I Wanna Make Love in this Showbiz Pizza

Amusing Cake-Related Photo of the Day

Girls and Dolls

I've always been fascinated by the unbelievable complications of the human brain and all the weird things that people do simply because they're compelled to. I'm not speaking specifically about the mentally ill, but their addled attempts to interact with the world by covering dead squirrels with mustard and putting them in people's mailboxes are always a welcome respite from the humdrum of daily life. I'm talking about the bizarre, ridiculous and creepy ways people, who are otherwise normal, functional members of modern society, seem to express the animalistic feelings, desires and impulses we humans are forced to endure and interpret with our big, modern logic-seeking minds.

We can start small, with a subject I've bored you all with many times in the past. It's to do with the brains primary function gone haywire: pareidolia. This is the brain's attempt to take any and all stimulus and form it into a cohesive image or message, even when none exists. This phenomenon has formed the basis of our inquisitive human nature, but also makes us easily fooled, this why you hear all the stories about the face Jesus appearing on Google Maps or Allah's name showing up on the label for Burger King ice cream. Pareidolia can even be fun:



Is it a duck or a rabbit? The fact is, it's neither, but your brain takes all the appropriate bits it recognizes about both and tries to make a decision, which can't be done.

The brain is an amazingly complex and extremely flawed mechanism, and when all of this raw computing power is filtered through the twists and turns of an enigmatic, counter-intuitive and paradoxical society, well now we're cooking with gas.

Society, fashion, tradition, values, these are all considerations that we take into account when we interpret data, and make decisions for ourselves about the way we live our lives. Of all the impetuses we feel, of all the desires we have in the most carnal and primitive corners of our brains, the desires we feel for sex and procreation are by far the most powerful, the most complicated, and the most ceaselessly frustrating.

There is, perhaps, no better indicator of the extreme nature of these feelings than those individuals that choose to opt out of the whole game. Take, for example, the purchasers of one of the most creep-tastic products available: The Realdoll. The Realdoll is a super-realistic (and pornographically expensive) doll that men purchase for drama-free sexual relief. Think of it as a $6,500 wanking machine.



While the Realdoll may be nothing new to you, let me introduce you something, perhaps, even creepier, The Reborn Baby.



The desire to procreate, and all the inherent nuances, drama, taboos, social stigmas, restraining orders, highest of highs and lowest of lows involved, are by far the most intense we as humans are forced to endure for the past and future success of the species. For some people, this can just be too much to bear, and in classic modern fashion, seek a better and less complicated solution from technology.

Both of these extremely creep-tastic products appeal to the same physical and psychological desperation of their consumers, albeit the disparate male and female versions thereof. It has to do with the anguished expression of those very biological imperatives of sex and procreation, but thanks to technology, now attainable by people who are unwilling or incapable of making the necessary investment or commitment to achieve such things in reality.

It's obviously a gross simplification to chalk it up to "men fuck things, women care for things," but these two products actually make a pretty good case. The point is, we all face desires to do things we're supposed to do, like have sex and care for babies, but like anything that's filtered through the modern human brain, sometimes the messages get mixed up.

As a fan of human nature, these two things appear to me as two side of the same fucked up human coin, latex approximates to serve the deep-seated desires with which we contend, but without all the mess and fuss of actually having to interact or care for another person. It's a classic psychological shield: I make no investment, I won't get hurt. A plastic woman won't tell you that you're not a great lover, or step out with another man and a plastic baby will never grow up, and will never leave you.

However, some manner by which people sidestep their fundamental biological desires are worse than others. Trying my best to not sound misogynistic (a battle I face each and every day) I'd like to try and make the case why women who heap maternal love and affection onto inanimate objects is worse than men who fuck plastic women.

Men fuck things, and not ll of these things are necessarily human women. The desire to jam your penis into anything and everything is a desire with which we men have been forced to battle since time immemorial. It's natural and it's always more of a burden than a joy, but it's part of the package (pun intended.) Women, on the other hand, are much more complex creatures, dealing with many more complex emotions and desires. A man fucking a doll, while discomforting and extremely strange, is just a manifestation of our gender's limitless sexual needs in the rare situation of living alone, and possessing disposable income.

