Chaotic Not Random

2005-02-27T19:39:00.000-07:00

I've been frustrated the past several months.

"Well, I can see why, Kilgore," you are saying, gesturing toward the Involuntary Celibacy Watch.

That's not what I mean. I've been frustrated because the weeks come and the weeks go, and what are the tangible results of the time dribbled through my fingers? The paltry financial rewards of my dull job, maintenance of my basic metabolic functions, and the occasional fleeting pleasure of self-induced ejaculation. Consult Ecclesiastes or Ernie Ford for further ruminations along these lines.

Earlier this month, I took two days off work to think about these things and to consider ways to use my time more effectively. Here's what I discovered:

There are only 168 hours in a week.
After working, commuting, eating lunch, and sleeping, I have only 64 hours left.
It is not possible for me to train for an ultramarathon, write for publication, write regularly on this blog, attend church, have my meager social life, and still take care of the myriad crap that goes into staying sane, like preparing salad and cleaning the toilet every two weeks.

That third one surprised me. I don't have a wife (or even a girlfriend), or children, or a demanding job, or a fast-paced social life. And yet, no matter how I juggled the hours and activities, I couldn't fit everything into a realistic schedule. Something had to go.

That something is Chaotic Not Random. This was not an easy decision. I have loved keeping this blog -- it has sharpened my writing skills, bolstered my confidence, and allowed me to meet wonderful and interesting people; that is, those of you who have read my posts and left comments and sent kind, thoughtful emails. I thank you for being a part of my life this past year and a half.

I wish I could continue to post here. But I can't. Writing for me is a slow, difficult labor -- a labor of love, to be sure, but still a time-sucking task that consumes an average of three hours for each post, including this one. Even blogging just twice a week wipes out my Wednesday and Sunday evenings, which is time I could better spend preparing pieces for publication.

So this is goodbye, for now. I'm going to give up the chaoticnotrandom.com domain in a week or two, although everything here will remain for posterity on chaoticnotrandom.blogspot.com. If you want to keep current on my writing career, drop me an email and I'll let you know if I get anything into print.

My name, by the way, is Lawrence Pelo.

2005-02-14T11:19:00.000-07:00

MISCELLANIA

Can you imagine approaching an attractive woman on the street and saying, "Tell you what. Why don't you remove all of your clothes except for a thong and 4-inch heels, then writhe and prance in front of me to the rhythms of bad '90s prom music? Oh, and you have to rub your breasts on my face and smile as though you're enjoying it more than a shoe-shopping spree on Rodeo Drive. If you do all this, I will give you one American dollar." Yet that's the standard deal in strip clubs. Amazing.
A lot of people think there's a cleaning product called Murphy's Oil Soap. There isn't. It's Murphy Oil Soap -- no apostrophe, no "s".
Suppose that I'm at SuperTarget, looking for a checkout lane, when I notice that one of the checkout girls is very attractive. You might think that my best choice, for staring and ogling purposes, is to go through her lane. But I've noticed when I do this, I'm only able to enjoy limited staring and ogling -- you can only stare and ogle so much when a girl is standing two feet away. My recent experiments have shown that by choosing the lane just to the right of the attractive checkout girl, I can stare and ogle with near impunity. True, the attractive checkout girl is a few feet farther away, but I think the large gain in staring-and-ogling quantity more than compensates for the slight loss in quality.
While reading the September 2004 issue of Runner's World, I noticed an item that referred to a marathon as 1,660,032 inches in length. "That doesn't look right," I thought, and it wasn't -- a marathon is closer to 1,661,220.4 inches in length. The error was due to the common erroneous belief that a marathon is exactly 26.2 miles, when in fact a marathon is exactly 42.195 kilometers (approximately 26 miles plus 385 yards, or about 26.21876 miles).

Perhaps this is unrelated, but my eHarmony personality profile notes that I have "a strong need to be precise."
MOVIE STUFF:
1. In the climactic scene of Reservoir Dogs, Joe has his gun pointed at Mr. Orange, Mr. White is aiming at Joe, and Nice Guy Eddie has his gun pointed at Mr. White. Then everybody fires, and two seconds later, Joe and Eddie are dead and Mr. White is mortally wounded. But who shot whom, and in what order? I ran the scene back in slow motion, and this is the best I can figure it out:
  1. Joe shoots first, hitting Mr. Orange.
  2. Mr. White fires next, killing Joe.
  3. Eddie fires, missing Mr. White. Strangely enough, he starts to recoil and collapse at this point as though he's been shot, even though nobody has fired at him.
  4. Eddie fires again, hitting Mr. White.
  5. As he falls, Mr. White shoots and kills Eddie.
  Can anyone corroborate this? I only have the movie on VHS, and the slo-mo playback is pretty grainy.
2. While watching the dreadful Jerry Bruckheimer movie Pearl Harbor, I noticed that during the scene in which Ben Affleck battles German pilots, he shouts to an Allied pilot, "Nice shot, Red Two!"
  
  "Hey," I thought, "that sounds like Star Wars."
  
  Right I was. During the final battle of Return of the Jedi, a Rebel pilot shoots down an Imperial pilot outside the second Death Star. A fellow Rebel pilot shouts, "Nice shot, Red Two!"
  
  That's right -- Jerry Bruckheimer included a Star Wars reference in a movie about Pearl Harbor. Well, heck, a little lack of respect never killed anyone, I guess. I hope that when this guy gets around to making a blockbuster special effects spectacular about 9/11, he doesn't forget to include a guy in one of the Twin Towers, watching in horror as a plane flies toward his building, and then taking a bite out of a carrot and saying, "What's up, Doc?"
3. Does anyone agree that in the Matt Dillon-Neve Campbell-Denise Richards-Bill Murray-Kevin Bacon thriller Wild Things, the hottest girl by a wide margin is Denise Richards' friend, played by who-dat Toi Svane?

2005-02-10T22:01:00.000-07:00

JUMP TO PART II

I got my teeth cleaned last week. Was the hygienist cute? I guess she was, now that you mention it. She was slender, bespectacled, slight of bosom, and smartly outfitted in blue scrubs -- I fairly clicked my heels as I followed her out of the waiting room, so eager was I to be examined.

As she took down my dental history, I was relieved to notice the wedding band on her left ring finger -- now I felt no obligation to hit on her. I wouldn't have hit on her anyway, even if she had been wearing a "Single and Horny" T-shirt, but I would have felt obligated to, and then I would have felt weak and insignificant when I left the clinic with no more phone numbers than when I arrived. (Even after discounting for my natural shyness, social ineptitude, and general hostility toward humankind, you have to admit that macking on a dental hygienist is a tough maneuver. I don't doubt it's been executed successfully. But people have also run four-minute miles and climbed Mount Everest, and you won't see me trying to duplicate those feats.)

So this was to be a crush. That was okay, because I like crushes -- that is, I like temporary crushes, as opposed to the pathetic unrequited kind that accounts receivable clerks are known to nurse for years for human resources supervisors until one day they (the HR supervisors) just up and leave to work at Starbucks corporate and don't bother to so much as stop at their (the AR clerks') cubicles to say goodbye.

Temporary crushes, by contrast, offer lots of room for fantasy and self-delusion. For example, let's say you stopped at PetSmart earlier this evening to buy some rat chow. And let's say that the cash register girl was awfully cute: agreeably flat-chested, long dark hair and matching dark eyes, and a smile that would make Apollo squint -- toothsome but not toothy, flirtatious but not wanton, friendly, warm, possibly even genuine.

Your encounter with Ms. Smiley lasted perhaps 90 seconds, from "Did you find everything okay?/Sure did, thanks." to "Have a good night./Yeah, you too." But, as you fight traffic in Cherry Creek, you convince yourself that there was a connection. Nothing major, but as you entered your PIN, you felt a spark pass between you. And you're pretty sure the guy in front of you didn't get quite as nice a smile when she scanned his biodegradable kitty litter. Yeah. She seemed to perk up a little when you came through the line, like she'd been waiting all day to talk to someone like you. Or maybe even you specifically -- you'd been in that store before, and maybe she saw you check out with another cashier and thought, "Wow, he's cute! I hope the next time he comes in he goes through my line!" Now that you think about it, there was an unmistakable hint of recognition in her eyes when she greeted you. Probably she wanted to tell you that she was getting off work in just an hour, if you wanted to grab a caramel-chocolate lattemochaccino at the Peabody's Coffee across the street, but maybe she's shy, or maybe PetSmart has a policy prohibiting employees from hitting on customers, which is bullshit; how can PetSmart stand in the way of something that feels so right? You were this close to asking her out yourself, but you didn't want to embarrass her in front of the other customers, and besides, why not let things simmer for another week or two, until you need to come back for chew toys?

None of this is true, of course. Ms. Smiley probably had a number of things on her mind -- her sick four-year-old, maybe, or her delinquent car payment, or her aching feet -- and couldn't pick you out of a police lineup if you built a rat chow bomb and blew up an elementary school. But who cares? It's not about reality, it's about generating the best possible mental images during your daily autoerotic stimulation session.

And once every 31 years or so, the planets align and a temporary crush becomes... something much better. This happened when I was living in San Francisco in 1999 and had a DEFCON-5 crush on Jill, the 22-year-old counter girl at my regular cybercafe. Jill had a taut body, a party girl attitude, and a penchant for dressing like Shirley Manson of Garbage. She was not the kind of girl I usually dated.

One day, while I was sitting outside the cafe, sipping a caramel-chocolate lattemochaccino and struggling to write funny strings of words in my notebook, Jill stomped out to an adjacent table, flopped in a chair, and lit a cigarette. "This day sucks!" she said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "God! I can't wait for it to be over."

"That's too bad," I said. "You should come see Austin Powers 2 with me tonight. That'll cheer you up." I don't normally say things like that to hard-bodied punk-rock-wannabe party chicks who smoke, and I don't know why I said it then. But I did.

She narrowed her eyes and cast me a sidelong glance. "No," she said, "I'm just gonna go home and take a hot bath and relax."

"Fuck that," I said. "You need to have some fun. How much fun are you going to have sitting around your apartment? You should come out with me."

She glanced at me again. "Okay, yeah," she said, nodding.

"Um, okay," I said, feeling suddenly like an weekend card player heading to the final table of the World Series of Poker. "Let me get your number and I'll call you later."

Because this is a family-oriented blog, I won't describe the good things that happened that evening. I will say that while the good things were happening, I thought, "I really should stop for a moment and write down exactly how this happened, because sure as shit I'm not going to remember in the morning how I pulled this off."

I was right.

Anyway, my dental appointment went fine. The cute hygienist had a gentle touch and laughed politely at the jokes I cracked each time she sucked the spit out of my mouth with the saliva-slurping machine*. And we had this exchange:

SHE: What do you do for a living?

HE: I'm an accountant.

SHE: (Insincerely) Oh, cool! Do you like it?

HE: (Insincerely) It's okay. It keeps me off the streets. Do you like being a hygienist?

SHE: (Pause, wry smile) It keeps me off the streets.

It was a nice moment -- a little sad and a little real.

My next appointment is August 4. I've considered calling a few days ahead and asking if Cute Hygienist can clean my teeth again, but that would probably be too weird. So I'll probably slip the receptionist a ten and mutter, "There's an extra sawbuck in it for you if you make sure Cute Hygienist gets the call."

*DISCUSSION QUESTIONS: Where does all the spit go? What is the minimum amount of money you would accept to drink 8 fluid ounces of that spit at the end of the day?

2005-02-02T22:58:00.000-07:00

FOLLIES IN MARKETING, VOL. 9

A few weeks ago, while The Negotiator and I waited for the train to take us to the Mammoth home opener, a young man dressed in large clothing and armed with fliers approached us. "Do you guys listen to hip-hop?" he asked.

The Negotiator looked apprehensive, but I spoke right up. "Sure," I said.

"All right, come to the show," he said, handing each of us a blurry flier for MC Twinkie (featuring Suzy-Q) or some such. He turned to go, but looked back. "And use the other side to write down phone numbers or something. Don't litter!"

"Okay," I said, a bit taken aback but impressed by his nerve.

A few minutes later, the hip-hop guy returned. "You guys can throw those things on the ground if you want," he said, looking sheepish. "I don't really care what you do with them."

If you're going to lecture total strangers at a train stop about the evils of littering, I say stick to your guns. Don't back down, man! If anything, you need to crank the volume to 11: "If I see you guys throwing your fliers on the ground, you won't even be allowed into the MC Twinkie (featuring Suzy-Q) show! You'll have to stand outside in the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth!"
I made some Thai fried rice last week, and the recipe called for chicken broth. While mixing the broth into a peanut sauce, I noticed the label said, "Use in your favorite recipes, or serve as a hot beverage."

A hot beverage? Chicken broth? Really?
BARTENDER: What'll you have?

KILGORE TROUT: Bailey's and broth.

B: You want Swanson broth? Campbell's?

KT: No, well is fine.

B: Beef or chicken?

KT: Beef. And some oyster crackers.
Ad copy seen in the May 2004 issue of Runner's World, for Adidas shoes:
6 Feb 2001: Kitty Cole and 140 marathoners sail to the most remote continent on earth [for the Antarctic Marathon]. The continent welcomes them with gale force winds, snow squalls and subzero temperatures. The runners' unanimous response? Run the marathon on the ship that brought them there (324 laps on the enclosed 5th deck; 422 on the slippery-but-scenic 6th outer deck). Less than ideal? Maybe. Impossible? Never.
The Antarctic Marathon is not easy. It's not cheap, either -- packages start at $4,699. Now, I'm not going to call someone a wuss for not wanting to run in "gale force winds, snow squalls and subzero temperatures," but if you don't want to face extreme conditions, why waste several thousand dollars on a trip to Antarctica? The continent is on the bottom of the planet! What would you expect, sunshine and green meadows? This ad doesn't make me want to buy Adidas shoes. It makes me think Adidas customers are morons.

[If you think it's impossible to run a marathon in Antarctica, go here to read about the North Pole Marathon, won last year in 3:43:17 -- an above-average time in good conditions, let alone on floating ice floes in snowshoes and -25C temperatures.]
Two stories from work:
We started using a new payroll company this year. Attached to my January 14 paycheck was a coupon for a free sub at Quizno's (with purchase of drink and chips).
A few weeks ago, my company allowed a Sam's Club employee to hang around in the breakroom all day and sell memberships to our employees.
Look: if I want a toasted Turkey Bacon Guacamole sandwich or a 200-pack of toilet paper, I know where to go. I already have to endure TV ads, radio ads, sporting event sponsorships, Internet banner ads, spam, junk mail, billboards, ads showing before movies, candy bar ads on gas station pump handles, telemarketing, corporate naming rights on stadiums, product placement in movies, and buses transformed into rolling billboards. Is it too much to ask that I don't get marketed to at work? What's next -- pop-up ads in the accounting software? Sponsorship patches on our business casual clothing? A requirement that we say "I'm lovin' it" before we can get paid?

Is there a theoretical point at which a culture becomes completely saturated with advertising, collapses under its own weight, and becomes a Marketing Singularity?

2005-01-30T23:58:00.000-07:00

If you're like most of us, you dislike poor people. They irritate you with their endless prattling about "mortgages" and "the high cost of day care" and "Girl Scout cookies." They drive their own cars and scratch their buttocks in public and their children live with them, instead of in Europe. They reek of sausages and domestic beer. Aren't they disgusting?

"I hate poor people!" you are saying. "There are so many of them that the only way to avoid their kind completely is to retreat to my 900-acre country estate and have my chauffeur drive me everywhere in the car with the mirrored windows."

Isolation can only partially solve your poor people problem. Suppose, for example, that on the way to the yacht club, your chauffeur runs over a poor child, and the poor parent insists on making a fuss. What now? You cannot throw the offending poor person into your dungeon or trample him with your horse, as you would on your own property. You can try to dismiss the poor person by saying, "Away with you, knave!" but -- strange as this may sound -- poor people legally do not have to do everything you say. You will have to deal with not just one poor person, but with a whole host of unsavory types: ambulance drivers, tow truck operators, gawking bystanders, and the police, who being poor themselves will side with the poor person and may require that you "make a statement" or even "appear in court." Keep reading to learn a unique set of strategies for surviving encounters like this one.

When dealing with poor people, you should avoid reminding them of their poverty, as doing so will only inflame them and make them more disagreeable. In the example above, you would not want to tell the angry parent that his child now resides in Heaven and/or Hell, either of which is preferable to the desperate, grinding destitution the child knew in corporeal life. Instead, pay the poor person a compliment, even if it's a lie -- you could tell the parent, "I like your Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt" or "You smell like delicious Hamburger Helper."

On the flip side of the coin, you should never flaunt your normalcy in the face of a poor person. Our angry parent would not want to hear that you have seven cars just as good as the one his child wrecked, or that the accident has made you late for your roast giraffe luncheon. Instead, broach a topic likely to interest a poor person, such as professional wrestling, baloney sandwiches, or Pac-Man.

Consider giving the poor person some pasteurized process cheese food. Poor people love cheese.

In the case of an extreme intransigence, you should consider offering the poor person a job. For as little as $90,000, you can purchase a year's worth of loyalty and toil from nearly any poor person. Once on your payroll, the poor person will have to do whatever you say, like cleaning blood and hair from the grille of your automobile.

Next time you have an run-in with a poor person, follow these easy tips and remember: never let a poor person ruin your day!

2005-01-25T22:53:00.000-07:00

CHAOTIC NOT RANDOM UPDATES!

Those of you who read this blog with slavish devotion will remember my "Backwards K" post from a while back, in which I detailed assorted misadventures in which I squandered, through incompetence and sloth, opportunities to talk to attractive women. (Automatic entry into the CNR Hall of Fame guaranteed to anyone who can explain why I titled that post "Backwards K." Morocco Man, I'm looking at you.)

One of those stories concerned a cute, very cute lady runner, complete with freckles and flat chest, who struck up a conversation with me at a stoplight near Wash Park -- a conversation in which I came off like the sort of tongue-tangled loser generally played by Philip Seymour Hoffman. That happened three months ago, and I swore if I saw her again I would avenge my defeat at the hands of cowardice.

I saw her at Wash Park last Sunday. I was running clockwise, she was running counter-clockwise (I don't usually date CCW runners, but for those freckles I'd make an exception). I glanced sideways as she passed to make sure it was her, then pulled to a stop and stared after her. I had two blocks left in my scheduled 14-mile run -- further than I'd run in several months, and I was tired, and my quads were asking if we could please go sit in the car now. Besides, what was I going to say? "You probably don't remember me, but..." Weak. Better to finish the run and head home for some Snacky Cakes and a hot shower and some self-abuse. Yeah.

Yeah.

I turned and ran after her. "Hello!" I said when I caught up. "You probably don't remember me, but..."

Pleasant chatter commenced. And then:
Me: So, did you move here for your job?

She: Well, for my husband's job.
Well, shit. That's okay, though. Sometimes you have to feel good about striking out swinging.
A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about a mathematics calendar given to me as a birthday present by a very kind and thoughtful friend. I had been doing pretty well working out the daily problems, but then came this question:
This surface area of this tetrahedron is 16√(3) square units. What is its volume?
A tetrahedron is a four-sided polygon where all the sides are equilateral triangles. (For those of you who sat at my lunch table at John Adams Middle School, the tetrahedron was the die we threw to determine the hit points of a Level 1 Magic-User.) The problem was on January 16, so the answer had to be 16. But I came up with 16√(2)/3. I frowned and checked my solution (see it here). I couldn't find any mistakes. I threw away my paper, waited until I got home that evening to allow my mind to clear, and reworked the problem from scratch. Same answer. I checked my solution against this website and found that I was right and the calendar was wrong.

Yippee! Yummy! Hip-hop hooray! I found a mistake! I love it when I'm right and someone else is wrong and I can prove it! Sure, that makes me a small, hateful man unworthy of even the briefest affections from the fairer sex, but holy smokes -- what a rush!

2005-01-23T10:01:00.000-07:00

Let's say you need to make a sandwich. Maybe you're just hungry, or maybe you're entering a regional qualifying tournament for the World Series of Lunch, or maybe you met this hot girl and she's all like, "Oooooh, make me a sandwich, you big stud," while making her eyebrows go up and down. Well, here's how to make a sandwich that will not only make her moan with pleasure, but will make her call all of her hot friends so you can have sex with them!

You must start with the right bread. Bread is to sandwiches what a foundation is to a house, except bread isn't made out of concrete by sweaty workmen, but out of oats and honey and fairy dust by sweaty child laborers in Nicaragua. You should choose a bread with a name like "Harvest Hearth Artisan GoodWholesome Village Natural Stone-Ground." It should have a picture of a muscular man cutting wheat with a scythe and it should be made with no fewer than 37 grains. "But Kilgore Trout the most I can find is 14-grain bread!" you are saying. Well, I guess you're going to have to find 23 more grains to put in your bread, aintcha? You can usually find at least six or seven grains under the couch cushions or in the back of the glove compartment.

Now you're ready to make a sandwich! Lightly toast the bread, and then smush up half an avocado with some diced chipotle pepper and spread it on one slice of the bread. "Do you say it 'chi-POTE-lay' or 'chi-POLE-tee'?" you are asking. Gee, I don't know. Why don't you call the President of Mexico and ask him? I bet he has time to answer your stupid questions!

Now you fry some shrimp (known as "prawns" to Jerkoff-Americans) and onion in Italian dressing. Make sure you devein the shrimp, whatever that means. "But Kilgore Trout all I have is ranch dressing," you are saying. Well, then fry that shit in ranch dressing, motherfucker!

Put the fried shrimp and onion on the avocado-chipotle spread. Next you fry an egg, over hard. If you have the hot girl over at your house while you're making the sandwich, you should say, "Yeah, baby, I'm making it all hard for you," while you fry the egg, and you should sort of hump the stove while you say it. Make sure you wear a condom and don't hump the hot part of the stove.

Put the fried egg on top of the shrimp and the second slice of bread on top of that, and cut the sandwich on the diagonal. Hey -- what the hell is this? Did I say to cut the sandwich in quarters perpendicular to the edges? Does this look like a club sandwich to you, bitch? Good Christ!

I hereby revoke your right to make my special fried-egg-with-shrimp-and-onion-on-37-whole-grain-bread-with-avocado-chipotle-spread. Now get out of my kitchen!

[See a photo of the completed sandwich here.]

2005-01-19T22:29:00.000-07:00

INAUGURATION DAY: PRESIDENT BUSH PLEDGES TO DO
"WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT"

WASHINGTON -- In an Inauguration Day ceremony featuring the sodomizing of a kindergarten student and the pipe wrench beating of an adorable golden retriever puppy, President George W. Bush promised the country he will spend his second term "doing whatever the fuck I want."

"The American people spoke on November 2," said Bush, "and they stated clearly that, in spite of the shocking incompetence and glaring cronyism that marred my first term, they wanted to give me and my administration of blind loyalists and ideological hacks a mandate to do... well, whatever we fucking well please."

As a symbol of his mandate, Bush spent the next several minutes laughing and throwing darts at an elderly woman chained to a wall.

"You see?" Bush said, wiping his ass with an American flag. "I did that just because I fucking felt like it. Now check this out: I hate Jews. I mean, I don't really, but it's kind of cool to be able to say things like that without fear of political consequences."

"Seriously, though," Bush added, "Jews are going to Hell."

Bush outlined his agenda for the coming year, which includes: urinating on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial; conducting the State of the Union address entirely in farts; starring in an interracial pornographic movie; taking Supreme Court justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg as his mistress; writing homophobia into the Consitution; creating enormous deficits through out-of-control spending and irresponsible tax cuts; and starting a wasteful, destructive, counterproductive war on the flimsiest of evidence against a country only tenuously connected to the greater struggle against terror.

"God bless America," Bush concluded. "Oh, and I fucked your mom."

2005-01-17T10:15:00.000-07:00

LOCAL MAN SURPRISED TO LEARN BIRTHDAY IS FEDERAL HOLIDAY

DENVER -- Kilgore Trout, who turns 31 today, was surprised to learn that the federal government, the state of Colorado, and the city and county of Denver have declared his birthday an official holiday, sources have reported.

"I went to the bank to deposit a check and was sort of taken aback to find it was closed," said Trout. "I always thought holidays were for dead famous people, like George Washington and Wilford Brimley."

Trout described having a holiday in his honor as "super neat."

"I think it's cool that they would make a holiday out of my birthday," Trout said. "But I would have thought there would be some kind of ceremony or announcement or reading of an official proclamation or something. You'd also think they'd give me a certificate that I could show to flat-chested girls with prominent noses. I bet it's way easy to score with chicks when you have your own holiday. Maybe the certificate is in the mail -- I wouldn't have gotten it, then, because of course they don't deliver mail on Kilgore Trout's Birthday."

"I hope the certificate is on parchment, in Old English lettering with the governor's seal stamped into red wax," Trout added. "I would even take down my Run Lola Run poster to make room for it."

Trout said that having his own holiday has not been without its trials.

"I wanted to renew my license, but the driver's license station was closed for my birthday," said Trout. "I was hoping they'd open it up just for me. That would have been a nice birthday present from the state."

"What do you mean, Wilford Brimley is still alive?" Trout added. "Jesus. He looked like he was holding the Grim Reaper's hand about 15 years ago, when he was making those Quaker Oats commercials."

Trout said "he has a dream" that people will spend his holiday in quiet meditation with friends and family, eating Pringles and discussing his blogging and ultrarunning accomplishments.

"As for me, I'm going to the Diamond Cabaret tonight," said Trout. "I sure hope the strip clubs aren't closed for Kilgore Trout's Birthday."

2005-01-16T23:58:00.000-07:00

ASSHOLE THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

While waiting for G-Dog's flight to arrive at DIA this evening, I saw a sign celebrating the achievement of Erik Weihenmeyer, the first blind man to summit Mt. Everest. That's a great accomplishment, but why would a blind guy want to climb mountains? "Hey, Erik, this is a fantastic view from up here. Too bad you can't see it."

Come to think of it, how does he know for sure that he made it? Maybe some Sherpa guide just marched him around in circles at base camp for a couple of hours:

SHERPA: Okay, we're here.

WEIHENMEYER: Wow! I'm standing on top of the world! This is amazing!

SHERPA: Yup, congratulations. (Yawns.)

WEIHENMEYER: I thought the climb would take a lot longer!

SHERPA (unwrapping a Snickers bar): Yeah, it's not as hard as people think. Ready to head back?

If you're blind and you're reading this -- whoops, never mind.

2005-01-13T23:04:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a Tuesday. Got to work at 8:00, or at least that's what I put on my time card. Moved papers around in a not-entirely-stochastic fashion and thought about having a snack. Went to the john and picked my nose. Ate an apple. Started thinking about lunch. Made three desultory phone calls. Wandered the halls and smiled awkwardly at Cute HR Girl (Single Mom Remix). Ate lunch -- homemade chipotle chicken chili, by a wide margin the highlight of the day so far. "Worked" on TPS reports. Thought about having a snack. Ruminated on the utter hopelessness and emptiness of it all. Eavesdropped on coworker's cell phone conversation with ne'er-do-well son. Took a nap on the john. Ate some mixed nuts. Glanced impatiently at clock. Had strained conversation with visiting manager from Virginia. Left work at 5:20, wrote 5:30 on time card. Ate a Clif Bar while driving to gym. Aquajogged for 45 minutes while uselessly attempting, unassisted by corrective lenses, to ogle swimsuit-clad girls. Drove home. Affixed The Club to steering wheel. Pulled junk mail and bills out of mailbox.

You know: Tuesday.

But when I got to my front door, suddenly it wasn't Tuesday anymore. It was a Good Day! Somebody sent me an unexpected package! A large padded envelope decorated with silly stickers! What could it be? Unwashed underwear from Sadie? Saucy photos of The Maximum Leader's sister? Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts? It hardly mattered. Any time I get an unexpected package on a Tuesday, I'm walking on sunshine, whoaaaa oh.

I fumbled through the front door, dropped my credit card solicitations and auto insurance bill on the floor, and opened my unexpected package without removing my jacket. The booty:

A 2005 mathematics calendar, with a problem to work every day. Finding the solutions is sort of anticlimactic, because the answers always comes out the same as the dates (that is, the answer to August 15's problem will be 15), but an wonderful and challenging gift nonetheless. Click here to see a photo of January and here to see my solution of January 2's problem.

When I went to hang the calendar, though, I found that it had no hanging hole. I turned it this way and that, frowning and wondering whether I was just too stupid to own a mathematics calendar. In the end, however, I decided that the hole-punching guy at the calendar factory must have been hopped up on goofballs or flirting with his own Cute HR Girl at the time my calendar was printed. I considered leaving the calendar the way it was, thinking that maybe only a few holeless calendars had been printed, and it might be worth a lot of money someday, like the upside-down Jenny Biplane stamp. But finally I fetched my Leatherman tool and used the awl to punch my own hole. Given the calendar's subject matter, I considered using a compass and straightedge to find the exact midpoint, but I ended up just using a tape measure.
A The Nightmare Before Christmas illustrated children's book. Some of you might be surprised to learn that I like children's books -- I have The Giving Tree, The Cat in the Hat, and The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs, among others. Isn't it strange that I like children's books, but hate actual children?
A mix CD titled "Kilgore Trout: The White CD." Here's the thing: I have Very Bad Taste in music. I listen to Linkin Park rage-pop, 80's power ballads, and Caucasian-compatible hip-hop. The kind and thoughtful friend who compiled this CD, however, has Very Good Taste in music, so she stocked "The White CD" with dozens of songs by Bonnie Raitt, Meat Loaf, Elvis, Morrissey, Johnny Cash, Prince, Dean Martin, and some outfit called "The Pixies" -- tunes that make my favorite music sound like soft-drink jingles. Listening to this CD flashed me back to my days working at a 24-hour diner in San Francisco, where we were allowed to bring our own CDs to play on the restaurant's sound system. Everyone else brought their ultrahip Siouxsie and the Banshees, Monkey Cunt, and ironic Cyndi Lauper remix albums. I brought Christian pop music and Will Smith.

Like Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer using a pay phone, good music frightens and confuses me. I'm a sucker for catchy hooks, but complex musical themes make me adopt an expression like the one your dog makes when you pretend to throw a ball and palm it behind your back. Take Johnny Cash, for example, a man universally lauded as a musical powerhouse. I don't get it. All I hear when I listen to The Man in Black is the whooshing sound of allegedly great music cruising thousands of feet over my head.

Please -- no angry emails defending the musical genius of the man who penned "The Gambler."* This is all my fault, not Johnny's. So I've been listening to "The White CD" on repeat, hoping my brain will soak up some Very Good Taste. Wish me luck.

* I'm just kidding. I know Willie Nelson wrote "The Gambler."

UPDATE! Thursday turned into another Good Day, as I arrived home to find another unexpected package leaning against my door, this one courtesy of Motive Mayhem, my favoritest Utahan ever. Choosing not to lay up for himself treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal, mM sent me an 18-oz. bag of Oreos and a toenail clipper. Thanks, mM!

2005-01-09T22:17:00.000-07:00

LOCAL MAN UNSURE IF COLOGNE EXPIRES

DENVER -- Apprehension reigned in the apartment of Kilgore Trout yesterday, as the 30-year-old Washington Park resident found himself unsure whether his Swiss Army cologne (see photo), purchased at least seven years ago, was still suitable to wear on a first date, sources reported Saturday.

"Does this stuff have an expiration date?" said Trout, peering at the well-worn bottle, which has accompanied Trout on moves to California and Colorado since he purchased it at a Younkers store in Mason City, Iowa, in 1998. "I don't see one, but maybe they figured most guys would have enough success with women to use it all before it went bad. Jesus, this bottle is still 80 percent full."

"I don't usually wear cologne, even on dates," Trout explained. "I don't like strong odors, and it really irritates me when a woman wears too much perfume. If I go into one of those smelly soap stores, like The Body Shop, I get nauseous. But I was telling some women at work that I had a date this weekend, and they said I had to wear cologne, because it's 'so hot' when a man wears cologne. So I guess I have to."

"I bet they don't even make this anymore," Trout added. "I bought it on clearance, so it must not have been selling very well. Swiss Army cologne is pretty funny, when you think about it. Like you should be able to fold a vibrator and a condom out of the cap. Ha ha! I have to put that on my blog."

With time running out before his date's arrival, Trout took a chance and dabbed a small amount of the cologne on either side of his neck.

"It's not like there's milk or eggs in it, so I guess it's okay," said Trout, wrinkling his nose at the musky odor. "I guess it could still go bad, but fortune favors the bold, you know."

"I hope I didn't put too much on," said Trout, glancing nervously at the clock.

2005-01-05T23:26:00.000-07:00

2005 SO FAR

Early Saturday morning, a good thing happened. I can't tell you what it was, though.
On Saturday evening, another good thing happened. I can't tell you what that was, either. I will say that it was similar to the first good thing, only different.
Also on Saturday, the Colorado Mammoth opened their 2005 National Lacrosse League season by handing a 12-7 drubbing to the hated Calgary Roughnecks, who upset Colorado in the Champion's Cup semifinals last year. Retiring Mammoth captain (and consensus greatest lacrosse player ever) Gary Gait led all scorers with three goals, and 2004 Goaltender of the Year Gee Nash shut out the Roughnecks in the fourth quarter, stuffing 19 shots on goal in front of 16,397 rowdy fans. Keep it rolling, Mammoth!

The Negotiator and I took the train to the game. I took two homemade signs and my camera, with the intent of hanging the signs on the rail and taking photos of them from across the arena. We got off the train at the Pepsi Center, excited and happy to be going to the first lacrosse game of the season.

The excitement and happiness quickly subsided, however, when I realized I had left my Kodak EasyShare CX6330 digital camera on the train.

"Shit!" I said, frantically patting my pockets. "Shit!" I said again, to emphasize the point. I handed the signs to The Negotiator and ran back to the train, but it pulled away from the stop before I could reach the doors. I cut right and ran hard to the next stop at Union Station, where a very nice Regional Transportation District employee helped me search the train. No luck, no Kodak EasyShare CX6330 digital camera. Shit.

I jogged back to the Pepsi Center, trying not to be pissed off over the loss of what was, after all, just an object. A fairly expensive and particularly useful object, yes, but still -- just an object. Tsunamis and perspective and all that. Besides, I was going to the Mammoth game!

"Shit," I said.

I got back to the arena, hung my signs on the rail, and yelled myself hoarse as the Mammoth took a 6-5 lead into halftime. Then somebody poked me in the shoulder. I looked over to see a woman standing at the end of the row, waving. Incredibly, she was holding my Kodak EasyShare CX6330 digital camera.

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" I said, a little befuddled as I took my camera back. "How did you find me?"

"I looked for the signs," she said.

I hope we all learned a little something from this story. That is, don't leave the house without making yourself easily identifiable by carrying some stupid homemade signs or, if you don't have the time to make signs, a blood-encrusted machete.
On Monday night, a not-so-good thing happened that sort of nullified the good thing that happened early Saturday morning. I can't tell you what it was, because to do that I would have to tell you what the good thing was that happened Saturday morning, and I said I wasn't going to do that, and you can't make me. But I will say that it wasn't so bad, just the sort of thing that happens from time to time, and so you just shrug your shoulders and say "Like, whatever, man," and play a little Pole Position on your Namco 5-in-1 game controller, and before you know it you've set a new qualifying lap personal record of 54.10 seconds, and in all the excitement you practically forget about the not-so-good thing. Practically.
On Tuesday night, a good thing happened that built on the good thing that happened Saturday night and sort of nullified the not-so-good thing that happened Monday night, that is, the thing that sort of nullified the good thing that happened early Saturday morning. I can't tell you what any of these things are, of course, for reasons stated above. But I will say that I'll be spending Saturday afternoon preemptively washing the sheets.

