FU in the UK

From MSN, here’s further proof the world has gone mad:

According to a report in the U.K.’s Daily Mail, one school in the town of Wellingborough is allowing pupils to swear at teachers, providing they only do so no more than five times in a class.

“Within each lesson the teacher will initially tolerate (although not condone) the use of the f-word (or derivatives) five times and these will be tallied on the board so all students can see the running score,” the Daily Mail quoted White as writing in a letter. “Over this number the class will be spoken to by the teacher at the end of the lesson.”

Click here for full story

This has to be one of the stupidest things I’ve seen recently. When I was a kid, using the “f-word”, or any derivative, just once during class would earn you a quick trip to the principal’s office; where he would “speak to you”… right before he spanked your ass with a paddle! And you know what? We didn’t curse at our teachers, ever. Such a thing was incomprehensible; I can just imagine the shocked silence after a kid cursed at a teacher in more civilized times.

Welcome to the age of diminished civility, increased hostility, and lowered expectations.

You know there will be at least one little smart-ass who will save up and drop all 5 “F-bombs” right at the end of class.

Fuck yeah they will, the fucked up little fuckers.

Stupid, Stupid Commercials (Warning: yet another TV rant)

So, have you seen the commercials for Northern ‘bathroom tissue’ with the cartoon bears? Now, of course we all know what a bear does ‘in the woods’, but do we really want to think about it?

One features the mother bear demonstrating to the little bear that with the fabulous Northern bear TP, s/he needn’t use so much. Another features this cutesy cartoon bear family, frolicking about, rubbing toilet paper across their cartoon bear bottoms asses.

Do I really want to imagine bear excrement (all full of bells and smelling of pepper spray) when I buy toilet paper? Or dancing cartoon bears, wiping their asses?
No! No, I certainly do not!

I’m starting to believe that when these advertising executives meet to develop new campaigns, they first pass out narcotics, booze, crayons, and possibly hallucinogens, then use whatever idea the last exec standing comes up with; reality-show style.

Examples of this new brainstorming technique’s offspring most likely also include the truly disturbing “The sausage comes from Jimmy Dean” ads, and the thoroughly disgusting Metamucil, Old Faithful, doo-doo geyser ads.

“Blaze” the Goat

So, after my earlier post about the “World Famous Balloon Blowing/Talking Goat” I did a quick Google search (why wouldn’t I?). It turns out, apparently the whole thing is (not so surprisingly) a sham… apparently “Dr. Happy LaClair” (a clown) inflates the balloons with a concealed tank of compressed gas, and, as Brian Fellow said:

“Goats can’t talk, that’s crazy!”

The reason I’m mentioning this now is twofold. First, I hope to spare you the heartbreak of paying hard-earned money to discover that “Dr. Happy” is a charlatan (allegedly). Second, last night I just happened to see the aforementioned Brian Fellow’s Safari Planet skit on an SNL repeat. Coincidence? Synchronicity? Hmm…

Now That’s One Relaxed Truck Driver!

So, a couple of days ago, here locally, I-70 was shut down for a large part of the day when a semi hauling 41,000 pounds of blasting caps and dynamite overturned when the driver fell asleep!!

Fell asleep driving a truck full of explosives! How is that possible? Just driving home with a can of gas for the lawnmower in the trunk of the car makes me as jumpy and nervous as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory.

The truck was enroute from Kentucky, so it’s not like he’d been at the wheel for all that long, either. Hell, I’ve (recently) driven for 19-20 hours straight and not fallen asleep; and this without the spectre of being blown to smithereens if I did.

Wrinkles in the fabric of time/space

Einstein (with whom I happen to share a birthday) was right vis-à-vis the relativity of time and space, and I have proof.

As you drive from Indianapolis, Indiana toward Dayton, Ohio on Interstate 70 there’s a sign not too far from the Ohio border that says “Dayton 40” (miles). Roughly 1 mile later there’s another sign; this one says “Dayton 39”. So far so good. 5.2 miles later, after crossing into Ohio, there’s a sign. This one reads: “Dayton 40”. Not 34, not 35… 40!!!

