Thursday, January 31, 2008


My mouth is home to warring factions right now. My tongue keeps poking into the debris left by the root canal and flexing against the substance (whatever the hell it is) that the dentist used to pack the immense hole. My tongue is repeatedly scraping 'gainst the sharp edges of the annihilated tooth.

Tongue [like an excited third-grader]: Oh! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Looki--

Jagged Tooth: Dude. We're the same as we were fifteen seconds ago, man. We haven't changed a lick. [pauses] You know? That was pretty punny, all things considered.

"Substance": Huh?

Jagged Tooth [sighing]: Never mind, blob. Never mind.

Tongue: Oh! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Loo--

Jagged Tooth: Yes! We are still here, you ADD motherfucker!

"Substance": Well, speak for yourself, compadre. I ain't exactly as here as I was back at the office. Tongue-boy...he's, uh, really done a number on me. [to itself] Maybe I wasn't hard enough?

Tongue: Oh! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here!

Stomach [from a distance off-stage]: I can vouch for "Substance," Jagged Tooth. Some of him is with me. Well, was with me. I had him take a bath. So what if it was a bath in acidic juices? 'Twas still a bath, you know.

Jagged Tooth [sarcastically]: Thanks for the input, Stom. What would we do without you?

Stomach: Durrrr....

Tongue: Oh! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Looki--

Jagged Tooth: Man, keep it up. Seriously. Keep it up and I may have to cap yo' ass. Or maybe crown yo' ass.
[Silence from all]

Jagged Tooth: Does anyone here have the friggin' capacity to appreciate a pun?! Jesus!

Stomach and "Substance" [simultaneously]: Durrrr....

Tongue: Oh! Lookie here!

Wednesday, January 30, 2008


I think I have unintentionally taught Louie the F-word.

He seems too young to know that kind of language.

Every time he and Oliver are wound up and playing, when there is a break in the action, I'll look over at Lou and say, "Whassa mattah, huh? Go on. Fuck 'im up."

And he bounds off.

Sorry, Lou, to have corrupted Your Furriness.


Today at work I was standing in the meeting room before work and I saw a pink piece of paper on the table. Seeing as how I work at the gas company and pink is usually not a piece of paper but the punchline to a joke, I picked it up and examined it. It was some kind of pricing sheet, listing the prices of chocolates and treats and the like.

"Chocolate covered oreo's" and "chocolate covered strawberry's" screamed at me from the pinkness. I was in an odd mood, I admit. There was a pen lying nearby, so I used said pen to circle the misplaced apostrophes and draw a line to the phrase that I wrote: "not needed."

Later, as I was out at the truck, doing the pre-trip inspection, one of my coworkers, a fine-looking woman in her mid-40s who smokes like a chimney and possesses a gravelly voice, walked up to me and shoved the paper in my general direction.

"Did you do this?" she demanded.

"Uh, yessssssss?" I said hesitantly.

"That's great," she said. "Just great." She glared at me. "Did you even read the whole thing?"

I studied the pink sheet of paper. "Lymphoma" and "leukemia" leapt off the page at me. I felt a sinking feeling in my gut.

"There are only a limited number of these printed out, Adam," she said. "This is a fundraising sheet for blah blah blah blah."

Truth be told, I didn't really process what the fundraiser was for. I felt like a real shitheel and so my ears kind of tuned out the rest of what she was saying. I figured I'd read it more in detail later. The sinking feeling in my gut intensified.

"Really nice, Adam," she barked. "Really nice. Just don't fucking touch it again."

And, with a disgusted shake of her head, she stomped off, heeding not my lame "sorry."

Whoops. Let this be a lesson. Pretend not to see glaring grammatical errors and, if that is simply not possible, for God's sake, don't break out the correction pen.

I think I'll be buying some strawberry's and oreo's tomorrow.

(Then again, this woman has the supremely ergonomically-placed ability to be a queen bee bee-yotch, so it wouldn't even surprise me if she turned me and my money away. And blasted me with another F-bomb.)

Tuesday, January 29, 2008


My Mom turned 66 yesterday, the 28th of January. She doesn't seem 66; in fact, she doesn't seem a day over 65-and-a-half. I joke. I keed. I joke and keed because I love her with all my heart. (She actually doesn't seem a day over 50.)

What can I say about the woman who nurtured and raised my sisters and me to be the people we are today? Where do I find the words to convey the love with which we were brought up? The love that richocheted off of us and back to her? I don't. It is nebulous. Intangible.

