Via Radley Balko, I've just learned that the state of Texas has spent 18 months to publish a 668-page report finding that the state of Texas ... issues too many reports.
The article doesn't mention if the report came from the Department of Redundancy Department, but it wouldn't surprise me.
The best part? Despite the report's finding, its issuers assure their paymasters that continuing to report on the excess of reports is vital:
As for the commission's massive report on reports, Heskett predicts it won't go away.
"For the report to be effective, it must be ongoing," he said.
I'm pretty sure that the part of state records administrator Michael Heskett is actually being played by the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland, but I'll certainly issue a report once I'm positive.
Since I post so many Calvin and Hobbes strips here, I though I should show you this photo of a real-life Halloween version of Calvin's "Snowmen of Horror" displays.
Great, here's yet another way in which my World of Warcraft character is superior to me:
If that's not clear, it says "Tip: Your character can eat and drink at the same time." At the same time! I know I can't handle a crossbow like he can, but now this? How many more ways can I be inferior to that stupid digital guy?!
Here is a partial list of the things I hate about ESPN sportscaster Chris Berman. And I'm skipping the obvious things, like his incessant usage of inane nicknames for not only every single player on the planet, but some species of African bush weasels as well.
The overly broad gestures that punctuate every single syllable he utters. I fully expect him to knock a colleague unconscious some day with an exaggerated arm swing. Particularly egregious: the "Pseud-OK", the aborted love-child of "I missed it by that much" and Gumby's "O-TAY!".
The sport jacket with a short-sleeve shirt underneath. What is he, twelve? With every overly broad gesture you see his hairy arms all the way up to his elbows. It is my dream that he will accidentally crush his own larynx during a broadcast while gesticulating, and die for lack of a shirt sleeve with which to stanch the bleeding.
"BACK BACK BACK BACK BACK BACK BACK ... ((twenty minutes later)) ... BACK BACK BACK BACK ..."
"WHOOP!", particularly when used at completely inappropriate times. I have visions of this abominable noise issuing forth from a bathroom stall in Bristol about an hour after lunch every day.
The combover. Let it go, man, because trust me -- it's gone.
The stupefied look on his face during every NFL Sunday Shoutathon And Screaming Death Match show, when one of his idiotic on-screen comrades finishes speaking and tosses it back to him to move along to the next topic. Pick up the ball, Berman, it's your turn to do something!
He's still on ESPN, and Keith Olbermann is not. There is no justice in the world.
Remember all those times the flight attendant came on and told you to turn off all electronic devices because they might endanger your flight? Apparently they're full of crap:
Air traffic controllers were forced to use their personal cell phones to reroute hundreds of flights Tuesday after the Federal Aviation Administration's Memphis Center lost radar and telephone service for more than two hours, snarling air traffic in the middle of the nation.
That's right, your Razor might crash that Southwest Airlines junket to Vegas, but it's ok for air traffic controllers in Memphis to coordinate all the flights at the entire airport via Cingular Wireless for two hours with no problems.
But I think our own good-old-fashioned American flight system is no less full of hooey and woo. No electronic devices during takeoff and landing. No liquids allowed on board. Confiscating corkscrews, for goodness' sake. The fact that none of this does any good at all makes no difference.
I think next time I fly I'm going to use a cooler full of cabrito as one of my carry-on items. It ought to do about as much good as most of the other "safety measures" we're subjected to, and unlike cell phones, it makes for a great taco.
The Seattle neighborhood of South Lake Union has a new trolley, which means it's the South Lake Union Trolley. Or "SLUT" for short. An enterprising store in the area already has shirts for sale reading "Ride the SLUT!" which are selling like mad. No word yet on whether they'll also be staging a production of "A Streetcar Named Desire".
I might have to plan a trip to Seattle. It's been far too long since I experienced the high-speed thrill of riding a slut.
P.S. I'll be out of town till Sunday at my nephew's wedding in Houston. How to differentiate this interval from my normal glacial posting place is an exercise left to the reader.
At the risk of turning this into a potty-themed blog, I just can't let this story about US Senator Larry Craig's (R-Idaho) arrest for lewd behavior in an airport restroom go without comment:
Craig stated "that he has a wide stance when going to the bathroom and that his foot may have touched mine," the report states. Craig also told the arresting officer that he reached down with his right hand to pick up a piece of paper that was on the floor.