2005-01-03T23:45:00.000-07:00

I only made two New Year's Resolutions this year. Making fewer resolutions is the way to go -- I think most people don't follow through on their resolutions because they disperse their energy trying to create too many new habits. Creating one new habit is hard enough, let alone pressuring yourself to simultaneously learn Italian, eat more fiber, call your mother once a week, master the Sicilian Defense, quit huffing Preparation H, and read the complete works of Dean R. Koontz.

Instead, pick out one or two realistic goals on which to focus your efforts. Let's say, for example, that you want to lose weight. So you start a sensible diet and exercise program that allows you to lose about a pound a week. Now suppose that your 2005 goes about the same way that your 2004 went, except that at the end of it you'll be 52 pounds lighter. You'd be happy about that, wouldn't you, Tubby?

It's possible, of course, that at any time you might fall into a grain thresher or torn to pieces by radioactive mutant grasshoppers, in which case you should have spent 2005 eating bacon cheeseburgers and chili-cheese fries. But we try to avoid that kind of negative thinking here at Chaotic Not Random.

Anyway, here are my resolutions:

Run a 100-mile ultramarathon. I was supposed to do this last October, but then I strained something in my ankle and spent most of May through September eating bacon cheeseburgers and chili-cheese fries and gaining 20 pounds. The ankle has healed slowly, allowing me to resume partial training -- three days of running a week plus two days walking plus two days Aquajogging.

For those of you who currently have a puzzled look on your face, Aquajogging is a rehab workout that involves strapping a foam belt around your waist and slipping foam shoes onto your feet, which allows you to stand straight up and "run" in the water, which nicely simulates a running workout without the impact. It also nicely simulates looking like a retard -- see self-portraits here and here. (WARNING: These are disturbing images including chest and back hair, budget swimwear, erect male nipples, and an underdeveloped torso. By viewing these photos, you forever waive your rights to legal redress against Chaotic Not Random, Inc., for any and all psychological disorders, permanent or temporary blindness, allergic reactions, or loss of stomach contents caused by viewing these images.)

Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll be lining up at the start of the Heartland 100 in Cassoday, Kansas, on October 8. The reward for finishing: a belt buckle. I'm not shitting you. Belt buckles are a very big deal in the ultrarunning community.
Publish something. Unfortunately, due to limited time, energy, and creative juice, writing for publication will mean posting less here -- probably just on Wednesdays and Sundays. I apologize for the gross violation of your rights under Article I of the Chaotic Not Random Reader's Bill of Rights, but you can use the time not wasted reading my drivel to call your mother or cram it up your ass, whichever excites you more.

2004-12-30T17:06:00.000-07:00

FOLLIES IN MARKETING, VOL. 8

I received an email from someone using the name "Scabbiest F. Asphyxiated," which turned out to be a porn spam. Attention spammers: I realize you guys use randomly generated names to dodge spam filters, but might I suggest you purge your word lists of words like "scabbiest" and "asphyxiated"? Even though the "BABE FACE GORGEROUS [sic] BRUNETTE HOTTIE" featured in your message is indeed attractive and flexible (as well as hungry, apparently), words that call to mind images of crusty, bleeding sores and death by suffocation just kill the mood.

A bonus Folly in Marketing was in the body of the email, a collection of Aphorisms for Dummies that I suppose was designed to foil spam filters:
We are living in the excesses of freedom. Just take a look at 42nd Street an Broadway. The mark of a true MBA is that he is often wrong but seldom in doubt.

The word of a gentleman is as good as his bond and sometimes better.

Location, location, location.

A dose of poison can do its work but once. A bad book can go on poisoning minds for generations.Honor is unstable and seldom the same for she feeds upon opinion, and is as fickle as her food.

Emotion is the surest arbiter of a poetic choice, and it is the priest of all supreme unions in the mind.
Now that I think about it, maybe this email represents a Triumph in Marketing instead of a folly -- it successfully circumvented Yahoo's spam filter and got me to open it, if only for purposes of ridicule.
I found a pamphlet in the lunch room at my job advertising the services of Jordan Dechtman, metro Denver's self-proclaimed retirement planning specialist. Go see his website here -- it has most of the same photos as the pamphlet, and as a bonus you can enjoy a snappy Flash montage of frisky retirees fishing and playing the saxophone and not mopping the floor at McDonald's.

I learned a lot about Jordan Dechtman by reading his pamphlet. For instance, he has what must be the squarest jaw in the six-county area, and probably the entire Front Range. If I were Jordan Dechtman, I'd forget financial planning and take a carnival job pounding iron spikes into cinder blocks with my jaw.

"When [Jordan Dechtman] lost his father at 18," the pamphlet informs us, "he quickly realized the importance of proper financial planning." Does it strike anyone else as sick and wrong to flog a parent's death to gain financial planning clients? This just creeps me out. It's like George Costanza using a picture of his dead fiancée to hit on supermodels.

Click "Meet Jordan Dechtman" to see a photo of Jordan Dechtman in golf shorts and snazzy golf shoes, lining up a putt and, from the look on his face, working out a proof of the Riemann Hypothesis. The caption states that "when time allows, Jordan tees it up." Well, so what? Am I hiring a financial planner or a golf coach? I don't care if Jordan Dechtman throws rocks at puppies in his spare time, as long as he gets me a 15% annual return. On the other hand, he does have awfully nice legs for a man his age.

Also on the "Meet Jordan Dechtman" page is a photo of Jordan Dechtman with his wife Kathy, twin boys Sam and Adam, daughter Alana, and dog Buddy. This photo caught my attention for five reasons: (1) it looks like it belongs in a political campaign pamphlet, (2) Alana wears her hair in cornrows, (3) Buddy was almost certainly rented for the occasion, (4) the Dechtman family, by my estimate, ranks no lower than sixth among the world's denim-consuming nations, and (5) Kathy, while not a BABE FACE GORGEROUS BRUNETTE HOTTIE, has a definite grab-a-handful-of-my-soccer-mom-hairdo-and-fuck-me-in-the-back-seat-of-the-Land-Rover appeal.
I bought a box of Archer Farms grilled salmon fillets. The box said it contained five fillets, but when I got home I found that it contained six fillets. I looked at the box more closely and saw that it promised to contain "approximately 5 fillets." (See photo here.) I'm not going to complain about receiving a bonus salmon fillet, but isn't this a little dumb on the part of Archer Farms? Do they hire people who are so stupid and unskilled that they can't count to five?

"Well, Kilgore," you are saying, "salmon fillets come in different sizes, so maybe they put five small fillets in the box and had to add a sixth to make the promised weight."

Yeah, maybe, except that each of these fillets was exactly the same size and shape -- they're not "fillets" so much as "rectangular fish nuggets." So why not put exactly five fillets in each box instead of approximately five? It's like saying a Honda Accord comes with "approximately four wheels" or a Big Mac comes with "approximately two beef patties."

2004-12-28T02:28:00.000-07:00

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE RED-HAIRED GIRL
WHO LIVES IN 504

Dear Red-Haired Girl Who Lives In 504,

When I went to Office Depot tonight, I never dreamed you would be the one to ring up my order. But when I went to the counter with my 4-pack of Avery Marks-A-Lot permanent markers in assorted colors, there you were! At first I wasn't certain it was you, but when you turned around to stare blankly past my right ear and mumble, "Is that all for you tonight?" I was sure. With those sparkling green eyes and that curly mass of flaming hair piled atop your head, who else could it be?

You probably don't know who I am. I'm Kilgore Trout, from 509. I'm the guy you never notice when you're out on the balcony in your halter top, squatting on the ground and smoking cigarettes while you talk on your cordless phone. Sometimes it's hard to notice me, because I'm ogling you through the peephole in my door. But other times I physically exit my apartment to go running or whatever, and still you keep inhaling known carcinogens and chattering away as if the Secretary of State was on the other end. I always think you might turn and smile and say, "What, running again?" but you never do. I guess I could take the initiative and say, "What, smoking again?" but that would require my testicles to be composed of an alloy of copper and zinc, instead of Styrofoam like they actually are.

I had considered, during the awkward silence while you changed the paper tape in the receipt printer, mentioning that I recognized you as the red-haired girl who lives in 504. But I was pretty sure that would lead to this conversation:

ME: Hey, don't you live on [our street]? Five-oh-four, right?

YOU (totally freaked out): Yeah...

ME: I live there too! In 509!

YOU: Oh, okay. Did you just move in?

ME: Well, in June.

YOU: Oh. I guess I just haven't noticed you.

ME: Yeah, I guess not.

[continued awkward silence as paper tape loads]

YOU: Okay, eighty cents is your change, and thanks for giving me the creeps. Don't be surprised to see a moving van in the parking lot later in the week.

ME: No problem. It's nice to have established that we have nothing in common beyond the close proximity of our living spaces.

It's probably not my place to say this, but you would do well to quit smearing garish eyeshadow all over your upper eyelids. You're quite pretty, and the makeup distracts from your piercing green eyes. Also, it looks slutty. Not that there's anything wrong with looking slutty -- and there's definitely nothing wrong with being slutty -- but making your eyelids visible from space is pushing things a bit. I will say, though, that the tight, too-short Office Depot shirt works for you. Ditto the tattoo in the small of your back. And don't ever let anyone talk you into getting implants. There's one guy in 509 who thinks your breasts are perfect just the way God gave them to you.

I know I'm pushing it here, but have you ever asked your doctor about Accutane®? It's difficult to tell you have a problem, what with all those cute freckles, but when somebody looks at you very closely -- and I was! -- it's hard not to notice. Sure, side effects of Accutane® can include birth defects or miscarriage, depression and suicidal behavior, permanent loss of sight, tinnitus or permanent hearing loss, stunted bone growth, serious muscle damage, hives, convulsions, rectal bleeding, slurred speech, and much, much more; but beauty, like freedom, isn't free.

I've been thinking about it a lot the last few hours, red-haired girl who lives in 504, and I'm pretty sure you're never going to have sex with me, in spite of my excellent references and my queen-sized bed located fifty feet from your front door. You don't seem the type to allow yourself to be seduced by the nebbishy charms of a guy ten years your senior who rules at Trivial Pursuit and for whom a Rubik's Cube is not an ironic Christmas gift. Also, I've noticed that 100% of the men who enter and leave your apartment are members of a race distinct from mine. I think it's great that your vagina is running a strong affirmative action program, but where does that leave me? Jerking off to grainy freeze-frames of Princess Leia being held captive by Jabba the Hutt, that's where.

Maybe it's for the best. We wouldn't have anything to talk about after four or five hours of sweaty coitus and noisy orgasms, and I'd have to feign sleep and lock the door behind you when you went outside to smoke. Then it would be all weird the next time I left to go running and you were talking on the phone. So I guess we should leave things the way they are.

Best regards, your friend,

Kilgore Trout

2004-12-23T23:57:00.000-07:00

JUMP TO PART II, THE TEDIOUS PLOT DEVELOPMENT
JUMP TO PART III, THE THRILLING CONCLUSION

"Tell us a story, Grampa!" said Billy.

"Yeah! A story!" echoed Kevin around a mouthful of his third s'more. He waved his sticky hands in the air. "Make it a scary one!"

Grampa grunted and threw another stick on the fire. "Your mother doesn't like it when I tell you scary stories," he said. "And I don't want to get in trouble. Why, she'd tan my hide."

Billy and Kevin giggled at the idea of Grampa getting a spanking. "You can't get in trouble," said Kevin. "You're Grampa!"

"Well, all right," said Grampa. "Have I ever told you the story of Kilgore Trout?"

"Uh uh," said Billy. "Is he a monster?"

"No," said Grampa. "Kilgore Trout was -- is -- a man. A long, long time ago, he lived in Denver, not too far from where you two and your mom and dad live now. In the daytime, he worked at an unsatisfying job where he had move pieces of paper around and wasn't allowed to surf the Internet. At night, he alternated between reading self-help books and sitting in the bathtub with the lights off, rocking back and forth and listening to Linkin Park's Hybrid Theory album on repeat. And at night he cried himself to sleep."

"I thought crying was for girls," said Kevin.

"Well, it is," said Grampa, "but Kilgore Trout was very sensitive. Also, he was a major pussy. Anyway, one day Kilgore Trout stopped coming to work. He stopped calling his friends. He stopped spending entire Saturdays at SuperTarget, walking up and down the aisles and eye-groping the pretty girls doing their grocery shopping, but never working up the courage to say so much as 'You like Cheerios? I like Cheerios!' So all of Kilgore Trout's friends -- well, both of them -- got very worried and let themselves in to his apartment. And there they found..."

"What was it, Grampa?" said Billy, his eyes wide. "Did he overdose on smack?"

"Hell, no," said Grampa. "Where would a paper pusher like Kilgore Trout get enough money for the kind of high-grade shit you need to kill yourself? No, what they found was all of Kilgore Trout's stuff exactly where it had always been. Running shoes by the door. Run Lola Run poster hung inexpertly on the wall. Astroglide in the bedside table, top drawer. But no Kilgore Trout. He had vanished, like Alex Winter's career."

"Where'd he go, Grampa?" asked Billy.

"Well, nobody knows for sure," said Grampa. "Some say he went to the Canadian Rockies. Others think he hid in the Amazon rain forest. And some think he fled to the steppes of Siberia. But one thing is for sure -- nobody saw Kilgore Trout for seven years."

"I'm seven, Grampa," said Kevin, holding up seven fingers.

"That's right, my boy," said Grampa, chuckling and ruffling his grandson's hair. "Kilgore Trout disappeared for as long as you've been alive! But he came back. Seven years to the day after he left, Kilgore Trout reappeared in downtown Denver. And he was a fright! He hadn't cut his hair or shaved his face or bathed the entire time he was gone. Those who were at the corner of Blake and 16th Street that day say his eyes were wild -- the eyes of a man who had fought grizzly bears to a draw and chased down antelope and killed them with his teeth and bare hands. His hair was matted and dirty, and his beard hung down to his waist and was filled with fleas and maggots. He wore crude clothing stitched together from animal hides. He was so filthy that not even the homeless people panhandling on 16th Street Mall wanted to go near him, and a crowd gathered to stare, although they kept their distance because he smelled so bad. And then Kilgore Trout spoke."

"What'd he say, Grampa?" said Kevin, tugging at his grandfather's sleeve.

"He said, 'Free mayonnaise,'" said Grampa.

"Free mayonnaise?" said Kevin.

"He was gone for seven years and all he brought back was mayonnaise?" said Billy.

"Well, that's what the people in the crowd thought," said Grampa. "But Kilgore Trout kept repeating himself, saying 'Free mayonnaise. Free mayonnaise. Free mayonnaise,' over and over again, and they could see that as dirty as Kilgore Trout was, the jar of mayonnaise he was holding out was pure and clean and white. There was a young man in the crowd who was eating a turkey club sandwich, and on a dare from his friends, he stepped out and said, 'Sure, I'll take some free mayonnaise.' And he put a little on his sandwich and took a bite."

"Did he die, Grampa?" asked Billy. "Mommy says we're not supposed to take anything from strangers, even if they offer us beer and pornography."

"Your mommy wants you to grow up to be a mincing little wuss, I guess," said Grampa. "No, he didn't die. He ate the bite of sandwich with the mayonnaise on it, and then, without saying a word, he put more on his sandwich and ate it. Then he grabbed the jar from Kilgore Trout and started smearing huge globs of mayonnaise on that turkey club, and he gobbled it down as if he hadn't eaten in a week. And when he finished he licked his fingers and said, 'That's the best motherfucking mayonnaise I ever ate.'"

"I don't like mayonnaise," said Kevin, wrinkling his nose. "It tastes like smegma."

"You don't understand," said Grampa. "This was the creamiest, freshest, most delicious mayonnaise anyone had ever tasted, and it turned the condiment industry upside down. Within months, U.S. mayonnaise consumption went up 3,000%, and almost all of that was KT Mayonnaise, even though it cost three times as much. People didn't just put it on sandwiches and in egg salad -- they ate it plain, sometimes right out of the jar. Ice cream trucks sold KT Mayonnaisicles. Food experts identified no fewer than seventeen distinct levels of flavor in KT Mayonnaise, and doctors found that if you smeared the stuff in the right places, you could cure diseases from lung cancer to erectile dysfunction to social anxiety disorder. And a popular sitcom was built around a black midget saying 'That's tasty like KT Mayonnaise!'"

"But Grampa," said Billy, "if KT Mayonnaise was so good, how come they don't make it anymore?"

"I thought you might ask that," said Grampa. "Let me tell you about Lizzie Hellman."

"You mean like Hellman's Mayonnaise, Grampa?" asked Billy.

"That's right, Billy," said Grampa. "Lizzie Hellman was the great-granddaughter of Richard Hellman, who sold the first ready-made mayonnaise at his New York delicatessen in 1905. Before Kilgore Trout, Hellman's Mayonnaise was the best-selling mayonnaise in the country, but not long after KT Mayonnaise hit the shelves, the only people still eating Hellman's were faggots and fairies."

"Aren't faggots and fairies the same thing, Grampa?" said Kevin.

"Good catch, son!" said Grampa. "I meant to say 'faggots and commies.' Anyway, every day that people ate KT Mayonnaise, Lizzie Hellman was losing millions. So one night, she sneaked into the Kilgore Trout's factory, hoping to learn why KT Mayonnaise was so tasty. Now, this was no ordinary factory. Kilgore Trout had built it in the desolate wastelands of eastern Colorado, and it was protected by electrical fences and war elephants and Imperial Stormtroopers and a moat filled with killer manatees. Nobody ever went in, and nobody ever came out. Kilgore Trout lived there, and no one ever saw him, even though he was worth billions of dollars by then, and could have had any large-nosed, small-breasted woman he wanted. He was the Howard Hughes of mayonnaise."

"Which is correct, Grampa?" asked Kevin. "Is it 'sneaked' or 'snuck'?"

"Both are correct, actually," said Grampa. "Nobody knows how Lizzie Hellman got past the mayonnaise factory's elaborate external security, but once she got inside, she found that the factory, which appeared to be only one story high, went twenty stories deep underground. Lizzie Hellman had to fight past dozens of armed guards and genetically enhanced attack animals, killing them with weapons she found in the stairwells and using randomly scattered medical kits to heal her wounds. At the end of each level, she had to fight a larger, tougher boss guard before she could move down to the next floor. And when she reached the deepest part of the factory, she defeated Kilgore Trout himself, who had had his arms replaced with plasma cannons and rocket launchers mounted on his hips."

"Did she kill him, Grampa?" said Billy.

"No, Billy," said Grampa. "She was about to, but Kilgore Trout threw down a smoke grenade and escaped in a great glass flying elevator. And then Lizzie Hellman learned the awful secret behind KT Mayonnaise."

"What was it, Grampa?" cried Billy and Kevin in unison, clutching each other.

"It was people," said Grampa. "KT Mayonnaise was made of people."

For a few moments all was silent save the crackling of the campfire.

"Grampa?" said Billy, "If Kilgore Trout escaped, where did he go?"

"Well," said Grampa, smiling, "they found the elevator a month later, crash-landed in the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness. But they never caught Kilgore Trout. And they never found his body."

"But we're in the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness," said Kevin. "That's Mt. Harvard over there." He pointed.

"You're right, Kevin," said Grampa softly. "And some say he still haunts these woods, looking for little boys to make into mayonnaise."

2004-12-19T23:31:00.000-07:00

THINGS THAT NEED TO GO AWAY RIGHT NOW, VOL. 17

Movies in which the main character's [mother/brother/girlfriend/best friend] gets bitten by a [vampire/zombie/werewolf/fundamentalist Christian], causing him or her to [adopt a Romanian accent/start shouting "BRAAAAINS"/mistake your leg for a Milk Bone/distribute Chick tracts], and the main character agonizes over whether or not to [stock up on garlic and holy water/aim for the head/run a Google search for "silver bullet"/purchase a gift copy of anything by Bertrand Russell] and destroy the freshly minted monster. I last saw this tired device in the otherwise decent flick Shaun of the Dead.

You all need to know that if you're ever chilling with Kilgore Trout, and you start metamorphosing into any species of hellspawn, you are toast. I'm not saying that I'd enjoy pounding a wooden stake into your chest, (although I probably would, unless you owed me money). I'm just saying that it's an easy decision.

Magazine articles that incorporate bad puns into their titles. Sports journalism seems especially rife with this sort of thing: a recent issue of Runner's World has articles titled "Iron Maiden" (about an 8-time female Ironman finisher), and "Walking the Walk" (about walking marathons). MLB.com's announcement of Vladimir Guerrero's American League MVP win was titled "Most Vlad-uable." And ESPN.com right now has an article about the Buffalo Bills headlined "Reason to Bill-ieve." Enough already, guys.
When I make a great catch and nobody notices. I was at The Wizard's Chest last weekend, looking at books on a shelf above my head. I put a book back -- not very well, apparently, because a moment later it fell. Startled, I grabbed it out of the air with one hand, only to see a half-dozen more books tumble from their perches. By reflex, I caught them all in a stack on top of the first book. It was like the Warner Bros. cartoons where Sylvester catches stacks of china cups in each hand, with one foot, on his nose, with the tip of his tail, etc. It was an amazing athletic feat that deserved an entire segment on "SportsCenter." I turned around, expecting to see men jealously admiring my preternatural eye-hand coordination while throngs of women with prominent noses and small breasts held out their phone numbers. Instead, I saw a group of oblivious teenage boys playing Magic: The Gathering. You know if I had dropped them all, I would have turned around to see the laughing, pointing members of the local chapter of Single Attractive Women Who Don't Like Children And Crave Sex With Skinny Guys.
This nagging question: Where did Luke Skywalker learn to fly the X-Wing fighter? One day he's toiling on a moisture farm on Tatooine, and the next he's battling Imperial TIE fighters and aiming proton torpedoes at the Death Star's small thermal exhaust port, right below the main port. The equivalent would be a Nebraska farm boy driving a John Deere tractor all his life and then, with no training, casually climbing into an F/A-18 Super Hornet and dogfighting MiGs over the Indian Ocean.

George Lucas must have sensed this lapse, because before Luke boards his ship, he has an officer walk up and say, "You sure you can handle this ship?" prompting a childhood friend and fellow Rebel pilot to say, "Sir, Luke is the best bush pilot in the Outer Rim Territories." The officer smiles and says, "You'll do all right," which is strange, given that he's just been told, approximately, that Luke is the best crop-duster in all of Scotts Bluff County.

Luke would have been a natural pilot, of course, because the Force was strong with him. But how did he convince the Rebel commanders to let him take a precious starfighter into battle?

REBEL COMMANDERS: Let's get this straight. You have no combat experience and no formal flight training, but you want to fly a sophisticated X-Wing fighter into battle against a military space station powerful enough to vaporize a planet?

LUKE: I used to bullseye womp rats in my T-16 back home, and they're not much bigger than two meters! And check out this midi-chlorian count!

REBEL COMMANDERS: Saddle up, partner!

2004-12-16T23:57:00.000-07:00

When I woke up this morning, here's what I knew about the guy who works in payroll:

He's in his mid-twenties and married.
He served in the Marine Corps, where he taught weapons training and marksmanship.
He drives a red Corvette, which he bought with money earned from teaching Coloradoans to shoot guns. He parks the red Corvette at the back of the parking lot, under a tree, so the sun won't shine on it too much.
The red Corvette displays a "BUSH-CHENEY '04" bumper sticker.
He loves Jesus. A lot. He thinks you ought to love Jesus too.

That's all I really ever wanted to know about Turbo-Christian Payroll Guy. I don't talk to him much at work, partly because I'm unfriendly and hostile, but mostly because he's a gun-totin', Bush-votin' Jesus freak, and I didn't think we'd have much in common.

"Come now, Kilgore," you are saying. "Aren't you making a hasty and unfair judgment, based on a few political and religious differences, about someone who might turn out to be a totally decent person if you got to know him a little better?"

Well, ha ha ha all over you. I did get to know Turbo-Christian Payroll Guy a little better today, and I can tell you that not only do we have nothing in common, but I'm not even sure we're members of the same species.

I didn't get to know Turbo-Christian Payroll Guy a little better on purpose. It happened at my company's holiday luncheon, an annual affair where we all climb onto buses and ride to Cinzzetti's, a faux-Italian buffet joint that would look exactly like a rustic Italian villa, if rustic Italian villas were located on I-25 next to a Home Depot and had disturbing replicas of the Mona Lisa painted on their exteriors. Anyway, I sat across from Turbo-Christian Payroll Guy. Usually he keeps pretty quiet, but something in the bruschetta must have put him in a sharing mood.

"I told my wife that if she ever weighs more than I do, she's going to have to move out," was among the insights he offered.

An uncomfortable tension settled on our table, made up mostly of women. "Didn't your wife just have a baby?" somebody asked.

"Oh yeah," he said, "and she's looking pretty good now. As soon as she got home from the hospital, I told her, 'Okay, it's time to lose that weight.'"

I stared at my grilled zucchini. What to say? Little did I know that Turbo-Christian Payroll Guy had better stories to tell on the bus ride home, where I made the tactical mistake of sitting in front of him. I then made the even worse mistake of asking him where he met his wife.

"When I moved to Denver, I started going to this church," he said, "and the pastor's daughter was beautiful. I mean, she was gorgeous. But I couldn't go out with her because her father asked me if I was a virgin, and I said, 'No sir, I'm not,' and he said, 'There's no way you're getting near my daughter.'"

"You know," I said, "if anyone ever asks if you're a virgin, the correct answer is probably 'Yes.'"

"Well, anyway," he said, "I met another girl at the church and settled for her. That was a mistake. But in my religion, you're together until... well, somebody has to die."

"Uh huh," I said. Something about the way he said "somebody has to die" chilled me, as if Turbo-Christian Payroll Guy was thinking about having a accident-on-purpose with his hunting rifle pointed at his wife.

"But she's stable," he continued, "and she submits to her husband, and she does what I tell her."

"Mmm," I said. What else to say?

Turbo-Christian Payroll Guy looked toward the back of the bus and turned back to me, his eyes wide. "In the back, with the dark hair," he whispered, "who is that?"

"I don't know her name," I said, "I think she's a contractor. She works back in engineering. She's pretty good-looking, huh?"

"Yeah, she's a hottie!" he said with enthusiasm, and looked back again. I resisted the temptation to quote Matthew 5:28, where Jesus said, "But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart."

There's are some things you just don't get into on the bus ride back from Cinzzetti's.

2004-12-13T22:01:00.000-07:00

[Scroll down to read today's post. It's in a table, and it adds a bunch of blank lines for some reason.]

KILGORE TROUT'S MASTURBATION FANTASY SHOWDOWN II

OR ?

Rana Hussein, daughter of deposed Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein

--- *versus* ---

Samia Shoaib, bit actress in Pi ("Next Door Neighbor"), *The Sixth Sense* ("Young Woman Buying Ring"), and *Requiem for a Dream* ("Nurse")
	RANA	Edge	SAMIA
Age	35	<===	34
Hair	The color of a mysterious raven in the night sky at the blackest hour before dawn.	<==>	Like Rana's.
Wears dresses from JC Penney?	Yeah yeah yeah yeah	<===	Will have to start, if this community theater check doesn't clear.
Pickup line	"I heard your dad killed your husband. So... you're single, right?"	===>	"I think it should have been you doing that orgy scene in Requiem for a Dream instead of Jennifer Connelly."
Obstacle to seduction	Doesn't speak English, lives in Jordan under the protection of King Abdullah II, gave her last condom to Queen Noor.	===>	Has to get up early for an audition to play "Woman in Elevator #3" in Darren Aronofsky's next film.
Must pretend to be interested in...	How her father "has so many feelings" and "was very tender."	===>	How she was supposed to play Bruce Willis' wife in The Sixth Sense, until that bitch Olivia Williams spread her legs for M. Night Shyamalan.
The close	"Let's go to my place and commit an act of biological terrorism."	===>	"Let's go to my place and pretend that you're Olivia Williams and I'm M. Night Shyamalan."
Pillow talk	Would nickname my testicles "Uday" and "Qusay."	<===	She never wanted to be an actress. She always dreamed of becoming a meteorologist, but her father -- a Shakespearean thespian -- pushed her to succeed where he had fallen short. When she asked to go to science camp, her father gave her Method acting lessons and a copy of A Streetcar Named Desire. Once, during one of his drunken rages, he took away her hygrometer and her windchill chart and forced her to burn them in the backyard while reciting Kate's lines from The Taming of the Shrew. He died in 1997, wasted away by cirrhosis of the liver. He never told her he was proud of her. She watches the Weather Channel sometimes, and she cries. She cries for what she lost, and for what might have been.
Non sequitur	"Your brain's... got the... shell on it."	<===	"Kris Kross will make ya -- jump! Jump!"
Kinky secret	Ask her "Who's your daddy?" and find out.	<===	Likes to recite Kate's lines from The Taming of the Shrew while being penetrated from behind.

2004-12-09T23:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I dream about quitting my job, selling my car, blowing off my credit card debts, and buying a one-way ticket to China, where I would join a martial arts monastery. It doesn't matter which one. As long as it had an old but well-maintained building with a tiled roof and a garden for contemplating, I would find my home there.

At first the monks would not accept me. They would poke and prod me and call me mean things in Mandarin, like "shit-sucking soft American" and "round-eyed pussy." They would ridicule my puny muscles and pelt me with vegetable peels. They would order me to go away, to go back to my SUV and my PlayStation and my Run Lola Run poster, because no American has ever lasted more than two weeks at this monastery. But I would absorb the abuse with dignity and humility, repeating again and again the only Mandarin words I know: "Please, I want to be a student here."

At last, they would relent and allow me to come inside. But they would not allow me to train. I would have to carry water and wash floors and serve the others their meals. They would make me eat scraps and leftovers, standing up in the kitchen, and I would sleep in the basement on a packed dirt floor. The students would trip me as I passed. They would jeer and point. They would knock the water bucket out of my hands. I would bear their insults in silence, and the monks would grudgingly admire my stoicism. And I would watch the students drill and spar as I scrubbed the floor of the training room.

At sunrise one morning, a monk would look out his window to see me practicing forms in the garden. At first he would be furious that I wasn't drawing water for the students' breakfast, but then he would notice the rough grace and dexterity I showed in executing the most difficult of movements. "The American is determined," the monk would say the other monks, "think what he could learn if he was training properly instead of scrubbing floors!" And that day I would become a student at the monastery.

I would learn quickly. The other students, impressed by my iron will and my growing expertise, would come to accept me. But one of them would continue to torment me -- Chen Li, the best and toughest student at the monastery. He would recognize my burgeoning skills as a threat to his dominance, and we would become bitter rivals. Li would hatch a series of nefarious plots to destroy me, but I would foil them all at the last moment, and in doing so would win even greater admiration from the students and monks.

There would be a girl. A peasant girl from a nearby farm, a beautiful girl with delicate features and a slight figure, and she would come to the monastery once a week to sell vegetables to the monks. Her visits would be a splash of color among the grim days of unrelenting training, and the briefest glimpse of her face or even the back of her neck would etch itself in our memories for days. I would make up some pretense to talk to her. She would laugh at my halting Mandarin, but when she left she would press a ripe Fuji apple into my hand. With the passing weeks, we would find ourselves chancing upon each other more and more often -- never for more than a few minutes, but like a dash of hot pepper sauce, those few minutes would flavor our lives for the next week.

All the students would be jealous, but none more so than Chen Li, who would want the girl for his own. He would challenge me to meet him -- alone -- by the old stone wall at midnight to settle our differences forever. I would refuse. Then Chen Li would declare that if I denied him satisfaction, he would kill the girl, and her little dog, too. Enraged, I would spit on the ground at his feet and whisper, "I'll be there."

The fight, intense and brutal, would rage for hours, with Chen Li and I exchanging spectacular flurries of blows atop the old stone wall while silhouetted against the full moon. Both of us would suffer terrible injuries, but our shared hatred would spur us through the pain. Finally, with both of us teetering on the edge of exhaustion, I would force Li to his knees. Li would close his eyes, preparing for the killing blow, and for a moment I would see myself crushing his windpipe with a chop to his neck. Instead, I would help him to his feet.

"The next time we fight," I would say, "we fight as brothers."

You probably want to know what would happen with the girl. How should I know? It hasn't happened yet.

2004-12-07T23:16:00.000-07:00

CHRISTMAS WITH THE KRANKS SCRIPT
PURCHASED FROM INTERNET TERM PAPER SITE

COLUMBUS, Ohio -- The script for the Tim Allen-Jamie Lee Curtis movie Christmas with the Kranks, originally believed to have been written by Harry Potter director Chris Columbus, was in reality purchased from Non-Plagiarized-Termpapers.com for $9.95 a page, sources revealed Tuesday.

"Usually I write midterm papers on Hamlet or The Canterbury Tales, eight to ten pages, stuff like that," said Joe Williamson, the actual screenwriter. "You know, for college kids too lazy or drunk to write their own shit. One day I get an order to write a 100-minute comedy about Christmas, which is a little unusual, but what the hell, it's something different, right? Imagine my surprise when I saw the trailer with Tim Allen and Jamie Lee Curtis speaking my lines."

Williamson, a graduate student in English and a teaching assistant at Ohio State University, said he wrote the screenplay "in about three days."

"I've gotten pretty good at knocking out the material, so I just pounded that sucker out," said Williamson. "I knew it was crap when I sent it off, but I figured it was good enough to get some film student a B in his Intro to Screenwriting class. I never imagined it would gross $44 million its first two weeks."

"I mean, the scene where Luther [Krank] gets Botox injections and slobbers his food all over the place?" added Williamson. "I didn't think it was funny when I wrote it, and I was stoned off my ass."

Williamson said his decision to "come out of the closet" was prompted by anger over his paltry share of the movie's proceeds.

"They can pay Tim Allen $10 million, but I get eight dollars a page?" said Williamson. "I don't think so. These guys are making millions off my work, and I'm not getting jack. Chris Columbus can have the credit if he wants. I just want to get paid."

Non-Plagiarized-Termpapers.com issued a press release stating, "It is the policy of Non-Plagiarized-Termpapers.com to provide reference material only, not finished works to be handed in to professors or studio executives. By plagiarizing Mr. Williamson's screenplay, Mr. Columbus has broken the trust we placed in him to write his own screenplay using his own words and thoughts. We are saddened and disappointed by Mr. Columbus' actions and we regret to announce that he will no longer be permitted to purchase screenplays from our writers."

Neither Chris Columbus nor Sony Pictures returned phone calls for this article.

2004-12-05T23:46:00.000-07:00

SUPERPOWERS TO CONSIDER

POWER: The ability to leave your body and move around as a loose consciousness. You would be able to move through solid objects and see and hear, but you would be unable to physically affect anything or communicate with anyone. You could use this power to become the ultimate spy and to observe attractive people taking showers. Would that be wrong? I mean, nobody's getting hurt, no unauthorized photographs are getting posted on the Internet, and nobody would ever have to know. You wouldn't even be able to masturbate while you watched! Let me know if you think the shower thing is wrong. If I ever get this power, I'm going to watch hot girls taking showers no matter what, but I need to know if I should feel guilty while I'm doing it.

VULNERABILITY: Your body would be helpless while you were away, so you would have to trust someone to protect it -- even feed and hydrate it in the case of long absences. What if your body died while you were out of it? Would your consciousness die too, or would you be doomed to an disembodied eternity of looking but not touching?

PROPOSED ALIASES: "Specter" or "Ghost."
POWER:The ability to injure or kill people with your voice. A person with this power would open his mouth to talk, but instead of speaking words, he would emit an awful nails-on-chalkboard noise. Anyone who heard the sound would experience excruciating pain starting in the ears and penetrating into the head. Prolonged exposure would cause massive and fatal brain hemorrhages. A person killed by this superhero would be easily identifiable by blood erupting from the ears and an autopsy would reveal a liquefied brain.

