tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26735794001155142112024-03-05T18:38:21.734-06:00The Sound and the FuryBrian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.comBlogger717125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-42900311367977546922015-01-07T02:30:00.000-06:002015-01-07T02:30:30.672-06:00Greener Pastures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeq3trOvzTF3NGDZPxKBzxy3HR14YIJdge40CmHK9sm6vi_cmptYeP_l0iYV_G9vqGmX8k60k2SZBpclOQSlfWFthYeG4AOF1tOoGX191ZrIGFNqeGMyv0zoKYJDgUnAlBvOgVGnG9CwGg/s1600/Me+Inn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeq3trOvzTF3NGDZPxKBzxy3HR14YIJdge40CmHK9sm6vi_cmptYeP_l0iYV_G9vqGmX8k60k2SZBpclOQSlfWFthYeG4AOF1tOoGX191ZrIGFNqeGMyv0zoKYJDgUnAlBvOgVGnG9CwGg/s1600/Me+Inn.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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Howdy,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I haven’t done
much with this site since I moved my blogs to WordPress, but based on the
tracking stats it looks like a bunch of people are still managing to find their
way over to this one. This makes me smile, of course, to learn that some kind
of circumstance is leading folks to check out some of my older work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But what would
really make me happy? If you could graciously take the time to find your way
over to my current blogs, I’d be smiling even more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You can find the main
site at: <a href="http://www.bonnywoodmanor.com/">http://www.bonnywoodmanor.com</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m still in the
midst of transitioning to the new location, these things take time, but if you
don’t mind the dust and unpacked boxes in my new virtual dwelling, it would be
swell if you could make the transition with me. I’ll still leave this older
site up for a while, so you can dig through the archives of the last five
years, if that pleases you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Whatever path you
choose, thanks for stopping by, and I hope that some bit of something that I’ve
scribbled will make you want at least a little bit more…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brian<o:p></o:p></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-45479585887174946692013-09-20T21:17:00.000-05:002013-09-20T21:20:21.663-05:00Attack of the Giant Mary<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It all started
rather innocently.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My partner,
Terry, turned to me and uttered these deceptively benign words: “Johhna and
Patty are going to Pecan Lodge for barbecue on Sunday for lunch. And then to
The Anvil for drinks. Wanna go?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me, taking
roughly one second to consider all angles: “No.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Terry: “No on
which part? The barbecue or the drinking? We have options here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me, slightly
annoyed that I have to explain myself, because we’re in a long-term
relationship, and there are certain things that should be instinctive by now.
“Well, definitely no on Pecan Lodge. That place is insane. You can stand in
line for two hours. And there’s no guarantee that there will be any food left
by the time they bless you with entrance to the building. I don’t understand why they don’t plan any
better. They need to have more meat.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Terry: “We all
need to have more meat. Meat is good. If
everybody had meat, we wouldn’t have war. But now I’m not sure what we’re
talking about.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: “I can’t bear
the thought of standing in the Dallas heat for hours and then not getting any
meat. So, it’s a no on The Lodge. The psychological cruelty aspect is just too
much.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Terry, adjusting
his spreadsheets: “Okay, no meat. But
the drinks?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me, already
sensing that I may be venturing into Total Regret territory but not wanting to
appear completely anti-social until it becomes popular to be that way again:
“Yes, we can do drinks. Quick drinks. Then we flee.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Terry: “Got it.”
Then he is immediately texting Johhna and/or Patty, using a complex mix of
hand-held devices, intricate communication networks, and global satellites,
none of which were necessary back in the day when you simply picked up the
hard-wired, stationary phones and spoke to your friends in a real-time manner.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At that point I
wasn’t too overly concerned. It was only Saturday afternoon, Sunday was still
years away, in that lazy manner you have on the weekends where nothing is
really all that important until you have to do something about it. I had plenty
of time to make up excuses or flee the country, should I come to a decision
that I didn’t want to go drinking in a place that I didn’t know, this Anvil Pub
that was somewhere in the Deep Ellum section of downtown Dallas, a funky, often
trendy bit of the city where you could have a really good time or you could be
car-jacked. Lots of time to develop Plan B.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But then it was
suddenly Sunday morning,<i> late</i> Sunday
morning, and Terry’s face was in mine as I awoke from a dream wherein I was
running about on a nude beach in the south of France and having a festive time
because I had acquired a tan that I normally am unable to acquire, and certain
hot guys were showing appreciation for such an acquisition. And for my nudity.
This is not a development that one wishes to awaken from. But I was. And there
was Terry. “The girls are already at Pecan Lodge. They’re still in line. But
the clock is ticking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Damn.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So he ran off to
make us breakfast, which is nice of him and all, and I lay there in the bed,
trying to think of at least one valid reason why I should leave the bed.
Nothing immediately came to mind, especially when you considered the
possibility of falling back into slumber and playing a rousing game of leapfrog
on that beach where nobody knows the name of your clothes. Sunshine, gentle
lapping waves, and friskiness. How can you argue with that?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Terry could.
“Breakfast is ready!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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So I schlepped my
ass into the part of the house where we don’t have beds and pleasant dreams,
and both Terry and I began to nosh on the results of his culinary expertise
whilst we watched an episode of <i>CSI: New
York</i> from one of the 4,000 boxed sets that we own due to compulsive
purchasing issues. We mistakenly believed that we still had plenty of time,
because The Girls were standing in line at one of the hottest restaurants in
Dallas. They would be there for days.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This illusion was
shattered three seconds later , when Terry’s phone loudly buzzed and jingled,
indicating a text intrusion. The Girls were nearing completion of their meal
and would be heading toward the questionable bar in Deep Ellum within 15
minutes. What the hell? What kind of superpowers did these women have that had
somehow allowed them to triumph over all odds and get serviced in an expedited
manner?<o:p></o:p></div>
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This text alert
meant that, in an ideal world, we should race to jump in the shower, scrub our
sins away, and then pile in the car, gunning the engine so we could meet our
friends in a respectable amount of time, despite the heat of Dallas in
September, a heat that can suck your soul out of your body.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In reality, it
meant that we finished watching the episode of <i>CSI: New York</i>. This particular episode was from the first year,
that lone season where they had that fascinating, somber color palette that was
all about blues and grays and coldness and a morgue that looked like an
abandoned subway station from 1912. After that, the fool producers brightened
things up and killed the Gothic tone and made it look like <i>CSI: Miami</i>, just with a different address and without David Caruso,
who can’t say a dramatic line without placing his hands on hips and tilting his
head to the side.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wait, I seem to
have lost the narrative. Where was I? Oh yeah, it was time to get my ass off
the couch, move beyond the cloning of American television, and cleanse my
special bits. So I did.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A few years
later, Terry and I were motoring our way into the head-scratching environs of
downtown Dallas. I’m not sure who designed the layout of what is now the epicenter
of a major American city, but that person was clearly on drugs. Nothing makes
sense. There’s no simplicity, no life-affirming agreement that the roadways
should somehow conform to basic plot-points like North, South, East and West.
Nope. Somebody thought it would be
really super-neat to have streets meandering in haphazard directions that would
boggle the minds of any known GPS software on the planet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And when you
throw in that jacked-up mess about one-way streets, where you have to traverse
acres of civilization just to navigate your way to a destination that is only
millimeters away from your current position, but you can’t easily get there
because some dumb-ass in 1812 made a poor zoning decision? Seriously, what <i>is</i> the point of a one-way street, other
than to intentionally piss off half the driving population?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Speaking of
people: Because downtown Dallas is now rather trendy, it’s filled with trendy
people doing what is now apparently the latest trendy thing: Walking and
driving around whilst texting and paying absolutely no attention to anything
that is going on around you, such as other people who are trying to navigate
past your annoyingness so they can actually accomplish something in their
lives. (#asshats)<o:p></o:p></div>
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In any case,
Terry managed to find a parking lot with multiple available spaces, a discovery
that was almost erotic because sometimes it can be very hard to find a parking
space up in this hood. We secured the vehicle and wandered around the corner
onto Elm Street, where we were nearly flattened by some very exuberant
motorcyclists straddling thundering hogs. One of them was wearing an “Anvil”
t-shirt, our destination. It seems that we were about to enter a biker bar
where people enjoyed being loud. (I breathed a couture sigh of relief, since I
had wisely donned blue jeans and a grunge-tribute shirt, instead of the disco
pants that had briefly caught my eye.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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So we trot into
the establishment, slightly wary of what we might find. (Biker bars in and of
themselves are usually just fine. But a biker bar packed with trendy people who
are trying to be street when they’ve never actually straddled anything in their
lives? We could have issues.) Turns out that the quality of the clientele was
not what we needed to be worried about. Instead, all other concerns in the
world were immediately forgotten when we strolled up to the bar where Johhna
and Patty were sitting, and found them drinking this:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuoixc6Ju2Gh9W9xLuT3H66KpDrhpPiGQyBRfvWu2bBm76UKfIrPvE5CPK4fPy_Mva0voGFnsRCo3_uh1_sH1xPEyMS6-3GrGML13bgAZxvIcCc5WO2UANLona0vtpzH7340KM_6lYiSP/s1600/Bloody+Mary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuoixc6Ju2Gh9W9xLuT3H66KpDrhpPiGQyBRfvWu2bBm76UKfIrPvE5CPK4fPy_Mva0voGFnsRCo3_uh1_sH1xPEyMS6-3GrGML13bgAZxvIcCc5WO2UANLona0vtpzH7340KM_6lYiSP/s1600/Bloody+Mary.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
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“What the hell is
<i>that</i>?” I asked, fear coursing through
my body.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well,” said
Patty, turning from the bar so that we could see her better, because she’s the
more performance-oriented of the two and she doesn’t want to disappoint her
audience, “it’s a Bloody Mary. With lunch on top.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn’t know if
I could take this story on faith. “Are you sure it’s not a Lady Gaga
bobble-head?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Terry chimed in.
“Or Patti LaBelle’s hair?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And both of us
briefly paused to gauge the distance to the front door of the pub, just in case
we suddenly needed to run back out it after the thing on the bar pulled out a
tiny machete and tried to cut a bitch. (This is a survival instinct that has
developed after watching horror movies, where you are schooled in what happens
when stupid people don’t make adequate flight preparations upon discovering
something odd sitting where it shouldn’t be.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s really
good,” piped in Johhna. “You should try one.” (She did not, however, let us try
<i>hers</i> just in case there were
compatibility issues. I made a mental note that she might have a slight selfish
streak, something I would need to keep in mind in case we ever got stranded in
the Andes Mountains after a plane crash, and she decided that she was very,
very hungry. Not turning my back on her, no sir.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still, they
seemed sincere about the pleasures to be had from getting intimately involved
with a five-gallon bucket filled with liquor and topped with a garnish the size
of Detroit. So I ordered one. (Terry refrained. He has a thing about tomatoes,
especially the juice, although he worships ketchup. I’m sure there’s a
fascinating story behind it all, perhaps a tragic incident in his youth, I just
haven’t bothered to ask, because sometimes the first step toward healing is to
never talk about it again.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The ordering of
the Mammoth Mary is a complicated process. For starters, they plunk down a
glass of beer, a PBR. (“Pabst Blue Ribbon”, for those trendy texting people who
have never experienced anything that doesn’t involve social media.) They call
this PBR the “appetizer”, which is kind of cute, but it actually means “it’s
going to take us a decade or so to put together all the nibbly bits that go on
top of your bucket, and you’re going to be really thirsty before it gets here,
so drink this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And it did take a
long time. Long enough that my PBR glass was bone-dry and abandoned, rolling
around on the bar. (There was even a brief moment of boredom where I actually
watched the Cowboys game on a monitor in the bar. Those who know me well will
realize that I must have been absolutely desperate to do such a thing.) But
eventually, somebody fired up a forklift, drove the beeping machine out of the
“kitchen” and lowered my cocktail onto the bar. You could hear the foundation
of the building groaning as this took place.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let me break down
this drink for you: It comes in a Mason jar. Not the little version, the kind
you use to make your own jelly or to store buttons that you will never actually
need. The big kind that you would use to pickle a watermelon, or that serial
killers would use to store the heads of their victims in formaldehyde. This jar
is filled to the brim with the main attraction, the actual Bloody Mary. The rim
of the jar is encrusted with black pepper and salt, which allows you to use
your tongue to moderate the seasoning level of the beverage, which is always
fun, who <i>doesn’t </i>want to demonstrate
the agility of their tongue in a room full of drunken strangers?<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the second
floor of the libation, we have the artwork, the creatively arranged snacks that
are anchored in place on a number of shish kabob skewers. Rumor has it that the
niblets can vary from time to time (this was according to a free-spirited woman
who happened to wander by at one point, with her and her unrestrained but
combative breasts informing me that she’s “seen all kinds of mess up on those
things.”) <o:p></o:p></div>
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My current
version of the mess included: a celery
stick (natch), a green bean (no idea), a small wedge of broccoli (looking like
a little green Don King), pickled okra (I’m assuming pickled, I don’t touch okra
unless it’s fried and this was not), a cooked Brussels sprout (I’m guessing the
uncooked version proved impenetrable for the skewer), a single shrimp (more,
please, it was quite tasty dipped in the Bloody Mary), a wedge of salami (also
a good dipper, not sure why), a chunk of artisanal cheese, a cherry tomato (one
of the few things that was cherry in <i>that</i>
bar), an onion ring (always a good choice, regardless of circumstances), and an
actual slider cheeseburger. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There may have
even been more snackies involved, but I did reach a point where I was tired of
leaning in for a slurp and getting poked in the eye by a skewer stick, so I
popped the structural mechanism out of the jar and chunked it to the side.
(Side note to the Anvil Pub staff: Longer straws, maybe? Sure seems like a good
idea to me. If you can afford to stock up on Brussels sprouts, I’m sure you can
find longer things in the stockroom that people can suck on.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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In any case, the
drink itself was quite satisfying, leaning toward the spicy side, which all
good Bloody Marys should do. (It took me well over an hour to finish the drink,
in case you’re keeping score.) And speaking of leaning and spicy, we were about
to meet someone who was both. (Well, only two of us got to meet her. The other
two in our motley crew chose not to participate in what quickly escalated into
an eye-opening adventure, and therefore missed out on the glorious joy of
having a complete stranger barge into your personal space and then proceed to
have a neurological breakdown, complete with random spittle and exuberant hand
gestures.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This development
also started innocently enough, or at least as innocently as things can be when
you are smoking behind a rowdy bar in a questionable area of Dallas. Johnna and
I had decided that we needed a quick nicotine fix, so we worked our way out the
back door of the bar to the designated area. We fully expected this little
quest to result in us huddled in a smelly alley, taking hurried drags as we dodged
homeless people and possible gang members who had just decided they needed
another teardrop tattoo and they were looking for people who couldn’t run very
fast.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Turns out, this
was not the case at all. Instead, we stumbled into a very nice patio area, with
thick, brick walls that would help prevent us from becoming a crime statistic. Cozy
tables and chairs and umbrellas. The only slight drawback is that it was still
117 degrees in the Texas heat, even under the festive umbrellas. Not a
particularly thrilling environmental aspect, but it also meant that the patio
was completely deserted, and the entire kingdom was ours to rule as we pleased.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So we did,
sitting down and lighting up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our reign, though
glorious and marked by festivals thrown in our honor by the peasants, proved to
be a rather short one. We were barely finished with handing out knighthoods for
the first fiscal quarter, when the back door flew open with a bang. We turned
to see who had made it past the Palace Guard, fully expecting to find an
assassin, sheathed in black and sent by our pesky enemies in the neighboring
kingdom of Fort Worthia. Instead, our eyes fell upon a tall woman whose own
jittery eyes were staring back at us in confusion and wonder.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We knew
immediately that she was insane.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There are times
when folks can fool you about their madness, feigning sanity for hours or days
or years before you run across them eating purple crayons and doing unspeakable
things to donkeys. That was not the case here. We were in the Express Lane, no
doubt about it. She was wearing an outfit that might best be described as
“soccer player on acid”, she had a hairdo that implied “I only bathe when I
remember what that is”, and she marched right up to our table, whipped a
cigarette out of her pack, and proceeded to throw the pack on our table in a
clear homesteading maneuver.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is one of
the ultimate taboos in the smoking world.
Yes, the 12 smokers left in the United States often find themselves in
temporary-bonding situations, as they huddle together 50 yards from the entrance
to a restaurant and try not to get shot by vigilantes, but there are still
protocols. And one of them is that you do not stake a claim at an occupied
table in a smoking-zone unless you have slept with someone at that table on at
least two prior occasions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Since neither
Johhna nor I could recall ever having been horizontal with Medusa of the
Doorway, we were a bit affronted. Then again, we’d just consumed a Bloody Mary
bigger than a car, so there was definitely some flexibility here. Besides, a
runaway train of cray-cray can be very entertaining, as long as you remember to
get out of the way before the derailment. So we sat back and just let Medusa
share her thoughts on mankind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Boy, did she
ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At first, her
ramblings were a bit benign. She initially
babbled about how the weather was ultra-pleasing today, words that she on/off
muttered between bouts of staring at those things in the back wall. (They’re
called bricks, sweetie.) Then there was some mess about how she had kicked off
her morning by indulging in something that was not alcohol and most likely not
legal. (She definitely had a fondness, or inability, for choosing words that
had any real concrete message, a theme that would continue throughout our
fellowship.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Then she
eventually wandered her way into incoherent tales of working for some type of
adjunct program with the Sierra Club, a community-service (or so it seemed)
type of thing where she would pay money to go on a trip and do manual labor for
needful local citizenry. She mentioned the name of this program several times,
but the name didn’t fully register because I was too busy watching her eyeballs
vibrate. (Dear Sierra Club, I am not trying to besmirch you in any way. I had
no way to gauge the truthfulness of this woman’s oratory. Please see above
references to Medusa, lack of proper sportsmanship in social settings, and
inappropriate wardrobe selections.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Whatever the
program was called, Sierra Club involvement aside, it cost 300 dollars per
trip. The financial part was very clear, because this woman repeated that
figure at least 20 times. 300 dollars. Over and over. It’s like she was going for some type of door
prize for the number of repetitions. I felt like I should write “300!” on the
wall behind us so the poor wretch would stop bellowing that number. Sadly,
Vanna White did not walk up and offer me a writing implement, so I couldn’t do
this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna, on the
other hand, didn’t need a spokesmodel/failed actress to further her cause. She
decided that it would be jovial to query Neurotica Nancy on the finer details
of her vague endeavors. “So, person, what did you do on these trips?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “Trips?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna: “Not the trip that you’re on now, the thing
with the Sierra Club. What did you do? How did you help?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “Oh… um… we… there was weeding…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna: “Oh?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “Weeding management.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna: “I see that. And where did you go?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “Go? Um, we went… Alaska… and some other…
I’ve been four times… other states… Washing and Origami…” (Keep in mind that
during the pausing bits, Person would stare at the ground as if contemplating
where she might be at the moment and whether or not she turned off the iron
back at the halfway-house.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna: “Uh huh.
And when you were there did you-“<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “Hawaii! We went to Hawaii!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna, smiling,
because she lives in Hawaii, and this suddenly became very interesting: “Really? And where did you stay in Hawaii?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “The big one… the big… island. And the other
island.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna: “And what
did you do there?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “Do? Oh… there were waves. I could sit and watch. The waves would come
in, and the waves would go out. The waves would come in, and the waves would go
out. The waves would come in, and…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna:
“The waves would go out?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “Yes! And then the waves would go out and-“<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna: “But what did you do there? Help me
understand.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “There was… there were people… and they would
decide about… and we would do… and they would plan things and… we… they had to
make decisions about… decisions… and we…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna: “Yes?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “The waves would come in…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna: “They do that a lot.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Person: “It was 300 dollars! And that’s a lot of
money for me, I’m a teacher!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Those last three
words were the most chilling of the afternoon. She was a <i>teacher</i>? Holy crap.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The back door of
the pub suddenly slammed open again, and we were presented with a waitress
proffering a steaming bowl. “Do you want your chili out here or back inside?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My mind boggled.
What the hell?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Then the waitress
glared at Crazy Train, her expression indicating that she had heard, many
times, about the waves coming in and out, and she no longer cared for the
constant updates. She just wanted it to be the end of her shift, and if people
had to get hurt to make that happen, so be it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Crazy stared at
the bowl, flummoxed. Then she turned to look at us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Johhna and I just
stared back at her. We had nothing to do with this chili development. It’s all
on you, girl. Deal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Crazy swiveled
back to Waitress. “I… think that… the waves should go in.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Waitress promptly
turned and fled, mission complete.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Crazy turned back
in our direction, although it took a bit for her to determine exactly where we
might be located. Then she decided that there might be something to be gained
from becoming even more intimate, as if such a thing were even possible. “I’m
Gillian. And that’s my real name.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It was fully
understandable that this woman might need an alias from time to time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Still, the random
arrival of the chili did present a convenient exit opportunity for Johhna and
myself, should we choose to take it. (I was more invested in departure than
Johhna, who seemed to be enjoying this spectacle far more than she should.
There was a definite entertainment factor to it all, but it was hot out here
and things were becoming damp in unattractive places. Besides, we hadn’t
bothered to frisk Gillian for weapons, despite that being an obvious course of
action once Gill opened her mouth and the Mental Institution Alumni Newsletter
fell out. She could jump us at any moment, thinking we were weeds, and the
hacking would begin.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So I took the
initiative to make imminent departure moves. (Which basically consisted of me
staring at the back door of the pub with obvious longing, a single tear running
down my cheek. This triggered something in Gillian’s psyche, probably a trace memory of the Native American in that
long ago anti-litter commercial, where he was pissed off about the trashy white
people throwing their beer cans and McDonald’s sacks on the side of the road,
and Gillian mistakenly assumed that it was time to report for litter detail on
her next Sierra Club adventure. Only 300 dollars!) She faced the door as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Which left Johhna
as the only one not studying the woodwork, so she grudgingly got out of her
chair and joined us. We graciously allowed Gillian to wander in before us (I
was NOT going to allow that woman to be behind me for any reason), and as Gilly
pinballed her way up the hall, Johhna thought it would be festive to holler “And
the waves roll out!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Gillian didn’t
hear a thing. Of course she didn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Meanwhile,
somewhere in Dallas, there’s a group of confused students sitting in a
classroom, awaiting the return of their teacher. They’ve been sitting there
since Friday, afraid to move since they weren’t properly dismissed. All they
know is that Miss Gillian said something about needing some chili and that she
would be right back…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-745778907456717472013-08-08T22:49:00.003-05:002013-08-08T22:49:45.119-05:00How to Read a Kindle Book If You Don’t Have a Kindle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYN3uLHoJfyQK2cuQlQq6tD0J9CYEaVHcDtoXT3UdUiGfOpXVoshRtUthXbgPij4TbRBxIizr7NG1GEz0ywmVfSbUIuD-NTOII5x5btJp0HYCDm8q_Apqdtadcc3N_4q7Afc6g7D3ggcYd/s1600/Me+Inn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYN3uLHoJfyQK2cuQlQq6tD0J9CYEaVHcDtoXT3UdUiGfOpXVoshRtUthXbgPij4TbRBxIizr7NG1GEz0ywmVfSbUIuD-NTOII5x5btJp0HYCDm8q_Apqdtadcc3N_4q7Afc6g7D3ggcYd/s1600/Me+Inn.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Dear Friends,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Amidst all the
excitement about releasing my book on Amazon, I’ve had several folks wondering how
they can go about getting the book if they don’t have a Kindle. Well, since
there’s already enough confusion in the world (WHY are any of the Kardshians
even remotely famous)?), I’ve put together a quickie list of how you can
circumvent the pesky non-ownership of a Kindle…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Amazon offers
free apps that will allow you to read Kindle books on a variety of platforms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Desktops and
laptops:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Windows 8:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_w8_ln_ar?docId=1000844301">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_w8_ln_ar?docId=1000844301</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Windows 7, XP
and Vista:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_pc_ln_ar?docId=1000426311">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_pc_ln_ar?docId=1000426311</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Mac:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_mac_ln_ar?docId=1000464931">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_mac_ln_ar?docId=1000464931</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Tablets:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
iPad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_ipa_ln_ar?docId=1000490441">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_ipa_ln_ar?docId=1000490441</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Android:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_and_ln_ar?docId=165849822">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_and_ln_ar?docId=165849822</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Windows 8:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_w8_ln_ar?docId=1000844301">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_w8_ln_ar?docId=1000844301</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Smartphones:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
iPhone and
iPod Touch:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_iph_ln_ar?docId=1000301301">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_iph_ln_ar?docId=1000301301</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Android:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_and_ln_ar?docId=165849822">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_and_ln_ar?docId=165849822</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Windows
Phone:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_wp_ln_ar?docId=1000623751">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_wp_ln_ar?docId=1000623751</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Blackberry:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=klm_lnd_inst?docId=1000468551">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=klm_lnd_inst?docId=1000468551</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There’s even a
thing called a Kindle Cloud Reader, which does something magical to your
browser, I’m really not sure what this one is all about, maybe it means
something to you:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://read.amazon.com/">https://read.amazon.com/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Fair disclaimer:
I haven’t tried any of these apps, so please read things carefully before
clicking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Hopefully, this
list will allow everyone to download my book in some way, shape of form. Oh,
and here’s a link for the actual book:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Screaming-in-Paris-ebook/dp/B00EE928U8/">http://www.amazon.com/Screaming-in-Paris-ebook/dp/B00EE928U8/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Finally, why is
the book only available on Kindle? Well, I’m in a program with them where they
have exclusive rights to the distribution for 90 days. (I can’t even sell it on
my own website, I can only provide links to the book on their website.) This
program has side benefits for me that seem reasonable for now, so I signed on
the virtually dotted line. I’ll take another look after the first 90 days have
gone by, and then determine if I want to stay in the program.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Anyway, that’s it
for now with the technical angle, back to the funny in the next post.
