So while Buck is busy concentrating on self-abuse with new-found technophilic lust for all things Droid, I thought I would take this opportunity to share with you my recently discovered insight on aging, broccoli flatulence, and health foods in general.
To start, I am no mere wisp of a man.
My physique could better be described as ‘robust’.
I am neither lamenting nor bragging, just speaking plainly.
I do not enjoy vegetables. I am a carnivore. (insert apologies to Jersey here)
I mean really, what is the point of salad? The only way it tastes good is when you dump all the creamy, oily, crunchy, bacony crap all over the top of it to add enough flavor to make it palatable, at which point it has turned the corner of counterproductive and straight into less healthy for you than your typical bacon cheeseburger, which is much more satisfying.
And really, what are we buying here with all this low-fat, low-carb, no-taste, aspertame tainted shit flavored garbage?
Ok fine, longer life. YAY!
We aren’t adding years to ‘beginning’ are we…where we could play all day long in the sweaty blissful ignorance of the child.
Nor are we adding time to the exploringly playful teenage years where new experiences, potential for fun and mischief, and chances at fulfilling the promises of a mis-spent youth are around every corner, with little or no major consequence (there are always exceptions, but you get the point, and I digress).
How about added time to the period commonly thought of as our ‘prime’, early 20’s to early 30’s?
No added years there either.
Not even so much as an extra minute added to the time where us men have allotted segments set aside for our mid-life crisis red convertable sports car diversions to avoid time spent with our women while they suffer through their own version of mid-life crisis, aka Mental Pause.
(Ladies….feel free to lambaste me in the comment section for my typically male insensitivities.)
It is interesting how those two times seem to coincide…
So all this healthy eating has only one place left to add time doesnt it….yeah….the end.
The time we are all dreading anyway. The time where our bones creak, our mind wanders, and we have to ask perfect strangers to wipe our asses. The time where we can no longer earn a wage nor get out and enjoy the things we have worked so hard for and have lived longer to see.
What the fuck is the point?
I get to live longer so I can experience the joy that is alzheimers?, rather than taste the fruits of my labor when they are ripe for the plucking?
I get to spend my old and decrepit years wasting away in a nursing home, no family to visit me, all my friends having died plesantly young, eating tastless food I cant chew, rolling around in my wheelchair because my joints hurt so bad its no fun to walk?
no sex cause I cant make ” ‘lil jimmy ” stand at attention long enough to spit, and the wrinkly old bags around me cant be folded in half anymore without popping a hip out of joint…although dentures means ‘smoothies’…so there is that…
sounds fucking delightful doesnt it…
I think we are being brainwashed by the Government, Aliens, Oprah, and the IOC into thinking that good food makes us live longer so we can live long enough to be sucked dry by ‘The Man’ in our waning years.
…I cant say I have put much thought into this theory yet, as it developed earlier this morning on the shitter….but give it time…I will work out all the kinks and you will see…
Although there is the lighthearted side of slowly losing ones mind.
There are the obvious benefits of say…being able to sleep in church without anyone so much as batting an eye.
The 11% senior citizens discounts at the local hardware store.
The free roll of toilet paper on Seniors Wednesday at the grocery.
The double bonus of both not having to shovel your driveway, AND laying a guilt trip on your grandchildren to do it for “your old grandad”.
I was out on an appointment tracking down wires, testing data connections and otherwise generally lurking around in the building of an assisted living complex, when I needed to get into a tenants room to test her interwebs jack connection.
I knocked on the door and identified myself as being a repairman from the local computer company and I heard her scurry to the door, yell “whats the password” and try to stifle an uncontrollable giggle from just behind the door.
I yelled “Peanuts” and heard her giggle some more before she opened the door to let me in.
She was tickled pink, and I got a smile out of the deal…although on the down side I had to indroduce myself like 12 times within the next 20 minutes, and hear, “…well my names Marge, how very nice to meet you young man. My, arent you handsome.”
The worst part of the deal….she had no cookies. Apparently she had had her “stove priviledges” suspended after a minor incident involving a post roast, some smoke, and a “teensy little ‘ol fire”.
I agreed with her, it was very unfair.
Sucks to be me I guess.
I am making a point here, getting old sucks, I dont think anyone will disagree with that, not the old, not the young.
Sure there are some advantages and some situations where getting old is a blessing, just like there is some people that can smoke for 60 years and get neither cancer nor emphysema, but its certainly the exception, not the rule, and mostly it just sucks.
Why are we forcing ourselves to do things we dislike now, so we can live longer into the years that are the least pleasant?
I am taking a stand. I am making a “Shortest Month of the Year” resolution.
For the entire rest of this month of Feb. I am taking a vow.
A vow to eat all things bacon, chocolate, and noodley.
I will have Mt. Dew over my sugar frosted flakes every morning, drink Whole milk, and have 6 sunny-side-up eggs with buttered toast…for every morning meal.
