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.

UPDATE

Since seeing is believing, this is frozen Pennsylvania, as seen (and clearly photographed) by me on the four hour drive from Pittsburgh (amidst significant blizzard conditions).



This is me...



...and this is what I'm doing right now.



boosh.

Daft Hands

I now the YouTube posts get a little boring, but this one's pretty cool. Plus, I'm frozen in Pennsylvania right now, and I don't have the energy to blog. I do, however, have the energy to drink Glenlivet 12 year and watch Cops. So there.

Turn Up Your Computer Speakers....

...and call an ambulance. Your face is about to get rocked off.

Face The Fax

I have a new job that requires me to be on the road all the time. Consequently, I spend a lot of time in a hotel room being bored. This means I spend a great deal of time online. The funny thing about the internet is that it’s so huge, and encompasses so much information, unless you know specifically what you're looking for, there’s almost no way to decide where to start.

After reading all my regular websites, news sites and blogs, I find myself staring at the Food Network watching Alton Brown (my own.. personal... Jesus) grilling what can only be described as the most delicious-looking pork chops ever prepared by man. The unfortunate part is I'm usually eating a Hot Pocket, though, thankfully, not tasting said Hot-Pocket because the “cheese” that squirted out of the rock-hard end of the "bread" has completely destroyed my mouth.

The amazing bit is that with all the information, entertainment, pornography, shopping, education, and pornography available online, it's remarkably easy to come to the point where you don't know where to go next.

So what’s on The Internet these days? Because I’m bored and I need something to do, but also because people seem to love pointless lists, here’s a list of things I’ve learned from The Internet in the past few months:

1. Ramen was invented by 1940 by the founder of Nissen Foods, Momofuku Ando.

2. There is a popular show in The Netherlands about a professed “baby whisperer” who claims he can psychically communicate with infants. The name of the show is “What Baby Wants Is Law,” or in Dutch, “Baby’s Wil Is Wet.”

3. The Xbox 360 has officially broken the $250 barrier.

4. Apparently you can buy a wig for your cat.



5. David Hasselhoff is the Anti-Christ.

6. Neil Diamond has revealed, on the occasion of her 50th birthday, that Caroline Kennedy was the inspiration for his 1969 hit "Sweet Caroline."

7. Being that Caroline Kennedy was born in 1957, Neil Diamond is a pederast because he likes to write sexy love songs about twelve-year-old girls.

8. All mammals have tongues.

9. Barry Goldwater has a tattoo. Seriously.

10. While the banana is a fruit, the plant on which it grows is an herb, not a tree.

11. The FDIC insures U.S. banks from insolvency, and the FDIC is insured by Chuck Norris.

That about sums up all the knowledge I've gathered after months of aimless surfing. I hope this has been both engaging and enlightening. Now if you'll excuse me, the lady with no teeth is here to change my sheets.

12. Also, unrelated to information available solely on The Internet, I've learned that if you smoke 450 cigarettes a day and consume nothing but white bread and Coca-Cola, all your teeth fall out.

Why I Think I May Have Been Sexually Abused as a Child

I was in Mike’s Movie Madness in Portland, OR, arguably the best video store on the planet earth, browsing through the new releases. I had the weekend to myself, as the fetching Mrs. Sonnier was out of town, and I had made big plans to do a whole lot of nothing. The ultimate goal was to catch up on some movie-watching, so callously neglected with all this “going to work” and “doing the dishes” and “let’s talk about your drinking problem” nonsense. It was going to be great, I was going to watch a bunch of movies, perhaps play the occasional video game, probably not put on pants all weekend, and would probably eat ice cream with a ladle.

Mike’s Movie Madness was definitely the place to start, but it did complicate the problem a little, since that oddly-shaped, ramshackle of a video store boasts over 50,000 VHS and DVDs. I decided to start in the new release room, and that’s where I saw it: Transformers: The Complete First Season. I almost jumped out of my skin. I had been belly-aching for months over the VHS set on eBay going over $100 each and every time, but was able to reassure myself that it would soon make it to DVD, at the very least before the movie was set to premiere, and I held in my hand proof of that fact. The box was shiny, and I could see the reflection of my “five-year-old on Christmas morning” grin in Optimus Prime’s faceplate. While waiting in line, I momentarily thought of just putting the DVD back on the shelf, heading to the nearest department store and just buying the box set, but I was impatient and it was getting dark outside, and I was getting the brew-shakes. I’ll just pick up the box set later, I thought to myself with deep satisfaction.