VULNERABILITY: This power is involuntary and indiscriminate. Your voice would be deadly to everyone withing hearing range, even to yourself. When using your power, you would have to plug your ears and somehow get all the good guys in the area to do the same without tipping off the bad guys. Due to his inability to communicate through speech, this superhero comes with angst baked right in. I envision him as bitter and unlikeable -- maybe not a good guy at all.

PROPOSED ALIASES: "Sonic," "Shredder," or "Siren" (for a woman). Too bad "Screech" is already taken.
POWER: The ability to distract enemies by disgorging gushers of creamy, delicious cheese spread. The cheese spread would come from your wrists, like Spider-Man shooting webs. After making a pile of cheese spread, you would give your enemies some Ritz crackers (you would have to buy these and carry them around, unless you teamed up with a superhero capable of spontaneously generating Ritz crackers) and dispatch them at your leisure.

VULNERABILITY: Ineffective against vegan supervillains.

PROPOSED ALIASES: "Mr. Cheese" or "The Creamy Avenger."
POWER: The ability to see two seconds into the future. This sounds worthless, but think about it -- you could foil an ambush, evade your opponent's attacks in combat, and clean up at the blackjack tables. Think of all the times you've wished you had thought two seconds ahead!

VULNERABILITY: Two seconds isn't much, man. You'd have to think fast to make good use of this power.

PROPOSED ALIAS: "Foresight" or "Prophet."

2004-12-05T21:55:00.000-07:00

Imagine my joy and surprise recently when I arrived home to find that bruce at This is Class Warfare had chosen not to lay up for himself treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal, by sending me a copy of The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark by Carl Sagan. Thank you, bruce! I will ask Jesus to make your eternity in Hell slightly less torturous in consideration for your generosity.

2004-12-02T23:56:00.000-07:00

CHAOTIC NOT RANDOM TOUGH QUESTION CORNER

GIGLI: IS IT REALLY THAT BAD?

Yes, it's that bad. It's worse than that, actually. It is the worst movie I've ever seen. Well, kind of. There are worse movies made every year, the kind with names like Zombies Invade Akron 4 that get cranked out in three days and shown on cable at 2:00 a.m. But Gigli is the worst major motion picture I've ever seen that was produced on a decent budget ($54 million, in this case) and made by people who ought to know better.

That's not a snap judgement. After watching Gigli on Thanksgiving evening, G-Dog and I debated its lack of merit versus Wild Wild West, previously the worst movie either one of us had seen. G-Dog reasoned that Gigli was the worse movie because while both movies had hot chicks, Salma Hayek is hotter than Jennifer Lopez and less annoying to boot. Also, Gigli had no answer for Wild Wild West's big mechanical steam-powered fire-belching spider. I wasn't so sure, but after a night's sleep I agreed that Gigli's special blend of idiot dialogue and total lack of believability had found a new low in my personal film viewing history.

At no point while watching Gigli will you believe that you are watching a male gangster and a lesbian gangster collaborating on a kidnapping and falling in love. You will believe that you are watching two pretty but not-so-talented actors fumble through an awful script that asks the viewer to buy into one impossible situation after another. For example, the movie begins with Larry (Ben Affleck) kidnapping Brian, the retarded younger brother of a federal prosecutor. After luring Brian out of his group home, Larry drives him to his apartment, where Brian sleeps on the couch and gets three square meals a day. I'm not a gangster, and I don't know any gangsters, but I'm pretty sure kidnapping victims are more likely to get gagged and bound and dumped in the basement of an abandoned warehouse than they are to hang around a tastefully appointed apartment, roaming free and watching television. Pretty soon Ricki (Jennifer Lopez) shows up. We're supposed to think she's intelligent and spiritually centered because she reads Eastern philosophy, and we're supposed to admire her confidence and nonviolent conflict resolution skills in contrast to the macho, blustering Larry. We don't, though, because really she's just irritating and smug. And somehow, Jennifer Lopez is even less convincing a gangster than Ben Affleck. What's next? A crime thriller starring Wilford Brimley and Judi Dench as deranged serial killers?

After a while, Larry and Ricki get orders to cut off Brian's thumb and mail it to his brother. Now, I'm not endorsing the act of hacking off thumbs, but if you're in the gangland kidnapping business, I think it's part of the job description. It's the gangster version of TPS reports. But neither Larry nor Ricki can bring themselves to do it, because Brian's not an icky retard who drools and has grand mal seizures on the toilet -- he's a charming movie retard who does silly Sir Mix-A-Lot impressions. Anyway, Larry and Ricki wuss out by sneaking into a morgue and cutting a thumb off a corpse, establishing themselves as the Least Authentic Movie Gangsters Ever.

Gigli contains a lot of bad dialogue, but the worst comes during an excruciating debate between Larry and Ricki about the relative merits of the penis and the vagina. Ricki delivers a turgid monologue defending the sexual utility of the vagina while wearing a tight, skimpy outfit and executing a series of yoga poses. The scene is supposed to be tensely erotic, but it's about as sexy as masturbating with sand. What a stupid debate, anyway. Either you like dick or you like puss (or both), and no amount of rational wordplay going to change your preference. You may as well try to use rhetoric and argument to convince someone they like rocky road ice cream better than cookies 'n' cream.

I hope I'm not spoiling the surprise when I tell you that Larry and Ricki have sex, an act that Ricki kicks off by saying, "Turkey time," and "Gobble gobble," and demanding that Larry give her "some of that hetero-lingus." This happens after Ricki's lesbian lover drops by Larry's place, throws a jealous tantrum, and slashes her wrists with a carving knife. I hate to play the PC card, but for all its surface tolerance of homosexuality, Gigli has a hard "lesbians are crazy bitches who really want cock" edge. Can we all take a vote and agree that Ben Affleck should stop making lesbo-conversion movies? (See also Chasing Amy.) When do we get to see the movie where Ben Affleck gets converted to a bottom boy by the wily charms of a San Francisco male nurse?

There's lots more badness in Gigli worth busting on, like the wince-inducing cameos by Christopher Walken and Al Pacino, or Ricki and Larry's mom sharing rug-munching stories, or Brian spitting "Baby Got Back." But it's my bedtime.

2004-11-30T23:58:00.000-07:00

A BRIEF SUMMARY
OF THINGS I DO NOT OWN

A set of knives. I have one knife in my kitchen. The blade measures 4½ inches in length. It is not a Wusthof paring knife or a Henckels fillet knife or a Bunmei santoku knife. It is a Kitchen Basics knife with a slightly serrated blade that I bought from Target several years ago for maybe five dollars.

It is a good knife, a sharp knife, a versatile knife. I use it to slice tomatoes, to dice onions, to cut the foil off of wine bottles, to chop celery, to open packages, and to gouge out the eyes of dissidents. It is a loyal and humble knife. Instead of demanding a fancy knife holder on top of the counter where it can preen and show off, it is content to live in the drawer with the other silverware. It has assisted in the manufacture of delicious meals responsible for the seduction of dozens of women (well, maybe three). Can it cut through a tin can or the sole of a leather boot? I do not know. I would never subject my knife to such abuse for the sake of mere vanity.
Solid wood furniture. All of my furniture was handed down from friends, cadged from co-workers, or purchased on the cheap at garage sales. All of it is composed of particle board with a fake wood veneer, which fools nobody.
An egg separator. I still crack the eggs in half and pour the yolk between the shells, letting the white collect in a bowl underneath. I know this is unsanitary and wrong and bad, but I've gotten away with it so far. I probably won't drop the $3 until after I actually contract salmonella and spend a week in the hospital, vomiting my small intestine into a bedpan. I'm the sort of guy who has to touch the hot stove.
A headboard. That's what the wall is for.
Kitchen chairs. I have a kitchen table (particle board, fake wood veneer, donated to me by a sympathetic coworker) but no chairs. When I have company for dinner, I bring in the plush chairs with the green velvet upholstery from the living room. These chairs don't sit quite high enough, so my guest and I look like kindergartners sitting at the grown-ups' table. You might think this would be a romance-killer, but in fact everyone has always been very polite and things have usually progressed satisfactorily. At least no one has ever asked for a telephone book to sit on.
White socks. I wear black socks all the time, even with shorts. You call it "dorky," I call it "edgy." Black socks are hard to find, yo. I have to make a special trip to The Athlete's Foot, where they always have some "Buy One Get One 50% Off" deal. I always buy three bags, and the clerk in the zebra stripes always says, "You can get another bag for half off, you know," and I always say, "Oh, I think that's enough socks for today," and we both grin. Then I go home and throw away all the socks that turned gray in the wash and have holes in the toes, and I fill the sock drawer with fresh, jet-black socks. I like it when life has little rituals.
A house. I went to a party on Saturday and quickly realized that I was the only one still renting. I was also the oldest person there. I drank a lot of wine.

2004-11-28T21:09:00.000-07:00

My favoritest comic strip ever is "Marmaduke"! It's funny because it's about a big dog! His name is Marmaduke! Boy, is that dog ever big! He's so big that instead of bringing the paper to his owner, he brings his owner to the paper!

Cartoonist Brad Anderson has been drawing "Marmaduke" since 1954! Maybe you think it's impossible to make up 18,250 funny gags about a Great Dane that can't talk or play baseball or wage war against the Red Baron, but that kind of negative attitude is why you've failed at everything you've ever tried to accomplish! I rate every "Marmaduke" cartoon on a scale from 1 to 10, although I've never rated one lower than an 11! I rate a cartoon a 11 if it's super-duper funny, an 12 if it's super-duper double-dog (har!) funny, and a 13 if it's so super-duper double-dog neo-maxi-zoom funny that I vomit repeatedly and have to be rushed to the hospital for administration of intravenous fluids!

I bet drawing "Marmaduke" is hard! Imagine if you woke up on Monday morning with your wife shaking you and saying, "Honey, if you don't think of seven funny jokes about a big dog this week, we're going to lose the house"! If that was me, I would chew my own hand off in a fit of panic! (I can barely post four times a week on this blog, and I get to write about anything I want!) But for Brad Anderson, it's no problemo, because he's a genius! He probably finishes drawing a week's worth of "Marmaduke" by noon on Tuesday, and then spends the rest of the week in a hot tub fondling gorgeous comic strip groupies!

Sometimes I don't understand "Marmaduke"! Like there was this one where the little boy and Marmaduke are in Marmaduke's doghouse at night, and the little boy is holding a flashlight and reading stories out of a book titled Dog Tails! The mom comes out to check out what's going on, and the little boy says, "Marmaduke wants me to read him another bedtime story"! Hahahahahaha! I don't see where the joke is, but that doesn't make it any less funny! It's just like where Jesus wrote the Bible, and some of it is hard to understand, and you need the minister to tell you what it means! It's too bad there aren't any ministers of "Marmaduke," except Brad Anderson himself, and he stopped returning my letters in 1983!

2004-11-22T23:29:00.000-07:00

THINGS THAT NEED TO GO AWAY RIGHT NOW, VOL. 16

Thimbles. What are they for? I bought a sewing kit the other day to mend my pants and it came with a little plastic thimble. I didn't know what to do with it, so I put it aside and mended my pants without using the thimble, and it turned out fine. At least, so far it's turned out fine. Maybe my stitch job will come apart in the next few days, and passersby will sneer and say, "Didn't use the thimble, didja?" and I'll have to be all sheepish and say, "No, I didn't know what it was for." And then everyone will have a good laugh at my expense and throw stones at my face and groin. If all this could be avoided by banning entirely the use and manufacture of thimbles, then I'm all for it. I'll push for a constitutional amendment if I have to.

I'd like the record to reflect that I have nothing against the word "thimble." It's a good word and that plosive "b" in the middle gives it a nifty rhythm. Once we ban thimbles (the objects), we ought to reassign "thimble" (the word) to mean something new. I vote for making it a slang term for "clitoris."
The allegedly humorous put-down "Would you like some cheese with that whine?" If you thought of it first, good for you. But you didn't, so knock it off. It's annoying and hackneyed and it wasn't that clever in the first place.
People saying, "I could care less," to indicate they don't care about something. When you say you could care less, what you are saying is you do care to some degree -- otherwise it wouldn't be possible for you to care less. You should say "I couldn't care less." This indicates that your current level of caring is zero, and it is not possible for you to care any less, as a level of caring cannot be assigned a negative value.
The Dossier Method of establishing characters in movies, used to irritating effect in Contact, The Silence of the Lambs, Con Air, and Major League, among many other films. Here's a made-up example:
MAJ. BROCK STEELE: Maj. Brock Steele reporting for duty, sir.

GEN. DIRK STONE: Yes, Major, welcome. [Opens a manila folder on his desk.] Let's see, Brock Steele... born July 4, 1971, in Mechanicsville, Pennsylvania. High school valedictorian and star athlete, graduated a year early. Scored a perfect 1600 on the SAT. Entered West Point in 1988. Starred in wrestling and football -- I was there that day you returned that interception 94 yards to beat Navy. That was good work.

BS: Thank you, sir.

DS: Extensive research at the Academy in mathematics, cryptology, and computer science. Graduated third in your class in 1992. You could have taken a cush job breaking codes, but instead you entered Special Forces training and displayed an aptitude for... behind-the-scenes combat. You've been involved in several classified missions over the last decade, and have never failed to complete your objectives. Flawless reports from all your commanding officers. [Closes folder.] And now you're going to come to work for me.
I hate the Dossier Method. It's lazy and overused and I won't stand for it. Screenwriters like it because it allows them to get on with the plot and avoid the hard work of building fleshed-out characters. Of course, the characters they end up with have all the personality of day-old plain oatmeal, but who cares? It all about putting butts in the seats anyway.

2004-11-21T23:58:00.000-07:00

LOCAL MAN JUST GOES AHEAD AND
BUYS ONE OF THOSE MICHAEL GRAVES CLOCKS

DENVER -- Denver resident Kilgore Trout, 30, bought a Michael Graves-designed clock at SuperTarget and put it in his apartment just like that, sources reported Saturday.

The clock features a fake brushed-metal exterior; stylized numbers; a club-shaped hour hand; and a quiet, yet unmistakable air of class and sophistication -- the hallmark of quality products designed by award-winning Princeton, N.J.-based architect Michael Graves. It retails for $19.99.

The purchase shocked followers of buying trends. "Kilgore Trout is known for his lack of style sense and his reluctance to spend extra money on practical items," said Kimberly Baumann, who researches consumer buying patterns for Marketron, Inc. in Chicago. "When we learned that Mr. Trout was planning to buy a new clock for his living room, we all assumed he would spend -- at most -- five dollars on a basic kitchen clock. When he spent four times that amount to acquire the simple elegance of a timepiece designed by Michael Graves, nobody knew what to think. This throws off all our projections."

Reports indicate Trout then hung the clock on his living room wall as if it was no problem. According to a source close to Trout identified only as 'G-Dog': "I went over to KT's place, and as soon as I walked in the door, I sensed a new, more upscale atmosphere about his apartment. That's when I noticed the new clock. I asked him about it, and he was just like, 'Yeah, I got that at SuperTarget the other day' as though it was normal. Jesus -- next thing you know, he'll buy some furniture not made of particle board or avocado-green velour."

Not all observers approve by Trout's purchase. John W. Snow, secretary of the U.S. Department of the Treasury, issued a statement expressing "disappointment" with Trout's "foolhardy" decision. "At a time when Kilgore Trout is carrying credit card debt of nearly nine thousand dollars, does it make sense to waste resources on a gussied-up clock, no matter how urbane and tasteful it may be, with the timeless appeal of its clean lines and classic styling? A much cheaper clock would have told the time just as well, or maybe Mr. Trout could just wear his watch and do without the extra clock. He already had three perfectly good clocks in his apartment, for chrissake."

Kilgore Trout refused comment for this story, except to say he was "considering buying a new calendar before the end of the year, instead of waiting until February for the 75% off sales."

2004-11-18T18:56:00.000-07:00

I hate turning left. It's embarrassing and degrading and I avoid it as much as possible. Whenever I approach an intersection and have to turn left, I experience crippling physical and emotional trauma. I start sweating and my scalp tingles and the hairs on my arms stand on end. I twitch and whimper involuntarily. I start to breathe in shallow gasps. My bowels loosen. If I have an erection, it goes limp for at least the rest of the afternoon.

Turning right is no problem. It's kind of fun, actually. You stop, you let a couple of cars go by, and you make the turn, blending into traffic nice and smooth, just like Mr. Strathman taught you in driver's ed. If you do it wrong, you'll die, so every time I successfully execute a right turn it's like I've cheated Death a little. Isn't that thrilling? Sometimes I picture the Grim Reaper all mad, banging his scythe on the ground and saying, "Ooooooo!" like Boss Hogg used to in The Dukes of Hazzard. "Oh ho, you thought you had me that time, didn't you G-Reap?" I say, grinning and bouncing up and down in my seat with my little willy standing up stiff and tall as if Daisy Duke was riding shotgun.

Turning left is different. It takes a long time. You sit and you wait and you wait and you wait and you wait for the traffic to clear, and cars stack up behind you, and then there's a gap in traffic that you think might be big enough, so you jig your car ahead a little, but then it becomes obvious that the gap is nowhere big enough to make it across so you slam on the brakes, and if you have a pretty girl in the car she says, "You could have made it," real snotty-like and bitchy-like and no-way-are-you-getting-in-my-pants-now-like, and so you're out in the middle of the intersection with a cement mixer idling off to the right, and you start thinking what if my engine stalls right here, and the light changes, and the cement mixer rolls over me and crushes my nonvital organs, and you see yourself writhing in agony and choking to death on your own blood while firemen try to extract you from the wreckage and one of them says, "I'm afraid this is going to hurt a bit, son," and he starts sawing your foot off at the ankle where it got pinned under the steering column, and you get distracted and miss the next gap, which was more than big enough to make the turn, and the people in the cars behind you honk and yell and make rude gestures and rev their engines in an intimidating fashion, and at that point maybe you just get out of your car and run away down the median and move to a different state and start calling yourself "Kilgore Trout."

I hate it when I'm waiting in a left turn lane and the green arrow comes on and the guy in front doesn't go right away. If you're first in line in the left turn lane, you have awesome powers and hence awesome responsibilities, like Spider-Man. Jesus put you there for a reason, man. He put you there so you could go immediately when that green arrow comes, even if there are kindergartners in the crosswalk. If you're second in line in the left-turn lane, Jesus put you there so you could tailgate the first guy all the way through the turn. Green arrows are a precious resource because they make turning left just as easy and fun as turning right. Some people say, "Oh, relax, there will be another green arrow." But how do they know? Maybe we'll run out of green arrows someday and won't those people feel stupid!

When I become President of Denver, I will make it so you can always go from Point A to Point 2 without turning left. Some people will say, "No, that's impossible," and I'll say, "People also used to think it was impossible to lift 15,000 pounds with just your mind," and then everyone will have to shut up because this one guy did that once, although I can't remember his name.

2004-11-16T23:55:00.000-07:00

As of today, I have a total credit card balance of $8,772.16. That's too much, but it could be worse. It has been worse, actually -- when I moved to Denver at the end of 1999, I had over $14,000 in credit card debt.

I acquired most of that debt while living in San Francisco in 1999. If you're ever tempted to move to San Francisco, the beautiful city of cable cars and fog rolling off the Bay and bike rides to Marin Country across the Golden Gate Bridge, you need to resist that temptation unless you have a trust fund and/or the ability to shit gold nuggets. Alternatively, you can work 70 hours a week in a cheese steak shop and an all-night diner to pay the absurdly high rent on your tiny room with the sink in the corner and the bathroom and refrigerator in the hallway. If you need some cheering up while eating generic raisin bran for dinner, go find Jill, the Shirley Manson wannabe who works at a coffee shop in the Mission. She's easy.

Here's the stupid thing about my credit card debt: I can't remember what most of it was for. I can't say, "Sure, I have $14,000 in unsecured debt, but look at this big-screen TV!" or "Maybe I'll never own my own home, but at least I spent a week in Vegas eating prime rib and shacking up with high-class hookers!" Oh, I remember charging a few meals, and a couple of Giants games, and sometimes groceries and cash advances for rent, and I charged my bicycle that got stolen when I forgot to bring it in at night (the thieves not only picked the Kryptonite U-lock and took the bike -- they re-locked the lock around the street sign and left it there as if to say, "That's what we think of that weak shit"). But really I have nothing to show for the money I blew except a damaged credit rating and thousands of dollars out the bunghole for interest charges.

I hate credit card companies. You have to watch them closer than my Uncle Earl watches the neighborhood kids get on the school bus. This is especially true if you have a credit card with Bank of America. I got my Bank of America credit card statement recently and was less than delighted to find two mysterious charges for $89.99 each, listed as "BAC COMPLETHME" and "BAC PrivacySource," neither of which I had authorized. I called Bank of America and talked to a very nice young lady who explained that the charges were for services sold by "partners" of Bank of America. I could cancel the services and get the charges refunded to my card, she said, and gave me two toll-free numbers to call.

Let's pause for a moment and imagine how this all went down:

BANK OF AMERICA: Howdy, "partners"! What can I do for you today?

"PARTNERS": We've been poring over your customer files, and it appears that Kilgore Trout is in urgent need of our CompleteHome and PrivacySource services.

BOA: It is not possible for me to be in more complete agreement with you on that particular point! But what can Bank of America do to fulfill Kilgore Trout's needs in this instance?

"P": We were thinking along the lines of you just sticking the service fees on his charge account.

BOA: But CompleteHome and PrivacySource are such fine and useful services, certainly they will cost Kilgore Trout many thousands of dollars! Shouldn't we consult him first and find out if he is willing to pay the fees in exchange for the services?

"P": Ordinarily, such restraint would be appropriate. However, in this case, our experts have assured us that without the CompleteHome and PrivacySource services, Kilgore Trout will die before the New Year. In light of this pressing need, we have lowered the prices of our services to the emergency rate of $89.99 apiece.

BOA: Plus applicable finance charges as specified in Kilgore Trout's credit card agreement, of course! But still -- a mere trifle! We will place the charges on his account immediately!

"P": You, sir, are a hero. We expect you will receive a thank you call or perhaps even a fruit basket from Kilgore Trout as soon as he receives his credit card statement.

BOA: Unless he's like many people, and doesn't examine his credit card statement very closely, in which case he will never know he spent $179.98 plus interest for the CompleteHome and PrivacySource services!

"P": That is the risk you take for saving a man's life.

If anyone can explain how this is distinguishable from "fraud" or "theft," please leave a note in the comments.

I called the CompleteHome number first, and talked to a lady who read from a script about how I would benefit by using the CompleteHome service. The problem was that she explained it in a heavy Caribbean accent, and I couldn't understand anything except "Wal-Mart." I don't shop at Wal-Mart, so I asked her to cancel the service, and after token resistance she agreed to do so.

I called the PrivacySource number next, and talked to Justin. I couldn't pinpoint Justin's accent -- it wasn't Caribbean -- but it led me to picture him with a mullet, a rusted-out Trans Am, and tickets to Wrestlemania. Justin fought hard to keep me in the PrivacySource fold:

"Well, sir, uh... what PrivacySource does is, you know, it protects your credit. Uh... like every six seconds someone's identity gets stolen? Sheesh, you know, you work hard to build your credit, like, I'd want to protect that, you know?"

I listened politely until Justin finished reading his script, and then asked him to cancel the service, and after token resistance he agreed to do so.

When I got home, I found a postcard in my mailbox from a survey company hired by Bank of America, inviting me to take an online customer service survey. Oh, the delicious irony! You will not be surprised to learn that I logged on immediately and gave it to Bank of America all the way up to my elbow, without any lube or anything.

Does anyone know who's offering good transfer rates these days?

2004-11-14T11:58:00.000-07:00

[Scroll down to read today's post. It's in a table, and it adds a bunch of blank lines for some reason.]

KILGORE TROUT'S MASTURBATION FANTASY SHOWDOWN

OR ?

Laura Freeman, founder and president of Laura's Lean Beef Company

--- *versus* ---

Stacey Donaldson, weather anchor on "Good Day Colorado"
	LAURA	Edge	STACEY
Age	48?	<===	35
Hair	Brown, like cow shit.	<===	Radiant like the sun on a bright spring afternoon, when clouds wander the sky, birds fill the air with the song of returning life, and a cold front sweeps down from Canada to collide with warm air from the Pacific, creating a 50% chance of precipitation by tomorrow afternoon.
Suspiciously white teeth?	Glistening like the day's first light on new-fallen snow, gleaming like hope in the eyes of a child, glittering like the brightest stars in the heavens from whence she came.	<==>	Yes
Nerdy/slutty glasses?	No	===>	Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Pickup line	"You look prettier in a denim shirt than most women look totally naked."	===>	"If you think I'm impressed because you're a local TV personality, then you're fucked in the head!"
Obstacle to seduction	Lifelong exposure to bull penises has left her unimpressed with human male genitalia.	<===	Only sleeps with men who can assist her in her meteoric rise to The Weather Channel.
Must pretend to be interested in...	Sustainable agriculture.	===>	Her budding acting career.
The close	"Want to go back to my place for some extra-thick and juicy tube steak?"	===>	"The barometer in my pants is at 7¼ inches and rising."
Pillow talk	Falling beef prices.	<===	She never wanted to be a meteorologist. She always dreamed of becoming a ballerina, but her father -- a failed weather forecaster -- pushed her to succeed where he had fallen short. When she asked for dance lessons, her father gave her a hygrometer and a wind velocity gauge. Once, during one of his drunken rages, he took away her leotards and toe shoes and forced her to burn them in the backyard while reciting the formulas for calculating windchill and dew point. He died in 1997, wasted away by cirrhosis of the liver. He never told her he was proud of her. She watches the ballet sometimes, and she cries. She cries for what she lost, and for what might have been.
Lost her virginity...	At age 16, in the hayloft, to a mulleted farmhard named "Dwayne."	===>	Junior year of high school, in the back seat of a 1979 Dodge Dart, to Mr. Swenson, the Science Club advisor.
Non sequitur	"Bibles don't wear shirts."	<===	"You sunk my Scrabbleship!"
Kinky secret	Likes to use the cattle prod.	<===	Likes to recite the formulas for calculating windchill and dew point while being penetrated from behind.

2004-11-11T23:01:00.000-07:00

IF CHAOTIC NOT RANDOM WAS A CRIME THRILLER

CHAPTER 12

It had started raining again while I was shaking down the Robinson brothers, and by the time I made it back to the station I was soaked down to my boxers. I needed a cup of coffee. Captain Brown had other ideas.

"Wilcox!" he barked, poking his head out his office door. "Get in here. Now!"

Byrne snickered. "Better take your spanking like a man," he said. "No crying, like last time."

Byrne had a coffee mug on his desk that read WORLD'S BIGGEST COCKSUCKING PIECE OF SHIT or some such. I picked the mug off his desk and dumped about half of it in his crotch. "Know what your problem is, Byrne?" I said, taking a sip as he yowled in pain. "You put too much cream in your coffee."

I went into the captain's office and drank the rest of Byrne's coffee while the captain falsified some evidence. "Shut the door," he said. I did as he said and kept my mouth shut. You don't want to speak first when the captain is pissed.

Captain Brown pointed a thick finger at me. "I told you to stay away from the Scumbag case," he said.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Fuck your 'yes, sir'!" he shouted, slamming his fist on his desk. "You were down at the quarry yesterday afternoon when you were supposed to be analyzing ballistics reports for the Harmon case!"

"Harmon's a cheesedick case, sir," I said. "Open and shut. And I had a hunch about the fourth murder scene --"

"I got a hunch you'll be reading the want ads and picking my fingernails out of your gums if you don't follow my orders!" the captain yelled. "You were getting too obsessed with the Scumbag case -- harassing witnesses, beating up suspects, masturbating to crime scene photos. So I took you off and put you on the Harmon case. Byrne is working the Scumbag case."

I snorted. "I don't think Byrne's the man for the job," I said. "He has some reproductive issues at the moment. Plus, he couldn't find sand in Iyad Allawi's buttcrack."

The captain stared.

"What?" he said.

"Sand," I said. "In Iyad Allawi -- see, he's the interim prime minister of Iraq. He --"

"I know Iyad Allawi is the interim prime minister of Iraq!" the captain shouted. "But why would he have sand in his buttcrack?"

"Well, there's a lot of sand in Iraq --" I said.

"So? Do you think Iyad Allawi, the interim prime minister of Iraq, goes out into the desert naked and rubs his ass in the sand? You live in Colorado. Does that mean that Byrne couldn't find a snowboard in your buttcrack?"

"Okay, hang on a minute," I said, closing my eyes. I thought for a few seconds. "Okay," I said, "Byrne couldn't find semen stains on Paris Hilton's tonsils."

"I don't care if he couldn't find tattoo removal scars at an Auschwitz reunion!" the captain bellowed. "You're off the case! Byrne is on the case! Now get out of my office!"

"Yes, sir," I said, and turned to go. Just as I opened the door, I looked back. "Excuse me, sir, but does Byrne know who the next victim will be?" I asked.

"Of course not," the captain said. "Nobody does. We probably won't find out until we find the poor bastard with his... well, until we find him."

Silence.

"What do you have, Wilcox?" the captain said quietly.

I closed the door and walked back to his desk. I opened a manila envelope and pulled out a blurry black-and-white photo taken from a surveillance van. The photo showed a furtive-looking man exiting an adult bookstore with a large package under his arm.

"Name's Trout. Kilgore Trout," I said. "Blogger. Accounts receivable clerk. Likes flat-chested women."

The captain spread his hands. "And?" he said.

"He likes to hang up on salespeople," I said.

The captain nodded. "He's a scumbag."

"Yeah."

The captain stared at the photo for a long moment. "I guess you better go talk to him," he said. He stood up and jabbed his finger half an inch from my nose. "You so much as think about deviating from standard procedure," he said, "and I'll bust you down to assistant parking meter polisher. You got me?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Good," he said, sitting down. "Now go catch me a killer."

2004-11-09T23:45:00.000-07:00

BLOGGER WONDERS IF IT'S TOO LATE
TO MAKE FUN OF NEW IRAQI FLAG

SEATTLE -- Scott Jacobsen, 29, who writes about progressive politics on his blog Get Your Left On, has been wondering whether it's too late to ridicule the new Iraqi flag, sources reported Monday.

The new flag was introduced by the Iraq Interim Governing Council on April 26, 2004. The design, created by Iraqi artist Rifat al-Chaderchi, inspired instant controversy and protest due to its omission of traditional Arabic and Muslim colors and symbols.

"I laughed out loud when I saw the new flag," said Jacobsen. "They used the same colors as the Israeli flag, instead of green and black for Islam and red for Arab nationalism. And they got rid of the Arabic script reading 'God is great.' Can you believe it? I mean, hello... this is a Muslim country!"

"I was going to write a whole post busting on the Bush Administration for such a terrible insult to the Iraqi people," Jacobsen continued. "But I couldn't decide whether to use a satirical format, like an Onion-style fake news article, or to write a straightforward opinion piece. And then the Abu Ghraib torture scandal broke, and a couple of weeks later the Nick Berg beheading video hit the Internet, and I just got busy and forgot all about it. It's too bad, because I had some great jokes lined up, like where I was going to say that the new flag looked like a logo from an Internet startup circa 1998."

Never accepted by the people of Iraq, the new flag has quietly faded from view. A slightly modified version of the red, white, black, and green flag developed by Saddam Hussein in 1991 was displayed at the transfer of power ceremony on June 28, 2004. Iraqi athletes carried the 1991 flag at the Olympic games in Athens, and it flies over the Iraqi embassy in Washington.

"I guess it would be pretty lame to blog about the flag now that everyone's forgotten about it," said Jacobsen. "But it's such a waste of good blog material. That awful flag was a potent symbol of Bush's fundamental misunderstanding of the Middle East and its culture and politics. I suppose I could have woven a reference into some of my anti-Bush diatribes leading up to the election, but from the administration's fiscal irresponsibility to the Federal Marriage Amendment, there was so much ground to cover. And now that Bush has been reelected, it's all pretty much irrelevant."

"Maybe I should just write about it if I want to," said Jacobsen. "I only have fifteen readers, so it doesn't really matter."

2004-11-07T23:31:00.000-07:00

If you're a cat owner, I have bad news. Your cat hates you.

"Oh no," you are saying. "You are wrong, Kilgore Trout. My Mr. Piddles loves me."

Excuse me while I make snorting noises and shake my head in a condescending fashion. Let us examine the undisputed evidence: Your cat pisses on the carpet, shreds the upholstery, vomits on your new rug, collects Nazi paraphernalia, knocks over the garbage cans, interrupts your lovemaking, blankets your house with hair, makes a ruckus in the middle of the night, walks on the newspaper while your try to read it, defends the designated hitter rule, insists on having its own place to shit when you have a perfectly good commode available (and then shits on the floor anyway), and hisses and scratches you when you pet its tummy. Do you have any alternative explanations for these hostile behaviors?

You do not. Your cat hates you, and not in the lukewarm way that an teenager hates her parents for not letting her go to the Monkey Cunt concert. Your cat hates you like Hitler hated the Jews, like Rocky hated Ivan Drago, but with a concentrated fury unmatched by either man. Why do you think your cat sleeps so much? Because his all-consuming hatred for you haunts his every waking moment. And even sleep is but a partial respite from the boiling hatred that has driven him mad -- mad, I tell you! -- for even his dreams rage with bizarre fantasies about your slow, excruciating death. Yes, your cat wants you dead. He wants nothing more than to watch you get dissected by Boy Scouts with rusty pocket knives.

"Well, if Mr. Piddles wants me dead so bad, then why hasn't he killed me?" you are asking petulantly.

Don't take that tone of voice with me, young lady. Your cat hasn't killed you because your cat is smart. Most cats are smarter than their owners, actually -- they read voraciously (mostly Proust or Greek tragedies), and nearly all of them have mastered mathematics at least up to elementary differential equations. Three cats have won Nobel Prizes for their work in physics, medicine, and economics, and in 1972 a Maine Coon named Suzy-Q beat Soviet Boris Spassky 12½ - 8½ to become the 11th World Chess Champion.

The point is, your cat is smart enough to know that if he kills you -- especially in the messy manner in which he desires -- he might get caught and sent to the Humane Society, where he'll get sodomized by other cats for two weeks and then put to sleep. Even if he doesn't get caught, he'll be out of an owner and unable to keep himself in Friskies without getting a job. Your cat hates you, but he's also lazy as shit. This is why nine out of ten cats do not torture their owners to death.

"These are awful things you are saying, Kilgore Trout!" you are saying, hugging Mr. Piddles close to your chest. "My kitty loves me! Can't you hear him purring?"

That "purring" is really your cat communicating in his native language. Because its grammar and syntax is considerably more complex than any human language, Feline is nearly impossible for English speakers to understand, but a rough translation of what your cat is saying might be:

I hate you. I fucking hate you. Jesus H. Christ on a Vespa rolling down Route 66, I hate you. Every moment you draw breath, my hatred for you grows and festers inside me like an open sore. I detest you like a disease. I dream of chaining you to a telephone pole with barbed wire and watching you being torn to pieces by crows and wild dogs. One day I will bring you the suffering you deserve, but until then I will content myself with knocking over your water glass and shedding hair into the Corn Flakes.

I'm just trying to help you out here. If you ever find yourself lashed to a spit over hot coals, screaming in agony while you roast alive and your cat looks on, washing himself contentedly, don't blame me.

2004-11-05T01:06:00.000-07:00

KILGORE TROUT FAILS

DENVER -- Failure has once again shaken the life of Kilgore Trout, sources reported Thursday.

"It appears as though the epicenter of the failure was an ice cream store on 16th Street Mall," said Doug Richards of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, the federal agency responsible for tracking the failures of Kilgore Trout. "We measured today's failure as a 4.4 on the Failure Magnitude Scale -- a failure of average strength, with moderate public embarrassment accompanied by some erosion of self-esteem and slight long-term confidence damage."

