Monday, July 13, 2015

Yeah, That

Thanks to BFF for the shout and the tunes.

Every day is a holiday at Minions, because, y'know, fuck you it's all about you. And you deserve a break today.

This year: Nimoy dead. Pratchett dead. Planet graduated. Databoy seventeen, Bam-Bam fifteen. Purple all growed up and become an engineer. Wait, did I say Planet fucking graduated?

Jeebus. Probably a good day to get hammered and eat a shitload of red meat, since Zombie's leaving his alone. Sadly, my corporate overlords--myself included, since I'm one of them--demand more today, so we'll just get to a very mild buzz sometime much later on in the day.

But oh yes. There will be a shitload of red meat.

Thanks again to BFF for the birthday love. See y'all around August 28 or so, unless something pops up that's so compelling that I have to be a jackass about it. Love, with peace out.


Thursday, July 09, 2015

GAHHHHH!!!! BELATED!!!!!!

Okay, before I go look at BFF's site (he has a FitBit that tracks his Web stats and tells him the IP address and favorite tribal affiliation of every single person who looks at his site, so he'll vouch), I post now what I meant,  before I got tangled up in Shit You Really Don't Want To Know About, No, Really, to have scheduled to post at midnight last night:

Happy 27th Anniversary to BDR and EG, best beloveds, progenitors of bester beloved Planet, my lifelong true beloveds.

I always fucking forget to take care of this, one of the three most important posting days of any year. I, of course, was there, and you were not, unless you're Seatsix (I have trouble convincing myself that he was born by 1989, but really, he was) or Elric. It was one of the happiest days of my life too, excepting that my date was the one known to our history as the Sinister Bitch of Doom. If I'm not mistaken, I was standing next to the groom, but I'm pretty sure I hadn't stopped smoking giant busloads of dope by then, so mistaken is possible.

I no longer confused about BFF's birthday, and I nail it with some consistency. Considering the proximity of this anniversary to my own birthday, I should not be confused and incompetent about timely wishing my beloveds happy anniversary things, which I suspect will involve some fucking horrible ethnic food bereft of animal products.

Love transcends Indian food, though, and Happiest of days to my best beloveds.

Monday, May 11, 2015

But Wait, There's More!

OMFG, are you serious? Look, beloved Whispers is a little bit of a partisan, maybe, but he's not wrong here. There's seriously zero evidence that Brady did anything, and punishing him for telling the NFL to stick it up its witch-hunting ass is bullshit. But as any number of disciplinary cases have shown, the NFL is completely full of shit when it comes to policing those who suck at its teat. It's a private club and it does what it wants.

And really, if you think that the air pressure in the footballs had anything to do with the Indianapolis Colts choking on their own vomit to the tune of 38 points...Jesus, just give me all your fucking money, because you're that fucking stupid.

And now? I've completely blown my lifetime budget for energy spent defending the Patriots, ever.

Thursday, May 07, 2015

How To Embed A Tweet

BFF, he means well. There is no malice in him. Unless you're a Republican. Or a Democrat. Or a voter. But these are small matters. Today's lesson in How To Work The Internet was inspired by BFF, who launched a bunch of assrockets--as is his wont and right--about a topic on which he possesses limited knowledge (as he bloody well can, because it's his fucking blog).

By the way, assrockets are the best sort of rockets to launch, in case  you see all this as unkind or something.

Anyway, the topic was Tom Brady, aka Dreamboat, and I pitched a low-grade, non-foul hiss because BFF failed to pay sufficient attention to his Twitter feed to see that I had tweeted a joke that should go viral and make me a famous buttclown.

And then it occurred to me; BFF doesn't know how to embed a tweet. And so:

1. Find Tweet.

2. Click the three dots in the tweet. "Embed" will be one of the options. Choose it.

3. Copy the highlighted text--just like you would when you embed a video from YouTube.

4. Paste the copied text into your post (in HTML)

5. Eat violas:
Yes. Yes, I did just throw BFF under the bus for the sole purpose of repromoting my shitty Tweet. That. Just. Happened.

Monday, April 27, 2015

Bizarro Night

Thrilled beyond measure for my Washington Capitals, who are a quarter of the way to a Stanley Cup that they won't win.

Crying for Baltimore. How completely fucking awful. Cops' Tweets (60 percent of them include the words "violent criminals") not helping. People burning down new affordable housing constructed by a church not helping. Governor insulting Mayor not helping. What a horrible fucking night for Baltimore and for my state.

Monday, April 13, 2015

Who's Running For President?