On the other hand, an adult woman who heaps maternal affection and care onto a plastic baby is not just creepy, it's a waste. Even crazy cat ladies are providing care, love and attention to living things that can actually benefit and return that affection. A woman exercising her maternal instincts on a inanimate object is like pouring water down the drain during a drought. The best part of being a human is that our brains are wired to reward us when we do things that are good for us and other people: it feels good to work out, it feels good to eat food, it feels good to make love, and it feels good to help other people. I simply refuse to believe anyone could get as much satisfaction loving a doll, which is vastly different than simply fucking a doll.

I suppose I could try to get some external input on this quite rattled and rambling post. Fucking a doll, or mothering a doll: which is creepier?

Schrodinger's Splat

The theory of Schrodinger's cat is a paradoxical thought experiment wherein a cat is placed in a box with a Geiger counter, a sealed flask of airborne poison and a small amount of radioactive material. The mechanism is designed in such a way that if the radioactive material decays, the Geiger counter will detect it, activating the mechanism that will shatter the glass and kill the cat.

Quantum mechanics has always been above my pay grade, but as I understand it, the theory was designed to illustrate its limitations. The point is that as long as the box is sealed, there exists an unlimited number of possibilities within it. The unobserved cat, which may or may not be conscience, is simultaneously alive, dead and everything in between. Inside the box, all possibilities and probabilities exist, insulated from time and space. In the box, there exists a dead cat, a living cat, sixteen copies of Henry Kissinger's Harvard transcripts, a headlight from 1974 Dodge Dart, an empty copy machine toner cartridge, the holy grail, and just about everything else.

The point of the experiment (as far as it's been explained to me by very good-bearded scientists) is that outside of human observation, all probabilities exist paradoxically. By the act of observation, we inject the variable probability of ourselves into the infinitely complex equation, changing the results. In this theory, the act of opening the box kills or rescues the cat, not the poison.



The fetching Mrs. Sonnier and I are scheduled for our first "anatomical ultrasound" today. Yes, another post about baby-related insecurities, you're no doubt groaning. The fact is, this is about the most monolithic thing going on in the world today, so you can just shut it.

There exists, in Mrs. Sonnier's abdomen, all probability of things. Granted, it's most probably a baby boy or girl, but, though improbable, it could also be an octopus, the DVD special edition of C.H.U.D., or a ziploc bag filled with paper clips and stale Fritos.

Despite the clear 50/50 probability of human male or human female, I can't help but be flabbergasted that one of the two has to be true. By the very act of observation, everything will change. The very act of narrowing the list of probable names from two to one, will change the outcome of every action I take for the rest of my life. There exists in that container all things, all manners of joy, grief, responsibility and possibility.

There exists in that container my first and most important contribution to the world, and once the nature of that thing is observed, the nature of everything else will change.

UPDATE

It's an anatomically perfect baby girl.

By Any Other Name

In the early days of our species, before civilization reared its ugly head, names were almost unnecessary. Humans lived in small family tribes and only occasionally interacted with others outside that unit. Language was minimal, and people, if they did have a name, were typically known by defining features. “One-arm,” or “Father of many” or “Penis-nose” were standard names for individuals. Then came the obvious “Son of Penis-Nose,” and so on and so forth. As the seeds of civilization began to bloom, tribes became larger, and cities sprang up along trade routes, people and families became known by their occupations: Baker, Smith, Hancock and the like. As commerce became more and more important, as did personal property, and natural resources. The combination of natural resources and personal property leads inevitably to conflict.

It’s been said that civilization emerged when a group of people who spoke similar languages decided to come together and defend themselves and their property. Once that happened, it was time for more specific names. In the barbaric and oft idiotically idealized “time of chivalry,” armor was what kept a fighter alive. Unfortunately, armor also hid the fighter’s face. In order to identify himself and the family from whence he came, knights and the like began carrying standards displaying the symbols of their names. It was this tradition that is attributed with the catalog and importance of familial names.

In more superstitious times, it was believed that to know the true name of a person or a thing, was to have power over it. It was believed that to know the name of a spirit or a demon, for instance, gave one the power to summon it from the shadows and command it to do one’s bidding. Once can easily see the roots of this superstition, because there is not power greater than the one who names a thing. We name pets, boats, and we also name children.