Hopefully.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
B.<o:p></o:p></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-64259995875863438392013-08-07T22:10:00.000-05:002013-08-07T22:23:36.978-05:00Drum Roll, Please<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimmeShXzFxuH4mz3X4cxe8HdFB8hnR_HwUGTjOnmHTyzG99jTPCT1Eo-3kppHJ7MDBeMXmuC5ssrwUQhNpWXEVY9UvEBMivimQhFH8HMfg99s_h33YvQtgzs1s245P8wgLW-AUADEHD8P/s1600/Cover+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimmeShXzFxuH4mz3X4cxe8HdFB8hnR_HwUGTjOnmHTyzG99jTPCT1Eo-3kppHJ7MDBeMXmuC5ssrwUQhNpWXEVY9UvEBMivimQhFH8HMfg99s_h33YvQtgzs1s245P8wgLW-AUADEHD8P/s1600/Cover+2.jpg" height="640" width="440" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And there you have it, the book cover for the Kindle Edition of "Screaming in Paris".<br />
<br />
Hopefully, the layout accomplishes its goal of overcoming the somewhat horror-story hint of the title (People are screaming in Paris, something must be on the loose!) and conveys the message that this is actually a humor book where you are supposed to chuckle, not die. We'll see.<br />
<br />
Yes, that's me front and center. It's a snap my sister, Dawn, took in one of the elevators at the Eiffel Tower. (We were bored at the moment, and I believe she said something like "what do you think of all these people packed in here with us?" I responded physically, she clicked.) Of course, I jacked around with the thing in Corel PaintShop, and a cover was born.<br />
<br />
It took me a while to make a final selection. I went through over a thousand pics from that 2009 week in France and, initially, there were other options that were front runners. But I kept coming back to this one. There's just something about the expression on my face, the fact that I'm actually <i>in</i> a Paris landmark, and my sister's composition that allowed me to squeeze in the necessary text. (Not that I'm happy about the double-chin action going on, but I couldn't find an option in PaintShop that said "click here to eliminate unruly body parts".)<br />
<br />
Anyway, the details are somewhat unimportant, the real focus is whether or not the layout invites you or repels you. The book is about to be released any day now on Kindle, so it will probably go out with this cover version. But I'll be tracking responses and commentary, and if the cover is affecting sales, I can always drop this one and go with the next runner-up, just like they did when Vanessa Williams turned out to have too artsy of a past to be Miss America...Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-29052376520208468412013-07-26T23:05:00.002-05:002013-07-26T23:06:36.291-05:00Postcard #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFjWiPKA8BDKJceBzInQdvrlEomSKzm4kLGVZ9mhmbkw_CvWmBPHTEU8XD8dmME4rgSM6zBMOTEy-0L5FAKjyyN1lwv6i40FjQtnQkBRJ41jOo0PhHeSf894OnY7GaWjAhTNEHSihBKIOa/s1600/Me+Inn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFjWiPKA8BDKJceBzInQdvrlEomSKzm4kLGVZ9mhmbkw_CvWmBPHTEU8XD8dmME4rgSM6zBMOTEy-0L5FAKjyyN1lwv6i40FjQtnQkBRJ41jOo0PhHeSf894OnY7GaWjAhTNEHSihBKIOa/s1600/Me+Inn.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So, it’s been a
bit since I’ve managed to post anything here on this blog. Not really
surprising, my whole focus lately has been on
getting “Screaming in Paris” ready for digital publication. Still, I
feel a bit guilty about the posting drought, especially since it wasn’t that
long ago that I would get into a tizzy if I didn’t post every day. In the hopes
of keeping interest alive as well as ease the shame of my lackluster blog
performance, here’s a snippet from what is now “Chapter 32” of Screaming…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Okay, time for a slight break from the
narrative. Let’s take Paris out of the equation. Isn’t it amazing, when you are
dealing with multiple family members and trying to select a food destination,
that the whole process becomes this maddening, excruciating journey through
hell?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Picture this: Trace and I are innocently
sitting in our humble domicile, our Fortress of Solitude, when one of our
families (I won’t say which one), calls and announces that they are coming down
for the weekend. That’s fine, great, love to see ya. So the platoon of
relatives descends on Dallas, and everything is fairly decent, lots of love all
around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Until it’s time for us to go eat somewhere.
Then the soul-sucking hatch to madness opens up, and we fall through it, with a
big batch of Alices tumbling down the rabbit hole.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> First, it takes two hours for everyone to
actually get<i> in</i> to the vehicle that
has been chosen for our drive to a restaurant. This should not be difficult.
You stand up, you walk out the door, and you get into the car. This should take
five minutes, ten if you need to set the security alarm and make sure the cat
has food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Instead, two hours. No one is prepared to
actually leave the house, even though we have all been up for hours and
everyone has bathed. Everyone is dressed. Makeup has been applied. Yet all
these people still have last-minute things that they need to take care of
before we can leave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> So people are stomping all over the house,
doing who knows what the hell, and no one is getting in the van. No one. The
departure announcement has been made, people. Get your asses out here. I’m in
the driver’s seat, ready to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> No one in sight. Tumbleweeds blow past and a
cow moos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> So I go back in the house. Everyone looks the
same. In fact, they appear to be in the same positions as when I left the house
to start the car thirty minutes earlier. What are you <i>doing</i>? Come ON!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Still, we spend more time gathering things
that nobody needs, changing blouses that looked just fine the first time, and
thoroughly inspecting the contents of purses that will never be opened during
the entire journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Finally, when I’m just shy of pulling out a
cattle prod (no need to ask why I happen to own one), we get everybody in the
van. Then it’s another thirty minutes while people jostle around, switching
seats, adjusting car seats for the little ones, screwing with the seatbelts,
arguing over who gets the window and who gets shotgun, and having to wait while
people check their purse for the fourth time to ensure that they still have the
things that they will never need.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Eventually, and several gray hairs later, we
are able to close all vehicle doors. I maneuver down the driveway, but pause
before pulling out into the street. I know from experience that we need
confirmation of the destination. When you are dealing with ten people having
sidebar conversations about food, there will often be furtive executive
decisions made where you didn’t get the email.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “So, we’re still going to Ingrid’s House of
Pasta, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Total silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Okay, somebody say something. Yes or no.
Ingrid’s?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Total silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I am now gnawing on the steering wheel to
keep me sane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Then a small voice from somewhere in the
back: “Well…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I jerk my head up and look in the rearview
mirror. “Who said that? Somebody in the third row. I see movement. Show your
face.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Everyone is still as stone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Fine.” I start to put the van in gear.
“Ingrid’s it is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> From the back again: “But we were thinking…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I turn off the engine, take a deep breath,
force my eyes to bulge in an obvious display of lunacy, and whip around to face
the demons behind me. “Okay, here’s the deal. You will come to a decision, and
you will come to a decision NOW. I am not starting this car until every single
one of you is in complete rapture about our destination. Do. You. Understand.
Me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Total silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-69128511297534345962013-06-07T22:03:00.001-05:002013-06-07T22:08:18.371-05:00Slash and Burn<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So I’ve been
banging around, trying to convert the Paris Chronicles blog series from 2009
into something that could have the pacing and flow of an actual book. As many writers
will attest, it can be a very painful process, trying to edit something you’ve
worked on years before, something you <i>thought</i>
had been put to rest, for better or worse. And now here you are, dragging the
poor thing out of the ground, editorial meat cleaver held high.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s not all doom
and gloom, of course. It’s very nice reviewing a particular blog post and
thinking, okay, that holds up pretty well, I just need an intro and an outro
and the post is now a chapter. Yay! I must have been really focused that day. (Writers
need that boost, that reassurance that you are actually capable of cleanly
hitting the target from time to time.
Otherwise, we get a little crazy.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
On the flip side,
some of the posts are a disaster, especially from the viewpoint of turning them
into book chapters. There might be several lovely paragraphs in a row, full of
wit and charm, and then BAM, I run into two paragraphs that basically suck,
with the suckage factor loud enough that the cats race from the room and they
are not seen for two days. Why did I think this section was funny, or even
publishable, at the time? The mind, it can be a terrible thing to cut and
paste.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So the literary
renovation has been rather time-consuming. (As it should, if you want to get it
right.) Entire original posts have been excised and banished, never to be
spoken of again. Paragraphs of pointless meandering have vanished, and subplots
that slammed into a brick wall and then limped back to the main story are now in the trashcan. (But I
promise I will never actually empty that trashcan. It will simply be placed in
the attic along with all the other “well, <i>that</i>
didn’t really work out” ideas that might gain some useable worth in the future.
Until then, they shall gather the dust of time.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
However, the
remodeling hasn’t been just a slash and burn. In fact, I have worked in far
more <i>new</i> material than I have deleted
of the old. Expanded dialogue and scenes, additional adventures that didn’t
make the cut the first time around, transitional passages that smooth over the
sometimes abrupt sting of original posts that ended simply because I was tired
and I had to get another post out the next day. The resulting book will be a
different read from the blog run, with much more of, hopefully, the things that
worked the first time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Which actually
gets us to the point of <i>this</i> post. I’m
down to just a handful of posts that need to be converted. And one of them is a
blog entry concerning a sidebar, completely fictional story I wrote as a
response to a picture that I took at the Chateau de Chambord. This bit has
nothing to do with the real-world adventures on our trip, removing it will not
affect the flow at all. But I still kind of like this one, and I’m on the
include/don’t include fence, wondering if the effort to “make it fit” is
justified by the value of the content.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And this is where
you come in, dear reader.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I am pasting the
mostly-original post below. (There have been some minor modifications, because
I can’t help but tinker with things.) But you don’t need to know where it fits
in the overall story, because it’s outside that story, it’s a stand-alone, and
you should read it as such. (For those
who followed the original run of the blog series, you will notice that my
family members’ real-life names have been converted to whimsical French names,
something that I have done throughout the new book, for a number of reasons.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So, if you accept
the challenge and have the time, please read the story and then add a comment
(either here or on Facebook) with one of three ratings:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A - Very
funny, fit this in somehow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
B -
Amusing, but Argentina will not cry for you if you cut it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
C - Make
your peace and let it go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Easy enough,
right? And no, you don’t <i>have</i> to
comment, if that’s not your thing. But I would certainly appreciate it if you
do. Since I’m truly undecided about keeping this bit or not, I will not be
offended in the slightest with your ratings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The Picture:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ahQWxSz9M_gD3aWfKZkVjiTL6jMBpPOcUNkYFy_Ng9IFugGVCvm40iHWPIQ-EWR-oPNqVGKQutTXAuvcjKB9aVTXnWoX2JjruXojD6Qc_4jURElxGtblrTObhILKP9pDvA5gZT3_KLut/s1600/Costume+Party.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ahQWxSz9M_gD3aWfKZkVjiTL6jMBpPOcUNkYFy_Ng9IFugGVCvm40iHWPIQ-EWR-oPNqVGKQutTXAuvcjKB9aVTXnWoX2JjruXojD6Qc_4jURElxGtblrTObhILKP9pDvA5gZT3_KLut/s1600/Costume+Party.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The Story:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is the clan standing just outside the Salle du
Grande Fromage at the Chateau de Chambord, waiting for some servant to make the
formal announcement that we have arrived for tonight’s masked ball. This is
procedural protocol for such royal events. You do not do anything until you
have been announced. <br />
<br />
This, of course, is unlike the American concept of arriving at a party. Back
home, if we were headed to someone’s shindig, one would typically bang through
the front door, usually without knocking, slam down a casserole on the kitchen
table (a dish that you usually didn’t even prepare yourself and instead relied
on one of your bored, socially-awkward relatives to prepare for you), high-five
whoever is standing near you, and then reach for a beer. There are no
announcements, formal or otherwise. <br />
<br />
Anyway, the guy on the far right is with the castle staff. Since we only heard
about the festivities at the last minute and arrived without an actual
invitation, he is checking with the head chef in the kitchen to ensure there is
enough food to pacify the over-sized American appetite, as opposed to the
French appetite, where an entire ballroom of slender Parisians can be satisfied
with one jar of olives and maybe some leftover brie. <br />
<br />
Right next to the staffer, you can see that Maman is the official
representative for our clan. She felt it was only right that she be the first
one announced to the exclusive gathering, since it was her idea to come to this
castle in the first place, she was the one who coordinated the whole van thing,
and she’s been to France more than any of us and therefore is the most
sophisticated about the French culture and she can show us how it’s done. <br />
<br />
(We simply chose to ignore the weaknesses of these qualifications, especially
the last bit about French culture. Seriously, if Maman ever tried to actually
order something in French at a restaurant, she would be arrested immediately,
deported, told to never come back, and a discreet phone call would be made to
the White House.) <br />
<br />
She actually got to go first because she’s the shortest, therefore less
intimidating, and she likes to chatter a lot. These qualities are appealing to
the French. They like short, chirpy things. After all, we were basically
crashing the party, and we needed to ease into the setting. Sending Mom in
first would be a more agreeable sight as the royal guests got their first sight
of an “Oklahoman”. If we had sent Darrin in first, towering over everyone and
stomping in his biker boots like Godzilla attacking the city, there would have
been screams of terror, broken china, and spilt wine. <br />
<br />
Proceeding left in the line up, we then have Reina. She is not the least bit
happy at this moment. Maman is forcing her to wear a poofy dress that she
hates. On top of that, since we were running late, Maman had decided to just
slam the dress over her head, wheelchair and all. <br />
<br />
This, of course, led to some immediate complications. The voluminous material
of the dress kept getting caught in the gears of the wheelchair, locking the
wheels and abruptly stopping all forward movement of the vehicle. Normally,
this would send Reina tumbling to the ground. Instead, because she was <i>wearing</i> the material locked in the
wheels, she was trapped in place but quickly losing the available material to
actually wear, making the dress tighter and tighter as the wheels gobbled more
of the fabric. <br />
<br />
Reina was being eaten alive by her own couture. <br />
<br />
By the end of the night she would be wearing nothing but a sash as a tube top
and a hastily-snatched drapery tassel as a creatively-arranged thong. <br />
<br />
Continuing left, we have Trace, who is also not in that great of a mood. He’s a
little miffed that his outfit looks astonishingly similar to the one worn by
Maman, even though they worked with two completely different designers on
opposite sides of the city. He will not be able to stand out in the crowd as
much as he had hoped. At least the foo-foo thing on his head is more flamboyant
than Mom’s foo-foo, so he does have a height advantage. There is still hope for
a stunning entrance. <br />
<br />
(Then again, looks like he may have made an unfortunate choice in going with
the asymmetrical cut of his evening wear, with the one completely exposed leg
and the other sheathed in taffeta. Perhaps J-Lo could have pulled off this
look. T-Lo, not so much.) <br />
<br />
Care to venture a guess as to who is next in line? With the queenly bearing and
the only one in the clan to be directly facing the paparazzi? <br />
<br />
Tatum. Naturally. <br />
<br />
She, as expected, was the most perturbed at not being designated as “First to
Be Announced”. After all, she is still convinced that her family ruled this
country at one time, so it was a total shock that she was not going to be the
first float in the parade. But she understood, as all ladies of the court
understand, that any revenge you seek should not be brash and hasty. You must
plot wisely and carefully. And plot she did. <br />
<br />
Her left hand that is chastely hidden behind her back? It’s holding a knife.
She is just waiting for the right opportunity to whip it out and hack at those
who have wrongly not recognized her noble breeding. It’s simply a matter of
time until there is bloodshed. <br />
<br />
Speaking of plotting, if we jump left to the other side of the stone column, we
have another example of a scorned female seeking to show displeasure at having
something she wanted rudely snatched from her grasp. This is Nynette. <br />
<br />
Her issue? <br />
<br />
Well, Nynette also had dreams of being the Belle of this particular Balle.
Let’s face it, she’s traveled all the way from Odessa, Texas to be here. Might
as well go all out. She had worked tirelessly the whole day on her attire and
presentation, racing from shop to shop to get everything she needed, consulting
with Tatum to ensure that she purchased the highest-quality makeup and
top-of-the-line hair products so that she would be a goddess of beauty and
light. <br />
<br />
Then, just five minutes before this shot was taken, as we rolled up to the
Chateau de Chambord in our horse-drawn carriage that we stole from a stupid man
in a nearby quaint village, a devastating conversation took place between
Nynette and one of the many servants who rushed out to greet us and attend to
our immediate needs. The dialogue went something like this: <br />
<br />
Male servant, assisting Nynette down from the carriage: “Ahhh, madame, your
costume is magnifique.” <br />
<br />
Nynette, slightly blushing but thrilled: “Well, thank you! I appreciate that. I
worked really hard to-” <br />
<br />
Servant: “You are being the… the name is not in my mind at this moment… the American
woman who sewed the American flag… a grand idea to come as such, very much
clever.” <br />
<br />
Nynette, momentarily confused, then realizing: “Sewed the flag? Wait. You think
I look like Betsy Ross?” <br />
<br />
Servant: “Oui, madame. Very much a good image. Very… convincing.” <br />
<br />
Nynette, now outraged: “But she was UGLY! I don’t want to look like Betsy Ross.
Do you think I spent all this money just to look like some simple seamstress
from Philadelphia?” She snatched her hand away from the servant and helped
herself out of the carriage. <br />
<br />
Servant: “Madame… my English is not of perfection… but I am not saying of the
ugly and simple-” <br />
<br />
Nynette: “Just go help somebody else. I’m fine. Leave me alone, you wretched
man.” <br />
<br />
Then Nynette stomped away on the finely-maintained alabaster gravel of the
entrance courtyard, crunching off to one side, then turned to watch as the rest
of our party descended from the carriage. <br />
<br />
Next out of the carriage door was Tatum, bursting through the opening in a
glowing and radiant way, instantly charming most of the servants who then
rushed to assist her, one of them rudely pushing Nynette to the side in his
haste to offer comfort to the latest vision of loveliness. <br />
<br />
Nynette, scowling, barely paid attention, at first, to this rush of devotion
for her friend. And then it clicked. <br />
<br />
Tatum was the one who convinced her to buy this particular makeup. Tatum was
the one who insisted that she wear this specific outfit because it would “look
fab”. Tatum was the one who said “no, shoving your hair up into this wig does
NOT make you look like a serial-killer posing as a high-school cafeteria worker.”
<br />
<br />
Tatum was not a bestie. She was the evil opposite. She was a bitchie. <br />
<br />
And with that thought, Nynette began to plan her own revenge. She wasn’t sure
how, but justice was going to be served. By the time the photo above was taken
ten minutes later, she had a rudimentary plan. Details still needed
fine-tuning, but the basic gist was that Nynette was going to shove Tatum’s
treacherous head into a silver punch bowl, washing away Tatum’s own
carefully-applied makeup, thus revealing all of the traitor’s skin flaws to the
entire court. Nynette hoped that somewhere along the line the royals had
installed florescent lighting, thus making the Big Reveal even more shocking
and traumatic. <br />
<br />
Back to the group photo. <br />
<br />
Moving to the left of Nynette/Betsy, we have Daisi, looking naturally stunning
and thin as a blade of grass. Daisi is also a woman scorned (we seem to have a
lot of them in our family), and Daisi is a woman who is about to take the life
of the man she is glaring at with murder in her eyes. <br />
<br />
That man is Dash, her up-to-this-point-at-least husband. You see, Dash has an
interesting concept of how to behave in public. For the most part, he’s
harmless. He just goes with the flow. But he’s a firm believer in taking care
of bodily needs as they arise. He feels that anything which naturally occurs
should not be offensive. It’s just part of being a human. <br />
<br />
In this case, the natural occurrence is that he has just let rip with one of
the loudest examples of flatulence that has ever taken place in the history of
our planet. The sheer energy that has been released could power a small village
for several days. As this photo is being taken, the reverberations of his
release are still echoing throughout the five stories of hand-carved stonework
in this palace. <br />
<br />
Daisi is mortified. Dash is mystified at her mortification. What? You expected
me to keep that IN? A gas bubble the size of Jupiter that could work its way to
my heart and kill me? Do you <i>want</i>
that? <br />
<br />
As the thunderous rumble slowly dissipates, let’s move to the final person on
the far left. This is me. As you’ll notice, I’m facing away from these
obnoxious people, hiding my face in shame. We get all gussied up for a fancy ball,
but the hick still oozes out like somebody’s got a major problem with their
septic tank. <br />
<br />
I’m wanting to leave. I’m wanting to just quietly slip out the door and walk
away. I don’t care about the carriage. I’ll find my own way. I will walk until
my feet are bloody nubs, hoping to find a secluded spot in the country where I
can have a simple life, raising goats and reading poetry to the tomato plants
that I lovingly nourish. <br />
<br />
If only Tatum hadn’t talked us into coming to this party. If only- <br />
<br />
Wait a minute. There’s the key. <br />
<br />
Tatum. <br />
<br />
Oh my God. It’s like the end of that movie, “The Usual Suspects,” where the
detective stares at his bulletin board and suddenly everything is clear. Clues
that he should have picked up on, but he didn’t until that final moment when
the pieces clicked. Scenes from the our whole day flash before my eyes: <br />
<br />
Tatum telling Maman: “Oh, go ahead and get the poofy dress for Reina. It won’t
get caught in the wheelchair at all. It’s silk. Silk doesn’t catch. But on the
teeny tiny chance that it does, I can take your place at the front of the line.
It’s the least I can do.” <br />
<br />
Tatum telling Trace, over brunch: “You have GOT to use this design for your
costume. It’s totally unique. No one else in the world will be wearing anything
like it. And that asymmetrical part? To DIE for.” A bit later, I should have
known something was up when I spotted Tatum racing away from the hotel fax
machine with a furtive look in her eye. I just thought she was helping Trace
out by sending the pattern to his designer. But she must have been sending the
pattern to Maman’s designer as well, thus ensuring that there would be an
awkward twinkie situation. <br />
<br />
Tatum to Nynette, as they were sharing a beer and makeup tips in the bathroom:
“No, sweetie, pancake makeup is NOT a bad thing. It’s very hip these days. And
wear this dowdy wig, which is also very current. Trust me. You will NOT look
like that woman who happened to share a pew with George Washington at his
church, managing to score a gig to make a flag in an early form of social
networking.”<br />
<br />
Tatum to Dash, as they are perusing the fresh vegetables at an open market
while the rest of the women are back at the hotel, squeezing themselves into
their outfits for the evening: “Do you like broccoli? I LOVE broccoli. Here,
try some. Try some more. Isn’t it good? More.” <br />
<br />
These whizzing scenes in my mind come to a halt. Tatum has done all of this to
make sure that she would be the standout at the ball. <br />
<br />
I pull back from the stone pillar at Chateau de Chambord where I have been
banging my head. I turn and glare directly at Tatum. <br />
<br />
She knows instantly that the game is up. <br />
<br />
“You!” My voice echoes upwards, joining the lingering gases of Dash’s ass. <br />
<br />
She yelps. Then I hear a clatter as she releases the knife she had been holding
behind her back. “But I didn’t really mean to-” <br />
<br />
“YOU!” I repeat, marching in her direction. “What is WRONG with you? Do you
have to be the center of attention SO bad that you would-” <br />
<br />
Just then, we hear the odd two-note siren of an approaching French police car.
Great. <br />
<br />
Tatum’s eyes are wide with fear. She instinctively reaches for her lip gloss
with a trembling hand…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-72170037017687076362013-05-11T00:07:00.000-05:002013-05-11T00:07:00.980-05:00Where I’ve Been, And Why<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFyaJS6PUqJL_Cr6c7SogtxFliUP_lHr1SEqVXMNBixbz3xyl3BLoaF_mEleXmrkMvFjTcx9v1fjRTWbzSLrP3PRSxEWgDxwbPPSQb4OeTo1SmlswZ6pgtbrIOM3wZnFQBGFNcGlxYhkX/s1600/Me+Inn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFyaJS6PUqJL_Cr6c7SogtxFliUP_lHr1SEqVXMNBixbz3xyl3BLoaF_mEleXmrkMvFjTcx9v1fjRTWbzSLrP3PRSxEWgDxwbPPSQb4OeTo1SmlswZ6pgtbrIOM3wZnFQBGFNcGlxYhkX/s1600/Me+Inn.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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So, in the middle
of December, last year, I suddenly stopped posting on this blog. Absolutely
nothing for over 3 months. I basically avoided any updates on Facebook,
although there were a few drive-by snippets here and there. I didn’t throw
anything out on Twitter, although, to be fair, I never really got invested in
the Twitter thing. (There’s something about the 160-character thing that just
irks and inhibits me.) My Pinterest boards went silent, I apparently stopped
perusing books according to Goodreads, and Google Plus became Google Minus.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Last month, the
silence on this blog was briefly broken, with three half-ass posts, not my
best, then the tumbleweeds started rolling again. I essentially went AWOL from
social media, and I gave no reason why. But today, with the arrival of a
certain something in the mail, I decided it was time to chat a little bit about
what’s been going on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Despite the
concerns expressed by a few people who emailed me privately, I did not go into
a depression. Rather, I went into a distraction. Two of them, actually. My
creative juices did not dry up. Instead, the juices were squeezed into
different containers than this one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The first
container was one of my other blogs, “Backup Dancers From Hell”. At some point
late last year, something I did, or perhaps something someone else did, caused
a huge spike in hits on that blog. I went from an average of less than a
hundred hits a day to over a thousand a day. And the spike held strong,
continuing for weeks. It eventually abated somewhat, but I still regularly get
500-600 hits a day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Granted, an
analysis of hits is rather mundane and boring for people who aren’t writing an
actual blog. But if you <i>are</i> a blogger,
any time you see a spike, you do the best you can to recreate or reinforce
whatever caused that activity. Trouble is, I couldn’t figure out what was
causing all the commotion, what might be
the source of the influx, because the tallies of hits on the individual posts
did not add up to the overall total that Blogger was reporting for that site. And I still haven’t figured it out, even after
I went to the Blogger IT people. They were just as flummoxed as me about the
discrepancy, but they confirmed that the overall total was a valid and
wonderful thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Hmm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Bottom line,
something or somebody somewhere was paying attention to that blog. And the only
way to guarantee the attention was to keep posting. So I have been. Which means
less time for this blog.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The bigger
container for my juices (that sounds a bit naughty, but I’m keeping the phrase
anyway) had two fundamental ingredients. The first was the abysmally<i> low</i> number of hits for <i>this</i> blog. Although I like ALL of my
blogs, at least those that are still active, this one is my pride and joy. This
is where I have the most fun, where I don’t limit myself, and where you can get
the truest glimpse into what I’m really trying to do. But nobody was coming to
visit, despite my promotional efforts on social media.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And that’s
ingredient number two, social media. I had been spending an enormous amount of
time on the various outlets, from Facebook to Pinterest to lesser-known
vehicles that might generate some visits, especially repeat visits, which is
crucial, to my blogs. Yes, some of my time, especially on Facebook, was purely
social in nature and I do enjoy that angle, but a big chunk of my efforts were
concentrated on the business side.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And it really is
a business, for me. I love writing, don’t get me wrong, if The Fates decree
that I am never to earn a penny from my writing, so be it, I will still
continue. But I would like to earn some pennies from it, many pennies, to be
blunt. I would like it to be my career. Scratch that, I <i>dream nightly</i> about it being my career. It’s the one thing I’ve
always wanted, since day one when I first composed a sentence as a young child
and thought, wow, that felt really good. More, please.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But we all face obstacles
when approaching fervent goals, and mine
are currently these: I have a soul-sucking day job that takes up a tremendous
amount of time. (And most of us do, I realize, I’m just listing my grievances
to present a better case in court.) I’ve been spending a lot of time on social
media promoting my material, instead of <i>producing</i>
my material. (And as I’ve mentioned, that promoting doesn’t seem to be getting
anywhere.) And I have a tendency, on this blog, to create hugely-epic,
multi-part posts that only attract my few hard-core readers. (The average
visitor drops into the middle of this mess, immediately gets confused about
what is going on, and leaves.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Those are the
lesser-evils. The biggest impediment? My using the above excuses to justify and
explain why I’m not getting anywhere with this blogging thing. It was time for
me to suck it up, get real, and do what I’ve always wanted to do, which is
write <i>books</i>. The blogs are fine and
dandy, for what they are, and I’ve had many fine moments where I’m
overwhelmingly proud of what I’ve done, even if only my hard-core readers pay
any attention.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So that’s what I’m
going to do, write actual books. More importantly, I’m actually doing something
about it instead of just wishing and hoping. I’ve started on the first book (in
this decade anyway, more on that later) and things seem to be going okay. It’s
a reworking of the “Paris Chronicles” series from this very blog, which
originally ran at the tail-end of 2009. I’m chopping and shifting and adding
and subtracting bits of those 52 posts so that they read in a smoother narrative
flow, so that it proceeds like an actual novel and not something that was
invented on the fly, as it was, one post at a time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Why revisit something
that I’ve already done? Why plunder that which was once writ? Well, because I
think it’s worth the recycling, and the opportunity to revisit “old friends”
has been rather fun, both the good (“oh, I like what I did there”) and the bad (“holy
cow, that sucked”). Over the years and all the various blogs, I’ve amassed a
huge number of posts. If you lay them out end to end, you probably couldn’t
circle the world, but by sheer odds alone there’s going to be a nugget or two
worthy of rescue.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To put it another
way, here’s an excerpt from what is now the opening chapter of <i>Screaming in Paris</i>, a working title that
suits me now but is obviously subject to change. In this bit, I address those
well-intentioned folks who ask why I’ve never written a book…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> In the years
since, as my blog-work wandered through a range of stories and experiments
(some efforts producing pieces of which I’m proud, other efforts calling into
question the severity of my alcohol intake), there was one thing which remained
constant: People were always asking me when I was going to “write a book”.
