Personality Test

I took a personality test yesterday.

I failed.

Go figure.

Happy 24

Beauty, eh!
That's two-four, to all of you non-Canucks. Not twenty-four. *sigh* I miss two-fours.

It Just Gets Worse

I've stopped going to http://www.sophistrycoyote.blogspot.com/ to protect my sanity. That, and it's really not good for my blood pressure.

Dude, I can't read any more about this "solution to the immigration problem" thing. My head will explode with anger, and then poor Neenja will be left to clean up what grey matter I haven't already destroyed with my nasty habits.

All I have to say is, if the United States government would like more biometric data on me, considering the huge threat that I pose being a non-Mexican Canadian and all, I'd be happy to turn away, pull down my pants and the Department of Homeland Security can take an imprint of my butt-cheeks while I show them my big, fat, lily white one.

Time Needs a Disclaimer

Just like every package of cigarettes, every bottle of alcohol, Time magazine needs to warn its readers of the consequences of consumption while occupying the commode. It should read something like:

Warning: Reading Time magazine while trying to take a dump may cause serious sphincter collapse and other irreversible colon damage.

What set my anus into a tizzy? The May 14, 2007 "100 Most Influential People" issue. More specifically, it was 10 Questions for Russell Simmons. There I am, contentedly settled in, anticipating some inane insight of some one I've never even heard of before sharing something that has less relevance to the world than the lint in my navel. You know, the usual garbage on which Time insists on wasting an entire page of print.

Suddenly, my eyes fall upon this drivel, my butt-hole puckers up, and that's the end of it for me. And, now, the multitudes of you that return to this site must suffer as I have. But I warn you: do not read this if your trying to make a curly. Read on, folks. This is a verbatim quote here. Believe me, folks, I can't make this shit up:

Do you think Don Imus should have been fired? Hoziah Outland, LEBANON, PA.

The dialogue is more important than Imus. The fact that we are discussing race is inspiring. I didn't care what happened to him. What he said was hurtful: the difference between those words coming out of a rapper's mouth and his mouth is that when a rapper says them, they are not racial. If I walk up to a black man on the street and say "nigger" with a blank expression, nine times out of 10 he would hug me. That is a fact.

Then it goes on to say:

Why should we erase the word "nigger" even though it won't make a difference in the whole scene of racism? —Jose Costa in Luanda, Angola
One, we want people to understand the messages that rappers are giving on radio. Two, because my children and my parents are likely to be offended by it and this is mainstream radio.

The fact is, Mr. Simmons, you are FULL OF SHIT! Why is it that when those words come out of a rapper's mouth, it isn't racial? Why exactly? Because it is, and you are full of shit. Or, are you basing your entire premise on the notion that the majority of rappers are, in fact, of the African American persuasion - except Vanilla Ice. I wonder, would you call him a racist if he used those words. And what of the Beasty Boys?

And, why is it exactly that a black man would hug you for calling him a "nigger?" Well, I would have to assume that it's because he probably knows who the hell you are and figures he can probably gain something from the transgression. That, and because you are FULL OF SHIT! So, which is it? Offensive, as you say it is to your children and parents, or is it a genuinely warm greeting of a stranger?

You can't have it both ways, dude. You can't be inspired by the dialogue on racism on one hand and calling your brothers niggers out of the other side of your mouth. That's just blatant hypocrisy. If you want to put an end to racism, if you'd like to eliminate these words from the collective vocabulary, then lead by example.

Or, get a sense of humor.

Illegal Immigrant Scamnesty

A political savant I'm not. But I am savvy enough to know that when George Dubya and the raging lush from Massachusetts agree on something, it can't be good, or even rational.

Per the Associated Press:

WASHINGTON - Key senators in both parties and the White House announced agreement Thursday on an immigration overhaul that would grant quick legal status to millions of illegal immigrants already in the U.S. and fortify the border.

The plan would create a temporary worker program to bring new arrivals to the U.S and a separate program to cover agricultural workers. Skills and education-level would for the first time be weighted over family connections in deciding whether future immigrants should get permanent legal status. New high-tech employment verification measures also would be instituted to ensure that workers are here legally.

The compromise came after weeks of painstaking closed-door negotiations that brought the most liberal Democrats and the most conservative Republicans together with President Bush's Cabinet officers to produce a highly complex measure that carries heavy political consequences.

