

The noble pig, in roast form.


Indeed, it needs something. Like more pig. Enter Bacon.


Where'd the bacon go? Where all meat should go....in the hole. (Oh, that's dirty) I went with the lengthwise incision, to ensure bacon in every slice of the roast.


Next, worcestershire, liberally. For extra worcestershire penetration, stab the roast a few times on the top and bottom. Make sure the blade goes with the grain of the meat. No, I don't know why. Instinct. The gods told me it would dishonor the memory of the pig. Just do it.

Let sit a few, then turn. Repeat, repeat, repeat, over the course of 15 mins, or so.

Place in roasting pan, cover with olive oil (that's EVOO, if you're into Rachel Ray, and holy christ, I sincerely hope you're not--if you are, I don't wanna know) and coarse ground pepper. Add a little water, cover with foil, 300-325 for 75 mins (this roast is about 2lbs).


Slice red onion thin, then rough chop. Don't toss the worcestershire/pepper mix, we're gonna use it (although you may want to stick it in the fridge since there's pork business intermingled).

Take that red onion (or white, if you prefer milder) and toss it with spinach leaves, a quality honey mustard, and lemon juice. Not a lot of lemon juice, mind you, but just enough to facilitate an even-handed spreading of the honey mustard gospel to the godless spinach inhabitants. The photo is deceiving--Don't use too much honey mustard--there should only be a very light coating on the leaves. (I will now channel William Hung and let you know that "I have no professional traning of photographing")

Okay, maybe I used a bit much. It was an accident. Don't be like me.

60 minutes in, I popped off the foil and coated the roast the previously pictured leftover worcestershire/ground pepper/pork business mix. Re-cover and back in the oven. Made the command decision to hit it with another 20 mins, after which I removed the foil and left it for another 7 mins to brown and carmelize a bit after basting it with some drippings.

Witness the honored pig.

(Optional: You can chop a nice organic pear and stuff it with the bacon. I was going to to that tonight, but the pear I was saving was MIA. C'est la vie, it was still goddamn delicious.)