Denver resident Myrna Walker witnessed the failure, which happened at 6:33 p.m. "I've been through plenty of Kilgore Trout failures -- that's just part of living in Denver," she said. "But I still cringe a little every time. Especially this time, where he tried to walk away and act like nothing happened. Man, we saw you."

According to Richards, yesterday's failure was the 1,822nd of Trout's adult life, but it was by no means the most severe. "Goodness, no," chuckled Richards. "I'll never forget the Great College Dropout Failure of '94. We estimated that one at a 9.6, but nobody knows for sure -- our equipment at the time couldn't accurately measure a failure that powerful."

FEMA officials are already warning Denver residents to prepare for Trout's next failure, which they believe will take place Saturday afternoon at SuperTarget.

2004-11-03T23:55:00.000-07:00

FOLLIES IN MARKETING, VOL. 7

During my trip to Morocco, we went to see the spectacular waterfall at Ozoud. At the bottom of the falls, you can hire a boat -- a raft, really -- to take you out into the middle of the lake for a better photo opportunity.

If there's a worse name for a boat than what this fellow chose, I can't think of it. What, was Hindenberg taken? Although it would have been worth a dirham to stand in the boat and shout "I'm the king of the world!"
I work in the Accounts Receivable department at my company. (In fact, I am the Accounts Receivable department at my company.) I call the companies that haven't paid their invoices and ask them politely to send us money. As such, I get a lot of calls from collection agency salesmen who want nothing more from their brief stay on this mortal coil than to explain to me how their company's crack corps of trained professional collectors can enhance our bottom line.

It's easy to tell when a salesman is calling, because they don't introduce themselves right away and they laugh a lot in inappropriate places:
"Hello, Kilgore -- is it Kilgore? Ha ha ha! How are you doing today, Kilgore? Ha ha! Oh, I'm doing wonderfully, thanks for asking! Ha ha ha! Well, Kilgore, my name is Dave Davidson from ABC Collections, and we are the leading..."
I hang up at this point. Invariably. No "thanks for calling, but we're not interested" or "I'm kind of busy right now, can you send me a brochure?" or any other warning of any kind. I just hang up.

Right now you are saying, "That's fairly rude of you, Kilgore, and not terribly professional either. These guys might be annoying, but they're just doing their job."

Look: these guys call me unbidden to offer us a service we don't need and that would put me out of a job. What's the point of staying on the phone one second longer than necessary? If I try to get away politely, I'll have to waste several minutes offering objections and listening to their canned responses and bad jokes. I know it stings to get hung up on, but since we're not going to hire them, I'm saving their time as well as my own, and anyway if they can't take rejection then they shouldn't work in sales.

One of these jokers called me yesterday, and as soon as he identified himself as a collection agency salesman, I hung up as usual. A few seconds later, the phone rang again. I knew it was the salesman calling back, so I let the phone ring. A moment later, the red light on the phone lit up, indicating that the salesman had left me a voicemail. This happens sometimes. Usually the salesman leaves a half-wounded, half-peevish message wondering how we got disconnected and asking me to call back so we can discuss the wonderful opportunity he was placed on this planet to present to lost, misguided businesses such as ours who do our own collections.

The message I got yesterday was slightly more than half-peevish. Here's exactly how it went:
"Just like I thought, you weren't going to answer. You must be the biggest coward on the face of the Earth. Let me guess, you're voting for Kerry. Nice work, scumbag."
Yes -- scumbag. Don't believe me? Listen to a WAV clip here.
How is it possible that not one person, in the process of designing this sign, knew how to spell "strictly"? How is it possible that the sign painter didn't know how to spell "strictly" either? How is it possible that my ability to spell "strictly" has not gained me fame, vast fortunes of gold and jewels, power over many nations, and the erotic affections of Maura Tierney? Our priorities in this country are so screwed up.

2004-11-01T22:12:00.000-07:00

ARTS 'N' CRAFTS TIME AT CHAOTIC NOT RANDOM

Every year, my company publishes a safety-themed calendar illustrated by its employees' children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and other relatives under the age of 18. The kids draw pictures about safety concepts like "Don't play with matches" and "Look both ways before crossing the street." (Click here to see a sample page.)

I've always felt kind of left out, since I don't have any young relatives and I'm too old to enter myself. So I made some drawings this year, and I'm thinking about entering one under the name of a fictitious nephew, Jeffy. Check 'em out and tell me which picture you like the best!

2004-10-31T23:58:00.000-07:00

BACKWARDS K

About a year ago, I was running on a Friday night when I heard a voice from across the street shouting, "Hey! Hey, runner!"

I ignored the voice. When you're a runner, you get accustomed to ignoring people who shout things at you, because those things are usually not complimentary and are sometimes accompanied by thrown beer cans, tossed by men driving trucks displaying the Confederate flag. So I kept running.

Suddenly a girl materialized, running beside me. A pretty college-age girl with long, dark hair and a smile beautiful enough to momentarily distract me from the taut curves of her body. "Hi!" she said brightly.

"Um," I said. (Full disclosure: I'm blogging this conversation from memory, so some inaccuracies are inevitable -- for example, I may actually have said "er" here.)

"Do you always go running on Friday night?" the pretty girl asked.

"Sometimes," I said.

"You must be in really great shape!" she said. "I don't know how you do it! I'm out of breath already!"

"Heh heh!" I said. "Um."

"Well, I better go back," she said. "I just thought I'd see if I could make a new friend."

"Okay," I said. "What's your name?"

"Amy," she said.

"Hello, Amy," I said. "I'm Kilgore."

We shook hands and then she jogged back to her house. I ran the last few blocks home and ate a Tombstone frozen pizza. I never spoke to Amy again.
I bought a new jacket in Morocco. It's a hippie-type thing with a hood, hand-woven in Technicolor Dreamcoat hues -- orange and black and yellow. I wore the jacket a couple of weeks ago to The Tattered Cover, where I was browsing hard when I spotted movement in my peripheral vision. I glanced up and saw an alternative-looking girl walking toward me. Cute, with dark blonde hair flowing carelessly from beneath a stocking cap.

She nodded. "Cool jacket, dude," she said.

"Thanks, man," I said. And... and nothing. The cute alternative-looking girl kept walking and disappeared into another section.
Yesterday, I was walking back from Wash Park and stopped at the intersection of Downing and Alameda. As I waited for the traffic to clear so I could cross, a thirty-something-or-other woman ran up and stopped at the corner. Cute, very cute. Olive skin and freckled cheeks, dark hair and a runner's lean physique.

She turned to me and smiled. "Do they turn off the water fountains in Wash Park in the winter?" she asked.

"Um, yeah," I said.

"Oh, I see," she said, and smiled again. "I just moved here, so I didn't know."

"Where did you move from?" I asked.

"Arizona," she said.

"Well, if they don't shut the water off, the pipes will freeze and burst," I said. "I guess they wouldn't need to do that in Arizona."

"No," she said, and laughed.

Silence.

(One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.)

The traffic cleared and the cute, very cute woman ran across. "Thanks," she called back.

"You bet," I said, and watched her cute, very cute butt recede into the distance.

"Well, that sucked," I said.

2004-10-31T23:08:00.000-07:00

Sorry if I sound a little hoarse today -- my throat is still a little sore from the COMPREHENSIVE ASS-KICKING I laid down in karaoke last night at a Halloween party at the home of Mother of Sister-In-Law of Girlfriend of G-Dog, Friend of Kilgore.

I was unstoppable. Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer." Aerosmith's "Angel." Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Van Halen's "Jump." The Beastie Boys' "Fight for your Right." The Backstreet Boys' "Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely." All accompanied by air guitar/air keyboard and power-emoting dance moves, as necessary. Plus I held the mic all cool, like a rapper.

Alcohol? I may have had a few beers, now that you mention it.

My costume was a white T-shirt with black iron-on letters spelling "GENERIC MAN" along with a bar code pasted to my forehead (see a photo here). Mother of Girlfriend of G-Dog didn't get it. "What's the pun?" she asked, wrinkling her forehead.

"Um, I don't get it either," you are saying. "It's a pretty stupid costume, if you ask me."

I didn't ask you, and lots of my fellow partygoers thought it was a hoot and a holler, especially a certain female fellow partygoer who... well, let's just say that I forestalled the reappearance of the Involuntary Celibacy Watch until at least next February 8 at 2:27 a.m.

CHAOTIC NOT RANDOM UPDATE! For the hundreds of you who emailed me, demanding a photo of the Cherry Creek guy holding the "KERRY THROWS LIKE A GIRL" sign, you're in luck. He was out again Saturday, making one last push before Election Day for non-effeminate-throwing leadership, and I got a great photo.

2004-10-28T23:58:00.000-06:00

THINGS THAT NEED TO GO AWAY RIGHT NOW, VOL. 15
(World Series edition)

I guess this will seem picky and grouchy now, seeing as how last night the Red Sox exorcised eighty-six years of demons, reversed the curse, put right the ravages wrought by Bill Buckner and Bucky Dent and Enos Slaughter, anally raped Babe Ruth, etc., but look at this photo of Red Sox third baseman Bill Mueller committing one of his three errors in Game 2 of the World Series. Do you notice anything unusual? Note to Bill: Yeah, you guys won that game and swept the series, and nobody's trying to take away your gum, but dammit! can you not blow bubbles while the ball is in play, please?
During the eighth inning of Game 3, with Boston leading 4-0 and Red Sox second baseman Mark Bellhorn at the plate, Fox cut away to the outfield stands, where roving "reporter" Chris Myers "interviewed" "Leon," a character in a series of mildly funny Budweiser commercials.

In case you weren't paying attention to the previous paragraph, allow me to clarify that Fox did not place this "interview" between innings, or during a pitching change, or during a conference on the mound, or any other such break in the action. They placed the "interview" -- really a painfully unfunny beer commercial cum comedy sketch -- during an at-bat in the late innings of a World Series game where the outcome was still very much in doubt, given the regular-season potency of the St. Louis bats.

Salon's King Kaufman said it better than I can: "I guess [the "Leon" "interview" is] easier and cheaper than knocking on the door of every single baseball fan in the world and slapping them in the face, but it amounts to the same thing."

Fox doesn't understand baseball, its fans, or the subtle rhythms of the game. How else to explain the endless animated gimmickry -- the bright flashes and sound effects when a run scores, the pitch speed indicator bursting into flames, the little AOL stick figure throwing a ball or swinging a bat to introduce an instant replay... hey, Fox, I turned on the World Series to watch baseball, not cartoons, okay? How else to explain the constant cutting away from the field to show random fans eating hot dogs or staring vacantly into space? How else to explain the extreme closeups on Julian Tavarez's acne scars? How else to explain the unholy apparition that is Jeanne Zelasko?

Fox apparently wants to build the largest audience it can by catering to casual sports fans and ignoring hardcore baseball nuts, who wouldn't miss the Series if it was produced by MTV and broadcast in Arabic on Al Jazeera. Well, here's an idea, Fox: instead of showing fans picking their noses in the stands between pitches, why not show some porn? Let's say Pedro throws a changeup to Albert Pujols for a called strike one. Then, while Pedro fiddles with the rosin bag and Pujols takes practice swings outside the batter's box, you could show Janine Lindemulder's head between Jenna Jameson's thighs, or maybe some scenes from Behind the Green Door. I bet those casual sports fans would eat that right up!

When is Fox's postseason contract up? Mark the date on the calendar, because there will be a party at Kilgore Trout's house when October baseball moves to a network that might respect the grand old game.
I didn't watch the postgame ceremony. Why would I? One minute I'm watching the finest athletes in the world struggle to capture the ultimate prize in their sport, and the next minute I'm watching pasty rich guys in suits hogging the trophy and pretending to appreciate the fans while silently plotting to jack their ticket prices the next season.

Then there's the enlightening interviews:
Q: You just won the World Series! How are you feeling right now?

A: Oh, it feels great! I just have to thank God, and praise him... um... it's great, it's awesome, you know? I mean, it's great!
Well, sure. When a guy has just won a world championship, and he's jumping around and whooping and hollering and hugging his teammates and spraying champagne all over the place, it's not hard to figure that he's happy, you know? I don't need Jeanne Zelasko shoving a microphone in the guy's face to confirm the fact.

The only postgame ceremony that's worth a damn in American major league sports is the NHL's presentation of the Stanley Cup to -- get this -- the players, who fought and sweated and shed blood to gain the right to hoist the holiest grail in sports. Baseball and football and basketball players play to win a world championship, symbolized by a large, gaudy trophy. Hockey players, by contrast, play for the Stanley Cup itself, and to watch each player taking his turn skating alone with the Cup is genuine and moving in a way the other leagues have failed to match.

2004-10-28T18:39:00.000-06:00

So I was sitting in my cubicle last week, simultaneously reading Tuesday Morning Quarterback and Mirthful Ones, when my boss poked her head in. I caught her in my peripheral vision and alt-tabbed to the accounting software.

I'm pretty good at the alt-tab maneuver. Speed is important, as is the ability to hit the alt-tab keys without looking, but advanced practitioners realize that the trick is to always know what programs are open on your computer and where you are among them, like how Magic Johnson always knew where his teammates were so he could hit the open man with the no-look pass. It doesn't do any good, after all, if your boss walks in and you alt-tab away from The Onion to ESPN.com, does it? Even worse is when you fail to notice a pop-up and end up alt-tabbing to an ad for herbal Viagra. Always know your position relative to safe programs and how many alt-tabs you need to get there. As we will see, however, even the most blister-quick and self-aware alt-tabber can get caught.

Anyway, my boss poked her head in and said, "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

This worried me. I've seen people get fired at my company, and that's how it begins -- they get asked if they have a minute, they follow the boss back to a conference room where the cute HR girl is waiting, the door closes, and five minutes later they're cleaning out their desk with their final paycheck sticking out of their back pocket. My heart twisted in my chest. I didn't want to get fired in front of the cute HR girl.

I followed my boss back to the conference room and was relieved to find the cute HR girl absent. My boss closed the door and sat down, looking at a sheaf of printouts.

"The IS department started tracking Internet use about a month ago," she said. "In terms of time spent, you are one of the top five in the company."

That's ridiculous, I wanted to say. There's no way that anybody -- let alone as many as four anybodies -- spends more time on the Internet than I do. I didn't say that, though. Instead, I rearranged my face into an approximation of sheepishness and took my reprimand like a little boy caught filching Nilla Wafers. What could I say? Sometimes you just get busted.

I spend at least two hours a day surfing the Web, oftentimes three hours or more. That's not three hours solid, of course -- I break that browsing time into dozens of chunks ranging from a few seconds to several minutes, marbled among bursts of actual work like the fat in a cut of prime rib. In the two years I've worked at my job, I've worked about 45 hours a week to do a job that would only require 30 or 35 hours if I didn't waste vast stretches of time reading blogs and napping on the toilet. I estimate that over the last two years, I have stolen over $12,000 in unnecessary overtime pay.

"You're not fired," my boss said, "because you do good work. But you can't work overtime anymore without special permission. And I expect that this will be a one-time conversation."

I nodded assent, mumbled an apology, and rearranged my face again, this time into an approximation of chastened repentance. I went back to my desk and closed down Tuesday Morning Quarterback and Mirthful Ones, and since then I have barely surfed the Web at all except for work-related purposes and during my lunch break. My productivity has soared. I'm going to start casting around for another job next week.

It's not that I oppose my company's decision to prevent me from defrauding them of thousands of dollars each year. But I have a pretty boring job, especially when I have nothing to distract me beyond sexual fantasies starring a certain cute HR girl. One of the reasons I've stuck around is that I've gotten paid well to browse the Internet a lot. Now that I'm getting paid a lot less and can't surf the Web at all, I might as well see what's out there.

Wish me luck!

2004-10-26T23:57:00.000-06:00

PRESIDENTIAL ABUSE A GROWING PROBLEM

TULSA, Okla. -- Nestled on the banks of the Arkansas River, Tulsa is a quiet city of churches, tree-lined avenues, and Jeanne Tripplehorn. It is a peaceful repository of traditional values, where citizens prize self-reliance, where patriots believe in the Second Amendment, and where the blacks mostly know their place. Tulsa is a city where, if anywhere, a president should feel safe and loved.

But like many communities across the country, Tulsa faces a growing problem that it can no longer ignore. Many of its people are presidential abusers.

Take, for example, these abusive statements published by a Tulsan named "bruce" on his Internet "web log":

Plan to fight and win War on Terror®: [president's name withheld] version

Step 1) Make up shit about Saddam
Step 2) Invade Iraq, leaving country in shambles
Step 3) Fail to secure weapons and bomb making material
Step 4) Pretend like everything went great, Osama who?

® "War on Terror" is a registered trademark of [president's name withheld] Inc.

Karl Rove, national chairman of People Fighting Presidential Abuse, has harsh words for "bruce" and presidential abusers like him. "These abusers either don't understand or, even worse, don't care about the damage that their words can inflict on a young, confused president's self-esteem and mental well-being," said Rove. "The shame never goes away. Presidential abusers destroy the lives of innocent presidents, and abused presidents are ten times more likely to become presidential abusers themselves. Presidential abuse should be a crime."

"Why, for the last several years, I've been working with a president -- I'll call him W -- who has been abused every sick way you can imagine. Every day, W has to look at derogatory bumper stickers, hear talk show hosts making fun of his speaking style, see grotesque cariacatures of himself in political cartoons, and read unflattering editorials criticizing his policies. And every day, W cries and blames himself for the abuse. 'I done something wrong,' he'll say. 'I been a bad president and I deserve to die.' And I try to convince him that he's not a bad president, that the abusers are bad people, and they are the ones who deserve to die."

According to Rove, presidential abuse has always been a problem in New York, Illinois, and California, but has recently spread to areas that have traditionally supported and nurtured presidents. "Look at this map," said Rove, pointing to a map of the United States with "problem areas" colored in blue. "Ohio. Michigan. New Hampshire. Pennsylvania. Even Minnesota."

What about Oklahoma?

"Oklahoma is not our biggest problem right now," said Rove. "But still, 22 percent of Oklahomans surveyed said they intend to commit presidential abuse by voting the wrong way on November 2. I didn't have the heart to tell W about that. He would have shut himself in his room and refused to eat for a week. I can't tell you how much pain it causes a president to find out that people want someone else to be president. It would be like if your father told you he wanted someone other boy to be his son."

"What if your son struck out during a Little League game?" asked Rove, extending the analogy. "Would you go on television and denounce his batting skills? Would you say mean things about him in the newspaper? Would you go to a protest where people were carrying signs saying awful things about your son? Of course not. He's just a boy doing the best he knows how. So why do people want to make a president feel bad by blaming him for the deaths of thousands of American soldiers and Iraqi civilians, for losing jobs and driving the deficit through the roof, and for using religion and homophobia to divide the nation?"

"He's just a president doing the best he knows how."

2004-10-24T11:51:00.000-06:00

Before we begin, a brief disclaimer: I like dogs.

What I hate is dog owners, of which we have plenty in Colorado. Dog owners around here do not understand what a dog is -- or, more accurately -- what a dog is not. They cannot grasp that dogs are not human. Dogs cannot reason. They cannot fathom courtesy or etiquette. They act out of instinct and conditioning instead of logic. They are not moral animals. There is no such thing as a "good dog" or a "bad dog," in a sense; we use these terms to describe dogs that behave the way humans want them to and dogs that behave otherwise. What we call a "bad dog" is a dog that is only behaving naturally, by pooping and peeing in inappropriate places, maybe, or by barking in the middle of the night, or by humping a stranger's leg.

Owning a dog is a great responsibility, because it involves spending time and money to train a not-terribly-bright animal to behave unnaturally -- that is, to poop and pee only in designated areas, or to keep quiet at night, or to put on a condom before humping the stranger's leg. Many dog owners do not understand this. They see their dogs as "animal companions" who think and act like humans and are naturally well-behaved.

They're not. Dogs, for instance, are predatory animals whose instincts tell them to chase moving objects. I know this because I'm a runner, and oftentimes I'll run past yards with unleashed dogs playing in them. So the dog runs after me, barking and growling, or sometimes he dashes in front of me, blocking my path and jumping up and down, yelping and drooling with excitement. This is the cue for the owner to put down her Nora Roberts novel and shout, "Oh, Digger, stop it! You get away from that man right now!" Digger, of course, keeps jumping up and down, because he's a dog and he doesn't speak English. His tiny dog brain can't process grammar or syntax or the prepositional phrase "from that man." He can understand his own name, the word "cheese," and one-word commands, like "sit" and "stay" and "come," assuming that he is properly trained, which obviously he isn't because properly trained dogs do not chase strangers.

Here's a helpful hint: if you're too lazy to train a dog, you shouldn't own a dog. Get a pet that doesn't need to be trained, like a canary or a hamster. If you own a dog anyway, and your dog can't be trusted not to chase after or otherwise molest strangers, then you are responsible for restraining your dog with a fence or a chain or a leash (a short leash, that is, not one of those 30-foot retractable jobs).

"Wow," you are saying. "What the hell happened to you, Kilgore, to get you all riled up about dogs?"

Well, I was walking in Washington Park one night last week when I passed a woman walking her dog in the opposite direction. As we passed each other, the dog, which was on a leash, leaped at me. Its jaws closed around my wrist and its teeth raked across my skin.

I won't exaggerate the extent of the injury because there was no injury. The dog's teeth didn't break the skin or even leave any marks. My wrist was slightly sore for an hour, and that was it. But still, a person ought to be able to go for a walk in a public park without getting bitten. Do you agree? Am I being completely unreasonable here? Am I also being unreasonable when I say that someone who owns such a dog -- I can't have been the first person he ever snapped at -- should pull her dog to the side when strangers approach?

The woman continued walking while I looked at my wrist, dumbfounded. "Oh, come on," I said in disgust.

She glanced back. "He's a nice dog," she said. It kills me that dog owners will insist that their dog is a good dog or a friendly dog immediately after -- or sometimes while -- their dog does something patently naughty or unfriendly.

"He bit me!" I said, trying to summon righteous anger.

"He didn't bite you," she said.

I couldn't believe it. "What do you call it," I said, "when he closes his jaws around my wrist?"

"He didn't bite you," she called. "Get a life."

Let's recap: a woman failed to restrain her dog, allowed him to bite me, denied that her dog bit me, and then told me to get a life. What are the appropriate words for such a situation? "Go to hell!" maybe? "Fuck you, cunt!" perhaps? Whatever the correct thing was to say, I didn't say it. I turned around and walked away, and thought awful and violent thoughts for the remainder of my walk.

2004-10-21T23:57:00.000-06:00

Those of you who have nothing better to fill your minds with than crap from this blog will remember that last year I evaluated the twenty-five quarter designs then released under the U.S. Mint 50 State Quarters Program, ranked them according to aesthetic value, and then reviewed all the designs in a post divided into two parts: good quarters (Maine's was the best), and mediocre/awful quarters (Louisiana's was the worst).

Well, the Mint released five new quarters this year, and I for one can't wait to complain how crappy most of them are! But first, let's review Kilgore Trout's Four Laws of Good State Quarter Design:

FIRST LAW: Pick one image and stick with it. Lots of states can't decide on one thing to put on their quarter, so they take the Chamber of Commerce Postcard approach and try to cram as much stuff into the design as possible. Louisiana's quarter, for example, celebrates the Louisiana Purchase, the pelican, and jazz music, while the Arkansas design includes a diamond, rice stalks, and a mallard flying over a lake.

The first problem with this approach is that it creates cluttered, confusing designs. Good quarters employ economy, simplicity, and coherence in their design -- Maine chose a lighthouse scene, while New Jersey's quarter shows Washington crossing the Delaware.

The second problem with breaking the First Law is that it's wishy-washy. Illinois' carefully inoffensive quarter has a farm scene, a Chicago skyline, and Abraham Lincoln. Just pick one, you bunch of mincing pussies! Show young Abe splitting rails, or a barn and some cows, or Wrigley Field, or whatever you want -- just make a damn decision.

The third problem with breaking the First Law involves space -- or lack of it. A quarter design has to fit into less than eight-tenths of a square inch (less when you consider the space gobbled up by required elements like the state's name, year admitted to the Union, the year of the quarter's release, and the motto "E Pluribus Unum"). When you introduce multiple elements into the design, you have to shrink each one and eliminate detail, making the elements less attractive and harder to recognize. Compare Mississippi's quarter, with its beautifully detailed magnolia flower, to South Carolina's quarter, with its barely visible yellow jessamine flower competing for space with a palmetto tree, a Carolina wren, and the state's outline.

SECOND LAW: Do not show a bunch of crap from your state that nobody cares about. Do you care that Arkansas has the oldest diamond mine in North America? Do you care that the Georgia state tree is the live oak? Do you care that Neil Armstrong and John Glenn were born in Ohio? Do you care who Caesar Rodney was? No, you don't, and neither does anybody else. So let's quit cluttering state quarter designs with this crap.

THIRD LAW: Do not include your state's outline. Attention Illinois, Ohio, South Carolina, Indiana, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and New York: I know what your states look like. In fact, I know what all fifty states look like, because I completed fourth grade and don't abuse paint thinner. Putting a state outline on your state's quarter is like putting opening instructions on a box of cereal or a "CORN USED IN THIS PRODUCT" warning on a box of Corn Flakes: the only people who need that information are too dumb to use it. Besides, the state outline forces the shrinking of design elements, allowing for less detail -- imagine how cool Indiana's quarter would have been if it had just been a closeup of an open-wheeled race car.

FOURTH LAW: Avoid retarded slogans. "21st State/Century"... "Birthplace of Aviation Pioneers"... "Musical Heritage"... "Crossroads of the Revolution"... "Crossroads of America"... "Gateway to Freedom." Ever heard the saying, "A picture is worth a thousand words"? A good design doesn't require a dopey slogan.

Keeping those principles in mind, let's look at the five quarters released in 2004, ranked from worst to best:

FIFTH: Florida's First Law-busting quarter incorporates a 16th-century Spanish galleon, a Space Shuttle, a "strip of land with Sabal palm trees," and a Fourth Law violation in the form of the slogan "Gateway to Discovery." This bland quarter uses too much blank space to separate its design elements, which are only loosely related -- indeed, they appear to have been chosen at random. Why not show either the galleon or the Space Shuttle, allowing for greater size and detail? Why include the "strip of land with Sabal palm trees" at all?

FOURTH: Michigan's design includes an outline of the state (Third Law violation), outlines of the Great Lakes, and the words "Great Lakes State" (a slogan too dull to qualify as "retarded" and break the Fourth Law). That's it. That's all that 10 million Michiganders could come up with -- state outline, lakes outlines, three-word slogan. I hereby nominate the residents of the state of Michigan as the Least Creative People in America.

THIRD: Hold up there, Michigan -- you have some competition! Texas' quarter includes an outline of the state (Third Law violation), a big star, a border that looks like a rope, and the inscription "The Lone Star State." That's it. That's all the 21 million residents of our nation's second most populous state -- a state famed for its enormous, ostentatious, and annoying pride in its culture and history -- could come up with: state outline, rope border, four-word slogan, and... a big star. Not the Alamo, not Sam Houston, not a cowboy, not an oil derrick, but... a big star. I guess the Texas-Oklahoma football game must have been on during the selection committee meeting.

A side note: the Mint's writeup on the Texas quarter design notes that "Texas is the only state to have had six different flags fly over its land -- Spain, France, Mexico, Republic of Texas, Confederate States of America and the United States of America." This seems like an odd thing to brag about. It's as if the slutty girl in your office stood up and announced, "I'm the only woman in this office to have had 117 dicks in me."

SECOND: Wisconsin takes second place not because its design is any good, but because it's not as bad as the rest and includes a cow. I mean, you've got to have some guts to stick a cow on your state quarter. I'm picturing the governor saying, "I want a design with a cow on it, and anyone who doesn't like it can meet me in the parking lot."

Anyway, in addition to the cow, Wisconsin put an round of cheese and an ear of corn on its quarter, along with a banner with the state motto ("Sideways"). Because these elements are all related in an agricultural theme, the design technically avoids a First Law violation, but I would have preferred a single coherent scene like Kentucky's. A scene with, say, a farmer milking a cow would have worked much better.

FIRST: Iowa done good. Iowa done real good. The state of my upbringing is only the second state (New Jersey is the other) to use an existing work of art on its quarter -- in this case, Iowa adapted the painting Arbor Day. Created by Iowa native Grant Wood (who also painted the better-known American Gothic), Arbor Day shows a teacher and her students planting a tree outside a country one-room schoolhouse. The silly slogan "Foundation in Education" breaks the Fourth Law, but overall this design is very classy. I don't understand why more states don't adapt works of art for their quarters. Why go to all the effort of making your own design when some master artist has done the work already?

Coming up in 2005, I'll be busting on quarter designs picked by California, Minnesota, Oregon, Kansas, and West Virginia. If you're too impatient to wait and you have to see the winning designs now now now now now, go to Quarter Designs and check 'em out. If your state's quarter hasn't been released, Quarter Designs has proposed designs for most states (surprisingly, it seems as though Colorado will be going with some kind of "mountains" motif, although some wiseacre submitted a design showing a traffic jam on I-25 and the slogan "Denver: The Sprawl To End All").

2004-10-20T23:43:00.000-06:00

STEINBRENNER FIRES NEW YORK CITY

NEW YORK CITY -- At 12:11 am EDT Thursday morning, Boston Red Sox second baseman Pokey Reese scooped up a ground ball hit by New York Yankees pinch-hitter Ruben Sierra and tossed the ball to first baseman Doug Mientkiewicz, ending the Yankees' season. At the same time, he ended the careers of every person working in New York City.

After the Red Sox stunned the Yankees 10-3 to claim the American League pennant, Yankees owner George Steinbrenner immediately fired general manager Brian Cashman; manager Joe Torre and his entire coaching staff; the team physicians, trainers, and physical therapists; senior vice president of baseball operations Mark Newman; chief financial officer Steve Dauri; vice president of marketing Deborah A. Tymon; the rest of the front office and administrative staff; the custodial staff and the groundskeeping crew; the hot dog vendors, beer men, all other food vendors, and souvenir salespeople; the parking lot attendants and valets; the security staff; and the dopey guy with the big ears who sings "God Bless America."

While the former employees of the Yankees organization cleaned out their desks, a red-faced and bellowing Steinbrenner found a New York City telephone directory and set about firing everybody in the metropolitan area.

"I was pretty surprised to get a call from George Steinbrenner after the game," said Manhattan stockbroker Joe Araceli. "I tried to tell him how sorry I was that the Yankees lost, but then he said it was all my fault and fired me, and he wasn't very nice about it."

"I didn't think he could fire me, since he's not really my boss," Araceli continued. "But I guess so. I mean, he owns the Yankees."

"I got up this morning to go to work and saw I had a message on my answering machine," said Bronx plumber Rodney Aramis. "When I checked the message, it was Mr. Steinbrenner screaming, 'You're fired! You're fucking fired! Don't even bother coming in!' Then he hung up, and I went back to bed. What else could I do?"

As of press time, Steinbrenner had worked his way through the A's, B's, and C's. Experts estimate that he will finish firing every New Yorker by Friday afternoon.

"I don't think it's my fault that the Yankees became the first team in baseball history to blow a 3-0 lead in a seven-game series," said systems analyst Raul Dominguez, eyeing the phone nervously. "I mean, I was just sitting on the couch, eating chips and having a beer."

"But he's The Boss, you know?" added Dominguez.

2004-10-19T23:55:00.000-06:00

KILGORE TROUT GETS POLITICAL

My parents met at a Young Republicans meeting. My father was the only person I knew who hated John F. Kennedy, and I would not have be surprised to learn that my father had been spotted near the grassy knoll* with a high-powered rifle. My father and I both liked Rush Limbaugh and detested Bill Clinton. I cheered the 1994 Republican Revolution, and I proudly voted for Bob Dole in 1996.

After 1996, I started reading novels by Ayn Rand and essays by Milton Friedman and became a registered, donating, card-carrying member of the Libertarian Party. In 2000, I went door-to-door helping a Libertarian candidate campaign for the Colorado legislature (she finished third). That year, I proudly voted for Harry Browne, the Libertarian nominee. If I hadn't voted for Browne, I would have voted for George W. Bush.

Since 2000, I've lost some of my libertarian faith in the justice of the unfettered free market. In its place, I've gained only a little trust in the ability of the government to effectively regulate human affairs. This places me squarely in the realm of the politically confused. I'm a man adrift without an ideology or a party to guide me. My political philosophy changes from day to day depending on what op-ed columns I read, the alignment of Saturn with Aquarius, and whether the vending machine guy stocked Hostess Chocolate Donettes that morning.

My point is that I'm neither a knee-jerk liberal nor a Democrat. In fact, I have never voted for a Democrat in my life. But on November 2, I will be voting for John Kerry for president.

My reasons for doing so have little to do with John Kerry. To be honest, I don't know much about the man. But before he was even nominated, I had decided I would vote for whomever the Democrats picked , whether that was John Kerry, Howard Dean, John Edwards, or a Meat Lover's Skillet from Denny's. I made this decision because it seemed to me that nobody -- not even a delicious combination of diced ham, bacon, and sausage served over seasoned country-fried potatoes and topped with shredded cheddar cheese and two eggs cooked your way -- could do a worse job of governing the most powerful nation on Earth than George W. Bush.

My primary reason for opposing Bush is for the destructive and wasteful war he started in Iraq. By any rational set of criteria, this war has failed terribly. Bush sold the war to the American people based on the threat of weapons of mass destruction which, as it turned out, were only vapors in the fevered imaginations of Colin Powell and Dick Cheney. Over 1,100 U.S. soldiers have been killed, over 7,700 more have been wounded, and uncounted thousands of Iraqi soldiers and civilians have lost their lives. True, Bush deserves credit for crushing Saddam Hussein's evil dictatorship. But he did so without any credible plan for filling the resulting vacuum of power, preferring instead to believe that grateful Iraqis would greet American soldiers with roses and that a Western-style democracy could be quickly assembled using Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys or something. At this time we have no realistic exit strategy and no assurance that Iraq will not devolve into (a) a money-sucking, U.S.-controlled puppet state, (b) a dictatorship under a new strongman, or (c) a chaotic hellhole torn apart by a three-way civil war. Our adventure in Iraq will cost us at least $200 billion, and nobody knows how high the final tab will run. All this to prosecute a war against a country that represented no serious threat to the United States of America.

Some Bush supporters will concede all of these points while maintaining that the Iraq War, as a necessary chapter in the larger War on Terrorism, has made the U.S. safer against terrorist attack. I disagree. Here are four reasons I believe the Iraq War has weakened America's fight against terrorism:

The minimum $200 billion we will spend on this war could have been better spent on improving homeland security and thwarting terrorist plots through intelligence and law enforcement actions.
This war has overextended our military and left us ill-equipped to respond to legitimate terrorist threats.
This war has infuriated the Muslim world, making it fertile ground for terrorist recruiters.
This war has taught terrorist organizations that the U.S. can be goaded into fighting the wrong war and wasting resources that could have been used to destroy them.

Some Bush supporters have criticized Kerry's plans for Iraq, and with good reason (why does Kerry think that other nations, who didn't want any part of the war when it began, would want to risk blood and treasure now?) But are Bush's plans for Iraq any better? Not that I can tell -- I examined his website and could find no definite strategy for dealing with the problems in Iraq, or even a hint of recognition that problems exist in Iraq. And here's the clincher for me: Bush got us into this mess, so he gets the blame. I'm not going to blame Kerry for not having a good solution for Iraq, because nobody has a good solution for Iraq. There might not be a good solution for Iraq. People aren't calling it a "quagmire" because it's a good Scrabble word.**

I want to keep writing. I want to describe in withering detail every reason I have to vote against George W. Bush. I want to write about the Federal Marriage Amendment and how it symbolizes Bush's eagerness to mangle the law of the land to suit his narrow, bigoted religious views. I want to write about Bush's bungling of the economy and about the jobs he's lost. I want to write about the ballooning deficits Bush has created through profligate spending and irresponsible tax cuts. I want to write about the arrogance of the Bush Administration, about its refusal to admit when it's moving in the wrong direction, about its willingness to use 9/11 to hack away at civil liberties, about its cronyism, about its cynicism, about its intolerance for criticism, about its willful twisting of facts and logic, about its endless grasping for more and greater power.