(Because, as the snooty authors with actual “hard-cover” trophies on the mantel
loved to point out, a blogger just isn’t a “real” writer, he’s only playing in
his own little sandbox.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> But the truth
is, I have written a book. Three of them, many years ago. None of them were
exceptionally brilliant, and all of them were soundly (and probably wisely)
rejected by publishing houses back in the day. (The first effort no longer exists,
the worn pages having been lost at some point as I moved between houses and
cities and states. I believe there might be a copy of the second manuscript in
a box in the attic, but I haven’t tried to find it in years, fearing that it,
too, may have joined its older sibling next to a manual typewriter in the sky.
The third and last child is neatly tucked in a cardboard box and shoved to the
back of a shawdowy, rarely-used drawer in my desk, patiently waiting for me to
love it again.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> There was a
dark period where I wrote very little, a lost decade or two, running in place
and even slipping back down the stairs from time to time. But I never stopped
paying attention, observing, filing away images that planted seeds, quietly
distilling a new approach to my writing. And then this magical concept of
“blogging” came along, a new playing field where you can get real-time reaction
from readers, and you realize rather quickly whether or not an experiment is
working. My seeds now had plenty of water, I just had to keep fertilizing them.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> My farm, over
time, exploded. At one point I had nine separate blogs, each constructed around
completely different concepts, using various writing styles. The years of
pent-up non-expression came pouring out of me, two or three posts a day. I
don’t think my fingers ever stopped moving in 2010 and 2011. It was a glorious,
wonderful release. But there was a potential price. “You’ve got to slow down,”
warned my more-seasoned blogger friends. “You’ll burn yourself out, you’ll get
all cranky, and people won’t invite you out for cocktails anymore.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> And they were
right, of course. The little engine that could can only cover so much track
before the scenery starts to get a little too familiar. I transferred my engine
to a smaller network of tracks, one with fewer departures and a more relaxed
schedule, and I spent some time reviewing the logs to see just where my train
had been.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> My overgrown garden
is now full of thousands and thousands of pages. Bits of this, long stretches
of that, weird snapshots of whatever, planted hither and yon. THERE are my
books, the new and preferably better ones, the books I actually have been
writing during the years when people thought I was just playing. It’s time to
get out my trowels and shovels and pruning shears and, yes, the dreaded axe,
harvesting the good stuff and sadly sending the not-so-tasty produce to the
compost heap so they can help feed next season’s crop.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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And there you
have it, a snippet of the future, at least for me, one wherein I focus on
writing books and not so much on my blogs. There’s a bit of pain with that,
because I like the immediate response of comments on my posts. But it’s clear
at this point that I’m not doing whatever is necessary for the blogs to become
a source of income. I can’t keep pointing fingers and hoping for something
magical. I have to take concrete steps.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And one of those
firm steps involves what I hinted at earlier, the arrival of something in the
mail this morning. This package contained finalized documents between me and
the county of Dallas, state of Texas. Officially, I am now a publishing
company, <i>Bonnywood Manor</i>. (A name
which should come as no surprise if you have followed me for any length of
time.) It cost me a little bit of money to do so, not overwhelming, but still,
it would certainly cover the tab of several consecutive happy hours at my fave
restaurant, Ojeda’s.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What does this
mean? It means that I can retain complete ownership of anything that I publish,
and that seems rather important to me even if it really isn’t in the long run.
It also means that, someday, once I’ve figured out the hazy maze of getting
things published, I have an umbrella to hold up, where I can reach out to
others who type endlessly into the night and dream during the day, and help
them share what I hope to share. Baby steps now, strong strides later.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But first I have
to finish my first/fourth book, make it festive and enticing. Which means,
somewhat sadly but also encouragingly, that this blog will transition. I’ll
still be using this site to post original material, especially when I need
input on tricky bits where I’m needing critical insight. But it won’t be what
it once was, which was a repository for my literary whims. Instead, it will
become a sounding board as I reflect on life, liberty, the pursuit of
publication, and a never-ending quest to find the perfect queso to compliment a
margarita.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Or, as some
purists will say, it will become an actual <i>blog</i>,
a hitching post for what is happening in my life. This scares me a little bit,
because I have a tendency to hide the real me from the spotlight, after years
of being misunderstood and defaulting myself into obscurity. I initially named
this blog “The Sound and the Fury” for a reason. I’m going back to that reason,
and I hope you’ll join me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But there will
always be my stories, either here or somewhere else, that I promise.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stay tuned.
Please.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-27722502188826964372013-04-19T22:58:00.000-05:002013-04-19T22:58:13.858-05:0015 Updated Adult Beverages to Help You Cope With Modern Society<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1doNJkgPTR6hm45x53j9nIC5X0q5qA0YXAafM5Yg19eJFlggij8rCjUWyT0QjG6rO_WYdWgFYYZlBPKGNlS1bhAQcipal-_mssknsT2bP8zfqVzz41zr0S_hpF4IFa9-hC3V8Z1EnWVhb/s1600/10+Reasons+Adult+Beverages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1doNJkgPTR6hm45x53j9nIC5X0q5qA0YXAafM5Yg19eJFlggij8rCjUWyT0QjG6rO_WYdWgFYYZlBPKGNlS1bhAQcipal-_mssknsT2bP8zfqVzz41zr0S_hpF4IFa9-hC3V8Z1EnWVhb/s1600/10+Reasons+Adult+Beverages.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></div>
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1. The Surly Temple<o:p></o:p></div>
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This drink was
originally created to placate people who confused their uptight religious
upbringing (no demon alcohol!) with their natural social inclination to have a
good time with their less salvation-based friends. Sadly, because the Surly
Temple <i>has no actual alcohol</i> and did
nothing to make prudish people relax their sphincters, the ordering of a Surly
Temple by restaurant and/or bar patrons became a clear signal to the service
staff that “this is somebody who is not going to tip well
because they have issues, skip the dessert presentation and get them out of
here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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2. The Marge Or Rita<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is the drink
you should order when the bartender hollers “Last Call!” to help you determine
who you get to share hangovers with the next morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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3. Gin and Chronic<o:p></o:p></div>
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This will help
you live with all those recurring body aches and pains that mysteriously and
suddenly appear at the very second you turn 40. (You know, those things you
tell your doctor about but he gives you a dismissive “get over it, bitch” hand
wave, because you’ve reached that point of personal-decay where a simple sneeze
can throw your back out. Then the doctor bills your insurance company 700
dollars for the three minutes he spent pretending to examine you.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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4. Rum and Cope<o:p></o:p></div>
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Have one of these
before attempting to drive on any major freeway, because it’s inevitable that
some dumb-ass is going to do something completely dumb-ass that jeopardizes the
life of everyone except the dumb-ass. And you really don’t need to be
aggressively forcing said dumb-ass into the Ditch of Retribution until you have
met your insurance deductible for the year.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5. Sex on the Reach<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is the
perfect cocktail for those times when your current bed partner just isn’t
managing to make the earth move under your feet. (“Honey, while you grunt and
sweat and impress no one but yourself, could you hand me the TV remote?”) And
yes, it’s perfectly acceptable to mix one of these up during the theoretical
love-making. After all, you need <i>something</i>
to do whilst waiting for your clueless lover to find your F-spot.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6. Cosmopolitician<o:p></o:p></div>
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Whip up a big ole
pitcher of these the next time the planets cruelly align and you are forced to
watch a presidential debate. Take a swig every time a Republican lies or a
Democrat hedges on calling the Republican a flat-out liar. You’ll be drunk before
the third question is asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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7. The Booty Mary<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is the
required drink any time you head to a shopping mall, because you know damn well
you are going to run into a pack of those horrid women who mistakenly believe
that Spandex was created to showcase butt-crack and camel-toe. It is suggested that
you have several drinks before you even get out of the car, because one should
never have to encounter The Walking Spread whilst sober.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8. The Man Had One<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is the official drink of Lorena Bobbitt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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9. The White Rush In<o:p></o:p></div>
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Served in
upscale, old-money, Presbyterian pubs where over-privileged socialites named Leona
and oil-company executives named Dick whine about possibly having to pay the
same tax rate as the little people. The drink is served with a silver spoon for
stirring and a listing of Cayman Island banks for perusing…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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10. The Mar-Teeny<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This is the
courage-inducing drink that will allow you to seem convincing when notifying
your significant other that you have once again wrecked the car, but “it’s only
a tiny little scratch!” (Even though you have busted both axles on said car, destroyed
part of the town square, and caused structural damage to an important and
historical bridge.) In some parts of the country, this drink is also used to
console sad people who have just had sex with someone so cosmically
under-endowed that they are both technically still virgins.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
11. The Mo He Toe<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is the
favorite beverage of foot fetishists everywhere, and that’s as far as I care to
go with the explanation. (Sometimes a click on the Internet can take you to places
that never need to be mentioned again.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
12. Absenth<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Drink enough of
this kick-to-the-head and you will have no problem calling in sick at your
place of employment. For several days. Until you stop believing that you are a
Bohemian in turn-of-the-century Paris and remember that you have actual bills
to pay. (But that nice little fever-dream where Nicole Kidman danced with you
at Moulin Rouge was kind of fun, eh?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
13. Cape Clod<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This elixir is
traditionally served to people who think they are superheroes, but they suck at
it and everyone with an I.Q. above “2” is aware of their sucking, even though
the fool in question ignores the suckage-outrage and continues to suck. (See:
Rush Limbaugh, Anne Coulter, Westboro Baptist Church, anyone working for Fox
News, anyone named Kardashian, current governors of Texas, and people who still
don’t understand how to use an ATM machine after 30 years of having ATM
machines.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
14. Long Island Iced Flee<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is served to
calm the nerves of tourists who have fled the island and are still trying to
figure out what people were saying to them, what with that crazy accent and
all. (And the hairdos. Why do some Long Island women of a certain age feel it
necessary to tease and jack their hair to a point where it has its own
gravitational pull?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
15. Tequila Surprise<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Anyone who has
ever spent a splendid evening enjoying tequila-based cocktails will agree that
this is a true statement: At some point during the night’s festivities, perhaps
wedged in between the moment you fell off the barstool and the moment you
screamed along with Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”, you will find
yourself wondering “What happened to my underwear?”…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-3173661352101550802013-04-06T21:34:00.000-05:002013-04-06T21:34:30.452-05:0010 More Signs That Your Body Just Isn’t What It Used To Be<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2hlPDjH4EqDyj7RqdAK0ceG1p3nErozMtxvoJ9NidKhQKXPFTJVP7m9jB0TSdGzGSgPuz_QzostbSwcC82ExQx6kZdPK3CKDoE_RILE5OxBhGvzmhzfHuypEboIcoB2IaB-xU8KgFBgo/s1600/Walker+III.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2hlPDjH4EqDyj7RqdAK0ceG1p3nErozMtxvoJ9NidKhQKXPFTJVP7m9jB0TSdGzGSgPuz_QzostbSwcC82ExQx6kZdPK3CKDoE_RILE5OxBhGvzmhzfHuypEboIcoB2IaB-xU8KgFBgo/s1600/Walker+III.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>1. You wake up in
the morning and you aren’t really sure who you are.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You crack the
seal on one eye and look around. Something seems to have disturbed your
slumber, but it’s not really clear. After perusing a few questionable things
around you (Did I really eat yogurt in bed and then throw the container on the
nightstand like I don’t have any sense? How did the remote for the TV get
wrapped up in my underwear?), your lone functioning eye spots the alarm clock,
which seems to be rudely wanting attention, with unwelcome noise and such. This
is clearly the sign of the devil at work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But still. If the
alarm has been set, and it has subsequently gone into Def-Con 4 alert, there’s
probably a good reason. We should probably figure that out, despite the
incredibly alluring possibility of just going back to sleep. Am I supposed to
be somewhere important? Do I work today? Have I done something that requires me
to appear in court, denying everything while my lawyer does his best to keep
from laughing? Am I living illegally in whatever country this might be?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A person really
shouldn’t have to figure these things out on such short notice. It’s just not
right. Why isn’t there a helpful attendant standing beside the bed and handing
me an itinerary and some orange juice? Or adjusting my morphine drip.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Then it all comes
back to me, there IS something very important that I need to do. I take a deep
breath, gather my strength, and reach out with one wobbly arm to slap at the
button marked “SNOOZE” on the devil-box making noise. The gestapo siren ceases,
albeit temporarily, and I fade into darkness within two seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>2. Things hurt
that shouldn’t.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After 712 snooze
sessions, where you have 30 seconds of air-raid terror and then 9 more minutes
of jerky slumber, you finally give up all dreams of happiness and attempt to
claw your way out of the burial chamber. This takes way more time than back in
the day, when you could leap off the floor of the frat house, splash some water
on your face, and be fully-prepared to take a calculus exam in five minutes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Now? Simply
peeling the comforter off your aching body takes all of the strength you can
muster. By the time your jelly-flesh has been fully exposed to the world,
you’ve broken out in a sweat and your muscles are trembling. It’s at this point
that all of the various status reports start coming in from the far locales of
your body. This one thing over here is really itchy, this other thing seems to
be spasming, and this third thing is super stiff, and not in a good way.
Initial diagnosis? You need to have a good stretch and those things will settle
down and cooperate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But the
stretching thing is a leftover remedy from the days when you could still find
your toes without a GPS. Stretching, post-40, is a dangerous road that one
shouldn’t travel unless they have been adequately and mentally prepared.
There’s a chance that stretching could feasibly result in all uprisings being
quelled so that you can go on about your day in a pleasant manner, humming a
tune about sunshine and the juiciness of pomegranates left out in the sun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But, more likely,
stretching is ill-advised. You might work out some of the kinks, but this
accomplishment pales in comparison to the new disruptions you trigger by
contorting your body in a feline way. Previously complacent parts of your
anatomy, bones and muscles that were quite content until you stupidly attempted
to disturb them, will now add their grating voices to the chorus of disapproval
that is more heinous than the stupid alarm clock which you have broken in two
and thrown under the bed. And the usual end result is that you feel something
pop that shouldn’t be popping, making you wonder if whatever popped is covered
under you increasingly-dwindling insurance plan.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>3. Your bladder
has been secretively removed and replaced with a defective piece of crap made
in China.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Remember, back in
the day, when you could feel a tiny little twinge that you might need to pee,
but you knew that you could ignore it for hours while you continued to leap
about on the jungle gym or play kickball in a vacant lot in the neighborhood?
That is no longer the case. Now, when you need to pee, <i>you need to pee</i>. There’s no discussion and this is not something
that can be tabled for the next committee meeting. You stand up, the various
fluids and organs in your body are repositioned, and you suddenly have to pee
like the hounds of hell are nipping at your heels.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You can’t ignore
it. You can make a weak attempt to, say, go kick off the coffee maker or fire
up your laptop to see who might have said what about you in social media, but
these are fool’s choices. Because if you insanely try to overlook the
requirements of ancient plumbing, the need to pee will become so intense that
you are suddenly dancing a jig that would get very high scores from Olympic
judges but does nothing to delay the inevitable result. You’ve got to tinkle
NOW or you’ll be pulling a Linda Blair in the hallway.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So you give in
and race to the bathroom, knocking startled relatives and pets out of the way
in your mad scurry. You slam the door to the privacy chamber, practically rip
off any clothing you might be wearing and slam your ass down on the Porcelain
Throne of Release. Then you let go with gusto.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And there’s a
tiny trickle. That’s it. End trans.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What? That can’t
be right. You squeeze all the appropriate muscles, and all you get is the plink
of another drop or two. Well, damn. You tidy things up, then stand up, and
there it is again. Fluids want out. Now. You squat back down, more weak
dribbling, and then silence. Seriously? You slowly start to rise, and there it
is again, the knocking on the pee door. What is going <i>on</i> down there?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Two days later,
you finally leave the bathroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>4. Coffee = A Will
to Live.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Some people can
blithely flit through life, without ever needing a morning jolt of caffeine.
I’m happy for them, I really am. But I think there’s something seriously wrong
with those people. Coffee beans are grown on this planet for a reason, and to deny the
functionality of the coffee bean is to deny the evolution of mankind. We are
supposed to drink it, because it helps us cope. The drinking of coffee is the
sole reason why this planet did not go up in flames centuries ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Having said that,
drinking coffee has different implications for different age groups. When you
are young, the java simply helps you deal with a pesky hangover, helps you
reply coherently to questions in your starter-job interviews, or helps you
participate vigorously in daily exercise or athletic sports that you will not
be able to participate in once your bladder is stolen by Chinese officials.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
For someone <i>my</i> age? The coffee stops me from taking
your life when you ask an otherwise innocent question about how my day is
going. End trans.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>5. The Horror,
Part I – Taking A Shower<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I like to be
clean. I really do. But lately I really don’t care for the process of washing
away my sins and preparing for another day where I am supposed to accomplish
things of at least minimal importance. I’m still able to get in the shower and
turn the water on, so far so good. But I am no longer able to reach parts of my
body that were easily within my grasp mere seconds ago. The business with the
upper-section is fine, I can usually lather away with the precision of a
doctor. And the private bits? Got that covered. I can always find the time to
faithfully attend to landmarks on my body that are responsible for pleasure, or
at least the memory of pleasure.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But those feet
down there? Holy cow. They’re so far away now, and not in a poetic Carole King
kind of way. You really have to work to get to those things. If I don’t bang my
head on the shower wall, because coordination is whisked away about the same
time as your fully-functioning bladder and your ability to eat vegetables
without turbulence, then I get light-headed because I’m bending over and this
jacks up my time-space continuum. I’m actually sweating (<i>in the shower!</i>) after attending to my feet, and I have to slump
against the wall and catch my breath, heart pounding. It’s just not right.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>6. The Horror,
Part II – The Mirror after the Shower<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Remember how,
when you were young and vibrant, that you could hop out of the shower, wipe the
steam off the mirror, and you could review yourself looking all dewy and fresh?
That doesn’t happen anymore. Now all you see is curdled pudding plastered on
ancient infrastructure that should have been condemned long ago. Is this what
it’s come down to, that I look like a floating corpse that somebody has fished
out of the water on <i>CSI: Shady Pines</i>?
Jeez.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
On the flip side,
if you stand really far away from the mirror, and squint your eyes just right
at the foggy glass, you can get a flashback to that time when you could eat a
slice of pizza without your hips instantly expanding wide enough that you could
stop a cruise ship from entering port.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>7. The Clothes
Closet<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There’s not a
single thing in there that you can wear anymore. (Well, you <i>could</i> wear them, but it would look like
you were in a sausage casing that hasn’t been properly reinforced.) This isn’t
fair. We worked <i>hard</i> to be able to
buy those clothes. (We’ll ignore the fact that if we had worked just as hard at
getting off the couch and actually performing some minimal exercise, we
wouldn’t have to shop at Hank’s Circus Tent Emporium.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>8. The inability
to enjoy anything on the menu at your favorite drive-thru restaurant.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So you finally
get out of the house, wearing an outfit that has more yardage than most
football games, and the whimsical side of you opts to zip into one of those
fast-food places for a bit of nosh. Sadly, as you stare at the menu board, you
realize that nearly everything glowingly displayed has a greasy fat content
that could decimate an entire neighborhood with one bite. In your previous
life, the one where you pulled into places like this at the tail-end of a
drinking binge, you could suck down a burger or two and be good to go within
seconds, fresh-eyed and bushy-tailed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That is no longer
the case. Now it’s a matter of deciding between something that will have you
running for the restroom every three minutes, or something that will have you
running every five. Your body has declared a war on greasy input, refusing to
quietly process the systemic clogging of your body flow, and you are the
hostage. Everything you eat has repercussions. There is <i>no</i> middle ground.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And even if you
have a moment of epiphany and select the one healthy choice on the menu
(because that’s all there usually is, one), you will have to face the wrath of
the drive-thru attendant, who doesn’t get any bonus points on her evaluation
card if she lets somebody slip by who doesn’t order something from the oinker
line of products. Might as well ask for the Big Boy Country Breakfast and save
yourself from any heated discussion at the pay window.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>9. The amazing
gazelle-like qualities of some of your co-workers.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You finally get
to work, strenuously lugging the
grease-dripping bag from “What-a-Porker”, and you lurch into your cubicle,
plopping into that stupid chair of yours that hasn’t been comfortable since
your ass went from “hey, girl, hey!” to “crime scene”. As you squirt 17 packets
of mayo onto your deep-fried omelet burrito, you notice that most of your
younger work-mates are doing attention-getting cartwheels and talking very
loudly about nothing important. This
means your boss has arrived, and he soon
moseys his way down the aisle, pretending to care about the brown-nosing but
really just wanting to get to his office, with the impenetrable
double-lock on the door, behind which he
can swig from the industrial-sized bottle of bourbon he keeps for emergencies.
Like days ending in “Y”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You realize that
you should probably participate in the self-promotion extravaganza that the
youngsters insist on performing, but you’ve been seriously tired since before
they were born. (Besides, once you get situated in your chair, it’s a really
risky move to get back out of it.) So you ignore the blatant sucking-up of the
children (I have spreadsheets older than you!) who still have a lot to learn
about how it really plays out, and you quietly gnaw at your breakfast burrito
with teeth that stopped doing a decent job in 1993.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>10. In the end,
we’re all in this together, come hell or high diapers.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Everyone
generally experiences the same relative journey down the Avenue of Aging,
encountering the same structural and processing issues to one degree or
another. (Except for that small handful of people who magically seem to get
better with age, defying the laws of nature by somehow becoming more attractive
as they mature and/or running marathons without breaking a sweat. But we don’t
really care for them, and we seek petty revenge by starting rumors about them
“having work done” or organs transplanted.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So it helps that
we have a network of similar-age people to support us in the darker hours,
offering bits of wisdom to one another (“never get down on the floor unless
it’s the weekend, because you might be down there a really long time”) or
swapping war stories (“It took me three whole hours to realize that my panties
were on backwards”). These people make us feel loved and cherished, despite the
increasing cobwebs in the brain (“Why did I walk into this room? What did I
need in here?”) and the growing pharmacy in your bathroom (“I have to take
pills to counteract all of the other pills that I have to take”).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And the ultimate
sign that someone has your aching back in the Sisterhood of the Traveling
Elastic Pants? The person who knows when to say the right words, and when not
to say any words at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This person remains
calm when you have a sudden burst of that horrifying medical condition wherein
you sneeze and toot at the same time, aka “the snoot”. This person does not
make rude commentary or draw attention to the fact that you have just
inadvertently crop-dusted. Instead, they calmly reach down (slowly, so that
nothing snaps that shouldn’t) and retrieve the knitting needles that you
dropped when you temporarily lost control of your entire body. You gratefully
accept the proffered needles, and then both of you get back to work on your
afghans, rocking in your chairs on the sun-dappled porch of the Happy Valley
Home for the Tired and Tooty….<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-25686834432931552292013-03-30T22:02:00.000-05:002013-03-30T22:02:11.317-05:0010 Things You Should Be Shoving In Your Mouth Right Now<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Well, I suppose
you don’t actually have to <i>shove</i>
things, if that seems especially violent and unsocial to you. We all have our
own preferred methods of delivering cargo to our pie-holes, so feel free to do
what you must, as long as it’s relatively legal and no one is injured in the
process. Anyway, the following delicacies should be placed on your tongue as
soon as humanly possible, unless there are religious or self-confidence issues
holding you back:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikx1a0vZlFLz-AfQpFCPJZhjCE1T3rWG9S47jOafqYeIPZ7iW9a6TRYN9OUCu4gYz7PZIUgtZuY1QVNcub7_6VA-UsD9Lz0Zv18hezDtdVmhNcH2VMvWQu74U0NHrfQqMN3LkxZwMdytyF/s1600/Ghiradelli+Cabernet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikx1a0vZlFLz-AfQpFCPJZhjCE1T3rWG9S47jOafqYeIPZ7iW9a6TRYN9OUCu4gYz7PZIUgtZuY1QVNcub7_6VA-UsD9Lz0Zv18hezDtdVmhNcH2VMvWQu74U0NHrfQqMN3LkxZwMdytyF/s1600/Ghiradelli+Cabernet.jpg" height="275" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>1. Ghiradelli Intense Dark Cabernet Matinee</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That’s right,
folks. Chocolate with a hint of wine flavoring. Now, maybe such a pairing is a
widely-known treat that has been around forever, and I’m just late to the game.