I don't give a flying fuck. All of the Republicans are demonstrably batshit crazy, in a willfully evil way. All of the Democrat have a vanishingly tiny chance of affecting my life in anything but the most infinitesimal way. And are not meaningfully less willfully evil, if that. The amount of noise generated by this would drive me bugfuck, if I allowed it to. Some beloveds have already allowed they to become bugfuck. This is a sad. They should take drugs for it. I should take drugs because they're big grownup beloveds and I have no control over what they do, or any ensuing sad.

Will I vote for Her? Not in the winnowing, no. In the Big One? I don't give a flying fuck. You, personally, I give a flying fuck, beloved. All the beloveds, even the ones who can't read. They don't give a flying fuck either.

By the way, they're not typos. And that was a pome, maybe. Shorts. Yum. Landru out.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Reaffirming Life To The Tune Of The High Knez' Daughter

I have posted nine times since Planet's last birthday. Three posts concerned progressively more sad milestone deaths. One was about Planet's daddy. One was about another birthday. Three were about sports. And one was my annual post about Bam-Bam and the autism spectrum.

Damn, my range and mindedness have gotten narrow.

Planet is twenty-two years old today. She is, as you know, the official Best Kid Evar of this here blog (though that designation must someday soon, by definition, come to an end as her eligibility expires), and I cannot recall a time when she has seriously asked me for anything of consequence, let alone more or less insisted (and lest I overstate, I must define "insisted" here as "Will you please?"). That has changed, and I was gratified when this beautiful child, this stunningly creative and brilliant young woman, asked me, back before the academic year started, to take a little trip for her at the end of the year.

And so, in fifty-five days I will fly to Ohio, and drive to the campus of a college I attended briefly until the pressure of having to consume alcohol and other drugs forced me to get the fuck out of there and back to familiar surroundings, and I will watch Planet graduate from that little school on a central Ohio hill upon which a drunk old bishop named Philander Chase collapsed back in 1824. leading him to found an institution in a spot where students would not be tempted by drinking and dancing and fucking.

By the way, that last part, about the drinking and dancing and fucking? Total fail. Embarrassing, really.

But not the point. The point is Happy Birthday, Planet, and congratulations on wrapping up an outstanding undergraduate career, and go forth and become the Best Millennial Evar, and enjoy the privilege of being the only fucking young person in the world who doesn't have to get the fuck off of my fucking lawn.

This child grew up to tell me "Baby needs a new pair of fucking shoes." Life doesn't get any more fucking awesome than that, bitchez.


Thursday, March 12, 2015

Mortality Is Making Me Very Tired

I mourn deeply today's news that Sir Terry Pratchett has died.

My sister-in-law, who has never been portrayed kindly in this blog, actually did me one of the greatest solids of my life when she introduced me to Sir Terry's writing many Hogswatches ago. Permanently redeemed herself, actually. Unconditionally.

And I can't really write any more about this right now.




Friday, February 27, 2015

Well...FUCK




Alsotoo, he was not Herbert.

(Update: Dr. Death weighs in.)
And in conclusion, well, FUCK.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Speaking For Those Who Cannot Speak

Let me be absolutely clear about this: I do not much care for the New England Patriots. There are 6-8 NFL teams I dislike far more, but it is not a common thing for me to prefer that the Patriots win a given game.

I say this to establish my bonafides. Beloved friends Whispers and Jolene are stomp-down sluts for the Patriots, and anything they would say in public on this issue would be perceived as partisan whining. I cannot allow them to remain unspoken for, and so I say this:

Oh, shut the fuck up. Seriously? Underinflated balls? Fuck me in the ear, it was a cold-weather game in which the officials fondled the balls before every fucking play. Are you fucking shitting me? Do you really need Patriots Derangement Syndrome to be as pervasive and as batshit fucking crazy as Obama Derangement Syndrome? Because that's where you are, America. Well, you know, that and utterly fucking addled about a fucking jingo movie about a lying, homicidal, psychopath war hero. But I'm gonna assert that the football is more important.

That is all.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Two Days In A Row

I know, right? Just a tiny bit of awesomeness (hat tip to The Bog) preceding the upcoming Winter Classic. Reebok has chosen Joel Ward as one of its faces, to wit:

Wardo always bathes this way.

Your sister asked for some firewood.

You can cut a throat with one of those things.
Click to embiggen, of course.

Quick reminder: Ilse claims Chicagoan heritage and is overjoyed that Jay Cutler will return to the Bears' helm this weekend. Let's Go Caps.

Monday, December 22, 2014

Joe Cocker

Well, fuck.



Same film:



And of course, the best tribute of all:


John Belushi cantando With A Little Help From My Friends from James Lester Wright Gajete on Vimeo.