I've been in a number of public restroom stalls in my 38 years, but I can't ever recall being in such dire gastric distress that I would need to take a stance while seated so wide that my foot was at any risk of touching the foot of the gentleman in the next stall. All I can say is, if you need to take a stance that wide, you'd better be in the handicapped stall, because you're going to need to grip those handlebars for leverage.
What really disturbs me is that you have to touch feet to signal you want to do something naughty. Frankly, I think foot-on-foot intimate contact is just wrong, and ought to be illegal pretty much anywhere. If feet weren't meant to be gross, they'd not have evolved to be waaaaaaay down there at the opposite end of our bodies from all our sense organs. They're stuck on the end of the legs for a reason -- they're nasty!
On a more serious note, I have a hard time understanding what was illegal about this episode. He didn't actually solicit any sort of illegal contact, he just exhibited some behaviors typical of people who would. And though as I noted, he lied about why he did those things -- the grip and the "I was just picking up a piece of paper" -- that's all after the fact. It seems like you'd have to prove he intended to solicit illegal behavior, and I don't see how you could do that in this case.
I understand the desire to keep lewd acts out of public restrooms, but honestly, this seems to be a pretty outrageous law. By comparison, you can't arrest a guy just for driving around slowly in an area known for prostitution. You have to see them actually solicit the illegal act -- just acting suspicious isn't (and shouldn't) be enough.
Something about the Tex-Mex restaurant that just opened in Bertram makes me uncomfortable. I think it's the name:
Yes, you're reading that right, it's "Los Mezkan's", which for you non-Spanish speakers out there means "The Mexican's". Wait, I'm getting a cable from the Mexican embassy -- ok, that's not really Spanish, it's just slang. Hmph.
Anyway, I know calling someone "Mezkan" isn't really an insult, but it still seems weird. It'd be like opening a place that serves traditional "white people" food and calling it "Cracker's" or something.
Oh. Well. Bad example. But you'd never see a restaurant whose name could be construed as an insulting term for Black people, right? Right?!
I give up. Maybe we're normal here in Bertram after all.
Any man who owns a sizable piece of property who claims he hasn't peed on it is either a liar or wears a colostomy bag.
We might not share much biology with wolves, but psychologically we definitely have the Pee Gene ("Markus Territorius") in common. There's something very pleasing about splashing about on the back ninety, like planting a very watery stake in the ground that says "MINE!" Now granted, you can take the concept too far, as the woman at HEB claims I did when I was "claiming" my truck in the parking lot, but the principle stands.
I like to imagine that marking the fence line will repel rapacious coyotes. They'll come up, hungry for horse or donkey meat, and encounter the manly fruit of my kidneys (can liquid be a fruit? maybe the "fruit juice" of my kidneys, then) which causes them to flee in terror. It's much likelier, of course, that they'll immediately start drawing straws on who gets to be first at the buffet.
"Smells like Microsoft, Bill." "Break out the forks, Bob, I'm goin' in."
Still, 101 acres is a lot to cover. I think I'm going to have to invest in some shares of Diet Coke ("Billions and Billions of Gallons of 'Fruit Juice' Produced So Far!") and block out some time if I'm going to get to it all ...
With the "most expensive piece of glass on the vehicle" replaced in my truck, the garden hose patched, and the small mower dropped off at the shop for wheel replacement therapy, I turned my attention to repairing the damage wrought both by and to MODAD and discovered why he was so grumpy:
That's what just one day of living the country life can do to high-tech equipment. Let that be a lesson to all you wanna-be Bubba Nerds out there.
I replaced the blade on Saturday, and on Sunday when I went to take MODAD out into the fields to play, he had two flat tires. Apparently he's still grumpy. I reminded him that in the fable, the mouse and the lion become good friends once the thorn is removed, but then I realized MODAD is a Deere. And apparently, deer are a lot less forgiving than lions.
If Annie comes home tomorrow to find me dead, you can blame Tim Conway -- he made me laugh so hard (again) that I almost choked to death.
See, earlier tonight Fox aired a program called something like "Television's Funniest 30 Moments", which from the premise alone you know is guaranteed to piss everybody off when their favorite moment doesn't make the cut. And sure enough, I got pissed.
Because for my money, you won't find a funnier five minutes in the history of television than the following blooper outtake from "The Carol Burnett Show" involving an unscripted elephant story by the consummate funny man, Tim Conway.