I just know that it's there. And it always will be.

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.

Sunday, January 27, 2008


[Because I am bored. And because I want to send that "Masturbation" post down the 'pike, a bit.]

"And now," spat the magician, "the rodent shall return from the dark depths of Hades, perfectly intact...not a whisker harmed." Bristling with hubris, the greasy-haired 60s-ish magician swept the threadbare satin away from the hat and beamed out towards us, his straggling "audience."

"Cool," mumbled Betty, staring at the empty hat, obviously bored out of her mind. "Do you think we could, uh, get going, now?" she asked me, pinching at my love handles. Empathy was not Betty's strong suit. Frankly, if she couldn't care less about something, she had absolutely no problem letting that fact be known.

"Girl," I stage-whispered, "this guy's life has got to suck ass; the least we could do is give him a fiver or something and be polite about his show, hon."

He looked into his top hat and, frowning slightly, pulled it closer to his face. "I seemed to have lost Ricardo," he mumbled.

Jiggling the change in my pocket, I held Betty's arm close to my side and waited.

"Killer show, old man!" some teenaged wit hissed to the scattered laughter of his peers.

Let me just say here that I have never seen a more forlorn expression: the old man's eyes glistened with unspent tears, his gray eyebrows furrowed, casting his sky-blue eyes into darkness, and his chin trembled as his lips quivered. My guess was that the old man--"Xerxes the Great"--was going to break down and weep right there, on the corner of Thirteenth and Grant.

Not a very pleasant memory to retain from a vacation, you know? Our original intent--Betty's and my--was to walk the streets of New York and soak in the manic frenetic energy of the city, do some window shopping, maybe enjoy a couple of under-prepared and over-priced deli sandwiches and some know, just take in the atmosphere. Plopped right in front of the deli had been this Xerxes fellow, resplendent in his tattered magician's cape (that he'd probably found in a Dumpster behind a costume shop) and his dirty blue jeans that were unraveling at the cuff. Quixotic image, that: a street magician practicing his "craft." Really, though, the problem was that this dude sucked, he had no talent for Illusion, and this wasn't 19th-century Paris. Sadly, he was just a bum, down on his luck, hawking for money, making a fool out of himself and it hurt me to see him degrade himself as such, so I tightened my grip on Betty's arm and turned to go.

"Try again, Xerxes," she said softly, boring her beautiful brown eyes into the old man's blue. Usually, Betty had little patience, so this was a welcome (and somewhat heartwarming) about-face for her.

"Very well, young miss," said Xerxes, straightening himself to his full height and regaining what dignity he could. "Watch very closely as I bring Ricardo back from"--he cleared his throat with a rattle--"the darkest depths of Hell."

Xerxes the Great replaced the satin over the mouth of the top hat and, with murmury incantations, swirled his free hand above the whole shebang, his long delicate and dirty fingers plucking imaginary cherubs from the air and gesturing them towards the hat.

Yes, the rodent returned; yes, Ricardo the rat emerged from the hat, gray-brown and whiskery, his black eyes beady, little front paws up on the brim of the hat, his long fat pink tail curling out over the edge; and yes, Xerxes the Great tasted Redemption--the real magic that day, though, was the way in which Betty had been imbued with the all-encompassing warmth of empathy, the way in which she opened her heart to someone less fortunate.

Zonked with the happy chemicals of Altrusim, sex that night was the best ever...and, yes, it always comes back to the sex.

Saturday, January 26, 2008


I found this in the comments section of Fumblings web site. It's called the Slogan Generator, and you can put any word into the little box thing-y and hit "sloganize". I entered "masturbation." Hijinks and hilarity are guaranteed to ensue.

Okay. I'm off to sloganize "Golden Shower." Take care. (And Happy Saturday.)

Here's a good slogan: "You Need a Golden Shower." :-P


I've been tagged. Nighthawk Nan of underacheivingmommy fame sent this my way and I think it would simply dandy to ruminate on sex. Ponder on sex. Ponderous sex. Hmm. That doan soun' too fun, Loocee! Ponderous, that in general is an absolute delight.

Rules and Regulations: Tagged or not, feel free to post it on your blog (the more the merrier). Title your post the Smut Meme, outline the rules, and tag two people when you're through. Please link to whoever you've tagged, so we can see just how smutty your readers are.

Okay. Let's see how smutty Adam is.