Well, fuck.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Making Time For Important Things

I often don't do it. Sometimes I forget things are important. Often, other things are more important in the moment. So we'll just call this a small victory, the more so because it ends that short time of the year when we're the same age. And even more because BFF crosses the Rubicon of age 55 today, the gnarly old fuck. Amazing that he and his can stand to be around him, really. Although he's probably less grizzled than I am, because I am given to understand that vegetarian feeding makes the long pig more tender. But I digress.

You can say that he's a dupe, he's a rube, he's a grifter (for attention, not for money, which makes it perfectly okay and then some, and you and I are, after all, the ones clicking the mice). I've said all of those things about him and to him at times or others through the stations of life, and other things far less kind, some on point and some not so. But he's my dupe/rube/grifter, I've been there for every black helicopter and startled epiphany and morbid fuck-me jig and for things incalculably more important than those bits of inexplicably MoCo lives. And while I remind you here and now, explicitly, as I do every year, that this makes me better than you, it has also made me better than me.

Expressing myself once a year about my nearly lifelong friend (John the Daftist, the She-Nurse of the SS, and 32-Ounce are the only humans with longer tenure, and theirs is biologically asserted) is a little maudlin, but it's easy. This part is hard:



Okay, that one's not hard, I do it every year. Ritual is important. Just ask Bam-Bam. Let's do a couple more reruns:





Damn, when I'm tired of that, I'll be dead. Makes me want more.



It's never as fast as I remember it being.

Thoughtfully not rerun? Naked Bong Girl (nsfw). Not appearing in this film? The worst Kate Bush song ever, in the face of stiff competition (though I'll admit that she was quite attractive when we were young--and she's only a tiny bit older than us).

And finally, because a birthday should involve an actual present:



So, y'know, happies and suchlike.

Friday, May 02, 2014

So There Was This Guy

There still is, actually. And he's old. Today. It is the day when he is older. He used to not be older. We used to be young. And skinny.

The first time I saw him, he was the very last guy on the Ricky Monkey basketball team's bench. We mocked him. He got into the game. He took a set shot. I don't remember if he made it, but I like to think so. I had no idea on that day that he would become the Hamster. Our Hamster.

See BFF. I can't top that. However, I did get candids.

You might think he's not really that scary. I am here to tell you that he is. Oh, yes. He is.
You don't want to know what those little paws just touched. Oh no you don't.

Not much is known of Our Hamster's leisure activities. So, we speculate:

That's right. Cosplay. We went there. That just happened.
You might confuse hamsters with other small furry creatures. This may be helpful:

Sensory whiskers. Chix dig it.
Our Hamster? Has a very long tail. Oh yes he does. If you knowhumsayin', and I'm pretty sure you do.

Happy birthday, Hamster.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Whack This Mole

Olsen on Boswell: "He could talk a dog off a meat truck, that guy."

I have to admit that's quite excellent. Fire Saint Benny anyway.

In other news, why the fucking fuck haven't I read yet that Adam Oates is fired? I mean, seriously, why didn't I read this two days ago? What the fucking fuck, Leonsis? I mean, based on what amounts to gossip*, I've mutated to the point where I won't mind if I read that you fired George McPhee, but I'm counting, Teddy Internet, and the number of days between last Sunday and the day you fire Adam Fucking Oates is no less than one half the number of days between the next time your team is playing hockey and the time I give you a fucking dime, you lying sack of dissembling horseshit.

*It is said that the Caps are on many players' "Please Massa don't trade me there" lists based on GMGM's allegedly draconian policies toward players and their agents. I have no idea whether it's really true, but based on some stuff I read and Leonis' recent publicizing of the Caps' policy on player-agent contacts after games, the story has the sweet stench of a relationship with reality. Given that GMGM has spent years walking a fine line because those years embodied his wandering horseshit on the player acquisition front (this year was the potentially saving exception, imhoe), he is no longer endearing. But Oates first, last, and always, though it pains me to say that of a guy who brought RPI a national title, even though he has no personality and no passion, and very clearly dyes his hair.**

**You may or may not recall, because you were or were not in the room***, that the first words out of my mouth after the horn for the first intermission of Adam Oates' tenure were, "Fire Oates."

***Or on the phone.

UPDATE: United news, while I'm here today (courtesy of Goff):

-Chris Pontius and the Hamstring of Doomitosis:
In his absence, United (2-2-1) has utilized Nick DeLeonDavy ArnaudLewis Neal and Chris Rolfe on the flanks and relied on secondary forward Fabian Espindola to influence the attack. 
Fucking shoot me. Pontius, on whom the club has staked the future for I've lost count of how many fucking seasons now, is going to be playing in a fucking wheelchair soon.

-Bill Hamid's big toe, Chris Korb's knee injury (who the fuck cares, other than Korb and his girlfriend?), Luis Silva's giant Latin tonker (or maybe his ankle).