The fetching Mrs. Sonnier is expecting in only an armful of months, and one of the innumerable responsibilities associated with that eventuality is determining the name of the child. One would think that once the sex is determined, choosing a name would be much easier, when in fact it just brings the list of choices from one hundred million to fifty million. Narrowing our choices to two has been a most impossible task. Elise likes classic names, yet won’t commit because they’re on the rise in popularity right now. I, on the other hand, like contemporary names, such as those of characters from Transformers, Thundercats and popular pornographic films of the eighties. As you can see, we just don’t see eye to eye.

This is a huge thing, let’s make no mistake. The proper naming of a child is part and parcel to their proper care, and delicacy is imperative. However, I’m beginning to realize this is just a symptom of a larger issue. Very soon, we’re going to be parents to a helpless baby, a fact which fills me with equal amounts of dread and elation. Having never even met the little guy, I’m already starting to feel the creeping instinct of protection. Its cliché, but everyone wants the best of everything for their children, and an obvious first step is giving them the perfect name.



Take for example, the dashing young Almighty Supremebeing Allah of West Hartford, Connecticut. You see, his parents really, really loved him, and saw fit to give him the most amazingly perfect name that one could imagine. If we named our kid Almighty Supremebeing Allah, it would just seem kitschy and lame. It seems like all the good names, like Nevaeh, Pilot, Apple, Trout, Nacho, and Zenya Zulu Butterfuly Wallace are all taken. I even found out that Asswipe Johnson isn’t even up for grabs anymore. Neither is Sunshine Megatron.

We can’t even have Talulah Does The Hula From Hawaii, and that was number three on a very long list.

Everyone wants the same thing from a name: something recognizable that most people at the DMV will be able to pronounce, but not something that seven other kids in his class will have, but also not something pretentious or made up like Jaydon or Kristobell. (Sorry Jaydon and Kristobell, your parents are retarded)

Despite everything, I’m still just scared. Names are important, and to name something is indeed a manner of having power over that thing. In just a few short weeks, we’ll be finding out if it’s a boy or a girl (or the “hamburger or hot dog test,” as they call it in the ultrasound industry, yes, they do have quite the sense of humor…) and then the process of actually coming up with a name will begin its journey towards full stride. Once this little thing has a name, that’s when my power and responsibility as a parent will come into real focus, and that’s a terrifying prospect.

What’s in a name? A hell of a lot, as it turns out. It’s what you’ll be yelling loudly when you find a permanent marker drawing of a ninja turtle on the kitchen cabinet, it’s also the name that will be standing forefront in your mind as your wife squeezes your hand as she pushes the little bugger into the world. It’s a daunting task, picking a name, but it certainly won’t be the last, I just hope we can get off to a good start.

The Creature Stirs...

The air is still, the only sounds are of spiders creeping across the stone walls of the underground cavern. Light struggles to break though the few cracks and windows, but dust and gossamer choke it to a wisp. The cold, musty room is the picture of neglect, and of death. Death comes to mind as one’s eyes settle on the coffin situated in the middle of the room.

No decoration or adornment, blanketed with filth, the crypt sits silently as the dust flits through the occasional ray of light. One is impressed with a feeling of timelessness, as if the inexorable motion of the earth has no effect here, as if one is stranded on an island frozen and unaffected by the rushing waters of days gone by.

The silence weighs heavily and cautiously, like a beast in slumber, and seems as if it will remain forever. Yet suddenly, the silence is broken. The sound is a rustling, far more audible than the scraping of rats or the scurrying of spiders. The sound is coming from within the coffin. A muffled knock is heard and the origin confirmed. There is something in the coffin, and that thing is alive.

Scratch, scrape, knock. The thing inside the coffin begins to move with a greater regularity, as if probing the interior of the box for a latch, or a hole, some nature of escape. Scratch, scrape, knock. The thing in the box is becoming more desperate and frustrated. As suddenly as it had broken, the silence is returned. An hour passes, maybe a day?

The hinges of the coffin scream in dry protest as a set of thin, dessicated fingers scrap around the lid. The hand attached to those fingers pushes the lid up, exposing the creature that lives inside. The corpse coughs and a cloud of dust is expelled from its mouth, the creature rasps. It grips the sides of the coffin and slowly stands erect, the filthy gown that clings to its thin, brown frame is dotted with rotten holes and cakes of dust.

