versus Beauty Products

There are many many things in this world that I don't understand, such as: how tastebuds work, why water is wet, and when does the soul grow?  These are questions that science has tried to explain and I either just don't quite get it or I think its lying (Sorry, but I'm just not buying the idea evolution thought it was a great self-defense mechanism to give baboons big red asses; clearly evolution lost a bet and is too ashamed to admit it.).  And one thing that I particularly don't understand is feminine beauty products.  As far as I can tell, beauty products are one part common sense, two parts voodoo, and two parts science gone hay-wire.

Think about it, if you're eyes feel all puffy would you have said to yourself, "I should slap a cucumber on my face!"  Or, if your hair feels all brittle and listless would you make the mathematical leap of egg yolk = luxuriance?  Hell, if we take it one step further, just the very idea of soap seems outlandish.  I'm all dirty and muddy, I think I will boil me up some pig fat and smear it on my body.  That will feel sooo goooood!   I consider myself a man with a mind that can think of many odd things to do with my time but I can honestly say I wouldn't have thought of these.  (Although somebody did and I smell great!  Much to the delight of anyone within 30 yards of me!)  But there is one beauty product out there that baffles me beyond belief, that stretches crudulity so far that one could toss it over a tree limb and create a tire swing, that pulls the leg so violently that re-attachment surgery would need to be performed.  And that product is none other than:

Argan Oil.

Don't know what Argan Oil is?  I could tell you but you'll probably just accuse me of lying and throw your shoe at my face.  Okay fine, I'll tell you, but I'm waringin you: I'll be keeping any footwear that lands on or near me!  Argan Oil is a medicinal extract used in beauty products made from nuts...that have been eaten, partially digested and subsequently pooped out by tree-dwelling Moroccan goats, as shown above.  This is a real thing people, look at this site if you don't believe me: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Argan

I just don't understand how the this stuff was discovered?  I mean, its poop-nuts, who the hell picked that up and thought "skin care?"  First of all, I need to mention that the idea of tree-dwelling goats are just about the most awesome thing I've heard of in a long time and I have to give the Moroccans a lot of credit for inventing them.  (This is another one of those things I don't believe evolution when it tries to claim responsibility).  I don't know for sure how the goats became arboreal, but I like to imagine the legend goes something like this:

 Some years ago - perhaps as few as 50 years, perhaps as many as 1,000,000 -  there was this heard of goats that were often the target of the local teen-age boy tomfoolery - and Moroccan tomfoolery is particularly dastardly.  Late one summer night when all the boys were drunk and couldn't get dates (most likely, because the Moroccan girls only go for boys that torment cattle) they reached their rejection limit and made a solemn vow that they would all do whatever takes to get laid by prom night.  So, to help their plight, they decided to get rid of their most obvious tempatation and distraction and toss all the goats into the nearby Argan trees.  Once the goats were up there they just looked at each other and said, "Meh," and peed on all the boys heads in sweet, sweet revenge

But that still doesn't explain how somebody thought it would be a good idea to rumage around in their crap, find some partially digested nut, and rub it all over themselves.  It's a thought process that I just can't seem to follow.  Was it a dare or something?  Were two guys walking through the Argan grove, being watched by the goats above, when suddenly -              
                           (translated in a stunningly poor attempt from Arabic)

"Whoa!  Esteban, you nearly placed your foot in the excrement of goat!"

"Good God, you are correct Roberto!  Thank you, my friend Roberto!  May the blessing of saints be upon your family!"

"Esteban, would you care to create a wager for fun and/or amusement?"

"Naturally, Roberto. Fun with you is always fun. We are friends!"

"I wager you will not pick up that goat excrement and put in on your rash!  For fun and/or amusement!"

"That is disgusting and humorous, Roberto.  I must ponder.  What do I acquire if I defeat your challenge?"

"This torpedo."

"I accept!"

Meanwhile, the goats above continue to chew the leaves and nuts of the Argan trees and think, "Friggin' morons."