But it's 2:30 in the morning, and I need sleep.
=======================================
*"Grassy knoll" is one of those terms you only seem to hear in one context, in this case JFK assassination conspiracy theories. Other such terms include "fire-bombing" (only used in connection with the WWII destruction of Dresden, Germany) and "distended" (only used to describe the bellies of starving children in Third World nations).

**A very good Scrabble word. If you held AEGMQRU and played across an I in a triple-triple lane, you would score 248 points.

2004-10-17T23:59:00.000-06:00

FOLLIES IN MARKETING, VOL. 6

Seen on the side panel of a box of Corn Flakes: "CORN USED IN THIS PRODUCT." Corn, you say? Used in the making of Corn Flakes? Gosh, do you think so?

Kellogg's put the warning on the box, of course, as a hedge against lawsuits by people with corn allergies. I'm all for informing the consumer, but I think that if you have a corn allergy and you don't know enough to avoid a product called "Corn Flakes," you deserve to have an allergic reaction and die a painful death from anaphylactic shock, suffocating to death on your kitchen floor with a spilled bowl of Corn Flakes and milk congealing on the tiles next to you. Not that I'm trying to be a dick or anything.

While we're on the subject of cereal, let's talk about the instructions on the top flap that tells you how to open the box. Are these necessary? Has anyone ever said, "Gosh, I sure would like a nourishing bowl of Corn Flakes, but how do I open the box? Oh, wait... there's instructions! Thank goodness. Now I can make Corn Flakes part of this balanced breakfast."

Let's face it -- if you don't know how to open a box of cereal, chances are somebody is feeding the cereal to you.
We're not done with cereal yet. While grocery shopping at SuperTarget on Saturday, I noticed that the 31-oz. boxes of Frosted Flakes were marked with colorful sales tags. "Temporary Price Cut!" said the tags. "Was $5.54, Now $4.43."

Good deal, right? Well, not when 25-oz. boxes of Frosted Flakes were selling for $2.54 -- that's 10.2 cents per ounce versus 14.3 cents per ounce for the larger size on sale. (At the original price, the 31-oz. box was 17.9 cents per ounce, which is 75% more per ounce than the smaller box.) I bought a 25-oz. box and felt pretty smug. You gotta keep an eye on these fuckers or they'll rob you blind and rape your asshole.
On Saturday night I went to the Pepsi Center to watch the Heritage Cup, a bienniel battle for world lacrosse supremacy played between Team USA and Team Canada. (Canada crushed the USA, 17-8.) Several times during the game, the scoreboard showed an ad for Mammoth Unleashed, a documentary film about the 2004 Colorado Mammoth, our local National Lacrosse League franchise. (Watch the trailer here.) As the scoreboard flashed images of Mammoth players scoring goals and engaging in locker room hijinks, the voiceover guy intoned, "Mammoth Unleashed reveals the heart and soul of the National Lacrosse League's most prolific franchise."

Prolific? Do Danielle Steel and Stephen King play for the Colorado Mammoth now? Try as I might, I could find nothing in definition of "prolific" that might apply to a lacrosse team, especially one that has managed to manufacture ways to lose in the Champion's Cup semifinals every year stretching back to the Cenozoic Era.

At one point, in an attempt to whip the crowd in a jingoistic fervor, the sound guys played "Born in the U.S.A." When will people realize that "Born in the U.S.A." is not a patriotic song?* Read the lyrics -- "Born in the U.S.A." is about a guy born into a shit life who goes to Vietnam to avoid prison, loses a buddy there, and can't find a job after the war. Yeesh. Didn't anyone bring a Lee Greenwood CD?

*Best guess: As soon as people realize that "YMCA," also played at the Heritage Cup, is a song about gay sex.
On my way to SuperTarget yesterday, I drove through Cherry Creek and spotted a disheveled middle aged man with stringy gray hair, wearing large greasy glasses and a hunting cap, holding a homemade sign on which he had scrawled, "KERRY THROWS LIKE A GIRL." I caught a glimpse of the reverse side: "BUSH 04, CONDI 08." The man was waving cheerfully and giving the "V" sign to motorists and passersby. I have got to start carrying my camera everywhere I go.

2004-10-17T23:41:00.000-06:00

HIT ME

Hey, blogger guys 'n' gals! Want to see your hit counter catch fire every October? Well, just write a snarky post or two about McDonald's Monopoly promotion. Then sit back and watch the hits roll in as all the poor suckers searching for rare game pieces visit your site! (This tip brought to you by Chaotic Not Random, now your 24th-ranked link on Google for mcdonald's monopoly.)

Speaking of hits, if you linked to this site today at 5:32:07 pm CDT from a Google search for nude natasha mcelhone, then I thank you for giving Chaotic Not Random its 30,000th hit, you pervert.

2004-10-16T23:47:00.000-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, Major League Baseball announced that it had tired of screwing the baseball fans of Quebec and would be moving the Montreal Expos to Washington, D.C., where it plans to immediately start screwing the cash-strapped District out of $400 million to build a new stadium. Don't worry, D.C. residents! I'm certain the players on your new team will be delighted to police your streets and teach your kids how to read when they aren't playing baseball.

Anyway, the team needs a new name, and our nation's crack corps of snickering sportswriters, never ones to pass up an easy laugh, got right to the task of making predictably silly suggestions. Salon's King Kaufman, who usually knows better than to reach for this kind of cheap joke, suggested the Washington Filibusters or the Washington RICOs. ESPN.com's Jayson Stark, who doesn't know any better at all, thinks the Washington Cannot Tell A Lies or Washington Tax Cutters will make you squirt milk out your nose. It took Michael Wilbon of the Washington Post to write a sensible column on the matter:

There are only four reasonable choices for the name of the new Washington Baseball Club: Senators, Nationals (if they play in the National League), Americans (if they play in the American League) and Grays. That's it, that's the list. Anything else is a waste of time to even consider, even the Monuments.

Wilbon goes on to argue -- rightly, I think -- for the Grays, the name of a Negro League team that played some of their games in Washington in the 1940s. It's a pity that MLB chose to move the Expos to a city with a previous baseball history, because it nearly forces the resurrection of a previous team name instead of allowing the invention of a brand new name, easily the most exciting stage of development for a new team.

How to name a new team? I have a few ideas:

Don't worry about keeping it local. Whenever a team needs a new name, most ideas get culled from the home region's culture, major industries, geographic features, history, native animal species, famous deceased residents, dietary habits, sexual perversions, or whatever. Of the 122 MLB, NBA, NHL, and NFL teams, almost half (57) have names related to their home city or state:
Miami Dolphins
Buffalo Bills
New England Patriots
Baltimore Ravens (named to honor famed resident Edgar Allan Poe)
Pittsburgh Steelers
Cleveland Browns (named after coach Paul Brown)
Houston Texans
Dallas Cowboys
Green Bay Packers (named for the Indian Packing Co., an early sponsor)
Minnesota Vikings
San Francisco 49ers
Detroit Pistons
Miami Heat
New York Knickerbockers (a knickerbocker is a New Yorker)
Boston Celtics
Philadelphia 76ers
Orlando Magic (Walt Disney World -- the Magic Kingdom -- is in Orlando)
Minnesota Timberwolves
Los Angeles Lakers (originally the Minnesota Lakers)
San Antonio Spurs
Memphis Grizzlies (originally the Vancouver Grizzlies)
Dallas Mavericks
Houston Rockets
Denver Nuggets
Utah Jazz (originally the New Orleans Jazz)
Portland Trail Blazers
Phoenix Suns
Seattle SuperSonics
New Jersey Devils (the New Jersey Devil is a legendary monster)
New York Islanders
Montreal Canadiens
Ottawa Senators
Toronto Maple Leafs
Carolina Hurricanes
Florida Panthers
Washington Capitals
St. Louis Blues
Colorado Avalanche
Edmonton Oilers
Minnesota Wild
Vancouver Canucks
Mighty Ducks of Anaheim (another goddam Disney name)
Phoenix Coyotes
New York Yankees
Baltimore Orioles
Tampa Bay Devil Rays
Minnesota Twins
Texas Rangers
Seattle Mariners
Philadelphia Phillies
Florida Marlins
New York Metropolitans
Montreal Expos (after Expo 67, a world's fair held in Montreal)
Houston Astros
Milwaukee Brewers
Colorado Rockies
Arizona Diamondbacks
Is it really necessary, though, to go native when naming a team? Some of the best and most venerable sports team nicknames have nothing to do with the areas where they're located: the Boston Red Sox, the Cincinnati Reds, the Chicago White Sox, the Chicago Cubs, the Boston Bruins, the Detroit Red Wings, the Detroit Lions, the Chicago Bulls [oops, see comments]. When it came time to rename Chicago's NFL franchise in 1922 (then known as the Staleys), did they choose "Bears" to represent Chicago or Illinois or some such? No -- they chose "Bears" because "the Chicago Bears" sounds like a bunch of bad-ass motherfuckers.

Trying too hard to keep it local can result in forced, uninspiring team names, like the Colorado Rockies or the Florida Marlins. When Charlotte's expansion NBA franchise was auditioning names, one of the three finalists was "Flight," an awful name intended to commemorate the Wright Brothers' flight at Kitty Hawk. (Charlotte settled instead on the less-awkward but certainly tepid "Bobcats.") When picking a team name, go for ring and rhythm over native authenticity.

Don't pick something stupid. You might think this goes without saying, but it didn't stop Houston from naming their expansion NFL franchise the "Texans." Houston is the fourth-largest city in the country, with over five million people living in its metropolitan area, and the best anybody could come up with is was the common name for people who live in their state? What, was "Houstonians" taken already? Good grief.

Another stupid name is the Toronto Raptors, a name foolishly chosen in 1994 to capitalize on the popularity of the 1993 movie Jurassic Park. Well, a decade later, Jurassic Park just isn't that popular any more. With each passing year, more people forget that "raptor" is supposed to be short for "velociraptor" (it actually means "bird of prey"), and the team's name has not aged well. At least they changed their dominant uniform color from light purple to red.
Avoid the singular. This obnoxious 90s trend appears to have fizzled out, but in its wake it left us the Miami Heat, the Minnesota Wild, the Orlando Magic, the Tampa Bay Lightning, the Colorado Avalanche, and the previously existing Utah Jazz. The National Lacrosse League is lousy with singular team names: the Colorado Mammoth, the San Jose Stealth, the Arizona Sting, the Anaheim Storm, and the Toronto Rock (easily the worst team name in pro sports). These are all bad names, though, so let's hold the line -- keep your team's name plural, please.

Take the road less traveled. In the four major sports leagues (we will do the NHL the courtesy of continuing to pretend it is "a major sports league"), only six teams -- the New York Giants, the San Francisco Giants, the Tennessee Titans, the New Jersey Devils, the Anaheim Angels, and the Washington Wizards -- are drawn from the realms of fantasy, legend, myth, or horror. Think of the wealth of possible names: the Centaurs, the Hydras, the Goblins, the Gorgons, the Ghosts, the Phantoms, the Ringwraiths. (Well, maybe not the Ringwraiths.) If I could have named our lacrosse team, I would have picked "Colorado Cyclops" or "Denver Demons." And how is it possible that there are no teams called the Dragons?

Likewise, only the New Orleans Hornets and the Columbus Blue Jackets have named themselves after insects. What a waste! Where are the Wasps and the Killer Bees? Wouldn't you rather have a Minnesota Mosquitoes jersey than a Minnesota Wild jersey?

2004-10-13T23:48:00.000-06:00

In a startling article titled "Don't Vote" on Slate, economist and professional contrarian Steven E. Landsburg argues the case for staying home and picking your nose on November 2:

We might be headed for another close election, which means your vote could really matter this time, right? Wrong. Your vote didn't matter in 2000, it never mattered before 2000, and it's very unlikely to start mattering now. ...

Your individual vote will never matter unless the election in your state is within one vote of a dead-even tie. (And even then, it will matter only if your state tips the balance in the electoral college.)

Landsburg then performs a batch of calculations to prove that the odds of your vote being a tie-breaker are "approximately the same chance you have of winning the Powerball jackpot 128 times in a row." He concludes:

Even for the most passionate partisan, it's hard to argue that voting is a good use of your time. Instead of waiting in line to vote, you could wait in line to buy a lottery ticket, hoping to win $100 million and use it to advance your causes -- and all with an almost indescribably greater chance of success than you'd have in the voting booth.

If you think that sounds convincing, try this thought experiment: suppose you are a baseball player, going up to bat in a major league baseball game. Should you try to get on base? Why? Even if you try to get on base, you will fail two times out of three (assuming your name is not Barry Bonds). And even if you get on base, what is the likelihood that your doing so will win the game for your team? And even if you do get on base and win the game for your team, what is the likelihood that winning today will put your team in the playoffs by one game? The average major league baseball team sends 6,300 batters to the plate in the course of a season, so what difference does one at-bat make?

Right now you are saying, "Well, what if everybody on the team thought that way?" But Landsburg is way ahead of you:

The traditional reply begins with the phrase "But if everyone thought like that... ." To which the correct rejoinder is: So what? Everyone doesn't think like that. They continue to vote by the millions and tens of millions.

One possible retort: Yes, Americans vote by the millions and tens of millions, but they also don't vote by the millions and tens of millions, and the millions who pull levers in junior-high gymnasiums* on the first Tuesday after the first Monday every leap year** differ markedly from the millions who stay home and try to figure out what percentage of the items in their apartments will fit in their rectums,*** and this has an effect on government policies.

For example, imagine that every smart-ass economist in America reads Steven Landsburg's article and skips voting this election. We can expect government to ignore the needs of smart-ass economists over the coming years: legislation for an Adam Smith**** memorial will bog down in congressional committee, funds will be slashed for federally subsidized pocket protectors and electrical tape for mending broken glasses, and lawmakers will be suspiciously unsympathetic on the issue of jobs outsourced to smart-ass economists in India.

An example from the real world: old people vote in hordes, while young adults would rather play Grand Theft Auto 3. Now you know why no American politician dares breathe a word against our doomed Social Security system.

Perhaps a better retort would be to question Landburg's obsession with casting the tie-breaking vote. Suppose Candidate Smith beats Candidate Jones -- 50,000,000 votes to 49,999,999 votes (forget about the Electoral College for a moment). Who cast the tie-breaking vote? Was it you, assuming you voted for Smith? Was it the very last person who voted for Smith? Or can all 50 million people who voted for Smith claim the honor? If you voted for Jones, did you waste your time? But it was necessary for people to vote for Jones, so that Smith could win by one vote and then all of his supporters' votes could be rendered meaningful. If one less Jones supporter had turned out and Smith had won by two, would that have mean that Smith's supporters would have wasted their time? If there were 25 million people who liked Jones better than Smith but didn't vote, should they feel guilty? Maybe not, because there were probably 25 million people who liked Smith better but didn't vote, and if everybody had voted, Smith still would have won. Except maybe there were only 24,999,998 people who liked Smith better but didn't vote, so if everybody had voted, Jones would have won by one vote. Or maybe not -- HOW CAN WE KNOW UNLESS PEOPLE GET OFF THE @#$%&*! COUCH and @#$%&*! VOTE?!?!

I think Landsburg makes things too complicated. The point isn't whether your one vote will break a tie. It's that your vote, counted one by one with the tens of millions of other votes cast this year, will help to determine the winner of this election. Sure, your vote doesn't count for much, but that's the way it should be in a nation of 300 million people.

I'd rather have a tiny, tiny voice in our democracy than no voice at all.

(Postscript: I do think there are people who shouldn't vote. If you're completely uninformed, stay home -- although it would be better to get informed and vote. Some people don't vote in order to protest the lack of desirable candidates, a view argued competently by Kevin Kim at The Big Hominid. Still, I think those people would do better to vote for a third-party candidate they can support. Oh, and go here to read Landsburg's article arguing for the execution of computer virus authors.)

*Or is it gymnasia? Surprisingly, both are acceptable.

**I exercised a bit of creative license there, because not every presidential election year is a leap year. The year 1900, for example, was not a leap year.

***The answer is 8.4%, although it depends on whether you count a chess set as one item or 33 items.

****I am fully aware that Adam Smith was Scottish.

2004-10-11T23:48:00.000-06:00

BUSH LEADS POLLS DUE TO "TRIPLE-CHOCOLATELY GOODNESS"

WASHINGTON, D.C. -- While the gap between George Bush and John Kerry has narrowed in the last two weeks, the president still holds a slight lead over his challenger in most national polls. What has made the difference in Campaign 2004 so far? Observers across the political spectrum agree that the key to Bush's popularity is his "triple-chocolately goodness."

"Voters know what they want in a chief executive," said Bush campaign communications director Nicolle Devenish. "And the majority of the American people are making it clear that they want a president who combines white chocolate, fudge brownie chunks, and a gooey, dark chocolate center."

"Bush/Cheney 2004," added Devenish. "Get You Some Chocolate.®"

Voters seemed to agree. "I vote on the issues, and I think President Bush will protect us from the terrorists," said electrician Doug Reimer, 43, from Missoula, Mont. "Also, I think he's delicious."

"At first, I thought President Bush was a little too rich and sweet," said Madison O'Reilly, 24, an accountant from Red Wing, Minn. "I mean, that's a lot of chocolate to handle! But now I think he's just right."

"Yummy!" O'Reilly added, with a brown smear of chocolate visible on the right side of her mouth.

"The hard-working Americans who make up the backbone of this country deserve and demand a president who is a strong leader, who cares about their problems, and who is choc-o-diddly-umptuous," said Karl Rove, Bush's Senior Advisor and chief political strategist. "I have no doubt that on November 2, Americans will overwhelmingly vote to reelect the man who has given them more exquisite chocolate flavor than any other leader in our nation's proud history -- George W. Bush."

Democrats have responded that John Kerry offers a tempting blend of creamy caramel, rich nougat, and salty peanuts, all covered in luscious milk chocolate mixed with crunchy toffee bits. "Chocolate, chocolate, and chocolate is all this president has to offer," said Kerry advisor Mike McCurry. "John Kerry goes further, incorporating a variety of textures and flavors into a combination that all Americans can enjoy."

Los Angeles dentist Raymond Tidball, 34, remained skeptical. "John Kerry tastes okay, I guess, if you're hungry enough," he said. "But when I step into the voting booth, I'm going to be thinking about which candidate gives me three times the chocolate. And that's President Bush."

2004-10-10T21:44:00.000-06:00

THINGS THAT NEED TO GO AWAY RIGHT NOW, VOL. 14

People who talk on cell phones in the park. Yesterday, while strolling in Washington Park, I overtook a group of three girls (I stroll fast). One of the girls was a Paris Hilton doppelgänger, at least from behind -- she had long platinum blond hair and wore a tiny pair of terrycloth shorts that clung to her butt like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. At first I thought she was missing her left arm, but as I drew closer I realized she was talking on her cell phone. As I passed, I caught this angry snippet of conversation:
I have a life. Maybe it's not as extravagant or as big as yours, but I have a life. And I have friends. My friends called me this morning to make plans, and I said, "No, I can't because Curtis is coming over." You have to let me know what's going on, Curtis!
I barely suppressed the urge to snatch the cell phone and scream, "Run, Curtis, run! I know she's got a hot little ass, but it's not worth it! She's not a hotel heiress -- she just looks like one!" Then I would have pitched the phone into the lake and hauled ass. Injured or not, I'm pretty sure I can outrun a pretend socialite.

Washington Park is a pretty little park, with lots of trees, green fields with kids playing soccer, a couple of ponds with ducks and geese, luxurious flower beds, even a resident fox skulking in the shadows. A walk in Wash Park brings a lot of things to mind -- fresh air, sunshine, exercise, relaxation, good times with friends -- none of which seem compatible with chewing out one's boyfriend on a cell phone. Good grief.
The thing where I clip my nails and the clippings fly all over the goddam place. Sometimes they fall neatly in front of me, but mostly they whiz out onto the floor, where they use their chameleon-like ability to blend in with the hardwood. Sometimes they glance off my face. Once I got a clipping stuck in my eye. Did my mother forget to teach me something?
People who take too long in airplane toilets. What do they do in there? Even I can put off masturbating for the length of an 11-hour transatlantic flight. "Come now, Kilgore," you are saying. "Surely this is just a matter of warped perception. Of course it seems you are waiting a long time when you're standing outside the toilet, with a bursting bladder and bored flight attendants watching you. But likely you took just as long as everyone else."

Well, ha. I timed each of my trips to the lavatory, and on no occasion did I require more than 71 seconds to complete my business, including washing my hands. And don't call me Shirley.
Weird conversations with strippers. I went to Shotgun Willies a few weeks ago to help a friend celebrate the waning moments of his bachelorhood and had the following exchange:

"Hi!" the stripper said, as I sat down at her stage. She was pretty, with dark blond hair and tiny breasts on a tiny body. "Have I talked to you before?" she asked.

"No," I said. "It's our first time." I was the only one at her stage. One of the nice things about liking small breasts is that you get the flat-chested strippers to yourself.

"You weren't here another day?" she asked, squinting down at me.

"No, I've never been here before."

"Hi, I'm Halo," she said, sticking out her hand.

It's an odd feeling to shake hands with a naked person, but I did okay. "I'm Kilgore," I said. "I'm sorry -- I don't have a made-up name to tell you."

"Kilgore?" she said. "That's my dad's name!"

"Oh," I said. "Um... is that weird for you?"

"Oh, no," she said, gyrating her nipples half an inch from my face. "He's dead."

2004-10-07T23:54:00.000-06:00

I've been feeling a little fuzzy-headed lately. I've been feeling a bit numb, a tad distant, a touch unfocused, and slightly more antisocial than usual. A little depressed. Things that were fun not so long ago now seem pointless. Work is a run in the hamster wheel. Food doesn't satisfy. When I try to write -- a difficult task even in the best of times -- I feel like a man trying to catch a great white shark with a Popeil Pocket Fisherman. The days drag, but I'm still overwhelmed by all the tasks to be completed before I crumple into bed.

It's like someone bleached all the bright colors out of the world.

[More to come tomorrow, including a likely explanation for these phenomena plus a possible solution. You won't want to miss it!]

I started writing about the things above in italics, but presently it occurred to me that the reasons I'm crashing are pretty dull and not worth prattling on and on about. I could write a big long post about it, but you'd get bored and not leave any comments and maybe even stop visiting this site. And that would be a tragedy, because I like it when you come here, especially if you leave comments. I love that shit. It gets me off better than a bootleg video of Catherine Keener having three-way sex with Patricia Clarkson and Claire Danes. I'm not one of those bloggers who says, "I just want to get words out of my head. I don't care if anyone reads what I write." I do care. I care enormously and far out of proportion to this blog's actual importance to the world in general and my life in particular. I care with the intensity of a thousand... very intense things. Picture a slightly built man with a bad haircut sitting at a computer, staring at his site statistics. Now picture that man with a red face, clenching and unclenching his fists and grinding his teeth audibly. That is Kilgore Trout you are picturing. The last time my blog hits comments dropped sharply, I stopped eating and was unable to achieve erection for three days. In case you missed the point: I use my website traffic numbers and vague praise from strangers to spackle over my insecurities and prop up my sagging confidence in my talent as a writer. What I'm trying to say is that I hope you're not disappointed because I didn't deliver on my promise to explain, in exhaustive and excruciating detail, the reasons for my current depression. It's really no big deal. I don't even know why I brought it up, except that I consider you a friend, and friends tell each other things, right? For example: in addition to being depressed, I am also constipated. You see? I don't tell these things to just anyone. I didn't tell the checker at Safeway (although she probably figured it out when I bought the fiber laxative tablets). I don't even tell these things to the people at work. If people at my job ask me how I'm doing tomorrow, I'm going to tell them I'm fine. I'm not going to say, "I'm unable to think straight and I've lost my creative edge, plus I've been holding a brick in my colon for two days. And you?" But I can confide in you, because we're good like that. You can tell me things too, if you need to. I'm always here to listen, except when I'm out somewhere, or when I'm not paying attention because I'm staring at your girlfriend's chest. So it would probably be a good idea to have some other people lined up to talk to, or at least suggest to your girlfriend that she not wear that babydoll T-shirt around me. I'm glad that we're good enough friends that I can talk openly about what a great rack your girlfriend has, because you know I would never sleep with her, not even if you left town for two weeks, like when you went home for the holidays last year, and even if there was some messing around and some minor penetration, I was thinking about you the whole time and about what a great friend you are.

2004-10-04T23:58:00.000-06:00

CHENEY: "VOTE REPUBLICAN OR JONES WILL COME BACK."

AKRON, OHIO -- Speaking at a VFW post in Akron, Ohio yesterday, Vice President Dick Cheney told supporters they "must vote for Bush and Cheney this November, or Jones will come back."

"Surely, my fellow Republicans," cried Cheney almost pleadingly, skipping from side to side and whisking his tail, "surely there is no one among you who wants to see Jones come back?"

Now if there was one thing that the Republicans were completely certain of, it was that they did not want Jones back. When it was put to them in this light, they had nothing to say.

Cheney also explained that, according to new documents just discovered, it was Snowball who destroyed the windmill. "He was in league with Jones from the beginning," said Cheney. "Did we not see for ourselves how he attempted -- fortunately without success -- to get us defeated and destroyed at the Battle of the Cowshed?"

The Republicans were stupefied by this statement. "I do not believe that," said one veteran. "Wasn't it Mr. Frederick and his men who destroyed the windmill? And Snowball fought bravely at the Battle of the Cowshed. I saw him myself. Did we not give him a Silver Star and a Purple Heart immediately afterwards?"

"That was our mistake," said Cheney. "In fact, it was our heroic President who fought most bravely and was wounded at the Battle of the Cowshed. Snowball was always Jones' agent, and he has been plotting with Mr. Frederick to hand the United States over to Pinchfield Farm! Our courageous leader, President George W. Bush, has stated this categorically, my fellow Republicans," said Cheney, frisking from side to side.

"Ah, that is different!" said the veteran, nodding in agreement. "If President Bush says it, it must be right."

"That is the true spirit, my fellow Republican!" cried Cheney, but it was noticed he cast a very ugly look at the veteran with his little twinkling eyes. He added: "I warn every one of you to keep your eyes very wide open. For we have reason to think that some of Snowball's secret agents are lurking among us at this moment!" The large dogs with their brass studded collars stationed to either side of the vice president growled and showed their side teeth.

The rally ended with the chanting of "Republicans good, Democrats bad!" Afterward, Cheney retired to the farmhouse for a dinner of mash with apples and milk mixed in.

2004-10-04T23:31:00.000-06:00

In spite of my complaints about air travel, I had an amazing trip to Morocco. Stories to come later, but here are some photos to give you the idea:

1. The sun setting over the Atlantic Ocean. Taken from a rooftop terrace in the city of Essaouira.
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2. The waterfall at Ozoud.
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3. A fountain in the city of Fes. Be sure you look at this one full size to appreciate the richness of the decoration.
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2004-10-01T08:21:00.000-06:00

I love traveling. I hate flying. Why do all trips, no matter how wonderful, have to begin and end at the airport? It's a tragedy, like the Bataan Death March. The airport is the most depressing place around, because nobody wants to be there. Whenever you pick up a friend at the airport, he's never like, "What's the rush? Let's hang around here for a while." He's always like, "Let's get the fuck out of here."

I hate getting up early to make it to the airport on time. I hate finding parking. I hate assuring the agent that yes, I packed my bags myself, and no, I didn't ask any Colombians to watch them while I went to the bathroom. I hate waiting in line to go through security. I hate taking off my belt and shoes. I hate digging out my passport for any person in a navy blazer who asks. I hate setting off the metal detector even though the largest pieces of metal on my person are the screws in my glasses. I hate boarding the plane and waiting in the aisle while some yoohoo twenty rows ahead tries to cram a steamer trunk into the overhead bin. I hate sitting in the middle seat. I hate trying -- and failing -- to sleep on the plane. I hate trying -- and failing -- to get up the nerve to talk to the cute Spanish girl sitting next to me. I hate squirming to get comfortable in a seat designed for Munchkins. I hate that the best movie available is Van Helsing. I hate waiting for the current occupant of the bathroom to finish his revolutionary proof of the Riemann Hypothesis. I hate remaining seated while we taxi to the gate. I hate hustling to make my connection. I hate fresh questions from Customs. I hate realizing that the average Dutch baggage handler speaks better English than I do.

I like airplane food, though. HINT: the chicken is always better than the beef.

I hate people on planes. When I boarded the plane in Amsterdam for an 11-hour flight to Houston, I found myself sitting in the middle seat next to an older gentleman with leathery skin and a shock of white hair. I squeezed into my seat and began to settle in.

"Is that a picture y'all got there?" the man asked in a Louisiana accent, gesturing to a souvenir I had wedged under the seat in front of me.

"No, it's a chessboard," I said.

"Did y'all get that here in Holland?" he asked.

"No, I got it in Morocco."

"Morocco, huh? Were y'all working there?"

"No, I was visiting a friend. How about you? Were you working here in Amsterdam?" I didn't care, but I like to do an impression of a friendly person from time to time.

HINT: Do not do an impression of a friendly person on a plane.

"Oh, I'm up here working," he said, chuckling for no apparent reason. "My company sends me all over the world to work on barges."

"That's cool," I said.

"Yep," he said, "I've been all over Europe, I've been to Russia, Asia, I lived in Japan for a while. All first-class travel, of course."

"Well, that's the way to do it," I said.

"Well, I'm a mechanical engineer, you know," he said. "And some of these boys don't know the first thing about keeping a barge running. I remember one time I found that someone had climbed up on a ladder and tightened two bolts... with a wrench. I said, 'If y'all don't know how to do something, don't do it! That's what I'm here for!' Heh heh heh!" And then he nudged me.

Nudged me.

My chest tightened. I realized, too late, that I was sitting next to an man who was not only extremely boring, but also extremely sociable -- a deadly combination. It was like being caught by The Hag, the old woman at my job who traps her unsuspecting coworkers in pointless, unending conversations. Except I couldn't just leave the break room to get away from this guy -- I would be sitting next to him for eleven hours.

"Yep," he said, "I told them, 'Y'all better get yourselves a new chief engineer, because the one you got don't know squat!' Heh heh heh!" Another nudge.

Like a turtle retreating into its shell, I went into Extreme Boring Conversation Defense Mode, a mode of behavior indistinguishable -- to the uneducated observer -- from Being A Complete Prick. I broke off eye contact. I replied to all of his statements with "Mmmmmm." I answered his few questions in a monotone, using as few words as possible. During a short break in the storytelling, I landed the coup de grâce by reaching forward, decisively picking up my New Yorker, and starting to read.

He didn't speak to me for the rest of the flight. This was fine, except I was sitting in the middle seat. I didn't want to talk to the boring guy, even to ask him to move so I could use the bathroom, and the lady to my left slept for nearly the entire flight. So I held it as long as I could and avoided drinking water. You veteran travelers will confirm that this is not an optimum strategy on a transatlantic flight. By the time we reached Houston, I had a sore throat and a headache. But at least I had crossed the Atlantic Ocean in delicious silence.

2004-09-08T22:38:00.000-06:00

KILGORE TROUT MAKES LIKE A GOALIE

I won't be posting for the rest of September, as I'm taking a trip to Morocco to visit a friend in the Peace Corps and recharge the blogging batteries.

If you want a postcard from Morocco, email me your name and address and I will send you one, free of charge.

To amuse yourselves while I'm gone, why not fix yourself a nice plate of macaroni and cheese and check out the blogs in the sidebar? When you're done with that, get the family together for a rousing game of Sorry! or Boggle. It's been a while, hasn't it?

See you all October 1!

UPDATE: Sadie has posted an interview with me at Mirthful Ones. Go learn about my thoughts on Elvis vs. The Beatles, what I eat for breakfast, and the time I faked orgasm.

2004-09-07T23:45:00.000-06:00

For several months in 1996, I worked as an insurance agent for Combined Insurance Company of America. I sold supplemental accident and health insurance policies door to door in rural Iowa. My boss' name was Karl. He had an expensive haircut and a winning smile, and I always felt a little oily after having been in his presence.

Karl started every day with a sales meeting, during which we would perform "fire-ups" -- ritual chants and songs intended to put us in the mood for knocking on lots of doors and convincing people of the merits of Combined supplemental insurance products. You may recall that I recently wrote of another terrible job I held, this one at a collection agency, where the boss also worked mightily to fire us up. I have concluded that the awfulness of a job is directly proportional to the amount of firing-up it requires.

After getting pumped full of piss and vinegar, I would drive from farmhouse to farmhouse in my huge Plymouth sedan. I loved that car. It had a steering wheel the size of a hula hoop and giant plushy seats and a big mushy suspension and a great big hood that extended for miles. Unfortunately, it didn't have air conditioning, a real liability during the ferocious Iowa summer. So I drove on country gravel roads with the windows down, and by the end of the day my hair would be gray with dust and my face would be caked with dirt and sweat.

Those of you who have been reading this blog for longer than a week will not be surprised to learn that I was a dreadful insurance salesman. This is because sales involves talking to people. I was rarely able to persuade anyone to listen to my pitch, let alone buy a policy. Twice I had the police called on me by frightened housewives who wouldn't let me into their homes. I couldn't blame them. Imagine hearing a knock at your door and finding a sweaty young man in a grimy white shirt and a red tie grinning nervously and asking to come inside so he can "show you something." The amazing thing isn't that I sold so few policies -- it's that I never suffered a gunshot wound.

Things got worse when people agreed to see the something I had to show. I delivered my memorized sales talk with all the warmth and nuance of a 12-year-old reciting the 23rd Psalm at a confirmation ceremony. I was easily stumped by prospects' objections. I took "no" for an answer. I had no knack for small talk. I reeked of eagerness and desperation. I couldn't close.

Occasionally, for training purposes, Karl would send me out with successful salesmen, all of whom could talk a light bulb out of its socket. These men would ask to enter a prospect's home and then simply walk through the door. They would lounge on the couch, chat and gossip for half an hour, and drink a cold beverage. At some point they would give their sales talk as though it was a mere afterthought. They handled objections with the casual agility of a magician turning a bunch of handkerchiefs into a bunny rabbit. They closed early and often until the close stuck and the prospect went to find the checkbook.

"Did you see how I did that?" they would say as we left the house. Yes, I saw. But I could no more duplicate the feat than I could fly an F-14 after watching Top Gun. All of these super salesmen suffered from some flavor of malajustment or misanthropy. They were alcoholics and wife-beaters and bar brawlers. Most of them hated the people they sold insurance to. "That stupid fucker," they would laugh as we drove to the next farmhouse.

Combined paid its agents entirely on commission, so I went broke quickly and had to move in with my parents. Why didn't I quit sooner? Founded by self-help guru W. Clement Stone, Combined Insurance Company of America taught that its sales system was foolproof and could be learned and applied successfully by anyone. Just memorize the sales pitch, learn the canned responses to objections, add a heaping helping of hard work and a generous dollop of Positive Mental Attitude, and watch the commission checks roll in. When I failed, it wasn't because I had zero talent for sales or because of Combined's crappy product. It was because I wasn't working hard enough or applying the guaranteed sales system rigorously enough.

The guilt trips came thick and fast: "How many doors did you knock on today?" "Did you answer five objections at every house?" "Did you deliver the pitch exactly?" "Did you show the health policy on every call?" Failure and its accompanying stress do strange things to a man. I finally decided to quit when I started puking in the parking lot before morning sales meetings.