A stop off at The Belmont Station for a bottle of moderately priced Unibrou (Trois Pistoles, I think it was) and off to the crib for a serious nostalgia-thon. Soon enough, I was installed pleasantly on the sofa with a bubbling glass of Belgian beer, a plate stacked with cold pizza, slamming my finger hungrily on the play button of the DVD remote control….

“Transformers….robots in disguise…Autobots wage their battle to destroy the evil forces of the Deceptacons…Transformers…”

And it stunk. It was terrible. I couldn’t even make it through the first episode, though, oddly enough, I actually remembered how it ended. The reason I remembered was because between the years of 1984 and some much later year that I choose not to disclose here (let’s just say that the show was well into syndication) I watched Transformers, the original television series, every day.



The animation was terrible, the voice dubs were comically out of sync. The storylines were ludicrous, even for a show that’s about robots that turn into cars and trucks and fight each other for glowing cubes of energy. I was flabbergasted. How did I watch this show for years and never realize it was so crappy?

It was about this time that the little quasi-retarded man that lives in my brain brought to my attention several other conclusions I had recently reached and strung them together for me:

1. Thundercats sucked. The animation was hokey and the voice acting was ridiculous. It was also borderline racist. Also, Mum-Ra is possibly the dumbest villain ever conceived.

2. He-Man sucked. The animation was even worse than Thundercats, and there was no hot Cheetara to keep you from noticing. Teela does not count.

3. Rainbow Brite was a conspiracy by Hallmark to turn kids into homosexuals, like Captain Planet was an effort by Ted Turner to turn kids into limp-wristed eco-freaks. My little brother’s sexual persuasion and ferocity on all things environmental is a testament to the efficacy of these reprogramming initiatives and his weak constitution.

Unavoidable Conclusion: The 80s were absolutely rife with shitty, shitty cartoons that we kids happily lapped up with all the restraint of Andy Dick at a coke party. GoBots, The Centurions, Captain Power, M.A.S.K., Pole Position, David the Gnome, and the vast majority of the others were masticated, over-produced, pre-packaged garbage that had circled the globe and been recycled so many times, they barely even made any sense anymore.

So why did we love these shows so much? Because nothing else was on and it was better than staring at the wall while you made your brother begin the twenty minute process of getting the Nintendo to work, what with the pressing and the resetting and hitting and the swabbing with the Q-tip taped to the butter knife.

The sad realization that all the television programs I loved as a child were nothing more than pop-culture, toy-sales-driven crap was not what bothered me the most. What really caused me to swallow that lump of cold pizza in my throat was this heavy question: If everything I remember about being a kid is wrong, what have I subconsciously chosen NOT to remember?

This is why I think I may have been sexually abused a child. I don’t know by who, or when, or why, but it does go to explain a few things. My little brother, for example, perhaps not completely under the control of the legion of the bone-queens by the efforts of Rainbow Brite, Twink and the rest of the Color Kids, must have witnessed me being abused by some as-yet-unidentified member of the family or circle of friends and is now attempting to act out this grim scene of cruelty on other boys, usually dressed Hannah Montana.



Perhaps this recent spate of seeking out my once-favorite shows and learning them to be utter drivel is my own subconscious way of exposing my own self-deceit, and forcing myself to dredge and confront these awful truths about my abusive childhood in the hopes of exorcising these demons that have tormented lo these many years.

Then again, maybe I was just a stupid kid who didn’t know any better. I mean, I used to really like hot dogs. I also used to believe a man got a woman pregnant by peeing on her. You can thank my older brother for that one, though, I have to give him props for figuring out the penis was involved at such a young age.