Painstaking compromise? I'm quite sure the only discomfort was derived from the delay to Mr. Kennedy's "Happy Hour." So, let's read on and see what ole Georgie-boy had to say about the consensus:

Bush praises deal
Bush called it "a much-needed solution to the problem of illegal immigration in this country" and said, if approved, the proposal "delivers an immigration system that is secure, productive, orderly and fair."

"With this bipartisan agreement, I am confident leaders in Washington can have a serious, civil and conclusive debate so I can sign comprehensive reform into law this year," he said in a written statement Thursday.

I may be a bit slow at times, but where exactly is the "much-needed solution?" From my perspective it appears as though the United States government has examined its options and decided that the best possible solution to this "immigration problem" is simply to turn its collective head. The ostrich-style of government has reared its ugly head once again in DC.

So, the only Kennedy brother who wasn't shot, and perhaps should have been, says:

Sen. Edward M. Kennedy of Massachusetts, his party's lead negotiator on the deal, hailed it as "the best possible chance we will have in years to secure our borders and bring millions of people out of the shadows and into the sunshine of America."

"Sunshine into America?" Pull your head out of your ass, Mr. Kennedy, and you may realize that it's not nearly as dark as you perceive it.

Screw you:

1.) Arnold Schwarzenegger for all of your belly-aching and whining about the "illegal immigrant problem." California is the American equivalent of Quebec. "We can't fix it on our own. We're too weak and stupid. Please bail us out so we can screw over the rest of the country." By the way, can you provide documentation that you are, in fact, a legal resident of this country?

2.) Wealthy people who can afford to pay a decent wage to the LEGAL immigrants, residents and citizens of this country. You contribute to this problem more than any other identifiable group. You encourage illegal immigration and contribute to the strain on health care, education and other social programs for the betterment of your own bottom line. Once again, the good of the few outweighs the benefit of the many. But, please, for the sake of my own sanity, don't misrepresent yourself on national TV, claiming to be a part of the solution. Your efforts to protect our borders with the installation of an eight foot chain link fence, with occasional patrols of your property with your trusty 12-gauge, are futile. An immigrant without climbing skills is still residing in Mexico.

3.) Washington for proposing the most impotent of legislation to address this situation. Exactly how will this be implemented? The Department of Homeland Security has been completely ineffectual at border protection. New laws will only bog down the bureaucracy even further. Illegal immigrants have no respect for U.S. law. That's why they're called "illegals." Where is the rationale that there will be any obedience to new immigration regulation?

4.) Mexicans for your complete and utter disrespect of the law-abiding U.S. citizens and residents. Screw you for thinking that you are above the laws of this country. I am a legal resident of this country. I paid my dues and, when it was all said and done, it ultimately cost me $5000. I pay an outrageous amount of my income to the U.S. government in the form of taxation which only results in asinine legislation like this. I'm subsidizing your lazy asses and I am bitter. If you'd just stop sending your money back to your homeland, you might have enough to file the appropriate documents and stop sucking this country dry.

5.) Mexico for maintaining such deplorable living conditions that your citizens have no alternative but to flee north. You have benefited immensely from NAFTA, and yet have done nothing to improve the standard of living in your country. Get your shit together, clean up your act, take responsibility for your own citizens so the rest of North America doesn't have to.

I think it may be time to return to the Great White North.

Conditioning or Dependency?

Are you a "Morning Person" or an "Evening Person?" I've come to the conclusion that, while I enjoy the peace and solitude of the wee hours of the morning, consistently arising before dawn SUCKS! The only person that needs to be alert at this time of day is the Dunken Donuts dude. After all, it is time to make the donuts.

Now that I've joined the ranks of the working stiff majority, pulling the Monday through Friday 8 to 5 shifts, why does my body still insist that I keep crappy coffee-shop hours? Where's the logic in that? What the hell am I supposed to do between 4 and 8 am? And when the hell am I going to stay awake past 8:30 pm? Just once, I'd like to see an entire episode of South Park. Yes, I've seen them all a million times, but they still make me laugh.

Two decades ago, during bouts of insomnia, all I had to do was grab a blanket and pillow, turn on the Masters or some other PGA tournament, and I was out like a light. Ten years ago, I became accustomed to being lulled to sleep by A&E's Bill Curtis and his soothing, dulcet tones. And then when Peter Jackson released his Lord of the Rings trilogy, I found comfort and much needed rest as soon as the beginning credits rolled. But, then I took that stinkin' job and was ultimately inured to commence drooling and/or snoring instantaneously upon hearing the bass-line to the South Park theme.