(It wouldn’t be the first time, I don’t get out all that much.) But when I
walked around the corner and came upon this staring at me in the candy section,
I was stunned. It was all I could do to keep from ripping the package open
right then. The only thing that kept me from doing so was the fear that I might
make extremely-satisfied noises that would send small children scurrying to
their parents with reports that a strange man had just gone into heat in aisle
4.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I realize that
some people are not fond of dark chocolate, convinced that the slightly bitter
taste is somewhat of the devil and should be avoided entirely. (I don’t know <i>why</i> these people think that, but I
suspect that it is a reflection of a poorly-supervised upbringing or some
maladjustment in their DNA.) I also understand that some folks are not
cray-cray about the vino, and I’ll admit that wine is usually not my first
choice in any given alcohol-involved situation. But there are certainly times
when a nice glass of wine or seven can be quite satisfying, or at least give
you the appearance of being sophisticated and refined, until you forget to
point your pinky whilst drinking, and then you are shunned and excommunicated
by people who have more money than you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In any case, the
wine aspect of this little treat is not overpowering, fighting to get your
attention like those annoying children in restaurants who scream and throw
things because their parents are idiots who “don’t believe in discipline” and
let their offspring completely dominate them. There’s no actual alcohol in this
chocolate (dang it!), just a blackberry/dark grape essence that is quite satisfying and makes one think
of evenings in Paris. (Or at least watching a movie where cute couples are
falling in love in Paris, before one of them does something stupid that causes
a breakup and results in Adele singing a sad ballad while the end credits
roll.)</div>
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<b>2. Hidden Valley Smoked Bacon Ranch Sandwich Spread</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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My absolute
favorite condiment to put on a sandwich is actually Hellmann’s mayo. Love it,
can’t get enough of it, would gladly marry it if the Supreme Court would make
it legal. But my lover has a terrible secret, in that there’s enough fat in
just one tablespoon of that stuff to block the arteries of half the population
of Idaho. (Which, granted, is only three people, but still, that’s three people
with blockage and the related medical bills. Not good.) So I’m always
desperately searching for something to go on my sandwiches that is almost as
pleasing but not nearly as life-threatening.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Okay, maybe “desperately
searching” is a bit of a stretch. It’s more along the lines of “every once in a
while I remember that I’m supposed to be eating things that will help keep my
cholesterol numbers from being higher than the Gross National Product, and I’ll
walk past the Hellman’s in the grocery store and grudgingly review the
lighter-fat options, pouting the entire time because eating healthy completely
sucks”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then this little
guy recently made his debut on the shelves, and I’m happy to report that it’s rather
tasty, especially when compared to other “low fat” spreads that always seem to
have a chemical tang to them that I don’t appreciate at all, like I’m smearing
nuclear waste on my buns. (This stuff is also good as a dip for fried chicken
nuggets and mozzarella cheese sticks, which sort of negates the low-fat
objective, but you know I had to try it.) And if the bacon and ranch theme is
not your thing, this guys has three siblings with intriguing names like “roasted
garlic and parmesan” and “chipotle pepper”. (I haven’t slept with the rest of
the family yet, but I plan to do so, because I’m a food whore.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>3. Kansas City Prime Steak Flavor Chips</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, I’ve never
been a super big fan of steak. (Much to the shock and dismay of the rest of my
family in Oklahoma, giving them yet another item on their spreadsheet entitled “why
does Brian have to be so difficult and opinionated about crap”.) I actually
like the <i>flavor</i>, but there’s
something about the commitment to extensive chewing that puts me off. And the
random, surprise bits of gristle. (Ugh.) So you won’t see me eating steak
unless it’s the only thing on the menu or a court order has been issued.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So why would I
even throw something like this in my shopping cart? Because it’s different. I’ll
try anything once, just to see what it’s like, sometimes out of simple respect
for the person who had the courage, vision and/or mental illness to come up
with the product in the first place. This means there are times when something
gets one bite taken out of it, then it goes in the trash, forever banished and
scorned. (Some dreams should be killed before incurring production and
development costs.) Other times it’s a spiffy little success, like with these
chips, which have the flavor of steak without the need for jaw-muscle fatigue
or allowing rednecks to have access to steak knives.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>4. Chobani Greek Yogurt – Coffee with Dark Chocolate
Chips</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Yogurt is one of
those things that you either love or hate, sort of like Ben Stiller movies.
After all, it’s basically a dairy product that has been fermented, which sounds
like something nasty that you would hurl out of your refrigerator and never
speak of again. On the other hand, <i>cheese</i>
is a fermented dairy product, and most people can’t get enough of that, so I
don’t understand what all the fuss is about with people turning up their noses
at the thought of eating something with bacteria in it. (These same people will
happily French kiss their boyfriends, sticking their tongue in a far more
unhealthy environment. Go figure.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I love
yogurt. I love Greek yogurt even more, though I must confess that I didn’t even
know there <i>was</i> such a thing until the
last year or so. When I first saw it on the shelves, I was stymied. Greek
yogurt? What makes it Greek? (The easy answer, <i>it was made in Greece, you fool</i>, is proven false by simply checking
the production site on the package.) Wait, maybe Greek yogurt is made with
ouzo, that wonderfully-strong Greek alcohol that can make you lose your mind,
dance energetically in a circle while people clap, and wake up the next morning
with a goat in your bed. (Personally, I’ve only experienced two of those
things.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sadly, no ouzo.
The “Greek” part refers to the method of production, where there’s extra
straining and manipulating to create a much thicker yogurt, packed with protein
that, along with the digestive-aiding charm of the other ingredients, makes
this a very healthy thing to eat. (Unless, of course, you have some type of
death-resulting reaction to one of those ingredients, in which case you
probably wouldn’t appreciate eating yogurt, since that would be your last meal
and all. Then again, a <i>celery stick</i>
can kill you if the circumstances are just right, so you have to pick your
battles, right?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, if you like
Greek yogurt (thick and creamy!), like the taste of coffee (the basic kind of
java, not one of those concoctions you get at the trendy coffee shops, where
they add so much foo-foo crap that the presence of actual coffee no longer has
any relevance), and you like dark chocolate (I know, I know, too items on this
list concerning dark chocolate, I clearly have an obsession), then this brand
and this flavor is just what you need. I’m sure another company or two have
something similar, but I don’t want to know about it, because then I would have
to choose between them, torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>5. Brown Rice Triscuits – Sea Salt and Black Pepper</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Brown rice is
another one of those “supposed to be better for you” kind of things floating
around in the culinary ether, with certain people expounding it’s virtues like
they’ve just been to an Enya concert and they are still tingling with
excitement. I’m sure it’s nice and healthy, but the only real experience I’d
had with brown rice, at least that I’m aware of, was at sushi restaurants. Some
of the rolls now feature brown rice, probably at the insistence of one of those
people who like to circulate petitions on the Internet. But when you compare it
to the fluffy brightness of the white rice, which makes the vibrant bits of raw
fish pop even more, the brown rice just looks drab and step-child like. Not as
pretty. And food really should try to look its best if it wants to win any
awards or get a date on Saturday night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I greatly
enjoy Triscuits, in almost all of the various flavor forms. (There’s one
certain flavor that just doesn’t do it for me, but I refuse to speak its name,
because that would just give the flavor more exposure than it really deserves,
just like a Kardashian.) So when I noticed this version of Triscuit business
lined-up on the store shelf, my immediate reaction was “Hurray! Sea salt and
black pepper!”. (My eyes went <i>there </i>first.)
This was followed by a slightly-dejected “Uh oh, these are made with brown rice.
I bet they’re ugly just like the sushi.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I was right,
these things will not place in a beauty pageant, looking like someone took some
regular Triscuits, boiled them for a while, and then threw them in the dryer
too long, making them smaller than their more-glamorous cousins. (They do have
a nice little sheen to them, though. I don’t know where <i>that</i> comes from (bits of ground-up glass?), but it keeps the
product design from being completely insulting.) I popped one in my mouth,
curious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The result was
quite pleasing. It’s a <i>different</i>
taste from a regular Triscuit, which may startle people who are not quite ready
for it, but it’s not a <i>bad</i> taste. And
the amount of salt and pepper was just right, not too much of either. But there
was a tiny bit of a wang after I had swallowed, a lingering bit of something
that needed to be rectified. And I instinctively knew just what the resolution
would require.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cheese.
Specifically, a slice of sharp cheddar. Naturally, we always have some of that
around, because cheese is often called in as edible-reinforcements in this
house, and I quickly had a baby open-faced sandwich ready to go. It was clearly
the right decision, because twenty minutes later half the box of crackers and
an entire brick of cheese no longer existed on this planet. Yum.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>6. Blue Diamond Almonds – Rosemary and Black Pepper</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Almonds are an
evil thing, even more so when it comes to Blue Diamond and their enticing
flavored almonds. Almonds have a split personality, containing both the “good”
fat (the kind you need for proper digestion, glowing skin, improved social
standing, and world peace) and the “bad” fat (the kind we are warned to never
eat or the Earth will fall out of the sky, even though 97.8% of all known food
items are brimming with this bad fat). This results in a horrible, soul-killing
tightrope that we have to walk. Many nutritionists recommend eating a very
small handful of almonds every day. A very, <i>very
</i>small handful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’re talking 5
almonds. That’s it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If you go beyond
this miniscule, almost-laughable ration, you destroy the goodness you have done
for your body and thirty years of going
to the gym will be instantly destroyed the very second that the sixth almond
passes your lips. You have to stop at five. And this is simply impossible to do
when there is an open can of Blue Diamond almonds within a five-block radius, especially
the more exotic flavors like this Rosemary and Black Pepper combo, the
consumption of which is almost sexually-gratifying. I don’t know who this
Rosemary is, or what she did to become a snack seasoning, but I’m a much better
person for having known her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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By the way, this
flavor is only available at Target. I’m not sure who slept with whom to make
this arrangement happen, but that’s how it breaks down. And as is usually the
case with these “only at” handshakes, this flavor will probably disappear
before too long. So get your ass in the car and set the GPS for Target. And don’t
worry about the stop-lights, those things are insignificant in the end.
Besides, do you really want to abide by the law and risk never meeting
Rosemary? I think not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hmm. I just
realized that out of the six entries so far, two involve dark chocolate and two
involve black pepper. Very interesting. This probably means that I should seek
out some delicacy that involves both of those ingredients, but I’m not sure
about that mash-up, dark chocolate and black pepper. Who is going to make
something that like that?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hold up. What’s
this?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh. My. GOD. Dark chocolate with lemon and black pepper!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Um, I think the
rest of this list will have to wait until a later date. Right now I need to
find me one of these and go have some quality personal time. I’ll catch up to
you later…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-35648845229147650732012-12-07T22:00:00.000-06:002012-12-07T22:00:14.936-06:00The 12 Pains of Christmas – Part 2<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxtSl1gd_r1EtfqbDDwp4PI3S9btV28ud6XeNe1GYIqCN5Qlv7UGKADOcxS86kVHFwlBebga6Q5UKDbju6IxqZrvmSDrkOSth57dVdtttxho1PTxWT6IaZB9QijQEVNgH-8IXI2NsKAv6L/s1600/10+Reasons+Fake+Christmas+Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxtSl1gd_r1EtfqbDDwp4PI3S9btV28ud6XeNe1GYIqCN5Qlv7UGKADOcxS86kVHFwlBebga6Q5UKDbju6IxqZrvmSDrkOSth57dVdtttxho1PTxWT6IaZB9QijQEVNgH-8IXI2NsKAv6L/s1600/10+Reasons+Fake+Christmas+Tree.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i>Click <a href="http://lageose.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-12-pains-of-christmas.html">Here</a> to read
Part 1…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<b>4. The madness of
idiots who have somehow passed a driving test at some point in their lives.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Granted, the
Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex is not going to win any awards for civility on the
roadways. Many of these people are already cray cray, having escalated the art
of vehicular insubordination to a level that would stun the residents of
smaller towns and hamlets across the nation. I’d almost say that these demon
drivers consider it a badge of honor to terrorize neighboring cars as often as
possible, but it’s fairly obvious that these folks have long since lost the
concept of honor, if they ever grasped such a concept, and they have been reduced
to grunting animals who simply haven’t been arrested yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But once we have
reached the Thanksgiving milestone each year? Holy COW, does it get wicked, and
fast. Maybe it’s the whole Black Friday thing, that shopping hell-frenzy
created by retailers, wherein consumers are convinced to stand in line for 72
hours for a DVD player they don’t really need because the one they already have
works just fine. (Screw Hi-Def, do you really need to see every single pore on
Angelina Jolie’s face? Like she has any. And the plot of the movie is still the
same, regardless of whether or not you can see each individual blade of grass
in the climactic rescue scene.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yep, that could
be the catalyst. We have a shopping day where the Retail Gods convince the
peasants that they must fight and rip at each other to somehow gain an
advantage in a line that leads to a pointless victory, and then those same
peasants are tossed out of the stores once the poorly-planned stock is gone. (Dudes,
why advertise a sale if you are going to run out of the product 3 minutes after
the store opens?) And the peasants, still pumped with adrenaline, get back on
the highways and byways and they are out for blood, because they didn’t get the
latest i-Whatever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And this
uncontrolled dissatisfaction and anger lasts for another month. From T-Day
until C-Day, bitter people rule the roadways and cause considerable distress
for the smart people who planned ahead and bought what they needed on eBay
three months ago, at a better price and without having to sleep in a tent made
out of discarded fast-food wrappers in front of a chain store.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Whatever is stuck
in their craw, these mindless zombies behind the wheels of SUVs increase
exponentially come Yuletide season, their otherwise-flatlined neural centers
minimally reactivated by some holiday trigger. You can be innocently driving to
the local supermarket, breathing in the aroma of your eggnog-scented car
freshener and thinking pleasant thoughts about a kitten video you watched on
YouTube, and BAM, hundreds of out-of-control vehicles are suddenly swarming all
over the road, driven by demons hell-bent on forcing you to plummet into a nasty
ditch and spill your pumpkin-spice latte.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So you need to
protect yourself. Call your insurance agent right now and demand something like
this: “Update my policy to protect me against anything an idiot can do in a
functioning motor vehicle. Anything. And maybe throw in a clause or something
that will save my ass if I snap and pull some <i>Walking Tall</i> business with a meat cleaver, because it might come to
that. And stop sending me those asinine holiday calendars that always go
directly in the trash. You’re not on my Christmas list and I shouldn’t be on
yours.” Click.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>5. The radio
stations that start playing Christmas music at the end of September.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Jesus would not
approve of this. Stop it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>6. Those Salvation
Army people with their stupid bells.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Okay, first,
there’s that whole mess with the Salvation Army actively doing whatever they
can to restrict the rights of gay people in this country, and that some of the
loose change you pluck into their rusty bucket goes right into the funding for
such an un-Christian stance. (Haven’t heard of this? Go do some clicking on the
Web. I can wait.) I’m already not going to give the bell-ringers a single
penny, but does that stop them from getting in my face with a device that
should only be used to signal the household staff that you’re ready for your
bath to be drawn?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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No, it does not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Here they come,
arms pumping and bells clanging, despite the fact that I’m babbling with my
same-sex partner about the latest Lady Gaga CD. (If these fools had read the
bylaws of their organization, they would know that my kind are considered the
work of the devil, and if you piss us off enough we can direct the paths of
hurricanes with our sheer debauchery. Why are you begging for our tainted
rainbow money?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I just want to
walk into the store and help the economy, since some of our elected officials
clearly don’t want to do anything about it. I don’t want to fight my way past
somebody with irrational focus issues that seems determined to psychologically
abuse me with a musical instrument that no one has taken seriously since the
Mayflower slammed into that rock. Get. Out. Of. My. Way. Do they <i>train</i> you to do this? That’s some
jacked-up wrongness right there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of course, on the
flip side of the manic ringers who think that every human walking in their
general direction is a beast to be sonically conquered, we have the
total-slacker ringers who couldn’t be more obvious that they would rather be
doing anything else in the world, including oral surgery. They just stand there
in a dirty Santa hat, smoking a cigarette and lethargically waving the bell
with a minimum of effort so that the thing only makes tiny clicks. You could
throw a Buick into their bucket and they wouldn’t even blink.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>7. The trashiness
of certain customers in retail establishments.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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I understand that
some people are just generally pigs. Nothing can be done about it, they’ve been
that way all of their lives, we’re better off trying to rehabilitate the
previously-decent folks who are drifting toward a life of sloth and negligence
due to experimental drug-usage, unsatisfying romantic relationships, and failed
attempts at climbing the corporate ladder. But still, one would think that the
Trashy Folk could take a shower and try to be decent during the holidays.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Sadly, this does
not happen. Rather, the Trashy Folk seem to be on some sort of pork-rind
inspired mission to prove to the world that nothing is sacred and we all might
as well stop reading books and just go rut in the jungle. Specific case in
point: The Christmas section at your local Target. Or more pointedly, what that
section looks like after the doors open and the unwashed are allowed to touch
things.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Things start out
fine, with energetic employees lovingly arranging the products in a manner that
inspires joy and harmony. (The concepts, not the backup singers for the latest
funk-rap band.) Everything is glowing with childhood memories and a bit of
sparkly glitter, because things just aren’t properly festive until glitter is
introduced, ask any drag queen. It’s a lovely scene that could probably be in a
movie where Sandra Bullock debates which hunky guy would prove more satisfying
under the mistletoe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Two seconds after
those fabled front doors open, you would think you were at a nuclear testing facility
in the desert sands of Nevada.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Fragile ornaments
have been unjustly thrown on the floor and shattered, strings of Christmas
lights have been ripped from their boxes and stretched all the way from here to
the pharmacy (and you can never get those things back in the box), the wrapping
paper bins have been knocked asunder like <i>The
Three Little Pigs</i> story originally had four porcine characters before the
closeted editor decided to chop out the subplot about the gay piggy with his
fabulous foil-wallpaper house, and the Christmas candy has been both sampled
and spat out in one aisle that is now a minefield of sugared goo.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What is <i>wrong</i> with people?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>8. The Christmas
cards that you fully intend to send but never do.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The art of selecting
and sending Christmas cards is truly a fine thing indeed. Or at least it used
to be. But that was back in the day when people had both patience and a lack of
other things to distract them when the weather turned cold and you could no
longer leave the house, just like Laura Ingalls Wilder when she was surviving
all those blizzards where they nearly lost the livestock if it weren’t for Pa
and his rugged manliness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the current
day, three things intrude on the sending of folded-cardboard greetings.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One: We now have
the technology to communicate with each other every day, several <i>times</i> a day if you happen to be one of
those miracle people who have jobs where you don’t have to actually do
anything. Texting, skyping, group-chatting, sexting. We can reach out and touch
anyone as long as we have the right data plan. What’s the point of sending
something through the mail if it means you have to wait a week for the payoff?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Two: Have you
looked at the card selections lately in your local chain store? (Assuming that
you can claw your way past the bell-ringers and the folks camping out to save
three dollars on an electronic device that will be obsolete in 20 minutes.) Most
cards these days are inane, aiming at the lowest common denominator with “jokes”
that wouldn’t make a sea urchin laugh. And the cost? Ten bucks for four cards.
Even more if you want actual envelopes, or a message that hasn’t been so
politically-corrected that it’s more boring than the fruit cup at a retirement
home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Three: Time. Who
has enough of that any more, with our crazed rushing to accomplish so much that
in the end proves meaningless. Maybe that’s what I’ll ask for this Christmas.
Time. I’d like some of that, please, so I can sit down and sip some hot
chocolate and watch the tree twinkle and listen to old-school Christmas songs
that haven’t been mangled by the latest pop star and not worry about wrapping
everything and just breathe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But I still want that
i-Whatever under the tree as well, the one that can sync all my contacts, allow
me to push a button and record my favorite TV show while I’m being booked at
the county jail for slapping a drunk Santa, and scrub the toilet until it
shines…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>To Be Continued…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><br /></i></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-32856956886008322642012-11-30T22:23:00.001-06:002012-12-07T22:01:27.547-06:00The 12 Pains of Christmas - Part 1<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7xvdbfStzGubxwZyVlqcRIFl1Z2QygK-24ThJ711ZXERIr0-hyH_NgS7JX2fIO1jOBiYdD7mQhL7U7jSR-K0c7RAGJLxyDRl6Y4m82H_aF20HMYeIAPLxJZCqJoA2pFBJX9prOHRDCbg/s1600/10+Reasons+Fake+Christmas+Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7xvdbfStzGubxwZyVlqcRIFl1Z2QygK-24ThJ711ZXERIr0-hyH_NgS7JX2fIO1jOBiYdD7mQhL7U7jSR-K0c7RAGJLxyDRl6Y4m82H_aF20HMYeIAPLxJZCqJoA2pFBJX9prOHRDCbg/s1600/10+Reasons+Fake+Christmas+Tree.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>1. Getting all
that crap out of the attic.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Dragging boxes
out of their non-holiday nursing home wasn’t such a big deal 20 years and 30
pounds ago. It wasn’t my favorite activity even then, but I could generally
haul the goods in under 15 minutes without breaking a sweat or requiring reconstructive
surgery after the deed was done. Then again, those were my “salad” days
(translation: broke-ass poor) and I had maybe three boxes of mostly handmade or
handed-down yuletidery. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Now? Good God.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Just opening the
attic door and lowering the ancient ladder causes me to have a small anxiety
attack, with whimpering and such. Then I have to rest halfway up that stupid
ladder because I’m so out of shape that turning on a light switch wears me out.
After the pit stop, I finally make it up to the last few rungs where I can
begin the ritual of searching for the invisible hanging chain that is connected
to the light that only gets turned on twice a year, four times if something
dies up there and we notice an odd smell while watching <i>Survivor</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This quest for
fire, with lots of Helen Keller arm waving, usually lasts at least 5 minutes,
two minutes of which are spent recovering from rounds of nearly losing my
balance and plummeting to my death. (And of course there’s no one down there to
help break my fall. As soon as I utter the hellish words “It’s time to get the
Christmas stuff out of the attic”, there’s an instantaneous mass exodus from
the house, with relatives and friends and family pets fleeing for their lives,
scampering to hide behind bushes and trees and startled neighbors,
communicating via walkie-talkie until all agree that the risk of returning is
minimal.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s just me and
the mice droppings. Alone again, naturally.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And when I
finally locate the light chain and pull on it with the exasperated fury of a
Kardashian who doesn’t yet have her own designer cologne or country, casting a
weak light on the contents of the Hell Above Our Heads? Boxes. Boxes from here
to China in all directions. <i>Towers</i> of
boxes. If you need to hide from the po-po, just head up here, and your story
will someday appear on <i>Unsolved Mysteries</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To be fair, most
of this mess is my own doing. As some of you know, I have an obsession with
setting out a Christmas Village every year. (You can read some of the sordid
details <a href="http://lageose.blogspot.com/2009/12/seventy-seventh-one-twelve-daze-of.html">here</a>.) I’ve toned it down a bit for the past few years, but there was a
long stretch where my madness for acquiring miniature real estate knew no
boundaries, with me snapping up tiny houses with a feverish intensity that
nearly, and should have, led to an intervention. Or an exorcism. Something.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But even though I
acknowledge 97% of the responsibility for the fact that there isn’t a single
inch of available floor space in the attic (2 of the 712 boxes have things in
them that are not mine, which therefore means that I am not alone in my
transgressions and thusly everyone shares in the guilt, even the cats, who own
nothing up here), it doesn’t mean I can’t fuss about it. So I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I whine as I’m
flat on my belly, my body contorted unnaturally as I stretch for a box of
must-use ornaments that have been shoved into a far corner for some ungodly
reason, a tiny space where even Jiminy Cricket wouldn’t be able to wear his top-hat,
yet the box has been crammed in there somehow. I whine as I stumble-fall down
the ladder under the weight of an enormous tub that has 50 rolls of
after-Christmas bargain wrapping paper in it. I whine as I’m lying face-down on
the couch hours later, my body wracked with spasming muscles that haven’t been
used in 11 months, half-heartedly listening to the all-clear alert that has
been sounded in the neighborhood so my family can return home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>2. That stupid
wrapping paper in the stupid enormous tub.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We have three of
those tubs. Well, at least three that I can identify in a police line-up. (Since
I’ve pulled back on my Christmas Village display, from a time when I used to
cover an entire 20x40 room down to just a subsection of that abused room, I don’t
even use a big chunk of the boxed houses in the attic anymore. There are stacks
of houses that haven’t even been inventoried in years. It certainly wouldn’t
surprise me to walk (crawl?) around one of those stacks and discover Amelia
Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa having tea.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Anyway, the
wrapping paper. We have more than we could possibly use for the next 50 years.