The creature looks at you. Its yellow eyes fixed on yours, and it steps from the coffin and begins to move towards you. You are paralyzed by fear, as the creature reaches one bony hand toward you and opens its foul mouth to say...

No, I’m not dead, I’ve just been really busy lately. This stake protruding from my chest is just itchy. I don’t want to call this a resurrection of OTR, as that would infer a prior death, but let’s just say that my unscheduled and unannounced hiatus has come to a close. The door to the OTR Institute has had its hinges oiled, the floor has been swept and a fresh pot of coffee was put on in the break room.

Welcome back everyone (especially you Mom).

If you must know the details of my recent adventures, I’ll keep it short. I am thankfully no longer working out-of-state and now have the privilege of spending each and every night with the loving and fetching Mrs. Sonnier. This situation is made all the more rewarding by the fact that the fetching Mrs. Sonnier is now heavy with child. Despite the fact that careful mathematics indicates that I was somewhere on the upper East Coast and she was likely traipsing around France when this tiny miracle occurred, I will reserve my skepticism until the appropriate test results are available. Until then, we could not be happier, and I could not be more terrified.

Again, if curiosity had taken you by delicate bits, I will relate that the fetching Mrs. Sonnier is a little less than fourteen weeks progressed, and is expected to deliver our little bundle of oi! in late Winter 2009. While I have no pictures to post, (our one and only ultrasound photo looks like a shell-less oyster in profile), composite artists believe he looks something like this:



As my life takes on a more adult flavor, cigarettes and jello shots become a thing of the past, and my concern over the current state of the lawn becomes more forthright in my mind, I hope to have more time to devote to this forum. Though the number of people who partake in my semi-regular diatribes can be counted on James Doohan's right hand, it is an extremely cathartic exercise with the added advantage of keeping the hands away from the genitals.

Salutations to all, and godspeed.

I Never Come Up With The Good Ideas

New Wearable Feedbags Let Americans Eat More, Move Less

You Can Tell By The Looks On His Face...

...that it's totally true.

Mom, I Know You're There.

best of craigslist > austin > Mom, I know you're there.

Originally Posted: Tue, 11 Mar 16:38 CDT
Mom, I know you're there.
Date: 2008-03-11, 4:38PM CDT


Mom, I know you’re out there, reading this.

How do I know you’re out there?

Let’s begin with that ad of mine that you recently responded to, shall we? You know the one I’m talking about. It was entitled, “Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?—m4w--22” That ad ran for three days before I got a response, and I can’t tell you, Mom, how my heart fell when I saw the photo that accompanied the response. It was your Realtor’s headshot, the one on your business card. Even worse was the text of your response. I’m so, so sorry I know now what you’d do to me if we ever “hooked up.” On the other hand, Dad must’ve been a very, very lucky guy back in the day. I dunno, maybe he still is.

I guess, Mom, when I think a bit about it, that I should resign myself to whatever it is that you are doing. After all, you’re an adult and I’m an adult. I can’t tell you what you should do with your life.

But Mom, I’d like to raise a few points.

The first point I’d like to raise is that you’re still married to Dad. Please, please PLEASE tell me that you have his blessing. My mind is reeling now, hoping that you’re not the people who posted “Fun Couple Looking For Others—MW4MW—57” I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that it is you. Now that I know you’re cruising CE, I suspect that there aren’t too many other 57 year old swingers from the Westlake area posting on Craigslist.

The second point I’d like to raise is that you owe it to whoever you’re trying to hook up with to be honest. I mean, I lived with you and Dad for 18 years. You’re not that fun.

Finally, I’d like you to stop responding to my “College Stud Needs a MILF—m4w—22” ads. The only one who should find you to be MILF-y at all is Dad. For me, you are just an “M”. Got it?

Your son.

PS. I’m going to swing by at around 7-7:30-ish to do a load of wash, is that okay? I tried to call you at the office, but they kept telling me that you’re busy.


* Location: Austin
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Against Stupidity, Part 2

I hate to go over a topic that's already been pretty well covered, but I'm afraid there's something going on in the world. I think the stupid people have gotten stupider, and the really stupid people have just gone plain crazy. What could it be? Sun spots? Dramatic shift in the lunar orbit? Is there a large group of people out there trying to quit smoking and taking Chantix and going completely nuts?