-Fucking shoot me some more:
With a victory Saturday, United would equal last season’s win total. Last year the club needed 22 games to achieve that — and then didn’t win again. Success in Columbus, though, does not come often: four consecutive defeats. A victory, combined with other results around the league, could also thrust United into a first-place tie in the Eastern Conference.
For 10 minutes. Fucking shoot me, again and again and again. People ask me why I gave up my season tickets. Check the last four bolded names in the Pontius blockquote. There's your fucking answer. Goddam team full of number twelves (which was once a badge of honor, but no more--in fact, the last honorable true Twelve went off to coach the fucking enemy). Am I fucking shot yet?

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Autism Awareness Day

Yup. You aware? Good. Vaccinate your children. If you think that's a bad idea, then shut the fuck up and vaccinate your children. If you're not willing to shut the fuck up and vaccinate your children, shut the fuck up and vaccinate your children. Then shut the fuck up some more and vaccinate your children.

That's about all I have time for this year. Last year. 2012. 2009, and 2008. The boy? He's awesome, and I love him more than breath its own self. Yeah, he's still autistic. Whatever. Love to Kimmah and Sam and Swami and Max and to you, whoever you are.

In news of very nearly equal importance, the Maryland women are returning to the Final Four. I would say this at any time of any day of any year, but more pointedly this week, at every moment of every day: Fuck Notre Dame. Fuck UConn. Fuck Stanford (special for His Wiseness: I actually rooted for you last night).

Peace. Unless you're Notre Dame, UConn, or Stanford, of course.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Hey You

Because you're not 21 until I say you're 21, kid:

 

 Because I think it's awesome:

 

 Because not everything can be They Might Be Giants:



Because you know why:



Because this is what happens when you do too many fucking drugs and make sillyass Star Trek allusions:



Yeah, take that, Planet's Daddy.

Okay, fine, go be 21 now. Happies, with all the love ever.

 Uncle Weird

This child grew up to tell me "Baby needs a new pair of fucking shoes." Life doesn't get any more fucking awesome than that, bitchez.


Tuesday, February 18, 2014

By Jingo

I have a hard time with the Olympics. Some of it is just fucken cool. But it's painfully obvious that, while most of the athletes are there for the best of reasons sincere (if nationalistic), the thing is a boondoggle that's not of any real value to improving the world condition.

Unfortunately, so's the World Cup. So suck it. Bring on my bread and circuses.

There are some things that are self-evident. One is that my local nation is better than yours. It just is. Especially, in this season, if you're my friend from Canada, for whom I shall not make up a name, so that when Purple sends him this post through the Faceybookz in an obvious effort to discredit me and Obamacare, I can pretend that I have lots of friends from Canada and it's not actually about him.

Another piece of self-evidentia is that even though my local nation is better than yours, especially if yours is Canada, other nations are not to be disrespected (unless they're Canada). For example, the skip of the British womens' curling team is pretty hot, as are a number of Russian women hockey players, some Italian skater chick I happened to notice because Ilse is obsessed with figure skating in all its forms (a million deaths are not enough for Porcelain Face) in addition to unicorns and the Olympics in general, and, also according to Ilse, Henrik Lundqvist and some guy on the Norwegian mens' curling team. Note the absence of anything Canadian on my Hot List. And hers. I said note it, bitchez.

By the way, if you're concerned that I'm not getting to the point, don't be. There isn't one.

Specifically not to be disrespected: the Russians. You wouldn't know it from watching the endless American rainbow fairy tale that is NBC's coverage of these Olympics (and every Olympics), which spent the entire opening ceremonies telling us how Russia equals Soviets equals bad and brutal and horrible and Stalin, and did we by the way mention Stalin? Of course, they did a really shitty job of reconciling that to guys in spiked coal-scuttle helmets who torment Russians, as well as reconciling math concerning a certain major conflict between said guys and Russians. Nor would you know it from the world journo community, which appears to be convinced that Russians are shitting in its water and feeding it cockroach borscht.

I thought the Russians did a really cool pageant about their history and culture. Was it an obscene waste of money? Of course it was. See Rule One. But their pageant was every bit as awesome as every other country's Olympic opening pageant, and a damn sight better and more entertaining than the pasty white (and Anglo) pageants thrown by the last two pasty white (and Anglo, despite the vague mists of froggification and First Nationsization that Vancouver 2012 tried to pimp, and you are totally not getting a break from me at all in this post, you fucking Canadian fucks) nations to throw such galas.

Full disclosure: Tschaikovsky innately trumps anything Anglo. Suck it, we lose.