We could wrap a fleet of Buicks in foil paper and not even make a dent in the
stock. And I’m not talking about the pointless rolls of paper, the kind where
you can only wrap two CD’s and you’re already down to the cardboard tube. Nope,
these are the industrial rolls, where a single roll could repave all the
streets in my neighborhood and you’d still have enough left over to papier-mâché
the Statue of Liberty. Big. Ass. Rolls.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
How did this
happen, you ask? Well, there’s a two-fold answer. Exhibit A is the fact that I
lose control when they first introduce the new wrapping-paper designs each
holiday season. I’m fully aware that we already have enough wrapping paper that
activists concerned about the Brazilian rainforest have started an online
petition to have me placed in lock-up for the last three months of each year.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But I still can’t
help myself. When I see the shiny new patterns and designs, there are always
several that I must have, even if somebody has to get hurt in the process. So I
snag the ones I want and throw them into the shopping cart, next to the suntan
lotion because the start of the retail Christmas season has officially been
moved to Independence Day. Then I lug my purchases home and throw them in a tub
and no one ever sees them again. Except possibly Amelia and Jimmy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Exhibit B has two
perpetrators, myself and my partner. (He’s very tight with his money, never
paying full price for anything unless a court order is involved, so he can
resist the pre-Christmas temptation of paying 86 dollars for two designer sheets
of wrapping paper.) But once Santa has gone back to the North Pole where he can
live with hundreds of small boys and no one asks questions about it? Well, we’re
both on the post-sales like crack-heads in the flour aisle at Piggly Wiggly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
How can you NOT
buy something when it’s super cheap and you might possibly use it before the
end of the century? That’s just un-American. When a roll of paper the size of a
cheddar wheel has been slashed to fifty cents, that puppy is going in the
basket, even if the design printed on the paper is a little questionable and
clashes with the tree decorations and everything else in the house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Moral of the
story? We never use most of that discount paper. A few rolls, yes, on gifts for
those relatives where you are obligated to get them a little something but you
really don’t care for them and your heart isn’t in it (don’t lie, we all have
those kinfolk), so you end up shoving their present to the back of the tree in
that mystery zone where you eventually always find that one present that no one
claims to have wrapped, with a name tag of somebody you don’t know. (“Aunt
Charlene? Who the hell is Aunt Charlene? Anybody?”)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Crickets chirp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>3. The Tree of
Pain<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There was a time
when I was equally divided between having a “live” Christmas tree and an artificial
one. Live trees are pretty swell, I love the smell of them and the uniqueness
of each tree. Downside? The damn needles that fall off constantly, of course,
ending up from one end of the house to the other, aided and abetted by pets who
are religiously convinced that these needles must be shared with the world and
the bare feet that walk upon it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Oh, and we mustn’t
forget the watering angle. This is not a particularly taxing aspect of
live-tree nurturing, but a healthy tree can suck up gallons of liquid before it
realizes that its days are numbered, and it can be quite easy to forget to keep
an eye on the bucket of nourishment neath the tree. And when you do forget, two
horrid things happen: One, the tree can become so dried out that someone
lighting a cigarette at the convenience store two blocks over can inadvertently
cause your house to burn down. And two, those damn needles are no longer pliant
and less able to pierce the skin. They are now hardened spikes that qualify for
regulation by government authorities.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Now, a fake tree
is no walk in the park, by any means. First off, there’s the misconception
about the box that it comes in. That box is only adequate storage for the tree
parts for a very limited amount of time, namely the duration of the trip from
the store where you bought it to your house. Once you slice the binding tape on
said box, the Christmas music playing in the background should change to the
soundtrack from <i>The Exorcist</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Because that tree
is never going to fit in that box again. Ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Try as you might,
it’s just not going to happen. Sure, the first year, you might get most of the
parts back into the original receptacle. You’ll sweat your ass off doing so,
but the tree has not yet learned that you are its bitch and is still mostly
cooperative. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Within two years
you can only get half of the tree parts in the box. Within four, the whole
process is pointless. The box now has the consistency of wet toilet paper,
ripping apart if you breathe on it, and the only thing that fits in the box is
the tree stand, and <i>that</i> thing has
lost a critical turn screw (the cat denies involvement, but you know that
Fluffy has lied in the past during interrogations) and you might as well throw
the stand away. Or at least into the stack of older, rusty stands that have also
disappointed their parents.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The turning point
for me? The invention of the pre-lit artificial tree.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This was a sign
that there is a god of some kind, a caring god, one that does not want his/her
children to suffer through the mind-wrecking ordeal of stringing lights on a
Christmas tree, a horrendous task that the World Health Organization should ban
based on the number of divorces and voluntary commitments to insane asylums
that have resulted from a burnt-out bulb that cannot be found.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So it’s been
pre-lits for me ever since. You simply connect the various parts of the tree
together (using the instruction manual, written by someone making two cents an
hour and who really doesn’t know any other English than “Lady Gaga”), connect
the various electrical plugs (which can be a bit tricky, since you will initially
encounter more female plugs than male plugs, something that historically only
happens on the island of Lesbos or at the Dinah Shore Invitational, but keep at
it and things will balance out), and then shove the main plug into a socket
that hopefully has the blessing of the local chapter of the IBEW.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Et voila! Pretty
lights without the need for attorneys and restraining orders.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Now, the pre-lit
does not get my full love and support. It’s still an artificial tree, and as
such, it is subject to the new tree-fabrication technology that allows these
things to be manufactured in a manner where the various branches have been so
tightly wound together that it looks like a small shrub on the conveyor belt in
the factory located in a country that does not recognize things like a minimum
wage that actually means anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This production
process allows the tree to be nestled in a box that you will never use again.
It also means that you must now “fluff” the tree, once it has been released in
your home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Fluffing =
misery. It takes forever to pry the little branch-lets away from the main
branch. And you can’t screw around with this prying. You have to shape and mold
each little tendril or your tree will look like road-kill. This means that,
even though you got the Express Pass with the “not having to string lights”
angle, you must still spend a considerable amount of time with the fluffing.
Hours and hours. Long enough that by the time you are finished, everyone else
has gone to bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Except the cat.
The cat who has been eyeing your handiwork for most of the evening, waiting for
that sublime moment when you quit jacking with the tree and walk away in
defeat, seeking counseling and hopefully prescription tranquilizers. Once you
leave the room, the cat will leap on the tree, claw its way to the top, chew
off the top third of the tree, and then knock the rest of it over for you to
find in the morning when all you really wanted to find was a bagel and some
coffee….<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Click <a href="http://lageose.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-12-pains-of-christmas-part-2.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Entry in This Series…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-60446010879237630772012-11-16T21:49:00.000-06:002012-11-16T21:51:20.568-06:0020 Signs That You Might Not Be Getting Enough Whoopie In Your Life<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mvMrB66avEoioCLRNM0JtFE02l-2HTCB_UA0EWuMAitXOQbAQI5zmYYKz45v_7skGY-Z385moXsXpMv_0EQVhltUPhiicKfMbOdY1kT2hhQqTM7Pp8xVXr2V939F4GNASpob2k9xiY8y/s1600/Cuumbers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mvMrB66avEoioCLRNM0JtFE02l-2HTCB_UA0EWuMAitXOQbAQI5zmYYKz45v_7skGY-Z385moXsXpMv_0EQVhltUPhiicKfMbOdY1kT2hhQqTM7Pp8xVXr2V939F4GNASpob2k9xiY8y/s1600/Cuumbers.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></div>
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1. You become aroused simply walking through the produce
section of the supermarket. (Stay away from the cucumbers and the carrots. And
you might want to avoid the gourds as well, because some of those raised bumps
can look very interesting.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
2. You seem to be having too much fun driving over speed
bumps. (Especially if you circle the block just so you can hit the same patch
again.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
3. You’re just trying to squirt some Hellman’s on your
turkey sandwich and your mind goes places it shouldn’t. (And the noises those plastic bottles can
sometimes make? It’s like the soundtrack from <i>Debbie Does Dallas</i>.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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4. You have no idea where the personal lubricant might be
in the house. (And with things as dried out as they must be by this point, you’re
going to need a gallon of that stuff.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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5. You find cobwebs in your underwear. (And Charlotte the
spider has spun one of the webs to read “Love Don’t Live Here Anymore”.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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6. You can no longer remember the color of your bedroom
ceiling. (Or whether or not that mirror is still there, the one everyone had to
have in the late 70’s when the whole nation took drugs and became
exhibitionists.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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7. You watch an entire season of an otherwise worthless TV
show just because that one guy always takes his shirt off at some point in
every episode. (You have no idea what the actual plot of the series is, but you
can definitely and accurately describe the actor’s nipples to a police sketch
artist, should the need arise.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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8. The word “arise” in the previous sentence triggers
images that you would never share with your Sunday School teacher. (Unless your
teacher also blushes when holding a bottle of mayonnaise, then you might have
something in common that you can work into a discussion while the other folks
are busy naming all the Apostles.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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9. When sitting at a local park, you can’t help but
realize that every piece of playground equipment could be utilized in a
creative sexual scenario of some kind, given enough stamina and flexibility.
(But only after the kiddies have gone home. The little urchins don’t need to
see you hurtling down the giant slide, completely naked, whilst your partner
assumes a position at the end of the slide that will hopefully result in
satisfaction and not hospitalization.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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10. You no longer have pet names for your private parts.
(If you mention them at all, it’s usually in clinical terms to your doctor
after one of the parts started doing something you didn’t appreciate.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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11. The list of desirable qualities in potential partners
has dwindled over the years from an entire notebook of scribbled “must-haves” that
you planned out when you were a dewy, attractive youth in your twenties to the
current day, when things are much more creaky and fragile, and you now have
just a two-word partner requirement: “life insurance”. (Or if you’re really
desperate, one word: “pulse”.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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12. When in a bar, you no longer have to drink for hours
until someone becomes blurrily attractive enough to qualify for a “last-call”
hookup. Instead, it takes just two sips of wine and suddenly you’re humping the
pool table and using an app on your smart phone to broadcast your phone number
on the ceiling. (This is why you should always have a Designated Divider when
bar-hopping with friends. This is the person responsible for keeping your horny
ass away from strangers who don’t realize that you are suffering from a literal
seven-year itch.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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13. You do the mental math and realize that the last time
you actually had an orgasm, there were only 46 stars on the American flag.
(Back in the day when social-etiquette still required that you write a
tasteful, post-coital thank-you note to the one who done ya.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Dearest John Thomas, thank you ever so much
for the lovely time we spent sliding about on a stack of fertilizer bags in
your adorable little garden shed. It certainly appeared that you enjoyed it as
well, what with your repeated invoking of certain religious figures just before
the dismount. I do so hope that there will be a repeat performance. Perhaps
even season tickets! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Sighingly, Lady
Chatterly<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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P.S. Please
advise if there is anything I can do to assist with the repairs to the tractor.
I don’t think either of us quite expected <i>that</i>
to happen. Perhaps next time we should leave the absinthe bottle out of the
picnic basket…<o:p></o:p></div>
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14. You encounter a group of co-workers whispering about
happiness over “The Big O” and you gleefully announce that you voted for
President Obama as well. (The stunned look in their eyes convinces you that you
should continue your journey to the copy room and never speak again.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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15. You have no idea what a MILF or a DILF is, but such
things do appear to be very popular with certain segments of the Internet
world. (Are they talking about new computer languages? Characters in a Disney
movie? Another product that the Kardashians are trying to promote in their endless
quest to actually do something of importance?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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16. You actually<i> do</i>
check out the porn sites on the web from time to time, not for any
pleasure-based purpose, but to see if they have invented any new positions or
dress-code requirements that you might need to be aware of so you aren’t startled
by any requests should your boudoir reopen for business. It’s just downright tacky
when you can’t think of an answer to the question “Do you have a sling?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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17. You still don’t know why a milkshake would bring boys
to your yard. Or why you would want to sing about it. Or what type of appetizer
you should serve when this happens. (And what if you’re dairy-intolerant? Is
that even important? And what brings the girls? Lattes? So many questions, so
little time to mow the various lawns.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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18. Whatever happened to Dr. Ruth? She made things so
simple. (“You ask the partner what partner likes, then you do that and
everybody feel good. Serve strudel after, nice touch.”)<o:p></o:p></div>
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19. You no longer dress to maximize your sexiness. Now
you dress to cover up the fact that most of the voting districts in your state
have been realigned in a manner that is not the most appealing. (And most of
the population has moved south.) It really is true that youth (and sex) are
wasted on the young. When I was 21, all it took was a steady wind for me to
present arms and I was ready to go. Now I know hundreds of exciting things to
do. I just can’t get into the necessary position to exhibit my repertoire
without needing medical assistance. <o:p></o:p></div>
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20. In the end, though, it’s not about how much or how
often or how many medals you earn for endurance, strength or quickness of
locating your clothing if someone knocks on the door that wasn’t supposed to be
home. Sex, and especially sexiness, is all in the mind. Yes, there are primal
grunters who are satisfied with the rudimentary aspects of life and don’t want
to know about anything else (the Tea Party). But for most of us it’s the non-physical
things. Intelligence is top on my list, very important, but we also have a
certain spark in the eye, a smile that is genuine, a gentle tenderness, a
shared passion for life, for words, for decency. The way a person really looks
at you and willingly allows you to really look at them. No games, no baggage,
just truth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That’s what I
find hot, that’s what I find sexy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And that’s the
kind of milkshake I would order every time…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cheers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-33520210098516405192012-11-02T22:50:00.002-05:002012-11-02T22:50:39.646-05:0020 Very Important Things To Do On A Vacation Friday – Part 3: The Evening<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir9RiBjPp2YxZILu3T2XYT9idaoj3T7MOGH-i9B2Wj_e32JMj5tQHJ2ayZNqVzFolXeGC2DR-XCi__YTRKajEYkU6Hdag49wh8-Ed2OGtR75LpbhtA9LnjdWP3YYbNKY4UdaNXa6s2tbXE/s1600/Couch+Potato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir9RiBjPp2YxZILu3T2XYT9idaoj3T7MOGH-i9B2Wj_e32JMj5tQHJ2ayZNqVzFolXeGC2DR-XCi__YTRKajEYkU6Hdag49wh8-Ed2OGtR75LpbhtA9LnjdWP3YYbNKY4UdaNXa6s2tbXE/s1600/Couch+Potato.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i> Note: As we all know, night hours are
dangerous when it comes to slacker activity, because you might get a second
wind and actually accomplish something, and we don’t want to ruin our personal
goal of contributing absolutely nothing to society for one day. (I almost blew
it with the near-arrest for public-indecency, as my incarceration would
temporarily improve the quality of life on city streets. At least those streets
that lead to bars.) Therefore, we must be especially diligent and restrict our
efforts to only those activities with minimal or even negative value. And here
we go…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i> (If you need to read this series from the
beginning, click <a href="http://lageose.blogspot.com/2012/10/20-very-important-things-to-do-on.html">Here</a>.)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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41. Go into the bathroom, flip the toilet paper so it
unrolls the other way, then leave. Wait for eventual commentary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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42. Count the number of items in your refrigerator that
contain cheese in one form another. Briefly realize that this might be a reason
why you have to grunt when you get out of chairs. Decide that you don’t care
and slam the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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43. See how long you can sprawl on the couch and stare
out the window before you get a cramp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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44. Get a black felt-tip marker, take out a box of
cereal, and scribble across the front: “Why don’t these things have prizes anymore?”
Put the box back and throw the marker in a corner.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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45. Watch the cat attack the marker with a determination
that you have never felt in your entire life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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46. Wonder what it would be like if you could pounce at
will and there were no complications from doing such. Would you still have the
same friends?<o:p></o:p></div>
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47. Take the marker away from the cat once he pries the
cap off and starts scribbling an EKG readout on the kitchen floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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48. Listen as the cat goes into the other room and starts
clawing furniture because you are stifling him as an artist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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49. Go into your clothes closet with the mission of
finally getting rid of all those things you can no longer wear. Run across your
“Frankie Say Relax” t-shirt. It’s now 400 sizes too small and there are more
holes in it than Mitt Romney’s campaign. But you can’t possibly part with it
and this mission is doomed. Leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
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50. Decide that you want to listen to some 80’s music.
Turn on the radio and, after frantically switching stations, discover that said
music is now considered “Golden Oldies” and you can only find it on satellite
radio, usually on a station hosted by Nina Blackwood as she shuffles to the
microphone using a walker. Cry a little bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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51. Wonder how many people reading this post will
actually get these references.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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52. Wonder how many people understand that MTV used to
play music videos.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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53. Turn on the TV to find out what IS playing on MTV
these days. Get distracted by clicking on a movie that you don’t recognize,
starring people that you don’t know, and featuring a non-existent plot
comprised of folks doing nothing other than standing around and trying to
jump-start new catch-phrases while promoting products that no one really needs.
Realize that the main character is actually an extended car-crash sequence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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54. Wonder if actual screen writers have been banned from
Hollywood. Is this something <i>else</i>
that the Bush Administration destroyed? Giggle at the thought of how the
current Republican Party is pretending the Shrub Administration never took
place. Stop giggling when you realize that people are stupid and Romney could
get elected and eventually we’ll have to overcome what <i>he</i> has destroyed. Curse the stupid people who forgot about the first
car-crash sequence and are voting for another one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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55. Turn off the TV and think about reading a book.
Wonder how different the world would be if everyone did that from time to time.
Wonder if this thought makes you seem like those slightly-obsessive people who
wail about the dangers of watching too much TV. Wonder if that’s not such a bad
obsession to have.<o:p></o:p></div>
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56. Realize that you have wandered in your thoughts from
humorous to thought-provoking, and that this is not such a good thing to happen
on a Friday night. Friday nights are when you do random and carefree things
because you have the rest of the weekend to do something more serious, like
shell out money to pay for the damages you and your dumbass friends caused on said
Friday night when somebody hollered “hey, let’s try <i>this</i>!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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57. Try to get back in the proper fun-loving spirit as
you think of three absurd but entertaining activities to round out your list of
pointless things to do on a vacation day. Try your best to make them not sound
like filler entries just to meet your quota.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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58. Drink beer. (Okay, I failed with the originality on
that one, but seriously, everything is always much more enthralling when
drinking an elixir intended to jack up your faculties. (Drinker A: “I once went
to a peanut farm.” Drinker B: “Oh my GOD, I’ve always wanted to go to a peanut
farm. Tell me <i>everything</i>!”) Until the
next morning, when simply opening an eye feels like your eyelid is made of
sandpaper as it rips your cornea to shreds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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59. Eat some of that cheese in your refrigerator. I know
it’s essentially artery-clogging, but it sure tastes good, even the smelly
ones, and I can pretty much guarantee that no one has ever said on their death
bed “Dear Lord, I wish I hadn’t eaten all that cheese.” Unless they were
talking about something else entirely, some non-dairy bit of tomfoolery, but
that’s none of my business and I don’t judge. Okay, I do, every day, but only
in a professional capacity as a blogger. Swear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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60. Go back and read all 775 posts on this blog. This won’t
improve your life in any way. But you never know when I might show up as a
category on “Jeopardy”, and you really should be prepared…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Cheers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-40460735136297982812012-10-26T19:42:00.001-05:002012-11-02T22:52:14.118-05:0020 Very Important Things To Do On A Vacation Friday – Part 2: The Afternoon<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCzzUSDnZ9RNPs3yAFxwgTDb4mLmIjsqRD_Ylz5UnYHQX11LVzkbPwecijirtmcWa8KKp2UFlDaR1upRz9rnx1fcOTCPvHUR1d8_8z4nBsfKydHmkDSGO90dmuFVIz0ofH77JqcE89VHX/s1600/10+Reasons+Vacation+Friday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCzzUSDnZ9RNPs3yAFxwgTDb4mLmIjsqRD_Ylz5UnYHQX11LVzkbPwecijirtmcWa8KKp2UFlDaR1upRz9rnx1fcOTCPvHUR1d8_8z4nBsfKydHmkDSGO90dmuFVIz0ofH77JqcE89VHX/s1600/10+Reasons+Vacation+Friday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i> Note: Continuing our enumeration of critical
things one must do in order to squeeze the maximum productivity out of your
personal day and yet still remain relatively content and happy. Click <a href="http://lageose.blogspot.com/2012/10/20-very-important-things-to-do-on.html">here</a> to
read the first part of the series, in case you don’t recall the bit of a pickle
I was in when last we chatted…</i></div>
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<b>21.</b> <b>Avoid getting arrested for public
indecency. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b> </b>This goal proved to be much more
attainable than first thought when I realized that the window I was standing at
only came down to general chest-level. This meant that the annoying minor and
the medicated major standing in the street could only see, at best, my nipples,
which definitely kept things more family-friendly. (Although, if those nipples
could talk, they would definitely have some stories to tell. Perhaps another
time.) However, I have to admit that a very small part of me was a little
disappointed that I would <i>not</i> have a
reputation as a sex criminal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>22.</b> <b>Avoid the public, period.</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As it dawned on
the staring Trixie and June that there was indeed life within these walls, and
Trixie started to re-hoist her evil cookie collection and stomp back my way, I
grabbed the curtain and wrenched it shut again. Trixie made a little gasp of
indignation (something she probably did daily, based on the professional sound
of it) and turned to mother June, prepared to launch into a treatise on the indignity
of my actions and how her retail aspirations were not being satisfactorily met.
(Children simply have no patience these days. Perhaps if some parents weren’t
shoving wireless phones and iPads into their tiny little hands as soon as they
shoot out of the womb, things would be a bit different.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>23.</b> <b>Spy on people even though you really just
want them to go away.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> </b> There was a convenient rip in the window
curtain, a drab bit of material that has been hanging from the same rod since
the first moon landing, which allowed me to observe the family dysfunction
taking place at the curb. Little Trixie was fully intent on making me purchase
every box of sugared fat on the planet. Momma June was starting to realize that
her offspring was making a bit of a scene, a notion that rarely crossed Momma’s
mind unless she ran out of wine. More importantly, Momma was aware that the
other mommas were getting an eyeful of what happens when ill-prepared people
manage to conceive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>24.</b> <b>Discover that you can learn a lot just by
looking at someone’s face.</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Due to the
delicate nature of the situation, what with Momma June having been nominated
for an important committee in her favorite organization, a pointless group that
only had functions so the women could buy new clothes to attend them, a
nomination that was dependent on the very women who were now standing around
Momma and gloating that their own children were temporarily not having
over-privileged meltdowns, Momma lowered her voice so I couldn’t hear her exact
words to Trixie. But Momma’s eyes were very clear: You are going to shut the
hell up right now and get in the car before I wallop you with this Gucci
handbag that can only hold a tube of lipstick and a thong.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>25.</b> <b>Discover that children can learn things
very quickly, when they apply themselves.</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Trixie’s eyes: I
am also up for a nomination in my own favorite organization, the Pre-Teen
Bitchy Queen League, and if I give in to you right now, I will get two demerits
and therefore disqualify myself from the election. However, I also wish to
remain in your will, specifically so I can get the house in Connecticut and
generally because I abhor the thought of ever having to work for a living.
Therefore, I am going to petulantly get my ass in the car and we can continue
to psychologically damage each other at a later time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>26.</b> <b>Remind yourself that some people have
absolutely no respect for the environment</b>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As June and
Trixie and the cadre of Junior Leaguers and Junior League-ettes piled into
their enormous SUV’s that were bigger than some residential housing and drove
away, they collectively used up 47 gallons of gasoline before they reached the
end of the block.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>27.</b> <b>Try once again to force the cat to stop
doing irritating things.</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I turned to
Scotch, he who found it necessary to rip open the window curtain in the first
place, and explained to him that Daddy was not very happy about his unwelcome
behavior. If he wished to retain all rights and privileges that were in the
original contract that we signed, he must refrain from activities that redecorate
the house in any way or potentially cause Daddy to be involved in litigation
concerning his nudity. Scotch studied me briefly, then hoisted a leg and went
back to searching for Jimmy Hoffa in his nether region.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>28. Take another
nap.</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Watching disharmonious
familial relationships can be very exhausting, especially if you have to stand
at a window and peek out while doing so. I flopped back on the bed and fell
asleep to the repetitive sound of a tongue on fur.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>29. Actually leave
the bedroom.</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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A bit later, or
maybe hours, no one was keeping score and I didn’t have to be anywhere that was
court-ordered, I finally got tired of sleeping (ahem) and wandered down the
hallway to the kitchen. It looked exactly the same as the last time I was in
that room, so I was a little disappointed and almost turned around, but then I
realized that perhaps I should eat something. After all, it takes a lot of
energy to not do anything important. Besides, I couldn’t hear the damn cat
drilling for oil in this room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>30. Test the
longevity of the refrigerator light bulb.</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is something
I do quite often, so I obviously have a talent for it and should put it on my resume.
(Somebody somewhere is surely interested in hiring someone that is capable of
just standing there and waiting for something to happen instead of being
proactive about getting things done.
Maybe the House of Representatives is hiring?) Anyway, I stared at the
contents of the fridge for a good 20 minutes before deciding that nothing had
the least bit of appeal and I slammed the door shut. Perhaps food producers
should consider mechanizing their products so that the packages dance and sing
and compete for a chance to be devoured. This would improve the quality of meal
times and reduce wasted energy. Write your congressperson.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>31. Contemplate
unloading the dishwasher.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Stare at the
washer briefly, as if considering the joys of domestic athleticism, even though
this doesn’t appeal to you at all. Then decide that all the little bowls and
knives in there have become friends by this point and you really don’t believe
in breaking up families. To avoid heated arguments later in the evening when
some irritating person questions why you avoided the task, briefly open the door
so the annoying “Clean!” light goes off, thus giving you an alibi. (“I thought
they were still dirty. My bad.”)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>32. Check all the
other TV’s in the house to make sure that a new channel hasn’t been invented
since you turned off the TV in the bedroom.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is a very
doubtful development, but you should always strive to be an informed citizen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>33. Take something
random off the kitchen table and throw it on the floor to see if it interests
the cat in any way.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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If kitty pounces,
you get to eat three cookies of your choice. If kitty just sits there and looks
at you with that “insanity of the two-legged people” expression, eat the
cookies anyway. They’re just going stale.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>34. Try to
organize that closet that you’re always talking about organizing.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Open the door.
Lift the lid on an unmarked box. Realize that you don’t recognize any of the
contents, and you don’t know if they are important objects or just random crap
from some long-ago half-ass housecleaning experiment. Close the lid. Close the
door. Make sure the “Clean!” light turns off. Walk away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>35. Attempt to pay
bills.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sit at your desk.