1. Chocolate or whipped cream? I can't say that I've really ever had either in the Bed O' Love. Once, I was pretty trashed when I was with this girl and I walked naked into the kitchen and brought back a can of Reddi Whip. We never got to the whipped cream and I awoke the next morning with my mouth tasting of ashtrays and stale booze and the girl was on the couch (she said I was snoring too loudly). The Reddi Whip was on the floor, on the side of the bed, leaking white stuff onto the carpet. Hungover and bummed out, I just threw it into the trash.

2. Leather or PVC? Leather. It has more of a sense of natural goodness than PVC, a substance with which I associate much displeasure and sweat. Also, PVC makes me think of work. It's a kind of pipe, too, isn't it?

3. Outdoor sex or indoor sex? For me, it's got to be inside sex. I guess I'm kind of a private person. I don't want to take a risk of having sex outside and someone happening by and noticing my eighteen-inch erection. Leapin' anacondas! They'd be scarred for life!

4. In the jacuzzi or in the bed? I like being comfortable. In bed, all the way.

5. Bad sex or no sex? Considering all that I have to offer is bad sex, I'll have to go with bad sex. Otherwise, there'd be no sex...and that'd be a negative thing. :-P

6. Dominate or be dominated? Spank me, baby. Tie me up and tell me what to do. Make me your sex slave.

7. Thigh highs or body stockings? Oh, shit. Thigh highs all the way. Women wearing high boots are a major turn-on for me. Particularly thigh highs made of chocolate and whipped cream. (Oh. And PVC.)

8. Fast or slow? Eeeeeeeaaaaaaaaasy does it. For me.

9. Rough or gentle? Could there maybe be a happy medium? How about roughly gentle? Naw. Fuck it. I like to do it rough (but pain-free).

10. Bite or suck?! Are you kidding me?! S-s-s-s-s-su-su-su-- I can't even say it, I like it so much. :-P But, of course, a well-timed (and placed...and pressurized) love bite is heavenly, too.

11. Role play or reality? I gotta say, I like a little role-playing. 'Tis fun, is what it is.

12. Dirty talking: coming or going? Coming. I feel like a fool when I mack my dirty talk. It makes me feel self-conscious and, Lord knows, one doesn't need to feel onstage when one is puttin' the biscuit in the basket.

13. Edible panties or no panties at all? I don't want to have to chew through a layer of frustration to get to the Promised Land. Plus, I have to think that they'd leave a sticky residue all over the bed and, thus, all over the bodies. I'm not a fan of feeling sticky. So, in summary, with a choice between no panties or edible panties, I'd have to go with no panties. The best answer, though, is the G-string. Plus! Isn't it fun to disrobe your lover? That's highly underrated.

14. Spanking paddle or bare hand? Definitely bare-handed spanking. If she's been a naughty girl, she'll have to be spanked, but I want her to know that it hurts me as much as it hurts her. Plus, come on. Why the hell would I waste a perfectly nice naked ass on a paddle when I have my hand, um, handy? Exactly.

15. Landing strip or Kojak? Telly south of the border. Who loves ya, baby? The less hair, the better, in my humble opinion. I'm not a fan of tonguing stray hairs out of my molars. (Wow, that sentence was just wrong on so many levels.) ;-)

16. Multiple sessions or one good fuck? Multiple one good fucks. 24 hours of sweaty, steamy, tantric, no holds barred, kinky, loving, transcendental sexual congress. (And then I'll wake up and realize that I am no Lothario. Whoever the fuck Lothario is. Jealous much, Adam?)

17. Moaning or screaming? I am partial to soft, heartfelt moans. It makes me feel that I'm doing a decent job.

18. Three-way or no way? Three-way, for sure. As long as I'm the only cock in the henhouse. Gosh, I get goosebumps just thinking about it. :-D

19. Swing or no swing? Schwing! That's as close as I'll get to that. No swinging for me, thanks. Ever since I traded Ron Guidry (his strike-shortened 1981 season) for Bill Gullickson and Ron Davis in Strat-O-Matic baseball, I've had an aversion to trading. And to trade significant others? That'd be madness. Madness, I say!

Okay. I'm done. This meme has left me in the mood to grab the KY and a napkin and fire up the ole DVD player but, since it is 2:30 in the morning and I am basically the walking dead, I think I'll call it night and dream of kama sutras and breasts.