I am going to restrict the color of my food during lunch to only those things that come in shades of “golden brown deep fried goodness”.
For supper…I am going to eat huge quantities of barely cooked meat, covered in creamy rich sauces, saddled with baked potatoes slathered with sour-cream, chives, and crumbled bits of bacon.
I am going to have chocolate syrup covered popcorn over my ice cream for a snack sometime around 10pm, although I will brush my teeth before I go to bed because there is no excuse for a dirty mouth.
I may have a few extra lbs to deal with in the end, but that is the price I am willing to pay for not living long enough to catch Alzheimers from some contagious old person.
I think we should all stand together and take a vow to validate the current world view of our country as gluttonous greedy overweight pompous bastards who drive huge cars and wear huge pants!
Are you with me people!!!!
ALL TOGETHER NOW…..EAT DRINK AND BE MERRY, FUCK TOMORROW!!!!!
…well at least for the rest of February anyway
Thanks for reading…and please tip your beertenders…
If you really think I’m the sort that recognizes Valentine’s Day as a legit observance … well … are you really serious?
Yeah, the scrawny, awkward, big nosed, Dumbo-eared kid that almost never received a single voluntary Valentine’s Day card from a girl is going to be stoked about stirring up all those childhood memories once a year.
Yeah … right.
All the same … I was a goodly husband and allowed the Spousal Unit to sleep in without the obligatory weekend morning routine that goes something along the lines of: “Guess who woke me up and told me you wanted to play?”
Aren’t I a great guy?
Actually, my snoring and generalized grouchiness found me in the guest room bed and as I started to wish myself a happy Valentine’s Day I was plagued by a story my mother told me when I was a little boy …
. . .
So, I crawled out of bed, tip-toed downstairs and kicked the dog a few times. The good news is, she’d already been heavily abused by a psychopathic girlfriend when she was a puppy, so I figure there’s really not a lot to feel guilty about. I mean, it’s all she really knows so what’s the difference?
And here’s the real kicker for me …the biggest, loudest, most obnoxious “animal rights advocates” that I know are pro abortion. Has the irony of that ever crossed you as “funny”?
Ah, irony … where would be with out?
So anyhow, back to this morning. As is my Sunday morning habit, I snuck out of the house to grab a cup of coffee and then swung by the crack house downtown. My tranny “friend”, Pat, was — needless to say — sorely displeased that I didn’t bring him, ‘er I mean, “her” … kinda … damn, WHAT EVER ….
I failed to bring a card, and I was empty handed, not even a small clutch of flowers …
This was not a good moment at the local crack house for Buck …
Like I should have been surprised. [sigh]
I swung by the crack house last week to tidy up the place a bit and and to do a little painting. Let’s face it, crack houses are not known as being the paramount of interior design. Some say it’s because crack whores and trannies are vile, slovenly people, but I say the people who claim such things are just being ignorant.
But that’s neither here nor there … I was nice enough to do something good for the local crack addicts and Pat took it as a personal affront …
Pat can really be a violent little bitch sometimes, lemme tell ya.
. . .
So, as I surfed the internet this morning to find something really thoughtful to send to my wife as an email link (you know the routine, “honey, if we weren’t so broke and if I weren’t such a stubborn pig who refuses to cow-tow to this nonsensical farce of a tradition, this is what I would have bought for you …”
You guys ever try that? It might not get you a steak and a beejer, but you really should give it a try some time.
Just make sure you’re not sending them links to things like vacuum cleaners, informercial diet “secrets” or blow-up dolls. I’ve tried all three and let me tell ya … things went better for me this morning at the local crack house.
This morning, however, I found something so profoundly wondermous that I had to share it with the world. I hope Mama-Buck doesn’t feel the least bit cheapened by me sharing this with all of you before I even show it to her …
This morning, though … I discovered that I actually DO love chocolate!
You see, back when I was a wee kid, I’d purchased a massive 2 lb bag of chocolate chips at the Commissary (the equivalent of a grocery store on a military base) late one afternoon and tucked them in a my book bag to munch on the next day at school. As it turns out, I ate the entire bag, mostly during the afternoon. While on the school bus ride home, my stomach began to let me know that I had just made a mistake that it was going to make sure I remembered for the rest of my life.
While on the bus ride home, I turned about 20 shades of increasingly pale white as well as an overwhelming urge to vomit while the opposite end of the digestive tract was fighting back an intense yearning to explode as well. Somehow, I made it to the end of the bus ride, I even made it a half block from the bus stop to a small common area behind by house. As I approached the gate into our back yard, the nausea and dizziness overcame me and I immediately doubled over and began projectile vomiting in a manner that I had never known and could only pray that I would never experience again …
Of course, I was still too young to know anything about what was to come a mere decade or so later when I discovered the joys of what is sometimes referred to as “binge drinking”, but alas, I digress.