Move things out of the way until you find the dusty stack of envelopes where
people want money from you. Pick out one that looks like a credit card bill and
open it. Stare at the outstanding balance and realize that the figure could
also be the population amount of a medium-size city in Oklahoma. Read the now
legally-required warning notice that “if you only make the minimum payment, it
will take you 112 years to pay the damn thing off”. Sigh. Put the bill back on
top of its little friends and leave the room. This is obviously a spiritually
unhappy place and you don’t need to be in there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>36. Do some
creative dusting.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Track down the
cat (he’s probably out smoking behind the barn) and convince him that you are
not going to do anything annoying or psychotic this time so he will jump into
your arms. Walk over to the coffee table and place him on his back, then slide
kitty from one end of the table to the other. (If kitty gives the appearance of
wishing to speak to management about this development, explain to kitty that
what you are doing is just like that new ride at Six Claws Over Texas. Kitty
should appreciate the efforts that Daddy goes to just to provide cultural
entertainment.) Repeat this process with other furniture until kitty gets all
Norman Bates on you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>37. Open the front
door and explain to the SPCA representative that just showed up that you are
only <i>playing</i> with kitty and it is <i>not</i> child abuse.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Make a donation,
if necessary. Donations often make people vote the way you want them to. (Just
ask the NRA.) Then close the door and go take the SIM card out of kitty’s phone
so he won’t be alerting anybody <i>else</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>38. Flop on the
couch in the den and contemplate how many times today you’ve nearly been
involved in legal matters today and you haven’t even left the house.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Perhaps you need
to change your diet in some way? Maybe you’re a little under the weather. Go
into the bathroom and give yourself a health check. Stare into the mirror and
try to determine which of your body parts show the most signs of decay. Check
the box marked “all of the above” and leave your co-payment on the counter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>39. Contemplate
leaving the house for a while, if only so people can’t see your house number as
they report suspicious activity to authorities.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Then realize that
you would actually have to bathe and get dressed in order to make this little
spontaneous field trip. And you might possibly have to interact with other
human beings whilst loose in the wild. This is far too much to suffer through
after your harrowing day of dealing with urchins bearing snack treats and the
physical exhaustion of avoiding everything on your to-do list. You need to
build your strength back up before facing societal problems like gum-smacking
cashiers or people who don’t know how to work an ATM.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>40. Go back to the
bedroom and take another nap.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It certainly
can’t hurt anything. After all, no one has ever died from too much sleeping and
a lack of measurable progress of any kind. Well, except for the Republican
Party….<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Click <a href="http://lageose.blogspot.com/2012/11/20-very-important-things-to-do-on.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Post in This Series…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-82789718081080361072012-10-12T22:50:00.001-05:002012-10-26T19:44:10.788-05:0020 Very Important Things To Do On A Vacation Friday – Part 1: The Morning<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7eQANznARoabN4pOp-5goZ03fHvedrB-V0CFHl7eTNADa_lJA0rWIu2dsvNc6xsxRvFkLFNeYb3xhFFZaV_rNdDXcIpqxqUutX6ep3lRc69QWIwcVMxHK9ja6jgiferZ_CUVSxT9RNCd/s1600/10+Reasons+Vacation+Friday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7eQANznARoabN4pOp-5goZ03fHvedrB-V0CFHl7eTNADa_lJA0rWIu2dsvNc6xsxRvFkLFNeYb3xhFFZaV_rNdDXcIpqxqUutX6ep3lRc69QWIwcVMxHK9ja6jgiferZ_CUVSxT9RNCd/s320/10+Reasons+Vacation+Friday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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1. Absolutely nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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2. Test out the stamina of your alarm clock. You’ve
always wondered how many times you can hit the snooze button until it just
stops working and you wake up the next day. (It explains all this in the
manual, of course, but you haven’t seen the manual since you first opened the
box.) Change the alarm setting to “radio”, then keep hitting the little bar
every time an annoying pop starlet starts bellowing some pointless song about
rainbows. When the little urchin is finally dead, write down how long it took for
Lady Kesha Spears to pass on. You now have a guideline for future reference. <o:p></o:p></div>
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3. Train the cat to bring you the TV remote, even if the
remote is sitting right there on the nightstand. Two feet is a lot of distance
to cover when you’re not in the mood. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
4. If the training goes well, reward the cat by
listlessly moving your foot around under the covers, so kitty will be convinced
that something is under there that must be killed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
5. Think about actually getting out of bed at some point.
If the thought of such an activity brings a tear to your eye, you’re not ready.
Baby steps, people.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
6. Pick up the TV remote, brush off the cat hair, stare
at the number buttons as you try to think of what channel might have something
interesting on at the moment, then set the remote aside. Some people just
aren’t very good at math in the morning, and you really don’t want to push
yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
7. While shifting around to get more comfortable, because
lying around on your ass is a very intricate process, you discover something
cold, flat and hard under the demarcation pillow that is used to clearly
distinguish your side of the bed from your partner’s side. You pull said object
out into the light. It’s your phone. Why was it there? Did I really not think I
could sleep without it? This is entirely too much to think about, so toss the phone
on the bed beside you so Kitty can pounce on it like Jesus just dropped a brick
of catnip.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
8. Sigh and turn on the TV anyway. Flip through the
hundreds of channels, not stopping on anything because, even though several
programs sound interesting, you don’t know if you can go on living if you
missed something more important on one of the higher channels. When you hit the
music-only channels, sigh again and throw the remote next to the your phone on
the bed while Juice Newton wails about us calling her an angel and Kitty has a
small catgasm over a new playtoy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
9. Ponder for a while about how much fun it would be if
you were a cat. You sleep, you play, you eat. Every day is full of the wonder
of sleeping and playing and eating. Then again, you have to go boo in a gritty
box of pellets that manage to stick to your claws until you can successfully
fling them down a random hallway for Daddy to stomp on in the middle of the
night. Hmmm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
10. Stare at the ceiling and realize that it really needs
to be painted. (What the hell happened in the corner over there, with the odd
brown spots? Did somebody have a mustard fight? Why do I not know about this?)
Then remember that the last time you and your partner decided to paint
anything, there was a colossal disagreement on everything from the color to the
texture to the way one should properly hold their brush whilst perched atop a
rickety ladder and wearing poor-choice painting couture of cut-offs and
flip-flops. The fallout from that extravaganza meant nobody had any sex for at
least a month. Nope, we won’t be painting today.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
11. Congratulate yourself on having marked ten activities
off your list, even though you didn’t even <i>know</i>
you had a list when you first woke up. As celebration for your hard work, take
a small nap. Or three.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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12. You awaken to an odd, insistent sound. You glance at
the alarm clock. Nope, not that. You look at the cat, who is forcefully licking
at a private part with a determination equal to a Tea Party member refusing to
read a book. No, probably not that either. Then the sound comes again, and you
realize that somebody is ringing your doorbell. Aw, <i>hell</i> no. It should be against the law to ring someone’s doorbell at
eight o’clock in the morning. Then you glance at the alarm clock again. It’s
after ten. Oh. Well, maybe they’ll just go away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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13. The doorbell rings again. The cat pauses in
mid-hygiene routine, with one leg perfectly hoisted straight in the air, which
is both an envious and an annoying ability. Dude, you gonna do something about
that? I’m kinda busy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
14. You sigh again, which is what you’re always doing at
work, so you might as well be there. You throw back the covers, a move that
sends Kitty tumbling and is sure to become a plot point when Kitty files papers
about child abuse, and stagger to your feet. You approach the front bedroom
window that reveals that least amount of your body, because you haven’t worked
out since 1982, and, well, you’re sort of naked, and cautiously peer out a
one-inch gap in the window treatment. (We’ll ignore the fact that there’s a
half-inch layer of dust on said treatment. We all have different priorities.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
15. Your stunned eyes discover that there are several
cars parked in the street, still running, as chaperoning moms wait while a
horde of pre-teen girls are stomping all over the neighborhood, lugging boxes
of cookies. Oh. My. God. Is it cookie time again? Didn’t we just do that? Why
are they so insistent? If this country could just harness our financial engine
to the backs of little girls who really, really, really want to go to camp next
summer, we would never have a financial deficit again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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16. The doorbell rings again. Okay, <i>seriously</i>? Why is that little Honey Boo Boo not giving up? Why
isn’t one of the perfectly-coiffed, committee-attending moms not marching up to
Honey and explaining to her that if you ring a doorbell 47 times, the
inhabitants of the house are either not home or they are dead. Neither
situation will help you reach your goal. Let go and let God.<o:p></o:p></div>
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17. Amazingly, one of the Stepford Wives honks. Oh, happy
joy. There’s the sound of <i>something</i>
happening on my front porch, and then Little Trixie suddenly appears in my line
of vision, racing up to an SUV that cost more than my house. It seems that
Trixie is a bellower, and I can catch every word of her status report: “Mommy,
there’s somebody home. I can <i>hear</i>
them.” (My eyes widen. Hear me? What can you hear? My nudity? The incessant
licking of a cat that really, really wants to be clean?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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18. June Cleaver smiles at her willful child. “Honey,
maybe they just left the TV on for their kitty or doggy, like we do when Mommy
has to go to an appointment with her divorce lawyer. It helps keep the kitties
and puppies calm and happy so they don’t slice people open with their claws in
the middle of the night.” Little Trixie nodded sagely, as if recalling a recent
event wherein an animal thought domesticated and gone all ghetto and shifty.
“Yeah, TV’s should be on for kitties.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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19. My own cat, Scotch, stopped in mid-lick, leg still
hoisted, glaring at me. “What is this about entertainment when my daddies are
not here? Why am I not aware of this? I must know more.” He leapt to his paws
and did that odd shake cats have when they are trying to rid themselves of
things that no one else can see. I felt a tingle of panic. “Scotch, my pretty
kitty” I said soothingly, “don’t listen to the little urchin with the big mouth.
She’s in a different tax bracket than we are, and they lead different lives.”
Scotch studied me momentarily, his cryptic and possibly sociopathic mind
contemplating his next move.<o:p></o:p></div>
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20. Then he raced up beside me, leapt up to the window
sill in that stunning way cats have of leaping forty times their own height,
snagged a drape with one of his weapon-like claws, and whisked the material
aside, exposing my anatomy to the world. Before I could even engage my mind to
react, June and Trixie both turned toward the window and suddenly had a whole
lot to talk about in their next therapy session.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh God.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Click <a href="http://lageose.blogspot.com/2012/10/20-very-important-things-to-do-on_26.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Entry in This Series…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-85222210444155005042012-10-10T22:30:00.000-05:002012-10-10T22:30:11.533-05:00The First Presidential Debate, With A Little Bit Of Sarcasm - October 2012<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjux0zFPxZJpEfYJIxS8X5Wm7Yxn0Eqorip_vJ0562WMcpV9s-2erP4_26MuAKVnM2d_b8DnqG8m8WGn-K5A8GKr7Fhwpw1ZU4BN_hdmjlOngQfPt2iMl4y-zvO4vX5alDaiKyCqjIpoYoh/s1600/Descent+Into+Madness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjux0zFPxZJpEfYJIxS8X5Wm7Yxn0Eqorip_vJ0562WMcpV9s-2erP4_26MuAKVnM2d_b8DnqG8m8WGn-K5A8GKr7Fhwpw1ZU4BN_hdmjlOngQfPt2iMl4y-zvO4vX5alDaiKyCqjIpoYoh/s320/Descent+Into+Madness.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Jim Lehrer: “This
is the part where I kick things off by appearing completely unprofessional and
scatter-brained despite my sterling reputation and years of experience indicating
I should perform otherwise. After I finally figure out where I am, I kick off
the first session. Let’s start with President Obama, who apparently won some
type of coin toss.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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President Obama: “This
is the part where I seem to be a little unfocused, rambling on about something
that involves the anniversary of my marriage to Michelle Obama. Even though I
didn’t marry Michelle Obama. I married Michelle Robinson. Maybe I just get
flustered with any last name that starts with ‘R-O’. What was the actual
question?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mitt Romney: “I
don’t care what the question is. Me and my weirdly-gelled hair are here to
prove that Okenya has destroyed this entire country, especially the parts that
have country clubs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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JL: “I don’t think
either of you actually answered the question, but I might have forgotten to
take some sort of important pill and I really don’t know if…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “I was talking
to a woman in one of the lesser states the other day and she was so thankful
about what I’ve done for this country that she offered me one of her low-cost
prescriptions that might help me appear to be more energetic in a national debate.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “That woman is
a pig for having thanked you. I was talking to my wife, Marie Antoinette, in
one of our lesser houses the other day and SHE thanked ME for our own marriage,
where we are so super wealthy that we get to have Mormon slaves who take care
of everything, including her impregnations and a human shield that prevents us
from ever having to see reality. Just like Rush’s high-cost prescriptions.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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JL: “I really
don’t know where this is going…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “Mr. Romney is
a little confused about his facts, but I need to rest against this podium for a
minute and try to get my strength back while I mystifyingly don’t contradict
him…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “Screw facts
and screw resting. This is the part where I get to wave my finger defiantly at
you while I make up some more crap about some things I said but I’m now going
to claim that I didn’t say.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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JL: “Why in the
hell did we not opt to have commercial breaks?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “Your fiscal
plan is, um, way wrong. Can somebody bring me a stool?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “I don’t have
a fiscal plan that has any basis in real life. But that’s really not important,
because everyone at <i>Fox News</i> knows
that as long as I keep moving my lips, they’ll be able to manipulate the video
so that it appears that I said something more important than Jesus ever said.
So I’m going to bellow and bellow and bellow and…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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JL: “Mr. Romney,
you’re a little over you time limit…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “Screw you.
YOU don’t have a house in the Hamptons. I don’t have to listen to you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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JL: “Umm….”<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “And bellow
and bellow and…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO, visibly shaking off the effects of malaria or
whatever the issue might have been: “Mitt,
there’s not a single competent economist on the planet who agrees that your
budget plan will work.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “It doesn’t <i>have</i> to work, it just has to get me
elected. I’m going to stand here and keep repeating that it <i>will</i> work until the polls are in my
favor. I don’t have a day job, I’ve got all the time in the world.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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JL: “Can someone
remind me what topic we’re on at this point?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “Mitt, you
have a five trillion dollar tax cut in your plan. With no additional revenue.
How can that work?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “I’ve never
said the words ‘five’ or ‘trillion’ or ‘dollar’ or ‘I accept responsibility for
my habitual lying’ in my entire life. What part of ‘I just need to get elected’
do you not understand?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “Well, I
understand about getting elected, having already done that a few times. But you
have to work on your political agenda to make sure you satisfy as many people
as you can. It’s the American way.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “Then you’re a
stupid man. All you have to do is say whatever your audience wants at the time
and then deny it the next day. Obviously you’ve never read the Republican
handbook. See, folks? Obama can’t even read. I have lots of people who read
books and explain them to me, so I’m the better candidate. And now I’m going to
bellow some more, because it’s really not important what comes out of my mouth
as long as I keep talking and they have video editors at <i>Fox News</i>. Bellow and bellow and meaningless bellow and…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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JL: “Um, Mr.
Romney, could you try to stay on topic and not talk past your time limit and-“<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “<i>You don’t have a house in the Hamptons!</i>
Shut up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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JL: “Okay, my bad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “Does anybody
have some water? I just need a little sip of something…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “People who
make water have lost their jobs because the Republicans, um, I mean YOU, have blocked the Jobs Creation
bill repeatedly.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “Hold up. I haven’t
blocked anything. Boehner and Cantor are the ones who-“<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “People don’t
have water! All because of you and your Muslim evil-doing. I talked to a woman
the other day who hasn’t had water since 2007.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “I wasn’t
actually the President at that time and-“<o:p></o:p></div>
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MR: “People are
stupid! I’ve made it this far depending on the stupidity of people with the
attention span of road-kill. This is America! Where rich, white people control
everything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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JL: “Oh dear God.
I just want to go home. Somebody call my agent.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Random Democrat in the audience: “Is this really happening? There hasn’t been
a word out of Mitt’s mouth that got within miles of the truth. Why isn’t Obama
shutting him down?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Random Republican in the audience: “Mitt is the new Jesus! I want to have his
baby!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Random Independent in the audience: “And <i>why</i>
is it that we don’t have a third political party with any real significance?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jim Lehrer’s agent, texting: “Dude, I <i>know</i>
you took your vitamin supplements this morning, what the hell is wrong with
you? This is really going to affect your speaking tour when you retire…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ann Romney: “I’m
bored. Aren’t we paying somebody to change the channel when I want them to?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anne Rice, out of nowhere: “And people wonder why I turned to vampires
for comfort during my time of need…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Michelle Obama, somewhere not at the debate: “Sasha, Malia, head on upstairs to bed. Momma
needs to talk to Daddy when he gets home, and you don’t need to hear this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Michele Bachmann: “What’s
a debate?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Marcus Bachmann: “I
did <i>not</i> sleep with that man. I was
healing him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Britney Spears: “Buy
my new album! There’s one song where I actually sing!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Madonna: “Bitch,
please.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jim Lehrer: “I
think I might have lost control at some point…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mitt Romney: “Damn right you did, working for that
liberal network with Big Bird and children who know how to count. You killed
Jesus! Or somebody that was important. I don’t have to prove it I just have to
say it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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President Obama, whispering to a Secret Service agent
that really doesn’t care: “I had no idea
that Romney could even put a sentence together.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Secret Service Agent:
“Dude, he’s like lying out his ass. Say something!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “But it’s not
part of the plan. I have a plan. I always have a plan. I just don’t always
explain it to people. Michelle gets a little pissed about that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Agent: “Okay,
look, this is kind of an important election. Maybe you should alter the plan a
little bit and quit just standing there and taking it and making Romney look
like he’s right. I can guarantee you that there are a whole bunch of
Republicans having an orgasm right now. Or at least ordering their servants to
have one for them. Call his ass on this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jim Lehrer: “Is
somebody talking on stage when it’s not his turn? Other than Mitt Romney?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mitt Romney: “I’m
gonna kill that bird.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anne Rice: “Doesn’t
matter. I’ll make him come back to life in the next book in my vampire series.
I think I’ll set this one in Cozumel, because there’s always a lot of stupid
people running around and not paying attention and drunkenly going down the
wrong street. A lot like New Orleans,
but with more humidity and less important architecture…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Producer of the show:
“Does anybody have any idea what is going on right now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Assistant Producer:
“Well, bloggers across the country are breaking their necks trying to
get to a keyboard. Does that help?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jim Lehrer: “Okay,
I believe that we’re on session 3 of the agenda. Or maybe we’re still on 2
because I really don’t have any control here. Mitt, since I’m now apparently
your bitch, maybe you could let me know where-“<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mitt Romney: “I
totally refute everything I said before today. Everything. Somebody else said
it. Whatever I said, I don’t agree with it anymore, and now I’m going to say
what it takes to get me elected, because that’s how the Republican process
works. I get to change my answers now that all the other Republican candidates
are ass-up in the wind. And screw the facts. We all know that doesn’t matter as
long as <i>Fox News</i> is still on the air.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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President Obama: “Bingo.
I finally and lethargically got you to say what I wanted you to say.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Secret Service Agent:
“Dude, part two, I really don’t know if the world is going to understand
your agenda based on how this thing went. Just sayin. Maybe next time you could
drink a Red Bull?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Random Republican woman in the audience: “Bring back polygamy! I want to marry Mitt
Romney and make sure there are more of him in this world even though I couldn’t
stand him during the primaries. Because that’s how we Republicans roll.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Random Democratic woman in the audience: “Sister Girl, you are jacked up in the head
if you are even considering voting for Romney. Are you seriously giving up
ownership of your own vagina and everything else that you’ve worked for in your
life?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Republican woman: “Work?
What is <i>that</i>?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hillary Clinton, texting from yet another country she’s
had to visit as Secretary of State in the hopes of undoing the political damage
inflicted by Little Bush, Little Boehner, Little Rove, and the dumb-ass Supreme
Court Justices who upheld Citizens United and unleashed the Beast of Corporate
Greed: “I’m on it. Like I always am. Do
you think I would have a hairstyle like this if I wasn’t serious? Have somebody
make some coffee and I’ll be there in the morning.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mitt Wrongme:
“What time is it? Has it been long enough that I can change what I just
said?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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President Obama:
“Did you hear the part about bloggers scrambling to certify what you’ve
babbled all night? It’s the modern age, Mitt. People in Tokyo already know what
you just said.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mitt: “Tokyo?
Didn’t we bomb them? At least I think one of my companies did. Before I
outsourced it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “Night, Mitt.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Secret Service Agent to PO: “Dude, part three, kind of a risky move, don’t
you think, letting the people make their own interpretations of what happened
tonight.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “Really? I’m
thinking I just let Mitt show the world what he’s really like.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Agent: “Yeah, but
this is America. There are a lot of stupid people out there. When you don’t
confront his lies, you look weak.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “I had <i>one night</i> where I was off. Mitt has had
364 of them. We’ll bounce back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Agent: “Tell that
to Howard Dean. <i>Fox News</i> will spin
the hell out of this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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PO: “Let them
spin. Maybe someday they’ll land on an actual fact.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Random Republican, leaping out of her seat and hollering
despite the supposed “Quiet Game” rule for the audience: “Romney is the Messiah because Rush Limbaugh
said so. I willingly pledge that my vagina is now corporate property of Citizens
United and Grover Norquist!” (Amid the scattered applause, someone hands the
woman a toaster oven as a membership prize. It appears to be Ann Coulter, but
it’s hard to tell when it comes to drag queens who look really tired and
haven’t properly moisturized.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Random Democrat in the audience, unfortunately seated
next to the delusional woman who doesn’t understand property rights and
free-thinking: “This<i> is</i> 2012, right? Who invited somebody from the Old Testament?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anne Rice again, texting from Cozumel where she is
already scribbling away on her next Vampire Chronicles entry: “<i>Now</i>
do you believe me that the dead are already walking the earth?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jim Lehrer: “Um,
can somebody validate my parking ticket. Because I’m not really sure if I’ll be
back…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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End trans.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-64088390684473642872012-10-05T21:13:00.001-05:002012-10-05T21:13:13.555-05:0010 Flavors of Tea-Bagger Brand Tea<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQfa7I9vLY_VNXKc2xXJVlejcCBs-hfTBpcdVKG-R0FsJ9FWc1FXe1CiYhXFymHi1N77W6S-qkP_qoDHNWd97bBr5OPU7HTs5EomgaFdafbsf8jDSYq3xMjHywvWFvSjXHKFHFIv9vsbd/s1600/10+Reasons+Tea+Party+Tea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQfa7I9vLY_VNXKc2xXJVlejcCBs-hfTBpcdVKG-R0FsJ9FWc1FXe1CiYhXFymHi1N77W6S-qkP_qoDHNWd97bBr5OPU7HTs5EomgaFdafbsf8jDSYq3xMjHywvWFvSjXHKFHFIv9vsbd/s320/10+Reasons+Tea+Party+Tea.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Stuck there
standing in the conservative-beverage section of your local Wal-Mart, in a
pickle about what refreshments to serve your extremist right-ring dinner guests
later this evening? Well, we’ll skip over the head-scratching part about why
you would allow such people into your home (we all have crosses to bear, yes?)
and get right to the menu-planning. With these helpful tips, you should always
have just the right liquid to shove at Ann Coulter so she will hopefully take a
sip and stop babbling idiocy for a few minutes so you can run check on the pot
roast…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>1. Camo Meal Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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It’s no secret
that the tea baggers love to hunt things down and try to kill them. Part of
this irksome activity includes the donning of camouflage gear, a type of
apparel that the tea baggers find quite fetching. In fact, they love camouflage
clothing so much that they often wear it during inappropriate activities, such
as getting the newspaper off the front lawn or having sex. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It was once
thought that tea baggers wore camouflage to support our military men and women,
but since we now know that a tea bagger will vote for a politician who will cut
veterans’ benefits faster than you or I can google “hypocrisy”, we’ll have to
go with the Plan-B explanation. This is the one where the camouflage clothing
is symbolic of the fact that the tea bagger has no identity or thought process
of his own, and therefore he wears a fake camo uniform so he can blend in with
other members of the herd as they are wrangled toward a voting booth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In any case, Camo
Meal Tea is packaged in a variety of designer boxes, where the camouflage color
palettes vary so you can select the box the represents your favorite made-up
war. True to the form of military spending traditions in America, each box of tea
comes with fewer tea bags than advertised as being allotted, a tribute to the
fact that a big chunk of military budget money ends up in the hands of people
who have nothing to do with the military. As an added bonus, the Camo Meal Tea
boxes are designed to be inter-locking so you can eventually build your very
own deer blind in the back yard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>2. Green Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Green Tea is very
popular with tea baggers because the color of the box reminds them of money.
