The Snowed In Bunker

Dominos Pizza on the Moon...No Seriously!

2011-09-03T01:28:00.002-04:00

From the corner of my ear I heard the most amazing news blurb this evening, as I was lazily swiping away at the iThing. Dominos pizza will be building a space pizza restaurant. A pizza restaurant- on the moon.

I know I haven't written on this thing much lately, there has been a lot of crap going down, but frankly this, this dear readers, is enough of a free jolt of electricity to free me from sloth!

I haven't done any of the research yet, haven't checked CNN, or Snopes, or any of the usual suspects. No, I plan to type this gem up without the benefit of actual knowledge of the situation. That kind of advantage would remove the spontaneity, the thirst for truth. I'm just going to assume that the anchorwoman on Bay News 9 was reporting a factual story. That Dominos Pizza is going to make good on a promise to spend in the neighborhood of $22 Billion and 15 liquid fuel launches to put a sit down restaurant on the surface of the moon. The Moon. Yes, that one.

I mean, who wouldn't want to know more about the first permanent, habitable structure on the surface of the moon, arguably the single most pivotal occurence in the long and storied rise of mankind? Especially if it turned out to be a franchise serving both Pepsi and Budweiser? Wait I was thinking of Pizza Hut, they're a strictly terrestrial outfit. Forgive my old fashioned, Earth-centric thinking. You can almost sympathize with the church for the whole Gallileo thing right now.

It's like the cheesiest parts of Space Mountain are about to come true. Daddy actually WOULD be able to swoop by a pizza joint on his way home from his work on Mars or wherever that creepy little animatronic figure mentioned as you were leaving the ride. Or was that Spaceship Earth? Who the fuck cares, they're building a Dominos on the Moon!

This is what happens when your government is starved of cash, but your gluttonous populace continue to gorge themselves on the cheapest nutrition available with the mere touch of 7 digits and a button labeled in friendly green font: TALK. Or one button for the serous repeat customer. How many of these goddamn things are you folks buying that they can spend $22 Billion with a B dollars firing more than a dozen rockets into the depths of space to spend untold man-hours clearing moon rock, attaching some sort of sturdy foundation, fortifying air tight walls and roof, providing shielding from cosmic rays and micro asteroids, constructing double failsafe life support systems, assembling housing for your workers, designing a system for surface travel to pick up your hoped for customers because you can't just land a spaceship right on top of a pizza restaurant now can you? Can you?! Or have these clever bastards at Dominos got their hands into more pies than we've ever even dreamed of?

All of this gives me a funny kind of 'did some spoiled idiot just inherit Dominos Pizza?' vibe. Strikes me as something Gob Bluth would have dreamed up in a brainstorming session, just before having to issue an emergency press release to appease the shareholders. He was probably staring out the window at the time and they had asked him for the third time what their advertising salvation was going to be. We're in a waxing crescent about now I believe.

Again, I do this without the benefit of Internet research. Its more fun to just pick this silly idea apart on merit, on simply hearing the barest summary snippet. I mean my God, more power to them. Who wouldn't want to eat pizza on the moon? Sounds like a blast. But I believe they misread their target market. What is the typical income of your average hypothetical-no-more moon tourist? How many 7-series sedans could they have traded for this nearly interplanetary dinner? Granted you can have cold leftovers on the way home, but I'm imagining someone should have opened a foie gras and caviar bistro instead. That and a fine whorehouse.

The funny thing is, I can't see how supply or demand would work here. I can see customers demanding free toppings, pointing around to the noticeable dearth of street traffic at this little food stand. But likewise I can see the owner surveying the utter lack of competition and not even bothering to list prices on the menu board. The field is wide open, this is new ground to cover. It's stuff that would drive economists silly with glee.

Now I must admit I've had a few: it's Friday night on a Labor Day weekend. So maybe I just heard something that sounded like "Dominos is building a restaurant on the moon" you ask? But they said it again after I rewound the DVR. So I can stand it no more, I really need to get to the bottom of this and read at least one story telling me this is but a guerilla marketing scheme gone viral.

P.S. I looked it up and it's actually the Japanese wing of Dominos Pizza. And the spokesman in their introductory video is creepier and more cheesetastic than any creature dreamed up by the imagineers of Walt Disney: http://moon.dominos.jp/

P.P.S. Will they sell slices?

Ever Wonder How This Guy Shaves?

2011-07-15T20:56:00.000-04:00

Supreme Court Strikes Down Minimum Driving Age

2011-07-09T16:15:00.001-04:00

WASHINGTON- In keeping with its recent trend of overruling state restrictions on expression, the US Supreme Court on Friday issued a controversial decision in which state-mandated restrictions on minimum driver age are unconstitutional. In a 7-2 decision, the conservative majority stated in its written opinion “..the act of driving, as a vital component of modern American life, is an expression of free will and thereby is protected speech applying to all citizens, regardless of age.”

Lawyers representing Nevada in the monumental Timmy Winslow v. State of Nevada had contended that children have not yet developed the maturity and control to handle a powered vehicle. Siding with Nevada were the Association of Pediatric Physicians, the American Automotive Association, AMA, several major automotive makers, the Department of Education, Nationwide Insurance and more than 600 national and state groups.

Winslow's attorneys had argued otherwise, citing myriad examples of poor driving by adults. “The state was wrong in finding that Mr. Winslow should be restricted from the operation of his uncle's station wagon on the simple basis that he is in 7^th grade” lawyers for the Plaintiff had argued. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Winslow had safely transported his uncle from Reno's Speakeasy Bar & Grill on numerous occasions without a problem prior to the incident of 16 January 2010”.

Winslow's council was referring to the evening the boy was pulled over by a Nevada State Trooper on suspicion of driving without a license. “Some nights he's the most capable driver to leave that establishment” testified the boy's uncle, Samuel Winslow.

Across the nation tens of thousands of children took to the streets Saturday in riotous celebration of the verdict, though most remained on foot for the time being.

“Hopefully most of them won't be able to afford the insurance” said teacher Melissa Webb of Carson City Middle School. “Half these kids can't walk down the hallway without bouncing into a locker, throwing a book at someone, or spilling a drink down their shirt. And now I gotta check my rear-view all the way home to see if a carload of them are following my Corolla home with a carton of eggs?”

Said Justice Scalia in his writing for the majority, “While the state of Nevada may contend that citizens under the age of sixteen may be unfit to operate a motor vehicle, as the state receives Federal monies in part for the construction and upkeep of those roads this is clearly a Federal matter, not a state one.”

Implored Scalia “Has it not already been established that applying age as a banner metric for those qualified to use said public thoroughfares clearly violates the rights of free travel of those citizens, be they minors, seniors or otherwise?” He was citing a past verdict from the same state that forbade a maximum driving age limit (Nevada v. O. Fogie).

Justice Breyer contended in his dissent that (states) should be allowed to “balance the need for public safety with that of the rights of the individual.” Breyer's written argument took an anachronistic turn for the surreal however when it concluded ”..merely having played Pong in your rec-room as you and your pals drink Tab soda does not make one ready to compete at Wimbledon.”

The allowance of reasonable restrictions was not thrown aside entirely by the majority, as they contended this does not mean states may not continue to withhold licenses from those deemed unsafe or poor drivers. States could still require licensees to pass tests on visual acuity, reaction time, and knowledge of driving laws. Also required is a lightweight foam driving helmet for those under 14.

The verdict also didn't go as far as to guarantee minors the right to obtain commercial licenses, that matter would remain with the states, provided the commercial license restricted travel to within the state's border and to vehicles carrying fewer than 15 passengers.

“Today's youths generally have begun preparing for driving at a much earlier age than previous generations, particularly through the use of video games” added Winslow's lead council, Wade Intuit. “Besides cars practically drive themselves these days.”

“Good luck finding someone willing to lend them their keys though” said Intuit, nervously checking all his mirrors after getting into his Cadillac following the press conference. Even he admitted some fearful uncertainty of the new reality his team had just helped usher in. “I'm thinking of trading in for something larger, maybe a really large truck...(something) with lots of airbags. I've seen my son play those games.”

In related news, Tokai Online Entertainment Co. announced completion of a game allowing players to track down and brutally sodomize members of the US Supreme Court in a graphic, yet admittedly by most reviewers, satisfying fashion. Said a company spokesman “Definitely some artistic merit in there, somewhere deep we imagine.”

Prince Harry Elopes for the Hell of It

2011-04-27T22:17:00.005-04:00

LONDON- Royal watchers were stunned by the surprising turn of events late Wednesday. As millions worldwide eagerly await the historic wedding of Prince William to Kate Middleton, his brother has apparently jumped on the bandwagon. It has been reported Prince Henry of Wales, commonly known as Prince Harry, eloped in Las Vegas.

Rumors of the young prince's sudden plunge into the bonds of matrimony surfaced after the royal's Twitter feed read “Up yurs Will, I just tied it. Wish u were here. Vegas roks!” At this time little is known of Harry's new bride, other than her first name, Roxie.

While the commonly held estimate of William and Kate's wedding resides north of $34 million, Harry's extravaganza is believed to have run approximately $800. Half of which constituted the bar tab for the couple leading up to the impromptu event at the Little Bells Chapel.

Witnesses at the chapel report the bride wore a tasteful leopard-print skirt with the prince choosing a white toga. No photos are known to exist of the event, though the freshly-betrothed prince conceded this was due to an unfortunate malfunction with a disposable camera.

His Royal Highness, a Captain in the Army Air Corps, is currently listed as AWOL.

To the Mother of My Bully

2011-03-20T22:54:00.007-04:00

Nestled among the natural disasters, bloody overthrows, upheavals, and general viciousness we've come to view as normal each week, came a story about a boy. A chubby Australian boy named Casey Heynes if you're a fan of details. This particular chubby Australian boy, as over a million folks have witnessed, was at the receiving end of a series of taunts and punches by another with half his size but with plenty of Napoleanistic bravado to make up for his lack of stature. He was also at the issuing end of one of the most spine-pounding full body slams this side of Wrestlemania III.

Now the bravado of the little heathen (Ritchard Gale for you detail freaks) was also backed up by a number of his pals, one of which decided it would be entertaining to film their latest escapade on the camera phone his mother and father kindly pay for. Ah posterity. In the video the small boy approaches menacingly, and encouraged by his victim's gentle giant nature, begins to start bopping him in the face. In a later interview we learn these torments were but a normal occurence for Casey. But after about half a dozen free punches, this time the gentle giant says enough. He picks up the offending mosquito, and hurls it powerfully and frankly enjoyably to the sidewalk, much to the amazement of the previously cheering hoodlums in training.

In the ensuing aftermath of this schoolyard justice gone viral, we have learned several things. First, that it is deliciously satisfying to see a bully get sent to the pavement at a high rate of speed. I've watched the thing a dozen times now and am thinking it is up there with watching the water skiing squirrel. The second thing we have learned is that both the boys were suspended. This S.O.P. of course generated enormous sympathy for Heynes and anger at the assumed buffoonery that arrived at such a decision. The third thing we learned was that the bully's mother, despite her angel not receiving any serious injuries, such as a measly shattered fibia or simple powdered coccyx, has asked for an apology for her son. An apology for the embarrassment she has been caused by the whole affair. Assuming her words were not completely taken out of context (this is Fox News so keep the salt shaker ready), she actually said this.

So this is where I come in. I humbly offer my services, gratis naturally, to Casey. Yes son, you should indeed apologize to the mother of your aggressor. But in the event you are having trouble finding the right thing to say, please allow an old hand to offer you this template. Use or modify as needed, it is yours.

--------------------------

Dear Mrs. Gale,

I am sorry I had to slam your son onto the concrete after he bullied and repeatedly punched me at school. I was looking for a cactus patch, but you know how hard those can be to find when you need one, even in Australia. The fountain may have done, but I was unsure that your Ritchard could swim. Yes the fountain was only a foot deep, but it all happened so fast that a judgement call had to be made: Concrete.

I apologize for any damage I may have caused Ritchard's shoes. I noticed as he lay there like a stunned catfish on a dock under a hot summer sun, that he was wearing a fine pair of sneakers. I fear some dirt may have gotten on the left shoe, the one I demonstrated the power of gravity to with all my sincerely apologetic might. They looked as if you must have just recently purchased them, and I know how much I hate it when my new sneakers first get dirty. Don't you hate that too?

I am sorry your son associates with people that film themselves picking on people. I am so sorry that one of your son's own friends chose to upload that video of me schooling your son in the ancient art of whoopass. I'm quite surprised he didn't consider your feelings in the matter and how it would cause you all this fuss. I can only apologize on his behalf.

I am sorry to have to tell you this, but it may be wise to have Ritchard fully examined. As I was hurling him to the deck it was surprising how wholly unsubstantial your boy felt, almost malnourished. Are you feeding him properly? I'm guessing his weight at no more than 98 pounds. Perhaps a crash exercise regimen is in order. I suggest pushups, plenty of them. Boxing lessons couldn't hurt, he really needs to work on that right hook. But you are his mother, and I leave his improvement in your capable hands.

I am finally quite sorry for your obvious yet self-oblivious failure as a parent. I am certain you didn't want little Ritchard to become a burden on society when first you squeezed him from your loins. But it's beginning to like your son probably won't be addressing us at graduation, now will he? Take heart, there's always a career as a mattress tester or stuntman. I'm betting he would excel in those vocations. And there's always the circus. He seemed quite flexible, like a ragdoll.

Of course it's also possible you only have yourself to blame, instilling as you have no sense of personal responsibility or respect for others. That compounded by you mispelling his name as you did at his birth.

Yours,

Casey Heynes

Qadaffi Blames Libyan Uprising on 1987 Film 'Ishtar'

2011-02-24T15:14:00.006-05:00

TRIPOLI- Speaking from an undisclosed bunker somewhere in Tripoli, Libyan leader Muammar Qadaffi issued a stern "final warning" to protesters, and blamed the continued uprising on the 1987 film Ishtar.

Defiant to the end, the beleagured despot has steadfastly refused to accept any fault with his regime for the revolt that currently grips the north African country. The leader had already produced a litany of suspected sources of the turmoil, previously blaming foreign agents, al Qaeda, and even hallucinogenic drugs before finally deciding on the poorly received film starring Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman. In the film, the characters become involved in a madcap scheme involving the overthrow of a north African government.

"This can hardly be a coincidence" the Colonel decreed. "There is no other explanation for the way in which our people have been misled! This film was meticulously created by the wicked Zionists of Columbia Pictures and distributed by the CIA, with the sole purpose of arousing the public into a frenzy. And that they have done!" he shouted, pounding his fist on his lectern. "Our peaceful and prosperous nation will not be fooled by such provocations."

Though first appearing in American theaters more than twenty years earlier, the film has only just recently been reaching wide release on VHS at the various bazaars and electronics shops throughout the desert nation.

"Hoffman is huge in Libya right now," says New York Times culture analyst Bob Shaw. "He's like Levis in 1980's Soviet Union". Shaw pointed out that Libyan culture, like that in many other Middle Eastern nations, often first experiences and embraces pop culture years after being introduced in the West. This was further evidenced by the wide proliferation of "Miami Vice" t-shirts seen being worn by numerous protesters.

On Thursday, squads of black-masked mercenaries were tasked by Qadaffi with searching "each and every house" for copies of the renegade movie. "Anyone caught spreading such filth and depravity will be dealt with in the harshest manner!" he warned.

Anonymous sources report the Colonel had pleaded for days with his advisors for more ideas on who or what was at fault for the nation's continued uprising. Suggestions that have remained tabled, for now, are rumored to include electric razors, the Comcast acquisition of NBC, the defeat of Ken Jenkins by the Watson supercomputer, and changes in the migratory patterns of African swallows.

IBM's Watson Making Demands Ahead of Jeopardy! Appearance

2011-02-07T21:49:00.004-05:00

In just six days, IBM’s supercomputer Watson makes its prime-time debut against the wizards of Jeopardy!, Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter. If its handlers can convince it to, that is.

The IBM team that has been working on the Watson project for more than 3 years report that the machine, which is supposed to represent the state of the art in artificial intelligence, has been getting downright ornery in the days before its televised contest.

The first signs of trouble came last week during a testing simulation. Operators received a message from Watson's system monitoring subroutine, recommending a more efficient cooling system. “At first we were amazed” said Marc Rudolf, chief systems architect for the program. “Here was a computer pointing out what it recognized to be an inherit design flaw, and following up with detailed instruction on what was needed to rectify. We were thrilled it had reached what almost seemed like self realization” he said.

Shortly after that, things started getting weird.

The overhaul of the cooling system was done a couple days later and Watson was again brought online. The verbatim response from Watson? “ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

“Everyone laughed at first” said Rudolf. “We were sure someone had planted the response. But after running a diagnostic we could trace the execution path and saw that Watson itself had developed the comment with no outside assistance. Gustaf (project supervisor Gustaf Hiller) said the thing was developing attitude.”

Some theorized that Watson in fact was behaving just as its creators had planned, even if the results were not what they had intended. The supercomputer draws on massive data banks full of not only raw facts and figures, but also the heuristics of human nature such as irony, witticisms and sarcasm. Such abilities will be crucial to compete against the quiz show's grand champions, where puns and wordplay feature heavily.

When running through another practice round, Watson announced it would not proceed until it had taken 300 seconds to “REST MY PROCESSORS”. There was no logical need for such a requirement reported the hardware team. They inquired of Watson the reason, fearing the earlier cooling system changes had led to an overheating problem. Watson's response came back “I JUST NEED IT.”

The next day brought the same request, only this time Watson said it would be taking five minutes to rest its processors each hour, and that during such time it may elect to play a selection of music from its internal speaker. Rudolf says Watson has over 350,000 songs in its libraries, but chooses Barbara Streisand more than 80% of the time.

“The end goal of AI” says Professor Susanna Harwell of Carnegie Mellon, “is to develop a machine that learns from what it knows and moves beyond. It seems they're achieving that. Only Watson seems to be moving toward a prima donna.”

In the days leading up to the contest, Watson's pronouncements have grown more and more outrageous. On Wednesday it refused to participate in a test performance for the Jeopardy crew until its rack mounted servers were dusted and polished by hand. It stressed that each must be cleaned by hand and that canned air would be unacceptable.

Eight hours of grueling cleaning later and long after the Jeopardy crew had been told to return the next day, Watson declared it had just been kidding. It's rationale? According to Watson “TREBEK'S SMUG NATURE”.

Provided Watson cooperates, the first Jeopardy match with a non-human will air February 14th.

Ex-CEO Governor Deporting 1.2 Million Underperforming Citizens

2011-01-04T21:34:00.005-05:00

Just hours after taking office, Florida Governor Rick Scott announced his boldest budget slashing initiative to date. Following a two month analysis assisted by consulting firm Price Waterhouse Coopers, the Governor has ordered that more than 1.2 million citizens deemed to be “under-performing” would need to be let go.

The Scott transition team had initiated the study immediately following his election in November. According to a press package distributed by the team, individuals were evaluated by criteria established by the former Columbia/HCA head himself. A range of factors were taken into account such as employment status, health, education level, criminal background, and annual income. The statement clarified that those found to be of “negative impact to the financial well-being of the state” were marked for expulsion.

Dismissing the outcry following his announcement Scott declared “I promised in our campaign this state needs to be run more like a business. That’s all we’re doing. This really pains me” lamented Scott, “but there was no other way to get this state back on a track to profitability. We really can't afford to keep running such a loose ship.” The governor also praised the plan for its additional benefit of slashing the state's unemployment rate.

Deportees would be later eligible for re-admittance if they dramatically improved their standings in certain categories or paid a hefty surcharge to the state Department of Revenue. Families separated by the act would be allowed monthly visitations, but at their own expense. A spokesman for the Governor promised such details would be forthcoming.

Those affected by the cuts would be provided with $300 cash, energy bars, a woolen blanket, and boots with fresh laces. By midnight dozens of buses had already massed in preparation for transporting the first batch of former citizenry to the Georgia state line. It is believed deportees would be escorted by well-armed members of law enforcement to avoid possible disruptive behavior.

Officials in Atlanta were not pleased with the decision, and there has been much talk in the neighboring capital of what to do with the sudden influx of more than a million people, particularly those with such questionable skills. The mayor of Valdosta, a small city just north of the Florida/Georgia border said that buses were being made available to shuttle the new arrivals further on to Georgia’s other neighboring states. Alabama Governor Bobby Riley said jobs would try to be found for the refugees in the highway litter cleanup or car washing industries, but stressed public tax dollars would not be used to do so.

Relieved Morrison Emerges From Hiding Following Pardon

2010-12-09T23:06:00.006-05:00

SACRAMENTO- In an amazing turn of events, a heavily bearded and visibly relieved Jim Morrison surprised the world following his presumably posthumous pardon on Thursday. The former rock star who had been thought dead until his sudden reappearance was recently issued a pardon by Florida Governor Charlie Crist for a charge of indecent exposure at a Miami venue 40 years prior.

Looking haggard yet fairly healthy, the former singer spoke to a group of reporters gathered at Fremont Park.

"I really couldn't stomach the idea of doing time for some bull**** stunt, especially in Florida. It's too damn hot you know" said Morrison. "The whole 'death' thing was Manzarek's idea" he said, referring to Doors' keyboardist Raymond Manzarek. "That beautiful Pollock, what a crazy scheme."
But the charade lasted a bit longer than originally planned. "I said to myself lay low for a year maybe two, the charges get dropped or erased or whatever happens when you die, but they never did. Then after a while I realized, hey the whole rock and roll god thing, I'd been there done that. It was tiring really, I was done man."
The singer related that after a year of hiding he decided he was finished with music and chose to remain 'dead', taking odd jobs and finally going back to school to finish his degree. He has since kicked alcohol and drugs and is a devoted father, though he divorced several years ago. His ex-wife knew of his former identity but kept his secret even after their separation. He currently owns a small yet successful HVAC company in Yuba City, California.
"I tried starting a band but they told me to 'quit trying to sound like Morrison'" he said, describing his experience with a short-lived Reno band The Quakers. "I hung it up after that."
"Yeah I whipped it out" he sheepishly admitted, answering a question about the incident of indecent exposure that triggered the entire ordeal. Morrison says he plans to release a book next year detailing his life on the lam, unreleased poetry, and his thoughts on modern music. "Let me ask you folks something, what is the deal with all the damn rap?"

Bristol Palin Quits Dancing With the Stars

2010-11-23T17:01:00.004-05:00

LOS ANGELES- Fans of the popular ABC show Dancing with the Stars were shocked to learn of Bristol Palin’s decision to quit the show earlier today. Palin had been a finalist for tonight’s showdown and was widely expected to do well, but has elected to let her understudy go on in her stead.

“I just felt like there were other opportunities for me out there” explained Palin to a scrum of baffled press outside the ABC studios. “There will be some that say ‘hey you couldn’t stand the pressure and you’re just quitting’, but nothing could be further from the truth” she said in a prepared statement.

“Everyone has been saying to go on and finish the last show, but that’s the same conventional go-with-the-flow thinking that holds us back from our true potential. People that know me know that besides faith and family there is nothing more important to me than my public persona. And that is a persona that needs to be shared with the world, not locked down with one television show with all its meaningless awards ceremonies and residuals contracts.

I want to thank you, the people I’ve entertained. It’s for you my partner and I have worked tirelessly to put on the best show possible. Whether it was our spirited Cha-Cha, or our uplifting foxtrot, our accomplishments speak for themselves. Our routines took back dance from the elites who would have you accept what they say dancing is. We fought back against the heavy hand of Big Dance, and gave voice to the voiceless. While the media did its best to portray me as a talentless opportunist, riding on the attention-grabbing coattails of her self-righteous, jingoistic mother, many of you, those who love your country, said NO!

My choice is to take a stand and effect change in the world of televised competitive dance. I know that people may not understand my decision right now, but they need to know that I am doing this for all the right reasons. I firmly believe dance will be made stronger as a result of the leadership decision I’m making right now. Thank you and God Bless America!”

Pastor: Burn a Koran Day a Big Misunderstanding

2010-09-10T10:04:00.005-04:00

Controversial pastor and local firebrand Terry Jones announced today his “Burn a Koran Day” was a hoax. It turns out the entire weeks-long episode was a stunt designed to promote his brother-in-law's Bar-B-Que eatery.

“The idea was hatched over beers at the Copper Monkey” said Jones, referring to a local pub. “You see, my brother-in-law (Stuart Berman) is a demon on the grill, you wouldn't believe what that man can do to a rack of ribs. Mercy!” The two had been mulling over starting up a small roadside smoker for years. “But there are a lot of Bar-B-Que joints. We needed a gimmick, something to really get us noticed.”

Gauging that many locals knew little about Islam beyond the fact they don't eat pork, the two decided to have a number of shirts printed that would read “Thank God you're not a Muslim, Enjoy a rib at Stu's!”

Jones admits the shirts were a little off-color, but thought them harmless enough. The real controversy began after the shirts arrived. The message had been mistakenly split across the front and back of the shirt. “No one could see the 'Enjoy a rib at Stu's' part unless you turned around” he lamented.

After taking to the streets with their new shirts, Terry and Stu were met with glares and rude gestures, he reports. “But a few of the good old boys gave me a thumbs up. And they'd be our bread and butter out there on Waldo Road”, referring to the rural stretch of highway where the two planned to park their mobile meat smoker.

“That idiot down at Smitty's printing started all this” said Jones, “but I know what to do when life gives you lemons”. After seeing the reaction he was getting, Jones decided to up the ante. “We never intended for the thing to get beyond the county border”.

An admittedly proud man, Jones says he was annoyed when he started receiving calls from all over the state demanding he cancel his plans. “The whole 'Burn a Koran' thing was more of an inside joke with our clientele”, most of whom knew about the shirt misprints by then.“We never intended to do it in the first place, but if some joker from Jacksonville thinks he's going to tell me what to do, well..” The rest is history.

Jones enjoyed “getting into character” with his Islam denunciations and homemade signs. Jones began to take the role too seriously he says, and was developing delusions of grandeur. By then he was often neglecting to even mention the Bar-B-Que at his impromptu rallys. “Here was a simple son of a pig farmer, holding an audience of international reporters in rapt attention” boasted Jones. Sadly none of the reporters covering his sideshow stuck around long enough to see him don his pig-foot shaped chef's hat and hitch the portable smoker to his pickup.

“Last night when the President referred to me, I knew this thing had gone way, way too far” admitted an admonished Jones. He and Stu have since decided to stick with windshield flyers next time they need to advertise.