So, yeah, I guess I simply don't get beauty products.  And you know what?  I'm okay with that.

verus Poll #2: Dodgeball

Imagine, if you will, a playground.  A place where children come to run, to laugh, even, to frollick.  But that is not the only thing that happens on these grounds of play; a sport has been born here.  A sport of speed and quickness, reflexes and accuracy.  A sport that requires agility not only of the body but also, of the mind.  A sport in which size and power are not necessarily the keys to victory.  That sport is Dodgeball. 

Now, also imagine, lined up across you, over the line of 6 red rubber coated foam balls, are five of the most legendary characters ever to be assembled - plus the neighbor-kid from down the street because you need six players on a team - who want nothing more than to smack you in the face, daring you to Dodge!  They are: a kangaroo, well known and feared for its speed, agility, brutality and marsupial pocket of terror; the Michelin Man, his circular features and cartoon body belies a natural affinity for throwing round rubber things with devastating accuracy; Davey Crockett, the "king of the wild frontier," according to popular legend and lyrics, and is reknowned far and wide for his penchant for making hats out of his victims (that racoon he wears on his head was defeated in a game of cribbage); the Random Man from photo frames, he is athletic, toned, into a wide variety of sports, has a great smile and nameless because he has never let anyone live long enough to pass it on; and Mr. Miyagi, the most dangerous elderly person to ever live and attached to a mystique that is both deadly and unnerving because he can hop from foot to foot, teach skinny Italian boys to do the same and above all is ORIENTAL!!!

According to this survey, it was very close affair, though most of us were more afraid to be caught in a ball-flinging fight with a fictitious old asian person, though only marginally more so than a guy with a dead thing on his head, an animated cartoon, and a wild animal commonly found in Australia.  No one held any reservation for the guy in the photo frames because lets face it, he's in a photo frame and thus cannot move. 