The love affair with Matt and Trey is dead. God-damn you, *$s, for ruining my life!

Carpet Diem!

What's the only thing better than Christmas morning when you're five years old?

The day you get new carpet when you're thirty-some-odd years older.

Welcome "Charming Warm Honey" Berber, so long dogshit-stained-used-to-be-white-now-its-black-dirty-smelly-thirty-year-old Frieze! And take that awful under pad with you! Y'know, the one that has been disintegrating since we moved in, creating pounds of dust and particulate that has been clogging up my lungs and making it appear as though I'm not prolific in my maidly duties. And good riddance!

See ya squeaky floors. I know it was the builder's (the dude who wouldn't know square if it walked up and bit his penis off!) oversight that caused you to make it near impossible to sneak up on the hubby to scare the beejeezus out of him (it couldn't possibly be our ever-increasing body mass that makes you groan like a dying animal wrything in pain), but you're just damn irritating. Neenja, the Screw Gun Warrior, is well armed and has plenty of ammo to see to it that you never return. Neenja, *swoon* my hero!

I relish the day that I can return to my sanctuary when my olfactory senses are not grossly offended by the smell of dog ass and unwashed feet. Though I've dreamed about this day for many a moon, it's bittersweet. It's inevitable that Norm will eventually consume something that just does not agree with his digestive system and become a root beer dispenser in the living room. My pristine new carpet will eventually be baptized by my IBS-suffering canine poop machine. And Kitty, I'm sure, is very excited at the prospect of 1000 square foot scratch-pad. Charming Warm Honey will ultimately become Not-So-Charming, Not-So-Honey.

But I can enjoy the newness for at least one day - Carpet Diem!

Organs For Sale

For Sale: One complete set of female reproductive organs. In good working order. May cause moodiness and/or depression. Asking five bucks. Call fee-fie-fo-fee-fi-fo-fo and ask for miserable bitch.

It's Not News 2.0

I believe I covered this, but I am willing to risk redundancy. I can always fall back on the genetic excuse of Alzheimer's.

David Hasselhoff's vignette of a raging alcoholic IS NOT NEWS. Well, it might be in Germany, but who the hell cares about Germany? It's not even entertaining to watch. It's one step shy of witnessing a train wreck, but this clip ends on a much more pleasant note - there is no vomitus of the burger he seemed to enjoy so much in his drunken stupor.

I'm quite positive that the distribution of this video wasn't to make Mr. Bay Watch look incredibly bad. My spidey senses insinuate that Wendy's PR department floated it out to Fox News (now there's an oxymoron!) to peddle their line of consumables to a whole new niche market - the post-bender crowd.

Perhaps Mr. Hasselhoff was playing the Keloland Drinking Game?

The Keloland Drinking Game

If you had the patience to muddle through my previous post you may have noticed the excess use of the term "Keloland." I will admit that, during my short tenure in this state, I have been conditioned to refer to the geographical area that KELO-TV serves as such. Each time I hear it I roll my eyes and force back down the bile that rises in my throat. But, you can't get away from it. I swear, it's like herpes. Just when you think it's gone away, it flares up in the most painful and irritating way.

I have surreptitiously devised a way to keep the vomit-level minimized during the news broadcasts that my significant other forces me to endure, all in the name of the weather report. (I think he may secretly have a "thing" for Don Jorgenson, but that's a whole other story.) I have come to the conclusion that the only way to tolerate these 30-minute segments of pure anti-intellectual garbage is with large doses of alcohol.

The rules are simple: Every time you hear the term "Keloland" you must consume an ounce of your preferred alcoholic beverage. I had to put a limit on the consumption level to avoid certain cirrhosis of the liver. That, and I wouldn't want to be held accountable for some college student's binge-drinking death .

The last time I played this game, the final tally was 58 uses of the word. That's close to one drink every 30 seconds. Talk about a buzz! I, myself, have never made it past the first ten minutes of each broadcast for fear of alcohol poisoning. I don't think my health insurance provider covers that condition.

To all my friends and family that I have left back in the Great White North: There's not much to see or do here, but I extend an open invitation to all to visit and participate in this uniquely South Dakota ritual. But, please bring lots of beer. American beer is like sex in a canoe - too close to water.

The Eye in the Sky

It will never cease to amaze me how many thousands of dollars this local South Dakota station budgets for its weather department annually, and just how under-utilized that money really is.