I've been fascinated by the Winter Olympics since I was a kid. Especially the hockey, which was my first true sports love. So I have this jingoism problem. You see, in a hockey sense, I really, really hate some other countries that, on the face of it, probably don't deserve it. I'm looking at you, Sweden. And you, Finland. The very notion of disliking Sweden or Finland for any reasons beyond spoiled fish in skunk mustard sauce or their craven national behaviors in the aforementioned major conflict should be a pretty serious clue that I have a serious need for antipsychotics here (and in case you don't know: Sweden was a neutral that profited from sales of war materiel to both sides, while Finland sided with the Germans, because they were terrified of the Soviets, until the Soviets kicked their asses and made them change sides).

Subsequent Olympics have only exacerbated the problem. When Vladislav Tretiak was revealed as one of the torch-lighters in Sochi, I recognized him and almost involuntarily hissed, to Ilse's great puzzlement (fucking GenXers, and fuck also my generation's upbringing with hammers and sickles populating our duck-and-cover dreams). I cursed vividly when I saw today that the Czechs (minus the Slovaks) will be the United States' opponent in the quarters. And you will have no trouble guessing who I detest first and best among hockey nations.

This is difficult, because who I detest second and second-best among mens' hockey nations this time around is us. There are maybe 6 guys on the US Olympic hockey team who don't make me want to slit my own throat in disgust. But my country's laundry is what it is. Contrast Sweden, whose hockey team I've hated since I was about 7; it includes three of my favorite Olympians (Backstrom, Marcus Johansson, and the aforementioned suave, debonair, and blindingly awesome King Henrik Lundqvist, if you're curious).

It gets worse. Of course I despise the Canadian mens' team. But I reserve the most spittle for their womens' team, who fundamentally cheated to beat the US women in group play (which doesn't matter--the final will be US-Canada). It appears I have a bit of a problem with Canadian women playing goal-scoring sports. But I'll just try to stick to nationalism here without hauling out the misogynist artillery.

Friend Jim has done his best to provide fine and healthy counsel on my larger sports hate problem (but ask him about Duke). My jingoism transcends even my routine homerism. Therein, of course, lies the rub when I try to make sense of the Olympics. Best for me to just eat the bread and roll with the circus, I think. And to play Civ V or FM when my television is showing Ilse her tiny ice ballerinas.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Another Bad Day In Paradise


 Pete Seeger, dead at 94.

This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender
I cannot describe how saddened I am by this. Not even bunnies can fix it.



Not. Even. Bunnies.

Friday, December 27, 2013

The Surface

On the theory that it is prudent, once in a while, to emerge into the light and gobble air, I offer this:

"...TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME...SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.

"Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's the point—"

MY POINT EXACTLY.” 

(Terry Pratchett, The Hogfather)


I'm done judging what you think. Even if you're an idiot. Which you may well be. Merry Fucking Christmas.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

All the Colored Girls Go Doo De Doo Doo Doo De Doo Doo de Doo Doo Doo De Doo

Damn. Lou Reed, dead at 71.



Hey sugar, take a walk on the wild side.

The wrong Beatle keeps dying.

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Whoa, I'd Better Hurry Up and Get This Shit Posted

I just woke her up a few minutes ago, and this really needs to be up on the internetz before she gets to a computer, y'know?



Ilse: still legal after all these years. Happy birthday, honey, even though you let those fucking parasites into our house. The fuck's up with that?

Friday, September 27, 2013

Oh. That.

It's apparently Google's 15th birthday. This required some research, since whoever designed today's Doodle didn't bother to do a little bit of Javascripting to include mouseover text. So as an actual Web guy, let me just say this:

Fuck You, Google. It is your good fortune to be only slightly less evil than Apple, and about precisely as evil as Microsoft. Comparative analysis aside, Fuck You, Google.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

The Figure 5

So BFF posted about the incomparable William Carlos Williams, whose birth anniversary was yesterday. But he left out the part that's about me. What a fucking number 12 wanker.

The Great Figure
Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
fire truck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city

A print of this used to hang on my crackhouse wall, click to DeMuthanize*
Fin.

*All hail Phil Plait.

Monday, September 02, 2013

Labor Day

So, I'm actually working on Labor Day, but as always on Labor Day check out Loomis at LGM, and backtrack, because for Loomis every day is Labor Day and he's the most outstanding populist labor historian I know of.

It seems that we missed Labor Day last year, although we made it right shortly thereafter. We did not miss in 2011, and I can't figure out what the YouTube-dropped video is. 

Finally: today's xkcd transcends all. No, I mean all. Holy fucking shit.

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Oh, Fuck Me

Yesterday was his 54th birthday. I missed it because I had a bad day, then I had a worse one that further devolved into chills, fever, cramps, and some really unpleasant other stuff. So it's 2 AM, and I'm sweating like a pig, hopefully because the fever is breaking.