Tag. Who do I tag? No pressure, play if want to and don't if you don't. Okay, I tag Meegie and Laura from Scotland.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008


So says Joe Pesci in one of the--if not the--greatest gangster flicks ever, Goodfellas.

Do you ever get the feeling that someone is looking at you and silently following a comedic interlude inside their head, in which you are the buffoonish lead act? I do. I don't get that feeling nearly as much as I used to, but I still occasionally want to leap onto the counter (or table, or chair) and burst into my Pesci imitation. "What? Do I fucking amuse you? What am I? A clown? Huh? You seem like you're having a grand old motherfucking time, there, laughing at my expense. No, that's cool. If I amuse you, that's just fucking dandy. But maybe you should pay me for being the clown act. Because I really wanna know: am I just a clown, here, goose-stepping around strictly for your motherfucking amusement?! Answer me, Henry!"

Okay. So I wouldn't call the person Henry...unless, of course, his name really was Henry.

[Henry is Henry for the Henry Hill in the movie Goodfellas, based off of the book Wiseguys, written by Henry Hill, a former member of a New York-based Mafioso Family to which he turned the screws and sang like a yellow parrot.]

I digress.

I bring this up because earlier tonight I went to the late-night liquor store to procure a pack of smokes. It was late, so I just threw on some brown slippers and, wearing my cobalt-blue pajama bottoms and a green sweater (and a knit hat and a brown leather jacket) I stepped carefully into the car and drove the block or three down the road. The kid in the store was sitting over by the cases of beer, talking to his buddy with the heavy eyelids, and when I walked in, he looked up and started towards the counter.

"How you doin'?" he asked, pleasantly enough, as I walked to the counter.

I said, hey, what's up, man, and something in his face changed. He went from open and ready to sell me my cigarettes to, in my opinion, tense and guarded. I asked for a "pack of American Spirits, blue," and he walked over to the cigarette section and grabbed my pack and brought it back to the register.

"That'll be [price redacted], sir," he said, all professional, now. As I gave him the money, I glanced up at him and saw him looking over at his friend and smirking. I've seen the look before. It's annoying. What the fuck about me is so gosh damned amusing, you son-of-a-pup?! Is it the slippers?! Get over it.

Anyway. I'm tired now. It'll be another night of short shitty sleep. I just felt the urge to relay this story to the masses. Why? Who knows. It just bugs the everlovin' shit out of me to be laughed at, or mocked, in any way. I'm pretty sensitive; it's a character flaw. Maybe I need to grow thicker skin. Maybe I need to sprout a duck's ass and just let the slights roll off the back like so much water. Whatever.

Current mood: Annoyed.


Monday, January 21, 2008


I am a fool when it comes to HTML. I know nothing about it. If you need evidence of this fact, just scroll down a bit and you'll see a free playlist that I slapped onto this weblog. It is red and it hangs out over the side of the, well, sidebar, and it looks like shit and Jimmy cracked corn and I don't give a flying shit. It looks like a 9-year-old was pounding away on the keyboard, but...Jimmy cracked corn, and all of that.

I tend towards perfectionism, so this abhorent display of "tweaking" the web site has my nose hairs curdling. If I looked in the mirror, I'd probably see steam coming out of my ears. I just a dummy or is this shit actually as difficult as I make it out to be? I think the former, unfortunately.

Maybe I need to change the type of template that I have. It is called a template, right? The screen around which I juggle letters of the alphabet and punctuation marks and sometimes numbers? Does anyone know what I did wrong?

I do have to change the template, don't I? I have to find a template that will accept this somewhat wide "playlist" thing.

Times of Archa, take me away!
Take me back to the time in which dudes with low brows and animal pelts for clothing chiseled shit onto stone tablets. Take me back to the quill and ink. Take me back to ballpoint pens, for Christ's sake (rice wine).

This binary jungle has me flummoxed.

Oh well. I hope that you like Hendrix and Mozart, Mega Death and Clapton.

Saturday, January 19, 2008


It's not what you think, really. I'm just saying that sometimes? sometimes it feels really damned good to just lay back down after awakening at a respectable hour and lose consciousness again until the hour is less than respectable. Waking up at 1230 hours? I haven't done that in far too long.

It's like a Beastie Boys sample that I have heard a million times: One guy says to the other, "You're stupid." The other guy says, "Eh-uh?" First guy: "You should sleep late, man. It's just much easier on your constitution."

I happily agree.