versus Babysitting

I like kids, I really do.  They are such magical creatures capable of doing and saying anything at anytime as they come to grips with the world around them and the many odd, screwball, and just plain stupid things we “grown-ups” do.  I don’t have any children of my own, which is probably a good thing for the children population at large, but I do have more than a few nephlings and numerous friends similarly blessed and have, on occasion, been asked to spare a few hours here and there to watch over them.  As a man with the loving (I think) nickname of Goofy Guncle Gabe, I’m pretty much obligated to take up the challenge.
Now, I admit, I do have more than my share of nutball-ish characteristics – even more so when I write – but when it comes the welfare and safety of Little Ones in my charge, I am always very serious.  Yeah, I’m all for laughing as much as humanly possible and am usually willing to burst into horrific silly dances and allow my left hand abuse my own face if it will provoke an unrestrained giggle, but I am just as quick to pull 8” steak-knives out of their pudgy little fingers or drag them off the banister before they can dive off.  Still, I’m more useless than a helmet on a kamikaze pilot when it comes to an infant wailing harder than an air-raid siren simply because I am NOT HER MOTHER!
My first mistake in this fiasco was to allow the baby to physically watch her mother walk out the door.  It is a well known fact that you never ever EVER ever let a baby watch a parent leave, and you can add a couple hundred more “ever”s to that if the parent in question is the mother.  It is also a well known fact that you are supposed bring the baby into a completely sound-proof and windowless bunker that is a minimum safe distance 50 feet below ground to prevent any possible chance of seeing the parents leave, and preferably equipped with an air-filtration system that can eliminate any Mom-scent that an infants heightened “Mom Detection System” (aka – the 5 senses) has been known to pick up through 10 inches of concrete.  But, like the idiot I am, I actually waved her little hand at her mother and said, “Buh-bye, Mommy!  We are going to have soooo much fun!  Yay!” despite the fact that she was emitting a solid High C-note at 100 decibels.
Like any good babysitter, I offered her comforting coos and tried to strike up various babytalk conversations – “Ooobie woobie too boo?  Tubba moopie doo?  Wah wah choo!  Yay!” – but that didn’t work.  Then I tried zooming her around like she was a WWII open-prop fighter plane, firing her legs like the machine guns they had become, and destroyed countless Nazi made stuffed animals and teething rings.  Okay, I probably had more fun with that than she did, but I really thought it would work.
After a good while of the incessant screaming it occurred to me that perhaps she wasn’t merely angry that her mother left, maybe something else was at work.  So, I checked the usual items on the list:  Diaper was dry and free of poopie stink.  I couldn’t get her head to stop swaying back and forth with her shrieks long enough to get a bottle in her mouth, so she wasn’t hungry.  I held her up to the light and made sure there were no forks, chopsticks, or random plastic toys jutting out of her skin – Hey, babies do weird things when you least expect.  It seemed reasonable at the time.  There was no way I could tell if she had a fever at this point because she was straining so hard to cry I was half expecting her tears to fly from her eyes like little missiles meant to do me harm.  Nope, I had a completely inconsolable infant in my lap and I had no idea what to do next.
Ever seen those cartoons with a crying baby and they are drawn in such a way that all you can see of them is their nose, one tooth sticking out at a funny angle and a black hole with pink uvula bouncing around?  Yeah, that’s really damn accurate.
I decided I’d take the opportunity to look at this scientifically.  And I mean that literally.  I could practically see into her stomach, her mouth was that wide open.  I mean, I felt like I was seeing parts of human anatomy that weren’t meant to be seen without a gauze mask, sterile gloves and an army of trained professionals pointing things out:
“And if you look up here,” says a supremely knowledgeable doctor that, somehow, I hadn’t noticed before, “you can see the nasal passage, retinal nerves and cerebral cortex.”
“Neat,” says me.
“Yes, it is.  This is how we learned the human body back in the olden days before shows like Grey’s Anatomy or E.R.”
“Ah.” I say, unable to imagine such a world.  “What’s this down here?”
“What?  That green squelchy-looking thing?  That’s the spleen.”
“No, I know that’s the spleen,” I say, annoyed he thought I didn’t know what a spleen looks like.  “What is that weird little black throbbing thing sitting on top of that other bigger blobby pulsating thing?”
“Oh, the big organ is the kidney and that little black one is her adrenal gland.”
“It looks like its going haywire.”
“Well, she is crying like a banshee.  That takes some juice.”
“I see.  What happens if it explodes?”
“It won’t.  It’s only working at half capacity right now.”
“Oh.  Crap.”
This is when, with an almighty shudder, the baby grips the front of my shirt and pulls herself tightly around my neck as though she were going to punish me with hugs and I lost sight of the inner working of her body.  She somehow managed to crank up the volume to 120 decibels - which is louder than Speaker Seats at a rock concert – and I could actually feel a disruption in my logical thinking place or whatever its called.
Within seconds of holding the baby against my shoulder hers tears had completely soaked my shirt.  Actually, it wasn’t only tears…there was some snot involved.  In fact, there was probably a 3:1 snot to tear ratio happening here.  Where does all this come from?  And what purpose does it serve?  I was under the impression that nasal mucus was a viscous membrane designed to collect and trap dust particles to prevent them from traveling to the lungs and potentially cause infections.  But on a hysterically crying baby?  It just makes them all gooey!  Perhaps, it was to be a self-defense mechanism against certain types of predators, such as the Cheek-Pinching Neighbor.  And if you don’t wipe it up quickly enough it can harden in a kind of glue.  I’m quite sure there is a small Wyoming town without shade trees now because I needed them to make tissues, but I had to else her face would have permanently become fastened to my shoulder!  Her parents would have walked in the door and caught me using a spatula trying to pry their darling daughter’s features from my shirt.  No way am I going to try explaining that one.