TV shows, movies, cars, music, and just about any other tangible thing that can be quantified and categorized, almost always ends up like Burning Man: the last year you went was the last year it was cool. I have numerous friends and family members that constantly winge and bellyache bout the quality of TV and films and toasters and lawn equipment these days, invariably concluding that “things were a lot better back in the day.” I myself am guilty of this when I watch a few minutes of Code Lyoko, my six-year-old nephew’s favorite cartoon. Incidentally, if anyone can explain this stupid show to me, you’d be doing me a favor. Even Wikipedia’s entry is less than enlightening, but it does indicate the show is French in origin, so I’m not sure that one’s even supposed to get it.

In any case, what these naysayers fail to realize is that EVERY generation thinks they had it better, that their lives were simpler, that they really knew the score and that they had cornered the market on wholesome living, American style. The fact that it’s all bullshit. By every quantifiable variable, life, in virtually every capacity, gets better every day. The average cost of living decreases, while the quality of life increases. The average American lives significantly better and longer than out counterparts only 100 years ago. Our food is better, our hygiene is better, our education, medicine, and pretty much anything else you can think of, is better than it was even ten years ago.

Okay, so I wasn’t abused as a child, unless you count the endlessly mean and embarrassing things my older brother did to me, which I do. I was, however, among the first generation of children in America to grow up in an entirely mediated world, even in the backwoods of Louisiana. It was no coincidence that my favorite superheroes were toys and puzzles and video games before they ever graced my television screen. I was among the first American children to be subjected to, and totally buy into mass merchandising, tie-in promotions and subliminal advertising, and now I’m finally old enough to resent it.




On the other hand, though, Voltron was totally awesome.

Like A Gong!!

OTR - Giving You What You Want: Pornography

Fiction

He decided one day to write fiction. He sat at his typewriter and began to hit the keys in a determined manner, like those newsreels of reporters, sheets of white paper swirling around the room. He started writing, not with an idea in mind, but simply to put words on paper in the hopes that it would become something, perhaps anything. Something is always better than nothing, he thought, except in the case of testicular cancer, he then corrected himself.

He started writing about a man in a foreign land searching through the jungle for a fabled gem worth more than he could ever spend in his lifetime. Then he realized that was exactly like Romancing the Stone, which he saw on TBS about three weeks ago when he couldn't sleep. He pulled the paper from the typewriter, a loud ripping sound rending the silence of the room. He then started writing about a robot culture that hated humans, except for the man that invented them. Then he realized that it was exactly like that novel Software that he'd stolen from the waiting room of his dentist's office when he was sixteen. Another piece of paper was torn from the machine and balled in the nearby bin. He then started writing about a revolution of slaves on Mars and....shit, that's just like that fucking video game Red Faction that he'd beaten last Summer.

He was beginning to get frustrated, so instead of writing about exciting things, and serious things, and things that made a difference, he started writing about the real world, at least how he saw it. He wrote about how he'd like to call himself a writer to other people he meets, but he can't bring himself to because he's never made a penny writing and, after all, there must be some standard, otherwise he could just as well call himself an astronaut or a professional alcoholic. He wrote about how he likes to think of himself as a writer, but sometime he's afraid he’ll never really be one because he doesn't always have really great ideas that turn into wonderful works of art, or otherwise. Sometimes, he wrote, he has okay ideas, but he forgets them because he's too tired to get out of bed and write them down.

He wrote about how he's very afraid he might not be a writer because he sometimes goes weeks and weeks without writing so much as a grocery list. Coincidentally, it's always in those weird times that he doesn't read either, not really being able to tell if one is contributing to the other, or if they both seem to occupy the same space in his brain that has become temporarily atrophied. He wrote about how his biggest fear in the world is that he'll never be able to tell anyone that he's a writer, and know it to be true.

He started to write about his life, but figured no one really wanted to know about his life. The way he sees it, there are a lot of stories out there, interesting ones that are about people that travel the world, fight in wars, love forbidden loves, battle adversity and work for justice with cold determination. his story didn't have any of that stuff, except for that week he spent in Jamaica, but even that was pretty tame, except for the guy that tried to sell him pot, then acid, then mushrooms, then a jet ski. He thought that was pretty funny.