Specifically, money that they don’t actually have (you’ve seen the clothes they
wear at rallies, right?) but money that they think they <i>should</i> have, based on the mere fact that someone gave birth to
them. The tea baggers are very adamant about this virtual money that has
supposedly been ripped from their un-manicured hands. The tea baggers firmly
believe that they would become instant millionaires if the Evil Government
would just stop taxing them and then using that tax money to fund liberal
programs that Jesus hates.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And then there’s
the related money issue, where tea baggers at rallies love to holler nonsense
and wave about mis-spelled signs, proclaiming that they “don’t take no money
from other peoples’ pockets”. Really? Then I guess these people have never sent
their children to public school, received treatment from a county hospital, had the need for police or
fire services, or even driven on a public road. The money for that comes out of<i> all</i> our pockets, so don’t act like you
don’t have a hand in my trousers, fondling my loose change.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>3. Black Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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This selection is
only in the product line as a promotional attempt to attract a minority of a
minority that might possibly vote for a Republican during a temporary loss of
sanity. The box is actually empty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>4. White Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Understandably,
this is the biggest seller in the entire Tea-Bagger Tea collection. The tea
baggers love the concept of whiteness, and the perpetuation of the myth that white
is the best color in the rainbow. Once you have finished gulping down all the
self-validation, you can refold the box into the shape of a pointed hood.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>5. Earl Grey Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Some behavioral
analysts (well, at least those who aren’t occupied with trying to discover why
“reality” TV shows continue to multiply instead of just going away) have
pointed to the Earl Grey line of Tea Bagger Tea as one of the foundations for
the disillusion of the typical bagger. By drinking this tea, with its hint of
British aristocracy, the baggers begin to believe that they are indeed members
of royalty. (This seems to be in conflict with another tea bagger trait, that
of hating everything British, or foreign at all, unless Margaret Thatcher is
somehow involved. But as we’ve learned, tea baggers have no concern for logic
or reasoning.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So now we have
tea baggers with visions of royal bloodlines and crowns and getting to issue
decrees that no one is allowed to challenge, mixed in with their instinctual
belief that if they saw it on <i>Fox News</i>
then it absolutely must be true. Is it any wonder that we have an army of
walking dead out there with no grasp on reality? (No offense to the zombie
series on AMC, love that thing, and at least those folks have the decency to
sit down and round-table things before they go and eliminate people they don’t
want around anymore.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>6. Herbal Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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This one is a
big-seller only because the baggers pronounce the “H”, which makes it sound
like somebody named Herb made it, and that’s a nice country name that people
can respect, and it doesn’t sound at all like the name of someone who was born
in Kenya. This greatly soothes the Birthers, although I’m sure it’s safe to say
that the Birthers will never be truly satisfied, even if someone locates
footage of President Obama clearly shooting out of the womb of a woman wearing
a colorful lei while the attending nurses dance a hula, pineapple plants wave
in the wind, the Diamond Head volcano erupts in approval, and a military
fly-over does a tribute in nearby Pearl Harbor. It’s a done deal, Donald. Move
on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>7. Oolong Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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No one knows why
this one is even offered as an option. Sort of like Mitt Romney.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>8. Ice Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No, not a tribute
to that nearly-forgotten rapper from Dallas who didn’t know street from
boulevard, but a nod to a basic beverage staple in the deep South, where much
of the population is still pissed off about the end result of that Civil War
thing. It’s amazing to me that they so desperately want to turn back time, but
every damn one of them is clutching a wireless phone. (And a side note to the
brave folks who are actually trying to bring Louisiana and Alabama into a
century somewhat closer to the current one: My hat is off to you. Keep the
faith, be strong, and VOTE.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So anyway, have
you seen the amount of sugar that the southern belles dump into their glass
pitchers of homemade tea? It looks like the biggest cocaine bust in the
universe. No wonder people get so bent out of shape over nothing. Their
eyeballs are vibrating from the sugar rush.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>9. Insani Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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This is a vanity
brew, personally concocted by Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Karl Rove (why isn’t
that bitch in jail?), the afore-mentioned Ann Coulter and her skinny-ass
desperation to make up stuff so she can be in the spotlight, the entire
Republican House of Representatives, and all the Baptist preachers and Catholic
priests who are hypocritically up in arms because someone dares to love someone
of the same sex. They stir their pot of swill daily, sprinkling in hatred and
ignorance, then rush to dump the moldy nectar down the throats of people who
have been force-fed all their lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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On the flip side,
at least the drug companies should be thrilled with all this mess, because it’s
going to take a lot of pills to help people work their way back to the path of
reality after the “Fateful Day When the Republicans Swung So Far To The Right
That We Had To Eliminate A Planet From The Solar System Just To Get Things Back
In Balance”. (Oh, wait, I forgot that we already did that. Poor Pluto. He was
already so distant and cold, this demotion is certainly not going to help his
self-esteem. Maybe you should send him a nice card or something.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>10. Mister Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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This product was
developed as a tribute to the likes of Todd Akin, Mike Huckabee, Rick Santorum
and all those other Neanderthals who firmly believe that women are merely
possessions who don’t have a say in the quality of how they’ve been raped.
These men are essentially pissed off about not only women having the nerve to
be upset about uninvited intercourse, they are still seething over the fact
that their play-toys actually have the right to vote. And the Republican
national party is standing by them and continuing to send money.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This, right here,
is why I don’t understand how there can be a woman in America, who actually has
a pulse, that can still identify as a Republican. Seriously? Is money <i>that </i>important to you that you will
completely subjugate yourself to this jacked line of thinking? Did you not
learn <i>anything</i> from Sue Ellen on <i>Dallas</i>?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>11. Par Tea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is a
subversive addition to the product line that was secretly slipped onto the
conveyer belt by Democrats. (The Republicans didn’t notice because they were
too busy demanding birth certificates that they’ve already seen and voting to
legislate vaginas.) This special elixir should be opened on a certain evening
in November, as the voting results scroll across your TV screens and it becomes
clear that the Republicans bedded the wrong people. (But at least it wasn’t
“forcible” rape, right Republicans? Because you clearly didn’t say no…)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Cheers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-38456926488589074912012-08-16T00:31:00.001-05:002012-08-16T22:17:30.525-05:00Scotch the Cat, “The Exorcist”, and the Island of Misfit Toys<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS65B4HwA1ycAHlmB-DIqDXJW2LOjMMenYbeQdA_RnJz1V26NjSktGlZ_XFigBHujQhUKhqZfwb-Fn1h7Ht7zaO2GVY7eHp9YfwfkMPEhuJN5dbh4sVyQvVEkvk5V4ySgsw0s9cKWSnJx/s1600/Scotch+and+The+Exorcist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS65B4HwA1ycAHlmB-DIqDXJW2LOjMMenYbeQdA_RnJz1V26NjSktGlZ_XFigBHujQhUKhqZfwb-Fn1h7Ht7zaO2GVY7eHp9YfwfkMPEhuJN5dbh4sVyQvVEkvk5V4ySgsw0s9cKWSnJx/s320/Scotch+and+The+Exorcist.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Okay, what
happened was…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I woke up. That’s
all I did.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I was napping in
one of my secret places, behind the purple couch with the too-big pillows that
smell like me because, well, I can’t leave stuff alone. I like it back there.
You have to squeeze a little bit to get in there, but it’s worth it, because
then there’s a place just my size. I can lay there and peek and see stuff, but
nobody can see me. My daddies will call one of my names and walk around looking
for me but they don’t know where I be and it’s fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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They try to tease
me, though, my daddies. They go to the Pan Tree and open the door and make one
of the Treat Bags make noise. When I was little and more simple, I would hear
that noise and run to them very fast, because it meant I would get little bits
of something special in my bowl. I like bits of special. But after years of
simple I figured out that sometimes the noise was a trick. My daddies were not
putting something in my bowl. They wanted to get me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I don’t wanna be
got. I don’t wanna be anything where I can’t jump down and run somewhere else.
My daddies don’t understand that I am very important and I don’t have time for
being got. I have things to do. Important stuff I need to do now, not later
when they lay down on the big bed with the come-for-tour that I like to scratch
and they are not caring if I break stuff or not. Don’t get me! Unless I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Because being got
is bad. My daddies are going to do something I don’t want them to do. Sometimes
they want to take little round white things and shove them in my place where
the food goes. My throwed. I don’t like that. That’s not a treat. Why are they
shoving it? I don’t want it. And one of the daddies knows how to squeeze on
part of my face where my mouth just falls open, I can’t help it. Then bam,
not-treat in my throwed. I will scratch him later for bamming.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And sometimes
they want to stop fleece. I don’t know fleece. My daddies say fleece is bad and
they don’t want fleece on me. But what is fleece? They don’t say that part,
just stop fleece. So they get me, because I didn’t think right, and I got got.
And one daddy holds me and the other daddy puts cold yuck on my back. The part
of my back that I can’t lick or scratch, by my head. That’s mean. Daddies are
mean about fleece. I can’t get yuck off! Even if I run and hide and be mad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But the baddest
got thing? The clip hers. I think my daddies love me but then I get got and one
of the daddies has the clip hers. And then I don’t know about love. I only know
I want to be away from clip hers. One of the daddies makes me be still and the
other daddy puts the clip hers on my scratch-toes and he CUTS THEM! My daddies
cut me! They cut my toes! It is terrible and bad. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And I try to stop
them. Because I know they might have demons and maybe they don’t understand. I
know about demons. Sometimes the daddies leave the Tea Vee on when they go to
those places I can’t go and they come back with bags of stuff that I can sniff.
And one time the Tea Vee had a long show called “The Ex Or Sips” about a girl named Lend the Bear who spit up
lots of hairballs and killed people who wore black and white clothes and made
them fall down stairs and stuff. She was loud and mean but other people in the
show said she did it because of demons.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So my daddies
have demons. And that makes them want to cut me. But it’s still just me that
has hair balls, so maybe that movie didn’t tell me everything. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I forgot what I
was trying to tell you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Oh, the cutting
and the clip hers. So when my daddies and the demons try to cut me, I fight. I
fight hard, because I don’t like it when big people make me do things I don’t
want to do. I squirm and I wiggle and I howl like Lend the Bear, like my
daddies are trying to kill me. I don’t know if they are or not but I don’t want
to find out. This makes the daddies say strong words and they are not happy,
but Scotch is not happy either because they might be killing me. Why do they
not understand that I’m not happy?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m sad now. I
don’t know if I want to talk anymore. Daddies should not hurt kitties with clip
hers. Bad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Oh, look. A leaf
just fell in the yard. I want to kill it. Or maybe I want to check my bowl to
see if there’s something new. Or sleep. I like sleeping. And stretching after sleeping. Do you like
tuna? I like tuna. Bunches. And bugs can be yummy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I forgot again
why I’m here. Oh yeah. I was talking about the picture that goes with this
story. I don’t like that picture. And I think it’s Lie Bell that one of my
daddies took it. It makes me look mean and maybe did something bad to my toys
that look hurt. They are only a little hurt, not bad hurt. And they only got
hurt because they made me mad. Don’t make me mad, don’t get hurt. Gold In rule.
But maybe I should tell why I mad and then had to hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I was behind the
purple couch, just laying. I already did all my important morning stuff and
checked and sniffed all the things that need checked and sniffed. So it was
time for a brake, because I’m in the Kitty Union and we have work-hers rights.
So I was braking, and maybe snoozing a little because I’m good at that. And
then one of the daddies was done with his get-ready stuff and it was time for
him to say bye and drive away in his car to that place he goes to make money.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I don’t really
like this part. Because I was all settled and comfy and didn’t want to do
things that make me look cute. But that daddy has to play with me for a little
before he drives to the money place. I don’t know why. I know he’s going to
come back. And I’m not going anywhere, because they don’t <i>let me</i> go anywhere, because I am End Door Kitty who gets told no-no
when I try to run outside and touch grass. (I still try, but always no-no and
door slamming.) So daddy was trying to play and I didn’t want to because I was
braking. He called my name lots.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I pretended I
didn’t hear him. (Braking!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He called more. I
was starting to think I didn’t like this daddy. Let me lay and not do anything!
Go make the money and bring me back a treat bag. Not hard, just do. He called
more. I thought maybe I call my Union Stew Herd and file a grieve ants, but I
didn’t know where my sell phone be. (Maybe in big water bowl where daddies sit.
The bat room?) I like to throw stuff in big water bowl, so maybe sell phone got
throwed. I forget stuff. I’m simple but I’m pretty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I finally got
tired of daddy calling so I got up and peeked around the purple couch. Daddy
saw me and grabbed me and raised me in the air and made baby talk. I don’t like
to be in the air. I have told my daddies “No Air!” all the time. One daddy
understands, and no air. Other daddy not understand, and air happens. So Air
Daddy was doing the air thing and I had to remind him about no air. When he
didn’t listen, I squirmed and tried to kill him with my claws.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He didn’t like
that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Good. He put me
down on my special place. It’s a desk that other daddy got from Pear One. But
my daddies don’t do desk stuff with it. They put nice soft floors on the top so
I can lay down and watch out the window and wait for leaves to fall so I can
think about killing them. And that was okay, because it’s my me-only place and
I can think about being the King Kitty of the world. But then Air Daddy found
one of my old toys and put it down beside me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I don’t like that
old toy. I liked it a long time ago when I was little and didn’t know that if I
just wait, there will be new toys coming. I played with it a lot when I was
stupid, because it was red and it was a crab and I like seafood and it was easy
for my claws to grab it and throw it everywhere or maybe put it in one of my
water bowls and wait for one of the daddies to find it and make funny faces
because I drowned my crab. I like it better when my daddies don’t understand my
plans. Because I get more treats that way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Anyway, daddy
threw yucky crab on my special throne and then kissed me on the head. My head
that I had just cleaned with one of my front paws and now it was dirty again.
Why do they not understand about clean spots? Don’t touch! It takes a long time
to make things clean. So I was in a bad mood and I was glad Air Daddy left for
the way-far place because I needed to call my lawyer. And then sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But I didn’t get
to do anything of my important stuff, because other daddy came out of the Off
Hiss room and wanted to know what I was doing. Why checking on me when Air
Daddy just did? You have sell phones. Text and leave me alone! But I tried to
be sweet because maybe treat time, you never know. I just sat there and tried
to look hungry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But no treat.
Other daddy saw ugly crab toy and thought I was playing with it. (I not!) And
he thought I needed other toys. (No, please.) And he found the mouse toy and
flopped it on my throne. I don’t like the mouse toy, almost more than crab.
Mouse toy don’t work right. When you pick up, no sound. When you throw on
ground, it make noise. Why that? It should scream when I pick up, not throw
down. Stupid bad toy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So now I had two
not-want things on my throne. Life is very hard. I tried to tell daddy that
this was not working for me, that toys should be in trash and treats should be
in mouth. But he not listen. He thought I was singing or something and wanted
to take a picture. He stupid sometimes. He ran to get cam-raw. I wanted him to
fall down and leave me alone until time for attention. I’m busy and popular on
Cat Book. Two thousand furrers!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But he came back.
Bad daddy! And he had cam-raw, and shoving it at my face and talking to me
pretty but he really didn’t mean it. He just want me to look at cam-raw. I don’t
want to look at cam-raw, but only so many places to look, with ugly crab and stupid
mouse in my house. So I finally look at daddy and he burn my eyes with cam-raw
fire. More reason to call lawyer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then he show
me picture. I look all mad, because I BE mad, with not-want toys on my soft
royal floor that is MINE. And I get madder because I know this daddy is the one
who makes clog posts about me and not talk to my agent before he do. Not right.
But I can’t stop it, daddy goes clogging without asking me if okay. My daddies
need training, Clog Daddy AND Air Daddy. Please click on Pet-Pal link to donate
for my cause to train daddies better. It’s flax deductible! Send lots of money.
Money good.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Love,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Scotch<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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P.S. to Clog Daddy: Why are there dead plants outside my
royal window? King Kitties don’t want to see that. More lawyer reasons. I call
now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-21316736162692425862012-08-10T20:25:00.000-05:002012-08-10T20:25:08.207-05:0030 Fun Things To Say To A Complete Stranger On An Elevator<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPH2JDNdR0sFWniS1-Vnz_DtPCAkHUwpRZIIEG_K9CuginocUmQp2OVQFJyPKAAu5wa1VFPkafbVAl7e1d4ABwhJDT8arqiG8LIVxOJ-oAfJ1C43fDnJunJLZX8atsClJ4f3qj3IbqunD5/s1600/Elevator+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPH2JDNdR0sFWniS1-Vnz_DtPCAkHUwpRZIIEG_K9CuginocUmQp2OVQFJyPKAAu5wa1VFPkafbVAl7e1d4ABwhJDT8arqiG8LIVxOJ-oAfJ1C43fDnJunJLZX8atsClJ4f3qj3IbqunD5/s320/Elevator+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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1. Thank you for choosing to fly with us today.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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2. You know, it’s proper etiquette that you knock before
you just barge in here.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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3. What are your thoughts on public nudity?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
4. Did you know that serial killers really like to push
buttons that light up?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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5. I don’t understand why it’s never the right floor when
the doors open.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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6. Because I’m free. Free as I’ll ever be.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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7. Will you be my Facebook friend?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
8. I couldn’t help but noticing that both of your shoes
are the same color.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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9. I sure hope the oxygen masks work this time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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10. If you stop on every floor, you get a candy bar.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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11. We go together, like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga
dong. We sure do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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12. I would have taken the stairs, but Jesus told me I
shouldn’t. Not today.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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14. Would you like the rest of my bagel?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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15. If the elevator falls, and you jump at <i>just</i> the right time, you won’t get hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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16. I don’t understand the difference between rice
pudding and tapioca pudding.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
17. Did you know that 4 out of 5 dentists recommended my
gum?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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18. Well, at least the mother ship can’t track me in
here.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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19. Would you mind if I interviewed you for my website?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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20. In certain Asian cultures, it’s traditional to
exchange parting gifts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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21. This is the only part of the day when I’m not allowed
to drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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22. I finally found out what a disco stick is. If you pay
me five bucks, I’ll tell you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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23. I bet I could lay down on this floor and touch all
four walls.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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24. You never know where you’re gonna get a rash.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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25. I hope they don’t lose my luggage again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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26. Why would anyone be proud of being a walrus?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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27. It’s okay if you don’t want to say anything and just
stare at the floor. I’ll understand. I’m just as embarrassed about what
happened that day at the Piggly Wiggly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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28. Did you notice that there’s not a #13 on this list?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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29. I’m so glad we had this time together. Just to have a
laugh, or sing a song. Even though you don’t seem to be laughing. Or singing.
But still, ear tug.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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30. If you concentrate really hard, you can feel the
building moving instead of us. They don’t want you to know that part.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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31. I’m still trying to figure out where I’m supposed to
put my money.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-10394806202593712362012-08-09T00:29:00.001-05:002012-08-09T00:31:23.418-05:0010 Important Life Lessons That We Learned in the "Dallas" Season Finale<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiemR70sZ4t9D01DBog9Gi5PFzDdafnQsJvFUr_XtTcjv6vLP3ZlvKJNyMJqWSWPy9jtQPPuUuXYNWImX7ra0nzckzEweC-EiFRwbvqVYJ2M-z6X0RvR2ape1sCucXAROdHx857AeLO4QQi/s1600/10+Reasons+New+Dallas+Finale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiemR70sZ4t9D01DBog9Gi5PFzDdafnQsJvFUr_XtTcjv6vLP3ZlvKJNyMJqWSWPy9jtQPPuUuXYNWImX7ra0nzckzEweC-EiFRwbvqVYJ2M-z6X0RvR2ape1sCucXAROdHx857AeLO4QQi/s320/10+Reasons+New+Dallas+Finale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>1. Accidentally
kill someone that was really on your nerves? Apparently there’s an app for
that.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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It seems you can
just whip our your smart phone, dial a special number, and within seconds a
squadron of men in black outfits will swarm into your house bearing cleaning
supplies and body-transport laundry carts. This seems like so much more fun
than just ordering pizza or Chinese.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>2. Bobby Ewing is
obviously immortal.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We sort of knew
this, what with that whole “dream season” back in the day, when Patrick Duffy
apparently took a shower for an entire year. (And Victoria Principal took a
really long nap, without mussing her hair even once.) Bobby’s super-powers, and
his intricate hair, were in full evidence tonight as he fully recovered from an
aneurism in about 4 minutes and then went right back to work arranging for the
arrest of a sibling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>3. Larry Hagman’s
eyebrows could inspire a new horror-movie franchise.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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I thought I would
get used to it as the season progressed. I was wrong. You can’t get away from
those things. They upstage everyone in every scene where they make an entrance.
The camera zooms in for a facial close-up, J.R. starts to talk about something
probably important, and all I can focus on is wondering how his forehead isn’t
bleeding from the barbed-wire punctures.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>4. The new offices
of “Ewing Energies” are apparently going to be located in the <i>same exact space</i> as the offices from the
original series.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Yay! How
touching! But wait. The view out the window is wrong, the football-field size
of the space is wrong, and the lack of a fully-stocked bar is wrong. But the
most important wrongness? The lack of the secretaries. I didn’t see Sly and her
always-perfect hair arranging something dastardly for J.R., I didn’t see
Phyllis and her always-questionable hair arranging something heroic for Bobby,
and I didn’t see Kendall and her pointless hair sitting at her pointless little
desk in the “pre-lobby” area that never made any sense. It’s okay that they
didn’t include Jackie, though. That girl had about 47 different jobs throughout
the original series and you never knew where she would pop up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>5. Ann Ewing rocks.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When Bobby’s wife
(Brenda Strong) marched into the office of evil Harris Ryland (Mitch Pileggi)
and did that whole number with the fake torment and the eventual microphone
reveal? Perfect scene, perfectly played. (I think I had a small orgasm.) Ann
should be shooting to the top of that little “Rise To Power” competition on the
TNT website, just sayin. Trivia note: Mitch Pileggi is better known for
“X-Files”, but he also was in the original “Dallas” run, for a multi-episode
bit, playing a mental patient who gets locked in the basement of a questionable
sanitarium alongside J.R. (This was in the later seasons when the writers were
so bored out of their minds that they wrote whatever they could to fill up the
hour.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>6. Sue Ellen Ewing
rocks even harder.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Let’s face it:
Linda Gray is nearly 72 years old. <i>Seventy-two</i>.
But you sure as hell wouldn’t know it. Miss Thang has still got it and doesn’t
look like she’s giving it up any time soon. (Seriously, look at the promo clips
for the new show. They have the poor woman wrapped in what looks like
vibrantly-orange Ace bandages, with questionable holes here and there, but she
still has more allure and hotness than the youngsters who are playing the new
Ewing women.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I will say that
the first episodes of this season saddened me, when it came to Sue Ellen,
because they had her adoring wicked John Ross just like she adored wicked J.R.
back in the day, only without the high-velocity drinking, multiple vehicular
mishaps, and a tendency to be rude to Miss Ellie, which one should never do if
they have any hopes of ascending into Heaven. We like the Sue Ellen that
finally put down the cocktails and took up the fight against J.R. But patience
proved rewarding as Sue Ellen finally came to her senses in the last few
episodes and morphed into Sue Ellen 2.0, thus straightening her crown that had
become dangerously off-center.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>7. You can get an
engagement ring made to look like a glob of oil surrounded by precious stones.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But why would you
do that to someone you supposedly love? Why? And then John Ross twists the
knife even more by saying to Elena something like “I thought sunshine
reflecting off crude oil was the most beautiful thing ever until I saw you.”
Really? You’re going to compare your beloved to a petroleum product? Elena,
honey, go to Plan B.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>8. Plan B’s can be
very erotic.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So Elena finds
out some not-so-good intel about John Ross, then she finds out that Christopher
still hearts her a whole bunch, and Christopher’s engagement ring is WAY more
pretty and feminine than the not-all-that-bad-but-still-awkward chunk of
fossil-fuel jewelry that John Ross proffered. So what’s a girl to do? Well, if
you’re planning to have a healthy plot-line in Season 2, you race off to bump
naughty bits with Christopher even though she’s technically engaged to someone
else and he’s technically married to a woman with more secrets than Mitt
Romney.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>9. Apparently “the
cloud” is something that makes it very hard for bad people to continue being
bad.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
See, there was
this now-dead character with an alias of Marta Del Sol who, when she wasn’t
busy being crazy and obsessed, managed to upload all of her private business to
“the cloud”. This cloud then allowed Bobby and Christopher to find interesting
information that implicated J.R. and John Ross and Vincente “the guy who used
to be on <i>24</i>” Cano, making things very
unpleasant for them. Note to self: Do not upload personal chit-chat to the
international transponder. Unless I suspect that I’m about to be killed for
being too clingy. Then I’m uploading everything.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>10. Cliff Barnes
just doesn’t give up.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You’d think the
man would have learned some social skills from the original series, where he
managed to basically chase everyone out of his life that cared for him,
especially the string of women who magically found him attractive only because
the script said they should. But no, he’s still on his vindictive path,
scheming and manipulating and ordering Chinese food, whatever it takes to destroy
the Ewings. And then we have the huge reveal near the end of the show, with
Rebecca Ewing (marriage hanging by a thread) proving that she has some very
serious Daddy issues, which sets up an intriguing Cliff-hanger. And that’s
classic “Dallas”. We’ll talk again in January…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-2732337164192641172012-08-05T23:17:00.000-05:002012-08-05T23:17:44.096-05:0010 Reasons Why I Shouldn’t Go Grocery Shopping Without Supervision<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuUUUaLeTX7KfpQR5SGxBCoUWjiY2itZEZYQKVvjzJIWU4G2pGNMec7jRg47AeGjvjTJHKhF3kAjZChbiawuDOC4HimpY_UD10eWyQ2xLH_YduSRDNUuVmDWYAuB32XadZMsNJgs0VMFZ/s1600/10+Reasons+Shopping+Unsupervised.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuUUUaLeTX7KfpQR5SGxBCoUWjiY2itZEZYQKVvjzJIWU4G2pGNMec7jRg47AeGjvjTJHKhF3kAjZChbiawuDOC4HimpY_UD10eWyQ2xLH_YduSRDNUuVmDWYAuB32XadZMsNJgs0VMFZ/s320/10+Reasons+Shopping+Unsupervised.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>1. The parking
lot.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The uncontrolled
behavior starts before I even get in the store. I’m one of those who doesn’t
like to park anywhere near the entrances to a retail establishment, because
some drivers are incredibly stupid and inconsiderate and I don’t want them
maneuvering a vehicle into the slot next to mine. (I happen to prefer that my
own car not have dings, dents, hanging bumpers, and paint scrapes that were not
part of the factory finish.) So I park in Brazil, and then I walk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Trouble is, this
lengthy hike (I make sure I have plenty of water and a snack or two) means that
I now have to walk past all of the people I was trying to avoid. People backing
up without looking, idiots trying to turn into a slot while you’re still
strolling past it, random children who have been psychologically destroyed by
the non-purchase of a toy, and cretins who think belching and grabbing at their
junk at the same time is some type of art form. By the time I actually get to the store door, I’ve
got a negative attitude because I’m already tired and our society is clearly
doomed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>2. The shopping
cart selection.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Some folks just
have an eye for spotting a properly-functioning merchandise conveyance. They
waltz up to the shopping-cart petting zoo at the front of the store, not even
hesitating as they make their decision, and then manage to choose a cart that
will function beautifully for the next two hours, never once making the tiniest
squeak or doing that annoying thing where some of the wheels lock up like you
just ran over an armadillo and then those wheels don’t roll right ever again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Me? I can’t even
get the carts to separate. My first choice is always the one that has somehow
become welded-for-life to the spooning partner behind it. I can jerk and rip
and tear but the carts refuse to stop copulating. The same thing happens with
the next several random picks. By the time I finally get one of the carts free,
I’m sweating and cussing and slightly foaming at the mouth, causing small
children to tug on their mommy’s skirt and promise to be good the rest of their
lives if they can just be taken away from this place with the scary man.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And, naturally,
the cart I finally liberate is one that has had a hard life of drug and alcohol
abuse. Only one of the four wheels even <i>tries</i>
to work, with the other three digging in their heels or stubbornly trying to
head in a direction that does not appeal to me in the least. It’s like trying
to push a Buick across the bottom of the ocean. And the noise all of this
makes? First-responders often show up and hand out evacuation guidelines.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>3. I can’t get
from Point A to Point B and then calmly find a check-out station.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Nope. I end up
running all wild-eyed from one end of the store to the other 400 times. To be
fair, I always have the best intentions of following a plan (non-perishables
first, refrigerated next, frozen after that, and alcohol as a reward at the
end), but I rarely stick to it. I just somehow lose my focus and my sense of
logic, and I often have to make repeat trips to the exact same part of the same
aisle. (Because grabbing both peas AND corn during the same pass makes entirely
too much sense, right?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>4. The cheese
section.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is one of
those spots where I completely lose my mind. I’m not even supposed to be eating
this stuff, cholesterol issues and all, but before I even realize what I’m
doing I have all manner of shredded, sliced, cubed, bricked and processed
cheese piled into my cart. I always get too much. We won’t even be able to eat
half of it before it expires, and cheese doesn’t expire <i>for a really long time</i>. It’s not like some of the other
emotionally-weak dairy products that can expire before you pull into your
driveway. (On the flip side of the dairy-longevity spectrum, although I don’t
think it’s really dairy, is that odd soy milk stuff. We drink it and all, I
actually like the taste, but have you ever taken a gander at the expiration
dates? I have <i>mortgages</i> that will be
paid off before a half-gallon of that mess will actually turn. What’s going on
there?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>5. I am the one
that irritates you in the frozen food section.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Full confession:
I hold the doors open too long until everything fogs up and you can’t see
anything inside the units, which makes people frustrated and bitter and not apt
to speak kindly of you. I can’t help it. See, I eat a lot of those low-fat,
low-cal diet things. (More of that high-cholesterol issue, and my weight issue,
and the general issue of not wanting to go into cardiac arrest as I reach for
another triple burger with a side of lard fries at a drive-thru mega-chain.) I
realize the healthiest thing is to simply prepare my own meals using fresh and
organic produce, exercise daily, practice yoga, avoid additives and donate to
the World Wildlife Federation, but let’s get real. Who has <i>time</i> for that?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So I eat frozen
things that have been sucked dry of all possible fat and any possible chance of
being celebrated for the exquisiteness of the cuisine. But since I have to make
the best of it, I try to pick out entrees with the most promise for actual
flavor. Which means I stand there with the door open, pondering, inadvertently creating
the ghostly, irritating frost layer that drives other people crazy as I try to
decide between the Garlic Chicken Surprise and the Fiesta Fish Frenzy. Mea
culpa.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>6. The chip aisle.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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I love potato chips.