I know that lots of people in Cambodia smoke, but is a drug-induced hysteria any excuse to shove a high-pressure air hose up your five-year-old's asshole?

A Cambodian father and mechanic learned the hard way not to inflate children when he inserted an air hose designed to fill car tires into his 5-year-old son's anus and blew him up, local media reported on Thursday.

The Khmer-language Rasmei Kampuchea daily reported Try Sienghym was "playing" with his son Sok Sambo when the incident took place.

The paper said the child's stomach became distended and his concerned mother rushed him to hospital, where he remains in a stable condition and is expected to make a full recovery.

"The father very much regrets playing like this now," the paper quoted a family member as saying.

I'll bet he does, especially because people the world over are mulling over the question of whether he's tragically stupid, or criminally psychotic.

Do you think these morons regret digging up a random grave and decapitating a corpse for the sole purpose of making a bong out of it?



Again, I must note that most people don't attempt to inflate their children anally or abuse corpses to get high, but as I've shown here, some people do.

Could we be facing a national crisis, a plague of idiocy sweeping across this great land? I think, perhaps, it's a possibility. Or, perhaps, it's just an election year.

You Can Tell By The Look On His Face...

...that it's totally true.

Dad?

Want to occupy yourself for a few minutes with an exercise in the creeptastic?

Try out ManBabies.com.

The Day I Met God

I met god at three o’clock in the morning in the lobby of a hotel in Philadelphia. I asked god what brought him out at such an hour and he said he was going to get a cheese steak sandwich. I told him that’s exactly where I was headed, and god offered me a ride.

God and I took the elevator to the parking garage, second floor. God explained that he was in Philadelphia for the weekend. God said he’d read an article that listed 100 things to do before you died, and having a cheese steak sandwich in Philadelphia was number sixteen.

After walking around the second floor of the parking garage for a while, (god had forgotten where he parked), we found god’s 1992 ford escort hatchback. God had forgotten to have his parking ticket validated, so I offered to pay the twelve dollars to get out of the garage.

God said he was in Philadephia doing research for a book about salvation. He said people were rising from the dead in Pennsylvania.

We arrived at Geno’s cheese steak house and got in line. God and I were both surprised at the crowd at near four in the morning, as it took us another half-hour to get to the window. I ordered two cheese steak sandwiches with provolone and onions and two sodas. I handed one of the sandwiches to god and we sat at a nearby table.
The sandwich was delicious, god agreed. God took some photos of me with my sandwich, I took some of him with his. Then god went to take photos of the building, with all its over-the-top neon tubing bordering a near endless mosaic of photographs of the famous people that have eaten at Geno’s over the years. God was particularly impressed at the photograph of Sylvester Stallone. God said he was a big fan.

God and I finished our sandwiches, and walked back to his car. God said he was thinking about going to the west coast, I told him he should. I told him it was beautiful.

God drove us back to the hotel and we talked about politics in America. God said when he lived in London, he voted Labor. We walked thought he lobby of the hotel and got into the elevator. God was staying on the same floor as me. We got out of the elevator and as we walked through the hall. I asked god what his book was called. God said he was going to call it “Salvation in Seven Acts.” God said it was about finding truth in yourself, and how every person is God in their own way. God said this whole thing about how god can be whoever you want him to be was bullshit, (god actually said “bullshit,” and to be honest, was something of a potty mouth) and that god was a real, substantive thing and part of everyone, that there is no hell, there is only salvation, and eternal and everlasting love for humanity, his most cherished of creations.

I shook god’s hand and told him goodnight. God said he’d look me up next time he was in my neighborhood.

The Day I Got the Vapors

Last night I met number two on my list of the top five people I had to meet before I died. Right in the nick of time, I'd say, as Mr. number here two just turned eighty years old and has recently announced his plan to retire in 2009. I will say, however, despite his age and recent heart troubles, he is as sharp, funny, eloquent and inspiring as his numerous books and television appearances would betray.