He wrote about how he'd love to know what people wanted to read, and write that for them. Then he got depressed, because if someone is coming up with ideas for you, then you're not really a writer, you're just th guy hitting th kys. Spaking of kys, the ky btwn th “w” and th “r” was stuck again. He hit with some oil. Good.

He wrot about th world in an abstract snse. Crap. It was still stuck. Stupid fucking typewriter. Sure, it looks cool and trendy and 40's chic, but this Remington is truly a piece of shit, he thought to himself as he oiled the key again, making sure to get as much oil as possible on his hands. Is this big, honking, clacky typewriter supposed to make you a real writer? That's bullshit. You've just spent too much time staring at that photo of Ernest Hemingway in his study in front of that huge Corona typewriter. The fact of the matter, he reminded himself, is that you've never fought in a war, you don't smoke, you don't even like rum, and you don't suffer from crippling depression (last you checked). Why make an effort to be like Hemingway?

He was stuck. He'd written himself into a corner. He realized he'd gone of on a tangent about Hemingway and wasn't sure where to go from here. Then he realized he didn't start anywhere in particular, so it really didn't matter where he ended up.

He wrote about riding about his first bicycle, a beautiful red Schwinn with one gear and a front fork that could turn completely around. Then he realized that was dumb. No one wanted to know about his bike, except for bike enthusiasts, and they probably didn’t read very much other that bicycle magazines.

He wrote for a shot period of time about a tree frog he found hiding in the window when he was a boy. The moment he saw it, he was taken by a feeling of devotional love and decided to keep the little guy in a box in his room. He named the frog Ralph. Ralph died soon after, and he remembered being sad, and a little guilty because he never fed the frog. He didn’t know what tiny little frogs ate, anyway. Come think of it, he thought, he still doesn’t know

He stepped up from the desk and stretched. Not bad, he told himself. It’s a start. He had a glass of metallic tap water and looked out his apartment window at the snow that was accumulating. He looked at the powdery snow outside, and the occasional person trudging though, bundled against the elements, and he felt cozy and warm, and even a little happy.

He sat back down at his desk and began typing again.

Anyone Can Herd Cattle...

Rock On!

Dr. Mike Gravel is running for President of the United States.

No, seriously, he is.

Word of the Day: Dribbly

The other morning, exiting my front door, car keys and brown bag in hand, I chanced upon a peculiar sight. A pack of dogs were tearing down the street of my quiet suburban neighborhood wrestling, biting, peeing and otherwise carousing noisily at a steady pace, headed directly for me. There had to have been at least seven of them, each larger than the last, being led by, what I presumed was a horse-sized Great Dane/ Dalmatian mix.

I was transfixed. Between the growls and yips and occasional stream of urine hitting the sidewalk, I could only stare. I was reminded of one of the bloopers at the end of “Talladega Nights” where Will Farrell and that other guy make a public service announcement about packs of wild dogs terrorizing major American cities. I pictured these usually harmless house pets on a wild rampage of death and destruction, and was wildly amused, which is quite a feat for me so early in the morning.

The ravenous ball of dog parts got closer and closer. I stood motionless. How does one react to a pack of dogs invading your front yard? Does one yell or throw rocks? I decided to wait and feel out the situation. If figured, if they were just having a good time, who was I to interrupt?



As the biggest of the dogs lifted his gargantuan leg to piss on my hibiscus bush, I was enamored by the shape of his airborne leg. What a peculiar shape, I thought, how uniquely specialized and complicated a limb is, with all its bones, ligaments, fluids, joints and various other whatnots (I’ve been accused of being needlessly introspective when fatigued and/or intoxicated, at eight o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday, it’s anyone’s guess which applies). One can almost conclude that this extraordinarily complex mechanism is so specialized, and so intricate, and so unique, that it would be outside the realm of pure chance that something so fantastic would have simply come into existence without the mindful eye of a Creator. Almost.

Then, as the Great Dane’s pee party ended, and he let the first few dribbles of runny poo onto my hibiscus’ leaves (I don’t even like hibiscus, but fuck, they’re mine and you can’t poo on them!) I shooed the pack of dogs away, instantly putting to an end their morning rampage and they all retreated to their respective houses.