Richmond, Indiana (right on the state-line) has always made me vaguely uneasy, now I know why!

Ok, maybe it doesn’t prove the theory of relativity, but it certainly proves something!

Travelogue, Part 1 (or, “Why I hate Oklahoma”)

Almost exactly 18 years ago I made a road trip from Los Angeles, California to Wilmington, Delaware. Upon exiting Oklahoma, I made a solemn vow never to return (that’s a story for another time). Well, circumstance forced me to re-examine this vow, and I made the fateful decision to give the state another chance. I had to get from Indianapolis to Midland, Texas and the shortest route and the most favorable weather conditions meant traversing Oklahoma from North to South (mercifully, the shorter dimension).

As I was motoring through Missouri, I began to worry about I-44 in Oklahoma being a toll road. I realized that I was carrying very little cash and had no idea how much the tolls might be which was increasingly becoming a point of concern. I stopped for gas in Springfield Missouri, hoping to find a convenience store with an ATM inside. No such luck. However, when I asked the girl behind the counter at the one where I did stop if there was an ATM nearby, she asked about my specific bank (she had taken notice of it on my debit card). I replied that any bank would do and she then gave me directions to MY bank, located only a couple of blocks away. I had no idea that MYBank (not the actual name) even had branches in Missouri. Ah, the gentle hand of fate…. I zip over, grab the cash, and hit the highway for Oklahoma.

The first sign that things weren’t going to go well came soon enough, in the form of an actual sign; a big sign listing the rules and regulations for the “Expressway”. First of all, the sign wasn’t legible (due to not reflecting well, it was dark) until I was right upon it. Then all I managed to read as it flashed by was something about the toll being $3.50 and something about 50mph, which I assumed was the speed limit. “No worries” I thought, “60mph isn’t too awfully slow, I’ll drive 60.” So, 60-ish it was. Then I saw a sign that said, “Don’t drive into smoke”. “‘don’t drive into smoke?’ What the… surely I misread that.” I thought. Then I saw another and another. Hmmm… apparently if I come across this mysterious smoke, I’m supposed to just stop, in the dark, on the interstate. After quite some time, I see the first speed limit sign, 75mph/50mph minimum. Ack! So I ratchet my speed up to 80-ish and rush headlong into the night, hoping not to be swallowed by “the smoke”. Then I come to the first toll plaza, which baffled me with its bizarre layout. I pay my $3.50(!) and ask the attendant what the deal is with the “don’t drive into smoke signs”. He tells me it’s because the 5 indian nations sometimes go on the warpath and light signal fires; which sounded reasonable to my addled, sleep deprived brain. He then laughs and says that actually it’s because sometimes there are prairie fires with thick clouds of smoke and it’s just a precaution. Ok, whatever…

So, as I’m pulling out of the toll plaza there’s an OHP vehicle, a big black and white SUV, waiting, I imagine, to nab folks that try to slip through without paying the toll. Until he falls in behind me, lights flashing. I just laughed and said to myself “I should have kept my mouth shut about the smoke.” The officer approaches my passenger side window, I roll it down, and he asks for my license. I hand it over, then manage to knock over my 20oz Coca-Cola, which I hadn’t properly tightened the cap on, Coke sprays everywhere, primarily on the box of CD’s in the front seat, but basically on everything in the front of the car. He then asks me to step to the rear of the vehicle. I put on my shoes, do my best to mop up some of the mess, and then “step to the rear of the vehicle”. I ask, “Is there a problem, officer?”

“No there’s no problem” he shoots back with more than a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Well, then why the Hell are you bothering me?” I said (inside). He explains that I neglected to signal when I exited the expressway and asks me to sit in the front seat of his Gestapo-wagon. The fact that I hadn’t actually “exited the expressway” but had merely followed it to the toll plaza was apparently lost on him.

He magnanimously just wrote me a warning, asked a few questions about where I work, where I’m headed, etc. (which I know is an attempt to get me to admit that I’m smuggling drugs, bootlegging cigarettes from the reservation or engaged in some other despicable criminal enterprise), admonished me to be careful, and sent me on my way.