Now, don't get me wrong. The on-air meteorologists actually do have personalities, more so than their newsroom counterparts, and a genuine passion for their chosen field. South Dakota, after all, is considered part of Tornado Alley, and when the atmosphere gets itself all riled up, these men follow suit like it's Armageddon. They get so excited that it's difficult, as a viewer, to not get caught up in the drama of it all. Prime time is pre-empted for live shots of "Keloland Live Doppler Radar" and "Vipir" views. Those who, I assume, choose the short straws, are out in "Dorothy," (yes, I know it's cliche to steal a vehicle name from a movie, but they are chasing "Twister"s) KELO's mobile radar-equipped vehicle, calling in reports every quarter hour. Here's a thought, guys: Try a video link-up.

While you can tell that most of these guys were, at some point in their lives, what the rest of us would call "nerds" or "geeks" or "pencil-necks", Shawn Cable is a hottie. No question about that. And the dude can sing! I don't understand why he hasn't been gobbled up by the networks yet. He can't love this state that much, can he? But, I digress...

The guy who crunches the numbers for Young Broadcasting is allocating a butt-load of cash for this particular department and some dumb-ass is using it to purchase cameras to position atop towers throughout the state. Ok. Not such a ridiculous idea, unless you live or have ever visited this great state. There's NOTHING TO SEE HERE, folks. Move along.

A great idea get worse from there. Where are they placing these "Keloland Sky Cams?" At "strategic points" throughout the state, i.e. the two interstates that traverse South Dakota, and of course, THE MALL! Yes, the mall is located at the most travelled intersection of the state (which, at rush hour, is more like, for my Canadian friends, the corner of Yonge and Queen at 4 a.m. on a Tuesday), but, still, why there? South Dakota is an agriculturally-based state, so what relevance does the mall have to the farmers that support its economy? Would they not be better served by positioning these cameras in their fields so they can keep an eye on their corn and cattle? It seems to me that this television station is positioning itself for the future, laying all the groundwork for a traffic department in a state that has fewer residents than the city of San Jose, CA - a measely 10.2 people per square mile in SD compared to 5118/sm in San Jose. Traffic congestion in South Dakota? Dude, you're about 200 years ahead of the rest of us.

And then it gets even worse. It seems to me the only times these strategically positioned Sky Cams are utilized are:

1. long before sunrise and
2. long after sunset.

I question the purpose of displaying a view of darkness interspersed with tiny points of light during a weather forecast. Is this Shawn's way of predicting the obvious? I can just hear him saying:

"Let's go to Keloland's Sky Cam at the mall. Looks like today in Keloland we'll have a 100 percent chance of darkness. But, hey, lucky for you folks out there on your way to work, we have a 100 percent chance of light starting at about 7 this morning, just in time for your drive into the office."

Unfortunately, despite all of their technologically advanced weather-prognosticating tools, the Sky Cams are the only means for which the Keloland weather team can precisely predict the future.

The Timmy Button

Staples® has the Easy Button^SM

Noobers has the Timmy Button^RM

Thanks to mass-merchandising, Matt and Trey's overwhelming sense of greed and Neeners uncanny ability to find my THE PERFECT gift, I have the power to, with the touch of one tiny button, let my opinion of everyone's lack of intelligence be heard. Clammers of "T-t-t-immmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-ay," "Timah," and "Lib-eeeeeeeeeeeee-lau-lib-eee-luaaaaaaaaaaaah Timmay," resound.

Hark the herald figurine sings,
Glory to my newfound thing.

Again, I reiterate my stance that I am not mocking the disabled. Timmy is of superior intellect and I rely on him quite often for guidance. It is truly unfortunate that the rest of us can't learn to communicate so much with so very little effort.

Don't be surprised if you hear that reply to your inane question. Timmy calls 'em like he sees 'em, too.

WRONG, I say!

Precipitation in the form of white, fluffy, crystalline structures is WRONG, particularly in April. Wrong as in unacceptable, unwelcome, unsolicited, un-spring-like.

The only times that snow is acceptable are as follows:

1. Christmas Eve - sorry to all the non-Christian folk out there if this statement offends you. I know how uber-sensitive you've become, thanks to retards like Al Sharp-tongue, Jesse Jackass, Osama Bin PlanningAnotherBigTerroristAttack, but JESUS! I'm referring to snow here! (Author's note: I humbly apologize if I have inadvertently offended the genuinely handicapped with the implied association to the aforementioned retards. It is not my intention to make fun of retarded people, just to offend those who demonstrate consistently retarded behaviors.) and

2. Monday morning, or any other morning, when you wake up and don't feel up to dealing with retards all day just to keep a roof over your head and food in your big, fat bellay.