So, with no other option, I grab the tissues and cleaned her up.  Or tried to, at any rate.  She wanted nothing to do with being clean, particularly if it meant removing a layer or two of her carefully arranged mucus mask.  Her only defense against me – and it was a powerful defense, mind you – was to take the volume up another notch, into the 140 decibel range, which, incidentally, has blown past the human threshold for pain (130 decibels) and gone right to the Military Jet Takeoff level.  Another 20 dbs and we’re looking at the instant perforation of the ear drum – but then again, another 20 dbs and that might be a blessing.
Okay, so now I’ve been enduring this auditory assault for who knows how long, my shirt is caked with slimy moisture and there is no let up in sight.  I don’t know what to do, because I’ve never dealt with anything like this before.  Normally I can get kids to be quiet and bemused if not entirely entertained with a well-timed Wacky Walk or exaggerate the pain caused from one of their High-Fives.  But I couldn’t even think properly anymore and I was reaching the point at which I just wanted her to be quiet.  What to do, what to do?
New plan: Sing to the baby!
Plan utterly fails.
I discovered 2 very important facts about how sound damages the brain.  First, it destroys all knowledge of good music and leaves you with the dregs of style and class, preventing you from thinking about and choosing the most appropriate song to whatever situation you are in.  Second, you don’t care; you are simply glad you can remember to say anything beyond, “The BELLS!   THE BELLS!!”  In this case, all my mind was left with was…*shudder, shudder*…Vanilla Ice.
She screamed all the louder and I can’t blame her.
Would nothing work on this child?  Nothing was wrong with her, she was simply crying like it was the end of the world because her mother was gone.  Wait a second…what if…what if she was right?  What if the world was ending?  I mean, right then and all she wanted was to hold her mommy one last time?  Why else would she be crying so hard?  Its not like she would lie about something like that, she was only a year old!  Do babies even know how to lie?  I don’t think so.  I mean, what could they gain by it?

Dramatization of Lying Baby

       “Why are you crying, Baby?” asked Mommy.
“Because I’ve gone and pooped my shorts!” replies Baby.
“Okay, let me change you.  Hey!  You’re diaper is clean!”
“I lied!  Ha HA!  I was really hungry but I fooled you!  Now powder my bottom again!”
“Fine, here’s a bottle, if you’re hungry.”
“Nope.  I lied again!  I’m neither hungry nor did I soil myself.  I need you to tickle me, right now!!”
“Fine…”
“Hee hee!  STOP TOUCHING ME THIS INSTANT!  I lied to you about wanting to be tickled.  I actually just diddled in my diaper.  Change me!!”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did, actually.  It’s quite soggy down there.”
“No, its completely dry.”
“I swear, I’m as wet as a lobster tank!”
“Shut up, Baby.”

See?  Nothing good comes out of a fibbing infant, so she must be telling the truth about the world ending!  Holy God, what do I do?  I…I need to call my mother!  She’ll know what to do!  Mom’s always know…that’s why they are moms!   Where’s my cell phone…no service!  Damn it!  I don’t want the world to end.  I don’t want to die.  I don’t want the last song I’ll ever sing to be “Ice Ice Baby!”  I’ll protect you baby, I won’t let you die!  I’m your babysitter, damn it!  We’ll get through this!
And so, that’s how the baby’s parents came to find me huddled in the bathtub with a saucepan on my head, rocking back and forth with their child in my arms and singing “Row, row, row your boat,” at the top of my lungs.
The sight of her parents produced a silence in the air it now felt like a void in the world.  She reached out to her mommy and they embraced like only a mother and child can.  Then, just before her father threatened me with pepper spray until I left and promised never to return, the baby smiled at me.
Awwwww…babies are so cute!

verus Poll #1: Dominant Hand

Well, the first week of the blog has come and gone; laughs were shared, tears were shed, and horses were shod.  I've exposed parts of myself that, while not the parts for which I could get arrested, are generally best left kept under wraps.  But too late now!  They are out there, blowing in the wind like so many other things that blow in the wind, like leaves and empty grocery bags caughts in a draft and - if the wind happens to be part of a tornado - barns.

Aaaanyway, lets move on, mainly because my "backspace" key is broken.