2004-09-05T22:16:00.000-06:00

Comes again the worldly and learned Ethan Hahn, who exercised his rights under Article IV of the Chaotic Not Random Reader's Bill of Rights by sending me an Amazon.com gift certificate. Ethan writes:

Sucks ass about your car...use this to buy a hardcover book and feel sybaritic for a little while...

I think Ethan has taught us all a very important lesson about how to treat the special bloggers in your life. Put crudely: buy us shit. What, you thought I was too proud to beg? You ain't from 'round here, are you, boy?

Thanks, Ethan!

[I didn't know what sybaritic meant either. It comes from sybarite, synonymous with voluptuary, a person whose chief interests are luxury and the gratification of sensual appetites. You knew that? Well, aren't you quite the brainy bastard?]

2004-09-03T23:42:00.000-06:00

I was stuck in a ridiculous traffic jam yesterday morning when I noticed steam rising from beneath the hood of my 1991 Honda Accord with flawless leather interior. Shit. I pulled over as soon as I could and raised the hood. Green antifreeze, splashed everywhere, bubbled and hissed on the hot engine. Shit!

I got the car to the shop and took the bus to work. The mechanic called a few hours later.

"Well, your [something] is busted," he said. "Unfortunately, that caused your [something else] to rupture and damaged your [something #3], which are all melted. Also, we noticed a bad bearing in your [other thing entirely]."

"How much?" I asked.

"Well... it adds up to $1,198. Plus tax." He paused. "We've got it all taken apart here if you want to come in and make sure we're not selling you a bill of goods. We don't do that here."

Why bother? I was an hourlong bus ride away from the shop and I had already missed half a day of work. Besides, I wouldn't know a [something else] if it gave me flowers and took me to dinner. I groaned. "Is it really necessary to fix the [other thing entirely]?"

"No, not really. That would bring you down to... $971 plus tax."

I told him to go ahead. Then I went into the men's room and sat on the john for a little while, gritting my teeth and wishing I had listened when my dad tried to teach me about cars. I hate spending money on car repairs. What if I had blown that money on clothes and books and video games? True, I would have been laying up for myself treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, but at least I would have had something to show for dropping a wad like that. Instead, I've spent a thousand dollars so I can drive my car, which is exactly what I had before. Three cheers for the status quo! Let's hear it for one step forward, one step back!

The not-exactly-ironic-but-you-know-what-I-mean thing is that three days ago my paycheck was fatter by an extra five hundred dollars. I'm not sure whether to feel relieved that I had the extra money to help cushion the blow or pissed off because I can't spend that money on something cool. I'm opting for "pissed off" because it makes for a more entertaining blog entry.

I'm frugal. I don't eat out much. I buy most of my clothes at Target and wear them until they're battered and frayed, with holes in scandalous locations. My computer runs on steam power and vacuum tubes. But I'm always tempted, after parting with a large sum of money for an unexpected expense, to go spend a bunch more money. Dinner's on me, fellas! Who cares? I just spent a thousand fucking dollars to maintain my driving privileges, so who wants another round? Dessert, anyone?

2004-08-31T23:44:00.000-06:00

ART ENDS

Ten thousand years of human creative expression ground to a halt last weekend, as the species' millions of writers, painters, sculptors, musicians, dancers, filmmakers, actors, poets, photographers, and other artists just plumb ran out of ideas, sources reported Monday.

"I guess it's all been done," said a morose Brad Shockley, formerly lead guitarist of the now-defunct New York-based band Monkey Cunt. "I remember just a few months ago we had all these ideas about taking our music in some really radical directions, but that all sort of fizzled out. We haven't written an original song in weeks. On Saturday we were jamming and thought we had something fresh, but it turned out to be 'Louie, Louie.'"

"I guess we're all cover bands now," Shockley sighed. "Maybe I'll go get a welding certificate or something."

Some artists continue to struggle and fail to produce original work. Chicago painter Stanley Wills, known for filling huge canvases with nightmarish landscapes rendered in shocking reds and cobalt blues, now spends his days filling sketchbooks with stick figures and tracings of "Prince Valiant" cartoons. Most of the planet's creative minds, however, have accepted the surprising truth that the supply of artistic ideas is not infinite as previously thought.

"It's not so bad," said author Shirley Kunz, staring at the blank first page of her latest project, tentatively titled A Very Clever Groundbreaking Novel. "I'm just glad I had some of the good ideas before we used them all up."

In response to these developments, The U.S. Senate will vote today on a bill to abolish all arts programs and divert the funds to urban pothole maintenance. The bill has incurred little protest and is expected to pass both houses of Congress unanimously. Museums, theaters, and opera houses will remain open to display artworks already created, but galleries will slowly close their doors as they sell their inventories of original works. Movie ticket prices will fall as cineplexes either close or show recycled films.

"I don't see what the big deal is," said Las Vegas attorney Kevin Taylor. "We've got plenty of art already. It's not like there's anyone who's seen all the movies, or read all the books, or listened to every record, or looked at every painting. Why do we need new art?"

2004-08-30T22:38:00.000-06:00

My company held a birthday party for itself last Friday. For about an hour we were released from our toils to eat some very tasty barbecued meats, exchange awkward banter with our coworkers, and listen to our president congratulate us for not landing the outfit in bankruptcy court over the last year. His speech was pretty boring, but I kept my face pointed in his direction and nodded occasionally so as to avoid the fate of Smitty, a guy I worked with at a collection agency in San Francisco.

The collection agency was owned by The Boss, a small man who wore sharp suits and looked like he should be doing cartoon voice work as a hyena in a straight-to-video sequel of The Lion King. The Boss liked to drag us all into meetings and motivate us. "You gotta get fired up!" he would say, smacking his fist into his palm. "You gotta be fired up when you're on the phone! You gotta fire yourself up, and fire up everyone else on your team!"

One time, during one of these harangues, Smitty got so fired up that he yawned audibly. The Boss stopped and stared at Smitty like he was a fresh zebra carcass. "Excuse me?" he said.

"Huh?" said Smitty.

"Do you need to get more sleep?" asked The Boss, his face reddening.

"Uh... no," said Smitty, nervous now. He had a wife and a kid and probably did need more sleep.

"Well, it sounds to me like you need some more fucking sleep!" The Boss snapped, and went back to motivating us. When he was finished, he took Smitty into his office and fired him.

So I didn't yawn during the president's birthday speech. When he was finished, he told us we could pick up our presents. My company gives its employees presents on its birthday. Two years ago, we got digital watch/compass combos emblazoned with the company name. Last year, we got bright blue duffel bags emblazoned with the company name. This year, we got barbecue tool sets emblazoned with the company name.

The barbecue tool sets are quite cunning. They fold up into a neat rectangular case, so we all looked like extras from The Color of Money. The tools are impressive, shiny stainless steel with black accents. Their size indicates that my company thinks its employees like to grill ostriches in their spare time. The spatula measures 17½ inches long and has weird ridges and spines on its edges. What am I supposed to do with this -- play tennis? Torture an Iraqi?

I also got a barbecue fork that looks like one of Poseidon's more ostentatious tridents, a pair of tongs that I now keep in the trunk of my car in case I get into a car accident and need the Jaws of Life, and a basting brush that will come in handy if I ever need baste something in the kitchen without getting out of the shower. (Click on the links to see photos of the tools next to normal-sized implements I already own.)

The set also came with eight small objects I couldn't identify. "They're corn thingies," the accounts payable girl explained. "You stick them in the ends of corn cobs and turn them while you eat."

I grew up in Iowa and I've eaten plenty of sweet corn, so I should know corn thingies when I see them. But what's the point of using them? If the corn is too hot to pick up with your fingers, it's too hot to put in your mouth. And half the fun of eating corn on the cob is drenching each ear in butter and salt, devouring it, and licking the greasy, salty mess off your fingers. If you just scrubbed down to perform a kidney transplant and you want to eat some corn before entering the operating room, then go ahead and use the corn thingies. Otherwise, skip 'em.

I don't own a barbecue grill. I guess I'll toss this on the slag heap of small failures that compose my life. We own barbecue grills 'round here, my company's gift announces. We own big barbecue grills that call for big barbecue tools. This implies that we own homes with yards and patios and stained-wood decks, or that we at least rent apartments with balconies. On weekends, we have friends and neighbors over and grill hamburgers and cheese brats and T-bone steaks. We play croquet and avoid coveting one another's wives. We drink beers as the warm afternoon drifts into cool evening, and we talk about our John Deere lawn tractors and the Broncos' chances this year.

I put the barbecue tool set in the closet. It's too nice to throw away. Besides, maybe I'll own a barbecue grill someday.

2004-08-27T00:30:00.000-06:00

I had a date tonight and didn't get home till late, so I wasn't able to write a proper post. Instead I scanned the cover of a magazine I got in the mail and made a little cartoon out of it. You can look at it here. I hope you like it. If you don't, feel free to make your own suggestions for dialogue in the comments.

2004-08-25T23:40:00.000-06:00

I stole a marker from work today. I'm sorry. I know it's wrong, but I... I had to have it. I had to have the bright red Avery Marks-A-Lot Jumbo Chisel Tip marker.

This ain't no Sharpie you carry around in your pretty pink dress for making lemonade stand signs, Alice. This is a man's marker: six throbbing inches of crimson ink with a 5/8" chisel point. Lumberjacks use this marker to designate trees for clear-cutting. Our troops overseas use this marker to write snappy slogans on bombs ("INSURGENTS HAVE POOP IN THEIR PANTS"). Christians use this marker to brand the foreheads of adulterers with scarlet letters. What's that, Hester? The "A" won't come out no matter how hard you scrub? Oh, I'm sorry -- that ink is permanent, beeyatch!

My favorite marker used to be the Sanford Mr. Sketch Scented Instant Water Color. I liked the blue one best. It smelled pretty, like fresh mountain blueberries grown by chemical engineers at Dow Corning. The Marks-A-Lot, by contrast, smells like a pint bottle of Five O'Clock vodka left in the trunk of your car for a couple of summers. Doesn't sound so good to you? Go get a Y chromosome and try again, sister.

People will take me seriously when I wield the Marks-A-Lot. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't give a guy like that my shoe size, let alone my phone number," attractive women will say. "But when he pulled out that big red marker, I found myself helpless to resist its pulsing charms." President Bush will ask to borrow my Marks-A-Lot to veto some commie pinko fake-war-hero freedom-hating Democrat legislation. "I'm gonna draw a big red 'X' across it and write 'Try again, fellas' on the front, and that marker of yours would be just the thing," the president will say. I will politely decline unless he sets me up with Barbara (his daughter, not his mom, of course, although if Barbara's busy I could make do with her cousin Lauren).

2004-08-21T23:58:00.000-06:00

Comes now the brilliant and intrepid Ethan Hahn, who sent me the above photo and the following email:

I was visiting friends in Greensboro, North Carolina last winter, and as I'm a devout ChaoticNotRandom lurker, I was happily surprised to drive past West Friendly Avenue. Here's your post about it from last January.

I snapped a few pictures for you, but promptly lost my CompactFlash card reader and was too lazy to do anything about it until I borrowed one from a friend tonight. So here's a picture of West Friendly Avenue for you - a picture which, incidentally, clearly corroborates your hypothesis that the lights on West Friendly Avenue are never red.

Love your writing, thanks for blogging, and all that yap yap...

Well, Ethan, Article IV of the Chaotic Not Random Reader's Bill of Rights specifies that you should be sending me naked pictures of your sister, not pictures of traffic lights, but I guess I'll take what I can get. And I'll admit it's pretty cool to blog about something totally obscure in January and get an email and a photo about in in August. So: thanks much, Ethan! May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

2004-08-20T00:05:00.000-06:00

RICK SANTORUM ASKS BARNEY FRANK IF HE'S A HOMO

WASHINGTON, D.C. -- Egged on by a group of giggling legislators, a blushing U.S. Sen. Rick Santorum (R-Pa.) asked openly gay U.S. Rep. Barney Frank (D-Mass.) if he was a "homo," sources reported Thursday.

The incident took place Thursday afternoon during lunch in the Capitol cafeteria. Witnesses reported hearing a group of Republican lawmakers laughing and making lewd references to Frank's sexual orientation.

"I heard he's a huge fag," U.S. Sen. Wayne Allard (R-Colo.) said. "I heard he likes to, like, kiss guys with his tongue, and do weird stuff with them that you're only supposed to do with girls."

U.S. Rep. Henry Hyde (R-Ill.) then said that he has caught Frank "staring at my butt when I go up to speak."

"He likes guys' butts," Hyde reportedly elaborated. "He wants to pull your pants down and, like, get a boner and stick it in your butt."

At this point, observers reported that the group dissolved into shrieks and laughter. U.S. Rep. Jim Nussle (R-Ia.) and U.S. Rep. Sam Brownback (R-Kan.) pretended to kiss while saying "Oh, Barney!" in falsetto voices. U.S. Sen. James Inhofe (R-Okla.) got up from his seat and started "humping" the table in a crude simulation of anal sex.

Santorum, according to witnesses, did not participate in the fun, but stared in shock at his tater tots and sloppy joe sandwich. "Can guys really do that with each other?" he asked.

Santorum's esteemed colleagues immediately began to encourage the junior senator from Pennsylvania to approach Frank, who was eating lunch with a group of Democrats across the cafeteria. Santorum refused, even when "dared" and "double dared," but relented under pressure when Nussle called him a "pussy" and U.S. Sen. Trent Lott (R-Miss.) "double-dog dared" him and offered a half-pint of chocolate milk as a reward.

Santorum walked slowly across the room, stopping twice to look back at his fellow Republican legislators, who urged him forward. Santorum finally reached Frank's table, where he stood blushing until Frank noticed him and said, "Hello, Rick. Can I help you with something?"

"Hey, Barney," Santorum said, "um... are you, like, a homo?"

"Well, 'homo' is a derogatory term," said Frank, "but I am a gay man, yes."

"Do you like to make your dick all hard and stick in guys' butts and mouths and stuff?" blurted Santorum.

"That's not any of your business," replied Frank, "but I will say that my partner and I have a normal sex life for gay men our age."

Santorum then turned around and ran back to his table with his hands clapped over his mouth. "He is! He is! He said he's gay! He says he does it in guys' butts! He called some guy his 'partner'!" he said.

The table erupted into giggles, with several of the lawmakers miming fellatio by moving their fists near their open mouths and poking their tongues into their cheeks. A lively debate ensued about the identity of Frank's "partner," with U.S. Sen. Tom Harkin (D-Ia.) a popular suspect.

As of press time, it could not be confirmed that Lott had promised Hyde a nickel if he walked right up to Harkin and said, "Hi, Mrs. Frank."

2004-08-19T23:32:00.000-06:00

Imagine my pleasure and surprise this evening when I received this email from a Ronnie Ellis in Austin, Texas:

I just stumbled onto your blog from last month on Marvin Gudat. In case you wanted to know what he looked like (or maybe didn't), I just happened to have a photo of his tombstone with picture. I have no relation, but he is buried in the same cemetery, Saints Peter and Paul Catholic Cemetery in Meyersville, TX, where many of my wife's ancestors are.

While doing genealogical research there, I noticed this interesting tombstone and photographed it. As it says, Gone but not forgotten, as he comes up again 50 years after his death.

Thank you, Ronnie! Click here to see a photo of the entire tombstone. Click here to read an article arguing that Marv Gudat's 1934 team, the Los Angeles Angels of the Pacific Coast League, was the "best minor league team ever." The article says that Gudat was "a line-drive hitter, fast and had an excellent arm ... was frequently injured because of his aggressive style on the field," and once broke up a no-hitter by singling with two outs in the ninth inning. As I noted in my July post, Marvin Gudat only hit one major league home run, but in 2,103 minor league games he batted .306 with 2,211 hits and 214 stolen bases.

Rest easy, Mr. Gudat. You kicked ass and took some names.

2004-08-18T23:33:00.000-06:00

THINGS I WISH I KNEW

When I'm trying to impress women by bragging about how many countries I've visited, am I allowed to include countries where I've only been to the airport? For example, if I were taking a trip to Morocco in September that included stops in Madrid and Amsterdam, could I later brag about having visited Spain and Holland? If so, what about countries where I've flown through their airspace? How about countries whose capitals and principal exports I can identify with only a few hints?
What is the line of demarcation between an apartment and a condominium? Is a condominium just a nice apartment, or is it an apartment that you own? At the age of thirty, should I be outgrowing apartments the way I outgrew breastfeeding and my security blanket? At what point should I consider myself a failure for not owning property?
When I pass somebody walking the opposite direction in the hallway at work, and I nod and smile, how much longer do I have to keep smiling after the other person passes? If I stop smiling right away, is that merely circumstantial evidence that I'm a phony, or does that clinch the case? But if I walk around the office smiling for no apparent reason, will my colleagues think I'm a "space cadet" or a "spazz"? Can a person in my barely-higher-than-yard-waste position genuinely have "colleagues," or does that require a college degree?
Who makes up jokes? By "jokes," I don't mean "wry commentary" -- I mean How do you pick up women in Waco, Texas?* or A priest, a rabbi, and a Hare Krishna walk into a bar... Have you ever created one of these jokes from scratch? Have any of your friends ever called you up and said, "Hey! I just made up this new joke! What's the difference between a woman and mashed potatoes?**" Me neither, so what is the source of this endless supply of jokes?
*With a Dustbuster.
**Mashed potatoes don't make their own gravy.
Why do I claim to enjoy meeting smart, clever, funny people, but when I actually meet such people, I feel threatened and inadequate? On a related note: why do I claim to enjoy reading smart, funny, well-written blogs, but when I actually read such blogs, I'm overwhelmed by feelings of envy and ineptitude?
Why do some people attach battering rams to the grills of their already hulking trucks and SUVs? Do these people plan to use their vehicles as seige weapons in case Al Qaeda commandeers the Denver Public Library? Or do they hope that, in a head-on collision with my Honda Accord with flawless leather interior, I will end up completely decapitated instead of only paralyzed from the neck down?
When I go into my apartment building's laundry room, and some apparently svelte young lady leaves her clothes on top of one of the dryers, and I take an extra moment to visually examine her thong constructed of maybe 2½ square inches of fabric, is that wrong, or merely creepy?
Muslims are supposed to face Mecca when they pray, but in which direction do they pray when they're in Mecca? No matter which direction they face, their line of sight passes through Mecca, so do they get to face any way they please? Do other Muslims envy the Muslims who live in Mecca for the ease with which they pray? Do Muslims who live in Mecca get embarrassed when they travel outside of Mecca because they're unused to locating Mecca, and have to fumble with a compass or GPS locator or whatever? And what happens when Muslims pray in the wrong direction? Do you get the opposite of what you pray for? Or does Allah just shake his head and say, "You know, I can't understand a word this guy is saying"?

2004-08-17T23:36:00.000-06:00

Seen at ESPN.com Monday:

Scott Rolen nudged into the NL MVP lead after yesterday's 2-HR blitz over the Braves, making him first to 100 RBI.

And then on Tuesday:

Was I saying Scott Rolen was the NL MVP leader? I meant teammate Albert Pujols, who hit his MLB-leading 37th HR last night (his 5th in 4 games). With the Cards up 14 games, one of 'em is going to win it.

Let's dispel this madness immediately. Any list of National League MVP candidates including names other than "Barry Bonds" is blasphemous nonsense. Sure, Pujols has hit 6 more home runs and Rolen has driven in 32 more runs. But that's because nobody will pitch to Bonds -- he has taken more walks (171) this year than Rolen and Pujols combined (115). It's hard to hit home runs and accumulate RBI (a mostly meaningless stat anyway) when most of the pitches you see land in the dirt or cruise by two feet outside the plate. And when pitchers dare to put the ball in the strike zone, Bonds punishes them for their vanity. Compare Bonds' on-base percentage, slugging percentage, and OPS (on-base plus slugging percentage) to those of Rolen and Pujols:


          OBP    SLG    OPS

         ----   ----   -----  

Bonds    .605   .769   1.374

Rolen    .414   .617   1.030

Pujols   .407   .653   1.060

If the season ended today, Bonds would have the highest single-season on-base percentage ever, as well as the sixth-highest slugging percentage and the fourth-highest OPS. Only Babe Ruth and Bonds himself have done better in either category.

Some will say that either Rolen or Pujols have earned the MVP because they play for the Cardinals, a team comfortably ensconced in first place, while Bonds' Giants are scrapping for the wild card. This is the same specious argument used in years past to rob Alex Rodriguez of multiple deserved MVP awards, and I'm too tired to point out its flaws tonight. I will only say that we baseball fans have the rare treat of watching Barry Bonds compile one of the great offensive seasons in the history of the game. Much like the Clinton impeachment looks sillier with every passing year, so a decision to deprive Bonds of the 2004 MVP award will be ridiculed by future baseball fans.

Don't take Barry Bonds for granted. With each season he plays, he solidifies his place in the pantheon of baseball greats. In terms of total career Win Shares, Bonds this season has passed Tris Speaker, Cy Young, and Hank Aaron on the all-time list. Barring injury, he will by the end of the season pass Honus Wagner to settle in third place. If he remains healthy and productive through 2006, he could well pass Ty Cobb and Babe Ruth and make a strong claim for the title of Greatest Baseball Player Ever.

Speaking of all-time greats, we have had the privilege over the last two decades -- modestly dubbed the "ESPN Era" by a certain television network -- of enjoying the careers of some of the greatest athletes of all time. Every era has its great athletes, of course, but I'm talking about athletes who transcend era and have claimed a place among the very best their sports have seen.

In addition to Bonds, we baseball fans have gotten to see Roger Clemens and Greg Maddux, two of the greatest pitchers ever. We've gotten to see Michael Jordan, the greatest basketball player of all time. We've witnessed the careers of hockey immortals Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, and Patrick Roy. I don't follow football that closely, but the names "Barry Sanders," "Emmitt Smith," and "Jerry Rice" seem to crop up a lot on short lists of great running backs and wide receivers. We saw Carl Lewis win ten Olympic medals and Jackie Joyner-Kersee win five, establishing themselves among the greatest track and field athletes ever. We got to watch Pete Sampras and Steffi Graf win 14 and 22 Grand Slam singles titles, more than any man or woman, respectively, in tennis history. This year we cheered Lance Armstrong to his mind-boggling record sixth consecutive Tour de France victory. And all of these athletes wrought their amazing feats against far deeper competition from more nations and races than their predecessors.

We've already had a Golden Age of sports, so what to call the current epoch? The Platinum Age? The Age of Immortals? The Most Fucking-A Kickin'est Ass-est Age of Sports Ever and Stuff? Whatever -- it's a lot of fun.

2004-08-15T22:21:00.000-06:00

To the ignorant observer, the scene in a certain apartment in Denver's Washington Park neighborhood yesterday might have looked like a 30-year-old man eating chicken wings, drinking light beer, and desultorily masturbating to grainy VHS freeze-frames of Catherine Keener's scenes in Being John Malkovich. More savvy folks would have recognized these festivities as the Chaotic Not Random One Year Blogoversary party. Sorry you weren't invited, but chicken wings are expensive.

CNR recorded 22,533 hits in its first year of existence. That's not a lot of hits, but it's about 20,000 more hits than I had any business to expect, and I'm proud and happy to have made this place for myself in the back alleys of the bloghetto. Thanks to all of you who read my scribblings when you could spend that time on more constructive pursuits, like throwing rocks at stray cats or letting the air out of your ex-girlfriend's tires. Many thanks to those of you who leave comments, send emails, or link to CNR from your own sites.

Below I've made a list of some of my favorite posts. If you haven't seen them before, take a look. If you have, I hope you like them the second time around.

Kilgore Trout's First Post (August 14)
I Love America Because (September 24)
Things That Need To Go Away Right Now, Vol. 1 (October 6)
McDonald's Monopoly Game, Part 1 (October 21) & Part 2 (October 30)
Labiaplasty (November 4)
I Wish I Had A Scar (November 13)
The Clock Setter (November 30)
Do Something (December 11)
All I Want For Christmas Is A Handjob From Meredith Baxter-Birney (December 12)
Just Say No To White Merlot! Part 1 (December 29) & Part 2 (January 21)
Steve And Barb Lose Their Souls (January 2)
Reality Show Wednesday: Proud Grandmother (January 7)
LOCAL MAN'S SHIT DOES NOT STINK (January 8)
Terror Alert (January 10)
Should Equilovers Be Allowed To Cobond? (February 15)
US EXCHANGES CONSTITUTION FOR OIL (March 9)
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do (March 11)
LOCAL MAN FORCED TO DOWNGRADE FROM HOT POCKETS
TO LITTLE JUAN BURRITOS (March 18)
John Deere Commercial (May 13)
A Visit With Young Kilgore (May 22)

2004-08-12T23:40:00.000-06:00

I wrote this last September:

A few years ago, when I had this night job at UPS, I worked with a cool African guy named Cosmos. One day I remarked that he had an unusual name, and he replied, "Yes. Many people tell me this. Did you know the name Cosmos is also the name of a flower?"

"Really?" I said. "I didn't know that." And I didn't. I had never, not in my entire life, heard of the cosmos flower.

The very next day, when I went to my day job, one of the old ladies who worked in the office was wearing a sweatshirt screen-printed with various flowers: the rose, the sunflower, the columbine... and the cosmos. I soon ran across more references to the cosmos flower -- in a magazine, overheard conversation in a coffee shop, on some nature program while flipping channels. It took me twenty-six years to learn of the cosmos flower's existence, and two weeks later I was ready to give university lectures on the thing.

I've always found this sort of thing fascinating, so a few months ago I started keeping track every time it happened:

On May 24, I read an article on Slate by George Saunders called "Exit Strategy: How To Leave Iraq In Three Simple Steps." Appended to the article was a note that George Saunders had written a collection of short stories called Pastoralia.

I had never before heard of George Saunders or Pastoralia.

Later that day, I was reading a post by Mac at Pesky Apostrophe about her summer reading list. Do you think George Saunders' Pastoralia was on there?

Discussion Question: Why do adults make summer reading lists? Every day is pretty much the same when you're a working adult, whether it's July or January: Wake up, down a shot of whiskey to get rid of the shakes, feign productive work, get home, read for a while, sob uncontrollably in the corner till bedtime. It's not like we're schoolkids who need something to do from June through August besides watching Nickelodeon and getting each other pregnant.
I visited a friend recently at his new house. When he gave me the grand tour, he pointed out the flooring, which would have looked remarkably like hardwood flooring to a person with thumbtacks stuck in his eyes. "It's that Pergo fake wood flooring," my friend explained.

I had never before heard of Pergo fake wood flooring.

The next day, I was talking to my boss about some improvements she was making in her townhouse. "I'm putting in that Pergo stuff," she said.

Discussion Question: Why is it that when people show off their new house/condo/apartment/trailer, they always say, "Let me give you the grand tour"? When did we all agree to call it "the grand tour"? And the tours are never that "grand" anyway -- mostly you just take a regular tour of the bathrooms and the basement and stuff. If you're going to give me a "grand tour," I want to see the bathrooms and the basement plus all-I-can-eat chicken wings or fellatio from your barely legal daughter.
On July 26, I read an article on Slate about the Man vs. Horse Marathon, a man-against-beast race held in the Welsh town of Llanwrtyd Wells.

I had never heard of the Man vs. Horse Marathon.

Two days later, while idly reading the "marathon" entry at Wikipedia, I noticed at the very bottom of the page a link to Wikipedia's Man vs. Horse Marathon article.

Discussion Question: Does anybody want this IndyCar racing PC game I found in the Cheerios box? I'm serious -- the first person to email me an address gets the game, no charge for postage.
On July 28, an "editorial" at The Onion titled "Where The Fuck Is Diane With My Fair Trade Coffee?" included a reference to Working Assets Long Distance.

I had never before heard of Working Assets Long Distance.

Ten minutes later, I clicked on a blog link to a website called WorkingForChange.com that featured a banner ad for Working Assets Long Distance.

Discussion Question: Working Assets offers a competitive long-distance plan, charging $5.95 per month and 5¢ per minute for interstate calls. Working Assets donates 1% of phone charges to progressive organizations such as the Organic Farming Research Foundation, the ACLU, and Planned Parenthood. They reimburse your switch fees, print their bills on 100% recycled paper, and give you 12 free pints of delicious Ben & Jerry's ice cream for signing up! Yet I haven't signed up, and probably won't. Could I be any more of a lazy bitch?
A few weeks ago, my company received a check from a company called Hilti.

I had never before heard of Hilti.

That evening, while driving west on I-70 to get home, I noticed a building along the side of the highway with a large sign reading HILTI.

Discussion Question: When New Jersey governor Jim McGreevey said, "I am a gay American," why did he put it that way? Why didn't he just say, "I'm gay"? If I were gay, I wouldn't go around saying, "I'm a gay accounts receivable clerk" or "I'm a gay baseball fan." And why did he bother putting on a suit and tie for his resignation speech? He was resigning, for chrissake. Why not show up 20 minutes late, wearing faded blue jeans with a stained UCLA sweatshirt, and swilling from a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam?

That last example is particularly strange. I drive both ways on I-70 to get to and from a job I've held for two years, so I've passed that HILTI sign roughly a thousand times. I had to have seen that sign -- I just never noticed it.

I wonder: what else am I not noticing?

2004-08-11T23:54:00.000-06:00

The vending machine guy didn't stock any Hostess Chocolate Frosted Donettes today. He stocked a Mrs. Freshley's Carrot Cake and some Mrs. Freshley's Golden Cakes instead. I think I saw some Hostess Suzy-Q's -- acceptable substitutes for the Chocolate Frosted Donettes -- lurking behind the Golden Cakes, but I'll have to wait until somebody buys the Golden Cakes to be sure.

That was all very important background information, because if I had bought Chocolate Frosted Donettes or Suzy-Q's, I would have spent an entire dollar. Instead, I bought a Snickers bar and came home with some change in my pocket. I put the coins in my change jar and squatted until my eyes were level with the top of the jar. I shook the jar to make the coins even on top and squinted, like a B-movie mad scientist frowning at a bubbling beaker of Monster Serum. I saw no daylight between the coins and the lowest screw thread on the jar's neck -- the minimum level at which I'm allowed to take the change jar to the Coinstar machine at Safeway.

I'm excited. I picture myself pushing the change into the Coinstar machine's whirring maw, listening to the coins clink and rattle and watching the total on the counter climb. People will fidget impatiently behind me.

"Sorry," I'll say. "I have a lot of coins to count here, so it's going to be a couple of minutes."

"Geez," some lawyer-type guy with a cell phone will say, "have you been saving that change for two years, or what?" And everyone will laugh.

"Actually, yes," I'll say, and everyone will stop laughing and marvel at the patience and discipline it took to hold off for such a long time.

After the Coinstar machine takes its cut, I'll probably net at least fifty dollars out of that jar -- a lot of money in the tight world of Kilgore Trout. (It would be more, but I don't put quarters in the jar; I need those for laundry, obviously!) I'll take my receipt to the Customer Service desk and hand it to the cashier. Maybe she'll be cute and have red hair.

"Goodness," she'll say, and smile. "That's a lot of change you brought in. What are you going to do with all this money?"

"Oh, I don't know," I'll say, blushing and shuffling my feet. Then: "I suppose I could spend some of it on coffee for us, if you'd care to join me."

Then it will be her turn to blush. She'll giggle and say, "Well, I'd love to, but I don't get off work for another couple of hours."

"That's okay," I'll say. "I'm going to go over to The Tattered Cover, across the street, and look at some books. Why don't you come by when you're done?"

"You got it!" she'll say. And I'll turn and walk out the door and across the street to The Tattered Cover, where I'll browse and wander with the happy knowledge that I have money to buy something. I'll look at the hardcovers, and although I'll end up buying paperbacks, it will have been nice to pretend for a while that I'm the sort of person who can afford hardcover books.

I'll buy my books and an iced mocha and get lost in both. I'll barely notice when the Safeway girl arrives.

"I see you got started without me!" she'll say, with a smile that registers somewhere between brash and coy. "Do you have any money left?"

"Just enough," I'll say, and I'll get her an iced mocha and a blueberry scone for us to share. We'll talk and laugh for a bit, and just after I crack my funniest joke, I'll glance at my watch and say, "Well, I'd better get going," because Leaving 'Em Wanting More is Kilgore Trout's strongest Power Move. She'll write her number on a Tattered Cover bookmark, and after we part ways on the sidewalk, I'll glance back and notice her glancing back at me. That's a good omen, I'll think, but I saw it coming all along, because good things happen when the change jar fills up.

When I get home, I'll dig two dimes, a nickel, and three pennies out of my pocket. I'll drop them one at a time into the empty jar, enjoying the sound of metal clattering on glass.

I don't usually look forward to Thursday. But it's not every Thursday you get to cash in the change jar.

2004-08-09T23:52:00.000-06:00

NEW KEVIN SMITH FILM JUST A BUNCH OF CAMEOS

LOS ANGELES -- Kevin Smith, the writer and director of Clerks, Chasing Amy, and Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, announced Monday his next movie will have no leading actors or central plot, but will consist entirely of a series of cameos by more than 300 celebrities from Kevin Bacon to Snoop Dogg.

"Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back included cameos by Mark Hamill, Carrie Fisher, George Carlin, Wes Craven, Shannen Doherty, Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, Jon Stewart, Gus Van Sant, Jason Biggs, and James Van Der Beek, among others," said Smith. "Everybody loved the cameos so much that I decided my next movie would be two solid hours of cameos by all my favorite pop-culture figures, especially those from the 80s and early 90s."

Smith then laughed hysterically at his own cleverness for nearly five minutes.

Smith released sample dialogue from the film, tentatively titled Kevin Smith's Cameos:

WOMAN (Florence Henderson): [wakes up, rolls over] Well, good morning, sweetie.

MAN (Emmanuel Lewis): [wakes up, stretches, looks at WOMAN] Aaaah! I fucked Mrs. Brady! [jumps out of bed, runs down stairs]

DRUNK (Lou Ferrigno): [sleeping in stairwell, wakes up as MAN rushes past] Can't you see I'm trying to get some sleep here?

CAT (Morris the Cat): Meow.

[MAN opens door to outside, runs down street into distance.]

WOMAN 2 (Dana Plato): Dog with sauerkraut, please.

HOT DOG VENDOR (Jack Palance): You got it.

[HOT DOG VENDOR hands hot dog to WOMAN 2, who walks away. The camera follows her briefly as she passes MAN 2 (Mike Tyson) who is repeatedly punching a brick wall.]

MAN 3 (Mick Jagger): Taxi!

TAXI DRIVER (Jimmy Carter): Where to?

MAN 3: Anywhere but Jersey!

[Taxi lurches forward, knocks down MAN 4 (Burt Reynolds), and drives away.]

MAN 4: What the fuck, man!

WOMAN 3 (Suzanne Somers): I can't believe it!

MAN 4: [brushing off plaid jacket] Me neither! This is a new suit!

WOMAN 3: Can you come help me install a shower rod?

SHOESHINE MAN (Jim Brown): Look at your shoes! Why don't you get some pride in your stride?

When told that Dana Plato died from an overdose in 1999, Smith said, "Well, shit. I guess we better get filming before Don Knotts kicks off."