I awoke at 0826 and let the boys out and then blearily walked around the house, looking at things that I needed to do. The kitchen counter needs to be straightened up. I need to do a couple of loads of laundry. I need to leave this house and enter the blistering cold of January 19, 2007, Michigan, and venture to the grocery store to fill my Mother Hubbard cupboards that are so bare, I have not even a bone. (Sounds like a personal problem, but it ain't.) I need to...

I walked into the front room and saw Oliver and Louie laying blithely on the couch and I said, "You know? You guys have a good idea." I clambered aboard and leaned back against the arm of the couch, my legs sprawling diagonally across the warm puppies' bodies. Louie cast a baleful eye at me--it's his couch, after all--and Oliver shifted his little sausage body so that his sharp little Beagle nose was buried in the space between my hip and the back of the sofa. I jammed a throw pillow behind my head and--voila!--the Sandman blasted me across the head with a two-by-four of Sleep. I think I was sawing logs in under two minutes.

America! Join me in my laziness! Let us all be sloth-like! Tell Industriousness and Early Birdedness to "talk to the hand, bee-yotches!" Sleep in! It's just much easier on your constitutions!

As a speck of humanity in this vast teeter-totter o' Cyberland, I hereby declare on this, Saturday, January 19, 2008, when the temperature is about 15 degrees here in the Mitten state, "Sleep! Sleep as though your lives depended on it! Get nothing done! Give in to the narcotic of sleep! Relax! It'll only hurt for a second! Put off whatever needs to be done for another day! It'll still be there!"

As Marie Antionette was wont to say, "Let them use pillows!"
[Now, please to excuse me as I hypocritically go to get an oil change for my car.]

Sunday, January 13, 2008


I sit down in front of this damned thing, sometimes, and my mind is a whirl of half-created thoughts and jimmy-jozzins of ideas. Mental burps. Effective blog-writing speed bimps is what they are.
It is 5:59 in the morning. One would think that my brain would be ensnared in a morass of slowly-spinning neurons and confused synapses. Why am I pecking away at this keyboard when it's not even six o'clock on a Sunday morning? Because my bladder is more stubborn than I am.

I was IMing with my sis yesterday. IM time vacuums sure can be funny--and/or misleading--sometimes, eh? You know what IM time vacuums are. It's when you're electronically texting with someone and one of you might be a little quicker, a little more on the toes, than the other, and so answers to entries sometimes are two entries too late and so it ends up being a highly-confusing--and sometimes humorous and sometimes worrisome--conversation. As Billy Crystal might have said on SNL (back when it was watchable): "Oh! I haaaaaaaaate it when that happens."

What in God's name am I doing? It's 6:15 on a Sunday morning. I should be in bed, sawing logs. Not talking to myself in Cyberland. (And let's face it: often blogs are just that. Cerebral self-massage.)

What else? Ah, yes. My dogs came to me yesterday and informed me that they were "on the ticket in Oh-Eight." You can see their election poster here. I know what you're probably thinking. You're probably thinking, "What? No way! We can't have dogs occupying the most important positions" [sorta, if you discount lobbyists] "in the great Ewe Es of Aye! Dogs?!"
I can understand your apprehensions, but, really, is it that much of a stretch to have dogs in office after eight years of corrupt bumbling baboons? Naw. And, in my humble opinion, the further away we get from simians in office, the better. At least dogs have some integrity. Baboons walk around with pink-ass all day long. And they fling shit. And they beat their chests to a jingoistic rat-a-tat. And who needs that?

So vote Dawg in Oh-Eight, wouldja?

I think I may just stay awake now. Why not? People get up before the sun all the time. Hell, farmers make their living before the sun reaches its apex. Plus, I have a meeting on Sundays to which I have a hard time getting. It's at 10:00 and if I went back to sleep now, I'd probably sleep through it again. Yeah. Better just to stay up.
Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh. He said "stay up."

Tuesday, January 08, 2008


Well, I checked out the scale to-day and discovered that I have somehow lost about ten pounds, maybe more. I'm not quite sure how I have done it. I do know that I have been eating less, lately, and that I have been trying to start each day with a bowl of cereal. I've been trying to put at least something in my stomach in the morning. It is a widely-known fact that breakfast is often considered the most importante meal of the day.

Rumor has it that it kick-starts the metabolism.

Oh, and I've also been laying off the ice cream and the wanton sugar bombs such as candy bars and Hershey's syrup straight from the container. I have also eaten more fruits and vegetables than I had been. And the midnight toast snacks have been mightily curtailed. And I also have stopped eating just for the hell of it. Now I wait until I am shaky and can't see straight before I pop some food in my mouth. I'm kidding about that last part...sort of.