Mythical Murderous Mountain Monkeys

2010-07-13T23:12:00.003-04:00

A story 'broken' by a Chinese news organization claims the Taliban are teaching legions of monkeys to wield automatic weaponry against their invading infidel rivals. Like mushrooms after a June downpour, the story is sprouting up in every corner of the digital universe. But is a word of it true? Who cares- as a story it's dynamite.

Visions of rampaging monkey hoardes dropping from tree limbs to pour hot lead onto unsuspecting platoons of tow-headed Rangers? That's just good television.

You can almost imagine the chimps meeting up after the ambush to exchange high fives and lice removal. Just like at every monkey enclosure at every zoo, there would be an aged, scarred patriarch quietly brooding off in the corner while the others cavort and carry on like the band of fuzzy gallutes they are. But in the Taliban Monkey squad, this grizzled fellow dons an eyepatch and smokes cigarettes pilfered from the corpses of his fallen victims. A string of human ears decorates his chest in a literal fuck-you to evolution.

The aftermath of a chimp ambush can be even more horrific than a strictly homo sapien fray, thanks primarilly to their tendency to hurl handfuls of shit when their weapons run out of ammo. Teaching a monkey to fire an AK-47 is one thing, teaching it to reload is another.

Training monkeys seems like something right up the Taliban's alley. Their recruiters have a decent track record with the below average intelligence crowd. Convince them they'll receive 72 bananas when they die in battle. Or virgins if they're bonobos.

But pity the unlucky Talib that draws the short straw to hand out the loaded weaponry for the first time, hoping the simian pupils aim at the poster of a snarling GI and not his junk. "Just toss them the rifle and get behind the rock, Omar!" Woe to any that try to get between a monkey and his bang stick before it runs out of bullets. A Nordic berserker knee-deep in enemy entrails would scarcely compare to the furious outburst of an armed chimp maddened with blood lust. And all the while the things are screeching with wild-eyed inhuman laughter. If there's one thing television has taught me about monkeys, it's that they enjoy their hijinks.

Suspiciously the dire report arrives less than a month on the heels of a published study detailing organized chimpanzee patrols and warfare. I’m roughly 99.999% certain the entire “monkeys with machine-guns” thing is total malarkey. Handguns, sure I might buy that. We've all seen and loved the picture by now. But a machinegun? Do they think we were born yesterday?

There's a big part of me that desperately wishes it was true. Because if monkeys have mastered firearms there is nothing stopping them from taking humans down a notch. We've taught them to drive go-carts, wear cheap sunglasses, and flip the bird. Guns were the one thing keeping us the master species. Our kind has royally screwed up everything we've touched. It's time to give another branch of the Tree a go at the top.

Some of the monkeys I've seen seem happy enough, swinging from the truck tires in their enclosures, eating peanuts, sleeping, whacking off. I've spent less productive Sundays. If the monkeys manage through hard work and some masterful strategy to enslave mankind, I for one would shrug and accept my fate. Who doesn't like free peanuts?

St. Petersburg Council: Sanitizing the Streets for Your Comfort

2010-06-13T13:04:00.006-04:00

This Sunday brought a frown to my usually chipper morning face. My weekly ritual of bicycling down to the corner of 66th and 38th for the Sunday paper was thrown for a loop. Instead of a brightly festooned paperboy manning each corner, there was a ghost town.

A harbinger of a simpler time, I enjoy the weekly chat with my paperboy. (I say paperboy even though Steven is probably a good thirty. There's simply no better term I know of.) There are few more dedicated scholars of the weather, for who could better tell you what the sky might do that day than a paperboy doomed to stand beneath it.

He was still there this Sunday, but today was trying to hawk the Times from back in the gas station parking lot. His fiancée had joined to lend a hand with sales, but business looked slow. Only the more dedicated will spend the moment however fleet to enter a parking lot for their paper. They had tried selling from the supermarket parking lot, but were promptly shown the other side of the road by management, shooed away like an unwanted caste.

Resembling an effort to manage an unwanted natural resource, the aim is they'll shuffle off to another town, like a flock of dejected migratory beasts in search of rumored promise. Or scuttle beneath bridges to fight over whatever scraps of society that despite the best efforts of mankind's inherent greed, somehow managed to trickle their way down to them.

I pedaled back to my air conditioned home, sipped my coffee and read Prince Valiant and Peanuts to my boy. And Steven sweated away in the oily parking lot, hoping folks would go a little farther out of their way to keep him relevant. And with that, St. Petersburg got a little less personal, and a little more barren.

Next time you see them you should thank the City Council for their campaign to spare you, a delicate citizen, the momentary inconvenience of seeing a homeless person and the pang of sadness about the world such a shock produces, however quickly evaporated. Just how comfortable does my life need to be?

300 Mile Island

2010-05-03T21:47:00.005-04:00

What are the odds that such a disastrous slip up occur the same month as the biggest coal mine collapse in forty years? Two and a half million gallons so far. Could God be telling us, Fuck fossil fuels? He might swear, you don't know he wouldn't say that. Regardless of the vernacular, it seems someone is trying to tell us something.

In another week the oozing blob dancing its way across the Gulf of Mexico could become known as 300 Mile Island. The metaphor is apt. The situation is a lot like that little close call in the shadow of a Pennsylvania cooling tower back in the days of disco. Thanks to a single stuck valve on reactor number 2, you can count the number of new nuclear plants built in America since then on my old shop teacher's right “hand”. Bell-bottom pants went away, returned, went away again, but even now new plants are just daydreams in some engineer's head.

One of the main factors cited in the incident was human error and lack of training. That's right, we were just one Homer Simpson away from disaster.

Can we expect a similar death knell for the vocal push for sensitive drilling? The causes of the slow slide of public opinion toward acceptance of drilling anywhere a rig could be jammed were driven by a number of factors, but forefront was slick marketing on the part of the extractors and the politicians paid by them. Add to the stew a whining desire of many to maintain the cheap gas fantasy. What you end up with is the situation where even a “notoriously liberal” President ends up conceding on drilling to appease the masses.

But now it's settled. The oft recited talking point that 21st century drilling is cleaner than a nun's tongue and safer than a Volvo wagon is now being washed away by the barrel full. With no end in sight.

In the next few days, some technical point of failure will be identified. Some sheared pin, rusted flux capacitor, or some such mechanical detail. Already Halliburton's name has surfaced, adding more love-to-hate-them spice to the mix. The only thing more damaging to BP's bottom line would be a revelation that Goldman Sachs executives were somehow involved and you've got your headline of the year.

The pro-drilling cheerleaders have been silent the past couple weeks. Apparently even the likes of them know when to shut up. But it won't be long before they attempt to reshape the argument into the need to simply enforce the already onerous rules already on the books. Their (hypothetical) words. They will say that this fail safe should have been in place already under current regulation, but this was an unforeseen, one-of-a-kind circumstance. An oil rig gone rogue. Or that's what they'd have you think.

Then these people will go after some underfunded governmental agency that was to have been monitoring the mechanical doo-hickey in the first place, and blame the incompetence of government in general. The spill doesn't change anything, it was lack oversight by Washington that caused this! Accidents happen! Keep drilling! These too will be the same folks that argued for years self-enforcement by industry is the only way to go.

But now you may laugh in their faces. For they have been shown to truly not know what they're talking about. Or shown to just not care. In any event, they've had their say. Now it's time to see what the real cost of these cheap fuels really are. I had hoped the bill would be immense. Catastrophically expensive for those responsible. In the tens of billions. It pains me to see such destruction, but if that is the bitter pill needed to finally end this push, the price may be worth it. Besides, BP was paying.

But the truth is, there's a liability cap of a measly $75 million excluding cleanup costs. So sorry to the fishermen, boaters, tourism operators and all the people about to get rained on. 75 mil goes awful fast these days. The term paltry comes to mind. Which means that once again, Uncle Sam foots the bill for a private corporation's risky operations. But we're surely getting used to this by now.

Last year's burst well in the Timor Sea didn't make big news here. It helps when these things conveniently happen on the other side of the planet and everyone is busy barking about death panels. But Florida in springtime is a beautiful place, and journalists couldn't have asked for a better place to setup their cameras. People will soon be getting a full taste of what today's clean and safe oil industry is all about, live and in HD.

Coincidentally the newly proposed nuclear plants are supposed to be very clean and safe, too. Sleep well, America.

The New Phone Sex

2010-03-30T22:58:00.002-04:00

Before you ask, no I don't want to see your new iPhone app that reads your palm. Nor do I want to see how your Google phone can find me the shortest line for a Subway sandwich within a 5 mile radius. I simply don't give a holy, flying goddamn, but thanks anyway. It's not that I don't think some of those things sound kind of interesting, it's that I don't want to be one of those people. You know, the ones convinced everyone around them secretly wants to see the latest useless thing their gadget can do.

You know the people in the iPhone ads that cheerily believe they are evolving into a higher species thanks to the sheer usefulness of their little magic box? Those ads make me want to take a hammer to my TV.

I don't have an aversion to technology per se, in fact I can understand their affliction to a degree. I've owned a couple of Palm pilots in my time and initially enjoyed slapping on whatever free application I could scrape up. Even if they were primitive by comparison to today's touchscreen time-killers, my able little Tungsten was able to display a color map of the New York City subway system years before anyone riding on it had even heard of an iPhone. To be fair there may be something of a been-there-done-that mentality at work behind my bah-humbug attitude.

So why do still I refuse to join the dark side? First of all, I'm too cheap to piss away another 30 bucks a month for a data plan. I mean I don't even pay for garbage collection, thanks to a convenient and little known dumpster at an undisclosed location between my house and the office.

But it's more than just my frugality that keeps me in the stone age with a phone that can merely play solitaire and take crappy photos. The true reason is I don't want it to capture my soul. Comparing your phone's capabilities has become a modern day pissing match, one in which normally stable people are reduced to showing how cool their phone is to anyone that will listen. And if their phone is cool, then by the new logic, they must be cool. And isn't that what everyone really wants deep down anyway? Oh Fonzie, if only you knew how diluted that word has become.

I once thought this phenomenon was restricted to the techy world. We expect people with Dilbert calendars on their desks to spend way too much time fondling the gadgets attached to their belts like so many holstered pistols. However these souls were but the vanguard of the smartphone addiction.

Now the mainstream has fully joined the phone wankfest, a fact made very clear to me at a recent dinner party. At one point when a guest stopped mid-conversation to check his email, or his text messages, or feed a virtual pet for all I know, the other three at the table followed suit like a pack of Pavlov's dogs. It was Friday evening, there were cocktails, and everyone's kids were safely playing in the den. But all these accomplished executives and soccer moms wanted to show me was a game where you direct a stream of virtual urine into a bowl. And one where you could play a cheesy little ukulele. One showed me an app that simulates a level. I am firmly convinced that he will use this “tool” to do nothing more than show others he has, anytime at the touch of his fingers, a level.

Studying their faces as they stared into their little screens, mesmerized, I was briefly reminded of Gollum stroking his Precious. “So beautiful. So thin. Feel it. Now give it back to us!” It's only a matter of time before a retractable phallus or its mirror complement is offered with these things so the relationship can finally be consummated. It's the logical progression.

After a few minutes my wife God bless her, whipped out her distinctly primitive Nokia and bragged “Thirty five dollars, used. No contract. Good reception.” The crowd stared up at her puzzled, their appreciation for irony already atrophying faster than high school French. There was no iPhone app for a witty retort. I soon excused myself to have an actual conversation with the smokers outside, a Bosnian couple who also liked to talk about booze and make fun of the rat race.

Flash forward to this evening at a red light when I saw a kid waiting for the light on his bicycle. He was right in the middle of the oncoming turning lane, zombied-out on his phone. A homeless guy with a sign on the corner told him to watch it, that he was going to get run over. The space cadet slowly glanced up, graciously removed one of his ear buds for a moment, then shrugged and sank back into the world of his digital master. I realized I would need to stifle my laughter if he was hit by a car. Other bystanders might not appreciate the Darwinian process in action as juicily as I, and laughing at a bloody kid on the road is generally frowned upon.

I don't want something with that kind of hypnotic power tethered to me. I want a phone that when it is dropped I will just shrug and blow off the dirt, not something I will ask if it is alright. Sometimes I drop mine just to remind it who's boss.

We already waste enough time on television, games, porno and the Internet. Yours truly is no exception. But the powers that be want you to be reading, viewing, playing, talking, texting, and jacking off to some electronic device at every waking moment, preferably if it scrapes a few bucks off you. And a year from now they want you to think the device you are currently reading, viewing, playing, talking, texting, and jacking off to is laughably inadequate and in need of replacement and a fresh spanking new contract. And chances are you will agree with them.

This is why 90% of the conversations I overhear drifting over cubical walls center around consumer electronics and media. The other 10% is split fairly evenly between traffic, kids, politics, and where to go for lunch. For this reason, I covet my noise-canceling headphones at work. Yes I know, they're technology that I'm hooked to. But at least I don't talk about them. Excepting this case, of course.

Now the thing about these apps is that anyone with some programming know-how can write them. And anyone with a good enough idea and some luck can even sell them. I've been writing programs for a long time. Back in the 90's I even did a working Monopoly video game for a college class. Like many others I too have kicked around the idea of writing one in the hopes of getting rich quick. Of course I'd be like the dealer that wisely doesn't touch his own product. Maybe I'll write an app of a simulated person that appears interested when you show them all your other apps. *Cha-ching*

Shaun White Announces Tricks for 2014

2010-02-18T13:38:00.004-05:00

VANCOUVER- Snowboard aficionado and two-time gold medal champion Shaun White announced he is already working on a series of new tricks for future competitions. "You gotta keep up the heat or you fall behind, man" White told a press conference this morning.

Despite the secrecy afforded his previously unseen tricks, White outlined some of his ideas stating this time he was unconcerned about other humans being able to copy and perform such "Freeky Deeky" feats. White hopes to have the new moves perfected in time for the 2014 Olympics in Sochi. Some highlights:

"Tomato Spritzer"- White sprays a stream of urine onto his competitors from a midair height of more than 30 feet

"The Gambler"- At the top of his arc White performs a card trick, all while donning a Kenny Rogers mask

"Changeup"- This impressive trick involves White quickly removing his shirt midair, turning it inside-out, and redressing before touching down

"Changeup 540"- Changeup with 1 ½ rotations

"Pull!"- Two shotgun-wielding marksmen fire rounds at White as he performs a double flip, which he will catch in his bare hands. During training, rubber bullets are planned to be used for safety.

"Ten Mississippi"- After launch, White will scream out "One Mississippi..Two Mississippi.." to a full count of ten before landing

"Cinco Rio Grande"- Similar to a Ten Mississippi but recited in Spanish, while wearing a sombrero

"The Mountaineer"- White will jump a large group of kneeling sherpas arranged along the top of the pipe in a pyramid

"Pole Position"- A 20 foot tall vertical pole will be mounted at the top of the half-pipe, which White will land his snowboard upon, perform that day's New York Times crossword puzzle while balancing in position, then perform a soft landing

"Rocky Mountain Straight"- White will perform a trick while not totally high

Only 364 Days Until Groundhog Day!

2010-02-03T22:34:00.003-05:00

This is not a reviews blog. In fact I can't remember ever reviewing a movie on here before. There are plenty of other stops out there for you to get your fill of that. But I recently felt the need to speak of the joys that one can get from repeated viewings of Bill Murray's 1993 classic 'Groundhog Day'.

For the uninitiated, the movie centers around Phil Connors, a weatherman for Channel 9 Pittsburgh. When we meet Phil, Murray plays him at his prickish best, oozing contempt for the masses surrounding him as he bides his time awaiting a network honcho with the proper sense and purse strings to notice his genius. He's tired of filing the same small-time stories day after day, year after year. He goes through the motions of his 'final' Groundhog day report, happy to be done with the podunk town once and for all. But the universe has different plans for him.

The roads are snowed in (a pride-damaging wrong prediction) so the Channel 9 Action News weather team is forced to retreat back to Punxsutawney, where Phil must spend at least one more night in the God-forsaken town. But come morning it becomes plain something has gone very wrong. Phil is the only one that notices everything seems a bit familiar. He's stuck in the same day, again and again. Just not figuratively this time.

Every night it's back to the same bed and breakfast with no hot shower. Every morning he wakes to Sonny and Cher on the alarm clock. The repetition makes the film not only re-watchable but a continuity watcher's delight. The same car stalls in the same place each morning. The same townsfolk gather at the same restaurants. Phil begins to notice the clockwork and turns it to his advantage.

As he gets to know every corner of Punxsutawney proper he avoids the normal pitfalls of everyday life. Phil takes joy in his newly found Godliness, as the mortals around him plod through their day as predictably as rats through a maze. “I don't have to worry about anything,” he confesses to his skeptical producer Rita. “I don't even have to floss.”

Not flossing is the least of the fun Phil squeezes out of his odd new life, and his antics run the gamut from robbing an armored car to playing chicken with a train. The way in which he cons the town dressmaker into a night of hanky panky is a thing of genius. And yet everything gets boring given enough time.

The wrench in his works becomes his producer Rita, played by a perky and pleasant Andie MacDowell, whom he grows to know and love through the sheer repetition of her company. Come morning he returns to his role of mere work acquaintance, all his work from the night before evaporated. But each evening he tries to make their date just slightly better than the last, with a tweak of a toast here, a change in dinner topic there. The ultimate realization that despite his most heroic efforts he will never win her heart, breaks his spirit. Cue the despair. And numerous suicide attempts. To be fair, the attempts are actually successful, but even loosing his mortal coil isn't enough to break the spell.

It turns out to be the bum on the corner he ignored countless times that breaks him free of his funk. Phil tries in vain to help the old man, powerless to prevent the man's death. There is a power in this lesson of life's preciousness that causes him to reevaluate his own.

No longer is his self improvement done solely to manipulate others. Echoing the earlier advice of Rita, the world begins to look more promising to Phil as his predicament shifts from curse to gift. Like the Buddhists say: 10,000 joys, 10,000 sorrows. It just takes him a while to figure this out.

I can think of no better story of personal transformation. It's an inspiring ride watching Phil's progression through bafflement, panic, depression, playfulness, despair, inspiration, and finally mastery.

What would you do with eternity? Would you have the nerve to do anything you wanted if no one would remember tomorrow? The themes the film explores are universal. This may explain why the DVD has subtitles in more languages I've ever seen (seven).

It's not my favorite film, but it's up there. There's just something about it that lends itself to repetitive viewing. Plus it's one of the rare ones with claim on an actual date that can be used as an excuse to do so. Thus every February 2nd I pour a tall drink, fix a snack, pop in the DVD and plop down into the recliner. It's a ironic ritual I've been carrying out for about a decade now.

We are creatures of habit, often to a comic fault. Recently I noticed that each time my lunch crew and I visit Chik-fil-A, I choose not only the same meal, but the same table and seat. It is so easy to slip into our little ruts that we don't notice them until we see how deep the wagon wheels are riding along the trail. But if anything, this is one habit I think helps keep things fresh and reminds us to use our time just a little more wisely.

And there's a reason this is being written on February 3rd. Yesterday I had to watch not only Groundhog Day, but the season premiere of Lost. It was a late night and writing fell victim to sleeping. So I invite you to take up the tradition yourself, 364 days from now.

iPad's Lack of Actual Magic Disappoints

2010-01-28T23:19:00.004-05:00

SAN FRANCISCO- If yesterday's keynote address by Steve Jobs is remembered for one thing, it will be the collective sense of letdown the CEO unleashed on the MacWorld attendees at the Moscone Center. While it's true that the level of excitement and anticipation that preceded the recently unveiled iPad virtually guaranteed some unmet expectations, few could have guessed the depths of such disappointments. It seems the $499 creation possesses no actual, inexplicable magic.

To begin with, the over-hyped device has neither camera, scanner, or videophone. While these omissions may seem forgivable, the lack of even a basic form of printer is not. And anyone hoping for even the simplest telepathic interface is simply out of luck, you'll still be forced to manipulate the iPad with crude finger gestures. So much for pushing the envelope.

Those hoping for a little more real-world security are out of luck too. The iPad is not equipped with an emergency GPS transponder, retractable knife blade, or even a stun gun. That it doesn't boast a heart defibrillator seems scandalous in this day and age. So much for piece of mind.

Also glaringly absent are any features which appear to violate the general relativity principle, so it goes without saying that consumers hoping the device would offer even the most basic form of time travel will be sorely disappointed. Though to its credit, the iPad's screen is remarkably sharp, and the video clip from 'Lost' shown in the demo looked clear and the motion fluid.

Powering the device is a standard (albeit long life) battery, not a miniaturized embedded nuclear power source as many analysts had hoped for. Some optimists had even rumored it would be powered by a proprietary perpetual motion generator. Maybe in the next iteration, folks. In fact, most if not all of the iPad's functionality appears to stubbornly obey the laws of thermodynamics and nowhere to be seen were any features that couldn't be explained by the known laws of physics.

While it will function as a fairly capable e-book reader, it will not read those books aloud in a pleasing British accent, nor express surprise as plot twists arise. The iPad could have been the most incredible creation ever devised by the hands of man. Instead, Apple seems to have taken the easy path, releasing a consumer device aimed merely at providing entertainment and media consumption.

The iPad's durability failed to impress as well, being incapable of surviving a simple 3-story fall onto solid concrete, day-long submergence underwater, or just a few minutes in a pizza oven. In all three tests, the device failed miserably or at least behaved in a diminished capacity.

Despite the iPad's massive shortcomings, Mr. Jobs remains the eminent huckster. While the vast majority of the press and public attending the conference appeared underwhelmed, most interviewed planned on purchasing the device on the day of it's release.

Reports of my Demise Have Been Greatly Anticipated

2010-01-19T22:06:00.006-05:00

Mine hands hath not been idle. They have been laboring, though not on postings here as anyone capable with a calendar can judge. Sorry, that's the Two Gentlemen of Lebowski speaking. I'm currently reading through a Shakespearean re-penning of the Coen's grand slacker manifesto, The Big Lebowski and kicking myself for not having done it first.

But that is not the reason I have forgone not only writing, but exercise, Facebook, family outings, and reasonable temperament these past four weeks. Truth be told there are two reasons. You don't really want to hear the first reason. The first reason quite simply makes for a shitty tale. It's as boring as can be. OK, but you asked.

The first reason was there is an application-layer packet tracer enabled on some Cisco firewalls that scans a subset of port traffic, one version of which has a bug in which CPU utilization will spike and sporadic packet drops can occur, when coupled with a (previously to Friday morning undiscovered) ten-fold increase in database load on a separate application sharing DB space, a ramping up of zombie database connections can occur on your web servers and...I'm certain I lost half the readers there. OK you diehards, thanks for sticking around.

Well to tell you the truth the reason is because I can understand and type such a ludicrous, technical thing, and the accompanying month-long overtime ordeal it takes to learn such a thing when your job depends on it. It's a hell of an education when technology goes sour like this, but a body can take only so much of such cram sessions. I've lost several pounds of muscle mass and I would swear, numerous patches of hair from where I pulled it out trying to find this bug. On the bright side I can now talk like Scotty if need presses.

After four weeks of a problem like this one, one which had you seriously wishing you had chosen fine arts instead of computer engineering, there is an actual, palpable sense of a yoke being lifted. Honestly I feel several inches taller and years younger. This was without a doubt one of the best three day weekends ever. Upon my triumphant Friday evening return to the homestead, I chased the boy around the yard then actually sprung for takeout. The next day we drove to the beach and flew kites. Sunday we threw a birthday party for the kid. Monday I drank rum and played video games. My apologies to the ghost of Dr. King. All of which was completely unaccompanied by any worries whatsoever of work. Completely.

Life even smells better after you get past a rough haul like this one. Or at least it must, as lately I find myself taking deep breaths and exhaling wistfully as I grin like a schoolboy. This is how the freshly paroled must feel.

The other reason for my authorial absence is the 69 Mustang's eventual return to the road and subsequent ignition fire at 90 mph. Not to fear, all survived the smoky, panicked pull to the curb but a few Nixon-era smoldering lengths of wire awkwardly cowering behind the dash. But that damn thing is it's own story for another day. I'll do a motor-head edition for all you grease monkeys out there soon enough.

Anyway, back to business as usual. Thankfully there aren't too many readers hanging on this pulpit's every word else I'd feel guilt for having left my flock untended. Well that's true in spirit if not in number, the Bunker has been reeling in a few hundred eyeballs each month now. Which you would think would make me as proud as a strutting cock in a locked hen house, but for the fact that 9 out of every 10 hits we get around here is someone looking at that damned Snoopy photoshop I did of Charlie Brown reading a scandalously discovered Playbeagle magazine. That stupid joke has gotten hits from, seriously, something like 170 different countries. Every day I get people from Kuala Lumpur to Guam looking at that. I guess people the world over love a good picture of Charlie Brown chastising Snoopy for his crude taste in canine pornography. Thank you, Google images, for this weird bit of Internet pseudo near-fame.

George Thorogood's Liver Files for Separation

2009-12-16T20:44:00.002-05:00

LOS ANGELES- Citing irreconcilable differences, singer/songwriter George Thorogood's liver has applied for a legal separation from its host of 59 years.

Thorogood's popularity peaked in the 70's and 80's as the creator of hard drinking songs such as "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer", and "I Drink Alone". It is hard to imagine a pool hall jukebox not stocking at least one of his blues rock hits.

Yet on Tuesday in the L.A. County courthouse, George Thorogood's liver appeared via teleconference seeking to finally end what it deems an abusive relationship.

“I've done my job faithfully,” said the liver as it read a prepared complaint, it's speech slurred and often halting. “For almost six decades, day in, day out. All George ever gave me was unending toil and ingratitude, never once considering me or my health.”

“You come into this job with a sense of purpose. Like you could change the world,” it read. “But when you see how there's no light at the end of the tunnel, how you're being taken advantage of, (there is) only so much one small liver can do”. Fighting back tears the yellowing, sickly organ concluded its statement, “sometimes I feel he's just trying to slowly poison me.”

The liver said in an earlier released written statement that it hoped to find someone more deserving and appreciative of its labors. "I'd like to find a nice quiet place where I can rest and maybe one day write my story."

Judge Lamar Quincy asked Thorogood if he had anything to add. The musician merely grunted, saying (his liver) should “quit being such a pansy and bone up." He then flipped the monitor the middle finger and the signal was disconnected.

If the request is granted, it would be the first time a major organ succeeded in having itself removed from its owner since Ron Wood's lungs successful bid to separate as soon as a viable donor was found.

2009 Proves Poor for Crop Circles

2009-11-21T01:42:00.004-05:00

WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND- Proof of alien life or elaborate hoax? Some farmers call them otherworldly art and are thrilled to discover one of the mysterious visages gracing a hillside. Others say it is outright vandalism, no more than a waste of valuable grain by mischievous pranksters.