If you're looking at this photograph and wondering who this very well-bearded man might be, you're missing out on the exemplary work of one of the most important and influential intellectual activists, and best magicians, in the world. May I recommend his books Flim-Flam!, and The Faith Healers. I also recommend plugging this site into your Google Reader to catch his weekly updates as a flickering candle of logic and reason in the swirling darkness of flummery and pseudo-science.

Thank you for all your wonderful work, Mr. Randi, and thank you for only briefly ridiculing my pink camera.

P.S. I should note my mild disappointment when Mr. Randi's phone rang during the lecture (barking dogs, of all things.... of course, maybe he's got the advance release of Dog Party) and I saw that he uses an iPhone. This must be a boon to pretentious Mac users the world over. On the plus side, it was a call from none other than Jose "Carlos" Alvarez himself.

Why I Love "The Best of Craigslist"

From the "Free" section of CL San Diego:

Carton Of Irregular Cat Hats

Date: 2008-02-07, 11:01AM PST


Hello. I have a big box of used cat and kitten hats that I have collected over the years for various occasions. As of recently my cat, Snowman, is no longer living and thus I am forced to get rid of these precious memories. I would not feel right asking money for them so I am offering the whole box for free. There are many styles from formal to cute and funny.

You think widdle Snowman put his little cat head in the oven? Maybe he closed the garage door and started the family car. Ketamine overdoes, perhaps.

Poor Snowman.

Also, what the fuck is a "formal" cat hat?

Against Stupidity

"Against stupidity, the Gods themselves contend in vain." -Friedrich von Schiller

The stupidest person I ever met was a high school girl. One could easily say that all high-schoolers are stupid in their own way, but this girl was a unique specemin. Her name eludes me, but I remember she had brunette hair, stood about five feet tall and was wearing a purple pantsuit. The first and last time I met her was February of 1998.

I was judging a round of Oratory. In high school, I was active in Speech and Debate, and by my senior year, I had established enough points that I was allowed to judge in tournaments in which neither I nor any of my teammates were competing. For those of you that don’t know, Oratory is an event where one writes an eight-minute speech on virtually any topic and simply delivers said speech. As this young girl stepped in front of the class of spectators, opponents and judges, she wrote the title of her speech on the chalkboard. It was titled “Sugar.”

Her speech began with a short history of sugar. She spoke about the early origins of commercial sugar in the Western Hemisphere as being derived primarily from beets, but during the age of European colonization in warmer climes, the import of sugar made from cane flooded Europe, offering a much cheaper alternative, and the use of sugar as a sweetener in beverages and baked goods began to rise. She then skipped ahead to the modern era, telling us about the commercial use of even cheaper corn syrup as a sweetener in everything from manufactured beverages and candies, to breads and infant formulas.

At this point, I was forcing my eyes to keep from rolling. I was fully expecting her to launch into a diatribe about the abundant use of sugar in virtually every product on the shelves, and into the various conspiracy theories about manufactured sugars being directly responsible for every malady from obesity to Parkinson’s disease. Judging these things was grueling at best, so one must come prepared for the worst.

These speeches are supposed to have a point, you see, a thesis, if you will. 1. Sugar is everywhere. 2. Sugar is bad. 3. We need to get rid of sugar. Thank you, goodnight. What she did, however, was something entirely different.

She told us all a story about how nurses caring for the wounded behind the battlefields in France during World War II used hand-made sugar pills to treat the ailing soldiers when they ran out of morphine pills. Amazingly, the nurses reported, many of the men felt better. She then told a similar story about combat hospitals in Vietnam. Then she cited several studies performed by very reputable medical institutions across the world throughout the early part of the 20th century about patients that are told they’re being given a drug to cure their maladies, but are in fact given sugar pills,. Amazingly, in some case up to 90% of patients feel better. Thesis: The medical establishment has ignored the healing power of sugar. Thank you, goodnight.



I was stunned. I was flabbergasted. I was speechless. I was without speech. This girl had prepared an eight-minute speech on a subject, and had completely missed her own point. I scored her last in the round and wrote two words on her score sheet. I’ll give you a hint: the first one starts with a P.

This girl stands out in my memory as the stupidest person I’ve ever encountered, not because she simply missed the point, but because she had clearly been working on this speech for weeks, had likely run drafts by her coach and teammates, had done research to support her thesis, and still missed the point. If she had stumbled upon the phrase “placebo effect” in any of her readings, which we can only assume she did, she tossed it aside as immaterial to her point.