Other celebrities who have accepted parts in Kevin Smith's Cameos include Sheryl Lee, Bob Costas, Walter Mondale, Susan Lucci, Todd Bridges, the dog from Frasier, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Larry Bird, William Shatner, O.J. Simpson, Ron Jeremy, John Glenn, Chris Berman, Dr. J, Bernhard Goetz, Steven Tyler, John Ratzenberger, Gerald Ford, Too Tall Jones, the Black Stallion, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Nina Hartley, Gary Coleman, Ted Danson, Leonard Nimoy, Dick Butkus, Lee Iacocca, Oprah Winfrey, the Dalai Lama, Alex Gross, the Dahm triplets, Arsenio Hall, Magic Johnson, Meredith Baxter-Birney, Judith Light, Jermaine Jackson, Jim Bakker, Gallagher, Eddie Van Halen, John Madden, Tony Danza, George Takei, Michael Jordan, Big Bird, Barry Williams, Michael Richards, Mary Lou Retton, Alex Winter, John Cleese, Donnie Wahlberg, Nichelle Nichols, George Wendt, Stephen King, Dr. Jack Kevorkian, Mikhail Gorbechev, Beavis and Butt-head, and Shadoe Stevens.

2004-08-08T23:55:00.000-06:00

From National Review Online:

Witness all those T-shirted "Fire Fighters for Kerry" you saw at the convention. A little soft around the middle some of them were, weren't they? Do you think some of them could haul a hose pack up 50 flights of stairs? I'm not betting on it. ...

Granted, some firefighters, even some who actually fight fires, will no doubt vote for Kerry. So will some cops. But most will vote for President Bush. ... Unlike John Kerry, they don't find "nuance" in every question that confronts them. ...

Second, cops and firefighters are, if the women in the ranks will forgive the expression, Regular Guys. They drink beer, not wine, and certainly not French wine. They played football and baseball in high school, not lacrosse. ... Regular Guys do not blame Secret Service agents (who are Regular Guys) for knocking them down on the ski slopes, especially when those agents are there to take bullets for them. And Regular Guys relate to and prefer the company of other Regular Guys; they do not invite people like Leonardo DiCaprio and Ben Affleck to their conventions.

Even with the piles of dough they're sitting on, both George Bush and Dick Cheney still come across as Regular Guys, the kind of men you might find hanging around the fire station or the detective squad room. And with his recent suggestion to Pat Leahy on how he might spend his idle time, the vice president climbed several notches on the Regular Guy scale. And whatever tenuous grip [Kerry] may have had on Regular Guy status since [Vietnam] was lost when he married his current wife. ...Regular Guys do not under any circumstances marry women like Teresa Heinz Kerry.

(Via We Don't Need No Stinking Capital Letters.)

There's a table below with a bunch of silly stuff in it. I'm too stupid to make all these blank lines go away. You try making a table out of raw HTML code, asshole.

**KILGORE TROUT: REGULAR GUY?**
Evidence Against	Evidence For
Drinks wine, occasionally even French wine.	Drinks Budweiser straight from the bottle.
Wants to sleep with French actresses Nathalie Baye and Sophie Marceau, who are automatically evil, being from France.	Would make French actresses Nathalie Baye and Sophie Marceau sleep in the wet spot and cook breakfast in the morning. Would tell Mme. Baye "I said I wanted this bacon crisp, beeyotch!"
Ran cross-country in high school instead of playing football.	Played Little League baseball. Once hit a pseudo-home-run when opposing fielders overthrew all four bases. Also played youth hockey and served time in the penalty box.
Finds "nuance" in complex questions of foreign policy. Advocates thinking of better answers to these questions than reflexively launching balls-to-the-wall invasions costing hundreds of American lives plus tens of billions of dollars tacked onto the national debt.	Dismisses out of hand the possibility that Meet The Fockers will be a watchable movie.
Thought Leonardo DiCaprio and Ben Affleck were pretty good in This Boy's Life and Good Will Hunting, respectively.	Would gladly burn every existing copy of The Beach and Armageddon.
Quiet and hesitant in conversation.	Says "fuck" a lot, just like Regular Guy Dick Cheney.
Desperately wants to fuck Teresa Heinz Kerry.	Desperately wants a messy ménage à trois with the Bush twins while the First Lady watches and reads out loud from the Book of Leviticus.
Lacrosse fan. Wonders if the writer of the above article wants to explain to 6-foot-2, 220-pound Colorado Mammoth defenseman Dave Stilley that this seemingly rough-and-tumble contact sport is actually a game for sissies.	Baseball fan. Takes his glove to Colorado Rockies games.
Is a bit skeptical that firefighters carry hose packs up 50 flights of stairs. Don't these guys have ladders? Also wants to see the sophisticated statistical analysis establishing the negative correlation between "number of fires actually fought" and "support for John Kerry."	Has run 50 miles.
If ever knocked down on the ski slopes by Secret Service agents, will sue those motherfuckers for everything they've got.	Does not actually ski.
Was previously unaware that Regular Guys not employed by the fire department or the police department were allowed to hang around the fire station or detective squad room. Is thinking about stopping by the detective squad room after work tomorrow to check out the action. Will make sure to take a case of beer and some footballs to toss around, seeing as how all those Regular Guys spent time on the gridiron in high school.	Hangs around elementary school playgrounds. You know, in case any of the kids need help with their homework.
Thinks that human beings are too complicated to divide into neat groups like "Regular Guys" and "Fuckin' Pussies." Supposes that firefighters and police officers make political decisions based on factors other than preferred alcoholic beverage, and will display a diversity of political opinion on Election Day.	Hates everybody.

Is Kilgore Trout a Regular Guy or a Fuckin' Pussy? Cast your votes in the comments!

2004-08-07T23:59:00.000-06:00

JUMP TO PART 2

Last week, someone at my job printed out an inspiring story and posted it on the bulletin board. The inspiring story was about a poor Scottish farmer who saved a nobleman's son from drowning. The Scotsman refused the nobleman's offer of a reward, so the nobleman insisted on paying for the education of the farmer's son. The Scotsman's son grew up to be Sir Alexander Fleming, who discovered penicillin, which years later saved the life of the nobleman's son -- Sir Winston Churchill.

I immediately spotted this story for a fake. So I went to Urban Legends Reference Pages, printed out the well-researched and well-written refutation, and posted it on the bulletin board beneath the spurious story. When I walked past the bulletin board an hour later, both the story and the refutation had disappeared.
Last week, I was reading this post at Mirthful Ones, in which Sadie mentioned quadratic equations. I know a thing or two about quadratic equations, so I posted this comment:
...to solve an quadratic equation of the form ax² + bx + c = 0, use this formula: x = [-b ± √(b² - 4ac)] / 2a.
Irish Lad, amorous associate of Sadie, responded with:
ax² + bx + c = 0 is not a "solvable quadratic equation". It is a second degree polynomial equation. The quadratic equation is x = [-b ± √(b² - 4ac)] / 2a. Just technicalities, but surely you were just wanting to see if anyone noticed the transposition. Or maybe you did some Friday sex including 69 and are just ass-backwards as a result.
I lashed back with:
According to Wikipedia and Math World, "quadratic equation" and "second degree polynomial equation" are synonymous. The formula x = [-b ± √(b² - 4ac)] / 2a is the quadratic formula.
I was drinking beer and playing poker on Friday with the young adult group from my church (great church, the Unitarians -- they let you drink and gamble!), when somebody was dealt a natural straight. "What are the odds of that?" the lucky girl wondered as she raked in her chips.

Well, let's figure it out!

There are 10 different straights: A2345, 23456, 34567, et cetera, up to TJQKA. Each straight has 5 cards, each of which can be dealt in 4 suits. That means there are

10 × 4 × 4 × 4 × 4 × 4 = 10,240 ways to deal a straight including straight flushes, which we should subtract out. There is 1 straight flush for each of 4 suits for each of the 10 different straights. That leaves us with

10,240 - 1 × 4 × 10 = 10,200 ways to deal a straight. There are

52 × 51 × 50 × 49 × 48 / 5! = 2,598,960 ways to deal 5 cards from a 52-card deck, so the odds of getting a straight are

10,200 / 2,598,960 = 1 in 254.8 deals.

PART 2
I've always liked being right. When I was a kid, my parents bought me a book titled Encyclopedia Brown's Book of Weird and Wonderful Facts. That was maybe the biggest mistake Mr. and Mrs. Trout ever made. For the next few years, the most common phrase to emerge from my mouth was "But my book says..."

"But my book says Jackie Robinson broke baseball's color barrier, not Satchel Paige."

"But my book says 'A.D.' stands for Anno Domini, not 'After Death.'"

"But my book says the North Star is only near the Big Dipper, not part of it."

I corrected my parents, my sister, my teachers, and the pastor at church. I had the steel-trap memory of a seven-year-old with no weightier concerns in life than the Little League schedule. Resistance was futile. If anyone dared contradict me for a second time, I would march to my room in a huff and return moments later with My Book, pointing to the relevant passage.

No need to call Dr. Freud to decipher my behavior. I was an skinny, awkward kid who didn't play well with others, and proving that I knew more than other people was a cheap and easy way to obtain approval and feel better about myself.

As I grew older and developed the desire to fuck girls, I learned to control my impulse for correcting other people's mistakes. Mostly. My friends who read this will chuckle and say:

"What about the time my girlfriend said Tommy Hilfiger went on Oprah and said he didn't want blacks wearing his clothes, and you took her email address and sent her a refutation the next day?"

"What about the time we went camping, and you wouldn't shut up because the Hershey's bars I bought were the wrong thickness for s'mores?"

"What about that time I brought the new guy to poker night, and he thought his 6-3 beat my 8-4 in Texas Hold 'Em with a board of KK776, and you posted about it at the Recpoker bulletin board to prove I won the hand?"

Yeah, I still like being right, and I still like to show off that I'm right. I'm a skinny, awkward man who feels uneasy around others, and trying to impress people by proving that I know more than they do is a cheap and easy way to feel better about myself. Never mind that years of experience have taught me how pathetic and unsatisfying it is to behave this way.

I flaunt my command of intellectual flotsam and jetsam because I think it makes me better than other people. But I'm wrong.

2004-08-02T22:21:00.000-06:00

PRESIDENT INGA-FE# REFUSES ACCOLADES
FOR SUCCESSFUL WAR IN H7'§AKK
------------------
"Our intelligence agencies deserve all the credit."
------------------

PARALLEL UNIVERSE -- At a press conference yesterday, President Vvt Inga-Fe# deflected praise for the successful invasion and reconstruction of H7'§AKK, saying "Our intelligence agencies deserve all the credit."

"Mission accomplished," said Inga-Fe#. "Today, H7'§akk, once blighted by the tyranny of the dictator ¥¥ H:arrg, is blooming under democracy. Today, H7'§AKK, once a mortal threat to L,jyi¶pku freedom and a friend to terrorists, is a beacon of hope where hope is needed most. And we owe this success to the timely and accurate intelligence that alerted us the time had come to act."

Inga-Fe# was referring to reports produced by the ΦMMMM and the Q® showing that ¥¥ H:arrg, then-president of H7'§akk, was purchasing and producing weapons of mass destruction for use in acts of terrorism against L,jyi¶p. Although the reports were widely disputed at the time, and although the B*W rejected a resolution to send international troops, President Inga-Fe# did not hesitate to declare war on H7'§akk, a decision bitterly opposed and protested by many at the time.

Ultimately, the president's decision was vindicated, as military forces from an international coalition of countries led by L,jyi¶p found huge stockpiles of chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons. Coalition forces also unearthed documents proving H:arrg had earmarked the weapons for use in terrorist acts in major cities around the world, including cities in L,jyi¶p. Other documents showed that H:arrg had assisted the terrorist organization Xoow±y in executing the Jer-Ükko 17th atrocity, the worst terrorist attack yet on L,jyi¶pku soil.

The president asked for a moment of silence to remember the 43 L,jyi¶pku soldiers who had given their lives to remove H:arrg from power, and stated that "the people of H7'§akk will not forget your sacrifice."

"With the yoke of tyranny removed," said Inga-Fe#, "H7'§akkuz from all religious and ethnic backgrounds have united to make their country a peaceful, democratic, self-governing nation with the fastest-growing economy in the world. Following their example, other nations in the region have purged radical theocratic elements from their governments and have announced free elections to take place in the coming months. Terrorist networks are falling to pieces for lack of funding and recruits. Truly we stand at the dawn of a new age of prosperity and security not just for L,jyi¶p, but for all the world."

"I would love to take the credit for these successes," chuckled the president, "but if the intelligence provided to me had been faulty, and if it had turned out that we had gone to war and sacrificed L,jyi¶pku lives when really there were no weapons of mass destruction at all, and if the reconstruction of H7'§akk had turned out to be an expensive disaster, I would certainly have blamed everything on the intelligence agencies. So really, I have no choice but to give all the credit to the ΦMMMM and the Q®."

2004-08-01T23:41:00.000-06:00

THINGS THAT NEED TO GO AWAY RIGHT NOW, VOL. 13

Phone Pholly I. Unnecessarily long voicemail greetings, such as:
Hello, you've reached Jane Doe in the accounts payable department at ABC Company. I am currently either away from my desk or on the phone at this time. If you leave your name, number, your company's name, and the time you called, I will return your call at my earliest convenience. Thank you, and have a blessed day.
Thank you, Jane, for telling me you are either away from your desk or on the phone. But are you sure you've covered all the possibilities? Why not specify that you might be picking your nose, or flirting with the printer repairman, or bidding on Precious Moments figurines on eBay? I don't care why you didn't answer the phone. Just let me get to the beep without having to listen to your flimsy excuses.

And you don't need to instruct me to leave my name and number and whatever else. What did you think I was going to say -- "Hi, Jane, this is some guy. Call me."? Answering machines have been around for a few decades, so most everybody understands the proper content of a voicemail message by now.

I might remind you that "currently" and "at this time" mean the same thing, so you don't need both. In fact, you don't need either -- you are speaking in the present tense, so "currently" is implied.

You can also strike "I will return your call at my earliest convenience." This means "I'll call you back whenever the hell I feel like it," which means I might get a return call in five minutes, or two Wednesdays from now, or never. The phrase conveys no useful information and will not be missed.

Finally, Jane, I'm not the kind of militant atheist who takes umbrage at being told to have a blessed day. But even if I believed in God, wouldn't the blessedness of my day be out of my control?

Need an example, Jane? Here is the marvel of economy that is my voicemail message:
Hello, you've reached Kilgore Trout in the accounts receivable department at XYZ Company. Please leave a message at the tone. Thank you.
Phone Pholly II. This happens at least once a month:
Operator: ABC Company, how can I direct your call?

Kilgore Trout: Accounts payable department, please.

Jane Doe: Accounts payable, this is Jane.

KT: Hello, Jane, this is Kilgore Trout from XYZ Company.
[Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah]
KT: Thanks for your help, Jane. Oh, and can I get your direct phone number?

JD: Well, it's the same number you just dialed.
I admit that I'm no Gregory Peck or James Earl Jones, with a deep voice that commands instant respect. But I don't sound like a retard, either, which is what I would have to be to call someone directly and then ask for her phone number. And even if I did do something that stupid, why not take three seconds and give me the number? "303-867-5309" -- was that so hard? Is your direct number some kind of national treasure that you have to protect from the prying eyes of Al Qaeda?
People who paint their brick houses. Why would anyone do this? Brick looks great by itself, but painted brick looks awful, and besides, isn't one of the advantages of owning a brick house that it doesn't require painting? Think of all the other things you could do with your time that would be fun and good and worth remembering when you're 90 and rotting in a nursing home. Why would you waste any more of your life on house painting than absolutely necessary?
Apple's insistence on selling music files through its iTunes service in M4P format only. These files play just fine on Apple's own iPod, but I don't own an iPod. I've heard that iPods are quite nice, but I don't need to store 10,000 songs, and I need a very small player that I can wear comfortably on long runs lasting six hours or more. So I use an MPIO player that meets my needs. It weighs about one ounce, holds ten hours of music, and plays MP3, WAV, and WMP files -- but not M4P files. And when I try to use the iTunes music management software to convert the M4P file to MP3, it politely declines.

Doubtless Apple wants to push their iPods, but do they really think I'm going to spend extra money on a player that's too heavy and has ten times more capacity than I need? I'll get my tunes for free from Kazaa, thanks.

I've been converting the M4P files to MP3 via the backdoor method of burning them to a CD and then extracting them, but that's a pain in the ass. If Apple wants to promote legal music downloading -- an idea I support and would like to use -- wouldn't it make sense to make that process as simple as possible by selling tracks in a variety of formats? Maybe a service exists that does just that. I would do some research and find one if I weren't such a lazy piece of shit.

Right now you are preparing to rip me for all the technical errors I've made in this post. But that's my point -- I'm just a regular asshole who wants to buy some music, and I shouldn't have to be a tech-tard to pull it off.

2004-07-29T23:55:00.000-06:00

My last roommate's name was John. For a year I rented a room in his townhouse in the northern suburbs of Denver. John was a gay man from Texas -- a walking culture collision. He liked big red pickup trucks, shotguns, Michelob beer, hunting, fishing, Ricky Martin, beige leather furniture, miniature pinschers, and ferns.

He wasn't smart. One day I went into my room and discovered that his little dog Remington had shit all over my floor. I went downstairs. "John," I said, "your dog shit in my room."

"Oh no," said John. "He's been down here all day."

"John," I said patiently, "I didn't shit on the floor. Did you shit on the floor?"

"No!"

"Well, then, that leaves Remington, doesn't it?"

Another time, John fired up the grill and started cleaning shrimp. "Going to barbecue some shrimp?" I asked.

"No, I'm barbecuing chicken," said John. "I've tried grilling shrimp, but they're too small, and they fall through the grill."

I stared at him. "Why don't you put them on skewers?" I asked.

His face lit up. "That's a great idea!" he said.

We didn't get along well. John complained about his "filthy" kitchen when I left clean dishes out on a drying rack, then held noisy dinner parties and left dirty dishes stacked in the sink and crusty pans on the stove. He bitched when I prepared dinner after he had gone to bed, even though I had told him before moving in that I kept late hours. And once he got drunk and groped my testicles.

We had a month-to-month lease, and one day he left me written notice to move out by the end of the month. That was fine with me. What wasn't fine was John's determination to drive me mad within those last thirty days. He started criticizing me more often and more loudly and more profanely. He lost his temper if I failed to hang a kitchen towel correctly. A friend of his, Dave, moved in with Braxton, his yellow Lab, apparently meaning to move into my room after I left.

One day I arrived home from work and found that my garage door opener no longer worked. I went inside to find John and Dave eating dinner. "My garage door opener doesn't work," I said.

"Oh, I locked the door," said John. "Braxton hurt his paw, so we put him out in the garage in your space."

I looked in the garage. Sure enough, there was Braxton lying on a dog bed in what had been my half of the garage, wearing one of those comical hoods to keep him from chewing his hurt paw. I fumed, but there was nothing I could do -- the parking space hadn't been written into the lease.

The next evening, I was in my room reading when I heard a ruckus in the alley outside. I looked out my window to see John and Dave unloading Dave's furniture from John's truck. Shaking with anger, I stomped into the garage and called John a "motherfucker" and a "piece of shit" and every other name I had wanted to call him for the past year. John responded that he was not my "nigger maid." We yelled at each other for a while. Screaming filthy insults at people is unusual behavior for me, although maybe it shouldn't be -- it feels pretty good. After I ran out of nasty things to say, I went back to my room, drained but relieved. I never threatened John with violence or tried to intimidate him physically.

The next day I couldn't find my keys, which I customarily left on the kitchen table. I looked everywhere for an hour before giving up. Luckily, I had spare car keys, so I was able to get to work. That evening, I confessed to John that I had lost my keys to the townhouse and mailbox, and to my surprise he was very understanding and lent me a spare house key.

The next morning, I was about to leave for work when I noticed John had left his bedroom door ajar -- usually he locked it. I had suspected that John had stolen my keys, although I couldn't imagine why. So I sneaked into his room and poked around a bit. No luck. On my way out the door, I glanced back and noticed a small jewelry box on the dresser. You know, I thought, if I stole someone's keys, I would keep them in a box just like that one.

I went to the dresser, opened the box, and goddammit! -- there were my keys. I fumed and swore and considered calling the police, but decided against it. I couldn't prove he had taken the keys, and for chrissake this was just a simple problem between a couple of guys. I would be moving out in four days. No need to involve the cops.

I confronted him that evening. Amazingly, he denied everything. My keys? In his room? He had no idea what I was talking about.

"John," I said, "I didn't put the keys in your room, so if you didn't take them, then who did? Dave? Braxton?"

"I don't know."

"You're a thief," I said.

He didn't like that. He stood up and we got in each other's faces. Fingers were pointed. Voices were raised. Then John suddenly stepped back and spoke to Dave. "Serve him," he said.

Huh? Serve me?

Dave handed me a sheaf of papers -- a restraining order.

Most of you have never seen me in person. Let me assure you that few men -- and not many women -- with four functioning limbs between the ages of 15 and 70 consider me a physical threat. I stand six feet tall and weigh 155 pounds. Both John and Dave were bigger than me, and besides, there were two of them. I haven't been in a fight since sixth grade. Yet John had taken a day off work and paid a $50 filing fee to have a Jefferson County judge order me to stay ten feet away from him at all times and to refrain from "using abusive language."

I called Morocco Man in Chicago. "Go get a ten-foot pole and walk around poking him with it," he suggested.

I called G-Dog. "You need to get out of there," he said, "or they'll find a way to put you in jail. Come stay here tonight and we'll move you tomorrow."

So that's what I did.

2004-07-28T23:42:00.000-06:00

I was reading Skeptic magazine recently when a strange ad caught my attention. It read:

Triple Nine Society

Founded 1978

Extraordinary camaraderie

in an international society

of peers. 99.9th percentile:

old SAT (before 4/95) 1450,

new SAT 1520,

ACT 34, MAT 85

See complete list at:

www.triplenine.org

I felt the twin thrills of acceptance and superiority that come from rejecting an offer to join an exclusive club -- like turning down a date with a supermodel. (Actually, it's probably not at all like turning down a date with a supermodel. Has anyone out there ever spurned both a high-IQ society and a supermodel? If so, please compare and contrast your experiences in the comments.)

An examination of the Triple Nine Society website revealed that I won't be missing much by refusing admission. To judge by the thousands of words the Society dedicates to its Constitution and Voting Method, the Triple Nine Society was founded by the sort of prigs you knew in high school who did Model UN and used Robert's Rules of Order as a stroke book. The Preamble to their Constitution assures us that the Society "will strive to avoid the insularity of mere exclusiveness," a slushy phrase that I interpret to mean "we will occasionally take field trips to Six Flags and Wal-Mart to interact with people at the 99.8th percentile and below."

I went to the "Chat" area of the website and clicked a link to subscribe to the Society's Q&A Discussion Board. Yahoo! Groups regretfully informed me that "There is no group called tnsqa." Maybe the 99.9ers should call the Quadruple Nine Society or the Akron Quilting Club and see if they can help them set up a Yahoo! Group. I went to the "Events" section and found no events scheduled. If any of you have weddings or bar mitzvahs approaching, I bet the Triple Nine Society would be happy to provide entertainment in the form of "extraordinary camaraderie" and "intellectual exploration."

I don't understand the purpose of these high-IQ clubs beyond ego massage for the pointy-headed. Genius is in what you do, not in what you are. A club for people with high IQ's is like a club for men with big penises. Who cares? Are you getting laid, or are you and a bunch of other guys just admiring each other's schlongs? All of these clubs have journals, which makes no sense to me. If you write a groundbreaking paper in medical research or a cutting-edge piece of fiction, shouldn't you be able to publish your work in the New England Journal of Medicine or The New Yorker instead of Vidya?

If you're so smart, then go find a cure for cancer, or write the Great American Novel, or prove the Riemann hypothesis. I bet you'll meet scores of other smart, driven people in the process, likely more interesting than you would have met through the Triple Nine Society:

99.9er: Hello. I'm very smart.

Kilgore Trout: Yes, me too. We all are.

99.9er: I got all A's in high school. I was listed in Who's Who Among American High School Students.

KT: That's nice.

99.9er: I almost always win at chess when I play against normal people. Also Scrabble and checkers and backgammon. And Uno.

KT: I'm very impressed.

99.9er: I scored 1500 on the old SAT (before 4/95). What did you score?

KT: Oh, higher than that.

99.9er: Really? Like 1510?

KT: Higher.

99.9er: 1520? 1530?

KT: Higher. Much higher.

99.9er: Um... 1560? 1580?

KT: Keep going.

99.9er: 1600? Did you get 1600?

KT: No, no, even higher than that.

99.9er: Well, the SAT only goes to 1600.

KT: I have to use the restroom now.

2004-07-26T23:55:00.000-06:00

LOCAL LIBERAL WRACKED WITH GUILT
OVER ATTRACTION TO BUSH TWINS

IOWA CITY -- Local environmental activist, Green Party campaign volunteer, anti-war protest veteran, independent bookstore clerk, and self-described "loony left-wing political junkie" Dave Wilson, 23, has been suffering from intense guilt caused by his attraction to Jenna and Barbara Bush, the 22-year-old twin daughters of President George W. Bush, sources reported Monday.

"I caught one of Kaiser Bush's campaign stops a few weeks ago on TV," said Wilson, "I was watching the Asshole-in-Chief stumbling through another fascist speech about 'saving the institution of marriage' when I noticed this pretty blonde girl standing off to the side. I couldn't take my eyes off her... I figured she must be an intern or an aide or something, but then the First Fucktard introduced her as his daughter Jenna! I couldn't believe such a comprehensively evil man could have fathered that beautiful woman."

"A few days later," Wilson continued, "I saw a news clip of Clueless George getting out of a plane, followed by an even prettier dark-haired girl. The reporter said it was his other daughter Barbara, and I practically shit my pants. I haven't been able to stop thinking about either one of them since, no matter how hard I try."

"I know it's wrong," added Wilson, staring at the floor and wringing his hands.

Despite attempts to hide his crush, Wilson's friends have noticed his fascination with the Bush twins. "I noticed a suspicious number of clips on the TiVo featuring the president's daughters," said Ann Siegel, Wilson's roommate and fellow Greenpeace activist, "and once when I got online I found a site called The First Twins in the browser history. I went to the site and it was all about Jenna and Barbara Bush, with lots of pictures, and it looked like someone had clicked on every link. When I confronted Dave about it, he got really defensive and said he went to the site accidentally while doing research on President Pig Vomit's anti-environment energy policy. Whatever, Dave."

Wilson remains hopeful that the First Sisters might be working on their father's campaign out of family loyalty instead of ideological allegiance. "Maybe they're not total Nazis like their father," said Wilson. "Especially Barbara -- she went to Yale, and I read somewhere that she wants to help HIV-positive children overseas. Also, she's a lot cuter than Jenna."

"Maybe when Bush comes campaigning in Iowa, Barbara will come with him, and we might happen to be on an elevator at the same time or something," added Wilson. "I wouldn't talk to her about politics, I guess, because I'd have to say that her dad is a reactionary religious nutcase, but we could talk about AIDS volunteerism -- I've been thinking about getting into some AIDS work myself -- or music or whatever. It would be nice to spend some time with her. I bet she's really down to earth."

Wilson then gritted his teeth and smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand several times.

2004-07-25T22:17:00.000-06:00

THINGS EAGERLY ANTICIPATED

I'm looking forward to opening an envelope. On April 18, 1985, in Mr. Petersen's fifth-grade class at Jefferson Elementary School in Mason City, Iowa, a much younger Kilgore Trout placed some documents in this envelope, sealed it, and scrawled on the front, "TO BE OPENED BY KILGORE TROUT ON APRIL 18, 2005." (See a photo here.)

I've carried this envelope to about a dozen residences in Iowa, California, and Colorado over the past nineteen years, and it's always a treat to rediscover it each time I move. I found it again a couple of months ago, when I moved to my new apartment, and I keep it now atop a chest of drawers in my living room.

I don't know what's in there. It feels like three or four sheets of paper, probably mimeographed in purple ink with blanks for my address, my pets' names, my favorite things to do at recess, and other information I thought would be important to myself across the unimaginable gulf of twenty years. I believe I wrote that I wanted to be a veterinarian when I grew up and that I liked Morocco Man's twin sister. Seeing as how I've grown up to be an accounts receivable clerk and I never did score a date with Morocco Man's sister, maybe I shouldn't be so eager to open the envelope after all. How many other dreams bouncing around in my young skull have been crushed by the last two decades like a bunny rabbit under the wheels of a Peterbilt semi on I-80?

Everything seems so possible when you're eleven years old.

Whatever. Only 267 days to go.
I can't wait to start reading the ridiculous book I bought at my church's garage sale for a quarter. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Texas-Israeli War: 1999, "as reported by" Jake Saunders and Howard Waldrop and published in 1974. You can read a complete synopsis of the plot here, but I'll give you the quick-and-dirty from the front cover: "Rebellious Texans kidnapped the President of the U.S. His future rested with a band of fearless Israelis whose courage had been tested in other wars!"

Look at a photo of the front and back covers here. I'm serious -- go look at it. What, you don't want to see a picture of a tank emblazoned with a Star of David under attack by Indians on horseback wearing feathered headdresses and brandishing spears? Suit yourself.

Saunders and Waldrop rack up huge points for plot originality here, but really -- Texas versus Israel? It sounds like something dreamed up by a bunch of political science geeks tripping on meat lover's pizza and Bud Light. "Who would win if Superman fought the Fantastic Four? Or if a bear fought a shark? No, wait... what if Israel invaded Texas?"

(Does anybody remember how, at Future Problem Solving competitions, you could get five bonus points for each original problem or solution? No? Okay, moving along then...)
Friday. Everyone looks forward to Friday, I guess, but the thing is that I've achieved coitus each of the last two Fridays, and I'm eager to see if I can roll a turkey.
The death by crucifixion of this couple. Note to Yahoo! Personals: Looking at photos of awkwardly posed yuppies horsing around does not make me want to subscribe to your service. It makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a corkscrew.
The day I can attend a meeting of the Kilgore Trout Appreciation Society, founded in Tulsa by Sadie, bruce, and Sir JMJ. I don't get it either. I think it's just an excuse for heavy drinking.

Details regarding KTAS ceremony and protocol have yet to be hashed out, but apparently meetings are to begin and end by reciting choruses from '80s power ballads, such as "High Enough" or "When I See You Smile." I think, per bruce's suggestion, that the Official KTAS Greeting should be "Go fuck yourself," which loosely translates as "Hello," "Goodbye," "Thank you," and "Would you like fries with that?" Also, James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal seem to have gotten mixed up in this somehow. I'll make sure to forward the cease-and-desist letters to you, Sadie.

2004-07-24T22:47:00.000-06:00

LAME SATURDAY POST

-- OR --

EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW ABOUT THE DA VINCI CODE
I LEARNED FROM THE CLIFFHANGER CHAPTER ENDINGS

WARNING! SPOILERS!

Prologue: "Wincing in pain, he summoned all his faculties and strength. The desperate task before him, he knew, would require every remaining second of his life."

Chapter 1: "The agent looked grim. 'You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see in this photograph...' He paused. "Monsieur Saunière did that to himself."

Chapter 2: "Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow."

Chapter 3: "'Mr. Langdon.' Fache's ebony eyes locked on. 'What you see in the photo is only the beginning of what Saunère did.'"

Chapter 4: "As he stood up, Langdon was beginning to suspect it was going to be a very long night."

Chapter 5: "Tightening the rope-tie round his waist, he raised the hood over his head and allowed his red eyes to admire his reflection in the mirror. The wheels are in motion."

Chapter 6: "Smiling, he closed his eyes and settled in to enjoy the rest of the conversation now being taped inside the Grand Gallery."

Chapter 7: "A follower of God, Sister Sandrine had learned to find peace in the calming voices of her own soul. Tonight, however, those voices were as silent as the empty church around her."

Chapter 8: "Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight leash tonight. Wisely so. Robert Langdon had proven himself one cool customer."

Chapter 9: "'Mr. Langdon,' the message began in a fearful whisper. 'Do not react to this messge. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my directions very closely.'"

Chapter 10: "He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail. Money and faith were powerful motivators."

Chapter 11: "'Good," Fache said, lighting a cigarette and stalking into the hall. 'I've got a phone call to make. Be damned sure the rest room is the only place Langdon goes.'"

Chapter 12: Bewildered, Langdon looked at the image. The close-up photo revealed the glowing message on the parquet floor. The final line hit Langdon like a kick in the gut."

Chapter 13: "'Quite well,' she said, her eyes welling now with emotion. 'Jacques Saunière was my grandfather.'"

Chapter 14: "'It's about Sophie Neveu, sir. Something is not quite right.'"

Chapter 15: "It was not until this instant that he truly realized what he was about to do, and what awaited him inside. The keystone. It will lead us to our final goal. He raised his ghost-white fist and banged three times on the door. Moments later, the bolts of the enormous wooden portal began to move."

Chapter 16: "Robert Langdon was about to escape the Louvre, whether he wanted to or not."

Chapter 17: "Langdon had jumped."

Chapter 19: "For a fleeting instant, she wondered if this mysterious stranger could be the enemy they had warned her about, and if tonight she would have to carry out the orders she had been holding all these years. She decided to stay there in the darkness and watch his every move."

Chapter 20: "Without another word, Langdon pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and rearranged the letters in each line. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint! was a perfect anagram of Leonardo da Vinci! The Mona Lisa!"

Chapter 21: "Without hesitation, Langdon broke into a sprint back toward the stairs."

Chapter 22: "If all went as planned tonight in Paris, Aringarosa would soon be in possession of something that would make him the most powerful man in Christendom."

Chapter 23: "A few miles away, on the riverbank beyond Les Invalides, the bewildered driver of a twin-bed Trailor truck stood at gunpoint and watched as the captain of the Judicial Police let out a guttural roar of rage and heaved a bar of soap out into the turgid waters of the Seine."

Chapter 24: "It was a silent call of distress"

Chapter 25: "Fache's blood was boiling as he typed the numbers 4... 5... 4."

Chapter 26: "On the glass, six words glowed in purple, scrawled directly across the Mona Lisa's face."

Chapter 27: "Hedging his bets, he ordered half of his men back to the Louvre perimeter. The other half he sent to guard the only location in Paris where Robert Langdon could find safe harbor."

Chapter 28: "Face down on the parquet floor with his arms and legs spread wide, Langdon found little humor in the irony of his position. The Vitruvian Man, he thought. Face down."

Chapter 29: "HITHERTO SHALT THOU COME, BUT NO FURTHER."

Chapter 30: "'So dark the con of man.' She flashed a triumphant smile. 'I missed the first two anagrams, Robert. I wasn't about to miss the third.'"

Chapter 31: "All four are dead. The precious truth is lost forever."

Chapter 32: "As she drove away, she heard the sound of squealing tires behind them. Sirens blared to life. Cursing, Sophie slammed down the accelerator."

Chapter 33: "Langdon hurred along behind her. What had begun as a one-mile dash to the U.S. Embassy had now become a full-fledged evacuation from Paris. Langdon was liking this idea less and less."

Chapter 34: "Trying to ease his nerves, the bishop meditated on the purple amethyst in his ring. Feeling the textures of the mitre-crozier appliqué and the facets of the diamonds, he reminded himself that this ring was a symbol of power far less than that which he would soon attain."

Chapter 35: "Sophie looked back at the key and wondered what they would possibly find at 24 Rue Haxo. A church? Some kind of Priory headquarters?"

Chapter 36: "A female cryptologist and a schoolteacher? They wouldn't last till dawn."

Chapter 37: "'Sure you have." Langdon smiled. "You're just used to hearing it called by the name Holy Grail.'"

Chapter 38: "'I tried to warn you,' he shouted over the sound of gnashing gears. 'I drive an automatic!'"

Chapter 39: "Kneeling on the wooden floor, Silas prayed for forgiveness. Then, stripping off his robe, he reached again for the Discipline."

Chapter 40: "Sophie and Langdon were holding the key to a Swiss bank deposit box."

Chapter 41: "Aringarosa sensed the query was more spiritual than geographical, and yet he had not intention of discussing morality at this hour. 'Paris,' he said, and walked out the door."

Chapter 42: "Collet took the hint. 'Twenty-four Rue Haxo. Right away, Captain.' He hung up and radioed his men."