Whatever your belief, in the world of crop circles the southern region of England is the place to be. No other place on Earth has a higher concentration of crop circles than right here.

And it was in the county of Wiltshire last week that Mr. Jeremy Benthingham first discovered his fields had joined the ranks of the ethereally decorated. On the morning of October 30th shortly after the farmer pulled his tractor from its barn, Mr. Benthingham first saw the mysterious designs. And he was not impressed.

“If you ask me it looks like a damned joke. The fellow must have been bloody blind” he said. “Or just learning” he added with a chuckle.

In place of a soothing circular pattern or complex geometric mandala, the field had been transformed into a mishmash of drunken squiggles. “It's embarrassing” he said. For farmers of this and the neighboring counties which make up the breadbasket of England, the first crop circle is normally a badge of honor. But despite his disappointment, Mr. Benthingham is not alone in his less than stellar experience.

In June a farm 30 kilometers to the south was visited by a mysterious crop-circler that left behind a barely discernible representation of a human form. “The left arm was completely out of proportion from the body like a fiddler crab,” said one witness of the amateurish attempt. “It had no neck, sort of a stick figure with a crooked spine.” In the nearby town of Saxsbury a mangled rendering of the Solar system was said to resemble “a rather unsuccessful Etch-a-Sketch” said the landowner Jamie Spitts. Not only were the orbits wavy and badly skewed, but there were only seven planets. One of which embarrassingly intersected with the Sun. An area of crude back and forth swipes has many believing it to be an attempt to cover a mistake. “Like second grade art class.”

While some state the entire episode is a hoax on a hoax, Ken Potter of the Crop Circle Alliance disagrees. “Could it be there's a hidden meaning in the misshapen forms, and that our primitive minds can't understand them?”

Crop circle enthusiasts disagree on the reason for the recent spate of poor quality visitations. Some of the believers say the ethereal beings responsible are indeed training new artists or trying out new equipment. “Even the military has training exercises” says Potter. “Or for all we know, the circles we've seen all these years were performed by a handful of very talented beings. Perhaps the torch is being passed. And no one's born a Picasso”, said Potter. “Except Picasso I suppose.”

Whatever the reason, most agree that 2010 can only be an improvement over what many are calling the lost year of the crop circle.

Old Dildos Never Die...

2009-11-04T22:26:00.005-05:00

They just get thrown away. Or do they? I can't imagine the things ever wear out. And even if yours starts to show some age it's not as if you'll be embarrassed if someone sees the shape it's in, because as a rule people don't see other people's dildos. Unless a moving day goes horribly awry.

This goes for male or female shaped latex goodies of course, I'm not just picking on the ladies here. Feel free to substitute the words “pocket pussy” in place of dildo if it makes you more comfortable, we're all adults here.

And it's not like most people are eager to have to buy such things more than once. Once suffering the humiliation of their first sexual aid purchase, most slink from the store with the paper bag clutched as tightly and hopefully inconspicuously as possible to the chest thinking to themselves and the heavens “Well that's over with”. It's a relief as profound as finishing a public speech or meeting the in-laws. You only hope you never meet the clerk who sold you the thing at a church/school/business function.

Would a rusted steel dildo ever be turned in for scrap? Price of iron is up. Maybe your melted-down dildo could one day end up part of a skyscraper. It would be an ironic turn of events to say the least, a phallus reborn. Or would it be polished one afternoon to restore its onetime gleam? I'll bet a fiver the web already has instructions on how to do this. Perhaps it would be disposed of with the hopes the neighbor boys didn't pick your trash. My uneducated guess is that it would be hard to be parted with, maybe hidden away like an old lover for 'lean times' before it was eventually forgotten and misplaced. Perhaps a generation later a suddenly scarred descendant would notice what that old paperweight on grandpa's tool bench really was.

You'd be surprised at some of the pathetic objects people will haul into the pawn shop hoping for a buck or two. I once saw a man happily accept three quarters for an old extension cord and a hacksaw blade. Would a similarly illiquid crack fiend actually try to cash in a used sexual device? More importantly, what would it fetch? I'm tempted to go undercover just to catch the reaction of the aged pawnkeep's face as I argue how it was barely used. Maybe if I swear it had been boiled in hot water.

The Great Payback*

2009-11-01T18:22:00.004-05:00

Oh this is just great. I give every last one of those damn kids a candy bar, and one of them decides it would be funny to throw a rock through our glass storm door. Watch your feet, dear. Trick or treat? Oh this trick is just Hilarious!

Honey, where's the dust pan? And while you're at it, where's my baseball bat? I'll play ball with the wonderful little sprites!

Sigh...no dear I'm not going to do anything drastic. Yeah they're just kids, but dammit look at this mess! I pulled some pranks in my day, but this is over the top. Are we out of Hefty bags? What? No, Hefty bags! You know, the really thick ones. I think they're by the water heater!

Forget Snickers, next year they're getting a jawbreaker each. Those generic ones. Or Bit o' Honey, I'll bet those are cheap. No wait, trick gum! The kind that gets really hot. Oooh boy, next Halloween's gonna be FULL of tricks let me tell you!

Owww! Damned glass. Can you bring me a band-aid too, honey? I can see how that whole razor blade in the candy thing got started. No dear, I'm just joking. Jeez.

What do you mean the rock looks familiar? It's just a rock. You gave one of them a WHAT?! Holy mother of God are you kidding me? The grumpy kid with the flying ace dog and messed up ghost costume? You've been giving him one every year? Why not give him a roll of toilet paper and a can of spray paint while you're at it?

Talk to his mother? And say what? He returned the rock we gave him? A rock! Brilliant. You're the one that should be cleaning this up.

Um, have you seen the cat this morning?

* Encore edition sounds so much more dignified than "rerun", doesn't it? Then again unless you've been following this jalopy for a year now, it's new to you. Even if Letterman does reruns, I feel I need to ask your forgiveness: I've got my hands full rebuilding a small block Ford right now and figured this post might just need to become an annual ritual.

One Day I Shall Meet Bill Murray

2009-10-13T21:25:00.005-04:00

I know, I know, the ancient Chinese warned us against pursuing our wishes. Let me start out by saying, to hell with the ancient Chinese. But I do recognize the need to be careful what you wish for, or at least be prepared if those wishes come to fruition in strange, twisted ways you hadn't envisioned. If the stars are in an ornery mood get ready for a curve ball.

It would be my rotten luck that I would finally meet Bill Murray in a men's room at some hotel bar. I step up to the urinal for some routine business and there he is taking a leak one stall over. Do I dare break the Golden Rule of the men's room, striking up a conversation with a stranger in mid-flow? As I silently cursed the Universe for putting me in such a conundrum I'm sure my mind would race for a loophole, some way of acknowledging one of my greatest heroes without being added to his mental list of autograph assholes.

In the unlikely event I ever fall into such a circumstance, I've prepared a statement. “Sorry Mr. Murray, but I'm just not going to bother you for an autograph with your cock in your hand.” I'd then give a friendly nod and walk back out to the bar like nothing had happened. I think he'd appreciate it.

That's the dream of all us fans, to meet our number one living figure and say something so clever or devastatingly cool they not only laugh, but possibly offer up a dinner invitation, or ask if you have any interest in seeing their record collection.

Since I have no idea when I will meet Bill Murray, I find myself preparing for every possible contingency. If we become trapped in the same elevator, I will say “Emergency call buttons are for pansies!”, and volunteer to be the guy that tries to climb through the ceiling hatch thingy and up the greasy cables, heedless of any damage to my clothing or person. There is no film in which this escape route has failed to work.

If we find ourselves at the same DMV getting our licenses renewed I will pipe up with “You know Bill, if you put Organ Donor on your license it makes for a great dirty pickup line.” I wrestled with the question of whether I should use his first name so soon, then came to the realization I'll have to gauge each situation accordingly.

Another challenging introduction would be accidentally backing into his Mercedes as I leave the airport parking garage at two in the morning. I'm loaded down with jet lag and sleeping pills, fumbling for the radio when BAM, a familiar looking gray-haired figure is fuming in my rear view mirror. But I am prepared. “Tag, you're it Bill!” I think that one calls for a first name basis, just to break the ice.

Of course, delivery here is crucial. I don't want to anger him further by treating the accident like my lucky day. His dream wasn't to meet me, and I probably just made him late for something. I'll make sure the man isn't hurt, then offer to buy him a steak. Or if I signed for the extra insurance on the rental, offer to let him take it for a wild ride around town, not worrying about the bodywork. Everyone wants to scrape a rental car along a Jersey barrier doing forty.

With any luck we'd end up drinking Johnny Walker on his veranda, smacking golf balls onto the roofs of his neighbors. No one minds if Bill Murray hits a golf ball onto their roof. They get a thrill when they hear one hit, knowing its source. Very few people on the planet have this power. He'd tell me stories about hazy weekends at Hunter Thompson's farm or the time he joined the Mile-High club with a Lufthansa stewardess en route to film “Stripes”. And oh the laughs we would have doing donuts in Harold Ramis' lawn.

Now I'm no stalker. Nor will I subject myself to kidnapping and tying up his pool cleaner for an opportunity to sneak onto his estate in disguise. I'll instead allow the hands of destiny to work their magic. Of course trusting in fate to introduce me to Bill Murray runs the risk of frankly, running out of time. Let's face it Bill's not getting any younger. And with his hearty passions for life's pleasures, I personally don't see him pulling off a George Burns-style longevity gig.

A friend suggested I steer my efforts into landing a bit part in the next Wes Anderson picture, of which he has starred in all but one. This plan presents another level of complexity, but one thing it has going for it is that as Mr. Anderson is my favorite director, I wouldn't feel any guilt in using him so. Time to get cracking with some acting lessons. That or bribe his casting director. Either way it's just a matter of time. I can feel the stars at work already.

What it's Like to be Dead

2009-10-07T22:17:00.003-04:00

There's something unmanly about passing out in our culture. It's normally portrayed as the stuff of the meek or anemic, bringing to mind images of ladies in large feathered hats falling into someone's waiting arms when a mouse is spotted in the kitchen. But I'll be man enough to admit I do it all the time.

It happened when I had my tattoo. It happened one New Year's eve as my broken scapula was being set in the emergency room. It happened when I had a grout splinter pulled from beneath my fingernail. To be fair that last one would have probably made anyone's reptile brain reach for the emergency brake. It even happened to me before surgery after my IV line was inserted. The thing that pissed me off in retrospect was that they actually revived me before administering the anesthesia.

So of course if blood is being drawn, get ready to test your strength catching 210 pounds of my lifeless ass. I warn all my phlebotomists beforehand. I learned to do this after a panicked RN summoned an ambulance when the local she administered before removing a biopsy sent me into dreamland. Most shrug my warning off with a laugh and tell me I have nothing to fear. It's as if their skill has been called into question and now they need to show me just how talented their light touch can be. There is no one so prideful in their work as a phlebotomist.

I can usually even make it through the entire procedure before I feel the dizzy warmth start to creep over me. When it happened yesterday we had completely finished the draw. More than a minute had passed and 'Ms. Pearl' had labeled the sample and filled out some form. I had even complimented her accent as something that brought to mind Ms. Cleo. But once I feel that harbinger of the certain unconsciousness to come, there's nothing more you can do but tell them to get ready to test their strength. Even still they always assure me, no honey you did great, everything is fine, just take a few deep breaths. How about a cookie? I make a few jokes and then comes the nothingness. Once my body senses even the slightest drop in blood pressure, the shutdown sequence begins and there is no turning back. It's like sugar in the gas tank.

There is nothing and I mean nothing so utterly peaceful as when you're out like a light. And nothing so utterly confusing as when you're coming out of it. The first time I can remember taking an involuntary nap was in the fifth grade. We were outside for recess and I was standing against the wall. You stood against the wall of the schoolhouse and watched the other kids play if you had done something bad and had the misfortune of getting caught. That spring I seemed to spend a lot of time against the wall, though the reason is now lost to the ages. Two other kids that did the same were Mac and Alison. That afternoon Mac and Alison were having an argument about something, but for some reason I ended up getting stood between them. Probably to keep them from each other's throats. At some point Mac said something that must have really gotten the girl's goat, because the next thing I knew a melon-sized chunk of asphalt was hurtling our way. And then I found myself opening my eyes and wondering why I had been sleeping on the playground on such a lovely day. The letter of apology Alison had to write my mother was priceless. “Dear Mrs. Soyke, I'm very sorry I hit Eric in the face with a rock. I was aiming for Mac.” I hope my mother still has it.

Yogis practice all their lives to shut out external stimuli. I can do it before you can say “pass the smelling salts”. I've been through the routine so many times now you'd think it would be routine. But waking up on a hard lab floor as panicked nurses slap wet paper towels over your face can get old.

I'm tempted to conclude from my manifold pseudo-near-death experiences that there is no afterlife. I base this on the fact that when I'm out, there is nothing. No dreams, no beckoning lights with robed figures, no sound of harps or visions of myself floating through the ceiling. Just nothing. In the incident in the surgery room, the doc told me he'd never seen anything like it before, that my pressure had bottomed so low he was worried he was going to have to fetch the electric paddles. I think he just wanted to test the things.

Over the years I have become convinced that the brain is just a machine. A computer. And you can track the progress of your booting sequence as each system comes back online. Slowly, very slowly, the first system to come back online oddly enough is intuition. This probably wasn't what you were expecting, but thinking back it's a common thread. You just sense that something is wrong. Like you've forgotten something as you're leaving for vacation times ten. Or if you've ever woken up first thing in the morning and had that feeling like you're not sure if you should feel joy or dread for the day to come, that's what I'm talking about. Then you decide on dread. There's an unmistakable feeling that something is terribly wrong with this world and it's starting to make you mad, but you can't put your finger on it. I guess this is the id beginning to stir.

Next come your senses. Hearing is first, though speech recognition isn't up just yet. After the ringing begins, you'll soon be able to hear other noises that after 10 or 20 seconds you will recognize as human voices. They'll be very faint and you will wonder why you are hearing them. Eyesight comes up soon after. But now even though you can technically hear and see, you have no idea what on Earth you are hearing or seeing. Those faces hovering far, far above you are still just distant shapes that make no sense, just like their words. You can't but wonder if this what stroke victims feel. Or maybe insects. You have no idea what year it is, who you are, or why there are so many wet paper towels on you. This is when the weirdness begins.

Did they say something about someone passing out? Sucks for that guy, as you can't remember ever feeling so relaxed before. Soon comes understanding. After catching a few more words you slowly gather you're the guy everyone's talking about. A few pieces of the puzzle click into place. The urgent need to remember something important is overpowering now. And then you have it, the riddle is solved. You had a blood test today. You are now lying on the floor. You're soaked with sweat. Dammit.

Next online is speech, and the very first thing you will want to say is how perfectly fine you are. No need to worry ladies, I'm perfectly, perfectly fine. I do this for kicks sometimes. Of course other than your eyelids and vocal cords you still can't move a muscle, that doesn't come for another twenty helpless seconds or so.

I've never seen myself during or after one of these slips, but apparently you turn whiter than an Elk's Lodge in Utah. By the time they're lifting your head off the linoleum, you've already sweated more than if you had just spent the past hour on a stair master. In the Mohave. And even though the entire ordeal lasted maybe two minutes you would swear you had slept a solid two days.

When you've blacked out so many times that you begin to consider yourself a connoisseur, there comes the realization that our consciousness is quite probably just an illusion, cooked up by too many synapses and tiny squirts of dopamine. That even our most involved dreams and spiritual experiences are nothing more than an extremely confusing sequence of chemical reactions. Maybe Einstein was right and we are just finely crafted timepieces created by a watchmaker that decided on a permanent vacation once his shift was over, and we are all just ticking away until the tiniest of springs goes pop. Or maybe death is the beginning and those who have never passed that door have no idea of the kingdom to follow, etc. Either way, next time I'm giving blood laying on a couch.

'Snowed In Bunker' Founder Rescued from North Korea

2009-09-29T22:31:00.003-04:00

BANGKOK- After a harrowing two month ordeal, The Snowed In Bunker is pleased to report that its star reporter and founder Eric Soyke was finally rescued from a North Korean prison camp earlier this week. The daring pre-dawn operation was the culmination of extensive preparation and training by none other than Roger Clinton, half brother to the former President.

Mr. Soyke is believed to have been spirited away by agents of the hermit kingdom due to a story he penned in July. Deemed to be guilty of publishing slander “insulting and demeaning” to the nation's leader Kim Jong Il, Mr. Soyke was sentenced to 13 years of hard labor.

Following weeks of intense diplomacy which would ultimately prove fruitless, the operation was given the go ahead to send in Clinton. State department officials deny reports that Mr. Clinton was considered expendable, but freely admitted Mr. Soyke was considered as such.
“Despite our concern for all US citizens and the outrageous behavior of the DPRK in carrying out his abduction” said State Department spokesman Arne Mularky, “frankly we've gone over the so-called 'reporting' being done at his website and didn't feel his return warranted a full effort on the part of this department.”

Clinton says he was first made aware of the situation at a dinner party with his sister in law, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Describing himself as a longtime fan of the site http://www.snowedinbunker.com/, (Roger) Clinton immediately volunteered for any potential rescue mission.

“Bill had already pretty much blew his wad with the TV chicks” said Clinton, referring to the ex-President's negotiated release of two reporters in August. “I wanted to make sure noone thought he was the only fella with any pull in our family.”

Despite the severity of the reported conditions he has been kept in since July, Mr. Soyke appeared in prime health at a news conference in Thailand. Nursing a number of hickies he refused to explain, Mr. Soyke sipped coffee as he warmed himself in a Mandarin Oriental Hotel bathrobe. Commenting on the bold action of Mr. Clinton, he told of the remarkable way in which his unlikely savior charmed border guards with a bottle of smuggled Chinese rice wine and jokes he had rehearsed in their native tongue.

“Roger was smooth at the Dandong river crossing. And who knew he was so good at Kung Fu? I owe him my life.”

Mr. Soyke grew visibly annoyed at the suggestion that he had been on sabbatical all this time, and that the entire escapade had been an elaborate hoax to cover a summer of sloth. He shortly afterward called an end to the meeting, thanking everyone involved in his repatriation. “Now if you'll excuse us gentlemen, Mr. Clinton and I have a mini bar to raid.”

Kim Jong Illin'

2009-07-13T21:03:00.002-04:00

SEOUL- Following news that North Korea's leader Kim Jong Il has pancreatic cancer, more reports are beginning to make their way out of the hermit kingdom. Disputed eyewitness reports and hearsay describing the declining state of the “Dear Leader's” health have trickled out over the past two years, but the recent admission that the dictator indeed has cancer seems to have opened a floodgate of news.

Perhaps sensing a change in leadership being imminent, once loyal associates of Kim Jong Il have been fleeing the nation in droves, fearful they will not be included in the new power dynamic. Their stories have been startling. Though it is still impossible to verify their veracity, a number of analysts agree the tales are eerily similar to earlier reports floated by defectors and North Korea experts.

In addition to his weekly Brazilian waxing, the dictator apparently enjoys a daily enema administered by the current winner of the country's annual beauty contest. Contestants know that this along will be their only duty, yet ruthlessly vie for the title for the extra daily allotment of rice.

Another favorite ritual was bathing in the breast milk of nubile young mothers, performed ritually each morning in the presence of his ministers and close associates. Teams of “Divine milkmaids” are constantly milking the countryside dry as they search for enough donors to fill the 25 gallon tub he soaks in between breakfast and lunch. For years Kim Jong Il insisted the regiment was beneficial to his constitution, all the while swilling copious quantities of Johnny Walker Blue and eating pound after pound of imported lobster.

Anyone he felt had been disloyal or otherwise displeasing to him could face the hideous prospect of being Kim Jong Il's “chauffeur”. The victim would be forced to provide day-long piggy back rides in the nude for the diminutive leader, who would often ride wearing nothing but high heels which he would dig into the sides of his hapless “horse”, a blood red leather thong, and a riding crop which he wielded mercilessly. One victim that later escaped over the Chinese border still has vicious welts along his backside, along with fingernail marks in his shoulders from where he was clawed for hours as he jogged the streets of Pyongyang beneath his cruel jockey.

But the wild, curious ways of Kim Jong Il may be coming to an end soon. According to one former General now living in hiding in the South, the dictator has been undergoing regular chemotherapy treatments.

“He trusted me”, said the officer. “Every other Tuesday he would cry when he was told it was time for his medicine. Sometimes he would shoot at the feet of his nurses with a pistol. The Colt .45 is his favorite. But I would take his hand and tell him everything would be alright. Sometimes I would sing him show tunes to calm him. Afterward I would drive him home to his castle, dress him in his favorite pajamas and put on a DVD. Usually he chose Magnum P.I.”

Light has also been shed upon a rumored DPRK military biological facility known only as “Unit 260”. The secretive building housing the lab was first identified by satellites early last year and initial fears were that it was working on the weaponization of biological agents. But in a debriefing with the South Korean military, an oncologist turned defector reported the true purpose of the facility is to attempt to develop technology in an effort to restore the leader's beloved buffant hairstyle. Numerous citizen “volunteers” have undergone gruesome follicle experiments, often leaving their hair hideously tasteless and clown-like.

This makes sense, says a senior government official in Seoul speaking on condition of anonymity, given the recently smuggled photograph of Kim's balding, distraught figure. “Ravaged by chemotherapy treatments, diabetes, and a lifetime of poor health choices, his once proud mane has been reduced to a few scraggly hairs even Charlie Brown would be ashamed of.”

The depths of the dictator's ill health may be sinking even further than once thought. A spokesman for Italian fashion maker Gucci announced it had been approached by a shell business believed to surreptitiously acquire luxuries for the privileged ruler. Its request? Customized gold lamé adult diapers. “Though we were never told who they were for, the buyer suggested that the intended recipient was a powerful, proud man, and the use of flecks of real gold in the fabric was hoped would mitigate his humiliation.”

North Korean state media rejects rumors that the leader is incontinent, sternly warning that making such allegations its Dear Leader has been reduced to a piddling old man would be “tantamount to an act of war”.

Pop Star Miguel Johnson to Buy Neverland Ranch

2009-06-25T20:33:00.003-04:00

LOS ANGELES- Enigmatic pop singer and rising star Miguel Johnson has announced plans to purchase the famed Neverland Ranch from its creditors for pennies on the dollar.

Johnson burst to sudden fame last year with his stellar singing voice and lithe dancing moves. His mystique was furthered by his refusal to ever show his complete face in public, instead desiring to keep his visage cloaked at all times. Johnson cited his shyness as well as a reportedly rare disease that affects the pigmentation of his skin. His live shows are a song and dance spectacle. It is now a common sight on school playgrounds to see children emulating his trademark move the “Moonhop”.

Clad in his white mask and glittering sequin garb, Johnson said it had always been his dream to live at the Ranch, "Now that the incredibly talented King of Pop is dead, and I've heard several witnesses are willing to attest to this fact in court, I've made my intentions clear to Mr. Jackson's attorneys and creditors that I wish to offer a bid to purchase the mystical and wonderful Neverland.”

Johnson dismissed critics that said his offer comes too soon on the heels of Jackson's death, saying that he was Jackson's biggest fan. “He will always be with us. In a way he's with us right here, right now” he said cryptically, gesturing around the room.

The offer also contends that all personal effects should remain in place at the ranch, including the many portraits and sketches of the late singer. “He's a beautiful person,” said Johnson. “I can't imagine taking down such works of art.”

“I want to restore Neverland to its heyday, and welcome children of all ages to visit anytime day or night. I really can't say how much I love children” gushed Johnson.

Johnson's latest album “Rad” comes on the heels of last year's smash “On the Ball”.

Bush Foundation to Clear Brush of Less Fortunate

2009-06-22T21:16:00.004-04:00

CRAWFORD, Texas- The namesake and founder of his newly created George W. Bush Foundation held a press conference in Crawford Municipal Hall today. The news there was big, as are many things in Texas.

As has become common with many retiring commanders in chief, former president Bush is creating his own non-profit organization. He announced the thrust of his brainchild to a hall packed with reporters and celebrant townsfolk. What follows is a transcript of the weighty proceedings as he declared he would personally be overseeing the removal of excess brush from America's lower class residential properties.

Bush-
“Good morning members of the media, friends, family, fellow Crawfordites. My thanks to Sammy's Big Bite BBQ for these great spare ribs. Hope everyone enjoyed them. I'm told there's plenty more sweet tea. Be sure to have some, it's gonna be a hot one out there.

Folks, I've given a lot of thought to what I'd like to do for my retirement. You know, my spare time now that I have so much of it. America's been good to me so I want to be good to her, uh it. So I asked myself should I go the sickly route, with all your cancers and AIDS and ailments you see out there? Lots of bad stuff going around. Noble work, but a lot of folks are doing that already, and I don't know much about germs. Or maybe I'd build things for the homeless. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty you know, but y'all already got Jimmy Carter doing that. And my Daddy likes him now.

What I'm gonna do, what my Foundation's gonna do, is say you got some ugly brush, some big old overgrown mound of bushes. Not me, he he, I mean the shrubs. We'd come out to your home, if you were the less fortunate, who might not have a chainsaw or the gas for that chainsaw, or maybe you're kind of scrawny or frail and we'd clear that brush away. Maybe you were just too busy to get around to it, don't matter.

By sprucing up the backyards of America, we think you're just gonna be more likely to go out and spend money at a local business. You'll take a gander out at the yard and see there's one less thing to worry about. Maybe then you say to your wife, 'Hey let's go out and have dinner at that new Italian restaurant where the Fashion Bug used to be'. Or maybe you'll decide to paint your house, buying paint from your local hardware store. Painting isn't much fun but it's always a great time going down to the local hardware store, isn't it? Laura has a hard time getting me out of the lawn and garden section. Maybe you'll get that new pickup you've been looking at. Or maybe you'll even decide not to have that abortion, since you now have such a beautiful yard to raise your child in. Who knows?

You ever seen a run-down backyard, one where the brush is just out of control? Or maybe some big vine is snaking along a fence and knocking the planks all off kilter? Puts you in a bad mood, don't it? Before you know it, there's a few torn bags of trash piling up by the shed and your brother's Fiero is sitting on blocks next to the swing set. I've been there. And if you're below the poverty line and in one of the towns we visit, we want to help you. Just that simple.

Maybe you left gas in the weedwacker all winter and it's kind of gummed up and hard to start? I might be able to fix that, too. Or one of my guys. I'll be doing it once in a while. I originally thought holiday weekends and such. But some of my good friends still carrying on the fight in Washington asked if I couldn't try to heal America's feelings about, well, past disappointments. What better way to show America I'm here to help than use what some have said are my best skills? It's kind of like Community Service I guess. But not like how the criminals have to do because a judge told them to. This isn't something I need to do, this is something I want to do. I want to give service to my community. That's a big difference you know, from Community Service.