The rest of that afternoon and evening was spent in a nauseated stupor, mostly seated on the toilet so my body could violently discharge the massive amounts of chocolate that had passed too far earlier in the day to be evacuated orally.
All this to say that I was a HUGE non-fan of chocolate for many, many years to come …
Ah, yes … chocolate!
How I love thee … let me count the ways …
Come on … tell me this is not the coolest use of chocolate … ever!!!!
Oh … YES!
And it doesn’t necessarily have to be fashioned into pieces of clothing and the like. Oh, no … sometimes au nautural ain’t so bad either!
I must admit there are times when chocolate just doesn’t cut it for me.
Are you familiar with the mighty mealworm? Staple diet for pet lizards and other captive animals …
There’s some sicko out west who got the “great” idea to explore the wonderful world of chocolate delicacies and stumbled upon something that I, personally, consider to be an epic failure …
Remember our friends, the mighty mealworms? Yeah, a guy by the name of Larry Peterman decided covering those [faux curse] with chocolate somehow turn them from vomit inducing to delectable.
Seriously … you can drop by his website, HOTLIX and check out his entire line of candies and confections that mostly feature bizarre and perfectly distasteful insects in the center.
In the meantime, check out this sampling of “treats” …
Yeah, my sentiments, exactly!
But anyhow …
As I continued my search for “I love you so much I’d buy you this if I weren’t such a cheap turd” pretend presents, I got distracted thinking about how much I miss my Koi pond as well as aquariums in general. As the caffeine settled in, it occurred to me: why not try and combine the best of BOTH worlds???
Mama Buck said, “Uh … yeah. Not a chance.”
. . .
A little while later she was on her laptop, Facebook on one browser tab, and some online store in another. She called me over to point out what SHE thinks would have been the perfect gift for me to give …
It was at this moment that I was suddenly translated back to a crucial moment of my early childhood … even though it was many, many years later before I fully appreciated the gravity of this one little phrase the freakish little girl down the street once shared with me …
Isn’t that how it is, though?
Did you watch the Super Bowl yesterday? OMB, there was that little piece on the Budweiser horse and the bull, following them from childhood on up … ?
DUDE … that was SNOW COW!
But you probably knew that already …
. . .
As *I* expected, it was a damn fine game. As much as I nodded in deference to those who said they believed it was going to be a Colts blow-out, there is no denying the fact that the Saints DO have a strong defense, and when their offense is in “explosive mode” … well, look out!
And as it turns out, it was a clutch play by the defense that make it a lights out event for Mr. Peyton and his MORE than respectable Indianapolis Colts.
Kudos on a game well played, gentleMEN!
Did you catch the theme of the ads from last night?
As you know, the Super Bowl is more about the advertisements than it is the game any more.
But to try and stay on point …
It was clear, to me at least, the a very blunt message was being sent to the American man as a collective whole:
Men … quit being such a bunch of pussies!
That’s right, America … we need to take our masculinity back. For several decades we’ve suffered the slings and arrows of political correctness and hysteric, overly “liberated” female extremists who have been downright psychopathic in their efforts to strip our society of its masculinity.
Give me a break, dude … a fag is a fag, and I’m not talking about Brit slang for cigarette.
If it tries to look like a woman and act like a woman, yet it has a penis … it’s queer, plain as that.
Hetero men these days are expected to grow up to either become emasculated pet husbands or timid little bachelors who are to be quiet and take whatever is handed to them without question.
I’m sorry, but that’s just not right.
Tell ME that this commercial doesn’t say it all …
Men, put your pants back on, okay? I don’t know about you, but I am NOT settling for some stupid car (granted, that actually is a really fun car … one of my best friends owns one and I’m more than a little impressed!)
BUT ANYHOW …
Quite frankly, we cow-tow to too much.
Not saying that any of the things that guy mentioned are horrible … but only in the appropriate setting rather than as a general rule.
Granted, some things must remain the way it has always been.
Let’s say your wife or girlfriend asks you, “Does this make me look fat?”
I don’t care if it makes she look like the result of a genetically engineered cross between a jellyfish and a human, you NEVER answer that one in the affirmative.
Now that I have every overly liberated woman on the planet pissed off, let’s dive out of harms way and enjoy a rittle ROR!
Unquestionably one of my favorite commercials last night!
Come on, you know that that was:
Alright, I’ve still got 3 feet of snow to deal with … and now they’re calling for another foot or more starting tomorrow.
Seriously, this IS the Snowpocolypse!
Until next time …
PEACE OFF, FAUX CURSE!
These words (“mental laxatives” and “banal lube”) are two terms which I believe perfectly fit the — to use the parlance of our time — “culture of corruption”, which dominates our political system; especially here in the U.S. To be perfectly blunt, society is in DIRE NEED of both a “mental laxative” as well as some “banal lube” ! On the one hand, the extreme left has filled the minds of an entire generation with lies of such magnitude that calling it “shit” is actually a much needed moment of comic relief. There’s constipation of epic proportions, to say the least.