I have here the results of last weeks poll, asking people with which hand to they write.  The findings were surprising.  88% of people polled said they write with their right hands, meaning they are regarded as enlightened beings to the monkey population at large.  I feel confident that you will all join me when I say, 'Wow, monkeys are silly.'  We had no one admit to being left-handed, and therefore a ninja, but I suppose those who in fact are martial-assassins you would not want your identities exposed, so that's okay.  Neither did we have any ambidextrous Kryptonians nor illiterate mind-reading carnies, so good for you!  We did have one brave soul to come out and admit they were G'bort!  And to that individual, I salute you as the new High Commander.  May you lead your people into a future that is greater, brighter, and velvety-softer than any future that has come before it in the past of tomorrow.  Huzzah!

Well, see ya later!

versus "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies"

My dear good sirs and ladies,

I have just had the most delighful of priveleges to have listened to a truly superb audio rendition of a novel bearing the title, "The Heirloom Edition: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Now With Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem!" Written by such an esteemed and, dare I say, legendary novelist Jane Austen and comparative newcomer, though no less talented, Seth Grahame-Smith, and read by Katherine Kellgren with such edifying elegance that all compliments such directed unfailingly pale to the experience of listening for oneself.


Where does one begin reviewing such a singularly pleasing and compelling novel? The asinine answer to such a query would undoubtably be, "at the beginning," but a novel of this character needs a more dutiful and thoughtful examination. A point should be made early on, in such a discourse, to direct the mind to a feature of such great import that it very well serves as the crux of the writing, and I shall endeavor to illuminate it thusly: a contemporary author (the above mentioned Mr. Grahame-Smith) has taken a beloved novel written by Ms. Austen, who has predeceased him by some 200 years, and so seamlessly added the presense of brain-devouring undead to the narrative. Careful attention must be paid to the fact that Mr. Grahame-Smith accomplishes this unorthodox feat with such deftness that one can scarce detect the intrusion and despite the unholy nature of the abominable beasts found throughout there is not even a hint of desecration to soul of the classic work. All due acclaim and adoration must be given the American gentleman for his execution of this task, where even the slightest misstep could rendered the entire prospect utterly baseless and bereft of merit. But succeed he did, much to the delight of literary minded people the world over. And lo, has even gone so far as to so thoroughly encompass my thoughts and musing that mine own written word has taken on the hue of their speech. I do find it most agreeable to put words to paper - such as it is - in this manner.

Now, one must speak to nature of the piece and my disposition toward it. On the whole, I can heartily recommend to any and all who wish to have their thoughts engaged simulateously with beautiful prose and brutish battles. The casualness and common tenor with which the author injects the manky dreadfuls does great justice to the whole of the work, allowing for the original's unfailing pretension to carry on and is perhaps thus enhanced. At no point does one feel the need to question the authenticity of the mysterious plague, for not one of the characters therein find cause to wonder, it simply is as the country is. One does allow that reflection upon the story afterwards can stir ponderings on the origins of such all-encompassing devastion to the isle of Britain, or how the population of London and her surrounds can continue to spew forth the sorrowful beasts even whilst our protagonists behead them by the score, but in the actual course of reading all such valid concerns are lost to the conscious mind.

Appreciaive though I am of the prowess of Ms. Austen and her skill with quill and parchment to create fulfilling characters, I must confess that for mine own tastes I would have found the tale wanting without the  unrivaled bladework of Ms. Bennett and her sisters or the harsh and soulless moans filling the countryside with promises of unquiet death. Too much aristocracy, forced civility, and properness otherwise fill the plot to a level of which mine own sensibilities could not reasonably comprehend and maintain high interest. Having never had the priveledge of taking in any unmodified versions of Ms. Austen's works through my schooling this rendition has been the sole source to which I've been exposed, and, though it might be considered ill of me to say so, am honestly gratified for such a distinction.

Also, I cannot dare to speak of enjoyment garnered from this novel in its written form, for these eyes have not perused the pages themselves, but there are no recommendations high enough to be made of the audio version I have so very much enjoyed, and for that much credit must be, and shall with no hint of prejudice, given to the grace and cadence of Ms. Kellgren.

In summation, "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies," is a greatly enjoyable work and do suggest the prompt and dutiful reading of it at your earliest convenience. Four stars of the night sky shall shine brightly and full of pride over this novel and the fifth is visable, though not entirely on the scale of its brothers.