I’ve been thinking about this poor, misguided soul a good deal lately, and not just because I’ve been in a bad mood for three months, or because I hate pantsuits. While I still believe the vast majority of humans are intelligent, resourceful and responsible people, the evidence that the tide is turning in the opposite direction has begun to mount. I’m skeptical, and am not yet prepared to make a final decision, but I’m beginning to fear that people are getting stupider by the minute.

I walked into a dry cleaner the other day and hung up several shirts and pants on the rack attached to the counter. The woman picked up the receipt book and asked my name. I told her. I asked when the clothes would be ready to pick up. “Tuesday at five P.M.” she told me.

“Excuse me?” I asked, “The sign right there in your window says that if I drop off my clothes off by nine A.M., they’ll be done by three o’clock. It’s 8:30 A.M.”

“Yeah,” she replied, “We don’t really do that.”

“Then why is the sign in the window?”

She stared at me, blankly.

I stared back at her.

Her eyes wandered to the sign that was in the window, then back to me. An awkward minute passed, no sound, no motion. It seemed that time had stopped, the sound of the morning traffic outside seemed to mute and the world paused on its axis. It was true, I knew it was true, there was no way to deny it any longer: people are getting stupider.

And the woman at the hamburger stand I visited the day before, where I ordered mustard on said hamburger, and she couldn’t find the “mustard” button so she pressed the “mayonnaise” button instead. I watched her do it. Or the young man at the sushi bar, when asked what kind of sake was available, replied “The clear kind. Also, some that’s not clear.” I overheard a woman in the office tell a story about how her father was born with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, and another woman asked “Did he survive?”

I simply can no longer ignore the big, stupid elephant in the room.

Take, for example, the story of a man in Houston. The restaurant where he was eating called police after he left without paying for his food. They informed the officers that he was seen entering a nearby vacant building. The police entered the large, empty building, and one officer, deciding to inject some levity into the situation, called out “Marco!” The man called out, “Polo!” and was soon located and arrested.

Let’s also consider Lane Jensen of Edmonton, Canada. In an effort to make the tattoo of a cowgirl on his calf more “sexy,” Jensen paid a plastic surgeon to insert tiny breast implants under his skin. They became infected, the sutures split and to quote the article, “a litre of lymphatic fluid drained from Jensen’s leg.”



There’s also the story of the Marion, Florida woman who is convinced that the holy lord, Christian god, the creator of heaven and Earth, the redeemer and the savior of all humanity, is speaking to her through the insides of a potato.



Finally, in a sweeping example of growing stupidity, I direct you to a report from the Centers for Disease Control in which they document the deaths of at least 82 youths in what they call “the choking game.” Apparently, in a desperate attempt to alter their minds, they strangle themselves (or have someone strangle them…..imagine your friend asking you to do that…) and enjoy the resulting “cool and dreamy feeling.” Just think, if those poor Namibian kids had heard about this, they wouldn’t have to huff poo-gas just to get through the day.

(To prevent any unnecessary comments, yes I am aware that the Jenkem story is mostly an urban legend, but it’s still funny as hell. I also like that some news outlet dubbed it “butt hash.”)

Even while I’m writing this, I’m still forced to answer this evidence by pointing out that for every person that doesn’t install saline bags in his calf, or speak to Jesus through vegetables, there are billions and billions that don’t. On the other hand, there’s the woman that sued a shopping center after being attacked by a goose, the man that bothered to make the world’s biggest fish stick, and I’m sure SOMEONE has actually bought one of these. I’d rather not discuss Miss South Corlina.

No, I don’t think most people are stupid. I will reserve that judgment until after I’ve met most people. Until then, I can only shake my head in disbelief when I read about a woman in Montana that paid a door-to-door salesman to give her a tattoo with a homemade gun, and was shocked when it got infected.

Is the tide actually turning? Can we expect a trend of de-evolution, like in Idiocracy, where humanity will find itself spraying sports drinks onto crops and watching hours and hours of men being kicked in the balls for entertainment? Run a search on you tube for "kicked in the balls," and tell me we're not in trouble.