On the drive to work, I remained fixed on the mechanism of the dog’s leg, and the human leg, and the arm, and horses’ legs (not to mention the curious nature of the hoof) and various other animals and their various modes of transportation. A thought struck me as I looked at the cars around me: Dumbing down the mechanism of evolution to a simple task of “construction” of species with available resources, (i.e., the best, most efficient organism available utilizing the least amount of raw materials and requiring minimal upkeep) the question is begged: If a robot limb, for example, articulated and complex, is so difficult and consuming to manufacture, why have no creatures, large or small, ever evolved wheels?

Consider this simple fact: wheels rule. The wheel is the kind of thing that gives James Burke a big British chubby. Not only are we talking about the fundamental building block of civilization (yes, James, even more than the plow) but just about the first innovation of man. Not only is it cheap, extraordinarily effective, adaptable to virtually any use (that involves “rolling”) but it’s so easy, you would think even the non-sentient but “all-knowing” and ultimately opportunistic forces of evolution would have figured it out first. Hell, if monkeys can figure out how to get ants out of a mound with a stick, the wheel seems only days away, right?

A lesser rational man would look to this question and say “See, evolution is not the answer to all man’s questions about the origin of life! Let me tell you about the Discovery Institute…” as he reached into his fanny-pack for a colorful brochure. We here at the OTR, however, are not so weak of constitution. You see, every learned person has to acknowledge that the theory of Darwinian evolution, his theory of natural selection (a.k.a. “survival of the fittest”) and modern evolution theory in general, possess great flaws.

That’s right, despite what Richard Dawkins says, evolution is a theory, sure a theory that is virtually agreed upon by every thinking and learned person on the planet and is the only far-reaching theory that meets and effectively explains the most of the fossil record we’ve been able to uncover up to this point, but still just a theory.



I feel significant joy when a Creationist makes the, oh-so-hilarious appeal to scientific reason in his attempt to debunk scientific reason for purely emotional and spiritual motivations. In that vein, a common (if underrepresented) criticism of evolution is related to the Second Law of Thermodynamics and a concept known as entropy. Entropy (in a simplistic manner of speaking) is the manner in which chaos begets more chaos, change begets more change and so on and so on. Basically, entropy dictates that irreversible changes occur spontaneously in closed thermodynamic systems, which increase the likelihood that more spontaneous changes will occur. The basic conclusion one draws from this law is that order cannot come from chaos. It’s against the law.

The classic example is ice melting in tumbler of 18 year-old Highland, single-malt Scotch. The Scotch, you see, is room temperature, and the ice, we can presume, is at least 32 degrees Celsius. When the two are combined, chaos ensues. The chaos, in this case, is the temperature differential between the ice, the scotch and the room, and in this situation, the chaos that is causing both the ice to melt and the Scotch to cool, all in a chaotic effort to normalize the temperature with the surrounding air. This is, of course, an extremely dumbed-down version of the definition of entropy, but it’s the only way I ever managed to understand it, when it relates to Scotch.



Creationists state that the theory of evolution countermands the second law of thermodynamics in that it dictates that the ordered and varied existence of life on this planet evolved from the chaos and disorder of, well, whatever came before. This laudable appeal to reason and science is engaging, but ultimately worthless, dribbly shit, similar to what is currently gracing the leaves of my hibiscus plant.

"The use of thermodynamics in biology has a long history rich in confusion" — Harold J. Morowitz

My own confusion is paramount, but the nut of the issue is this: entropy can only increase in a closed system. The problem is, the Earth is not a closed system, like a stone or a glass of water or a microscopic organism, our planet is powered by the Sun.

The really sticky issue is that “entropy,” as it’s defined in thermodynamics (there are numerous other definitions relating to information technology, communications, etc.) can’t really be fully explained because, as John Von Nuemann put it, “No one really know what entropy is anyway.”