Sincerely,
Your Ever Faithful Servant
Gabe

versus Writing

One of my friends – possibly you reading this right now – once asked me, “What do you get out of writing?  You sit in your room for hours at a time, poking your head out every now and then to pee or raid the fridge.  Often times you are in a bad mood, shun daylight, and give the cat uncalled-for dirty looks.  And then you never let me see what you’re working on.  So, really, what do you possibly hope to gain from putting yourself through all that?”

Well, Friend, what do I hope to gain? In a perfect world: Superpowers.  I’m going to make a concerted effort to gain some sort of ability during the writing of this little essay, and hopefully, by the time I’m done I will be ready to don a cape and a mask.  Is it realistic of me to hope for this to actually work?  Probably not, but hey, nothing ventured is nothing gained right?  Why NOT superpowers?  I will give you periodic updates.

But, naturally, there are a few less ambitious reasons why I like to write, not the least of which is your basic, garden variety, deep-seated, nigh-pathological need to make things up.  Some people might refer to this as “lying,” but those are people I might refer to as “morons.”  I consider myself an honest person – unless, of course, I could gain something by dishonesty like a new car or a spot closer to the front of Starbucks line – and the idea of someone calling me a liar simply because what I’m saying can’t be verified by facts or other such contrivances really gets my spellchecker in a twist.  I like to think of my telling of falsehoods more of an exploration of all possibilities in any given situation than a malicious attempt to mislead.  It’s more of a good-natured attempt to mislead.  Occasionally, yes, some possibilities I explore are less likely than others, but that’s where the fun lives, right?  Can I get an Amen?

Superpower update:  Hmm...I'm clearly not super-strong, my bed failed to move an inch when I tried lifting it one-handed.  Blast!

One problem that I seem to have, is controlling said penchant for making things up. All too often, if I’m not paying close enough attention, I will suddenly find my own mind wandering down the corridors of make-believe – usually without informing me of this decision – poking and prodding everything in sight and generally making a nuisance of itself.  Luckily, I’ve developed a technique – known as Second Sight (kind of sounds all cool and supernatural, right?  Oh yeah!) – that allows me do what I was doing before AND indulge in the jaunt to the inner recesses of my mind.  I must stress that this is different from day-dreaming in that I can function at a very high level during one of these episodes.

 Superpower update:  I just ruled out two powers!  I threw myself at my wall and did NOT stick to it as hoped.  As a result, I banged my knee very hard and it is swelling up, thus proving I have not acquired any sort of Enhanced Healing ability.  I need some ice.

This Second Sight process I employ is a common skill among the people of Northern NH where I grew up.  You see, up there, there is usually nothing to do.  Ever.  Except maybe to shovel snow 9 to 10 months out of the year and hunting – which consists mainly of sitting in the snow, while holding a gun, instead of moving it.  So, as a people, we can do many tasks while letting our brains go off and enjoy themselves, but in my particular case I make up wild scenarios with only the most tangential relationship to what is going on in the moment.  I’ve perfected my technique so well that I can even carry on basic conversations while using my Second Sight.

Superpower update: My frustration has grown deeper.  I cannot move at the speed of sound, nor can I create fire with only my thoughts.  I can't even see through walls!  I mean, I thought x-ray vision was supposed to be one of the lowest powers on the totem pole!  Hope is fading...and my knee still hurts.

Here is an example of a typical Second Sighted conversation:
     Random Man:  Great weather, isn’t it.
     Gabe:  Yeah, it is.  Best day of the year so far.
     Gabe’s Brain:  Holy Jeebus!  Look at the size of that dude’s mustache!  It looks like he snorted two feather-dusters!
     Random Man:  A bit windy though.  I was hoping to go to the shore, now I’m not so sure.
     Gabe:  Were you going to go sailing?  It would be a nice day for sailing.
     Gabe’s Brain:  With a mustache like that, this guy better have a great name.  Like, Harold, Lord of Lip Plumage or perhaps, Gregorovitch , the Last Samurai of Face Braids.  Oooh!  Maybe the mustache ITSELF has a name.  It looks like a Petey, to me.