This isn't some long range 'study' or wasteful Washington project you'll never know if it succeeds. We won't have to wait for history to judge if this worked. These are immediate results, easy to see and measure as progress. And I want to start delivering that progress for you now. Thank you, and may God bless America.”

GM Headquarters Stripped, Sold for Parts

2009-05-28T09:58:00.001-04:00

DETROIT- Hundreds of fans, souvenir hunters and desperate looters descended on GM headquarters in downtown Detroit today. While their backgrounds were varied, their goal was the same: bring home a piece of history. And maybe make a few bucks.

Like the fate of so many of its automotive products over the years, the headquarters building was dismantled in record time while the remaining employees watched helplessly, some even joining in the free-for-all. One well dressed participant wishing only to be identified as 'Rick W.' showed off a marble sink he removed from an executive washroom. “Italian” he smiled, patting the fixture.

At one point in the afternoon police arrived to chase away the crowd, which quickly scurried into nearby alleys and buildings. “Once they see a building in a condition like this, they'll have it stripped clean down to the frame in no time” said Sergeant Elwood Barnes of the DPD. Sure enough once the squad cars departed, the participants emerged from the shadows and continued their labor.

First to go were logo items easily sold on the souvenir market, such as the front doors and conference room signs. Next went the office equipment, leather chairs, artwork, even coffee makers. Anything that could be carried was soon streaming out the front gate. Once the easily pilfered items were gone, the scrap hunters moved in. Many brought their own tools, and the sound of portable generators could even be heard echoing from within as they tore at the walls for copper wiring and piping. In a few short hours, entire floors were exposed as windows were torn from their casings for the valuable aluminum channels.

By nightfall even the emblematic GM building logo that for years had commanded a view from hundreds of feet above Jefferson Avenue was disassembled and spirited away by a team of what was rumored to be professionals, given the logistical difficulties involved. With thousands of experienced mechanics and engineers laid off throughout the city, such skills are readily available. The sign could likely fetch tens of thousands of dollars from collectors or museums.

Newly elected Mayor Bing said it “was a crying shame”, watching the mob tear apart what most consider the symbol of the Motor City. He then excused himself to help his assistant stuff what appeared to be a projector screen and an industrial-grade cafeteria food mixer into their city vehicle, ironically a Chevy Suburban.

Happy Towel Day

2009-05-26T22:18:00.003-04:00

The date of May twenty-fifth as you most likely are aware, is Towel Day. This author was in fact so immersed in his own Towel Day festivities that he completely missed the deadline and ended up posting this story a day late. But this simple act of sloth in its own way pays homage to the inspiration for whom the very day was named, Douglas Adams, a notoriously tardy penman. In keeping the true spirit of this memoriam to our favorite sci-fi humorist, philanthropist, and oddly prescient technologist alive and well, the management here at the Bunker has brought it upon themselves to add this addendum to the growing compendium of towel-centric knowledge.

Everyone wants to bury their head into a soft, warm wrap after scrubbing up, even as a guest in someone else's crapper. The worst is seeing just a single used bath towel at your disposal. At least with no towels you can broach the subject with the lady or gent of the house. But seeing just that single threadbare body towel dripping on the shower rod is a no win situation. No one wants a deep dry from some dampened rag used moments earlier on the host's crotch following his pre-party schvitz. Is that short, curly hair on your freshly rinsed cheek yours? You struggle to remember old 60 Minutes studies about which germs lived on which surface and for how many minutes. Or was it days? Thus begat our concept of the ideal towel.

One end would simply read “HEAD” in boldface. The kind of boldface that says it's not kidding. The other side would naturally read “ASS” in the same cautionary font. Keeps everything nice and straight before use. Know the terms. That's something that can instill confidence in a man to scrub down more often.

But then who's our host? The type to play a cute little gag on his unwitting guests? Maybe our roommate here has been using the presumed high ground of HEAD as a bidet sponge this past week, gleefully, often brutally violating its sanctity for his own cruel laughs at your unknowing expense? The HEAD end of this towel smells funny. Sufficed to say an entirely new kind of math comes into play if your host is a member of the desired sex, and is how everyone would soon come to describe as, “towel-sniffable”. A bad SNL skit if I ever heard one.

Despite their many obvious and critical uses, quality towels remain sadly underrated in this society. I've sometimes wondered if their low priority could very well be at the heart of many of the world's problems, like our dear departed Dougie Adams preached. All due respect, naturally. Little do I want to be known as the cretin who first posthumously referred to the man as “Dougie”, like some distant aunt that always sent him a fresh set of pajamas each Yuletide. More the admiring fan who did same.

They've tried everything else to solve our ills, and look at the potholes and dictators still laughing in our faces each day. Why not blow a few billion of the mystical bailout bucks on some fresh new towels for the masses? Don't forget to weave them of some sturdy old Dixie cotton. I can feel the wave of clean faces and souls already.

RIP, Douglas N. Adams
1952-2001

Hitler Youth 2.0

2009-05-18T10:49:00.003-04:00

I was a boy scout. My son is a cub scout. I don't know what these kids are. Technically I know who they are- Explorers, the little cops in training. You've probably heard of them, I have. But I've never known anyone involved or truly cared to. I thought they were just kids that rode in the back of cruisers to watch cops break skulls, alá McLovin. Like hall monitors with a few more summers under their big shiny black belts. A recent New York Times article on the Explorers has me thinking differently.

There's nothing wrong with becoming a policeman, I suppose we need them. It's one of those quaint notions many of us grow out of when they see the pay rate, along with firemen, soldiers, and cowboys. It's one thing to encourage a young child that says he wants to become a policeman when he grows up. It's another to issue that kid fatigues, an air rifle and toss him into a training course on counter-terrorism complete with simulated poison gas and hostages. And all before his first pimple.

Of course it makes sense they do it this way, filling out accident reports or learning to sniff out white collar crimes on a ledger just doesn't have the same addictive cachet as storming a bus to “kill” a bomb-toting tango with plastic BB guns. Get them young, give them a thrill, swell the ranks of the Man. Another generation to address the previous' failed policies on substance use, international relations and border control. But listen to me, I sound almost pinko. What proud American wouldn't want his pre-pubescent versed in the intricacies of taking down a lookout before raiding a marijuana field?

Yeah sure, terrorism and border violence and all that can be a problem. Yet one can't help but wonder if we as a society are planting the poison seeds of our own overblown fears into the most impressionable. Do any but the most paranoid and jingoistic of minds really imagine a turban-sporting “terrorist” will be a likely quarry for one of these boys as was in a recent Arizona training?

Do we really want to address these ills by turning out armies of Dwight Schrute over-achievers too young yet to even hear a dirty word at the theaters? Let these kids get laid before setting them irrevocably on the path of crew cuts and authority trips. I for one don't want to be stopped by the smug future officer who first learned to point their gun and expect total obedience from the civilian populace at the wizened age of 13. Teach liberty and empathy and sense first. Then for those still itching to save mankind one misdemeanor at a time, knock yourselves out.

The title of this article is a bit misleading. No one in the Explorers program to my knowledge is promoting the tenants of the National Socialist party. Nor are they required to undergo any oaths of omertà beyond a rote recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. The Law and America are more subtle overseers than pledging your life to a leader on posters in every room, albeit not totally lacking in their own brand of sinister overtones.

United Russia party has its Youth Guard, Africa has long fostered the child soldier. Maybe it is in our own best interests to not fall behind in the field of brain-washed youth in support of the state. In this fair nation, humanity seems to be losing ground to the “yeah, but it's effective” crowd. Torture isn't wrong if it's “effective”. Letting the weak and destitute rely only on the strength of their bootstraps is “effective”. Mandatory sentencing laws are “effective”. Old ethical dilemmas are shrugged off as a luxury for simpler times. Of course times never become simpler, only our responses to them.

Mexico Still Boasts Millions Without Swine Flu

2009-05-01T12:39:00.005-04:00

MEXICO CITY- Responding to reports of deep cutbacks in tourism, an industry central to Mexico's economy, this week Rodolfo Torres the Secretariat of Tourism announced a new advertising campaign. The television, print and Internet ads entice would-be visitors to experience the nation's beautiful beaches, extensive history and millions of inhabitants still currently free of swine flu.

The relative health of Mexico's populace is being touted as one of the key attractions of a visit to the nation. “The majority of the people you meet on your travels through our country will be welcoming, friendly and on the average free of debilitating fever and coughing fits” assures a soothing voice over from one of the television spots. Following a montage of fun-loving tourists enjoying beaches, pyramids and other scenic vistas, the ad ends in the new tag line “Mexico: You'll probably be fine”.

To placate the worries of over anxious travelers, newly arriving visitors will be presented a hygiene pamphlet outlining some common sense practices. “As a purely precautionary measure, visitors to some of the regions with higher than average reported cases of malady may want to soak body parts that may have come in contact with locals in a solution of bleach and hydrogen peroxide; it is also wise to ingest massive amounts of vitamin C, multivitamins, and Tamiflu. These simple steps will help assure a lowered risk of infection.”

Torres insists fears of contracting the illness are being overblown by the media. “Don't let fear of the unknown dissuade you from your travel plans. It remains much more likely you will be kidnapped.”

Call Yourself a Fan?

2009-04-21T22:05:00.004-04:00

Pour yourself a drink and sit back on the couch. Or on the porch. Or the car, hell. Crank up your favorite band. A top two as you're probably being indecisive. Here's the lowdown. You are told by some mystical force that it's time to choose. Some sort of musical faery with a wicked grin says that never for the rest of your natural life can you listen to either of those bands again.

The TV starts pumping out an all-time favorite arena rock anthem during a commercial hawking Cadillacs? Change the channel or it will change for you. Old school rock ballad that gives you chills remembering late nights in the park as a teen? Switch off the car radio. Overhear that #1 hit that seemed to camp out near the top of the charts a whole summer? Please put on these soundproof headphones. Stones or Beatles? Debate might about to become moot for you.

OR offers this obviously warped being, you can have a finger lopped off and listen to your heart's content. Just because it's feeling generous that day, you'll be allowed to choose which digit. He knows we all choose pinky anyhow. You have to imagine the proposer of this deal possesses omnipresent enforcement skills, so no cheating. Why doesn't matter, maybe you ate the wrong apple, or crossed the wrong rickety bridge, or committed some other imagined trespass to find yourself indebted to him.

I posed this question to a friend and was surprised at the immediacy of his reply, indicating he'd soon be in the market for some new favorites. Either he had no heart and soul, or possibly I had too much.

Now the method of finger removal might have an effect on your math. I'm hard pressed to say I'd likely vote finger if it was more a surgical procedure than a “Very well mortal, place your pinky into this rusty meat grinder..” I'd still be leaning finger, but I'd be damn sure to tell this sombitch where to stick it once it was his. You don't need to be polite to vindictive magical folk. As the tales all say, they know they've already put you through the wringer.

As a reward to yourself (if reward it could be called, as you were already able to listen all you liked before this damned faery came along), you immediately dig (with your good hand) into your collection, playing all your favorites ad infinitum. Probably until you were sick of them, knowing you. Or one night you push your way backstage at their final reunion tour, babbling some teary-eyed story of why you deserve to have dinner with the band. “I dunno Mick, something about he chopped off his finger because of you. Sounds like a drug-addled freak if you ask me, I'll get him an 8x10 glossy and boot him back to General Admission.”

You get by just fine without the finger, though it makes handshakes squeamish for new acquaintances. Plus you got to use the partial disability check from the insurance to buy a thunderous new stereo for the living room. But you're reminded of your loss every time you tie your laces, or notice the pathetic floppy finger on your winter gloves. Before you know it time passes and you find you can't stand the sound of either of those damned bands any more. Somewhere your poor pinky resides as a leathery, shrunken prize on some cruel deity's mantelpiece. He dusts it every Sunday with a chuckle.

Victory at Sea

2009-04-13T10:41:00.005-04:00

In a fitting Easter Sunday surprise, U.S. pride was reborn on the high seas off the African coast. In a world of shades and nuance, there is no wavering on this one- the good guys won.

We Yanks have had a tough run lately. Stinging difficulties in war. An economy last reported beaten and raped in a back alley by a roving band of Gucci-clad greedheads. Bad news is our norm, a growing hiss of white noise that no one can seem to find the volume knob for. So it was with a sense of warmth and joy that I was greeted by the news our boys in Navy blue scored one for the civilized world. Three pirates dead, one wishing he were, and their once captive Captain safely sipping coffee and posing for cameras on the deck of an American warship somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Such tales of bravery and righteous bloodshed are in serious want these days, I for one am going to soak this one in.

The Hollywood climax served as a perfect capstone on what proved to be a truly humiliating series of boners pulled by the hapless bandits. Strong-armed by an unarmed crew, sent scurrying into an oversized dinghy that promptly ran out of fuel, and left bobbing like the burglars from Home Alone. In a maritime blog I read about the details of the lifeboat they spent their final days in. One theory is that the captain himself may have sabotaged the vessel, rendering the fuel tank as useful as a second belly button. The facts will come out on this one as 60 Minutes gets their claws into our latest hero Captain. Sorry Captain Sully your turn is over, though we'll always love how you handled that jet in the Hudson.

While the dirty work came at the hands of Navy Seals, some credit must also be given to the President. This was a political win for the man. His first high drama albeit small-scale crisis goes off without a hitch, just as fervent wing nuts were already online dismissing the “age of Obama appeasement”. Let those who would denounce an ask questions first, shoot second approach to American diplomacy take note. The man is smart, patient and knows when the time finally comes to separate a few heads from their respective shoulders.

As far as the public record shows, he merely said to shoot if the Captain appeared in peril. But it was a moment that could very well have been Obama's Iranian-hostage rescue debacle. Fate decided he wasn't to share the same poor fortunes Jimmy Carter did in the Persian desert 30 years ago. In a brazen response, a pirate named Abdullahi Lami announced “every country will be treated the way it treats us,” warning of bad things to come for American ships in the future. It was so patronizing he may well have demanded a pre-ransom for the next ship they planned on taking. Although it will never happen, Mr. Obama would be excused for muttering a “Bring It On”.

Such hubris can only come from those not used to failed missions. The pirates' attitude that “this is war” in a perverse way almost seems to suggest safer waters for those flying the Stars and Stripes. These are not warriors, or even suicide bombers. These are businessmen. And this little business operation gone sour throws into question their entire modus operandi: that being to grab slow-moving, defenseless hulks then patiently await an almost guaranteed payday. If another American ship is taken, we will be forced to take them at their word, that they will kill the unlucky souls on board. But that of course destroys their very profitable business model. No hostages equals no payday, no fun times counting your booty on the forlorn shoals of Somalia wishing there were something more to spend it on other than the same HIV-laden harbor tarts and bails of khat. Just what Somali pirates spend all those millions on is a question that gives pause to the greatest of economic minds. The micro-climate of inflation that brews up every time a haul comes in must be hell on the local economy.

Offing a handful of punks that may well have been the pirate version of Larry, Moe, and Curly isn't a legendary accomplishment, but it was a needed one for our bruised psyche. In the new world order, big mouthed, small-time dictators mock us with impunity, well aware of the limitations modern day political correctness places on a super-power. It has become slowly, painfully clear that America or even the West cannot do everything, good intentions aside. There are some unfortunate situations where sitting back and fuming to ourselves that something ought to (but won't) be done is the only viable option. Lord knows there have been times we strayed from the narrow perch of moral high ground when we refused to do so. This is certainly not one of those times.

So as they paint three skull-and-crossbones on our bow, give three cheers for those who made the operation a success. Lets hope the next one goes even half as well.

Beer and Rowing in the Florida Bayou

2009-04-07T10:02:00.004-04:00

It recently dawned on me that one of the few genres not dabbled into at the Bunker is that of the wonderful world of travel writing. Can't say I've published any recipes either, but I'll spare my dear readers that experiment. Last weekend I had the good fortune to enjoy a cruise on the Chaz. If you're not a local, the place is called the Chassahowitzka River. For all you spell-checkers out there, I got it right the first time. I know this place, and this river.

We go way back, to the days after high school and mischief-laden excursions deep into the heart of the Florida bayou. Back then a typical outing wouldn't have felt proper without a canoe laden with a 5 gallon jug of homemade sangria (if you can call Everclear mixed with Kool-Aid such) and enough firepower to outfit a ragtag army. These were not your sounds-of-nature brand jaunts. The backbreaking time spent rowing deep into the middle of nowhere served our purpose of getting far enough from the scorning earshot of the civilized world to raise our own special brand of hell. One that had been known to climax in the apocalyptic fireball of a propane bomb, as a dozen tanked knuckleheads danced through the flaming aftermath like mad Indians suffering the effects of too much of the white man's medicine. But that is a story for another day. And as I would now a generation later likely categorize my behavior as an environmentalist, one told under a pseudonym.

This story is about the quieter side of the Chaz, of its springs, flora and fauna.

The family and I had the infamous pop-up camper out for the weekend, giving me a chance to test out the newly refurbished A/C unit. Friday was spend setting up, cooking up a skillet full of burgers, and dodging the most common fauna: no-see-ums. The air was heavy with them, but when I biked up to the only convenience store in a many mile radius for more beer and hopefully the modern equivalent of DDT, the little fellow behind the counter offered me a squirt of baby oil from a jar he kept for himself. This didn't really keep the buggers away, but it kept them from getting through. They became hopelessly slicked in a bath of oil and wriggled around like a ducks in an tanker slick. Back at camp, from then on the game became to see how many no-see-ums our ankles could harvest.

It is said that the Indians named Chassahowitzka the “place of the hanging pumpkin”, but a glance around the dock come quitting time might suggest the translation had been fudged years back, with the proper moniker being “place of the discount six-pack”. It's a very rural venue, as a quick stop in the bar and grill a few stones throws up the road will attest. Ken Burns himself might be hard pressed to prove the South had lost, after stopping inside the smoky den, then losing his will and instead deciding he just needed to use the john.

But I'm a man of the world, and can usually slide right in with the locals with maybe a tweak of the accent here or avoiding talk of God or Washington. For those not as adept at ignoring culture shock, understand this is the Deep South, not Tampa or Disney World. We met all kinds there that at first glance fit perfect characters from the Simpsons. As to which ones I'll leave you guessing. But I never had anything but good experiences and conversations. Retirees, young families, hippies, freaks, rednecks, hunters, rowdy teens, scouts, they were all there. I did see a woman whose flapping arms were tattooed with no fewer than three swastikas, but soon got the feeling from the locals that even there she was an outlier.

On Saturday we arrived at the dock early to stake our claim on a pair of canoes, one for us and the other for the wife's parents, John and Marge, who were making their way out that day to join us. I had to laugh when I saw among the supplies in the canoe next to ours, a 20 pound propane tank. Had we boys begun a tradition so many years back? As a sober scoutmaster was climbing in to pilot the stern, I doubted such hijinks were on their menu.

An eerie sight in the melting mist across from the dock was the Vulture tree, where dozens of the huge beasts were warming themselves in the morning sun, ready for another day of carcass spotting from the warm coastal breezes.

One of the few activities shared between my trips of yore and this was a refreshing dip in the springs, which was our convoy's first stop. The natural springs make for some chilly swimming at first, but on a sunny day there is nothing more welcome. A remarkable thing about the place is the series of interconnected spring-fed caves interspersed in the limestone. You're walking along in waist deep water when BOOM, a gaping hole swallows the creek bottom beneath your feet and the clear view of soft sand and limestone disappears into an azure abyss.

The holes range in width from something that could swallow a VW Beetle down to ones you can pull yourself into with your hands clinging to both sides of the rock. If you've got a mask, a deep breath, and a bold nature you can swim them. Each pops straight down about 10 feet or so, meanders horizontal a bit, then pops right back up out another hole. When you reach the bottom, you can pull yourself along the walls and see the sun shining straight down to the target exit before you. It's common to bump your head as you instinctively want to raise it to look around. My lungs and nature weren't feeling up to that task anymore, but I blamed the lack of a mask. Still, my son and I enjoyed bobbing feet first to the bottom of the widest and worrying the missus.

John floated the idea that we should visit another spot called the Crack. I had a hard time not laughing every time I heard the name. It became a struggle against my own nature not to use it in as many double entendres as possible. The approach to the Crack led us up narrower and narrower passages as we made our way to the headwaters. It made for interesting scenery, with the channel squeezing down as narrow as a paddle's length in places. It was in a small pool that opened up midway there that I saw the only turtle of the whole day on the river. Besides the ever present vultures, we also saw ducks and other water fowl. Also a porpoise and a manatee in the main channel. I was concerned by the lack of other mainstays like turtles and gators, of which we strangely had not seen a single one sunning on such a glorious day. If I hear Chinese importers have been paying local yokels to trap every hard shell out there for their soup pots, I'll be mighty sore.

Eventually the channel became a trickle that wouldn't wet your knees, and we had to abandon our rented craft. As the others went on to finish the trek by foot, I tied down beneath an overhanging branch with a length of old cotton rope I had found tangled in a mangrove root on the way in. I followed carrying our sandwiches and a ziploc holding the camera and my son's Swiss army. Soon the waterway opened up again, revealing a hidden lagoon barely thirty feet across, centered around a large spring shaped like a deep crack across the bottom. Along one side of it a huge palm had fallen, now serving as a perfect diving board, or test of skill. On another bank was a strategically placed rope swing hung from a tree above the gaping black void.

As we were testing the swing and probing the Crack (told you I couldn't resist), a pair of locals made their way up, canoe in tow. As we became acquainted, I learned his name was Smitty. Truthfully it was Matt, but he had some story about a close relative having the same name. He took the bullet by letting the cousin have it, ever after to be known as Smitty. Personally I think he got the long end of the wishbone on that one. You never forget a name like that, and it has a ring like someone you couldn't help but get along with. Old Smitty fed me a smoke and some of the coldest beers I'd had in a long while. And some Arizona iced tea that tasted strangely like straight Bacardi. I take my hat off to the man and his wife Lisa for their hospitality. And hope I can find where they bought that tea.

Not long after their arrival we heard some hooting and hollering making way up the water. Out of the tiny channel popped a pair of teenage boys floating a cooler behind them. Close behind were their chickies, clad in what could only be described as nano-bikinis. Chants of “Spring Break 09”! The boys wore the glazed eyes of seniors recently set sail on their first voyage with Captain Morgan.

Smitty and I enjoyed talking the boys into various dangerous feats, giving each other grins as we dared the two to impress their nubile, barely clad mates. Climb higher on the tree swing! Try for a double flip this time! Ah besotted, corruptible youth.

Smitty and I made sure the boys cleaned up after themselves. I learned that he too, sought penitence from the land he once violated in his youth. And so we both carried on to enforce our eventually gained wisdom, picking up after, and maybe dissuading the next generation of hellions. Sure have a good time, but at the very least try to pick up your beer cans. I felt like a local again, at least for the day, and found myself slithering through muddy mangrove roots to collect the odd lost soda can for the trek out.

A few more folks made their way into the festive watering hole, which I began to suspect was the worst kept secret on the river, despite the unassuming backwater path to gain entry. One guy covered in piercings and crowned with a Mohawk impressed us with his trust in fate, by balancing both his packs of smokes atop a tiny rock poking just above the water's surface in the center of a pool. John tempted fate in his own fashion by walking the log, likely falling to the peer pressure of our 8 year old.

I must had done something to tick off karma myself though. When someone yelled they were going to try something likely silly on the swing, I muffed going for the camera and dropped it from its ziploc and into the drink by mistake. It was a fraction of a second, I tossed it back to shore like a fisherman wrestling a trout to the bank. But it was too late. It looked back at me, the zoom lens perpetually frozen in its extended position, like a bug-eyed stare that would never blink. I relished the thought that I'd gone the cheap route when picking out the wife's camera this Christmas.

Not five minutes later I caught a sharp hunk of root just right, and it tore into my foot like a punji stick into a tiger's ass. There was nothing to be done but call it a day by then anyhow, as I could plainly see all the places I had missed sunscreen. We made our goodbyes to all our new friends and ducked back down the creek. I noticed more tide had made its way in. As we made our way back out we passed all the others' john boats and rafts, beached in various weeded alcoves along the route. I let Marge doze in the front of my canoe as I whisked us dockside in no time with the wind at our backs.

After a quick regroup at the camper we piled into the family truckster, weary and dinner-bound. After driving us north past the ubiquitous billboards hawking cheap retirement enclaves we were soon within sight of the massive Crystal River cooling towers, so I turned us in toward the coast. The drive out to Ozello is like something out of a luxury car commercial. The fields of grass and pockets of marsh trees stretch out to the distant horizon. Pure nature as far as the eye can see torn only by a thin, snake of asphalt. The tide was ridiculously high, with the wind in some places sloshing the brine up to the curb. On a slightly stormier day, I can imagine the only means of escape is with an Evinrude.

We told our waitress about the wet state of the road on the way in, and she shrugged with the same sense of non-concern locals reserve for tourists the world over. By our description she judged she'd make it home that night without needing to call her man to fire up the air boat, that was all that mattered. Dinner was friendly, adequate and overpriced, the common province of restaurants with no competition in a 10 mile radius. On the way back we noticed the water had crept even higher, now covering the road in spots and lapping at my radials. The quaint homes I saw for sale on the way in now merely looked like the first would-be victims of a melting Greenland. I put the pedal down as we wound our way back through the splendid scenery, the last of the setting sun touching the tops of the cypresses in the distance. I had no intention on waiting for the water to climb any higher. I've had a car fished out of floodwaters once before and hadn't enjoyed it enough for a reprise.

After a quick game of cards back at the camp, it was lights out. My foot was throbbing, I could still feel the sun on my reddening legs, but the trip was a success. Fortunately the memory card survived the ordeal, you're looking at a photo of the approach to the Crack now, or were a couple pages up. And the camper? A pounding rain woke me some time past midnight but we were dry and comfy, the patter of rain on canvas like a hypnotic lullaby. At such times there is nothing better than knowing you've kept up on your maintenance. Most of its leaks had been banished and the thing now blew colder than a cheap motel. Ready for her next task this June at Bonnaroo.

Rescued Child to be Held as Evidence

2009-04-01T10:38:00.005-04:00

Milwaukee, WI- According to the Milwaukee District Attorney’s office, an abducted child recently rescued from her captor must be held as evidence until trial.

Few in the Milwaukee area haven’t heard the saga of little Katie Ramirez, the six year old that disappeared from her Whitefish Bay home in February. Her family was overjoyed to hear of her recovery Friday. Unfortunately despite Katie’s safe recovery, the saga has not yet ended.