On the other hand … should we decide to continue to do nothing about it, we may as well lovingly grasp the proverbial pickle barrel which we have already been bent over and hope for a liberal application of the latter.
The banality of our political system is such that we have been mentally incapacitated to the point of almost absolute incoherence … and in our dazed slumber we have been bent over said pickle barrel. If you are not going to vote these fiends out of office then all I can say is that we — collectively — deserve our own 55 gallon drum of “Banal Lube.”
And remember kiddies, when it comes to being violated in such a manner …
Too much lube is almost enough.
* * *
If you agree with the above stated opinions, you might enjoy my review of president Obama’s inauguration speech.
You might be surprised to discover how blatant Mr. Obama was in warning us of the fast changes that were in store for us all.
For those of you who cringe at my political leanings, please feel free to enjoy the following …
But before we begin … is it just me, or do the that latest TV ads of Michael Phelps pimping a “munchie joint” like Subway strike you as the least bit “curious.” I mean, yeah … of COURSE America’s newest pot-head is going to enjoy a fresh, toasty submarine sammich from Subway.
But anyhow ….
For your communist sympathizing wussies who cannot handle my political Rightness — or for those of you so masochistic that you came back to examine more of my semi-random brain droppings — I hope you enjoy my little preview (slash: aka “/”) teaser of my soon-to-be-published title:
Olympic Beer Belly Judging for Idiots
One cannot engage in Olympiad feats of beer drinking without the ensuing — dare I say, “ubiquitous” — beer belly.
Believe me, this is not an optional outcome … I am the founder, director, President and acting coach of the U.S. Olympic Beer Drinking team.
I know these things from first hand experience, okay?!
. . . so anyhow . . .
We professional beer drinkers have finally secured our rightful spot in the limelight that is the summertime Olympics. As such, it is only fitting that we begin planning now for the unavoidable eventuality that will be: The Olympic Beer Belly.
Alright, you may be wondering where this came from.
Am I wrong?
My dad and I first stumbled upon this idea while watching thousands of men pour into R.F.K. stadium for Washingotn D.C.’s first Promise Keepers rally.
We quickly realized that many of these men were quite like us: avid beer drinkers who were not ashamed of their prized afterthought of a possession: the Beer Belly.
After Pop pointed out the impressiveness of the beer bellies before us, I leaned over and asked, “Some of these men are obvious candidates for our Olympic beer drinking team, no?”
With the knowing look of an elder sage, he nodded in agreement.
It was at that moment that we began to draft the initial judging criteria.
You see … a beer belly, to be properly appreciated, must be viewed by standards greater than size alone. We finally agreed upon the following 3 elements:
* * *
Distance is a defining attribute of the perfect beer belly.
The distance of a beer belly is the horizontal distance as measured from the apex of said beer belly (the outer ring of the navel) to the outside skin of the spinal disk directly horizontal to the plane of said navel.
As such, a contestant with an excessively arched back will, most likely, be disqualified from entry into the games. In short, the straighter the spine, the greater overall protrusional distance.
disclaimer: while the word ‘protrusional’ does not show up in any legitimate dictionary, it should still be adopted by the International Olympic Committee as no other word succinctly describes the unit of measurement in question.
It is also this measurement that truly separates the fatties from the pro’s!
Quite frankly, any slob can eat and drink him (or her) self stupid to the point of developing a rolling mound of body fat that simply hangs off the waistline of its wearer. A professional beer drinker, however, is a talented athlete and shows his pride with brilliant displays of masculinity such as a firm, properly developed and hard-earned beer belly.
Another integral aspect of distance is the overall proportion to the torso of the drinking athlete. The man pictured above, although slightly on the outside of the preferred age limits of Olympic level beer drinkers, is a model of exceptional distance.
Criteria Two: Girth
While the proud and hefty ladies pictured above certainly encompass almost any definition of girth, it is vital to remember that we are talking in terms of a sporting professional.
Girth, as implied by the name, and in most simplistic terms, is the circumference of the beer belly proper.
As is the case with Distance, Girth must also be judged on the proportion of said girth as it relates to the overall physical demeanor of the athlete him (or her) self.
It is the combination of Distance and Girth that quantifies the physical stature of a professional beer belly, however …
were it only physical dimensions that separated the Pro’s from the proverbial wanna-be “Ho’s” of the universe, it would be only these two measurements that would be of importance.
As such, it is the third criteria that fully qualifies and defines a professional, beer athlete to his (or her) fullest potential.
* * *
Criteria Three: Presentation
Without doubt, the most significant aspect of any Olympic beer belly contestant is the matter of presentation.
As mentioned above, any slob can engage in a multi year binge of consumption and result in a belly of gargantuan proportions. However, it takes a skilled and disciplined athlete to create the perfect package.