     Random Man:  No, I don’t have a boat. I really want one though.  Or at least a jet ski.
     Gabe:  I hear ya, man.  Jet skis are the best.
     Gabe’s Brain:  I bet Petey goes off and does things when he goes to bed; there is no way a prime specimen of luxuriant facial hair like that doesn’t have a night life.  I can see Petey now, sitting in a dark shadowy booth in the corner of some high-end nightclub, each shiny curl wrapped tightly around the waist of a giggling underage supermodel and each stroking his silky strands.  I bet he would get free drinks and everything, he’s that cool.
     Random Man:  I’d either get jet skis or one of those pontoon boats.
     Gabe: I’ve partied on one of those!  That’s living the high life.  You can barbeque in the middle of a lake then hop into the water to cool off.
     Gabe’s Brain: “Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting! A  Mus-Tache sighting!”  That would totally be Petey’s theme song!  I wonder what his signature dance move would be?  Something in the Break-Dancing family, no doubt.  Probably tie himself in a knot, then spin around on the floor so fast that before you knew it, Petey’s doing the worm and everybody is cheering and chicks are throwing their bras at him.  Man, Petey rocks!
     Random Man:  Well, I have to go now.  Have a good day!
     Gabe:  You too, Petey!
     Random Man: Huh?

Superpower update:  Depression has set in...no laser vision...no ability to communicate with animals, bugs, or sea-creatures...I can't even levitate myself...hell, I can't even walk to the friggin' bathroom without limping.  There are only two powers left to try:  the ability to fly and invulnerability.  I am not ashamed to admit that fear and doubt are making me stall in the testing of these last two.

 You see?  This is what I have to deal with nearly every minute of every day of my life.  The above conversation was a complete work of fiction but it is something that would probably go through my head and it just goes to show you that my mind will do anything to amuse itself – I mean, c’mon, Petey the Break-Dancing Mustache?  That’s…that’s something I should develop a bit further…but not here.  I’m trying to tell you why I write.  Bottom line is that if I don’t write these things down they would overflow the shallow depths of my mind, spill into my general consciousness and attempt to escape to freedom through my mouth and could very well destroy the world as we know it!  I can’t be responsible for that kind of devastation.

Superpower update:  HAHA!  I've done it!  I've actually gained a superpower!  For those of you that have read this thing all the way to the end you have effectively given me control over your minds!  Haha!  I have mind control powers!  WAHOO!  Now, my faithful minion, I want you to bring me cheese!  Lots and lots of cheese!  That's it...the cheddar, yes, very good....

versus Blogs

Welcome friends and family, tangental acquaintences and mortal enemies, to my blog.  Yes, I'm sure most of you knew that sooner or later I would in fact create my own internet based forum for thoughts, musings, and my personal brand of ponderings (read as: stupidity) because I am nothing if not a follower.  Which is actually how I came to own a grizzly bear, 3 acres of air-space above the Bermuda Triangle, and a leotard; other people were doing it and suggested I should as well - though it turns out they were just joking about the leotard.  Anyway, here I am, putting my wild and whimsical thoughts (read as: insane ideas) to digital paper. Boy, are you guys in trouble. So, what can be expected from this blog o' mine?  I'm thinking you'll probably get a smattering of social commentary (such as me wondering what shows like "My Super Sweet 16" and Shark Week says about us as a culture) a handful of movie reviews (such as me wondering who the hell green lit 4 "Fast and Furious" movies...4!!!) and a whole buttload of me making stuff up!  Which I tend to do alot.  Watch, I'll do it right now by making up a new word!  "Infoplode  - verb - to learn something about which you neither needed nor cared to know.  Example Usage: By reading the above sentence you just infoploded."  Um...sorry.  Very few things I make up are beneficial to mankind or the universe in general. Someone once told me I shouldn't refer to it as "making stuff up" but rather that I "create" because, quite simply, it is classier that way.  I couldn't agree more.  But, lets face it, I'm a guy who once thought of a new full-contact sport that revolves primarily around going up to random females at the mall, pointing at them and shouting "Wow, do those jeans make your ass look huge!" and then trying to make it to the exits before they and/or their boyfriends catch you.  It's great for the cardio-vascular system, but absolutely horrible for your karma.  So, I really don't have any right to the term classy at all. Besides, I own a T-shirt that says "I make stuff up," so I'm kind of stuck with it.