The silver lining to all of this white stuff? The robin, the epitome of the arrival of spring in my geographical area, is forced to lose some weight. It seems that this "epidemic" of obesity does not discriminate against any form of species. It amazes me that these birds can actually fly!

I hereby tender a new moniker for these fat bastards: Robin Big Breasts

All in favor, say "aye!"

It's Not News

The paternity of Anna Nicole Smith's daughter is not news. Her death isn't really even newsworthy. Paris Hilton being arrested for DUI is not noteworthy either. Nor is the amount of money Mrs. Bill has raised to date in her run for the presidency. A White House Press Secretary with cancer is not news. The bitch-fest between Geraldo and O'Reilly isn't really news either. Rosie O'verweight's slams against anyone and anything on "The View" aren't worthy of headlines or the hours of airtime and attention she's received on Fox News.

However...

If Geraldo had pulled out a semi-automatic and placed a bullet right between Bill's beady little eyes, or vice versa for that matter, now THAT would be news.

Ho is Me

I do hope that the women of Rutgers enjoy their proverbial 15 minutes, because I for one CANNOT wait until it's over. I'm tired of the double-standards, fed up with the hypocrisy and had more than enough of Al Sharpton to last more than 1000 lifetimes.

Al, Crimson Knights, Imus et al: I invite you to find a nice, dark room, turn on the CD player and crank 'er up to 11. Give the good ole Eagles "Get Over It" a listen...closely!

I turn on the tube and what do I see
A whole lotta people cryin' "Don't blame me"
They point their crooked little fingers ar everybody else
Spend all their time feelin' sorry for themselves
Victim of this, victim of that
Your momma's too thin; your daddy's too fat
Get over it
Get over it
All this whinin' and cryin' and pitchin' a fit
Get over it, get over it

You say you haven't been the same since you had your little crash
But you might feel better if I gave you some cash
The more I think about it, Old Billy was right
Let's kill all the lawyers, kill 'em tonight
You don't want to work, you want to live like a king
But the big, bad world doesn't owe you a thing

Get over it
Get over it
If you don't want to play, then you might as well split
Get over it, Get over it

It's like going to confession every time I hear you speak
You're makin' the most of your losin' streak
Some call it sick, but I call it weak

You drag it around like a ball and chain
You wallow in the guilt; you wallow in the pain
You wave it like a flag, you wear it like a crown
Got your mind in the gutter, bringin' everybody down
Complain about the present and blame it on the past
I'd like to find your inner child and kick its little ass

Get over it
Get over it
All this bitchin' and moanin' and pitchin' a fit
Get over it, get over it

Get over it
Get over it
It's gotta stop sometime, so why don't you quit
Get over it, get over it


Ladies, you dropped the ball (pun intended). You blew the perfect opportunity to stand, united, proud and strong, face the media, the critics, the cynics and the generally misinformed and succinctly state:

"Sticks and stones may break our bones, but names will never hurt us."

Now you're victims, "scarred" for life. I don't see how your chosen stance will advance the cause of women world wide as you lie down, weeping and wailing your woe-is-me tale. What do the rest of us get out of it? Oprah's Book of the Month and a made-for-tv movie?

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK! Get over it!

Mind Yer Manners, Dammit!

What is it with you "Generation-Y" putz-like individuals, anyhoo? Is it not enough that the rest of us must repeatedly explain things because you collectively lack common sense and are void of analytical skills? From where did you derive your holier-than-thou attitudes and assume that the world owes you something? What the hell have you ever contributed to society, aside from that pile of puke you left on the sidewalk in front of your friend's parents' house last weekend? I would be much more tolerant of your aforementioned faults, and the many others I choose not to outline as I would ultimately waste much of my own life doing so, if you would all just learn one simple phrase: "You're welcome." Say it with me now. You're welcome. One more time. You're welcome.

Here's a quick course in manners for you: When I say, "Thank you," you say, "You're welcome."

Easy enough, right? So, why do these two words escape you so consistently, only to be replaced by, "Uh huh," or "UmHm" or, the most frustrating of all, silence in conjunction with an empty stare? If you demonstrated even a glimmer of confusion in your eyes, I would know that there's something going on between your ears. But, alas, you disappoint me once again.