Worship them. But they don’t love me. I can just glance at a bag and I gain two
inches around my waist as punishment for the glancing. So again, I try to be
good by forcing myself to select something that has been “baked” instead of “fried”.
(Translation: “tastes like cardboard” instead of “holy cow, I just had a
salt-laced orgasm”.) <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But it appears
that the “baked chip” people are very busy, always coming up with new flavors
that sound very promising. So I buy everything that comes along, desperate and
hoping. But it rarely works out, and after I try one chip the bag is shoved
into the back of the pantry for all eternity. Just the other day I found a
parcel of “Uncle Granny’s Zesty Sea-Salt Tidbits of Nothing” in a dark corner
of that pantry. It had an expiration date in 1987.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>7. The weird aisle
that combines cleaning products and scented candles.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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You know, those “air-freshener”
candles that are supposed to detoxify your house, eliminate stanky odors,
convince you that your home has become magically located in a Tahitian
paradise, and possibly increase your libido (based on the often-startling
images of scantily-clad women succumbing to self-pleasure in a bathtub whilst
accompanied by artfully arranged flower petals). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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These
candle-makers are just as busy as the chip people. There are at least three new
scents every time you walk down that aisle. So I have to experience each and
every one of them. (The fingernail on the index finger of my right hand
actually has a callous from all the scratching and sniffing.) So of course I’m
always buying more, despite the fact that we already have enough unburned
candles in this house to light a medium-sized Catholic church for the next two
hundred years.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>8. The fancy deli
section.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Why pay less for
a pre-packaged container of sandwich meat when you can pay even more for
someone to physically slice the same exact meat on one of those blade-twirling
machines and then lovingly place it in a special bag for you? Both versions of
said meat have been sitting in the stockroom for the same amount of time. But I
will happily pay ten bucks for three slices of designer pastrami that have been
cut to my exact specifications, even when the rude little 12-year-old managing
the hacksaw doesn’t listen to me and screws up the dimensions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>9. The ice cream
section.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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I have sinned.
And I have sinned repeatedly. My craving for ice cream is why nuns were
invented to beat people with rulers. Seriously.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>10. My inability
to be a patient human being in the check-out lanes.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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You want to cut
me off with your cart even though I saw the shorter line at Lane 12 before you
did? Don’t think so. You want me to tolerate your screaming child who
apparently cannot continue living unless you buy him a candy bar that will
sugar-rush him to even greater heights of insubordination? Not gonna happen. You
want to argue about getting to use a coupon that is not only expired but has
nothing to do with the anything that you are trying to purchase? I will pull
out a machete and—<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Oh, who am I
kidding. I will just stand there and put up with it all and curse you under my
breath. Because if I do something stupid and get my ass arrested due to your
misunderstanding of acceptable human behavior, it’s just going to be that much
longer before I can get back to my house where I can eat the taboo cheese, not
eat the low-fat crap that I don’t want, suck down the ice cream using a shovel,
and enjoy the aroma of yet another new candle, this one bearing the enticing
name of “Shanghai Breeze and Pastrami on Rye”…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-10656614550139860462012-08-03T23:19:00.002-05:002012-08-03T23:19:55.101-05:00Idiot Fondue: Case Study #39 – The Planting of the Tea Party<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj35F0rwXV9kUbaWpgaUaJQwUi-tUBLM5n1A9llJaUcD0CAaX8qA3qwD2gX0dbXFMPKutXZ_eGOWzTOCImX7BKFy5L3zdvHDKkGnNYb0B63VgScza3tyz_9j-7DnS_DXC_s7oLE5-WbXQER/s1600/Dr+Freud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj35F0rwXV9kUbaWpgaUaJQwUi-tUBLM5n1A9llJaUcD0CAaX8qA3qwD2gX0dbXFMPKutXZ_eGOWzTOCImX7BKFy5L3zdvHDKkGnNYb0B63VgScza3tyz_9j-7DnS_DXC_s7oLE5-WbXQER/s400/Dr+Freud.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Dear Dr. Brian,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i> I have an issue that I hope you can help me
with. I’ve tried a number of different ways to deal with the problem, including
doing Internet research, attending seminars, speaking to a spiritual adviser,
and abusing prescription drugs and alcohol. But nothing has helped. Please help
me understand. Why are those Tea Party people so amazingly and mind-numbingly
stupid? Thank you for your time.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Love,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Ayn Rand<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Dear Ms. Rand,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Thank <i>you</i> for contacting me from beyond the
grave. This indicates an incredible dedication to sorting out the truth in this
matter. Luckily for you, (and me, I suppose, since you still have to pay me
even though I don’t have to actually do any research), I recently returned from
a seminar in Milan concerning this very topic. I was just discussing the
scholastic experience with my office manager Lanae (who didn’t really care one
whit about my discoveries, she was just relieved that she didn’t have to answer
the office phones for a few minutes) and I happened to still have the brochure
discussing the workshops at the seminar right here on my desk when I opened
your email.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Let’s review
those workshop topics, shall we? And of course I’ll add some personal
commentary, which is a service I always try to provide to my clients.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “The Tea Bagger and His Tea”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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First of all,
it’s home-brewed. You don’t get that steeped in self-absorption unless you
don’t get out of the house all that often, nor did your parents. This is a
fundamental warning sign when attempting to diagnose the neurosis of a patient.
If the subject has never really travelled to other parts of the country,
experienced other cultures, or even had a meaningful conversation with someone
who isn’t similarly white, supposedly straight, and stupid, there’s not much of
an opportunity for personal growth. Or wisdom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Secondly, the tea
is obviously bitter. Otherwise, why would these people be constantly running
around with such a sour expression and a clenched attitude? Maybe if they would
wash the pot out every once in a while, and quit buying the same brand of tea
every time, they might actually discover some new flavors that they find out
are not half bad. Life is a buffet, people. If you head right to the corn
fritters every time you aren’t getting the full experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “The Tea Bagger and His Baggage”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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And those bags
are some overstuffed, extra-fee-on-airlines kind of bags. A tea bagger is angry
with the world because their <i>personal</i>
bags are so full. They’re tired of carrying those bags around, so they take out
their frustration on people who have managed to free themselves of baggage and
live their lives in a manner that makes them happy. The tea bagger doesn’t
believe other people should be happy if they themselves can’t be, so they spend
their own lives denigrating others. Instead of doing the smart thing, which
would be to unpack those damn bags and move on. And maybe read a book or two.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Speaking of the
packing, let’s full-circle it back to the parents of that bitchy, unsatisfied
person. You birth-givers helped pack a lot of that bag. Granted, there are rare
occasions when you can be the sweetest thing on earth but still manage to shoot
something out of your loins that turns into a hate-mongering sociopath,
regardless of how much you try to bathe them in love and understanding and warm
cookies. But most of the time? <i>You</i>
put the ingredients into the cookie that made Junior what he is today. Proper
child-rearing is a lifetime commitment. You can’t throw your hands up and quit
the first time Junior knocks somebody down on the playground.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But still, the
ultimate responsibility lies with the person carrying the baggage. Many of us
have had parents who didn’t win any awards for sainthood, warmth, or semblance
of decency, but we still managed to take a deep breath (sometime hundreds of
them) and claw our way to a place of relative peace. The avenues of your life
are completely chosen by you. If you have <i>unjustified</i>
hatred for another human being, that hatred was sowed in your own soul. You’re
the farmer. Take care of it. Tend to your own crops. Plant something better.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>“The Tea Bagger
and His Pot”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Ah, and here we
get to the cornerstone of the teabag-manufacturing industry: The Church. Now, before I launch along this angle, let me
preface my words by saying that not all houses of worship cook their products
the same way, and many of them never make anything that boils. In fact, I’m
sure the original houses of worship had a much different method of creation
compared to the massive production lines that take place today. Back in the day,
the teaching ingredients were simple: love thy neighbor, assist those who need
help, don’t do things you really shouldn’t do, and make sure you have enough goats for the impending marriages of female
offspring.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But as time went
by, some people began to bicker about having to follow ALL the rules, because
bickering and a dislike for doing the right thing is simply part of the nature
of some humans, especially folks who may qualify as humans biologically but not
necessarily socially or morally. The bickering units splintered off and formed
their own churches, where they could worship just the parts of the founding
documents that justified the activities they found more interesting and enjoyable
to perform. And, of course, because bickering is a constant with the
dissatisfied, the splintering became exponential over the centuries. Now we have
thousands of denominational flavors, going by increasingly bizarre names
because all of the really good URLs have already been taken on the Internet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And even within
the mainstream denominations, we have a considerable variance in teaching, because
once you start allowing folks to selectively interpret what they will, mix in
the powerful but often misused “right to free speech”, things begin to fracture
all over the place. So you have one person in Denomination A who believes in a
complete set of principles, and another person in that same denomination who
believes in the abridged, edited, rearranged set of principles that bears
little resemblance to what scribers had in mind back when they were fiddling
with sea scrolls and sitting on the shore of the Dead Sea, in a nice café that
had an excellent brunch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And the
mini-sized packages of religion are most often served up in those colossal
mega-churches that cause traffic jams in the surrounding area for the entirety
of Sundays. If you want to keep the attention of your fifth set of 20,000
worshippers whilst standing on your rock-star pulpit stage, you can only hit
one or two stirring points or you’re going to start losing people to the
concession stands. One or two points, that’s it, forget the rest of the things that
moral people should mull if they want to be rounded and grounded. And
personally, I don’t see how you can see a spiritual path to God if you can’t
even see your own pastor except when he’s flashing on the giant video monitors
manufactured in a country where you go to jail if speak your own mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The most
spiritual people that I have ever met haven’t stepped foot in a physical church
in years, or at least only sparingly. They do their research on their own,
rather than being directed to certain passages by people with an agenda, and
they read everything they can. Unlike the rock-star preachers and right-wing
politicians who haven’t even cracked open the flashy Bibles they like to wave
about during photo opportunities.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Excuse me,” said
Lanae, reading my email over my shoulder whilst sucking the jelly from a donut
right in my left ear, “may I interject?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I leaned back in
my chair, partly to ease the tension in my back and partly to get away from the
pornographic soundtrack in that left ear. “Certainly.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Lanae swallowed. “Okay,
you’re getting a bit long-winded here, like Michael Moore when he notices a
camera pointing at him. Let’s move on from the rise and fall of Christianity.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I was perplexed. “But
I’m just trying to present the religious angle. It’s one of the factors that is
being warped in the Tea Party and I’m only assisting my client with-“<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Lanae pressed a
sticky index finger against my startled lips, something that both unsettled me
and made me suddenly crave a fruit-filled scone. “Shush. Another angle with the
Tea Party and the Republicans is that they consider women to be secondary,
sub-human, and unable to make decisions about their own body. Just like they
treat gays and lesbians. And really, anybody that isn’t a white male. The fact
that there are women and gays who are Republicans astounds me. But now <i>I’m</i> having a Michael Moore moment. To the
point: You’re not even religious yourself, this blog post is starting to run a
little long, and people are going to stop reading it and might go to a
mega-church out of boredom.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She unstuck her
finger from my lips. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me. I’m not going to make
any more coffee, because you’ve clearly had your share, but I will prep a
bottle of merlot and see if we have any of those weird crackers you like with
the olive bits in them.” She marched forth, mission-based.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I sighed. She was
right. Next topic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>“The Tea Plant and
the Planting”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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You don’t get a new variety of tea without
careful cultivating and experimentation. In the case of the Tea Party-flavored
tea, the agricultural process is slightly complex, but effective. First you
have to find a promising plot that will produce what you desire. The soil must
contain plenty of self-created, improperly-based and unreleased anger. The
mineral composition should include an inability to take responsibility for one’s
own failures and the need to find a scapegoat who had nothing to do with those
failures. And you need to leave all the weeds in the field, the weeds of hate,
the weeds of misogyny, the weeds of racism and the weeds of absolute and utter
gullibility.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But the big win
here is the fertilizer. And there are two kinds. The primary fertilizer is
produced by a company known as “News Corporation”, and the particular product
is known as “Fox News”. (Interestingly enough, neither of these names has anything
to do with what a rational person would consider “news”.) This fertilizer must
be spread daily, preferably via a television set that is left on continuously
so that the half-truths and outright lies can seep into the soil at a steady
rate. The soil must become so dependent on the Fox News drippings, that if the
TV is ever turned off, the soil would have no idea what to do with its life or
how to think.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The secondary
fertilizer is known as “right-wing talk radio”. This is also something that must
be applied every day, non-stop. This fertilizer contains the fundamentalist
elements of bogus statistics, distortions of any semblance of actual reality,
show hosts that have failed miserably in any endeavors to be of any worth to
society, and a constant repetition of the fundamental mantra: “Hate anything
and everything that is different from you.” Except for monetary donations to
right-wing candidates. You love and worship those. Send some today! Even if you
really don’t have any spare cash because the very people you have been farmed
to support are actively working to destroy your livelihood and keep you a slave
to their cause.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And that’s the
scoop, dearest Ayn Rand, the writer who was briefly celebrated by the Tea Party
until they read the uh-oh bits about your atheism and your statement that “embryos
have no rights”, then they tried to dump you despite declaring a national
holiday in your honor just a few days before. (This is standard practice with
the Tea Party. They don’t investigate anything, they jump on the current
bandwagon directive from Rupert Murdoch or Karl Rove or somebody invoking
Ronald Reagan, even though it’s very clear that Ronald, despite some
questionable things he did, would be horribly ashamed of what the Republican
Party has become with their tea farms and idiots with a microphone. Then they
blindly jump off the abandoned bandwagon and land wherever they are told to
land, still clutching their hate.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So, my
prescription for you? Give up and let go. There is no possible way to have any
compassion for what the Tea Party is trying to do to our country. They are not
nationalists, they are certainly not patriots, they have no concept of the true
intentions of our founding fathers (separation of church and state, it’s all
right there if you could actually read and spell), and they clearly have no
compassion for <i>you</i>. Click unfriend. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Enjoy the rest of
your day. In an existential way, of course.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Dr. Brian<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-32725991319113422532012-08-01T00:17:00.002-05:002012-08-01T00:17:37.441-05:00Picture Paradox #3: Someone’s In The Kitchen With Dinah<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmwzF7M9KVKouLdA_D9AGHYMrRiu-4X8U7Xi0OqoyVpmQzaO2-aQCA0MbvyvBGUZaBa13LQYnN3QjCfgQOCvnZcXlRb1OUb53VHEv90cQHicJI0nxnjPcHD33CgEzXk9Te6tHQOsVaOCW/s1600/PP+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmwzF7M9KVKouLdA_D9AGHYMrRiu-4X8U7Xi0OqoyVpmQzaO2-aQCA0MbvyvBGUZaBa13LQYnN3QjCfgQOCvnZcXlRb1OUb53VHEv90cQHicJI0nxnjPcHD33CgEzXk9Te6tHQOsVaOCW/s400/PP+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And here we have the five remaining contenders in the original
Dinah Shore Invitational Golf Extravaganza, which took place way before a
musical talk show host took over the proceedings and spruced things up a bit.
Back then, the newly-established event was simply known as “Something To Do on a Saturday Afternoon in
1926 Before the Stock Market Went to Hell and You Had to Get Serious About Life”.
Little did anyone know at the time that a festive and orientation-inclusive
tradition had just been established in the heat of the lusty California sun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As the bevy of
beauties awaited their turn at the final hole, wobbling only slightly from the
Sloe Gin Fizzes they had been gulping down since first arriving at the course,
beverages chastely acquired from a bootlegger with the intriguing name of Hexom
Breen, they had a moment to reflect as they waited for some underling to do a
bit of crowd-control maintenance, with this person running about and shushing
people because you’re supposed to be really quite at golf tournaments until
somebody does something extraordinary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Since it’s not
easy to make the common folk stop talking about themselves as if they had any
significance on the planet, the shushing took a bit of time, which allows us,
dear future voyeurs, to eavesdrop on those personal reflections. To make things
easier, since, if you’re still with our story at this point, you’ve probably
sampled a few Sloe Gin Fizzes yourself this evening, or at least got a nice
whiff of cooking sherry, we’ll make this simple by going from left to right as
we intrude on private thoughts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Player #1: “I’m
pretending to lean on my golf club in a swanky manner, so that it appears I am
trying to psychologically destroy my competitors with my confidence, but the
reality is that I sorely need some stability right at the moment. The alcohol
we drank at that time was potent enough to give yourself a Brazilian wax, if
one chose to have one and the styling choice had actually been invented at the
moment when we gathered around this stupid block of ice that the narrator has
failed to mention up to this point.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But more importantly,
because there’s always something more important about me, as I obviously have the
most progressive hairstyle for miles around, I really enjoy flying. You can
tell this by the bold graphic on my combination bathing suit and hip-enhancing
nightie. (A girl has to be prepared for all social occasions.) I love wings!
Although, if I had known at the time that wings would eventually become a
catchphrase associated with feminine hygiene products in a later decade, I
probably wouldn’t have loved them as much. But I still have the best hair.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Player #2: “I don’t
have a golf club. Everyone else has one, but not me. I don’t even understand
what I’m doing or how I got here. When I woke up this morning, I thought
everything would be fine if I just hand-stitched some embroidery on the
shoulders of my outfit. But then something went wrong with my flatiron and now I
have too much presence on the right side of my head. And then that man with the
fizzes showed up. I knew I shouldn’t have accepted any liquids from him, but he
looked just like F. Scott Fitzgerald, and that made me kind of horny, even
though I really think Zelda is dreamier.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wait. What did I
just say? Zelda? I don’t want Zelda. Do I? This sun is really hot out here.
When can we go home? Do I want Zelda? Does this make me Lebanese? Is that the
right word? I’m so confused. Can somebody just find me a stupid golf club?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Player #3: “I am
SO hungry. I haven’t eaten in days. I can barely stay upright. Why are we
standing around whacking at a little ball with sticks? What’s the name of this
game? I don’t like it. I don’t like anybody or anything, especially my hair,
which apparently fell out of a tree onto my head. I just want somebody to find
a cow and kill it and fix me a freakin’ steak.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh. What am I
holding in my left hand? Is that a cricket bat? Are we in England? I know we
drove really far to get to this dump out in the middle of nowhere, way before
the senior citizens showed up and built retirement homes. Or am I holding a
bottle of moonshine? Maybe. Those things are everywhere these days. I don’t
know. It’s so hot, I can’t even think straight. I’m about to straddle that
block of ice and buck until my toes curl.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Player #4: “Why
do those bitches behind me have to talk so much? I’m trying to concentrate
here. Do they not understand how hard it is to hold a club up like this, act
like I’m having the best time of my life, smile for the photographer who doesn’t
want to be here and hates us, and suck in my gut, all at the same time? If I
hear one more word from the Snatch Sisters about being uncomfortable, when all
they have to do is stand there while I hold a pose that no other woman will
hold until women are allowed to play baseball during World War II, I’m going to
whack the hell out of every one of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And my feet are
completely frozen, standing on this asinine block of ice for hours, just
another item in my pain parade. Who thought this was a good idea, doing something
pointless just to get attention and win a competition? I’m guessing it was a
Republican who came up with this stunt. Idiots.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Player #5: “I’m
not wearing a bra and I’m the coolest person for miles around. That’s all you
really need to know about me. Unless you have money. I could use some cash.
That last gig I had sucked, with people getting shot and coppers running all
over the place. Didn’t even get to finish painting my nails before I had to run
for Jesus. This here is a piece of cake. I can stand here all day, beats having
to use fake names and wash up after very customer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hold the horses.
Who’s that guy over there on the far left? He’s walking like he’s got something
lodged, so he’s probably got some bucks. Bet I can show him how this flapper
flaps. I just gotta wait for Annie Leibovitz over there to wrap this shoot up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Click.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2673579400115514211.post-79268070279172471872012-07-31T00:25:00.000-05:002012-07-31T00:31:38.237-05:00Five After Midnight: Chunk the Chicken<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhul79HeJPSYkcrz97N0FAkSnpZkvDDvNMsD1lAEPx2UsQcLke9A_kx8_3MifAywCGyWM071YpeXlHP9kVWInW7TczNTTmU2HCpV8d9GP6mkqLCALW_LXC1-UIBrYtYsqaAUEQb2e7eN1rW/s1600/Me+Inn+Crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhul79HeJPSYkcrz97N0FAkSnpZkvDDvNMsD1lAEPx2UsQcLke9A_kx8_3MifAywCGyWM071YpeXlHP9kVWInW7TczNTTmU2HCpV8d9GP6mkqLCALW_LXC1-UIBrYtYsqaAUEQb2e7eN1rW/s320/Me+Inn+Crop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Five paragraphs,
one topic, deep in the night.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Okay, this whole
Chick-fil-A mess, with the president of the company coming out against gay
folks and claiming we should follow the “biblical interpretation” of marriage.
Now we have an uproar (this shouldn’t have surprised anyone, especially the PR
folks at Chick-fil-A), with folks taking both sides and blasting away in social
media. And initially, it didn’t really bother me that much. I’d heard rumors
that Chick-fil-A donated to anti-gay causes, so when Dan Cathy (there’s a
split-personality name for you) made his announcement, it was a done deal. I
wouldn’t be going there again. A company
taking an anti-gay stance is nothing new (hello, Exxon-Mobil). Bigots can rise
to power anywhere, and there’s often little or no legislation to prevent
discriminatory activity. (In over half the states in this country, it’s
perfectly legal to fire someone for simply being gay. Didn’t realize that? You
should.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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But then two
talking points started rearing their heads, and those points got my little
blogger-ass all fired up and typing. First, folks on the conservative side
started screaming about the folks on the progressive side attacking a man’s
right to free speech. (And the right-wing politicians latched on to that and
ran with it, bellowing about how the progressive response was attacking a
founding principle of our nation. The right-wing loves the Constitution and the
Bill of Rights. Except when it doesn’t agree with their political platform.
Then they just ignore all those founding documents and founding fathers who
didn’t want any of that religion stuff mucking up the law of the land.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The right-wing is
correct on the first part of the issue. Dan Cathy can say whatever he wants.
Free country, for the most part. But if you say something, you own it. You
can’t get mad when people are offended by what you’ve said. And trying to
stifle any reactionary comments is violating the free speech of the people who
aren’t happy about the words that came out of<i> your</i> mouth. You can’t have it both ways. So the freedom of speech
angle is a wash, Rush Limbaugh. (And by the way, Rush, calling the mayors of
Boston and Chicago “Stalinist” for not allowing new Chick-fil-A’s to open
further underscores your misunderstanding of world history, evolving social
culture, <i>and</i> your worthlessness in
society.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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But the more
pressing point, for me, is Dan Cathy’s insistence that his company is based on
biblical principles. Really, Dan? Okay,
this takes us back to the right-wingers picking and choosing when it comes to
founding documents, religious or legislative. If you want to justify your
bigotry with a particular resource volume, you’ve got to follow every rule in
that book. But I’m pretty sure your employees wear uniforms made of mixed
fibers. That’s not allowed. And the pork thing? It’s unclean, but you’re
serving it with your bacon and sausage platters. I could go on for a while. And
when you mix in your conflicting statement of “we don’t discriminate but we think some
people don’t deserve the same rights as others”, well, you’re just proving how
hypocritical you really are.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Final note,
though, is a grand thing in my eyes: We’ve passed a pivotal point. It’s no
longer backlash-free to be openly homophobic. People are going to call you on
it, as decent people should. Yes, we still have bigots with money, and
politicians who insist on scape-goating people who are different. (Seriously, one of
the central tenants of the Republican platform is to find minorities to
stigmatize so that close-minded folks can feel superior and cast their votes in
the red column.) But there’s considerable fallout now. Chick-fil-A may come out of this just fine,
especially with the deep-pocket rich conservatives scrambling to protect their dying philosophy of dividing and
conquering. But the <i>next</i> company
might hesitate to make a similarly offensive PR statement. And the company
after that might not consider it at all. And thus another brick is laid in the
painful, lurching path toward human decency…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2