And so...happy belated fucking birthday, BFF.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

My Dream

I was rooting around in my bag and I found a pack of cigarettes and I was upset because they were shorties instead of 99s and then I remembered that I was lucky to have any cigarettes at all and I was happy. And then I knew the dream was over because I woke up and BFF was pointing and silently screaming while Digby and Atrios raped Glenn Greenwald while Obama held Greenwald's head, snarling, "Take that, Kitty Genovese," and I wasn't racist because Obama's cock was white. And then things got really weird because there was litter so I cried.

Friday, August 09, 2013

An Ending. I Think.

It is to be fervently hoped that the cigarette I just finished was my last. We shall see. I am hoping that there is some value in admitting this in public, to my very limited public. Value to me; I don't give a fuck about its value to you (and therein may lie some of the problem, I suppose).

I have been smoking regularly for something like 38 years, though my first was longer ago than that, probably at summer camp when I was 14. I honestly don't remember, but it seems by far the most likely beginning. It was a beginning to my life as a pointlessly punkass contrarian, a thrill-seeker, a counter to sensibility and propriety. I had been, until that moment, a violent anti-smoker, and I was intellectually well aware of the health risks. I recall freaking out when I was 7 and my parents--both essentially non-smokers who could, back in the 60s, smoke an occasional cigarette socially--lit up after a dinner in a restaurant. My change became complete when I started swiping Larks from my father's parents--both of whom smoked until they were in their 70s (my grandfather, the Original Recipe John the Daftist, smoked until about a year before his death from COPD).

For a long time I smoked two packs a day, Winstons by choice, Marlboros sometimes and then always when I succumbed to the peer-pressured notion that Winstons were pretty freakin' gay. Then the world stopped letting people smoke at their desks, and rightly so, and I cut it to a pack of Camel Lights a day because the Marlboros (along with a steady stream of marijuana smoking) were making me noticeably unhealthier.

I quit for nearly a month almost 10 years ago. I had a heart attack, and was mildly impressed by that, and stopped, aided by a common smoking-cessation antidepressant I won't name. It made me itch. It made me insane. The drug, I mean. I had the heart attack the weekend before Thanksgiving, and I don't think I stopped right away--I think I waited until just after the holiday. I spent Christmas Eve with my brother and his family; my mother was visiting them. I bought a pack of smokes on the way home.

My bout of pneumonia, accompanied by the worst cough ever, chest pain that is at best musculoskeletal (and we are now fairly certain that it is), some potentially rather dire potential diagnoses from various test results, and the prospect of prematurely and irrevocably leaving Ilse, Bam, and I suppose Databoy, the lights of my life, has thoroughly frightened me, for reals, my genuinely risk-humping nature laid open, the frontier of risk aversion now discovered (in my personal life--professionally, it's more calculated, by many more orders of magnitude). Boy, do I feel like a pussy. Seriously. 38 years of the Devil may care, and now this, simpering about the game clock, veering away from the head-on. The only thing I can think of that would be more shameful would be acquiring formal religion (and in a way, my frenzied dash to perceived safety is a rejection of my previously established semi-formal secret religion). I'll get over it.

I hasten to add that while the dire stuff is not ruled out, it now seems far less likely, based on a visit to my newest doctor, a pulmonologist. Part of how we rule it out is for me to stop smoking, and we have created a cunning plan that includes nicotine replacement, a therapy I had not previously considered. I hasten slightly less hastily to add that it's not like I actually hate Databoy. He's just a thought-provoking series of questions, is all. I am a 53-year-old long-time smoker with cardiopulmonary issues. I don't have the fucking energy for thought-provoking series of questions.

So there it is, on the Web, my hope, my innards. I accept your good wishes for this enterprise whether or not you express them, and honestly, I'd probably prefer that you didn't, with one exception, because my contempt for you does not extend to actually wanting to disappoint you in some meaningful way. I am genuinely sorry to tell you that the exception is almost certainly not you; she is a visitor of delicate and extreme rarity, and there are very, very good reasons that she is the exception, in that she is the one human being on this planet from whom I will tolerate, unconditionally, any wee dram of optimism. And three of you just figured out that math.

And don't ask. I'll fess up if need be, or maybe, if need be, one of the local denizens who knows me in real life will attempt shame as a tool. Ask the She-Nurse of the SS how that works out. A tubercular cigar brothel/butcherteria in Tegucigalpa, to make an educated guess. In fact, the one person out there in the world who absolutely does not get that it's not okay to ask--the farthest thing from okay, in fact--is the She-Nurse.

The header quote stays. Only years will tell if it's applicable, and chances are it is, whether or not I stay quit. You really don't smoke for 38 years without shortening your life in some measure, even if you luck out and that measure is small. There's some magical thinking that only compounds the shame, hmm?