Are you that fucking lazy that you can't exert the effort to expel these words from your mouth? Or, was it all that Ritalin your mother forced down your throat during your pre-adolescent years because she was too lazy to discipline you that caused irreversible damage to the part of your brain responsible for following societal protocol?

Etiquette, folks. Google it. You might just learn something.

And, while I'm at it, there is no "t" in across. It is not "uh-krawst." It is pronounced "uh-kraws." As in, when will I ever get my point across that there is no "t" in the word "across?"

Bitch Session

Why is it that an assertive, knowledgeable and determined woman in the workplace is a "bitch," while her male counterpart is considered simply as "successful" or "persuasive" or "venerable" or any other positive adjective you wish to insert.

Webster's defines bitch as:
1. the female of the dog or other canine
2. a spiteful, malicious woman
3. a sexually promiscuous woman

The negative connotations of this word are endless, and quite frankly, tiresome. The sexual revolution ended decades ago. Get over it already! There are a plethora of alternatives available for your consideration including, but not limited to "despotic," "onerous," "premenstrual" and my current preference, "ball-buster.

I've been both offender and defender in this sport, and I must admit that I derive a great deal more satisfaction being referred to as a bitch. It pleases me to no end when my accusers demonstrate their limited vocabularies, lack of creativity and inability to adequately assess a situation, and then flounder in a sea of denial when asked to justify their comment. Hey, I don't necessarily disagree with you folks, I just expect you to validate your opinion. Not that I really care what you think, I'm just looking for a good laugh.

I firmly believe that their are times when using such an identifier is appropriate. More often than not, the subject of the accusation is, in many ways, inferior and futilely attempts to obscure this fact through malevolent mannerisms. This woman will go to great lengths to make those around her equally as miserable. She relentlessly sucks all of the joy from life with her sociopathic behavior. Her inferiority complex is not of my concern, nor would I point out the obvious to her. She is more than likely aware of her limitations and has foolishly chosen to embrace the label as if it were a badge of honor.

Wake up, peeps. A woman who demonstrates ability, intelligence and motivation is not, I repeat NOT, a bitch. She is highly desirable. She is respectable. She is honorable. She is admirable. Be not threatened by her faculties, embrace them. Do not undermine her efforts, encourage them. Do not personalize your attacks with demeaning, juvenile name-calling, as you may acquire some valuable lesssons from her. If you haven't already come to this realization, it reflects very poorly on you and only serves to emphasize your own deficiencies.

Moo

I'm pleased to report I have survived my first day on the farm. I joined the masses of cud-chewing, methane-spewing, sammich-eating cattle as we were promptly herded into the corral , only to be immediately separated into our own stalls. I was lucky yesterday. I avoided the slaughterhouse. Moo.

Today may be a different story. While I attempted to locate the electric prodding device, its whereabouts still remain a mystery to me. I predict that should I continue to keep my head down, and the bar up, I will avoid said tool of pain altogether. Go me. Go moo! However, the prod may be more figurative than literal, as I am subjected to the wailings and whinings of Tim McGraw, the Dixie Chicks et al. Poor me. Poor moo.

I am unimpressed with the depth of breeds on this farm. It seems to me that these forty hour per week residents are either one of the aforementioned bovine non-individuals (moo) or the ubiquitous Prairie Dog, as they frequently pop their heads out from the safety of their cubes to satisfy their curiosity in the newbie. They then promptly retreat to the sanctuary of their salaried homes to busy themselves with looking busy. Now that's some well-earned money. Moo.

Into which category I will fall remains to be seen at this time, although I have become quite fond of this philosophy. Unfortunately, it does not mesh well with my "personality," as pointing out the short-comings of others is one of my few hobbies and brings great joy and satisfaction to my life.

Until I have determined which species to associate myself, I shall remain a bitch in cow's clothing. The costume may be different, but it's a role I know all too well.

Moo.

Return of the Demon Kitty

The cat came back - not the very next day.

The cat came back - fer shur she was a goner!

My world is complete. I have my pussy. Of course, she'll probably need a rabies shot, a nice, warm bath with a lice shampoo, and in a few weeks, we can expect the arrival of quintuplet pussies in our humble abode. But, DAYEM, was I happy to see her, even if she is a whore!

After ten days of searching the neighborhood, checking every gutter for a decomposing mass of fur, calling and calling at all hours of the day and night, the demon kitty has decided that maybe the grass isn't so green on the other side of the door. Either that, or like any other fickle feline on the planet, she grew tired of her muse and ditched him. Poor bastard!