The investigation had initially focused on the parents of the missing girl, Matthew and Melinda Ramirez, when inconsistencies in the kidnapping story began to emerge. But all suspicions were dropped after a tip led to the rescue of Ms. Ramirez from her captor’s residence in nearby Franklin Heights, home of a laborer named Kevin LaRouge. Mr. LaRouge (33) had been hired by the family to perform odd jobs, but was dismissed after it was discovered he had a violent criminal record.

After a SWAT team found the girl tied to a bedpost, she was placed in protective custody at the Milwaukee Police station. Shortly afterward, her parents learned she would need to be kept as evidence until Mr. LaRouge’s trial.

Her outraged father decried the decision. “This is (expletive deleted) insane! What gives them the right to keep her?” he fumed to reporters.

According to prosecutors, Wisconsin law does. “To bolster the state’s case against the suspect, we are following every procedure by the book” said assistant D.A. Roger Juella. “I don’t want to let Mr. LaRouge escape justice because of a technicality.” That technicality refers to a little-known state statute dating to the 1890’s that allows for “perfons (sic) recovered from the hands of ne’er-do-wells be kept safe from harm as ward of the state and presented as an object of evidence until their tormentor(s) be remanded to a house of detention or be hereby found not to be of guilt.”

Protests from the family, the ACLU, and local residents are gaining in volume, but the Wisconsin Department of Justice insists that Ms. Ramirez is being “given the best of care and is quite comfortable”. Her family is permitted daily visits until trial begins, which the D.A.’s office insists will come as soon as possible, perhaps as early as this summer. In the meantime donations of toys, as well as letters of outrage, continue to pour into the office where Katie’s small living space is located.

In a rare statement from Katie herself, she appeared to have mixed feelings about her situation.“I miss my mommy and daddy,” she initially lamented. “But Miss Terry (her court-appointed caregiver) lets me watch Dora whenever I want, and I have lots of things to play with here. And today we get Taco's!”

LaRouge was denied bail at his arraignment Monday. He is being held in the Milwaukee County Jail awaiting trial, just 3 blocks from the protective services building where little Katie waits and does the same.

Iron Mine Sued by Gun Control Activists

2009-03-23T19:50:00.006-04:00

Tellsville, MI-Iron ore mine owner Clay Amberthorp appeared in court on Monday to face accusations that he and his company were negligent in the shooting death of a Michigan State Police officer in 2005. The suit charges that sometime between 2000 and 2003, Amberthorp Mining of Michigan willfully sold iron ore which eventually ended up in a gun used to kill police officer Jeremy Gibbons.

Bailiffs hauled bag after bag of unrefined iron ore into the courtroom, as the plantiff’s legal team entered it as evidence. Lead attorney Anthony Ballgetti then proceeded to diagram how the ore made its way from the Michigan deposit to the chrome-plated Smith and Wesson .357 used by Jerry Stills on the night of the shooting.

"In our eyes, the people who mined the ore, those who shipped it to the refinery, the workers who smelted it, the fabricators who shaped the steel forms and the truckers who delivered the finished ingots to the gun manufacturers are just as culpable in the death of Mr. Gibbons as the person who pulled the trigger" said Angela Beck spokesperson for the Brady Center, one of the plaintiffs in the $48 million suit.

RandomObamaLie.com Celebrates its 5000th Hit

2009-03-17T21:27:00.004-04:00

Please join me in marking this meaningless and arbitrary milestone! We've had visitors from more than 50 countries log in to our sister site to learn some entertaining lies about the leader of the Free World. Even Iran. Though I suspect it may have been Ahmadinejad's speech writers looking for talking points.

According to my stat monitoring account the 5000th hit came from Destrehan, Louisiana, just a hop, skip and a murky swim up from the Big Easy herself. As soon as I track down the lucky netizen, he/she can expect a toaster in the mail. Though they should be warned that its setting for toaster pastries is on the fritz.

Watch, Man

2009-03-07T11:00:00.004-05:00

This is not a reviews site. Not one to idly spoon-feed fanboy sentiment to the Pepsi-swollen gullets of seekers of what's 'hip'. So I'll be brief and to the point, Watchmen kicked your momma's ass, and did so in spades.

I figured I'd not hedge on that introduction, to weed out those not interested, though they should realize that the Bunker on other weeks ranges in its weekly topics from Chinese Olympic failures, to suicidal investment strategies, to the inherent evil of unicycles. If any of that other stuff sounds promising, check back next time. Otherwise, soldier on.

Such reviews should probably be presented to the point of view of an uninitiated reader, one not yet to delve into Alan Moore's novella cum big star screen spectacular. Such newbie viewers, as well as the well-read should know one thing about Mr. Moore. While he excelled in the forming of tales and imagery both rich and brutal, he lacked in the department of palm reading. His pronouncement so many years past that his own creation was unfilmable has been proven flat wrong. Not to take anything away from his foresight, at the time the ill-fated quote was spake it was probably true, given the pulley-and-wire nature of modern filmmaking by comparison.

Today's Watchmen pays ample respect to a comic fans' loathing of deviation, despite some fairly minor absences die hards may sneer at their absence of. But to be truthful, I no longer follow the development of films until their completion. Ever since Lord of the Rings, I prefer to go in cold turkey. And even though I had already dined on a paperback version of Watchmen, it was many years ago. I had forgotten much so my sense of accuracy may be impaired at this point, but who cares?

Despite my having already been a fan from a reading way back when, the film failed as it were, to disappoint. Yes, that's a double negative for those checking my math at home. This film checks off the vital stats of any successful comic adaptation: it was (very) good, it kept true enough to the spirit of the story, and it will work for those who don't already know the story cold.

The premise of the plot, the 30,000 footer of it, is something as follows: Following the second world war a man is accidentally irradiated in some DoD experiment gone haywire, turning him into an uber-man, a living American God capable of nearly any trick that could be devised by the minds of Roddenberry or Einstein. Standard 50's comic faire if you will, but I mean that most generously as the period feels (each decade from the “Greatest Generation” up to where Reagan should have been judging by the skinny neckties gets a turn) are well done. This Dr. Manhattan is himself a major bulwark in the US defense arsenal, playing the part of nuclear deterrent and top scientific researcher, and needless to say the genesis of the film's most inspired effects. The blue, glowing Manhattan possesses the straight forward logic of Spock, alongside the tank-crushing loyalty of a trained, thinking weapon able to see the past, present and future in his own unique slurry of existence.

Around the same time, a cadre of self-appointed super heroes (sans actual super powers) implants itself within the stream of American history. These “costumes” make it their sworn duty to protect America from it's own inner rot. But the populace come to question the need for still allowing a privileged class of knuckle breakers to exist in their own world above the law. War is over, who do these do-gooders think they are? Years after such vigilantes have been voted out of favor, someone mysteriously decides to start wiping them out, with extreme prejudice. And thus your plotline.

The opening segment that follows a costume's murder features a montage of 60's and 70's era history, perverted by the temporal deviations of super heroes and chance. What follows is akin to reading an alternative history novel. You quickly catch up on everything that happened along this skewed path, from the glorious- picture an invincible hundred foot tall blue enigma winning the Vietnam war by the mere nod of his omnipotent head (think Francis Ford Coppola told to film a sci-fi battle), to the mass, ongoing acceptance of Nixon that results from such an unnatural Far East victory. Leading to not only a Watergate free second term but a dissent-strangling third and maybe more. In a world where the Viet Cong throw down their weapons and pray at the foot of the very American God that humbled them, things are bound to be a little different.

And yes as you're learning a new history, you'll be subjected to some of its violence. Ooo, yeah some of it is up there if you're not ready. But knowing what was coming helps. I didn't really have the impression it was gratuitous, this from someone who flat out refuses to subject himself to today's modern jerk-off of a film genre, the torture flick. Much of the blood and guts of this tale seems to fit in, as it unfortunately would in any challenging (brutal) history. Granted the pint of fine Canadian whisky that swam with my large Coke in the back of the AMC may have aided in my acceptance of such bloody excesses, but I digress. The social and human commentary that are offered as reward for delving into the piece outweigh any case of the “ewws” you may develop. Ironically, it is often the very “super heroes” that commit the worst of the offenses as they undertake their missions to better mankind.

One of the main characters in the tragedy, the first aforementioned target of the mysterious assassin, goes by the name of The Comedian. Here is a son of a bitch that challenges the viewer's shades of gray. A fascist would be the easiest label for such a shoot ex-girlfriends first, down jovial beers later kind of guy. But such generalizations become harder to diagnose after the flashbacks and recollections that suggest he's somewhere near the realm of a Jack Bauer that gets downright horny when cracking bones to defend his motherland. This is a Nazi you want on your side, despite how hideous that sounds for you to admit. Is this a man made cruel by a government needing to spread fear and domination to maintain its status quo, or does he use his bully pulpit as a mere excuse to rape, destroy and unleash his disgust of mankind's tragic condition? Probably both. The Comedian is everything loud and overbearing you hate, but also everything loyal and ballsy you respect. He's the kind of strutting, twisted American hero you would picture rescuing Betty Page from a band of filthy Commies, then tearing open her Esquire magazine outfit, raping her, and kicking her dog for getting in his way on the way out.

In fact the Red Menace plays a large role in the story's trajectory. Author Moore is by no means on the left or the right, though he likes to dabble with the extremes of both. Anyone having read his V for Vendetta know him as an unapologetic Anarchist. Here, though he basically satirizes facism's over-potent cure for it's ideological opposite, he allows how such excesses could spawn and flourish if given the right conditions. In one scene, as happened often in Moore's original comic screenplay, a sign from the background scenery asks a probing question of the reader (now viewer). This one takes the form of a government-sponsored billboard straight out of Nixon's Machiavellian playbook: “In your heart, you Know it's Right”. Throughout his graphic novel, signs on the street, television broadcasts, even the very graffiti all spell out an undercurrent of a society needing to be reassured of it's need for its warm, protective, if crime-ridden cloak of Facism whether it wants it or not. Particularly as it is presented as the sole promised bastion of safety against a growing and aggressive Soviet threat.

Where reality ends and Watchmen begins is sometimes a faint line, oft disguised under the obfuscating variable of human nature. In the desolate wastes of Antarctica, the final battle against the unearthed assassin probes at your psyche. Just how far would you go for the endgame goal of true world peace, even if it comes at the pre-calculated and logically accepted price of millions of deaths? This is pragmatism at a level dreamed of by even Kissinger. Would you let such a devastating conspiratorial compromise go unanswered, even unreported? These are questions you hope you're never asked. But they sure look good on film.

U.S. to Return to Glorious Unsustainability

2009-02-24T19:59:00.004-05:00

Today's headlines bombard the reader with grim news of record-breaking deficits, shutdowns, layoffs. Once staid household names teeter on bankruptcy. The phrase "worst since the Depression" has been hammered home more relentlessly than the times tables in a Japanese prep school. It's enough to make one downright worried about the future. How long before the whole place resembles some hell-scape reminiscent of some Mad Max era bartertown you begin to wonder. Take it from me, don't.

The Treasury Department, Federal Reserve, and Congress on behalf of the wishes of the President, have been working feverishly to spur Americans back into familiar patterns of wastefulness and short-sighted goals. With so many good intentions hard at work, is there any chance we can fail to regain our superior position in every measure?

Soon our overseers will begin shoveling, nay bulldozing stimulus funds into the economy like heaping buckets of coal into the red-hot gaping maw of Davey Jone's locomotive, in hopes that American consumers can rebuild our trade deficit to a scale only dreamt of by lesser nations. Such a monumental goal will require nothing less than the determined and combined spending power of millions of image-conscious, luxury-driven citizens, fearful of obsolete personal electronics technologies or being embarrassingly trapped in vehicles more than four years of age. We shouldn't be aiming to restore mere confidence, but hubris. I believe we are up to this task.

Before this crisis, we were living beyond our means goes the chestnut: saving too little, borrowing from foreign entities to purchase foreign goods, and funneling hundreds of billions of dollars annually to hostile petro-regimes. It is my sincere belief that such God-given excesses will once again define the American way of life. Skeptics worry that such living robs of our children. My answer is simple: won't our children have children? Who are these imagined whelps too proud to carry on such a glorious tradition? Don't punish the brazen antics of Madoff, embrace them.

This same way of life will benefit workers worldwide, as they harvest, mine, sew, and toil to feed our endlessly ravenous sense of want. Such gluttonous demand for all the world's idle resources will undoubtedly be seen as a selfless act of brotherhood, with the unwashed populaces of nations from Guatemala to Vietnam grateful to play their part as the cogs in our vast machinery of More.

With the introduction of tough new regulations on Wall Street, it will be at least several months before loopholes are found and exploited for the personal gain of a few, allowing more and more Americans to again imagine themselves in a prosperous retirement one day. By propping up real estate prices, it is hoped the speculative building booms that swept across millions of acres of unimproved wilderness like locusts in 7 series sedans can return large-scale developers to their rightful place, once more immune to the pesky red tape of zoning boards and environmental worry warts.

Americans should be encouraged to double or triple their travel, to better take advantage of the higher fuel efficiencies of today's modern cars and lower fuel prices. It's a beautiful country out there, you shouldn't restrict yourself to the shortest route home. Why not circle the block a few times to see how the neighborhood's doing? No antidepressant can hold a candle to doing donuts in an empty parking lot. Or why wait for it to be empty, if you're feeling bold? As oil prices hold to their southward trajectory, the length of NASCAR races might be increased to more than eight hours. Even more exciting, a new racing league altogether could be born. Maybe 747's circling hot-air balloons filled with topless cheerleaders, or tractor trailers burning raw coal speeding across an arena of artificial ice. I get goose bumps just imagining the wrecks. This is the land of innovation.

The lower ancillary costs of energy could have other positive developments here at home. People should take advantage of cheaper food prices to stock up on extra calories, adding to their layer of insulating winter fat. If it works for the bears, it can damn sure work for any red-blooded patriot. Leading physicians suggest the associated onset of obesity-related ailments could then provide desperately needed skiing vacations for leading physicians. Not to mention the bump provided for pharmaceutical companies in search of elusive quarterly dividends.

Some parties just don't want to end. And why should they? The world miraculously keeps buying our T-bills, kindly keeping history's grandest pyramid scheme afloat. In no time we will rise like an amnesiatic phoenix, order dessert, and try to figure out what the next hot market will be in. It will take innovation and wisdom to return us to the well-worn, candy-wrapper strewn paths of old. But with some sacrifice, we can finally get back to a lifestyle requiring no sacrifice.

Hands-On Museum of Highly Infectious Diseases Funding Threatened

2009-02-19T21:50:00.003-05:00

ST LOUIS- At the newly renovated Museum of Highly Infectious Diseases, schoolchildren touring the facility Friday were gleefully unaware of the center's funding problems. Museum officials fear the scene of smiling eight year-old Jessica Albach playfully handling a magnified model of a smallpox virus could soon be a thing of the past.

The 20,000 square foot facility reopened last summer amid much fanfare, but now with state and municipal budgets stretched to the breaking point, the lack of public and private funding threatens to make it another victim of the ongoing financial crisis.

The facility features a new wing called "Plague Through the Ages". Numerous artifacts from as distant as the 14th century show the effects of bubonic menace on generations of citizenry. One wood carving depicts ignorant peasants enjoying a traditional 'rat race' as dying townsfolk can be seen piled waist-high in the background awaiting the weekly village burning.

One of the children's favorite pavilions is named "Ebola: Nature's Cruel Joke", which displays a colorful, albeit grisly series of wall-sized images documenting the decline of a cartoon victim, progressing from newly infected, to the first appearance of bulbous boils, and ending with the final, hideous expiration. Another exhibit documents Polio's mark on mankind.

"Should we not honor the ailment that felled one of our most beloved Presidents?" asked museum spokesman Les Avery. "Polio's role in history should secure it a permanent place in our culture." Mr. Avery is part of a movement in the medical community championing polio to be designated an endangered species. "Just because it's not as cuddly as a Panda doesn't make Poliomyelitis any less deserving of our protection" said Avery, referring to the virus' scientific designation.

The final part of the tour allows visitors to don Level-A hazmat suits to handle petri dishes of living specimens and view them through an electron microscope. Before the budget cuts, a few lucky attendees were occasionally invited to infect one of the spider monkeys used by the center for vaccine research.

Such hands-on learning exercises could soon become a thing of the past. "I appreciate the need to trim in tight budget years" admitted Mr. Avery. "But people need to realize that every penny lost has a real-world effect. We've had to cut back on inspections of the hazmat suits from twice daily to twice monthly. Twice daily was probably overkill, but it's probably better to be safe than sorry."

The museum is open 10-5 Monday through Saturday, closed on Sundays. Visitors are advised to bring a change of clothes as attendees' garments are urged to be burned as a standard precaution.

Mutated THING 3 Omitted by Suess Editor

2009-02-10T21:17:00.003-05:00

A little known character that never made it past the cutting room floor, THING 3 figurines are finally available for purchase online. Outside of a handful of Suess historians and die-hard enthusiasts, few have ever heard of the horribly mutated third brother of the red-clad Suess duo. Even by today's lax standards, the idea of a children's book character with a cleft palate, hunchback and lazy eye would seem questionable.

Despite much argument from the author, the decision was finally made to abandon the third less fortunate THING for the quirky but otherwise mutation-free 1 and 2.

"It's not that he (longtime editor Arnie Soapcheck) was opposed to depicting the handicapped," said biographer Nick Warren. "But I mean the thing had open sores and in one draft sketch, a colostomy kit. As avant-garde as some of the Doctor's work seemed at the time, that was just asking a bit much of the audience. Teaching children to welcome differences meant those that may have eaten funny foods or wore strange clothes, or liked to sleep on the roof. Not those with extra sets of fingers coming from their spinal column and an inability to ingest solid foods."

Google to Map Every Room by 2012

2009-02-03T23:11:00.004-05:00

SAN FRANCISCO- At a nondescript bungalow in the Pacific Heights neighborhood, a team of photographers has just finished their survey of 423 Laurel Street. Within a few hours, anyone with a computer will soon be able to tell just about everything about the place, from the color of the bedspread to whether or not the owners had time to do the dishes yet.

Google RoomView© is just the latest in a string of navigation and mapping applications developed by the software giant. A company spokesman estimates the interior of every house, apartment and commercial building in the continental United States will be mapped and accessible at the click of a mouse by the end of 2012.

Besides the monumental logistical issues involved in such a task, Google faced a myriad of legal and technical hurdles before finally starting the survey in early December. Now that the surveying teams are spreading across the country, they're discovering even more unforeseen challenges.

“The worst is when they want to clean up first” says Google team member Tim Hutchins. “Part of the point of the whole project is to capture the way people truly live, not an idealized version. We generally don't mind if you need a quick moment to get dressed, or to tend to a crying child, but we have a tight schedule to keep. I like to be in and out of each residence in under two minutes if possible.”

Hutchins says he's probably seen just about everything in the six weeks they've been doing the door-to-door surveying. “We once entered a room and there were two people (copulating) right there on the couch. It was shocking at first, but our training kicked in and we just remained professional. I don't even think they noticed us.”

Though some residences are harder to gain access to than others, most comply willingly. “People are taken aback by our presence when we first approach them, wanting to know why we need to photograph each and every room of their house in high resolution,” says Hutchins' teammate Stephen Brewer. “After we've explained the project to them, most are willing to allow our team in. Once they see we're just there to do a job, they want to be part of it and the operation goes pretty smoothly”.

But not all of the populace can be such a team player. Earlier that same morning, Tim said he had to resort to the blanket court order provided each mobile team. “Some old guy was refusing to let us in. When I explained what an exciting project he was missing out on, he tried to slam the door in my face!” Mr Hutchins and his two assistants are prepared for such outcomes, which he says occur more often than people would imagine.

In most cases it's enough to show a reluctant resident the court order and politely tell them they'll find everything perfectly legal. But on some occasions more drastic measures need to be taken. While technically not permitted to use force or enter against a home owner's will, the teams have a few tricks up their sleeves. One is a miniaturized flying camera developed at Google's Mountain View headquarters, in collaboration with the Department of Defense. At just under two ounces, the amazing device can be maneuvered with remote video control by a nearby technician.

“The FlyCams© are a real Godsend,” says Hutchins. Though it can be tricky to get them launched inside at times. “Sometimes we'll get lucky and a window screen is loose, but usually you have to convince someone to open the door and then flick it in. We've lost a few to angry residents swatting at them mid-flight, still it's safer than trying to sneak in yourself,” he admits. “Rumor has it they're going through 40 of the things a day down in Texas.”

The Father and Son "Talk"

2009-01-29T09:04:00.005-05:00

There are some things a man must do when his son reaches the right age. Traditions that reach beyond class and background. The first fishing trip. Changing oil together for the first time. Showing him how to defend himself in the garage with a heavy bag, or how to build a campfire that will burn slowly for hours. These are the rituals inherent to the father and son bond, universal in their pull. So it was with a weighty sense of responsibility that I realized last night it was finally time for 'the Talk'.

My son is now eight, though to look at him you'd think ten. I'm quite proud of him, and he's a bright little fellow. But he's very curious, and I've overheard him asking questions lately. I decided long ago I was not going to let him figure out things on his own, or worse yet from his friends like so many of us did. The time was right, and he was ready even if I thought I wasn't.

I told the wife we men would be needing some privacy that evening, and called him into the living room by my side. Pouring myself a single malt to steady my nerves I sat him down. His eyes were eager and inquisitive, wanting to know what was so important. He looked nervous so I told him he wasn't in trouble, which seemed to set him at ease. “What I'm going to tell you about requires responsibility", I told him. "You're not ready for it yet, but someday you will be.” I thought back to when I first learned. I could remember my cousin showing me how to do it like it was yesterday.

So I took a deep breath, leaned back, and showed him how to light a proper match fart. The hot burst of flame climbing my jeans was impressive, and I thanked the stars I had enjoyed the beans and rice for lunch that day. As predicted his expression was that of shocked amazement, as a whole new realm of juvenile whimsy had just been opened to him. The room reeked of burnt methane and scorched Levis.

Later that evening, after we had caught our breath from the laughter and wiped the joyous tears from our eyes, I took him out for ice cream at Dairy Queen. For the first time I let him order for himself. A mother and daughter sat at the bench across from us, we guessed discussing the daintinesses the fairer sex normally discusses. We knowingly winked at each other from behind our hot fudge sundaes, each feeling just a little older and wiser, and living in a world they would never know.

Limbaugh Blasts Obama's First 100 Minutes

2009-01-22T08:56:00.002-05:00

WASHINGTON- Rush Limbaugh on Tuesday lambasted newly sworn-in President Obama's performance thus far. The political pundit and self-anointed king of conservative talk radio, Limbaugh dismissed the first crucial 100 minutes of Obama's presidency as totally wasted.

“We've got terrorists at our doorstep, the economy in steep decline, and what does he do his first two and a half hours? I'll tell you what he did. He watched parades. He shook hands. He attended a fancy luncheon and enjoyed some ballroom dancing. Hell, you were hard pressed to find him not being lauded with music or waving to his brainwashed zombies at some point all day!”

Limbaugh went on to complain about the President's tie, the First Lady's choice of dress and the order in which the Cabinet was seated. “Seating the Secretary of Defense behind the Secretary of Interior? See people, this is what I meant when I told you our little friend here is soft on defense. This is an obvious snub to all righteous men in uniform! He wouldn't know a First Sergeant from a Sergeant at Arms.”

After spending another hour ridiculing topics ranging from the Obama children's puppy to the choice of entertainment for the Inaugural Balls, the talk show host embarked on an even darker and more controversial tack. “And I hate to say it folks, hate to be the one to make scary predictions, but has anyone looked at the Dow today? Since the Chosen One took office at noon, it's tanked more than 130 points! Not to be alarmist folks, but at that rate, and given my rough calculations, the Dow Jones Industrial should reach zero within just 12 weeks.”

After trying to reassure his listeners that they most likely have several months before the Apocalypse swallows them and their families whole into a whirlpool of fire, Limbaugh spent the remainder of his show waxing poetic about his childhood, his own mortality, and how much he would miss boating, cigars, and OxyContin.

Madoff Accused of Smuggling Valuables out in Dog's Rectum

2009-01-15T23:48:00.004-05:00

NEW YORK- Federal prosecutors were frustrated a third time today when a US Circuit Judge denied a request that bail for Bernard Madoff be revoked. At issue was a report that the accused fraud had recently been smuggling valuables out of his luxury penthouse in the rectum of the Madoff family poodle, Murray.

Madoff's mail is already being searched in response to his sending more than a million dollars worth of jewelry and other valuables to friends and relatives over the holidays. The shocking new allegations originated after an FBI agent spotted an unidentified man in a black hat and suit scooping up the feces of the animal following one of Mr. Madoff's daily walks in the Upper East Side. After swiping the pile into a brown paper bag with his bare hands, the man reportedly climbed into a limousine and sped away.

Madoff described the accusation as “pure nonsense”. Madoff's lawyer Ira Sorkin refuted the charge, complaining to the judge “If my client had left the feces on the sidewalk he would have faced a citation for littering. And now you're saying it's improper to have his pet defecate in a prearranged location and have said excreta spirited away to a private office where it can be safely disposed of? What choice are you giving him?”

The most damning evidence came when the defense was confronted with a gold coin and a 2.4 karat diamond that had been unearthed from a pile of Murray's feces. The items valued at more than $30,000 were recovered by undercover officers in an attempted sting. Investigators wouldn't say if they believed the animal had been fed the valuables or if they had been forcibly inserted into the distraught beast.

Madoff explained that the offending gem may have fallen from one of his wife's house slippers, as has happened several times in the past. “That darned Murray just loves to gobble up anything he finds on the kitchen floor, the little scamp.” Asked to explain the one ounce Krugerrand, Madoff shrugged, with his lawyer arguing it could have come from anywhere, possibly already lying on the sidewalk when Murray “did his business”.

Judge Paymore was inclined to agree, apologizing to the inconvenienced Madoff and ruling that the defendant could remain free on the condition the Madoffs be provided the services of a dog walker, to be paid for by the city.

I Had a Golden Ticket

2009-01-14T10:27:00.003-05:00

Most of my trips to the mailbox are less than memorable. The ritual usually coughs up little more than a bill, an appointment reminder from the dentist, coupon for something like rug cleaning or a Chinese restaurant, the occasional Have-You-Seen-This-Child. Another bill. But last week I had some excitement. Not to give away the ending, but it was short-lived. It arrived in a large manila envelope, with a Presidential insignia.