Another interesting feature the Oklahoma highways have is that they are designed completely opposite the way common sense and tradition dictates they should be. For instance, they have centrally located fuel/food/bathroom stops, forcing you to exit from, then later merge back into the fast lane of the highway. In another brilliant bit of traffic engineering genius, there are no signs telling you how to get back out of these awful things. So, naturally, I managed to get back on their so-called “expressway” going in the wrong direction. This was compounded by the lack of proper signage to inform you of such details as the road name, direction, or speed limit; yet they have plenty of signs warning me not to “drive into smoke” (which also happened to be about the only signs that were actually reflective, and therefore, legible). My error doesn’t become apparent until after I negotiate another of their rat maze/toll plazas, stupidly reply “no” when the attendant asks if I need a receipt, and see a (barely legible) sign for Oklahoma City, which I had passed through some time ago. “Shit”, says I, “I’m going the wrong way.” I finally get to an exit, turn around, pay the same toll (for the third time) and get back to the horrible island of idiocy that started the whole thing, having now pissed away nearly an hour. At the next toll plaza, I go through a lane with the basket you throw your change into. Unfortunately, due to the Coke incident earlier, my change is all sticky and doesn’t want to work in the machine. Thankfully, I have just enough to make up for the 4 or 5 sticky nickels it refuses to count. I am also somewhat placated by the thought that perhaps my sticky coins have gummed up their machine.

I finally make it out of their God-forsaken state, having been given a (in my opinion) completely arbitrary “written warning”, sprayed everything in the front of my car with coke, wasted an hour, paid 2 $3.50 tolls, 1 $1.50 toll (3 times), one $1.25 toll, and one toll which was either $1.25 or $1.50.

I was tremendously happy to finally be in Texas, though I did feel that Oklahoma should have been paying me for tolerating their awful state rather than me paying them for the priveledge of being tormented.

Thankfully, the rest of my trip went beautifully, more to come.

No! Bad Dog!

Man Mistakenly Cuts Off Penis, Dog Eats It

Mon Oct 4,10:41 AM ET

BUCHAREST (Reuters) – A elderly Romanian man mistook his penis for a chicken’s neck, cut it off and his dog rushed up and ate it, the state Rompres news agency said Monday.

It said 67 year-old Constantin Mocanu, from a village near the southeastern town of Galati, rushed out into his yard in his underwear to kill a noisy chicken keeping him awake at night.

“I confused it with the chicken’s neck,” Mocanu, who was admitted to the emergency hospital in Galati, was quoted as saying. “I cut it … and the dog rushed and ate it.”

Doctors said the man, who was brought in by an ambulance bleeding heavily, was now out of danger.

Devo Part 2


I was saying how my cd player would only play ‘Devo’s Greatest Hits’ due to a case of demonic possession. Not being equipped or qualified to perform an exorcism I had to buy a new cd player.

Today I did the “order online pick up in the store” deal with BestBuy. I’m standing at the customer service counter waiting for the computer (another of Satan’s minions) to do what ever it needed to do to complete my transaction. In front of me, back behind the counter, there’s a shelf with a cabinet below it. Apparently this is for items in for service, returns, damaged or defective merchandise… something like that. On the shelf there are two labels. One reads; “DEVO”, the other; “DEVO LOCK UP”.

I didn’t ask what this supposedly means, I know what it means. Devo, the Devil, and BestBuy are in cahoots!

Looking back, it seems so obvious, I should have known it all along.

Crazy Product of the Day

So, I was perusing the cooking.com website (as I am wont to do) and in the clearance section I found this:

Tazmanian Devil popcorn popper

A Tazmanian Devil popcorn popper

Watch as Taz pukes white, fluffy morsels into your serving bowl. It’s fun and healthy. What could be better!

Just be thankful it doesn’t dispense melted butter too (imagine where THAT would come out!)

Or, heaven forbid, the “Elmer Fudd hot fudge dispenser” eeewwww!

That’s just crazy!