Goodbye, smoky treats. I will do my very best to never speak of this again.

Saturday, August 03, 2013

Why I Hate My Futbol Team Even Though It Just Went Up 2-1

I would have, by now, been demanding the firing of the last two DC United coaches. In fact, I did, long before now, at points where the team didn't suck nearly as bad as this one does. And you might well accuse me of hero worship for this. "Look at that dumbass Landru," you say to yourself right about now. "He's so blinded by love for Saint Benny the Lionhearted that he can't bring himself to call for the dumb fuck's head."

To coin a meme: Sadly, no. 

I'm not bothering to demand the dumb fuck's firing, because it's pointless. There's no way the cheap cocksuckers who own this team are going to buy out Saint Benny, as hapless as he is.

It's hard to hate on Benny Olsen, true enough. Heart of a lion, tears of a clown, and all that. And there's certainly something to the notion that the cheap cocksuckers Thohir and Levien aren't giving him much to work with. But that's not all of it, and Benny's not working with what he has. He has a fucking retard in a chess helmet in central defense, and he traded his best central defender to Jason Kreis for semen on a cracker the other week because...I"m not sure why. Because McDonald looked at him funny in practice or something. It takes a genius at stupidity to think that Daniel Woolard is a better central defender than Brandon McDonald. It takes a genius at stupidity not to notice that Dwayne DeRosario is aging and counterproductive, and that even before the age really started to show this season, his arrogance and attitude doomed him to useless. It takes a genius at stupidity to bench the best goalkeeper in the league upon his return from a winning Gold Cup team, to play a fucking retard like Joe Willis--which almost cost them three points, as Willis let in a goal that I think would've been almost physically impossible for Bill Hamid to let in.

Sure, they made the playoffs last year on...what, adrenaline? Other teams' suck? Not on Benny's management skills, that's for fucking sure. I've addressed this for a long time now; see here, and scroll down past the two futbol posts I've made this year, and start reading. Or just read samples:

(11/4/2012) The last is, as always, uncomfortable for me, because he's a fucking saint. Benny Olsen is a terrible fucking man manager, just absolutely fuckawful. The team fielded 10 men for almost 25 minutes. Benny had two subs left. He didn't use them.
(10/20/2012) It makes no sense to backpass and then restart the advance at a pace that lets the other team catch up and repack the defense (and let's not even discuss the countless episodes of inept backpassing followed by stupid turnovers and goooooollllls). None. I screamed at Tommy Soehn about it, I screamed at Curt Onalfo about it, and it's only fair that I say this: Goddammit, Saint Benny, you stupid motherfucker, stop fucking coaching them to backpass and then build slow. What the fucking fuck is wrong with you, other than that you learned this fucking repulsive horseshit from Soehn and Onalfo? Didn't Saint Piotr learn you better? Can't you fucking stand there, far closer to this abomination in the sight of the futbol gods than I am, and fucking learn from this? Wake the fucking fuck up, dood. I really, really want to believe that you're not still, after two fucking seasons, in way the fuck over your incredibly short head. I really do. Do please provide countering evidence. Soon.
(8/12/2012) Part of the thing here, and it's a part we're loathe to admit, is that Benny is a really, really fuckawful in-game coach, and a poor tactical manager. Can this improve? Maybe. Given time, he'll improve more in a year or two than Tommy Soehn or Curt Onalfo will for the rest of their lives.Will he get time? Will he deserve it? Beats the fuck out of me.
(5/28/2012) Fuck You, Chester, Pennsylvania, and Fuck You, PP&L Park. It'll be fucking cold day in Hell when I spend money in your city, or your stadium, ever again.
Oh, wait. That last one's not about Benny. But I stand by it anyway.

So as I've typed this, DCU actually managed to score a clincher and win the game 3-1. Our friends on Comcast, including the formerly discommendated but no longer uniformed and maybe forgiven, I can't remember, Santino Quaranta (but not sainted Terps coach Sasho Cirovski, who's been studio-commenting for CSN and appears to have either smartened up or taken a timely vacation--and look, at I typed that, my teevee flashed up an utterly bullshit commercial about how excited I should be about the giant clusterfuck rape that's going to be Maryland football this season, yay!), are just creaming themselves over this first home victory since...Jeebus...1492 or something. 

You know what? Fuck this, I'm tiring myself out. Have bunnies instead.


Yes. Yes, they will.
Stump Bunnies

Yes, that is seriously Shakira with a bunny.

Yes, that is seriously some naked broad I don't know, with a bunny.

Gaymo bunnies are still my favorite.

Yeah. I feel better now, don't you?


Sunday, July 28, 2013

Why Blogging Sucks; or, You Kids Get Off My Web

BFF's recent experience and the accompanying performance art have inspired me to explain things to all of you in the most condescending manner possible. So here we go.