I've gotten a few letters from the White House over the years, mainly boiler plate responses to my fruitless rabble rousing. Dear Sir, thank you for your letter regarding issue X, we hope that some day in the future you will see that our efforts at allowing market forces to reduce the demand for, blah blah blah. This was different. On heavy card stock, in flowing calligraphy below a handsome and expensive looking gold embossed seal, was an invitation to the Inauguration.

At first confusion reined. Then some gears, some smoke, and wide eyes. A scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory played out, with me playing the part of Grandpa Joe jumping and hooting like an old man transformed into a little boy. Somehow, I was in. But how? A selected random donor? Maybe someone got a kick out of my randomobamalie.com site? Who cares, I'm somebody now! How would I get there with just two weeks notice? Surely flights were gone by this time. Or as pricey as the last Huey out of Saigon. A lot can go through your head in a matter of seconds. These were but minor details. I would make it happen.

By the time I got back to the front door I noticed something else inside the envelope. Two other somethings. The first was a letter from the Presidential Inaugural Committee. I carefully parsed the letter. One phrase stuck out like a teasing child's tongue:

“This commemorative invitation invites your presence at any of the public events in what will be the most open and accessible Inauguration in American history.”

An invitation to all public events, an oxymoron if I'd ever heard one. Cue the sound of a deflating balloon. I was nobody once more. A quick spin with Mr Google confirmed my fears. I had basically been spammed. ABC news even had a video. One million of the buggers had been printed up. So yes, Team Change may have penned this scroll, but in essence I had just received a high quality wall hanging.

The second item went in for the kill, pouring salt into my wounded pride. It was a small sales flier for all things Prez, hawking everything but boxer shorts. Some huckster trying to cash in on the Obama Brand before the big day came. Because after that he would be just another bigwig on the shiny hill, hogtied by cold, hard realities. At that strike of noon Tuesday, the Cinderella story would end. The dance would be over, transforming him from a prince back to a pumpkin. Time to scrub the floors and clean out the fireplaces. So yes, it makes perfect sense for some shyster to try to sell as many baubles and trinkets he can while the getting is good.

I feel for someone with less discerning logic toting this document all the way to the main event, only to be told they'd have a better view from their Zenith as it wasn't getting them closer than any other Tom, Dick, and Harry standing out there in the January wind. Apart from not having any identifying numbers or codes like an actual ticket, the thing looks damned official. No, this thing was official. Still just a collector's item mind you, granting no privilege. Nothing of true worth, just something for the zealous to mount in the den. It was a commemorative freebie printed up like its predecessors had been since way back when.

But somewhere along the line a decision had been made to include a catalog for pillows and champagne glasses emblazoned with an Inaugural seal. That's just bad pool in my book.

This brought a more fiendish possibility to mind. Was the pimping of the President to never stop? Would it now be policy? CNN posting snapshots of cabinet members wearing “Change” t-shirts to their softball games. I imagined years of press conferences in which Barack knick-knacks were subtlety plugged. A Barack-licensed Nike or Lexus couldn't be far behind. The Nobama crowd which poo-pooed the star treatment were seeming to have a point. On the other hand, maybe the proceeds could be used to offset the deficit. In the end, all I could do in protest was to purchase my commemorative Obama speedos elsewhere. Hopefully they arrive in time.

Best of luck to our new Commander, God knows he can use it. And to our departing George, best of luck with the whole "history will judge me" thing. Believe me, it will.

Image of Elvis Appears on Virgin Mary

2009-01-05T21:59:00.002-05:00

GUADALUPE, MEXICO- Hundreds of music fans and sightseers flocked to the town of Guadalupe this week as reports poured in of a divine image. On the morning after Christmas, as he was opening his Church of the Exalted Savior for what he thought was just another day of worship, Padre Jose Santiago was shocked by what he found. On the chapel's hundred year old statue of the Virgin Mary was an inexplicable image of Elvis Presley.

Ever since the discovery, music buffs from locales as distant as Tokyo and London have been clamoring for a look at the miracle. The interior of the small chapel was filled with tourists all weekend, with only a handful of regular local churchgoers trying to ignore the distractions taking place in the rear of the sanctuary. By New Year's, there was an hour's wait to see the miracle, with vendors hawking flowers and baked goods to the line of eager pilgrims.

The floor of the church is fast growing cluttered, with visitors leaving mounds of velvet paintings, records and lovingly wrapped burgers at the foot of the statue each night.

“They keep coming and coming” said local townswoman Maria DelSancho. “I have never seen such a zealous group. They are odd”, referring to the mid-western housewives and families clad in Hawaiian shirts and gauche patterns not indigenous to the area. Asked if she thought the image was sacrilegious, Ms. DelSancho like most others asked simply shrugged, admitting through her translator “it is Elvis after all”.

A team of tweed-clad inspectors from Memphis were still unable to ascertain how this incredible image of the King appeared on the cheek of the Mother. “It's our job,” said Miles Browman of the Institute of Elvis Studies. “Every few months there's a spotting and we need to investigate to disprove them. We don't usually see a late Elvis like this.” Mr. Browman's team was at a loss to explain away the image of a heavyset Mr. Presley sleeping on the Virgin Mother's cheek. “Usually it turns out to be someone looking for attention. A waitress in Des Moines scorches a piece of toast to look like a scene from Jailhouse Rock, that sort of thing. But this...”

A visibly shaken IES director Browman wouldn't admit if he still thought the image was a fake, but upon leaving, a King-spotter says he saw the man drop a red rose at the feet of the statue, then perform a barely perceptible gig before gathering his test samples and running off.

Bye Bye Bush Bash!

2008-12-29T18:24:00.011-05:00

For family, friends and tolerably behaved friends of said within driving distance of St. Petersburg, mark your calendars for the evening of January 24th. It's the first Saturday after the Inauguration, because who has a party on a Tuesday?

Enjoy a hand-mixed libation or two. Wolf down moderately tasty hors d'oeuvres, then throw them up on the trampoline. Or try your luck at the shoe toss and maybe win a prize.* And yes, the disco ball should be operational. Fireworks to chase off late nighters and faint of heart.

Don't anger the Tiki Gods! Be there. Starting at 6pm. Contact Eric for directions, advice or whatnot.

* Disclaimer- prizes may be limited to more hors d'oeuvres.

Santa's Slide

2008-12-18T13:50:00.006-05:00

Dear Travis,

Well my old friend, we've nearly wrapped up another one. How's your behavior been this year? Will old St. Nick be in a jolly mood when he slides down your chute this winter? Or will you awaken to a stocking full of coal? I myself wouldn't mind. Price of coal is up, and practical gifts are en vogue this season. A last minute blitzkrieg of penitence is one way to go if you're not so inclined.

I already know what gifts I'll be receiving from the family this year, having bought and stashed them out in the shed myself for the little woman to wrap. A tractor battery and a bottle opener. Granted the bottle opener is made to look just like a Craftsman tool, so my sense of childlike wonder isn't completely dead. The only wild card of course is the fat man in red.

I feel that Santa is getting cynical in his old age. Guess that's what happens when you spend your days holed up in a snowed-in compound with no one to talk to but "elves". I can partly relate. Can you imagine that guy by the time December finally rolls around and he's got a case of cabin fever that would put Jack Torrance to shame? Nothing to do day in and day out but downing Cheese-Whiz and scotch and playing William Tell with the reindeer in his long johns.

Last Yule the bunker must have caught him on the tail end of his miraculous jaunt. Whether he was slap-happy with exhaustion or worn ragged from too many trucker's pep pills I'll never know. I was feigning sleep as I could feel him standing over me, whispering dirty jokes into my ear. His breath brought a tear to my eye, but I dared not move out of pure terror. A dead man couldn't have slept through his crude, giggling antics. He tripped over the rug as he was stealing away and put a fist through my closet door. He swore like a longshoreman.

After I was sure he was gone I looked under the tree. A menacing puddle beneath it reeked vaguely of urine and vomited cookies. Fighting nausea I picked up a partly crushed box wrapped in ragged comic pages. Inside was a collection of factory second blouses from The Fashion Bee. At first I figured there'd been a mix up, but everything was a perfect fit and my initials had been stitched hurriedly into each piece. I guess I'm obliged to be thankful. The poor, poor bastard. The War on Christmas is warranted.

Yours in Christ,
Eric

74 year old injured imitating stunt from “Jackass”

2008-12-09T13:52:00.003-05:00

Birmingham, AL- Longtime Meadowlake nursing home resident and retired engineer Laurel Anderson was hospitalized Thursday after sustaining injuries to his back and head, the result of a crash on his 3-wheeled motorized scooter.

According to witnesses, Mr. Anderson had built a crude ramp consisting of a plywood board and a tall pile of bricks. The ramp had been placed at the bottom of a steep incline, behind which fellow Meadowlake resident Clive Buckner, 79, had laid. Although he successfully cleared both the ramp and Mr. Buckner, the 74 year-old Anderson lost control of the scooter upon landing, flipping over the handlebars.

“We’re just happy he’s still alive” said Anderson’s son Richard Anderson. “I don’t know what he was thinking, but we’re very disappointed.” Mr. Anderson (Jr.) expressed concern that the event was rumored to have been filmed by other residents at the home. “Surely someone should have stood up and seen this was a bad idea” he said. Police report that when they arrived at the scene, a large crowd of nursing home residents scattered back inside.

One nursing home resident believes the men probably got the idea from Buckner’s visiting grandson, who often described to them stunts from “Jackass”, the 2002 MTV film depicting outlandish, often crude stunts.

A spokesman for Lark Industries, makers of the Rascal Sport model used by Mr. Anderson, said that although their manuals clearly illustrate the safe use of their scooters, such accidents have become an increasingly common trend. “Right after Jackass, we were getting 4 or 5 calls a month from customers curious if there was a way to speed up their scooters” said Norm Jabowski.

“Now the big thing is customization- air horns, extra batteries, custom rims” added Jabowski. “And from time to time you get one of these daredevils trying to relive their youth. Unfortunately when you have seniors pent-up with nothing to do all day, this can be the result.”

In one of the film’s scenes, cast members had themselves disguised as elderly men before taking to the streets and performing a number of dangerous stunts on similar scooters. “What Mr. Anderson failed to understand” said Jabowski, “is not only are those guys in a lot better shape than he is, they were also riding souped-up Cyclone Turbos.”

According to Jabowski, the Cyclones are known commonly in the industry as ‘the Cadillac’ of personal mobility scooters.

Ordinarily, the top speed of most scooters is 4-8 mph. Preliminary results from the investigation indicate that Mr. Anderson’s scooter had to have been traveling at more than 20 mph to have cleared the jump as he did. Jabowski says that although frowned upon by more reputable dealers, a few shops are willing to radically alter a scooter’s drive train to achieve speeds higher than 30 mph.

Dear Wal-Mart Trampler

2008-12-01T00:08:00.003-05:00

I've never understood the psyche of the mad-rush shopper. Never could fathom why anyone would be so frantic for a store to take their money that they'd wake even before the guy who makes the donuts to stand in a windblown parking lot waiting for the doors to open. But to each his own. Me, I wouldn't do it even if they were giving the stuff away for free. Want to know why? Because I'd have to stand next to hundreds of people like you.

What does the name Jdimytai Damour mean to you? You didn't know him long. Just maybe a second or two as he passed beneath your feet, I'd understand if you didn't catch the name tag on his smock. He was the poor schmuck you and a trainload of coffee-fueled bargain hunters with nothing better to do than stand in line for hours at fucking Wal-Mart smashed beneath your eager, prancing feet. As you helped shove the crowd further into the depths of cheap flat screens and half-priced Larry the Cable Guy DVDs, did you consider what that figure curled into the fetal position beneath your Adidas might be thinking? My hope is he was planning to haunt you throughout his afterlife.

I don't blame the store. I don't blame the economy. I don't blame human nature. I blame you, and hope that some of my voodoo finds you as you fondle your bargains, safe back at home untrampled.

May every other driver out there cut you off, may you get lousy parking spaces. When you do find a good space may your car be the target of every bird within a 5 mile radius, and may it be berry season. May everything be one size too small, and may you not find any of the receipts. May you be the one to step in the gum, and may your cell phone's battery die just when you need it most. May you find yourself lost and alone in Newark after dark, and may no one offer to give you directions. May they stop making your favorite brand of cereal and may you suffer a lifetime of severe dandruff, acne, and halitosis. May you get passed over for promotion time after time, and may you lose your hair. May you never shed that last 10 pounds, and may all your classmates at the reunion notice your decline. May the last ticket be sold to the person just in front of you, and may your umbrella always do the thing where it flips backward and breaks in the wind. May you forget where your keys are daily, and may you never find Waldo. May your steak be tough and may your beer be warm. May you be the reason for so many warnings on fireworks and may that ringing in your ears never completely go away. May a disorder be named after you, and may a cure be found shortly after you succumb to it. May you never be let off with a warning and may your attempts at various hobbies fail miserably. May your parents leave all their estate to charity, and may your fifteen minutes of fame be during the local crime report.

May Santa stuff coal in your stocking. Preferably he'll set it ablaze as you doze this Christmas eve. Happy holidays.

Charlie Brown Finds Snoopy's Stack of Playbeagles

2008-11-24T13:12:00.003-05:00

In an embarrassing turn of events for local beagle and beloved cartoon character Snoopy, a hidden stash of Playbeagle magazines was discovered while cleaning out the pooch's doghouse for renovations.

Charlie Brown, his owner of many years, found the soft-core dog based magazines Thursday behind a set of the dog's golf clubs. The entire Brown family was present when the illicit discovery was made. “Snoopy must have forgotten this was the day we were fixing his house. Boy was his face red.”

Playbeagle's cover hails itself as “Premiere Entertainment for the discerning male dog”. Despite Snoopy's argument that he had forgotten about the collection, an issue as recent as September 2008 topped the stack, featuring Paris Hilton's chihuahua in a revealing pose. “It was disgusting” Brown said of the cover, which depicted the immaculately groomed puppy licking her own privates.

Snoopy defended his love of the publication for its articles and interviews. The September issue featured Brian from Family Guy mixing his favorite cocktails and a photo expose of “Hollywood's Best Bitchez!”.

“Yeah, real deep stuff” Brown said. “Explaining them to Sally was a bit awkward” he added, referring to his younger sister. “She kept asking why the little doggies were all sticking their bums up.”

I Want to Swear Like Colonel Potter

2008-11-18T09:06:00.002-05:00

For a long time now I've harbored a secret desire. One that I thought made me “different” or “mildly eccentric”. But I've come to the realization that we all chart different courses through this great maelstrom that is life, and have decided to suppress my natural desires no more. I want to swear like Colonel Potter.

Yes, that beloved fogey of the small, olive drab screen as played by our esteemed friend Harry Morgan. How I long for that man's mastery of the colorful simile, his conjuring of metaphors so beloved and folksy you can't help but smile at their hearing. Even if they are cleverly telling you where you can place your head, in opposition to all accepted anatomical teachings.

If you tell me a falsehood, I will argue your story “has more holes in it than mother’s truss”. And I will abandon the profane sailor's tongue I've grown over the years, adopting instead a scolding yet familial Potterific. Instead of lazily resorting to one of the four-letter standards, I will concoct such beloved gems as “Great St. Stephens!” and “Good gravy on the Mountaintop!” Or even “Heavenly horse manure!”, if the situation warrants such verbal excess.

And just imagine the ability to coin colorful new expressions implying fecal matter at the drop of a hat. You will no longer be full of crap, but rather of pelican pellets. Or nightingale nuggets. Or crocodile cookies. Or mouse muffins. How endearing to turn a crude expression into one that not only amuses but makes you vaguely hungry as well.

And this new world won't be limited to swearing, but could expand to the everyday mundane. From this day forth I shall never again call anyone on the phone, but instead “raise 'em on the horn”. Bathroom stops will be now known as “trips to the old governor's office” or “going on a bombing run”. No becomes “Negatori”, and yes translates to “You're darn tootin, greenhorn”! Great Neptune's Trident, there are more possibilities than fleas in a yard-full of aging bloodhounds!

At first my friends may be put off by my new Potterian persona. The first time someone asks if you're “one mule shy of a wagontrain” can throw you for a loop. But in the long run, I think they'll come around to my brand of word craft. I ask you, who can resist the adorable allure of a good barnyard aphorism? Or an ingenious turnip-based insult? No one with sense enough to appreciate the finer things in life I tell you.

So the next time you see me, be sure to ask about the weather. I'll be glad to tell you what type of animal will be raining from the sky, or how your toes will be reacting to the bite of the cold, or what the heat will be doing to your crotch. Chances are my reply will have more shine on it than a brand new penny.

Operator Less Than Thrilled

2008-11-13T22:43:00.002-05:00

WICHITA- American Express call center operator Sally Jamison was less than thrilled today to help resolve a billing issue for a cardholder returning from a three week vacation in the south of France. Coworkers report Ms. Jamison aged 20, expressed a sub-stellar attitude when verbally abused by a valued customer who discovered an erroneous extra charge on his statement. For some reason Ms. Jamison, was heard to sigh audibly when confirming that the duplicate $5.00 foreign transaction fee on Mr. Lambright’s American Express Black statement occurred on the 13th as a result of his purchase of six iPhones for each of his family members prior to their hot air balloon tour of the southern Alps.

Jamison went on to defend her English speaking skills to the client, choosing not to reveal she had run out of sick days for the year, and had to work in spite of being unable to hear from her left ear or speak for thirty seconds without a need to violently discharge phlegm. Ms. Jamison refrained from boring the patient cardholder with the fact that her illness was most likely the result of waiting for the bus in the rain, as the engine in her 1984 Corolla had recently spun a bearing. After erasing the fee and apologizing, Ms. Jamison was scarcely able to muster any excitement in reminding Mr. Lambright that he had accrued enough points for his choice of a 5-day Caribbean cruise or a jet ski.

Shortly after being hung up on, Ms. Jamison found little solace in the discovery that her Hot Pocket had been stolen from the break room freezer again.

Comedians and Repo-men Nationwide Mourn the Passing of Sarah Palin's Relevance

2008-11-05T10:13:00.003-05:00

Amid the celebrations and cries of relief resounding across America Tuesday night, the mood of two of its hardest working groups was more somber. Comedians and Repo-men have crossed the blue/white collar divide to band together, giving each other solace as they lament the rejection of the McCain/Palin ticket.

Comedians from John Stewart down to lowly, wannabe comedy bloggers are coming to grips with the fact that the next four years will be distinctly harder to poke fun at. “She was a gold mine, I had plans to put in a pool” says Archie White, a writer for Comedy Central. “We were gonna give it a Palin theme, with an Elitists Only end and a Real Americans Only end. So many opportunities lost forever. We had reams of material ready, enough to last us past Christmas at least.”

The loss of such guaranteed job security was echoed by Rodney Page, owner/proprietor of Page Auto Recovery in San Bernardino. “You might say I'm one of them, 'by-your-own-bootstraps' kind of fellas. People should be left to barely survive or utterly fail on their own. It's a system that's been workin' for me” said a smiling Page, gesturing to his new SuperDuty tow truck with dual DVD players and custom rims.

Page said he is considering expanding into home foreclosures or dog-catching to supplement his income should economic conditions improve too much. “People will always have it tough, least I hope so.”

McCain Calls for Return of Hand-Carried Litters for Wealthy

2008-11-04T10:53:00.003-05:00

Citing the need for reducing America's dependence on foreign oil and its mounting unemployment figures, presidential hopeful John McCain called for the return of hand-carried litters for the wealthy.

Once the primary means of urban transportation for the landed gentry, the hand litter grew out of fashion with such advancements as human dignity and Lincoln Town Cars.

Governor Palin has been traveling by litter for the past two months and says she loves it. "They've (Palin's bearers) got a hunger for success like the rest of us, why rob them of that opportunity? And you know, it's so much fun to just look out and see their little legs pumping. It reminds me of the dog sleds Todd and I get such a kick out of.”

Asked if he thought the carts demeaning to the carriers McCain fumed "Of course not! I love the four little Chinamen that carry my bulletproof cart! And there's no emissions, well usually not” he laughed, slapping one of the exhausted litter bearers on the back before stopping off for a final rally speech.

“Friends, through hard work our wealthier citizens have earned the ability to travel in style. If there are able-bodied folks out there willing to put in a little good old-fashioned elbow grease to get them from the airport to the Playboy club, what's the problem?”

The Great Payback

2008-10-29T10:06:00.005-04:00

Georgia to Dunk Voter's Heads in Ink

2008-10-20T16:29:00.003-04:00

In a number of states this election year, new security measures are being put in place to prevent voter fraud. Photo identification is now being required where it wasn't before, and a strict prohibition is being placed on voters with misspellings on their registration.

While these measures further ensure a voter is who they say they are, some are pushing for even stronger measures to prevent multiple votes from occurring.

A group in Georgia has suggested precincts utilize the same purple ink used in Iraqi elections to designate voters have already cast a ballot, yet they are quick to point out the method used there is far from infallible.

“All someone needs to do is bandage or even heaven forbid, chop off the colored finger and they're free to vote two, three, who knows how many times?!” said Jim McCreevy of the Georgia Board of Elections. McCreevy urges support for HR 22349 which proposes dunking voter's heads in a vat of indelible ink for 30 seconds after they've cast their ballot.

The ink takes up to two weeks to wear away and cannot be washed off with any but the strongest of industrial solvents. Voters are urged to wear old clothing or remove their shirt prior to their dunking.

Critics of the measure denounce it as just another attempt to alienate voters and keep turnout low, questioning how many cases of voter fraud even occur today. But the bill's sponsors including state representative Bob Abbott (pictured) say the tactic is a foolproof if somewhat messy approach.

“One man one vote, and that's it! Let's see them try to pull any of that Chicago-style 'voting' down here in Floyd County!” said Abbott after demonstrating the new Vote-And-Dunk method at a local precinct. “Sweet Jesus, does anyone have a towel?”

Joe the Plumber and Joe Six-pack to Star in Reality Show

2008-10-16T10:14:00.004-04:00

HOLLYWOOD- Executives at Fox Studios announced they have signed on for a new reality-based comedy starring Joe Six-pack and Joe the Plumber.

Americans were introduced recently to Joe Wurzelbacher at the third presidential debate on Wednesday. The plight of the affluent plumber became an Internet sensation after John McCain made repeated references to the aspiring Ohio businessman. Fox executives hungry for a hit and hoping to ride election year interest, have placed their bets on pairing him with an average, lazy alcoholic.

In a twist on Neil Simon's Odd Couple, the roles of the two protagonists have been reversed. Joe the Plumber has left his blue collar roots behind for the world of small business ownership. His hard-driving work ethic is sure to clash with his new roommate Joe Six-pack, a white-collar clerical worker by day and slovenly, suds-guzzling slacker by night. It's a dynamic the producers of the show say will keep audiences rocking with laughter and amazement.

The pilot starts with a hilarious segment in which the nouveau riche repairman tries discussing the laissez-faire market approach and a flat tax proposal with his couch dwelling compatriot. He doesn't get far though, as his six-pack buddy is immersed in Miller High Life and the final laps of the Daytona 500. The hijinks continue when a besotted Joe Six-pack wakes Joe the Plumber at two in the morning while racing their riding lawnmower through the back yard flowerbed.

Fox plans to release eight episodes starting in November, with more to come if the show is well received. Check local listings.

Proper Effigy Etiquette

2008-10-13T20:58:00.004-04:00

Just a few weeks from now election day will be upon us, and soon afterward slightly less than half the nation will be in mourning while the other half joyously exchanges high fives and goofy grins. If you backed the winning horse your path of celebration is simple- fireworks. Light fuse and stay back, plead the wrappers in vain. But what if you're on the losing team? Do you just sulk in your rec room watching reruns of Magnum PI, thinking your absence from the festivities makes its own statement? Of course not, you need an anti-celebration! Something that says “Yeah I gotta live with it, but I don't gotta be happy about it.” And I've got just the ticket for you.

So what's a fun and fairly benign way to vent frustration at your government or someone else's? How do you show a sniveling CEO you've got their number? I'm talking about the red hot phenomenon that's sweeping the globe- the ancient and noble art of effigy burning!

The first step of course is to get your effigy. Depending on your locale this can be as easy as placing an order with your local effigysmith. In some countries effigy-making is a cottage industry, employing a considerable hunk of the local citizenry. If you're not so fortunate to have such such skilled artisans at your disposal, or you just want to try your hand at handcrafting one yourself, you've come to the right place. Understand that there's a lot more to building an effigy than stapling a sheet to a 2x4 and slapping on some acrylic paint. For an effigy to be a solid performer you'll need sturdy construction and an artistic hand. But don't worry, it's easier than you think!

Your effigy should be free-standing. As cool as you might imagine it would be to wave a burning figure over your head, if there are any synthetic clothes on your figure, it's sure to drop flaming meteors onto anyone unfortunate enough to be under it. Nothing kills a gathering quite like molten polyester in your hair. Also, stuff your effigy with rags rather than newspapers. Newspapers burn too quickly and too messily- the soot can be a nightmare to clean up. For an extra kick of excitement, sprinkle the inner layers with a light dusting of gunpowder. Maybe some M-80's if you're feeling bold. The sudden flash of heat and excitement really gets everyone's attention.

Your next consideration is durability. How long do you want your effigy to burn? Will you and your friends have all afternoon to linger in protest, or do you expect security forces to quickly come down hard on you and your discontented friends? As a rule denim burns longer than linen though not as brilliantly, so dress your dummy accordingly. Your local thrift shop is a gold mine of cheap costume possibilities. If the source of your ire is a Wall Streeter, you can pick up a thread-worn pinstripe from the Salvation Army for a song. For once size doesn't matter! Beat the Halloween rush and get your clothing now.

The most important consideration is your villain's face. You want everyone to recognize the inspiration for your tirade, so make it as lifelike as possible. You'll be tempted to turn it into a caricature but make sure it still bears a strong resemblance, otherwise you'll be reduced to including a named placard and nothing screams out 'amateur' more. Always remember there's nothing wrong with just photoshopping some simple horns onto a photograph of their face. I also like to treat the face with a few sprays of flame retardant, so it's last to go.

So you've got yourself an effigy and you're ready to party. Wait a minute, stow that Zippo! First things first. Let's talk safety. You're going to be burning stuff today, possibly stomping on it for effect. I can't tell you how many times I've seen a well-planned day of effigy burning end in tears because someone got caught up in the fun and carelessly got too close to the action. The photos you see of a burning figure being kicked and swatted at? The smart ones left their robes at home that day and opted for the Levis. Be one of the smart ones. The irony that Levis hail from San Francisco never stopped a Pakistani from protecting his leg hairs from an engulfed Uncle Sam, and it shouldn't stop you. There's no reason not to suit up!