There was a study done recently that observed how the laboratory rat--that ole classic standby--did when it was allowed less food per day. If memory serves, the researchers had two groups of rats: one was allowed to eat to its heart's content and the other was fed basically just enough to get by. The first group had higher incidences of diabetes and heart disease and cancer while the second group retained their youthfulness for a longer period of time. What does that mean? I think it means that less food equates, for the most part, to better health.

And that is not a news flash, I know.

But, anyway, after losing around ten pounds, with another ten to fifteen to go, I think I'd like to ally myself with the second group o' rats.

Friday, January 04, 2008


Leroy was not fully aware of how much power the being had accumulated until he looked at the computer, at a picture of himself, and he noticed the malevolent inky black spread of the being, in binary starkness, from the middle of his back, from just below the shoulderblades. The image had not been there when he had taken the picture, of that he was certain.

Verily, viewed quickly, the Black Spread had reminded him of Fantasia, the part in which El Diablo had unfurled his massive black wings from the top of the mountain and had stretched them across the sky, blotting out the sun, rendering all below in shadow. The theme from the score echoed in his mind as his spine turned to ice: dum-duh-dum-duh-dum-dum-dum-dum dum-duh-dum-duh-dum-dum-dum-dum.... Images of the militant ghostly equestrians galloped across his mind and he wondered when he had gone wrong. Had he not tried to be morally and ethically beyond reproach? Had he not strove to live his life in adherence to the Golden Rule? Had it all been for naught? Had it?

He scratched a wooden ruler down his back, following his spine, and gasped as he ran the implement over the area at which, in the snapshot on the computer screen, the Black Spread originated. It was a singular sensation. The only thing to which Leroy could equate it was a slow melting drip of an ice cube, directly above the bone of his spinal column. That was not to say that it was an unpleasant feeling, though. Actually, quite the contrary. Rubbing the ruler against his back was directly proportional to the waves of pleasure that blossomed from his groin. The harder he scratched, the more powerful the pounds of pleasure.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to pull the ruler from his back and he threw it into the corner, breathing heavily, a heretofore innocuous means of measurement now seen in a different, much more malevolent, light. How was he to combat something that, instinctively, he knew to be evil, but that felt so damned good?

He and the Dark Prince were set to do battle. Back to back, they stood, the clock at high-up midnight, the battle for his spirit about to commence. How does one combat tidal waves of dopamine and seratonin, ill-begotten though they may be? Where does one start?

For the first time in a very long time, Leroy was afraid for his immortal soul.

And, on the computer screen, the Devil silently mocked him, blooming from his back like some inverse poisonous toadstool.

Tuesday, January 01, 2008


Resolutions...they're so cute, aren't they? Quaint, almost. I've already zoomed past quite a few of them. In fact, with each key stroke, I am further distancing myself from my dream of being "unhooked" from the wily Internet. I went to bed at three in the morning, maybe three-thirty, and I sit here typing with a cigarette smoldering in the assss-tray next to me. So that's at least three Rezzies to which I have held a silencing palm. On the plus side, last night when I went out, I had a [for the most part] vegetarian pizza. I say "for the most part" because I invited bacon to my half of the pizza pie. And why wouldn't I? Bacon is a cool dude. I didn't want him to feel left out, or anything. So I invited him to the shindig and then I ate him. "Bacon? Hello. I'd like you to meet my teef, I'd like you to meet my shiny white spades."

Bacon stood not a chance.

I am thinking of starting up a Flickr 365 project. You may be familiar with it. During the next 365 days, people involved with the "project" have to post a picture daily with at least a part of their body in the shot. I think I'll start today; maybe the piece of my body that I have in the snapshot will be my crank. Or...probably not. Maybe I'll just start with this one.

The picture that you see is me, sans color, methodically crushing seconds and minutes and hours in front of the Evil Computer as my wattles grow and my dogs take to chewing on things that they shouldn't be chewing. I think it was Timothy Leary who said, "Dude. Cut the cord, man. Release thineself from the 'Puter Politico."

On the plus side, it snowed last night, so there should be sleddin' in store today. Either that or copious--and I mean fucking copious--amounts of college football on the tube today.

Happy Two-Thousand-Eight, my dear partners-in-binary-addiction. May the new year bring color to our faces and strength to our constitutions.