The setting features the popular sketch "The Family" (which later got spun off into its own show called "Mama's Family"), one of the recurring bits on the program. Tim Conway's character just got an answer about elephants wrong in the game they were playing but Tim, never content to leave a script as written, jumps in with an ad-libbed story. How he holds his composure throughout is a true mystery, but what's really remarkable is that he manages to crack up Carol Burnett herself, legendary for her iron will and control.
You'll see Conway do his riff twice. I'm not sure if the first is from the regular broadcast and the second is from the West Coast feed (I think they used to shoot and air the entire show twice), or if it's a rehearsal or re-take, but they're both hysterical. Be sure to watch all the way to the end for Vicki Lawrence's fantastic zinger that literally sends them all falling off the couch laughing.
If you can't make out her line at the end, it's "Reckon that little ass-hole is just about through?"
In less than 24 hours I managed to purchase an $1,800 item that allowed me to destroy an additional $1,100 of previously owned merchandise. How did I accomplish such an amazing feat? Read on, my friend, and stand in awe of the power of MODAD -- Mower of Death And Destruction -- as it proceeded to destroy:
The push mower I was using to prep the yard for the new mower.
The garden hose lying in my path. (About which I literally thought to myself, not two minutes before, "The odds of me breaking that hose with this mower while it's on its highest setting is pretty much zero." Now you know why I'm not working as an odds-maker in Vegas.)
The mulching attachment that comes with the mower, restraining band severed by a flying rock.
The side cab window of my truck (probably from the same rock that severed the mulcher in passing), which the replacement company said is, and I quote, "The most expensive piece of glass on the vehicle." I don't go halfway, baby, when I break something, I only break the best!
The author of this rampage of mayhem? I present you with MODAD -- the Mower Of Death And Destruction!
I bet it's wondering how it's going to power through the garage door blocking its escape. Keep your eyes peeled, folks -- it's getting hungry.
Many people decry games like "World of Warcraft" as vast, bloated time sinks that suck away the lives and personalities of its subscribers, giving nothing of value in return.
Not unlike America's political parties!
But seriously. I think these people are wrong, and as evidence I present the "Top Ten Things World of Warcraft Can Teach You About Life":
10. No matter how much time, money, and energy you put into making something, there's no guarantee anyone will want to buy it.
9. Hot girls can dance to make money. Even if they're really guys.
8. Where you choose to make your home (whether a neighborhood or a server) can make a huge difference in how enjoyable your time is. Nothing's more frustrating than having to constantly wait on construction when all you want is to get home.
7. Some people are just plain ass-holes and there's not a lot you can do about it unless you have powerful friends. Preferably friends with really, really big swords.
6. If you want a sweet ride, you better save your money.
5. Short people have feelings too. Even gnomes. Probably.
4. You can go a lot farther if you have a group of friends watching your back.
3. I've been rich, and I've been poor, and believe me -- rich is better.
2. That fancy, over-engineered mechanical gizmo might look neat and cost a fortune, but odds are it'll let you down when you need it most. Sometimes the simple, reliable things are better.
1. You might think of The Other Side as absolutely evil, soulless, cowardly scumbags with no heart ... until you actually step into their shoes and experience the world from their point of view, understanding their history and outlook. Don't be surprised if "Good Guys" and "Bad Guys" are interchangeable labels sometimes.
More evidence supporting the theory advanced by commenters Denise and Allen that most country businesses are just as awash in unimaginative naming as Bertram's own Earl's comes from this blurb ("Cool Places") in the August 2007 issue of "Texas Co-Op Power" newsletter:
In a part of the country where blue-plate specials are more the luncheon norm stands Frenke's Pasta & Pizza, authentic Italian fare. Hailing from Kosovo, Frank Misini opened the restaurant in 2002. There was a Mexican restaurant nearby called "Frankie's", so he named his Frenke's.
First, I don't know that coming from Kosovo -- which, if you'll check your local globe, is not in Italy -- necessarily grants you the mantle of "authentic Italian." Second, I don't know any Italians named "Frenke". Mr. Misini would have been better off just outright stealing the name of the Mexican restaurant, because I know lots of actual Italians named Frank but not one single Frenke. Being from Kosovo, of course, there's no way he could have known that. I guess that's what makes him authentic here in Nerd Country.