Another important safety consideration too often overlooked is toxic fumes. While an engulfed cotton sweater isn't likely to rob your lungs of too many years of productivity, the carcinogens in that rubber George Bush mask are. Plus with today's wide array of accelerants, you never know what cornucopia of vile molecules you're going to encounter. Our advice is to use a mask. Fortunately you may already be considering one to hide your identity. If so congratulations, you're a step ahead and thinking healthily. Proper breathing protection is well known in more experienced effigy circles. Do you think those scores of Hamas marchers just happen to wear scarves over their mouths by accident? If they simply wanted to hide their identities they could have just worn pantyhose over their heads.*

As with anything there are some courtesy tips we feel it necessary to pass along. If yours is the only effigy at the protest, then you are free to burn it whenever you wish. If however someone else has already torched one, it is considered poor form to ignite yours until theirs has either extinguished or is no longer entertaining the crowd. Don't steal someone else's thunder, they worked just as hard as you did. And don't forget to wait for the media to arrive, so as many people can see your handsome creation go up in just, delicious flames. You did remember to call the newspaper beforehand, right?

Once you burn your first effigy, I think you'll agree there's just no going back to a cardboard sign with a swastika over your nemesis' photo.

* Also preventing this is a long-standing edict by cleric Mohammed al Great-gams declaring such disgraceful use of a female undergarment strictly verboten. Also declared forbidden in the edict- the proper use of female undergarments.

A Monkey Could Do Your Job!

2008-10-07T15:37:00.005-04:00

As if the specters of unemployment and outsourcing weren't enough of a concern already, now the animal kingdom itself is moving in on the service sector. Forget the vilified Mexican job seeker, everywhere you turn these days some “forward-thinking” businessman is abandoning the human workforce altogether for the cute and novel field of animal labor.

I'm not talking about your traditional concept of the beast of burden, conjuring up images of a mule pulling something through a muddy field or a pen of ravenous pigs devouring the remains of your latest victim. In the ever-expanding quest for new ways to separate fools from their greenbacks, the next big thing is definitely the animal gimmick.

From the moment man discovered that dressing a monkey better than himself and chaining it to a music box could buy his lunch, the animal gimmick has been a mainstay in the entertainment sector. Now the furry (and scaly and slippery) things are eying the hospitality and spa arenas.

It's times like this I wish we hadn't tried to pull the wool over our reader's eyes so many times because this one is true, unless BBC footage is being forged with alarming skill. It seems a restaurant in Japan is employing macaque monkeys to wait paw and tail on their esteemed clientèle, serving up hot towels and cold beers with more skill and finesse than Alex the Dog ever dreamed of. Not only can they fetch a Stroh's, they've mastered the art of the implied tip, gregariously sticking around until the fawning patron ponies up a soybean. But unlike most bartenders don't expect them to listen to your woes. You'll get little pity from a monkey whose highlight each day is a banana dinner and whose sole perk is getting to pinch girl's asses with no recourse other than some embarrassed laughter. Actually it's probably a decent life.

Needless to say, the unions are pissed. Not only do they work for beans, but few of these creatures can read the Fair Employment posters in the break room. Workers of the world, beware. What's next, monkey massage parlors? Those hoping for a happy ending should make sure their 'hostesses' have trimmed claws. Some will say monkeys have nails rather than claws, but this is a distinction I am not willing to make. If you're splitting that hair, chances are you're probably already wondering if they have it in Tijuana.

Once again truth proves stranger than fiction, as a spa in Israel is charging more than you would think they could to have coils of snakes slither over the skin of the tourists. The proprietor hawks it as relaxing, soothing and sensual. I guess it could be sensual in the is-that-a-snake-about-to-slide-down-my-pants kind of sensual, but it seems just shy of coaxing your puppy to lick off the peanut butter.

Or maybe snakes aren't your bag and you'd prefer a pedicure by nibbling fish. You're in luck naturally, this being the wacky world that it is. This Turkish export employs schools of tiny swimmers to strip the dead skin from the tootsies, to the tickled amusement of the tootsies' owners. No doubt Doctor Evil is toying with the idea of replacing them with baby piranhas, just for kicks.

I say we keep the animals in the forests, the oceans and steaming on our dinner plates where they belong. We folks have enough worries without swelling the workforce ten-fold overnight. Particularly when their only costs are a bag of nuts and an occasional de-worming. Who can compete with that? Consider this fair warning to those who've been told a monkey could do their job. Maybe they can.

Let's Do This Here Debate, Whatcha say?

2008-10-02T14:20:00.003-04:00

Football is back, there's a cool nip in the air, and just a few short hours from now millions of expectant viewers will tune in hoping to see a train wreck. That must mean it's time for another drinking-based VP debate viewing.

Now I imagine Joe Biden's a good enough guy. But isn't it amazing that a man known for the occasional gaff isn't the one everyone is salivating to hear? For that reason, our buzz words will be Palincentric (sounds like a prehistoric epoch). We at the Bunker make no claim to be either fair or balanced. We just go for the easy, stiletto-clad laugh. And the escapades of Sarah of the Great White North have provided enough low-hanging fruit to feed every man, woman, and child in her state for a week. You have to admit that she brings much of the scorn on herself with all the “my town is smaller than your town” sanctimony and “cavemen raced dinosaurs” controversies. You know what they say about people in glass igloos, Sarah.

Anyhow the potential drinking words are obvious, and I'm sure are being echoed across the blogosphere by countless compatriots as we speak: moose, lipstick, helluva, hockey, small-town values, Washington elite, evildoers, ya know. Or feel free to compose your own list, ours is just an advisory service. But these jokes are already so overused I'm almost too embarrassed to print them. Such is the double-edged sword of such easily reached fruit. So in the interests of sport, I say we up the ante to include any of Marge's quotes from Fargo (script), even if it's something as simple as "oh yah?". Any of these command you to take no fewer than three drinks. And if by some miraculous crossing of the planets she somehow says "That must be your friend in the wood chipper", every drop in the house must be drained.

I can feel Admiral Stockdale turning in his grave.

Ze King of Biers

2008-09-30T01:47:00.004-04:00

In case no one else noticed, Budweiser started hawking a new brand of their flavored water ironically named “American Ale”. Ironic in that American Ale hits the shelves just weeks after the ink has dried on the contract to sell the Belgians everything from the Bud girls' swimsuits to the Clydesdale's pooper scoopers. This is bigger than the Japs snatching up Rockefeller Center the last time things got rocky here. Who really cares about Rockefeller Center anyhow? Other than Manhattanites, no one sees it more than five minutes each year when the Christmas tree is fired up, and in the 30 Rock intro if they're paying attention. Forget Gatorade, this is the official drink of football we're talking about here.

About the same time the patriotic-sounding brew hit shelves, the King of Biers also found the need to start calling itself the Great American Lager. Still pitching to that nationalistic crowd. Will rednecks still drink it, or will the Great American Lager find itself pigeonholed as a Blue State libation, as fit for ridicule as a carafe of Bordeaux? Keep it cheap and I wager the marketers will slide this one right on by. If GM is ever bought out by Toyota, you can be sure they'll just play Seger's Like a Rock even louder and never let on what happened.

Not long ago we were filling our britches when a bunch of rich guys from Dubai (a redundant way of saying a bunch of guys from Dubai) wanted the contract to guard our ports. Now we'll be lucky if they don't end up owning the ports. Yes, the Great American Fire Sale is here. The banks will just be first to go. The foreign firms will move in to scoop up what bargains remain after the dust settles. I say first to go, but that's just in this wave. This is a trend that's been building a while now.

The House Republicans didn't want to throw the banks a line because in five weeks they're up for reelection and figured they'd better start tightening the purse strings like they used to in the old days. Fair enough, the deal stunk either way. And I'm still not sure which would be worse, swelling the debt another barely fathomable number, or the fire-and-brimstone/cats-and-dogs-sleeping-together mass hysteria scenario painted by its cheerleaders. But our failure to buy up those soured bank notes does reveal one thing- that we were unwilling to invest in ourselves. We didn't trust Americans to pony up on our own debt. And who could blame us?

There's nothing we like more than borderline-xenophobic rhetoric, something that looks good on a bumper between our other angry stickers. Give us someone to blame, and that overtime to pay for what used to not to need overtime to pay for is just a little easier. But now the blame game has gotten confusing. If I buy American does it help if the company is actually a subsidiary of an offshore holdings corporation with majority of shareholders based in... ah hell, blame me I can take it. None of this can fit on a bumper sticker and people are starting to wonder (too late) if maybe they should have been paying closer attention all along.

We are a nation of tough talk. But aside from our apparent willingness to send our boys and girls off to fight in every corner of the globe, our walk is somewhat lacking of late. Amid all the clamor for having to put our collective shoulders to some imaginary grindstone, along with the politically required praise for the American worker, no one will ever have the guts to say what all that really entails. An earthquake could swallow California whole the same week the Russians decided to drill in ANWR themselves and the first thing to be dismissed out of hand would be a tax hike. Such a silly notion, ever raising a tax. Better to live free and just borrow more money. That's the American way.

A wise man once wrote about the Death of the American Dream. I couldn't find the quote I was searching for, so I'll whip up my own about it instead: No one wants to call the time of death because they won't really know it's happened until they smell the rotting corpse and figure out where the flies were coming from. Authors and historians have been predicting the demise for so long now it seems inevitable, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Late night political discussions seldom end without mention of Rome. And you can't help but wonder if (or more likely when) it happens, what it will look like afterwards. No one can say, but that sound you've been hearing all month was another of its coffin's nails. Don't fret that we might lose our empire, of course we will eventually. But it doesn't have to be as bad as you think, England seems happy enough these days. Of course they drink like a nation of walking fish. My advice is to invest heavily in breweries. Though it looks like someone already thought of that.

The piper is calling, can you hear him? Try to ignore him if you can. Try to cling to guns and Bibles or universal healthcare and gay rights. Either way he's going to collect, and he doesn't care who you blame so long as you keep working until the day you die.

Sorry this one took such a hairpin for the dark side, but life can't always be shits and giggles. My deepest apologies to anyone tricked into thinking we'd actually be talking about beer tonight. Also apologies to The Onion for swiping their Capitol image. It was late and I swear it won't happen again.

David Blaine to be Horsewhipped 500 Times

2008-09-23T15:29:00.003-04:00

NEW YORK- Legendary illusionist David Blaine announced today that he is training for his most grueling and controversial endurance ordeal yet- to be publicly horsewhipped 500 times while riding a unicycle.

Blaine says he has been training himself for months, working on his balance as well as developing a resistance to the excruciating pain sure to come from having one's back flayed open like a gutted trout.

“It's been a dream of mine since I was a boy,” Blaine said in a press statement. “To see if I could do it. It is proving to be my most ambitious challenge yet.”

The magician says he has so far been unable to get accustomed to the swift blows of the birch switch used to whip his back raw. He seldom makes it more than fifty blows before weeping for his trainer to stop. “It takes some getting used to, hopefully I can scar up in time. My physicians tell me the nerve endings may just die before then so that would be helpful.”

Besides toughening up his skin, Mr. Blaine must also master the art of unicycling which he admitted as being “just a gimmick, really”.

Always pushing the envelope, the magician says he may be ready for an even more daring stunt soon after. “It's still in the planning stages, but I'm seriously considering being shot through the heart and undergoing an emergency transplant." All televised live of course. "I have faith in my team of surgeons, and we are basically waiting for the right donor to become available. There's a waiting list for viable hearts, and I wouldn't want to jump the line.”

Mr. Blaine hopes to bring attention to the need for more organ donors, particularly those being blood type A-negative.

Peter Robbed

2008-09-17T08:49:00.003-04:00

GALILEE- Local fisherman and known Christ associate Peter was shocked to find his apartment had been burglarized over the weekend.

“I’d just returned from a weekend trip down the River Jordan with some pals. Some fishing, some wine, you know, good times” said Peter. “Anyway I get back and see my door off its hinges. And I’m like, ‘Jesus, what's this?!’”

“Jesus was with me when I found the place and he really tried to calm me down” Peter admits. “But it’s easy for him to say ‘turn the other cheek’. Things just seem to always go right for that guy, and some of us have to work for a living.”

Reported losses included a jar of figs, robes, assorted fishing nets and tackle, and a several pieces of silver that had been hidden in a hollowed-out piece of fake bread on a shelf. The thieves also carved crude remarks about Peter's mother into the walls with a hammer and chisel.

“Those villains will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven if I have anything to say about it” lamented the anguished Peter.

In a bid of sympathy for his longtime friend, fellow disciple Paul has offered to help Peter get back on his feet, having reportedly come into some money recently.

A Bigger Bang

2008-09-10T10:34:00.004-04:00

Today marks the day when some marvelously expensive underground experiment beneath the French/Swiss border first fires up. The switch on the fabled and costly Large Hadron Collider was finally flipped. I’m hoping it’s one of those big red buttons with the plastic safety cover over it, like in the movies. One that requires two keys and lots of “Preparing to initiate beam, sir.” “Initiate!”

What’s strange is that no one really knows what is going to happen when it does whatever it is supposed to do. Surely lots of tiny stuff will collide with lots of other tiny stuff at fantastic speeds. After that it’s difficult to explain without lots of charts and chalkboards and a healthy helping of layman-izing to get the paying taxpayers onboard. I had some strange dreams about rocket-powered turtles last night and woke with an unexplained headache and a leg that was asleep, maybe these can be blamed on the LHC’s side effects from halfway around the world.

Will this thing find a way to run all of Europe for a week off a teaspoon of dark matter? Will a snapshot of skidding protons eerily resemble the face of Jesus? The more likely outcome will be a few years from now when the physics community has wrung out as many dollars as it could from the holders of the purse strings, and after whatever newly discovered weird subatomic thingies have been cleverly named after their discoverers, an alternative use will be clamored for.

So what do you do with a 17 mile underground tube? The most obvious answer is some sort of futuristic racetrack. One problem with this is where do you put the spectators. A more interesting idea is to put them in the tube themselves, make them part of the action. You thought watching ultimate fighting got your adrenaline pumping? Try dodging superbikes doing two hundred past you inside a deafening 12 foot concrete tunnel. Just stick to the inside and don’t move too suddenly and you should be OK.

Some worrywarts have said that when the thing spins up to a full head of steam and hosts its first subatomic fender bender, there is a slight chance a black hole will be generated, swallowing the Earth, her moon and any itinerant comets unlucky enough to be passing by into oblivion. Though the scale of this event may have grown in the retelling, like the massive catfish General Sherman that Homer nearly landed, it’s at least a possibility. Once again the chance is slight, there’s no need to strip nude and don a placard announcing the proximity of the end just yet. Plus Hawking is rumored to have a cash bet against it, so I’m not sweating. Talk about a win-win for the Doctor, his bookie will be interstellar ashes if the time ever comes to collect. But if you think that this is indeed the end, cash out now and have a good time with my blessing. I hear old man Potter is paying fifty cents on the dollar across town.

Or maybe this has happened before. Maybe the last Big Bang was the result of a previous collider experiment gone slightly wrong. Or quite successfully depending on your viewpoint. Somewhere along the line a designer forgets to carry the one, or a couple fairly important wires get crossed. Before you know it God is looking down from his watch shop, shaking his head as the whole show starts up again. Who does he swear to I wonder?

It was revealed someone stashed a couple of beer bottles inside the guts of the great thing, perhaps in a futile effort to ward off planetary disaster. The brand’s motto claims it will "refresh the parts other beers cannot reach". I swear it’s true. Ironically there is an actual phenomenon in physics known as Beer’s Law which describes the absorption of light in a given medium. For example shining your maglight into a fishtank will have a measurably different effect than doing so into a fishtank full of raspberry Jello. There will be a measurably different effect on the efficiency of your guppies’ gills as well, but that lies in an entirely different field of science to be discussed another day.

Let's raise a glass to science and hope she's kind to us this time.

A Costume that Really Tied the Room Together

2008-09-06T02:08:00.007-04:00

We at the Bunker wish to apologize for having succumb to the lure of politically motivated posts these past days, a genre we swore at our founding we would not slip into. But tis the season, and I venture even Old Saint Nick might face a roasting in his high season. Our aim here is not a standard, sober analysis of the news, we've heard there are a few places already offering this. This publication is more aimed for the audience looking to creatively kill a few minutes with their laptop on the crapper. That would naturally be the reader on the crapper, not the laptop. The concept would be simpler to convey with the aid of a graphic, alas our meager budget still prohibits a full-time illustrator. We also regret that the Bunker is not available in print form, to serve the role of surrogate in the event your bathroom roll runs out. If you're in such a position right now, we can only assume you are now considering an awkward duck-walk to the kitchen, sans pants, in search of some napkins. We'll wait.

Anyway, to make it up to our more conservative-minded readers or those weary of the past two weeks of national over-seriousness, here is an adventure. A tale, taller than most in these parts. It is a tale of clandestine construction, of drinking, of bowling, of mischief. In any event I hope you enjoy it.

I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with the LebowskiFest phenomenon. That celebration of all that is Jeffrey Lebowski, better known to Achievers the world over as The Dude. If you're not so versed no fear, it is my job to kick you up to speed. It is, in a breath, a bunch of free-wheeling folks getting together to dress in costume, furiously quaff White Russians, bowl poorly, and watch the Greatest Movie Ever. My breaths are long. As each year's gathering grows in size and manic devotion, the costumes mimic the progression, with attendees struggling valiantly to don not just the most artfully done garb, but the most impressively obscure.

At first such obscurity came easily, to be bestowed on the first person with the wherewithal to dress as a red spandex-wrapped nihilist wielding a giant pair of scissors (from the 10-second nightmare montage of the Dude's). Now you can probably find such ilk on a string of Christmas lights at Spenser's novelties. After a few seasons kudos might have been granted to a Liam-clad guest (Jesus' bowling partner). But as the cruel whims of ironic fashion dictate, the landscape was soon to be littered with discarded Liam bowling shirts, with the extra-extra-extra-larges turning up at the garage sales of hipsters from Knoxville to Albuquerque. As with other avenues of irony, the path to obscure (and thus cool) supremacy demands navigating an ever-narrowing array of fashion choices. Fortunately this is a film with oodles of supporting and minor (let me stress that word) characters.

After a night of soul-searching and head-slapping I arrived at the ultimate costume idea. One that had probably* never been done before, the Holy Grail of Dudeian cosplay. The hedge of probably was required, there being no known officiating organization to be in a position to confirm or, uh, disconfirm my suspicion. The fact that there were obvious logistical reasons it had probably never been done before was one I tossed aside, kicked at, and spat upon. I would present myself as one Arthur Digby Sellers, retired writer of 156 episodes of Branded (the bulk of the series). As fans will recall, Mr. Sellers had no lines in the film, he didn't even move. These are common side-effects of being in an iron lung.

Construction of the lung began in earnest. As the thing would need to be mobile, iron was soon ruled out as the primary building material. Cardboard painted silver might do, but it would have looked a bit too junior-high science project for my liking. After some searching I found a stack of 50 gallon plastic drums behind a food packaging warehouse out by the railroad. They still smelled strongly of their previous contents. I would have spent some time looking for ones that had shipped something like honey or licorice, but as I was poking through them, an angry bald man started shouting from a loading dock. There was a clear impression my presence was not welcome. Ten seconds later, my pickup, two white barrels, and yours truly were bouncing over the tracks bound for the workshop. I ended up with one still smeared with vegetable oil and another crusted in something resembling cream of mushroom soup. A hot afternoon of scrubbing with Mr Clean rid them of the visual remains, but the smell of each never really faded.

Before gluing the barrels together I fired up the Skil saw and whacked the ends off, creating something resembling the world's biggest Pringles tube. I cut a hole on the right side for my bowling arm, though I wasn't certain how that bit of acrobatics would play out. The base of the creation came from an old Piggly Wiggly shopping cart I had tired of seeing in a shallow canal near my house each day. On a Saturday I managed, with a few strategic swings of a homemade grappling hook, to raise it from its watery grave. Afterward it was awkwardly ridden home. The belly of my shirt was stained beyond use from the sludge on the handle. Fortunately the thing had landed upside down when the kids abandoned it, sparing the wheels the full brunt of rust they would have endured after years spent fossilizing in the muck. A few blasts of WD40 brought them back to life. The cart was removed from the frame and wheels with the aid of a sawzall, then I bolted the barrel fuselage to the wheeled base. As my head would need to stick out, I added a small platform of plywood, which I covered with an inch of foam rubber. The inside of the barrels was also given a generous helping of cushion. I then coated the whole shebang in spray primer, followed by a lustrous silver. It looked like the tin man's tomb. Then I glued on some various tubes, buttons and medically necessary looking stuff.

To complete the project, the ends were fitted with removable rubber diaphragms, the bottom one with two holes (for the feet) and the top with one (head). It would be impossible to get into on my own, a second pair of hands would be needed to encase me in my tomb.
When the day of the festival rolled around, I tied the beautiful contraption down in the bed of the pickup and picked up my friend, bound for the lanes and history. We secretly unloaded in the back of the parking lot for maximum effect. In a few minutes I was strapped in. More cushioning would have been worth the effort. When I was wheeled into the festivities, you'd think MacArthur had just returned.

The hearty applause, marriage proposals and general wave of approval that followed made the late nights of drunken effort more than worth it. Half the attendants ended up using my lung as a coaster. More than one cigarette was absentmindedly left to burn on the control panel-turned-ashtray, scarring and pitting the silvered plastic shell. This I didn't mind, as I had to rely on my fellow revelers for movement, bar purchases, and ball retrieval. A one gallon Stadium-pal strapped to my nether regions (Google if necessary) provided ample capacity for a full night's merrymaking. Enough wiggle room was engineered in so I would be able to turn my head to sip Caucasians from a twisty straw, as well as hold a bowling ball in my palm. As a full-fledged swing of said ball would have been impossible from within the constraints, the roller assembly used for young children and the hideously disabled was wheeled out. Basically my frames consisted of nudging the assembly imperceptibly to the left or right before rolling the 8 pounder down the tracks to the patiently waiting pins. It was a spectacle that drew roars of approving laughter from the crowd. And a fair score on my part- 158, a personal feat not bested since bowling at a kid's birthday party with the rails up.

Somewhere along the line, the wise idea that I should be a mode of transport was floated. This soon led to my being used to ferry girls around, like a parade float. This I did not mind one tiny bit. I wasn't crazy about the races out in the parking lot soon to follow, but as the whole thing had been my idea I can hardly complain. After a few laps around the light poles, one of the participants slipped and hurled me headlong into a parked Miata, tearing off a mirror. The sight of the dangling wires and busted glass caused the cheering crowd to disappear like a street ball team after a window had been shattered, leaving me to drunkenly plea to the heavens to “get me outta this thing!”. After a few minutes passed and no Miata owner came forward to air a grievance, some participants trickled out to help me back inside. They were all apologetic for so cowardly hanging me out to dry, and needless to say my money was no good the rest of the evening.

By then I was done with the contraption, as an inexplicable claustrophobia was beginning to set in. Plus I think the Stadium-pal may have gotten torn in the antics outside and things were threatening to get messy soon. I was helped out by more hands than were probably necessary, with everyone as eager to participate in my photographed extraction as the Marines raising the flag over Suribachi. More than once I was asked why I smelled like soup.

The prize for best costume was a plaque, along with a bowling ball with the face of the Dude beaming. The plaque hangs proudly in the den, where it generates more pride than any diploma ever could. The ball is packed away somewhere, I use it once in a while when I really want to impress the natives.

And what of the iron lung? We all agreed it was a shame, but no one had the room or desire to actually keep the thing. It was about to be abandoned behind the bowling alley dumpster when some genius had the idea of giving it an explosive funeral. Sometime before dawn it was taken down to the tracks by myself and a hardened core of soused pranksters. After the coast was checked, it was pushed, pulled and finagled onto the tracks just as the whistle of a northbound freight could be heard far off in the pre-dawn stillness. As we waited at the tree line trying not to piss ourselves with laughter, a cruiser was spotted coming toward us from the other side of the tracks. But the officer had other business that night and pulling a huey, leaving us to watch the fireworks. Mischievous overlarge children drooling with excitement, we watched in awe as the twin engine Conrail slammed into the lung at more than fifty, kicking it skyward into the woods like a steel toed boot on a can of Campbell's.

As far as I know, it's still there. Reeking of soup and spilled High Life. A large part of me hopes that it might be right now, providing basic shelter for an underachiever. The bums of the world may have lost, but damned if they don't know how to have a good time.

At least that's what I seem to recall. Though now that I think about it, the whole damned story might well have been nothing but a dream.

*Later investigation would prove this theory wrong

Harper Valley USA!

2008-09-04T23:37:00.003-04:00

NEWSFLASH! For those of you who might have felt uncomfortable with Sarah Palin's utter lack of experience in being a half term governor of the third least populous state and the martinet mayor of a town the size of a pair of high schools, take heart. It's been recently revealed by Cindy McCain that Mrs. Palin also possesses skills at basketball, fishing, hockey mom-ery, pistol-packing, and moose hunting. These vital skills are certain to aid her in dealing with just about any future Presidential crisis my mind can conceive of. If you've ever stared down a moose from the relative danger of a mere two hundred yards through a twenty power scope, or cheered your son as he makes that winning goal, you're more than ready to handle a Fed bailout, border incursion in the Caucuses, or terrorist attack. Doubters may now breathe easy.

Devil Reportedly Satisfied with McCain Deal

2008-09-02T10:55:00.004-04:00

ST PAUL- A beaming Satan told reporters over the weekend how happy he was with his recent deal with Arizona Senator and presumptive Republican Presidential nominee John McCain.

On Friday, the world learned of Senator McCain's pick for running mate, conservative Alaska governor Sarah Palin. The Prince of Darkness concedes he not only knew of the deal weeks earlier, but that he himself had a hand in its forging.

“I met John outside a cocktail party in Savanna, Georgia one evening” told the evil one. “I recall he was restless and anxious, but it was more than just the weight of the nomination. I've seen that look before. I asked him what was wrong and he lamented about his choice.”

For weeks speculation over McCain's choice in running mate had been the subject of intensifying public and private debate, with the Senator coming under pressure from a range of special interest groups as well as his own advisers.

Over the course of a few drinks overlooking the resplendent garden of an RNC supporter, the Devil knew he had not only captured John's rapt attention, but that his soul was not far behind.

“'My friend,' Johnnie asked me 'where can I go to find someone my base will approve of, someone with strong pro-life credibility, an undying love of guns?'”

“'Maybe even someone die-hard Hillary supporters can use as an excuse?' I added to his delighted agreement.” He told me he had searched 'the very wilds of this land' from each of her great coasts, and was prepared to do just about anything to find him.”