Or, is he the lucky one? From the little I know about the male species, I assume a ten-day sex fest with no strings attached is ideal. Sure, there would be some chafing, but that's nothing that some lotion and a few days of rest wouldn't cure. I'm sure, where ever he is, his chest is filled with pride, knowing that he has ensured his immortality through the spread of his genes. There must be a certain smugness to his Cheshire Cat grin with the recognition that he is in no way legally bound to my pussy. No midnight feedings, no lengthy talks about his feelings, no monthly support payments. His obligations in life remain the same - sleep, eat, sleep, shit, sleep and procreate. Then, perhaps a nap before he repeats the process.

I'm convinced. When I die, I'm coming back as a male cat.

A Cork is a Cork, of Course. Of Course!

The bain of my existance the past couple of days has been CHRONIC POOPAY PANTIES. (Insert cringe here.) I am sure that, given the current state of affairs between my stomach and anus, I am solely supporting the entire Bathroom Tissue Market. (You are most welcome, Scott Paper Products!) Though the intestinal opus is highly entertaining for both my significant other and me, the gut-wrenching cramps are a killjoy all on their own, and the time intervals between "deposits" are shrinking rapidly. I am beyond Immodium. I need a CORK!

So, the dude I see, who spent eight freakin' years pursuing a post-secondary education and calls himself a "medical professional," naively inquires about my caffeine consumption. "Caffeine is a stimulant," he says. No shit, Doc SuperGenius! Why the hell do ya think I drink it? I mean, besides the fact that I am addicted to it.

But, it does make me wonder...Could my past position with one of the world's largest purveyors of overpriced, over-roasted and over-rated coffee be the culprit of my intestinal infirmity? I reside in the most litigious country in the world, so I wonder...could I sue the poop outta them for squeezing all the poop outta me? I think I could score at least a mill for the pain and suffering alone!

Maybe I won't need that job after all.

Movin' on Up

Not to the east side, nor to a deluxe apartment in the sky-hy-hy. Rather, I am...

(drum roll please)

EMPLOYED!

(pat on back)

Go me!

Now, if I could just find my pussy, life would be ideal.

As if Lorne Michaels doesn't have enough money already

Call me crazy (or any other adjective you wish to use), but I think Mr. Michaels may just have a valid beef on his hands.

This originally aired on SNL December 9, 2000.

That was released in the motherland November of 2006.

Yeah, I know, it's not the EXACT same, but TTH's In View tune is definitely reminiscent of Fallon's, Sanz's, Morgan's and Kattan's ode to the Christian holiday season. While I call myself an admirer of TTH, I must admit that I prefer the former jingle to the latter.

In this case, I call 'em like I hear 'em.

No, I wanna job

I have something to offer. I have something to contribute. Most importantly, I have golf lessons to pay for so that I can achieve my goal of becoming a pro at the ripe old age of 55. So, future employer, that gives you a couple of decades to use and abuse me.

Any takers?

I don't wanna work!

Awakening to the evil bemoanings of Alanis Morrissette at 6:30 am five days a week is not what I would refer to as "appealing." Of course, I could change the AM frequency on my alarm clock, but I would only surrender my blissful REM stages to AC/DC or Aerosmith. Either way, it's painful!

Selecting an appropriate ensemble is also quite a disheartening adventure. Who the hell put all of my clothes in the dryer at the highest heat setting possible and shrink them so that only a short anorexic could wear them well? Alright, so I put on a few pounds. But, it's always easier to point the finger elsewhere, n'est pas? (Just ask Former Boss. I'm sure he'll concur fervently. Well, he would if he had a dictionary!)

Hoping that my aging TBird will turn over on the first attempt is just one of those scenarios I just don't wish to face regularly. Mostly because it's a futile hope, and it often requires patience and a spare set of keys as I often lock myself out.

Facing morning drive time is also a non-enviable position, when and if I am able to motivate the TBird into action. Ladies, the rearview mirror was not created with the sole intention of morning make-up application. It was strategically placed in your car so that you can easily view me venting my anger towards your lack of driving skills.

Should I survive all of these obstacles to my sanity and happiness, what do I have to anticipate? Eight hours of the mundane, interspersed with a plethora of stupid questions. Moments of true clarity (yeah, right!) only interrupted by the torrent of apathy from co-workers. Objectives quashed by the narrow-minded, lazy peons with which I am surrounded.

I wave my white flag.