The most significant ingredient in defining an Olympic quality beer belly is presentation.
I realize that I should have given you an example of Presentation instead of the picture shown above / to the right.
We have entered a very, very subjective world whereby computer models and “textbook examples” dare not tread.
For example …
While the above pictured man surely shows promise in the way of distance, there is a still a major problem …
While the same, above pictured, example of obvious professional beer drinking prowess truly exemplifies any rational definition of girth, there is still a major problem …
An intense, undeniable lack of presentation.
Presentation, my friends, is EVERYTHING!
Take, for example, the following display of spectaculous beer belliness!
Distance: 3 (MAYBE a 4) …
Girth: 4 … ‘ish.
Presentation: 10.0 (at least)
See what I mean? Presentation makes up for a WORLD of evils!
. . .
It must be said that presentation can, especially in some cases, severely backfire!
AM I WRONG?!?!?!?!
. . .
I thought not.
So, take your mental laxative …
Slather up a big, messy, guilt-ridden goop of banal lube …
. . . always remember . . .
(until next time)
. . .
Wow, what a night!
Went to bed way too early, woke up a little before 3am … and then a bunch of weird computer problems started popping up.
No, I was NOT visiting porn sites, thank you.
Anyhow, mama-Buck has been all congested and not sleeping worth a poo of late, and — get this — in the midst of the various computer problems, my PC decides it’s no longer on Eastern Standard Time. We, somewhere along the way, slipped into the whatever GMT-4 works out to as a time zone. I suspect some regions of Canadia, the eastern outskirts of the Caribbean, or perhaps somewhere in South America shares that time zone, but I know not what it is …
Nor am I going to take the time to find out because I’m a little upset.
I was attend the farewell ceremonies for our friend “Marge” who was, VERY tragically, taken from our midst late last week. When I finally looked up at the wall clock I realized that it was not, according to my PC, 8:38am, but instead a full one hour later than that and the services begin in less than 20 minutes …
and my bride lie upstairs in bed, asleep.
My apologies to our friends and, even more so, to Marge’s family for not being there this morning. Our heart certainly does go out to you … most ESPECIALLY to her family and their truly closest of friends.
* * *
I’ve often heard, for pretty much as far back as I can remember, “The show must go on.”
Even when the heart is heavy, we must do what we must to carry on. One thing I’ve learned, both through personal experience and observation of others, is that isolation is a formidable enemy!
Just like the animals, we need to carry on; helping each other survive.
On the note of carrying on, however, there is no ignoring what is going on down in Haiti. A friend of mine, Scott, implored of me last night to do a blog on behalf of the devastating 7.0 earthquake that literally rocked that island nation to rubble.
He wouldn’t take “No!” for an answer and could not accept my self-assessment that I don’t do those sorts of things well. This morning, for example, as I scanned through the photographs I’ve already collected, there were moments where some of the most sarcastic and caustic things popped into my mind. Many of you know my intense distrust and, in some ways, downright hatred I carry towards the United Nations. Upon seeing an aerial image of the U.N.’s Haiti headquarters building completely destroyed, what came to mind was not somethig appropriate for the momet.
Other images were of the looting and violence that is unfolding with every passing day. More things popped to mind that I will refrain from translating to the written word.
But then, as I looked more closely at the men and women giving “humanitarian aid” … and as I looked at the facese of the people, it hit me … they’re people, just like you and me.
* * *
The fact remains that most of us feel very detached and distant from this tragedy …
… but look a little closer …
… closer …
… even closer …
… closer still …
… closer …
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… click below to find out how you can help …
My fiend Buck and I were chatting the other day and he reminded me to something I had forgotten about. Middle school humor. I love pointless humor. Its so fulfilling and nonsensical and well…pointless that its charming in its own way.
I have a child currently in the throws of middle school and so I decided that maybe ol` dad needed to re-edumicate himself to the glory that is absurdity for absurdities sake.
In my studies I was reminded of an old standby and it seems that I had forgotten it almost entirely. So I present to you my re-introduction and interpretation of said gem.
M R DUCKS (apparently one small verbally challenged child is pointing out to another small verbally challenged child the presence of waterfowl)
M R KNOT (I think here is where the disagreement begins, one child does not believe the others observation and is almost assuredly nearly blind as well)
O S A R (the first child is adamant about said waterfowl)
C M WANGS (to prove his point the first child makes the second child aware of the presence of the waterfowls ability to fly)
L I B (the second child is astonished and stands corrected)
M R DUCKS (finally after much arguing and deliberation the second child affirms that indeed those are waterfowl, although I have my doubts as to his ability to function normally with his vision problem)
Here is another example of a conversation between two small verbally, and I think possibly mentally, challenged children, this time with literal interpretation.