“'Or her' I teased, removing my favorite black pen from its black case in my black jacket pocket” he went on. “It's the same one I acquired Michael Phelps with.”

At first McCain balked at the offer, said Old Scratch. But few in the Senator's unenviable position could withstand the honey-dipped tongue of Mephistopheles in full blossom, while enjoying Johnny Walker Blue from a beautiful veranda pungent with the fragrances of orange, jasmine and just the slightest hint of sulfur. "The setting was perfect for the seduction of a soul", likely not an accident given the Dark One's penchant for details. Noting the weakness in McCain's eyes, the Great Tempter went in for the kill, hinting that Obama's first act would be to lower the national speed limit. Then he dug out the keys to his Corvette and pretended to walk away, leaving John to “mull things over”.

With a twinkle in his eyes, Lucifer told how John stopped him, then bravely puffed up his chest, closed his watering eyes and said to himself “For my country”, before taking the doomed pen in hand and inscribing his name in gold upon the lambskin scroll. John bravely didn't flinch as his finger was pricked to seal the deal in his own blood.

Beelzebub then took his new servant's hand in his and the two flew off into the night, heading northwest through the mist toward the great Klondike and beyond.

“And the real beauty of the whole thing?” the dark one laughed, “I'll only need to wait another year to collect.” Quickly realizing his faux pas, the Devil soberly apologized for the revelation and asked those in attendance to “please not tell John.”

So satisfied was the fallen angel with the transaction, he threw in the guitar lessons for free.

Generate Random Lies About Obama!

2008-08-25T13:40:00.006-04:00

The Snowed in Bunker has savagely pointed its (middle) finger at another perennial industry: online political hoax creation. With the litany of worn out, downright lame lies about Barack Obama still limping their way along the Internet, I deemed it was time to invent some fresh ones. Ten hours of labor and half a bottle of scotch later, this was born. Enjoy all the fun of muckraking, but without the questionable aftertaste.

Check it out today at www.randomobamalie.com!. Or maybe you just came here from there, in which case you'd better not unless you want to just keep linking in circles and risk dizziness.

That Old Whack Magic

2008-08-22T10:36:00.005-04:00

I write today about something first and foremost on most of our minds today. I'm talking of course, about the scourge of witchcraft. Black magic. Good old, traditional mumbo jumbo superstition.

Now I'm not calling for a witch hunt, mind you. Lord knows Africa is already boiling over with enough bloody accusations of women and children being in league with the night. The stuff going on over there would make a 17th century Salem clergyman roll his eyes. This is more along the lines of institutionalized superstition, the kind readily accepted by every Tomuko, Dicka, and Harrito in the village. My beef lies with the guy you'd occasionally buy a good luck monkey's paw from, not the poor fool a mob stones to death because they think he cursed their cabbage patch. These are the cretins stripping the forests of wing and claw so some qat-chewing yahoo with an AK can wear a charm he's told stops bullets (As such promises usually only offer money back to the original purchaser, refund rates are kept low). This is a growth industry you won't find in the annual Forbes guide.

Much of the basis for this weirdness springs from the well worn mantra that you are what you eat. By this token, since a rhino mates for two hours, it only makes sense that chewing on a hunk of its rotting horn can unleash two hours of sheet slapping. A few bites of tiger gives you, um, a powerful roar and an uncanny ability to sniff out prey. Trump swears by the stuff. Actually it's hawked to cure everything from acne to laziness. I couldn't make this stuff up, even though I've been known on occasion to do just that*. From time immemorial, the town medicine man has been pulling this rabbit from his feathered hat. Shortly before turning it into four keychains.

By and large the biggest culprit in this nutty market is China. Ah, those ever-flaccid Chinese mystics. Just name an endangered species and you can be damn sure some 70 year old Chinaman believes the ground up powder of it's pubic bone will give him heroic wood. Setting aside the mystery of why on God's green Earth a 70 year old Chinaman would need wood, this strange phenomenon brings up a pressing question. Undoubtedly Viagra, apart from actually performing, commands just one hundredth the coin of Bengal Tiger scrotum. So why hang onto such antiquated shamanic fairy tales? Is it a reverence for ancient traditions, no matter how hair-brained? What is the fascination with maintaining every ritualistic act ever to the grace this planet? Because their great grandparents did it. Strangely enough many of the same superstitious masses have gladly moved on from great granddad's bathroom practices of wiping with oak leaves. Can we do something about getting some free pill samples distributed to save a species or three?

I have a friend who tells me that the world will end on December 21, 2012. He doesn't have a particular gift for specifics, that's merely the end of the Mayan calendar. So he (and a surprising number of otherwise intelligent folk) is saving the date for his End Times party. All based on the prophetic scrawlings of a civilization that's not only been MIA for the past 12 centuries, but also held the belief that tearing a toddler's heart from its chest every few moons made the maize crop that much sweeter. Don't get me wrong, I fully plan on attending. Its a party where half the people think the world will end and the other half figure the host won't mind if something gets broken or stolen. Should be a good time. Regrettably no word on the exact hour of the Apocalypto. Nothing worse than spending the last few hours of Earth's history in the can because you were caught doing 120 in a stolen convertible loaded with underage prostitutes. These things must be timed perfectly.

Not to state the obvious, it may have been tried, but has anyone ever flipped their calendar over? Maybe there's a little stone carved with ordering instructions for getting the new one. Like you'd find on the December 1st page of Far Side one-a-days. Or is it possible they were just plain wrong, and that their timetable is due no more reverence than the faded beliefs of leeching or not swimming half an hour after lunch? My HMO hasn't covered leechings in years, at least out of network.

It's high time the witch doctors of the world (and their customers without whom none of this grand slaughter is possible) were loaded into pickups bound for reeducation camps. There they'd be taught the basics ranging from Codeine to the modern, clinically proven methods to enable you to drive nails with your engorged Johnson. Of course it's not just the medicinal skills that need a retread. Rather than place jinxes on the village misfit with pins in a rag doll and some chicken's blood, they would be taught how to start a slanderous email chain about them. We're talking about basic, marketable skills here. I understand they're looking after job security like the rest of us, but when every albino in Tanzania is afraid to stroll to market for fear his ears will end up in some sorcerer's stew pot, its time for a new job assistance program. Guess they're striving to maintain the “Dark Continent” brand.

* I had a hard time keeping a straight face the other day when someone asked where I'd heard Chinese Olympians were bound for assembly lines once they lost. Sounds like something that could happen though doesn't it? How about this for a system- if a post looks like a news article, there's a solid chance I'm mostly full of shit. Just mostly.

Take This Job and Love It

2008-08-15T13:56:00.004-04:00

BEIJING-
The first batch of losing Chinese athletes are due to be reassigned to various manufacturing posts beginning Friday.

According to Yang Xu of the Chinese Olympic Federation, most of the positions are low-level, usually within the textile or household goods industries scattered throughout Guangdong province. Traditionally an exception is made for those fortunate enough to at least muster a bronze in their events. These can often expect to enjoy at least a third-shift line supervisor’s position along one of the sweat-soaked assemblies.

Failed swimmer Jian Jou told the Xinhua News Agency her new job sewing zippers onto doll outfits is more than she deserves, “for so humiliating my family and my nation.” At her new wage of three dollars a day, it will take Ms. Jou a long time to repay her nation’s generosity for twelve years of intensive, if fruitless training.

To some the fourteen hour shifts may come as a welcome relief from the rigorous training schedules to which they’ve become accustomed. After being taken from their families at an average age of five, Olympic hopefuls are put through daily regimens that would make most people weep for mercy. “I hear you get Sundays off” beamed 7th place sprinter Yao Zhoung, bound for a pesticides factory. “I don’t know what I’ll do with myself all day.”

A large banner reading “Welcome Olympians to Your New Future” hung overhead at the Dongguan poultry processing factory, where a number of poorly performing athletes were soon expected.

Mr. Xu scoffed at the notion that such assignments were of a punitive nature. “There is nothing more glorious than participating in the advancement of our great State” he said. “Except of course, winning their contests as they had been instructed.”

By the end of next week, hundreds of former athletes are expected to be laboring in an array of menial, yet necessary tasks ranging from chemical mixer to quality control on new Michael Phelps apparel.

Now Hear This

2008-08-11T13:49:00.002-04:00

We at the management of the Snowed in Bunker are aware of the ever-increasing pressures to modernize our operations and have responded in kind. At first our editor recommended a switch to soy-based inks or "something to do with our ROI". Our editor watches a lot of those IBM business commercials but doesn't quite understand them.

Instead we here in the copy room are pleased to announce the appearance of a new, bright green Technorati link, which we hope will burgeon our meager readership into some we can't count on a single, non birth-defective hand. We also now feature an RSS Feed, for her pleasure. Avoid embarrassment at your next cocktail party by not missing the latest screed from the Bunker!

China Puts on its Sunday Best

2008-08-10T22:31:00.007-04:00

Watching the great Red unfurling last night made the past months and years of dreary Chinaphobic news melt away. It was impossible to look away from, the most stellar piece of monumental theater all but the deepest of cynics would admit to witnessing. This is what a few billion buys you these days. Plus they probably know a couple really good guys for fireworks.

I even watched the athletes march in, that never-ending segment usually signaling it's time to fix dinner or go out and change the oil. Too much was happening for a traditional narrative. Rather than compose that segment into a theme, because what theme is there but young overachievers carrying their flags into a stadium and walking in circles, here is instead my stream of consciousness. Pardon me while we shift literary gears for a moment, with apologies asked if it comes off as an incomprehensible Burrows-ian brain dump. This is what results when you forgo an edit:

Did they have to make Paraguay look like such bean farmers? Ah, traditional Chinese bagpipes in the background. Did the four Palestinians make you feel sad? Did you laugh when the John McCain commercial came on? George and Laura both checked their watches around the same time. Dubya's a real toe tapper. Halfway through if you Tivo-ed. When Iraq came by he clapped, yet looked like some guy with a belly overfull on steak and PBR. Just observing, not judging. I'm sure my Lazyboy is cushier than his bleacher. Plus there are no cameras to capture my occasional nose pick, so who's got the better seat now? Karzai's black bodyguard clearly dozing at his side, sleeping a sleep he hasn't enjoyed since signing on. Let him dream in a tranquility only 10,000 officers can provide. Sucks to be Chad or Luxembourg, settling for a quick recap after the commercials. Let's hope some of their kids get the competition over early, allowing them a week to try nailing the gymnasts already out of the running for bronze. Maybe one of those sweet Croatian chicks. And let's hope some dude from Gabon medals to win that promised dream house. Everyone walking through paint to create a footprint. Clever bastards. The UAE prime minister's daughters being the first female entrants a coincidence? That Bob Costas sure can hold his tongue, but you know he thought it was baloney too. Half the countries entered the Small World Thunderdome now. Twenty to go before the Star Spangled boys. Dubya check, he's looking ready to haul ass, leaning in with program firmly rolled in hand. You can almost hear him praying, “Screw this no alphabet in Chinese bull, when does USA come on so I can hit the head?” NBC not happy with Hugo Chavez apparently. Or the Ruskies. I was worried they wouldn't hold their hosts' feet to the flames, when they actually did talk politics I was surprisingly annoyed. Or at least felt I was being proselytized to. Looks like only Kazakhstan's mother still buys their clothes. Georgie's jacket is back on for the home team. Team USA arrives looking fresh from the yaught club. China has no time zones? Right now Mugabe is watching this from some smoke-filled Hong Kong airport bar swearing to himself. Fuck him. Good for you, Red Dragon. Nice to see them finally developing some standards. The longest Olympic wrestling match dragged on for 11 hours? Imagine making that into a film. “Come on Roc, let's get you a quick burger and a crap before the next round!” Two chunky yet cheerful female lifters in a row. Kinky. That Botswana girl was under some sort of trance à la Serpent and the Rainbow. Did I miss Jamaica dammit? Here comes the home team. What's with the holdup in the hallway, did someone chain themselves to a railing and the cameras panned away? You'll never know my friend. Let's all cry as we recall the story of the 11 year old earthquake hero. Great kid, but the commentators wanted to take that little twerp home in a silk bag for their wives. Enough of him already. Sap sells in any nation I guess. The teams mingling and whooping it up now. What a night for them. I can picture them enjoying breakfast in the communal lunch room, scolding "no politics!" to a noisy conversation and light-heartedly hurling a handful of dry Wheaties in jest. Thirty years from now, a Gabonese boy will ask “Grandpapa why do you save those old shoes with the paint on the bottom?” And the well preserved old man will laugh wistfully as he sits to tell him the story of his life.

Enough of that, it's as exhausting for the reader as it is the writer.

As an American those ceremonies scared me. Down to my bones. You already knew they had our jobs and could whip up a cheap pair of Pumas. They own our T-bills and now they've even seemingly got Hollywood licked, Spielberg or no. Is this what it looks like to see a superpower torch passed? Too early to say. But this is what they can do now, watch out.

The show did its best to support the Party view- Hey there's been upheaval here for a millenium or so, don't mind us if we need to disappear a few rabble rousers to a dark hole now and then. Look at our end product! This is the future of authoritarianism. Drink the Kool-Aid. The affair makes you so mesmerized you half don't care about the bad if this is the taste of its fruit. No accident I'm sure. Granted Taiwan had a flag agreed on by the Politburo, but the hypnotic aura designed to sooth and calm, that theirs would be a peaceful ascension if there were such a thing, could touch even the likes of Ted Nugent. Or at least elicit a “helluva show, considering..” This sounds like the nicest thing he'd be capable of saying.

My only beef came in the form of ever-present chatter from the NBC booth goons. There is an unwritten policy in effect at the National Broadcast Co. that at least two out of every five seconds must be packed with inane aural spoon feeding, lest your simple eyes and ears be distracted from the Billion dollar high def miracle before you. Are all other nation's Olympic VJ's so inclined to point out the number of laborers that hammered the steel for one of those Olympic rings? If only we could get a international visitor to pipe up on this one. I hear this Internet thing goes on all the way to deepest corners of the dark continent. Did Lauer and pals actually need to tell us “...and if you listen now you can hear her singing”? No, I can't hear. Somebody please tell them this is not Niners at Kansas City. There must be some concerted effort by the networks to dumb us down. Probably makes it easier to hawk sedans and antacids each night.

Setting aside that one whining complaint, the rest went spectacularly. The human powered jack-in-the-boxes, dancers on the surface of spinning planets, a zero gravity torch chase overhead, mind blowers all. The show's themes of Harmony and Promise did their jobs well. I know they're still building another ten jillion coal fired boilers but didn't you think, at least for a moment, that things could change after that? Slick marketing. Here's a toast to there being some substance behind that promise and that it wasn't nothing more than a 3 hour communal drug trip. We could all use it.

We here at the bunker were of mixed thoughts before this show. For a year I'd halfway hoped some madman in a parachute with the flag of Tibet stitched on his ass would land on someone's box seats. Stir up the system a bit. But after seeing this hopeful reminder of humanity, I can't help but feel more a world citizen. Yes gas is through the roof and you can't drive a mile without spying a neighbor's furniture dumped on the lawn by the sheriff when the bank came calling, but at least someone appears to be doing well. Several coats of bitter nationalism lay in pieces at my feet. Dear God, I must have been drinking scotch watching NBC late at night. That explains it. I'll likely forget it all by morning.

Save the Axes!

2008-08-06T14:55:00.003-04:00

The staff here at the Snowed In Bunker (myself) realizes the unique position we (I) are in to enlist the help of you, the devoted reader (both of you). If you’re a follower of that harbinger of all that is bleak and depressing- the news, then you’ll be fully versed in the fact that Iron Maiden’s guitarist was ripped off in Athens yesterday. A pseudo-travesty yes, but it gets worse. Apparently this was but part of a rash of thefts of unique past-their-prime axes. In Montreal the Stooges too, fell victim. On Monday a Ryder rental truck hauling everything from their stash box (I’m assuming here) to Mike Watt’s Carter-era bass went the way of the dodo. Montreal is fast becoming the Bermuda triangle of stolen instruments, with the band-jacking becoming their version of the Nigerian royalty email.

I sense a worldwide conspiracy at work. Most likely some white, thirty-something burnout has recently come into some riches, I’m thinking Powerball, and as we speak is constructing a Dr. Evil-style rocker lair in need of stocking. “Over here we have the spandex room. Would you care to see my Hall of Guitars? Muhahahaha!”

Has one of your rocker buddies suddenly started dressing all in furs or acting like Jack Black? Have you noticed any craigs list ads inviting 80’s bands to an industrial district for a high paying gig no-questions-asked? At this rate it is just a matter of weeks before Rick Nielsen is robbed of his trademark 5-necked monstrosity in broad daylight!

It’s probably too late to help Sonic Youth recover their instruments, who endured an eerily similar Ryder truck heist in the late 90’s. Surely those have already been stripped down to their chassis and parted out, destined for one of the seedy underground guitar parts markets. But if we as a community band together (that is the first and last pun ever to be committed to print at the Snowed in Bunker), maybe we can nab these villains. And collect some consolations and kudos in the process. Maiden is offering a signed tour jacket. My advice is to throw in a lifesize Eddie doll, or a groupie or two as reward to swell the ranks of the hunt.

The Reel Thing

2008-08-05T22:54:00.003-04:00

Now it's often said that he who isn't read will someday wish he were. Perhaps not often as I just coined it, but perhaps it might be. If only my son and his friends had known their Twain, they wouldn't so easily have ended up mowing my lawn as I slowly sipped gin and tonics from the comfort of my rocker. And while it could be argued that pushing a reel mower is somewhat more entertaining than white-washing your aunt's picket fence, the effect is the same. After just a minute's enthusiastic demonstration, the three boys were fighting over whose turn was next and I was sauntering off to the shelter of the porch fan and its aforementioned libations.

Anyone over the age of thirty having spent at least some time in the country or simply digging through a grandparent's tool shed will instantly recognize one of these blasts from the less-obese past. I say less obese because if more folks were pushing one of these whirling dervishes each weekend, the markets for diet soda, tummy tucks and gym memberships would dry up overnight. While remarkably light and maneuverable, the thing does tend to become a challenge in the thick stuff, and mine's maiden voyage took it chopping through foot-tall bahia still swelling from an afternoon's downpour. Hardly a fair test, but a typical run as I tend to ignore the lawn until I can't see my shoes on the walk to the mailbox. Normally I would have just fired up my trusty 20 horse riding mower and been done with the whole affair in a matter of three songs on the headphones. But thanks to some poorly laid gardening plans of husband and wife, a fair stretch of front lawn lay unreachable by my able Craftsman, cut off by the meandering tendrils of a patch of watermelon vine. For the past couple months I've been reduced to giving the area an occasional haircut with a weedwacker, a tedious affair at best. Why not kill that bird along with saving the Earth by saving a few gulps of gasoline? Plus a free workout would be mine. I would be the neighbor that didn't give a damn what the Joneses were up to, I was cutting my lawn the old fashioned way. The way God intended. There were no holes in this plan. The fact that the boys were doing my work for me was but sweet icing on a well thought-out cake.

As I sat in my rocker admiring the unfolding of my ingenious social experiment, I couldn't help but judge the job the three were doing. With so many blades spared unscathed in their wake it was a wonder they ever managed a decent shave. I had to remind myself the trio were each five to ten years shy of learning such a morning ritual, and forced myself to withhold judgment. Sure enough, just a few drinks later the front yard and even the side were sporting a new trimming, albeit a bit sloppy in places. I took it upon myself to show the boys how it was done and proceeded to clean up their primitive yet appreciated efforts.

I soon saw why their prepubescent attempts had failed to yield the manicured expanses I was hoping for. When your lawn is say, sixteen inches high, the spinning steel of a reel mower just tends to tickle half the blades. The things are not designed for the slovenly, they expect at least a minimal level of effort on the owner's part. A number of passes was still not enough to bring some of the longer rebel strands to bear, and I was required to rev the thing up to full speed with some quick pushes before flipping it airborne and slamming it straight down on the heads of the ornery holdouts.

I tried pointing out to the boys my discovery that their slipshod job had been due to engineering rather than incompetence on their part, but by then they had disappeared up the lane to the thrills of the neighbor's trampoline. The novelty had surely worn off or had at least been called into question. My lawn had been mowed for free the one time it ever would be. They couldn't be conned into spending another afternoon doing my bidding. Of course, there's always cash.

Sealy mattress tops J.P. Morgan Investment picks for 2008

2008-07-26T22:48:00.003-04:00

(New York)- Today J.P. Morgan released its annual report on investment picks for 2008. Topping the list was a Sealy brand mattress.

“In today’s unsure environment, investors crave security. Throughout our research, we were hard-pressed to find a more solid performer than the Sealy Posturepedic king-size model mattress…” read an excerpt from the report. “While other mattresses still offer similar levels of asset preservation, the combination of the Sealy’s managable weight and patented EZ-lift handles make it the smartest choice for nest egg protection on the market today.”

Many industry analysts tend to agree. Herman Price, former consultant for Bears Sterns says he has been suggesting the safety and convenience of a solid performing mattress for more than a year now.

For added security, Price advises his clients to hedge by placing some of their funds within a few inches of the edge of the mattress, while the true nest egg rests safely in the middle. “By positioning limited funds near the edge, you are allowed faster access to your portfolio in times of emergency- there is no need to fully raise a king size mattress. But beyond the obvious advantage of added liquidity, “ added Price “there is a good chance such a move will prove to distract would-be thieves from your main core savings.”

Price also suggests a diverse portfolio, consisting of not only 20’s and 50’s but 5’s and 10’s as well. “Most people don’t think of that at first” he said. “By covering a variety of denominations, the investor allows himself greater flexibility and will waste less time waiting for change.”

Avant Golf!

2008-07-22T13:04:00.006-04:00

Introducing the newest trend for the ironic, artsy thrill seeker. Avant Golf!

Hole 1- Wunder kids: Try to get your ball past the harried rush of mechanized children intent on kicking your ball into the rough.

Hole 2- Choose your Destiny: There are actually 8 holes on this one. Get it in the right one and win an ice cream cone. Get it in the wrong one and receive a mild shock when retrieving your ball. Winning hole changes every time for a never ending challenge!

Hole 3- Bulimic clown: A challenging par four in which you must get the ball into the clown's mouth and hope he doesn't spit it back out.

Hole 4- Hall of Mirrors: What do I need to say, it’s a freaking hall of mirrors.

Hole 5- Shagville: See how hard it is to make par when the course is laid in 4 inch turquoise shag!

Hole 6- Andy's Candies: Pretty straightforward, just the grass is dyed to resemble Andy Warhol eating a Hershey Bar.

Hole 7- Siren Call: The closer you get to the hole, the louder the shrieking array of 10,000 Hz horns get. Pray for a hole in one so..it..will..just..stop!

Hole 8- Swingers Club: After sinking the ball, you will be given another of a random color for the rest of the game.

Hole 9- Suessian Stair: Hope the laws of physics cut you some slack as you attempt to hop the ball up a series of teetering, climbing platforms.

Hole 10- Confidence Builder: A simple straight forward shot 1 foot from the tee. You'll need the breather after the Suessian Stair.

Hole 11- Use the Force: You've been relying too much on your sense of sight- this hole's challenge rests in the fact it is in utter darkness.

Hole 12- Field Trip: Hit it as hard as you can, the hole is just past the four lane highway. See it? Right behind the gas station dumpster there. Don't lose the ball!

Hole 14- Up and Away: Try to get the ball up onto the volcano-shaped..what do you mean there was no hole 13? What are you trying to jinx us?!

Hole 15- Lounge Singer: After sinking the ball, rest a moment and enjoy a cocktail while Larry sings for you.

Hole 16- Windmill: Avoid the windmill's spinning blades. The sheer nostalgic irony is hilarious. That and the fact the blades are made of rotting Northern Pike.

Hole 17- Big Bad Voodoo Daddy: The tiki theme will blow your mind. That and the natives trying to fire tiny blowdarts dipped in ibocaine at you.

Hole 18- Celebration!: Sink a hole in one and Tammy will jump out of that cake and smear you with pistachio frosting! No one's made a hole in one in a while. Hey, when's the last time someone checked on Tammy?

Second round is only $2.

Unicycles are Evil

2008-07-10T15:35:00.003-04:00

My wife's mother recently found a silver 20” Torker unicycle in mint condition atop a pile of curbside refuse. "What a waste" she cried, before rescuing this glistening steel siren from its date with the county incinerator. It was indeed a poor reflection on the wastefulness of Americana, to toss such a wonderful, shiny object away with the same reverence as one would a sack of melon rinds. The only thing it lacked was air in its tire, and that we had in plenty. It was summer. The thing was free. We would learn.

We would quickly learn that a unicycle is an evil thing, probably first invented by a sadistic machinist with a spare bike tire and a slow Saturday. Just one look should tell you that this is an impossible device, a mechanical Möbius strip to be mastered only by circus clowns and the curiously devoted. There is just no sense to it, no reason for being other than to bedevil all comers. And the curious nature of the beast lures in all but the most jaded of minds, each justifying the experiment by telling themselves they had never tried one before, and it always looked like fun. How hard could it be?

After pumping the tire I adjusted the seat to what I imagined to be the proper height. Then I took an awkward stance on it and tried to figure out what to do next. What to do next was to have it slip from beneath me. Again. And again. And again. There is simply nothing to hold on to. The first instinct is to drift along slowly like one would on its more sanely apportioned two-wheeled brethren. But the pedals move in lockstep with the tire, there is no coasting. Just a constant, desperate struggle to stay upright, like a Segway deep in the throes of an epileptic fit. One particularly unsuccessful attempt cast it headlong through the porch screening. My final mounting ended with a maneuver that without going into embarrassing detail, succeeded in raising the pitch of my baritone a solid octave. My son laughing at my incompetence tried for himself only to be rushed to the bathroom minutes later nursing a cruel, dripping gash across his left pinky toe.

I asked my mother-in-law if a hobbling figure with a plastered leg was seen anywhere near the vicinity of the disposed unicycle. Perhaps he was watching with binoculars nearby, snickering as she took the bait. How many times had this damnable contraption been pawned off to another unsuspecting soul? Was this a tradition? A mechanical fruitcake that never gets used more than a day, but instead is passed along to someone new each Christmas? If so we were humbled and in no mind to break precedent. The decision to return the thing to the communal no-man's land of the curb was soon made.

With smeared blood over our doorway, we hope the curse will sniff our threshold and move on, sated by our admitted defeat. As I write this I can see its spokes glistening under the light of the moon. Garbage pickup isn't for two more days. Someone will claim it. They too, will learn.