Now that I'm actually writing a blog I realized I have no idea what the hell a blog is.  I mean, it sounds like a word that my niece use to say before she was old enough to know that the noises she makes can be used for communication.  Just say the word: blog.  Weird, huh? So, I decided I better figure out precisely what I'm attempting to do before I do it.  I don't want to look like an ass, afterall.  Countless hours of research later (0.016 actual hours) I found out some pretty astounding information.

The very first blog was actually created by none other than King Louis the XIVth of France in 1673 at the Palace of Versailles.  The Franco-Dutch War had been raging for a little over a year and the Sun King was growing weary of managing the war, putting up with sycophantic toadies of the aristocracy, and eating nothing but french food.  His was a gentle soul and liked nothing better than to write his royal thoughts in his royal diary bedecked, as it was, with royal unicorns.  But he never had time!  Despite the sign he hung on his door that read, "Lou's Room! Keep out!  This means you!" people would constantly interrupt him for silly things like the burning of another French controlled city.

Finally, one day Mr. the XIVth just needed a break and stole away to le salle de baines (or le bathroom) and hid from all his courtiers.  With his eminent bottom firmly in place atop his favorite loo just off the Hall of Mirrors, he saw a pile of neatly stacked papier toilette (do I really need to translate this one for you?).  It is important to note that as advanced as they were in the seventeenth century, people had yet to discover how to roll thin paper around small cardboard tubes; instead next to each stall was a large tome of parchment with which occupants could tear out pages and use to clean themselves.  (Due to the coarseness of vellum on their "personal space", the French consequently invented the bidet in 1710 which shoots a jet of water up their butts...then dried themselves off with the vellum still sitting in their stalls. (Odd fact: bidet is the french word for "pony."  Why did they name their genetalia-cleansing water spout after tiny horses?  Because they are French.))

Wait...where were we?

Oh yes, the "ordained by God" King Louis sitting on his "throne", desperate to get his auspicious thoughts down on paper...and there just happens to be a nice stack of it sitting on the floor not really doing anything.  So, seized by a fit of imperial inspiration, the King whips out his quill (not a euphemistic quill, by the way) and jots down the following, potentially accurate, message, "L'Espagne est un pays plein de Dweebs stupide!!" (Spain is a country of stupid dweebs!!) and leaves, feeling satisfied on many levels.

The next day when he returned to his favorite stall he found the following note scrawled beneath his own stately hand-writing, "Dood, U R 2 funE!"  Bouyed by this poorly written and mostly empty adulation, the King wrote another message - this time perhaps offering base comments on the relationships of British sailors and their mothers.  And again, people responded to the note with fervor!

Within a few days, the King found that more and more courtiers were leaving his regal presence to "powder their nose" or "visit the pool" or "take a dump."  Soon he heard whispers near the water fountain about how excited people were to see the latest post of "le salle de baines log," because it was so clever and funny and insightful. It didn't take long for its name to be shortened to "le baines log," and finally abbreviated all the way down to "blog."

Then other monarchs took up the fast growing fad, such as Charles II of England and William III the Prince of Orange, who incidentally was the first man to write the timeless poem, "Here I sit all broken hearted...," on the wall of his stall.  More historical persons to continue the tradition of "blogging" include Queen Elizabeth II, Abraham Lincoln, Marcell Marceau, Dianna Ross and Alf, thus paving the way for countless of thousands of billions of people across the globe to create their own.

Wow, isn't history amazing!  Blogs were originally created while the august and supreme Sun King was bored sitting on the crapper...

Which, I guess, explains why this blog is so full of shit.  C'est la vie!