Madden Craves Bacon

I was watching football the last night, which I almost never do. It's just not my sport, and never has been. However, on this particular occasion, I was hanging out with my dad, who is the polar opposite of me in that respect. Such as that he was engrossed in football, as I was reading his newspaper, stealing coupons, and making random small talk about who works more overtime. Around that time the Patriots game came on. John Madden was doing commentary per usual, which has always been interesting to me as I think he's well on his way to mental illness. His commentaries often make about as much sense as George Foreman's recent attempts, which has caused me on more than one pay-per-view occasion to wonder if George was commenting on the current fight or was having a delusional flashback of a past ass-beating. After all, this is the man who named all of his sons "George". Really hard to forget the name of one of those fuckers. While neither is quite at Harry Caray status yet, John still has some really trippy moments. I expect a future game to go something like this:

Al Michaels: John, what do you think the Kansas City defense needs to do to win this football game?
John Madden: Taffy is delicious...
Al Michaels: Astute as always John.

Now I'm just digressing instead of telling a story that takes me about 15 seconds to tell in real life. Anyhow, John was attempting to say something about Peyton Manning, when he slipped and said "quarter-bacon" instead of "quarter-back". My dad insists he said "quarter-back'in", but his hearing isn't so good. I'm going to stick by my initial interpretation of bacon. After all, can't you just picture dreams of bacon dancing through his head during the game? It would certainly explain why he seems to be at least two plays behind sometimes. I leave you with this little MS Paint creation, as I'm bored and it seemed funny to me.

Portland's Fear of Public Urination

I think that's the catchiest headline I've had in awhile. I just got back from a weekend business trip in Portland, and thought I'd give an extremely biased and possibly offensive evaluation based on my two days in the city.

Observation #1: You guys really like your organic stuff. The veg is organic. The beef is organic. The beer and the coffee are also organic. The resulting BM.... toxic.

Observation #2: I can't navigate your city. I got lost and popped out the other side of Portland somewhere around Beaverton and Lewis & Clark College. I repeated this several times. You make me feel retarded, Portland. I will still always think of Beaverton as Beavertown somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, however.

Observation #3: The urinal/stall ratio is quite a bit different in the Pacific Northwest. The restroom at the airport had at least 9 stalls and no more than 3 urinals. An astonishing 3:1 ratio. I blame your [Oregonion] liberal upbringing on instilling a great deal of shame in public urination. It's a far cry from the typical Kansan restroom, which usually consists of a horse trough surrounded by urinating cowfolk playing swords and a fecal bucket in the corner. The heightened stall ratio might be because of the effects of all that organic food though too.

Observation #4: You've got more emo myspace kids than we do.

Observation #5: I smell better after wallowing in my own filfth than the one guy with the neckbeard does at Mojo's Coffee Den. I just do okay.

It was a nice visit, but it is nice to be back home with my two kitties (Howard Taft and Trixie the Whore). I'm sure once I get a new digital camera (the last one was lost on the San Fransisco trip, some pics uploaded here), I'll upload some pics of them being retarded.

Now That's a Nice Fucking Kitty

This past week, I adopted a cat from my sister's coworker. Her father had passed away and left 4 cats without a home, and me being sans-pet decided to take one of them in. By the time I got everything cleared with the brother the only cat left was a 2-year old orange tom cat named "Tom Kitty". This name reeked of lame and had to go, so we started calling him "Taft" after the U.S.'s fattest president. Taft is pretty skittish still, but has come around quite a bit (doesn't bolt at the mere sight of me. It's kind of nice having something around the house that's perhaps even more perpetually terrified of life than I (as my early mid-life crisis continues).

Llamas of War

It appears the Israeli army is using llamas to carry their packs in Lebanon. I figure with all the technology in the world today, if we are going to use llamas in war, why don't we soup them up a bit. We could easily turn a non-suspicious looking llama into a non-suspicious llama that is also a mobile missile launch pad.

Here's a hastily put together MS Paint of my vision.


It's just too bad that most of my ideas will never realize fruition.

Free Crack Give Away At Wichita City Hall

Why would I ever want to move? The nimrods in this city give me so many good stories.


It's a free crack giveaway at city hall!

Smaller thoughts...

While helping to think up of horrible nicknames for coworkers last night, I stumbled across this great unfound masturbatory term:

Cleaning the gutters out on my smurf house


I should email George Carlin so he can add it to his list. Enjoy that mental imagery.

An Emasculating Bachelor Party?

One of my best friends from my high school days is getting married at the end of July. His bachelor party was moved to this weekend to space it out further from the actual wedding, easing the bride's fears that I would somehow ensnare her mate in a scandalous international incident and wind up in a Mexican prison. Perhaps she thinks that if she lets him have one now, that there is still a 3 week litigation window, leaving some chance he could make it out in time for the big day. I still get the picture that she doesn't place a whole lot of trust in me, as she has banned him from letting me plan the party.

Instead his Dad has planned the weekend getaway. Which while this guarantees no major debauchery, it also means that the groom's cell phone is being turned off for the weekend, lest he be placed in time-out. Still, I look forward to our male-bonding exodus to the casinos of Kansas City in the comfort of a gas guzzling SUV. I need this 36 hour excuse to behave badly.

PS. While there are no strippers, it is still entirely possible that I can coerce a slot-machine addicted senior citizen to give the groom a lapdance for a handful of coin. Now that's hot...




Laaaaaaaaaaaaaap Dance!