Despite my crabby mood, I still think the best of humanity, I just fear for its future sometimes, like a concerned uncle that’s too lazy to do anything but tell the bartender that he “worried about Timmy.” I suppose I could just stop reading Reuters “Odd News.”

The Worst Parents in the World

Seriously, this is child abuse.

Happy Valen-Time's Y'all

You can make your own here.

The Evidence is Mounting...

Evidence is mounting that people are, in fact and across the board, getting stupider.

Woman reports Her Own Drunk Driving

A rural Fox Lake woman early Sunday was able to give a detailed description of a suspected drunken driver and the suspect 's vehicle to a Dodge County sheriff 's dispatcher.

That 's because the woman was calling from that vehicle -- a tan 2002 pickup truck -- and she was driving it, Dodge County Sheriff Todd Nehls said.

The woman 's boyfriend in the passenger seat suggested she call 911 to report her own drunken driving, so she did, Nehls said. The boyfriend was not driving, she said, because he was too drunk.

The call came in at 12:29 a.m. Sunday on the county 911 line as a hang-up call from a cell phone, Nehls said.

Dispatchers used a reverse 911 directory and called the phone, which was answered by a woman who identified herself as Patricia Dykstra, 51. She said her boyfriend made her call, because "somebody seems to think I can 't drive home straight. "

When the dispatcher asked her why, she said, "He seems to think I 'm too intoxicated to drive. "



During a relatively pleasant conversation with the dispatcher -- a recording of which Nehls released Monday -- Dykstra gave her name, location and vehicle description before saying she should probably hang up because "I don 't like being on the phone while driving. "

Asked by the dispatcher if she had too much to drink, she said "I don 't think so, ma 'am. "

She said she was almost home and gave the intersection. Throughout the 3 -minute call, however, the dispatcher did not suggest the woman pull over. Nehls said the dispatcher assumed the woman had already stopped, although her last advice to Dykstra was, "So Pat, drive carefully, OK? "

Deputies went to her home, where Dykstra met them on the porch, Nehls said. She had consumed a six-pack of beer, she said, and her boyfriend a 12-pack. She was ticketed for drunken driving, her first offense.

Wait For It...

This is what my grandmother would refer to as "bathroom humor."



I love bathroom humor.

Stowaway Kitten

My biggest concern is not with the kitten, though I do feel bad for the widdle thing, but who was working the fucking x-ray machine at the airport? Seriously? They didn't notice a very kitten-shaped skeleton in the bag?

I'm concerned that people are getting stupider, and at an exponential rate.

MIAMI (Reuters) - A kitten survived a plane trip halfway across the United States after accidentally ending up in a suitcase, a newspaper reported on Tuesday.

Seth Levy's suitcase, in which 10-month-old tabby Gracie Mae stowed away, was mistakenly picked up by the wrong person after a 2 1/2 hour plane trip from Fort Lauderdale in Florida to Dallas-Fort Worth airport in Texas.



But the man who took the suitcase called the kitten's Florida home and spoke to Levy's wife, Kelly, of Palm Beach Gardens, and agreed to hold the cat until her husband could pick it up, the Sun-Sentinel newspaper said.

"Hi, you're not going to believe this, but I am calling from Fort Worth, Texas. And I accidentally picked up your husband's luggage, and when I opened the luggage a cat jumped out," Levy recalled the man telling her on the phone.

UPDATE:

This is officially getting out of hand.

Loaded gun slips through airport security

WASHINGTON (CNN) -- A passenger who went through an airport security checkpoint -- before remembering that he had a loaded gun -- is facing charges after going back to report his error, authorities said.
art.reagan.security.gi.jpg

Travelers go through security at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport.

Gregory Scott Hinkle, 53, of Davis, West Virginia, went through a Transportation Security Administration checkpoint at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport about 7:30 a.m. Sunday, an airport spokeswoman said.

After the traveler evidently recalled having the gun, he returned to the checkpoint and disclosed the weapon, authorities said.

The TSA contacted airport police, who charged the man with possessing or transporting a firearm into an air carrier terminal where prohibited, a misdemeanor, and released him. He is scheduled to appear April 2 in Arlington County, Virginia, General District Court.

Hinkle did not immediately return a phone call to his residence.

A TSA spokesman said the agency reviewed airport surveillance camera videos of the incident and removed the screener from security duties while an investigation is under way.