M R MICE (Them are mice)
M R KNOT (Them are not)
O S A R (Oh yes they are)
C M E D B D FEET (See them itty bitty feet)
Y I B (Why I’ll be)
Some other examples I have come across, which I will not interpret for obvious reasons:
M R NAKES
M R NOT
O S A R
C M E D B D EYES
L I B
M R NAKES
M R PUPPIES
M R NOT
O S A R
C M P N (although im not sure why the act of bladder evacuation assures that they are indeed puppies, last I checked most mammals do this)
L I B
M R PUPPIES
And my favorite two for last:
M R FARMERS
M R NOT
O S A R
C M M T POCKETS
L I B
M R FARMERS
M R Edumakashun Majers
M R Knot
O S A R, C M M T Pockets?
L I B
M R Edumakashun Majers
Some of these have wonderful names and titles like:
Official LSU admittance test
12th Grade Reading Test
State of Arkansas
(Passage of this Test Mandatory for Diploma)
So in conclusion middle school humor can be very enlightening, even entertaining, in its own special little way.
On to other things…
I am about to rant so if you would like to skip this in lieu of more cheerful fodder, please feel free to look for the “Rant begins/ends here:” indicators and pick up nearer the bottom.
Rant begins here:
Well ladies and germs, its that time of year again where we get to bastardize one of the most bestest holidays in the land, yes kiddies I am speaking of the tragedy that has become Christmas. Now don’t get me wrong, I heart Christmas, but I hate to see what it has become. I cant complain too much because I am part of the problem. I don’t enjoy the commercialized capitalistic money-whoring cess pool of advertising and greed that we have twisted Christmas into, but facing facts, I’m helping feed this monster just like the rest of us. Problem is that despite my feelings on the subject, I cant just give up on what has become closer to the rule rather than the exception, especially in our country. If I had my way I would choose to do things different, but it effects more than just me. It means that my kids would be disappointed, my brothers, their wives, nieces and nephews, in-laws, my parents, everyone I am close to would get nothing or very little from me, and the reality is that I like seeing their smiling faces. I enjoy giving, which is why its so easy to fall into this money-pit of excessive spending and outrageous expectations. My in-laws are spending between 500 and 600 PER GRANDCHILD. I find that simply amazing. They have 6 grandchildren, that’s 3000 to 3600 for all you math wizards out there. They are self-employed and ride the verge between the national standards for bottom middle class and poverty. My Significent Other (Best Friend) gets sick to her stomach when she thinks about it, this year she even confronted her mother about it. She wanted to make it plain to her mother that her grandchildren would love her no matter what they got for Christmas, her response, “ …but they will love me more if I spend more.”
Wtf is that?
What kind of message is that sending our children? Maybe they are too young, or oblivious to get it? Maybe they don’t care, well for sure they don’t care, look at what they are getting. Maybe even if they knew they wouldn’t care? Maybe no one cares? I know I do. Maybe you don’t care? (Its ok, you don’t have to share my ideals, I still like you. Well most of you.)
We try to live modestly, but we still spend maybe 200 to 250 dollars per child for gifts, maybe this is high, but my feeling is that it likely is low. Some years we have spent more, some less. Most often it is whatever is within our means. Some years I have been layed-off. Some years my BF hasn’t had a job due to taking time off to raise our family. Things happen and some years are lean and some fat. (currently I am fat, while my wallet is lean, but that’s a different subject alltogether)
As I understand it, the point is to have a point, so here is mine:
Giving is good, so maybe we shouldn’t give up on Christmas entirely. Excessiveness is bad, even excessive giving, when it leads to setting a poor example, or stretching oneself beyond ones means (going ridiculously in to debt to give what is not needed). The point is, without getting all religious on your asses, is to remember the reason behind the gift that is Christmas.
Ok, enough of a rant for me.
Rant ends here:
Here is a little collection of Christmas words, sayings and phrases I have been accumulating this season to share with you good folks. Enjoy! …and much thanks to Urban Dictionaries’ word of the day emails.
December 19: Cashmas
The primary holiday celebrated in capitalist cultures. Generally observed around the winter solstice, Cashmas is a celebration of materialism in which its celebrants attempt to flatter or impress relatives, friends, and acquaintances with the extent of their purchasing power. (The “power to get”.) Cashmas co-opts signs, symbols, and sympathies from other religious holidays of the winter season to mask its foundation of conspicuous consumption. In the United States, where the holiday is most actively observed, Cashmas traditionally begins on “Black Friday”, that is, the day following Thanksgiving Thursday in November. Holiday observations traditionally end on January 2nd, but may arguably be said to extend through “Super Bowl Sunday” of professional American football. This event can occur as late as the month of February.
Jodi spent 14 hours at the mall in celebration of Cashmas.
December 20: Christmasochist
Someone who continues to subject themselves to Christmas activities — Secret Santa, carolling, etc. — despite feeling painfully awkward at the event.
Ryan’s uncomfortable laughter at the Secret Santa Pot Luck indicated he was an Christmasochist.