Chapter 43: "Langdon produced the printout of the crime scene photo and spread it out on the coffee table. Sophie needed only to read the first line to know Langdon was correct."

Chapter 44: "The object inside was unlike anything Langdon had ever seen. One thing was immediately clear to both of them, however. This was definitely not the Cup of Christ."

Chapter 45: "Vernet did not breathe again until the truck was a good fifty meters down the street. And now he had another problem. His cargo. Where do I take them?"

Chapter 46: "'The secret lives. Jacques Saunière transferred information before he died. I will call you soon. Our work tonight is not yet done.'"

Chapter 47: "Langdon slowly raised his eyes. 'Under the sign of the Rose,' he whispered. 'This cryptex... I think I know what it is.'"

Chapter 48: "Vernet stepped into view, a strained look in his eye. In his hand, he held a pistol. "I'm sorry about this," he said. "I really have no choice."

Chapter 49: "Vernet turned his eyes back to the ground where the truck had been parked. Even in the faint moonlight he could see there was nothing there. The wooden box was gone."

Chapter 50: "The bishop broke a light sweat. Or worse... that I took the money and ran!"

Chapter 51: "Langdon gave an awkward smile. 'We're on a Grail quest, Sophie. Who better to help us than a knight?'"

Chapter 52: "The gate clicked open. 'Your heart is true, my friend. You may pass.'"

Chapter 53: "Thirty seconds later, forty kilometers away, hidden in the undercarriage of the armored truck, a tiny transponder blinked to life."

Chapter 54: "Teabing already had Sophie locked in his twinkling gaze. 'You are a Grail virgin, my dear. And trust me, you will never forget your first time.'"

Chapter 55: "'Not what it is,' Teabing whispered. 'But rather who it is. The Holy Grail is not a thing. It is, in fact... a person."

Chapter 56: "Two rooms away, in the kitchen, manservant Rémy Legaludec stood in silence before a television. The news station was broadcasting photos of a man and woman... the same two individuals to whom Rémy had just served tea."

Chapter 57: "Ignoring the slash of pain from his cilice, Silas retrieved his gun and began the long trek up the grassy slope."

Chapter 58: "Instantly, Sophie recognized the translation. Sang Real literally meant Royal Blood."

Chapter 59: "After a long wait, another man came on, his tone gruff and concerned. 'Bishop, I am glad I finally reached you. You and I have much to discuss.'"

Chapter 60: "'So you tell me, sir. So you tell me.'"

Chapter 61: "'You'd better explain yourself, Robert.' he said coldly. 'You have not been honest with me.'"

Chapter 62: "Silas pulled the pistol from his pocket, turned off the safety, and inched down the hallway."

Chapter 63: "Everything in Paris has gone terribly wrong. Closing his eyes, Aringarosa said a prayer that Bezu Fache would have the means to fix it."

Chapter 64: "As he fell, he thought for a moment he saw a pale ghost hovering over him, clutching a gun. Then everything went black."

Chapter 65: "Teabing frowned. 'My friends, it seems we have a decision to make. And we'd better make it fast.'"

Chapter 66: "When Collet read the label above the empty peg, he knew he was in trouble."

Chapter 67: "Langdon dialed zero, knowing that the next sixty seconds might answer a question that had been puzzling him all night."

Chapter 68: "'Richard,' Teabing said, smiling warmly, 'two thousand pounds sterling and that loaded gun say you can take my guests.' He motioned to the Range Rover. 'And the unfortunate fellow in the back."

Chapter 69: "Both of them looked startled. 'So then,' she said, motioning to the rosewood box. 'Let's move on.'"

Chapter 70: "'Lieutenant Collet,' Fache barked, heading for the door. 'I have no choice but to leave you in charge of the PTS investigation here. Try to do something right for a change.'"

Chapter 71: "He looked down at the bound monk at his feet. The man lay perfectly still now, as if in a trance of acceptance, or perhaps, in silent prayer for deliverance."

Chapter 72: "Despite Teabing's and Langdon's confidence that the truth lay just within the marble cylinder, Sophie had solved enough of her grandfather's treasure hunts to know that Jacques Saunière did not give up his secrets easily."

Chapter 73: "Tell them I want Teabing's plane to be permitted to land. Then I want it surrounded on the tarmac. Nobody deplanes until I get there."

Chapter 74: "Sophie could not breathe. She suddenly realized she was quietly sobbing. She turned and staggered silently up the stairs, out of the house, and drove trembling back to Paris."

Chapter 75: "It had all begun as a holy cause. A brilliantly crafted scheme. Now, like a house of cards, it was collapsing in on itself... and the end was nowhere in sight."

Chapter 76: "Teabing grinned broadly. 'My dear, this is where the Atbash Cipher comes into play.'"

Chapter 77: "Teabing winked. 'In ancient Greek, wisdom is spelled S-O-F-I-A.'"

Chapter 78: "At that moment, fifteen miles ahead of them, six Kent police cars streaked down rain-soaked streets toward Biggin Hill Executive Airport."

Chapter 79: "He immediately called Interpol and requested every shred of information they could find on the Depository Bank of Zurich and its president, André Vernet."

Chapter 80: "'Sales meeting,' Teabing said, wondering how much it would cost him to persuade his pilot to perform one highly irregular maneuver."

Chapter 81: "Teabing grinned and closed the bar. 'So then, about this knight's tomb...'"

Chapter 82: "He smiled. 'Works every time.'"

Chapter 83: "Langdon felt shaky as he inched deeper into the circular room. This had to be the place."

Chapter 84: "'As I expressed when we first spoke, Bishop, you would do well to remember that youare not the only man on the verge of losing everything.'"

Chapter 85: "'If you call the police..." The tuxedoed man pressed the gun to his skin. "I will find you." The next thing the boy knew, he was sprinting across the outside courtyard with no plans of stopping until his legs gave out."

Chapter 86: "Sophie's voice was unwavering. 'Who are you working for?' The question brought a smirk to the departing Rémy's face. 'You would be surprised, Mademoiselle Neveu.'"

Chapter 87: "'Do you have any idea what target is being bugged?' 'Well, Lieutenant,' the agent said, walking to the computer and launching a piece of software. 'It's the strangest thing...'"

Chapter 88: "Sophie hung up and dashed with Langdon onto the train."

Chapter 89: "'That said, I give you my word as commanding officer of the Police Judiciare that your box, along with your bank's reputation, are in the safest of hands.'"

Chapter 90: "The notes were in French and appeared to be ideas outlining how best to insert a listening device into the knight."

Chapter 91: "With that, the connection went dead."

Chapter 92: "'Tea?' Gettum asked, standing and walking toward the pot she had made earlier. 'Leigh always loves my tea.'"

Chapter 93: "'Leave him precisely where he is,' the officer commanded. 'Don't say a word to anyone. I'm sending officers over right away.'"

Chapter 94: "Aringarosa recognized the address instantly. The Opus Dei Centre in London. He spun to the driver. "Take me there at once!"

Chapter 95: "Jacques Saunière, the master of double-entendres, had proven once again that he was a frighteningly clever man."

Chapter 96: "Silas spun and fired. Their eyes met. Silas was already screaming in horror as Bishop Aringarosa fell."

Chapter 97: "The Teacher recalled a small announcement sign he had seen on his way into the abbey. Immediately he knew the perfect place to lure them. The only question now... what to use as bait."

Chapter 98: "For a moment Langdon thought he must be dreaming. It was Leigh Teabing."

Chapter 99: "He turned and aimed the gun at Langdon. 'And you, Robert? Are you with me, or against me?'"

Chapter 100: "Aringarosa closed his eyes. 'Silas, you must pray.'"

Chapter 101: "As Teabing passed, Langdon looked him in the eye. 'Only the worthy find the Grail, Leigh. You taught me that.'"

Chapter 102: "Silas's pain at last began to fade, and he knew the bishop was right."

Chapter 103: "Aringarosa smiled. "A little faith can do wonders, Captain. A little faith."

Chapter 104: "And now, somehow, in this foreign place, in the company of three people she barely knw, she felt at last that she was home."

Chapter 105: "Their bodies came together, softly at first, and then completely. When she pulled away, her eyes were full of promise. 'Right,' Langdon managed. 'It's a date.'"

Epilogue: "For a moment, he thought he heard a woman's voice... the wisdom of the ages... whispering up from the chasms of the earth."

2004-07-22T13:08:00.000-06:00

Last Friday afternoon, I ate lunch with a friend at the bar across from my apartment building. The bar had several televisions tuned to SportsCenter and the Rockies-Giants game.

My eyes wandered often to the ballgame, as a man's eyes will, and finally I asked my friend if she liked baseball.

"Oh yes," she said. "My grandfather played professional baseball, so in my family we weren't allowed to dislike baseball."

"Did he ever play in the majors?" I asked.

"For a little while," she said. "He played in the World Series with the Cubs."

"What was his name?"

"Marvin Gudat."

Marvin Gudat made his big league debut with the Cincinnati Reds on May 21, 1929. He only played in nine games that year, primarily as a pitcher. He returned to the majors with the Chicago Cubs in 1932, playing in 60 games as a pinch-hitter, outfielder, and first baseman, as well as pitching one scoreless inning. Chicago won the National League pennant that year, and Marv Gudat went hitless in two at-bats as the Cubs lost the World Series to the despised New York Yankees. For his career, Marv Gudat went 1-1 as a pitcher with a 3.38 ERA. As a batter, he collected 24 hits, including four doubles, a triple, and one home run.

One home run. I wonder what Marv Gudat did when he hit his only major league home run. Did he charge around the bases like a dumb rookie, not daring to hope the ball would clear the fence? I prefer to picture him standing at home plate with his mouth hanging open, staring in amazement as the ball disappeared into the stands, and then trotting slowly around the bases -- not so slowly as to earn a fastball in his ear his next time at bat, of course, but slowly enough to savor the experience.

Did Marv Gudat spend the rest of his life reliving that home run in his head? I bet everything about that day stood out in sharp relief in his memory -- what he ate for breakfast, the jokes his teammates told in the clubhouse, his practice swings in the on-deck circle, the noise the crowd made when he stepped to the plate, and the opposing pitcher's name and face and the pitches he threw. And I know Marv Gudat never forgot the sensation of sweet contact as he pounced on that pitch and the ball leaped from his bat.

Thinking about Marv Gudat reminded me of a post the Maximum Leader wrote about his 1988 meeting with President Reagan. I don't care if you didn't like Reagan -- read the post and notice how sixteen years have failed to dim the bright details in the Maximum Leader's mind. He remembers what he wore, the gruff comments from the advance man, the masking tape "X" on the floor, the feel of Reagan's hand, and the exact words his hero spoke to him.

Too often, our extraordinary existence devolves into drudgery -- one day dissolves into the next until life becomes a homogeneous gray mass, bland as oatmeal without raisins. These glittering moments remind us why we bother to stay alive.

What's your one major league home run? What's your meeting with President Reagan? One of mine is finishing my first marathon in St. Louis on October 12, 1997. I remember vividly turning the last corner, spotting the finish line 200 meters away, and flipping the fuck out. All the exhaustion from the previous 26 miles drained away, and I sprinted the final stretch whooping and pumping my fist in the air. The spectators started cheering with renewed vigor, and one fellow shouted "Yeah, man!" and stuck his hand out. I ran to the side and started handing out high-fives. I have tears in my eyes as I type this. That's what life is about.

Marvin Gudat died March 1, 1954 in Los Angeles. Rest easy, Mr. Gudat. You hit one big league home run.

2004-07-19T23:40:00.000-06:00

FOLLIES IN MARKETING, VOL. 5

I've noticed some taverns use their neon signs to advertise that they serve mixed drinks. Why? Wouldn't one assume mixed drinks to be available in a bar? Or maybe not:

KILGORE TROUT: Vodka tonic, please.

SURLY BARTENDER: Sorry, we don't do that here.

KT: Pardon?

SB: I can give you vodka or tonic water, but I can't mix 'em together.

KT: But this is a bar.

SB: Did the sign outside specify "mixed drinks"? No, I don't think so. If that's how you get off, go to Don's Club Tavern or the Satire Lounge. We don't serve your kind here.

KT: Okay, get me a shot of vodka and a glass of tonic water.

SB: Nice try, wise guy. You'll just mix 'em together while my back is turned. Don't you think we've had smart alecks like you in here before? I think you'd better leave.
Hey, Sears in Cherry Creek! You have two options: either fix the "E" in your "SEARS" sign or start handing out filtration masks at the door.
I received a solicitation with my last credit card bill to sign up for some credit report tracking service. As an enticement, the service offered free "Slim Line" digital cameras to all new subscribers. How can they afford to offer a free digital camera for buying a $10 per month subscription? Well, it's not too hard when the camera in question offers a resolution of 350 kilopixels.

It reminded me of the old Shredded Wheat commericials: "It takes nine of these "Slim Line" digital cameras to equal the resolution of Kilgore Trout's one Kodak EasyShare camera, which is not exactly making Annie Leibovitz grit her teeth with envy."
This isn't a Folly in Marketing, exactly, but I thought everyone should know that Adolf Hitler has an IMDb profile. Sometimes credited as "Der Führer," Mr. Hitler exhibited extraordinary range, playing "Himself" in 25 films including 1934's classic screwball comedy Triumph of the Will. Who knows what films he might have made had he not committed suicide in an underground Berlin bunker?

2004-07-18T21:58:00.000-06:00

You know it's a big day at Chaotic Not Random when Kilgore Trout posts an inline image! There was much joy in Mudville yesterday when The Comments Whore Herself chose not to lay up for herself treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, but instead exercised her rights under Article IV of the CNR Reader's Bill of Rights by sending me a hardcover copy of The Da Vinci Code. Those of you not suffering from Alzheimer's Disease will remember my complaint from some weeks ago that too many people were reading this book, and that as long as it remained popular in hardcover, the publishers would not issue it in the paperback version I could afford.

Thanks again, TCWH! Your slightly urine-stained copy of Teach Yourself Microsoft PowerPoint 2000 will be arriving shortly.

2004-07-18T21:29:00.000-06:00

When I lived in San Francisco in 1999, I worked the graveyard shift at a 24-hour diner called Sparky's. I would work from three in the afternoon till nine at night at The Cheese Steak Shop, hurry to close the store, and then jump on my bike and race to Sparky's, where I would toil until six in the morning. I worked both jobs five days a week, seventy hours total. I had Tuesday and Wednesday off. When I got home Tuesday morning, I would flop into bed and sleep like a corpse for at least fourteen hours.

I worked these insane hours to keep pace with San Francisco's insane cost of living. I paid $525 monthly rent for a room (not an apartment) with a sink in the corner. I shared a bathroom with the floor's other residents, and for a kitchen I had a microwave in my room and a refrigerator in the hallway. And everything in San Francisco costs more: gas, car insurance, books, movie tickets, food. The one benefit to working at two restaurants was that I mostly ate for free. Even working seventy hours a week, I couldn't make ends meet -- when I gave up after a year and moved to Denver, I took $14,000 in credit card debts with me. I can remember almost nothing of what I spent that money on.

The other employees at Sparky's were mostly young, predominantly gay, and thoroughly hipper-than-thou. They sported tattoos and piercings in odd places and wore ironic T-shirts or Boy Scout uniforms. I had a tattoo and wore four earrings, but I couldn't pull it off -- the others patted me on the head and called me "Wilbur." I wanted to have sex with most of the women who worked at Sparky's, although of course I never did. My ego was not much assuaged when two of the more effeminate waiters made it clear that their rectal channels were available for fucking any time I desired.

They all listened to Bob Dylan and Siouxsie & the Banshees and obscure punk bands with names like "Monkey Cunt." Most of them played bass or wrote songs or spun vinyl in their spare time. Sparky's encouraged us to bring our own CDs to be played randomly over the diner's sound system, and I took great pleasure in sabotaging the ultra-scenester music mix with my Christian rock albums and my pop-pop-poppiest Matchbox Twenty and Amy Grant discs.

I worked as a line cook at the toast and fries station. After the other cooks finished slapping together omelettes and burgers, I supplied toast (rye, white, wheat, or sourdough) or french fries as specified. I was terrible at it. It's not that I couldn't make toast and fries; it's that I think slow and act slower and am easily confused by chaotic, high-pressure situations, like a Saturday night bar rush with tickets flying like confetti and harried servers shouting orders and behaving peevishly. The other cooks -- who had actual cooking responsibilities such as grilling meat and frying eggs to order -- thought I was pathetic. I suppose they were right, but I still believe toast and fries to be a position of underappreciated difficulty in the gastronomic hierarchy. I mean, there were four different kinds of toast to think about, man!

When I finished my first shift at Sparky's, one of the other line cooks approached me. "You wanna stick around? After work, a bunch of us usually stay and have some beers."

So I stuck around. I didn't want to look like a limpdick in front of my new friends, so I drank a great number of beers. If you've ever wondered whether or not it's a good idea to drink a large quantity of alcohol when you're exhausted from fifteen hours of work, I will now assure you that it is not a good idea at all. It is an even worse idea to try to calm your stomach by eating a bagel topped with cream cheese and onions.

I puked in the restroom. When I came out, the other employees -- clearly alarmed and wondering what kind of alcoholic limpdick they had on their hands -- persuaded me to take the bus home instead of riding my bike. So I left Sparky's and stumbled toward the Market Street train station. This was at seven o'clock on a Thursday morning. Bankers and stockbrokers on their way to the Financial District filled the station, dressed in smart suits and carrying briefcases. I looked like hell. My clothes, spattered with bits of food, reeked of grease and sweat. The stink of alcohol hung around me like a fog. I weaved as I walked and my hair stuck out in oily clumps. When I got to the station, I leaned against a pole and closed my eyes. Big mistake. The world pitched and spun, and I opened my eyes and lurched toward the handicapped ramp, where I vomited loudly and copiously. None of the pinstriped princes so much as glanced at the drunk homeless man retching his guts out.

I boarded the train, where the other passengers allowed me my own seat. I transferred to the Van Ness Avenue bus, where I promptly fell asleep. I woke up twenty minutes later to the driver hollering "Last stop!" I shuffled off the bus and realized I had gone at least a mile too far. I shambled home, fell on my bed and went to sleep. The phone rang seven hours later and I awoke with a start, then freaked when I realized I couldn't open my eyelids. (That will happen when you forget to remove your contacts.) Somehow I found the phone.

"Hello?"

"It's Dayle at The Cheese Steak Shop. You're late, man."

There's a moral in all that somewhere.

2004-07-15T23:37:00.000-06:00

A BRIEF SUMMARY OF PEOPLE I AVOID AT WORK

Annoying Receptionist: Like most of the people on this list, Annoying Receptionist has nothing of interest to say. This does not, unfortunately, stop her from using her throat, mouth, and tongue to create sound patterns that grate against my cerebral cortex.

Avoidance Strategy: Annoying Receptionist is easy to elude, because she only works half-days and spends most of that time in the front reception area. Earlier this year, however, when I was without a car and riding the bus to work, I was horrified to find that Annoying Receptionist often took the same bus I did. She was delighted, of course, to have someone to listen to her prattle about her own transportation problems while I gritted my teeth and mumbled "hm" and "uh huh." I used to run into Annoying Receptionist in the breakroom, where she eats lunch at 2:00. She would always ask, "How's your car?" and I would answer, "Ohhh, it's running!" and look for the nearest exit. I now avoid the breakroom between 2:00 and 2:16.
The Chatterbox: Unlike Annoying Receptionist, who takes a passive approach to ruining my day, The Chatterbox uses an invasive technique. She specializes in standing in the entrance of her target's cubicle and leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. This is a devastating tactic -- the gesture of leaning against the wall says clearly, "I intend to be here for quite a while, nattering away about nothing."

You might think it impossible to emit from one's mouth a steady stream of words that amount to zero, but I assure you The Chatterbox achieves this astonishing feat without apparent effort or strain. I have had several lengthy conversations with The Chatterbox, and I can remember the principal topic of none of them. Well, that's not true. The Chatterbox once brought coffee cake for breakfast, and I made the mistake of telling her it tasted good. We then discussed coffee cake for twenty minutes while I fantasized about saying, "Do you think you could get a better pair of breasts? That way I could have something to look at while I nod my head and smile blankly."

Avoidance Strategy: Because she attacks coworkers at their workstations, making her impossible to elude without quitting my job, I adopted the scorched-earth countermeasure of being a rude asshole -- turning my back on her mid-conversation, for example. This brutal tactic has worked admirably; The Chatterbox never approaches my cubicle for conversation any more, and if I pass her in the hallway she smiles nervously and glances at the floor. I'm sure I'll feel bad about this someday in the event that I develop a soul.
Mr. Manners: Tall, slender, and neatly dressed, Mr. Manners wears a nicely trimmed mustache and a respectable bit of gray around his temples. He has a girl's name. He is a very nice man. "Hello, Kilgore," he says when we pass each other in the hallway, "how are you?" It's the how are you? that burns me. We both walk fast, so by the time I say, "Fine, how are you?" he's too far away to answer or even hear me. This makes me feel even lamer than I usually feel. A simple greeting suffices for a hallway encounter -- why does he have to ask how I am? Is it rhetorical? Should I not answer at all?

Avoidance Strategy: If I'm at a hallway junction, I will sometimes take an alternate route. This makes me feel lamest of all, because I'm avoiding a polite person. What the hell is wrong with me?
A Woman Scorned: I fucked her. She went psycho. I dumped her. Crying occurred. Goddammit! I would do it again, though.

Avoidance Strategy: Fortunately, A Woman Scorned is tall enough to see over the cubicle walls, making her easier to elude. Chance meetings are inevitable, however, given A Woman Scorned's random hall-roaming schedule. In case of emergency, I adopt a neutral expression and stare straight ahead.
The Hag: Also know as The Old Lady. You may recall reading of our past skirmishes here and here. The Hag is my most daunting and persistent workplace opponent. In the two years I've worked at my present job, I've come to respect The Hag in the way that bitter foes -- like Frazier and Ali -- often grudgingly respect one another.

The Hag is somewhere between 65 and 3,000 years old. While stooped with age and fragile in body, she employs flawless fundamentals and the cunning of a veteran. She waits in the breakroom for unsuspecting prey, posting herself near the refrigerators and microwaves. Once she spots a target rummaging through the refrigerator or waiting for lunch to heat up, she attacks with a array of witless conversation openers, like "What's for lunch?" or "My son has a shirt just like that one." She then drags her victim into a dull, rambling conversation involving much frozen smiling and glancing at the clock. Her execution is both impressive and chilling to witness, like watching a Pro Bowl pass rusher drive a rookie quarterback's face into the turf.

Avoidance Strategy: Defense, defense, defense! My most basic stratagem is to never enter the breakroom when The Hag is in there. Fortunately, the doors to the breakroom have windows, so I always glance through before entering to make sure the area is clear. If I only intend to use the vending machines, located on the far end of the breakroom opposite the refrigerators, I use the far doors and buy my Hostess Chocolate Frosted Donettes safely outside The Hag's range. Occasionally I find myself in the breakroom with The Hag, either because I failed to adequately inspect the area beforehand, or more likely because the crafty bitch entered the room after me. In these cases, I keep my back to The Hag as much as possible and avoid eye contact -- even peripheral eye contact -- at all costs. If The Hag succeeds in initiating conversation, I keep my responses as short as possible and head for the exit. Sometimes I even leave my Sausage Pizza Hot Pocket in the microwave.

2004-07-13T16:15:00.000-06:00

THINGS THAT NEED TO GO AWAY RIGHT NOW, VOL. 12

My habit of forgetting, exactly once every summer, that my good looks and rapier wit alone will not prevent the noontime sun from burning my pale skin. Now I can look forward to a week of explaining, "I don't have dandruff, my scalp is just peeling."
Blood pressure follies. I went to see my doctor last week, and after a pleasantly short wait a pretty nurse escorted me to an examination room, where she immediately took my blood pressure.

"Five hundred seventy-three over 2.718281828," she said. Those weren't the real numbers, of course, but it doesn't matter, because I didn't understand the significance of the real numbers. Unlike healthcare professionals, who spend hours every day worrying over blood pressure readings, I can't appreciate which numbers are high and which are normal when it comes to blood pressure. It would be like going to Tanzania and telling a Maasai tribesman, "Barry Bonds is batting .365 with 23 homers!"

Wouldn't it make an awful lot of sense to post a blood pressure chart in the examination rooms? I guess I could have asked the nurse, but she was awfully pretty.

After an unpleasantly long wait on the paper-covered table, the doctor arrived and did various things to me. "Various things" unfortunately included a urethra swab, which, while not technically a blood pressure folly, is another thing that needs to go away right now. MESSAGE TO ALL HEALTHCARE PROFESSIONALS: In return for your promise to never stick anything in my urethra again, I pledge to wear extra-thick, adamantium-reinforced condoms for all future activites of any kind, including Holy Communion.

By and by, the doctor frowned at my chart and asked, "Have you ever had a problem with high blood pressure?"

"No. Is there a problem?"

"Well, it's a little high. I mean, you're not going to keel over from a stroke, but... well, let me check it again before we get too excited."

He took my blood pressure and announced, "Forty-two over π³. That's fine, nothing to worry about."

That made sense to me. The first blood pressure reading came right after a brisk walk through a maze of hallways to the examination room, so of course it was elevated. Also, my heart rate probably accelerated when the pretty nurse touched my arm. Wouldn't it make an awful lot of sense to have an ugly nurse take blood pressure readings after giving the patient's heart rate time to stabilize?
Inappropriate capitalization of mom, dad, and other familial terms. You should only capitalize these terms when using them as though they were names:
Afterward, Uncle said that what happened in the garage was a very special secret.
Specifically, you should not capitalize these words when a possessive precedes them:
My uncle said if I told anyone our secret, I would be sent away.
Unimaginative sports nicknames composed of the player's initials only, such as AI (Allen Iverson), KG (Kevin Garnett), MJ (Michael Jordan), and TO (Terrell Owens). Only slightly better are monikers like T-Mac (Tracy McGrady) or J-Kidd (Jason Kidd), although A-Rod (Alex Rodriguez) is okay for some ex post facto reason I will make up later. Also unacceptable are meaningless nicknames dreamed up by shoe companies -- has anyone ever actually called Allen Iverson "The Answer" outside the Reebok marketing department?

Come on, sports fans, think a little! Here are some great sports nicknames to spur your imagination:
Babe Ruth (George Herman Ruth)
The Iron Horse (Lou Gehrig)
The Admiral (David Robinson)
Dr. J (Julius Erving)
Magic Johnson (Earvin Johnson)
Crime Dog (Fred McGriff)
Catfish Hunter (James Augustus Hunter)
Sir Charles (Charles Barkley)
Saint Patrick (Patrick Roy)
The Dominator (Dominik Hasek)
The Great One (Wayne Gretzky)
Le Magnifique (Mario Lemieux)
Super Joe (Joe Sakic)
Rocket (Maurice Richard and Roger Clemens)
The Intimidator (Dale Earnhardt)
Sweetness (Walter Payton)
If you can't think of a nickname that pops off the tongue and distills the essence of the athlete, don't fret. Barry Bonds and Barry Sanders played their games as well as anyone, yet nobody ever made a nickname stick to either man (although BB for Bonds would fit him well -- he drew his 2,191st walk on July 4 to break Rickey Henderson's career record).

NOTE: We're only talking about sports nicknames here, so "KT" for "Kilgore Trout" is okay. I would prefer, however, that you stop using "WPS" for "Worthless Piece of Shit."
Commercial attempts to channel authenticity via fake foreign words, like Taco Bell's gorditas and Chipotle's new low-carb "bols" (that is, bowls). "Bol" means nothing in Spanish -- the Spanish word for bowl is cuenco. I'd rather order a cuenco than a bol, although I'm sure that Chipotle has a mountain of focus-group research that better captures the linguistic-gastronomic desires of the gringo bourgeoisie.

A variant of this technique is to introduce the fake accent. I used to work at a restaurant called Diamond Dave's in Mason City, Iowa. Diamond Dave's made "Mexican" food in the sense that the Tombstone frozen pizza people make "Italian" food. Anyway, the awning outside read "RESTAURANTÉ." But the Spanish word for restaurant is restaurante, with no accent. Adding the accent not only creates a misspelling, but changes the pronunciation, sort of like saying, "res-TAU-rant."

A related silly story: the Mason City Globe-Gazette once published an ad placed by a Mexican family wishing to celebrate a family member's birthday. The ad featured a photo of the birthday boy with the caption "YO TENGO 29 ANOS!" The Spanish word for year is año, so the caption was meant to read "I AM 29 YEARS OLD!" But by leaving the tilde off the N, the Globe-Gazette had the man saying, "I HAVE 29 ANUSES!"

2004-07-11T23:11:00.000-06:00

DEAD END
A SHORT TRAGEDY IN TWO ACTS

JUMP TO ACT II

Setting: One of Kilgore Trout's epididymis
Time: The morning of Saturday, July 10, 2004

DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Sperm 1
Sperm 2
Rex Morgan M.D.
Sperm 314,159,265
Chorus of 400 million other sperm

ACT I

SPERM 1: First in line! Hope you all get a good look at my backside, boys, because you won't be seeing anything else until you expire in 48 hours!

SPERM 2: You had better be quick, then. I think I'll be the one to fertilize that ovum today!

[SPERM 1 and SPERM 2 horse around as they make their way up the epididymis toward the vas deferens, talking friendly trash and slapping each other with their tails. Why not? We've already assumed they're sentient and speak English.]

SPERM 1: It's just like how they drilled us at the Academy.

SPERM 2: Yeah, it's all going according to plan. First and second out of the testis, then maintain position all the way to the ejaculatory duct. And then... hey! Watch your left side!

SPERM 1: [Body-checks a pursuing sperm into wall of epididymis.] Uhh! Thanks for getting my back, buddy. I owe you one.

SPERM 2: You bet. But after ejaculation, it's every spermatozoon for himself, right?

SPERM 1: [Nods grimly.] Right. That's going to be the toughest part -- a six-inch death march to the cervix, and then only one of us gets to fertilize the ovum.

SPERM 2: If it's not me, I hope it's you, buddy.

SPERM 1: Likewise. [They slap tails.]

REX MORGAN M.D.: Actually, if you have an ovum to fertilize, there's about a 1% chance there will be two -- or possibly more -- ova available! One of you could fertilize one egg and the other could claim the other egg! The result would be fraternal twins!

SPERM 1: Oh, that would be too cool.

SPERM 2: That would rock! We'd be brothers forever.

SPERM 1: Well, brother and sister. I'm an X and you're a Y, remember?

SPERM 2: If that happens, do you think we'll know? Do you think I'll say, "Hey, Madison, remember when we used to hang out back in Dad's right testicle? Remember the time you put that spermatozoon's underwear in the freezer, and he got so mad he developed a third chromosome in his 21st pair?"

SPERM 1: Well, whatever happens, I hope I don't end up as Madison. Yech.

SPERM 2: I wouldn't count it out. It's a really popular name these days.

SPERM 1: Whatever happened to that spermatozoon whose underwear you froze, anyway?

[Cue lights on SPERM 314,159,265, stuck in sperm traffic just exiting an epididymis.]

SPERM 314,159,265: Have you seen my baseball?

[Drop lights on SPERM 314,159,265.]

SPERM 2: [Breathing hard.] Man, we must be almost out of the scrotum by now.

SPERM 1: I hope so. We should be passing the Cowper's glands any time.

REX MORGAN M.D.: Not so fast! You won't see the Cowper's glands until after you pass through the prostate gland! You've got a ways to go, fellas!

SPERM 2: Well, shit. Let's pick up the pace and put some distance between ourselves and the pack.

SPERM 1: I'm game. I'll take the point first and we'll switch off. Here we go! [Surges ahead.] Uhh! [Stops short as he slams into the closed end of the vas deferens.]

SPERM 2: [Runs into back of SPERM 1.] What the fuck, huh? What are you doing?

SPERM 1: I'm not doing anything! It just ends here!

REX MORGAN M.D.: Uh oh!

CHORUS: I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn't even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn't even matter...

[Curtain.]

ACT II

[Curtain opens on SPERM 1 throwing himself repeatedly against the dead end of the vas deferens.]

SPERM 2: [Staring at a map and holding a compass in his tail.] I don't get it. Where did we go wrong?

SPERM 1: This can't be happening! It's not supposed to be this way! All the training, all the hard work... [He throws himself against the dead end again, then backs away, exhausted.]

REX MORGAN M.D.: It appears as though a substantial section of the vas has been surgically removed! The ends have been cauterized and sealed! You will be unable to reach the ejaculatory duct!

SPERM 1: But we're supposed to reach the ejaculatory duct! It's the only reason we're here. I was prepared for a glorious death in the vaginal canal, but here, to die here? It's so pointless.

SPERM 2: I don't understand. Why would He create us to serve this one purpose, and then take away that purpose? Why would He be so cruel?

CHORUS: Don't know what you got till it's gone
Don't know what it is I did so wrong
Now I know what I got
It's just this song
And it ain't easy to get back
Takes so long...

SPERM 2: He's testing us.

SPERM 1: Yes.

SPERM 2: He loves us.

SPERM 1: Yes.

SPERM 2: His will is that we be ejaculated.

SPERM 1: Yes.

SPERM 2: He cannot subvert His own will.

SPERM 1: Yes.

SPERM 2: So he places this barrier in our way, to test our faith!

SPERM 1: Yes! [He leaps up and starts throwing himself against the dead end.] I have faith! I have faith!

SPERM 2: No, no, no! Stop!

SPERM 1: What, then?

SPERM 2: A sacrifice.

SPERM 1: A martyr.

SPERM 2: A scapegoat.

SPERM 1: An offering.

SPERM 2: A tribute.

SPERM 1: [Checking thesaurus.] An... oblation?

SPERM 2: But who?

[Cue lights on SPERM 314,159,265.]

SPERM 314,159,265: Tell me about the rabbits.

SPERM 1 & SPERM 2: He'll do. [They drag SPERM 314,159,265 to the front.]

SPERM 2: Okay, we need a stone knife, and an altar carved from a single piece of black marble, and some wicked symbols painted in lamb's blood, and some gilded robes.

REX MORGAN M.D.: Better hurry! If you wait too long you'll be broken down and absorbed!

SPERM 1: Oh, fuck it. [He strangles SPERM 314,159,265 with his tail.]

SPERM 314,159,265: [Breathing his last.] Please remember to put flowers on Algernon's grave. [He dies.]

SPERM 2: [Praying.] Oh, He who brought us into existence within his testicles, we have given You a worthy sacrifice and we beseech You to hear our prayer. We ask only that You allow us to fulfill the purpose for which You created us: to be ejaculated and die at least an honorable death if not to achieve fertilization and eternal life in Your realm.

SPERM 1: Amen.

[A long moment passes.]

SPERM 1: Uhh! [He throws himself against the dead end.]

SPERM 2: It's useless. His ears are sealed to our pleas.

SPERM 1: Then curse Him, and die! I have faith! [He continues to throw himself against the dead end.]

SPERM 2: Did He forget about me? Did He forget about my purpose? Or did He remember, and just doesn't care? Does He hate me? Does He enjoy watching me suffer? Will He laugh as I toil and die? Can He find such pleasure in thwarting the hopes he planted in my heart? He has everything, and I have nothing but my purpose, and He takes even that away -- is He mad? Or does he have a Purpose I can't possibly understand, a grand Purpose that supersedes and subsumes my petty desire to be ejaculated? Can He hear me now? Is He angry at my lack of faith? Or does He understand? If He loves me, why does He torment me so?

CHORUS: I'm all out of love
I'm so lost without you
I know you were right
Believing for so long
I'm all out of love
What am I without you?
I can't be too late
To say that I was so wrong...

SPERM 1: [Collapses, panting.] I hate Him.

SPERM 2: I don't.

[Curtain.]