Actually, no we don't. I need to explain the condescension. I am, as the tag says, an actual communications professional. Now, what I really am is a corporate management tool. But my background is in databases and Web, and one of the jobs I do, amid other toolish professional behavior, is manage a group that operates a passel of Web sites for your local Federal government. The other toolish professional behavior consumes a nontrivial amount of my time, because small businesses that suck at the teat of your local Federal government take people like me and stretch us out over a ridiculous number of businesses and people and groups and teams, and make us manage them, and then stick ice picks in our kidneys until we accumulate more businesses and people and groups under our personal aegis, except that's a lie because they never stop fucking sticking ice picks in our kidneys.

But I digress. The point here is that Web is my home. It's my yard. And you fucking bloggers are taking a shit on it. I'm a modern and sensitive guy, and I'm going to try to be kind about this. And I'm going to try not to be too condescending and to keep this shit simple, because who has time for me taking a dump all over the Internets? To the extent that simplicity, in your personal case, is condescending, I apologize.

There are a number of ways to produce a Web page. One is to just take your text, fit the appropriate HTML (or XHTML or XML or some other Markup Language) around it so that it looks like a Web page and not a ransom note, and slap that puppy up on whatever part of the Web you happen to control (your domain). You absolutely must view everything that follows this paragraph through this filter: I am a fucking dinosaur, and producing Web pages any way other than this is newfangled horseshit that leads to deviant behavior, alternative religions, hippies fucking in the streets, the fiery, painful, screaming downfall of all that is decent and pure, the utter defilement of sainted mothers everywhere, and hemorrhoids. I would cheerfully scoop up all of you fucking bloggers into my giant, dripping, gaping, blood-stained maw, and devour you whole, ignoring your pathetic and inconsequential screams. But I can't, because my little Trex arms are too fucking short.

Your HTML may just create the way the page looks--this is like using the Bold or Italic or font commands in Word--or it may use a style sheet (CSS), which is like using Word styles to mark a block of text as Heading, or Body, or something else. HTML or CSS code, wrapped around your content (text) and presented to a Web browser through the holy mystery that is Internet telecommunications, governs how a page looks when you call up that page in your browser.

Another way to produce a Web page is to use software to do it. These methods usually rely on the Web content (your text) being stored in a database, and being served up to browsers through the holy mystery, & c. At the popular level--i.e., blogging--these methods are called Web Content Management Systems (WCMS). Blogger and WordPress, for instance, are populist WCMS writ large. A populist sort of WCMS is how you deliver blogging functionality outside of an organizational setting (a WCMS that is less populist is still necessary to deliver blogging functionality inside an organization, the implication here being that organizations have well-developed IT, software, and Web content development/delivery processes and systems that may not need to be as friendly as Blogger or WordPress or BlogFrog or OhFuckMeInTheAssItsMoreFuckingBlogware).

Did I spit enough when I said "populist?" Because I meant to.

In a WCMS, populist or otherwise the CSS that governs how your blog pages look is usually called a template. And that template is what you choose when you set up your blog, or in the case of my beloved BFF, every 20 minutes when you get bored and decide you need a change (which is the Web equivalent of dying your hair pink). The template is designed for the WCMS in which it operates; it is a package of code--mostly CSS, but some other stuff too, depending on functionality--that takes your content and pretties it up in the way that you specify. All the bells and whistles that you want on your fucking blog--blogrolls, sidebars, lists, calendars, labels, and whathefuckeverelse--have to fit into that template. A user interface between you and the template--in Blogger, it's your dashboard--lets you make those selections, and writes code to fit all that shit into your customized version of the basic template.

Over time, Blogger or WordPress or FuckYouBlogware needs to make changes to the underlying WCMS. Sometimes they're small, sometimes they're total overhauls. Google seems to overhaul Blogger about once a year. Every time there's a major overhaul, God kills a kitten. No, wait, that's not quite right. God kills some templates. The underlying WCMS can still render pages in the coded template, but it becomes much harder to customize the old template by automatically writing code from the user interface. And it's not worth it to Google to update the old template, because it's fucking free, so why the fuck should they, when you, and not just you beloved BFF, but all vanity Web presences, are so fucking fickle? Easier, and more cool-sounding, to give you new choices.

And that's how BFF's blog got fucked. He is not particularly comically inept, from my jaded and tiresome perspective. He does have somewhat unrealistic expectations, but excuse me? Are you new here? Have you met my friend? Fucking English majors.

Maybe more later on browsers and their peculiarities, or on domain management. Or maybe not. Right now, I have to go dump my older kid at a transportation terminal and tell him to follow the guys in the furry hats.