As much as this whole post seems like some bizarre exercise in futility (as opposed to all those eother, really important and life-changing posts that frequent this forum), I assure you it is not. The point is that occasionally, we humans get so focused on the moment at hand: what to make for dinner tonight, when am I going to find the time to visit Grandmother’s grave, did I remember to feed the gimp?, we often forget that there are a lot of big ideas out there. These ideas exist not to make us confused or feel stupid, they exist because someone just like you and me (well, mostly like me) found the time to think about them. Isaac Newton saw an apple fall to the Earth, and wondered why? Albert Einstein saw the Sun warming the Earth, and wondered, how? OJ Simpson learned of the murder of his ex-wife and her lover and wondered, whom? These were great men, but not great because they possessed some superpower (though OJ had a mean rushing season in ’68) they were great because they applied their gifts to their fullest extent.

The big ideas in the world are the product of Man, and the application of his skill, not gifts from god. When an NFL running back steps in front of the camera to thank god for helping him bring home that touchdown, he’s not prostrating himself in front of a higher power, he’s diminishing his own hard work and his own talent and intensive training. He’s admitting that he is not the master of himself, which in the end, is the only true power a human has.

So why have humans, pinnacles of achievement never evolved something akin to wheels? It’s a tricky, and somewhat stupid question, but after much thought, I’ve come up with a few ideas. Firstly, evolution is not a zero-sum game: for every major achievement in evolution, there are variable stages. Take the lungs, for example. The fossil records gives us an incredible array or various types of tissues, sacks, prongs and all sorts of other weird stuff that creatures have used to utilize oxygen from the air or water. The big problem with a wheel-type appendage is that variable stages required to get to the end product (a real, flesh and bone wheel and axle mechanism) would be completely useless. Also, you have to consider that for quick stopping and turning, climbing and jumping, nothing really beats a set of legs, even primitive ones. Also, I’ll bet the interstate system really sucked about 130,000 years ago.

iHate You

All you iLifers can take your iPhones and shove right up your iHoles.

That being said, this is pretty funny.

(Author gracefully bows out stage right so as not to draw attention to his grossly apparent absence of late. As if you care.)

please pass the syrup. please.

Raisin Toast

If you've never seen Frisky Dingo, you should. Really. If you ask nice enough, I might send you a copy.

Sense: This Picture Makes None

Of Bean Dip and Toilet Paper

It’s been said that a man is only capable of perceiving the world as it truly exists in the 20 seconds immediately following orgasm. It’s said that, in these rare moments, he is able to catch a fleeting glimpse of reality, untainted by his own hormonal tendencies, social pressures, and misconceptions about the world. The doors of perception are said to throw open, casting the blinding light of truth on all he can survey.

The opportunities for these moments occur much more frequently, but perhaps it is only in that uniquely clear-headed state that most men are able to acknowledge them. These incidents are what addicts refer to as a “moment of clarity,” the split-second when their drug addled brains send a completely fogless signal to their consciousness and they are able, usually for the first time, to see who they truly are.

I was in the self-checkout line at the grocery store yesterday. I went to the grocery store to obtain the two things the modern man needs to survive: bread and beer. The bread was to be used for a delicious spicy artichoke garlic bread, the beer was for drinking, because that’s what I drink in the Summer. Walking into the supermarket, through the deli aisle, I caught a glimpse of something tantalizing: 7-layer dip.

Perhaps my biggest mistake, one I make with disastrous regularity, is shopping on my way home from work, a point in the day when the only sustenance that has passed my lips is a cup of coffee and a peanut butter sandwich.

The thought of digging a think, hearty corn chip into layer after layer of cheese and guacamole and sour cream was just too much to bear. I picked it up and made my way to the self-checkout.

Bread: $2.99. I know it’s a lot for bread, but good bread makes good spicy artichoke garlic bread. Beer: $6.49. Again, a tad on the expensive side, but you tell me Abita Restoration Ale isn’t worth every penny (if you have the means, I highly recommend picking some up).

Dip: $16.99.

I was speechless. I was aghast. I was flabbergasted. I was……without speech.

I looked around me at the other folks checking out eggs and milk on their way home. I huffed, hoping someone would look up so I could point to the 10” dish of canned beans and processed cheese they expected someone to pay $17.00 for. No one looked, they just quietly bagged their wine and adult magazines.