December 21: Gift Parasite
A person who adds their name to a gift tag in order to claim partial credit for giving the gift.
I’m totally broke so I had to be a gift parasite and sign on that present you’re giving Grandma.
December 22: santaclaustrophobia
fear of too many santa clauses
He felt a bout of santaclaustrophobia coming upon him as the holiday season approached.
December 23: Christmas Eve Eve
The day before Christmas Eve, 2 days before Christmas.
Stay away from the malls on Christmas Eve Eve.
Today is Christmas Eve Eve.
December 24: gift crack
The gap in wrapping paper or uncovered portion of a gift usually found on the bottom of the box. May result from the gift wrapper running out of paper or cutting gift wrap too small to cover the entire package.
Bryan figured out what his present was because the gift crack exposed the picture on the box.
…and my fav
The Ultimate Winter Fusion Holiday
It’s Christmas Hanukkah and Kwanzaa all rolled into one
This Holiday is useful for a family of many different religions (I can’t imagine why but this is a good contingency plan for those of you not married, engaged, or met your significant other yet) It lasts 16 days, One for Christmas, Eight for Hanukkah, and Six for Kwanzaa
“I hope I get that book I wanted for Christmas, what did you ask for?”
“I exactly celebrate Christmas, I celebrate ChristmaHanuKwanzaakah. It’s 16 days long!”
Or this version…
Encompasses Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa, and Ramadon all in one big merry holiday. An alternative to the ever-popular Festivus for the Rest of Us from Seinfeld.
“Merry Christmahannukwanzaadon and a happy new year!” said Santa Claus.
Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, our best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all. We also wish you a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2010, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make America great (not to imply that America is necessarily greater than any other country or is the only “AMERICA” in the western hemisphere), and without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, or sexual preference of the wishee.
By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms:
This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for her/himself or others, and is void where prohibited by law, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher.
This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.
I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas!
Semper Ubi Sub Ubi
Strange days, indeed.
Here we are in the midst of some serious Global Warm . . . uh . . . ya know, now that I think about … when I was kid in grade school — back in sunny old southern California — our teachers, mostly a mellow-yellow lot of Woodstock victims still in recovery, used to get us all freaked out about the coming Ice Age.
Quite likely even in our lifetime!
And the more I start thinking about it, it occurs to me that this was right about the time where Al Gore says he created the Internet.
“Hmmm,” says one little corner of my mind to another (who’s label shall remain withheld), “this is most curious, is it not?”
The Ineffable corner replies, “Indeed, sire, it is . . . it is most curious, indeed!”
Fast forward through the bizarre decade or so that unfolded . . .
And man, did Billy Joel nail that one right with that video? The 70’s nad 80’s were a really intense blur.
Then again, maybe it was Utah …
So anyhow …
In the midst of that veritable whirlwind that was the aforementioned decades, something strange happened.
The U.N. — outspoken critics of nationalism and far much more, schemed up an idea whereby the evil Capitalists might some day be coerced to relinquish their wealth.
Carbon tax … oh, wait, hold on … tax is such an ugly word. Let’s label it …
But let’s save a more in-depth pursuit of such things for my “serious” blog around the corner from here.
What I want to blather about this afternoon is just some of what’s been factually going on in regards to this whole matter of … I mean, what IS the euphemism du jour for Global Warming? I mean, the flippant use of the term, “climate change” is laughable enough. Of COURSE climate change is occurring, dummy! It does that, all day, every day of every week of every month of every single stinking year that has ever been or ever will be to come!
Wow, what a heady concept.
I mean, what on Earth could have caused those previous ice ages? Seriously, glaciers have clearly expanded and retreated repeatedly over the ages, have they not?
Oh, yeah … they have!
Let’s not get conflicted with petty little matters such as the fact that our dear “mother Gaia” belches and farts the most toxic gasses imaginable into the atmosphere on a regular basis.
~ ~ ~
OH MAN!!!! I wish I’d had my camera with me just now. I let my little Jack Russell terrier, Sparky, out to pee … and she pranced across the deck and leapt off onto where the lawn usually is. I leaned over to see her, as she’d disappeared, and all there was waws this little black set of nostrils peering back, snorting.
It was straight up like the infamous scene from Scarface!!!!
It was HILLARIOUS!
~ ~ ~
But anyhow, since this isn’t the serious blog page and it is not my intent to wax acidic, let’s just take see if there’s some humor or irony to be found in this strange twist of “unquestionable” global cooling theory cum “unquestionable man-made global warming” theory.
I mean, the headline shot round the world today was, “UN hails climate deal as ‘essential beginning’!”
So anyhow …
You heard that the Pope of the church of Anthropogenic Global Warming spoke to the masses at COP15 in Copenhagen this week, right?
Yesss, he did!