Willie the One-Armed Volunteer Fireman who works at the tire shop isn't the only interesting thing about the tire business in our small town. Not by a long shot.
See, this is Ear's Tire & Automotive Repair, which as you can guess from its name sells tire and automotive services.
And this is Earl's Tire and Lube, which as you can guess from its name also sells tires and automotive services.
These two stores are only about ten miles apart, one in the small town of Liberty Hill and the other in the even smaller town of Bertram, the next stop down the road. But here's the thing -- they're two different Earls.
Completely unrelated.
So let's say you're in a small town of a few dozen people. And you're driving down the road and see that your friend Earl has opened himself a tire and automotive shop. "Well heck," you think to yourself, "my name is Earl, I reckon I ought to open one of them up too. I mean, what are the odds that a business would exist that has my name built right into it?"
I asked Earl about it one time (not that Earl, the other one), and he just gave me a disgusted look and said "That sonofabitch." I didn't pursue it any further, because I didn't want Earl (not that one, the other one) to get mad at me. I need my tires to work and I'm pretty sure "Earl's Tire, Lube, and Automotive Repair" one more town over is closed on weekends.
Back in the day, Americans were the beefed-up muscle-bound guy at the beach kicking sand in the faces of the 90-lb weakling nations, sporting the tallest citizens on average of anyplace on planet Earth.
What I'd like to know is, which of these newly-tall nations has been stealing our height? I demand an immediate investigation! Pass some laws, then ignore them and have the CIA do it the old-fashioned way. I even have a hot tip for them -- according to the article:
Back in 1850, the Dutch and other Western Europeans were 2 inches shorter than Americans.
The Netherlands now tops the "Tallest Nation" list at a resounding six feet for men and five foot seven inches for the women. That can't be natural; all they have to eat there is snow! Now I ask you, have you ever seen a tall snowman? I think not. Clearly something more nefarious is at play here, and I for one would like to know how they've been stealing our height.
Not that there's anything wrong with being short, as my entire family can attest. As my five foot tall mother said to my five foot one inch sister, "You're the tall one." Maybe that's what's really behind the Iraq War, a severe case of Short Nation Syndrome. There's certainly enough sand there for them to kick in our face.
Where have you gone, Charles Atlas? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Granted we now have to turn our eyes up to you since we're so short, but don't let that stop you from helping us beef back up.
I'm pretty sure I'm not gay, but after watching "Singing in the Rain" again tonight, I'm starting to wonder. Is it normal to find yourself thinking "Damn that Gene Kelly is a good-looking, great-dancing, stud-muffin of a singer"? I definitely shouldn't have gotten weepy at the end -- again -- especially when I've seen the movie a dozen times before. I think I better go hack down a tree or shoot a deer or something, quick, before they revoke my man card for good this time.
I did have one major revelation while watching it, though. I've never done drugs, but I'm pretty sure if I ever do, I want to watch the "Broadway Melody" sequence during it. I feel reasonably certain that acid is the only thing that can make sense of that number.
Finally, I think this routine from Donald O'Connor not only is the best thing in picture, but pretty much sums up my entire approach to life. Enjoy.
While shopping for the Fourth of July festivities, I came across an exciting new innovation in the snack chip wars -- corn tortilla chips that taste like corn!
I don't know why no one thought of this before. I can just imagine the meeting where they discussed the situation:
Bob: No one is buying our corn tortilla chips and I don't know why. Stan: It's bizarre. I mean come on, they taste just like broccoli! Bob: Exactly! I wonder what else we could make them taste like. [puzzled silence] Stan: You know this is kind of a crazy idea but ... nah, never mind. Bob: No no, go on, I'm curious what your thoughts are. Stan: Well, if you're sure ... I feel kind of silly even bringing it up but since you insist ... what if we -- now hang on to your hat here, this is pretty wild -- what if we made our corn tortilla chips taste like ... corn!?
Unfortunately we don't have a record of Bob's reaction because his head exploded at the unprecedented concept. What we DO have, however, is a close-up of the label announcing to the world this ground-breaking moment in food technology:
I hope you join me in studiously avoiding the thought "If they only just now made these here corn tortilla chips taste like corn, what in the name of all that's good and right did they taste like before?"
Here is a partial list of the things I hate about ESPN sportscaster Chris Berman. And I'm skipping the obvious things, like his incessant usage of inane nicknames for not only every single player on the planet, but some species of African bush weasels as well.