I was incensed. Seventeen fucking dollars?! For bean dip?! What has this world come to? Anyone out there willing to shell out close to $20 for refried beans, shredded “cheese” and guacamole flavored dippy sauce needs to contact me immediately because I’ve got some amazing real estate opportunities tell you about.

It was at that precise moment, when I was able to see myself standing at a self-checkout kiosk in a supermarket, holding a plastic dish of bean dip, staring at like it was dancing the Charleston, that I realized I was old.

Okay, to be fair, being thrifty does not equate being old. I’ve always been thrifty. I’ve always been of the mind that the good life can be purchased at a discount if you just wait and look around enough. The difference is, that as a younger man, making even less money than I do now, I would have bought the fucking bean dip because I wanted it. Sure, I would have bitched about how much it cost to anyone that would listen, but I would be doing it with a mouthful of delicious 7-layer dip.

I’m reminded of once, when my little brother and I were perhaps seven and five years old, respectively. He and I were on our parents’ bed watching cartoons. Dad walked into the room in a mild tizzy clutching a roll of toilet paper. “I just replaced this roll yesterday!” he exclaimed. We were both at a loss for words. Possible responses to that statement were limited. Dad pulled off the last three sheets clinging to the cardboard tube and he looked us dead in the eyes. “When you use toilet paper, don’t just grab a whole bunch and wad it up, fold like this.” He diligently folded three squares of toilet paper into a neat cleaning apparatus in the palm of his hand. He stared at us.

The only response we could muster was to laugh so hard we started crying and we both fell off the bed. Thankfully, my Dad, able to see the humor in the situation (especially since he was in his underwear at the time) and started to chuckle as well. That lesson always stuck in my head as the inane activity of old people.

Yesterday afternoon in the supermarket was my equivalent of the toilet paper speech. I’m not just an adult, I’m an adult who gets pissed off about the price of bean dip. What’s next? Am I going to start clipping coupons to save thirty cents on a brand of canned chili I don’t even like?

I suppose it truly is all relative. Do I feel old? No. Do I feel entirely justified in making a big deal over bean dip? You damn’ tootin’. Some people say you’re only as old as you feel, but that’s clearly bullshit. When you go to buy a car and the salesman says, “It’s a 1995 model, but it drives just like the 2000 model!” you would look at him like he fell on his neck. What the hell does “old” even feel like?

My dad would say enlarged prostate, possibly throw in something about a colonoscopy.

Is this really about bean dip? Certainly not. It’s not even about getting older, or time slipping away. It’s about how perception can change based solely on how long you’ve been perceiving. My unwillingness to part with seventeen of my hard earned dollars shows that reason, for the first time in my life, trumps my love for tex-mex inspired snack foods.

You’re only as old as you are. That’s the only truth out there, but age means different things to everyone. Murakami didn’t write anything until he was twenty-nine years old. Of course, Mozart composed his first music when he was five. Again, I suppose it’s relative.

That being said, you all have to admit, $17.00 for bean dip is absolutely preposterous, even if I do need the fiber.

Oregon: That Place Just Ain't Right

My favorite part is the horse's owner using words like "concise" in reference to some neighborhood kid cornholing his horse under cover of night. Oregon is a strange place.

Teen caught having sex with horse on CCTV

A US teenager has been arrested after he was caught on video having sex with a horse in a barn.

The owners of the barn in Corvallis, Oregon, had installed the video surveillance camera after previous assaults on the horse, reports the Corvallis Gazette-Times.

They were shocked to see footage of the teen sexually assaulting the mare when they checked the video in February.

Deputy Clay Stephens, who viewed the video, said the youth seemed very practiced, not hurried but not wasting any time. He seemed to be following a "very concise, deliberate, well-thought-out plan".

The owners then installed a silent alarm in the barn which sounded in their house at about 2.30am on June 7.

They checked the video monitor, saw the teenager preparing to assault the horse again, and called the sheriff's office.

Police officers rushed to the scene and arrested the teenager who was charged with burglary and sexual abuse of an animal.