And don’t go getting all angry with me about the spiritual references. Al HIMSELF proclaimed,
“This is not a political issue, or a scientific issue or a psychological issue … it’s a moral issue. If anything it’s actually a spiritual issue.”
But anyhow … faux-Pope Gore claimed that new computer modelling suggests there is a 75 per cent chance of the entire polar ice cap melting during the summertime by 2014.
Yeah, seriously … a SEVENTY FIVE percent chance that the polar ice caps will MELT by the summer of 2014.
Actually, we should first let Al speak for himself:
“These figures are fresh, I just got them yesterday.
“Some of the models suggest to Dr. Maslowski that there is a 75 per cent chance that the entire polar ice cap during some of summer months could be completely ice free within five to seven years.”
The crowd gasped in shock!
Al continued with a plea …
“There are more than a billion people on the planet who get more than half of their drinking water – many of them all of their drinking water – from the seasonal melting of snow melt and glacier ice.”
Wow … did that remind you the least bit of THIS precious moment?
I mean, seriously … that was right up there with the Brooks Shields epiphany that, “and if you’re killed, you’ve lost a really important part of your life!”
So there’s Al, giving us the fresh scoop — the inside dope as it were — that some of these models suggest to Dr. Maslowski that the polar ice caps could be gone in a mere few years!
Dr. Maslowski, however, really took one heck of a piss on the coals of Al’s marshmallow roast when he immediately announced that he had no clue what Al was talking about nor could he even imagine at how such a conclusion could have been reached.
OOPS! I did it again!
. . .
Well, sports fans, the phone just rang and it’s time for this ol’ Buck to make himself all pretty and prepare to enjoy some of this beaitful snowy weather with the lovely and overly happy Spousal Unit. She lights up about this sort of weather even more than I do!
So, until the next time that we cross paths and attempt to make one or the other smile, laugh, chuckle or stutter …
Okay, so perhaps not EVERYTHING on this blog is Sex, Religion, or Politics (and the occasional stab at humor) …
Well, in retrospect … I guess my selecting this image for the main story lead-in sort falls on the side of “sex” … oh well. I’m still categorizing it otherwise for now …
Mariah was recently quoted in the Brit celebrity magazine, Hello!, as saying:
some people think I’m a demanding diva. I have no idea why people have that impression!”
Why, I wondered, would she even feel compelled to say such a thing?
Upon doing a little research I began to realize a little something that did not entirely surprise me.
The extraordinarily wealthy, especially here on our shoes in the U.S. … and especially more so with those whose fame and fortune have come by way of the entertainment business … do have tendencies that lean towards the unbearably narcissistic end of the scale. Fame seems to foster and encourage bizarre growths within the centers of the brain wherein lies our ego.
Rather than blather away about my own imaginings, however, let me just put a few factual things on the table of discussion and YOU tell me if she has just cause for her above-quoted bewilderment:
Our goodly — albeit occasionally snaggle-toothed — friends on the other side of The Pond invited this same American pop culture icon to preside over the lighting of the Christmas lights at a prestigious Westfield shopping center in west London. As many of the Hollywood elite are like to do, she had a few special requests and contingencies:
- A pink carpet upon which a Rolls Royce would drive upon, and a pink carpet leading from the vehicle to the podium from which she would perform said lighting ceremony.
- A wand, which she would wave, thusly signaling to someone ELSE that they should flip the big switch, lighting the lights on said Christmas tree.
- Pink, butterfly shaped confetti was to them be showered upon her immediately after the lighting of said lights.
- As for security guards, she estimated that only 80 would be needful
- Personal entourage: smaller still at a mere 15 people.
- 100 whites doves … to be released during the rain of butterfly-shaped confetti.
- and 20 WHITE KITTENS surrounding her at the podium.
[ … insert bewildered, blinking stare here … ]
In another interview, Mariah reportedly said:
I am baffled, shocked and appalled when I am called a diva. I’ve never done one diva-ish thing in my life.”
Hmmm … maybe she’s got a point. I mean, in a recent filming of a commercial that included her two dogs, both Jack Russell terrorists — er, I mean, terriers — Mariah made the following comment:
My puppies are starring in this ad with me, too. I had my team with me but the pups had a mini entourage of their own, of course! And why wouldn’t they? It was a big shoot and even my entourage had an entourage – my stylist had an assistant, my security had extra security.”
Denial is a strange thing indeed, is it not?
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the world, there are those who are NOT so morbidly self-absorbed that they are unable to offer an accurate self-assessment …
Now THAT’S some blunt honesty there, folks!!!
I should really get back to work now. This little 15 minute side trek is on the verge of getting me terminally distracted.
By and by … the next week and a half will most likely be somewhat thin in the way of blogging as my sons are heading this way tomorrow to spend a week+ with us! [massive grin] … I may sign on to drop a few one-offs here and there, but otherwise … we’ll return to our regularly schedule inanity the week following.
Until then …
PEACE OFF, [FAUX CURSE!]