I wanna job!

I wanna job, if for no other reason than to stave off the inevitable dementia for just a few years more.

I'M BORED! Gimme something to do, then pay me for it!

Why isn't it all just that simple?

Hmmm...isn't it ironic that this post should follow my previous Dear Former Boss? A domestic goddess I am not, but I always did love irony.

Dear Former Boss

Do you miss me yet? I thought not. You require a great deal more intellectual fortitude to realize the veritable gold mine you squandered through your ineffectual and infantile dealings with me. Had you demonstrated the ability to pull yourself away from your Fantasy Football stats long enough, you may have developed an appreciation for my efforts. After all, I made you look pretty damn good in the eyes of your superiors.

Now that the dust has settled from my expeditious departure, I pity you. You have many realizations to attain. In your measly quarter century of life, you have not been able to reach the conclusion that a simple "hello" may have precluded my single-sentence, two-word Letter of Resignation. Your chronic scowl will create deep furrows in your brow, rendering you unattractive to future objects of your desire when your spouse inevitably divorces you. One more bit of advice: While it may seem warm and comforting, opting to keep your head up your own ass is not only painful to observe, it may result in permanent damage to your cervical vertebrae.

Yes, you are a "little fucker." Though that quote was derived from a private conversation on my personal cell phone while I was off the clock, I stand by my statement. I own it. I admire it. I'm proud of it. No apology has, nor ever will, fall from these lips.

What can I say? I call 'em like I see 'em.

Seeing Eye Person

Poor Norm! In my mind's eye, I always pictured my "son" carrying out the most humanitarian of jobs. You know the ones; helping the developmentally challenged turn on the lights, aiding law enforcement in discovering large caches of contraband, soothing lonely octogenarians with his mere presence.

Alas, the dream is dead. The table has turned. The ball is in my court. I now spend hours on the net, futilely searching for that elusive white cane that is easily manipulated by its master, who, through no fault of his own, possesses no opposing digit. Age has reduced Poor Norm to a shell of his former, most kewl self. Cataracts have clouded his vision and judgement. Recurring bacterial infections have destroyed his ear drums. Dysplasia has ended his phenomenal frisbee career. You may think my "parental" opinion is biased, but even the eldest offspring of my parental units thinks Norm is kewl, and he, like Life Cereal's Mikey, HATES EVERYTHING!

I now find myself guiding Poor Norm through the obstacles of life - the furniture, the demon cat and the doorjams that will inevitably thump his nose producing a pathetic "YELP!" I am proud to report, however, that he has mastered the ups and downs of stairs, with my constant coaching and counting of each and every step. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

BLOG...WTF?

Banal lugubrious outpouring of garbage?

Works for me!

Thanks Matt and Trey!

Golf claps all around for the creators of South Park. They have renewed my faith in humanity and provide hope that, one day, potty humor will be as widely accepted as Visa or Master Card.

Despite their chosen medium, Mr. Parker's and Mr. Stone's social commentary is far more relevant than that of any so-called pundit who clog up our electronic devices in some futile attempt to persuade our moral positions.

Though my vote doesn't count in this country, I support Turd Sandwich over Giant Douche ANY day of the week!

Supply Crisis?

There simply is just NOT enough Charmin in the world to wipe away all the "will-nots" on this planet. You know the ones; no matter how much you wipe, they just WILL NOT go away. I could list several, myself included, but that would require far too much effort on my part.

Popping the Cherry

Despite my aversion to the ubiquitous ovine psyche, I hereby throw my hat into this ring of intellectual (or otherwise) SPEW referred to as Le Blog. I simply lack the self control or restraint required to bite my tongue, or sit upon my hands as it were, any longer.

The sole motivating factor in the creation of ProctoLogic? I just wanna discuss my shit, literally or otherwise, without the disapproving, mortified glares of those uber-moralistic individuals who truly believe theirs in no way, shape or form offends the olfactory senses. (Sorry peeps, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but your feces is not very petunia-like.) I like my shit. I am proud of my creation. It's the one thing in this world to which I can claim sole proprietary rights. I would die happy if each of my small contributions to the local Waste Management Facility popped out with the tag line "NOOBERS™." But, I digress...

Fear not! Photos of said topics shall not grace this site. A photographer, I'm not. 'Tis better to utilize your own powers of mental visualization than for me to make it easy for you, n'est pas? Just don't forget your triple-ply, quilted Charmin when you return. My spidey senses suggest you may need it!