One day a week is bagel day. It is not that we absolutely require bagels, it is that eating a bagel reconnects us with our souls. We are San Francisco office drudges, we eat the bagel.
It pacifies us. We have such small lives.
POOKY WASN'T ROADKILL - HE HAD RABIES!
Recently the company moved from one side of the building to the other. A new office kitchen had to be built, and painted, and swept, and finally connected to water and light. It is done now. It is sparkling and clean. Shiny.
It is very nice.
Unfortunately our bagel toaster was dirty. So it didn't get moved over.
Dirty things are a pain - who would possibly want them in our NEW kitchen?
The bread knives are old. They are NOT beautiful. They are merely sharp and functional.
Who on earth would want them in our new kitchen?
I shall not mention the microwave. It is not important in the bagel context.
Suffice to say that it too was ... wrong.
We have only nice elegant clean things in our new kitchen.
Coffee maker, blender, forks? No.
Some of us stroll over to the 'rebuild-zone' (our old office kitchen) and reclaim whatever we think necessary for civilized life. Slowly we are reconstructing the necessary frameworks.
This distresses the person placed in charge of the kitchen. Our new kitchen is starting to look far too much like the old kitchen.
He would rather that people would NOT remember that they once used certain things. Old things. Dirty things. Things that work.
A kitchen should be a temple to elegance, and cleanness.
Sparkly. Shiny.
Not functional.
This explains why there are four HERBAL teas, and utterly NO coffee in the new kitchen.
Decaffeination has 'cleanth', and 'elegacity'.
Being wide awake is messy, NOT pure and luminous!
For several years, there have been private stashes of coffee and real tea at most desks. Office drudgery require stimulation.
I have two giant boxes of teabags, and a supply of coffee fixings.
Others have their own hoards too.
This distresses the person placed in charge of the kitchen.
Such things belong in kitchen cabinets, not at desks!
The office environment should be smooth and elegant and professional!
Just like the kitchen.
This morning I reclaimed the bagel toaster.
As well as all the sharp sharp knives.
If he squawks, I will threaten him with my stuffed armadillo.
Dirty Pooky.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Stuffed armadillo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stuffed armadillo. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
SAN FRANCISCO LOSERS
San Francisco, for all intents and purposes, has lost its collective marbles. For someone like myself, who regards sporting spectacles with about as much affection as exploding sewers (and indeed they are REMARKABLY similar), the collective creamed-in-panties mood over recent baseball-related events is insufferable and absurd.
If I were an evil man, I would pray for rain.
A few days ago, a friend e-mailed me the following:
"Thank XXXing God that I know I can read your blog without a chance in hell of seeing the words (and it pains me to write this) "Go Giants!" Your words are a safe port in a sea of gibber. Harrumph!"
Indeed.
Pajama-wearing men swinging phallic weapons for an audience of Richard ain't zackly my idea of entertainment.
For all of you out there who are wearing black or orange, you look ridiculous. There’s a reason black and orange are Halloween colours.
GHOULS!
You know, ghouls – the eaters of the flesh of the recently departed. Unclean creatures from darkest myth. Kind of like werewolves and vampyres, but without the romance. Werewolves and vampyres got style! Ghouls? Meh! Daemon-cursed mutants that compete with zombies for food. Urk!
Shouldn’t you sweaty morons be bringing crucifixes and holy water down to the park, instead of pompoms and flags?
The only time people should wear black is if they are wearing a little black cocktail dress. There is nothing quite so visually appealing as a sensual person sheathed in dark silk. Yes.
Which, by the way, is something ONLY charming young girls can get away with.
Let me repeat: CHARMING. YOUNG. GIRLS!
Pudgy middle-aged men shouldn’t even try it. Trust me. Now take that off.
And those orange sweatshirts make your beer-bellies look fat. If your wives and girlfriends had ANY sense at all (not buggery likely, seeing as they picked YOU), they’d leave you right now and go find someone nice who lost nearly five inches off his waist recently, has devilish angular features, twinkling eyes and a trimmed goatee, and is recently single again. Yes.
You know, someone who is a remarkably fine specimen of fifty-one year old man-flesh. All-in-all, a most desirable gentleman – discrete, warm, caring, absolutely hates! walks on the beach.
That type. Yes.
If any young ladies reading this are interested, please write. Snarky or zesty feedback from my audience is always appreciated.
Pen a letter to the author of this tripe here!
There will be no talk whatsoever of sports. None. Bleeeaugh!
Food, champagne, crabs - all subjects for discussion.
Silken garments, books by Nabokov or Wyndham Lewis, or bad habits that are sooooo good. Those too.
Little black cocktail dresses? We can work on that!
Please think of me as a werewolf or vampyre.
Trust me.
I may be a total perv, but I'm NOT into sports.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
If I were an evil man, I would pray for rain.
A few days ago, a friend e-mailed me the following:
"Thank XXXing God that I know I can read your blog without a chance in hell of seeing the words (and it pains me to write this) "Go Giants!" Your words are a safe port in a sea of gibber. Harrumph!"
Indeed.
Pajama-wearing men swinging phallic weapons for an audience of Richard ain't zackly my idea of entertainment.
For all of you out there who are wearing black or orange, you look ridiculous. There’s a reason black and orange are Halloween colours.
GHOULS!
You know, ghouls – the eaters of the flesh of the recently departed. Unclean creatures from darkest myth. Kind of like werewolves and vampyres, but without the romance. Werewolves and vampyres got style! Ghouls? Meh! Daemon-cursed mutants that compete with zombies for food. Urk!
Shouldn’t you sweaty morons be bringing crucifixes and holy water down to the park, instead of pompoms and flags?
The only time people should wear black is if they are wearing a little black cocktail dress. There is nothing quite so visually appealing as a sensual person sheathed in dark silk. Yes.
Which, by the way, is something ONLY charming young girls can get away with.
Let me repeat: CHARMING. YOUNG. GIRLS!
Pudgy middle-aged men shouldn’t even try it. Trust me. Now take that off.
And those orange sweatshirts make your beer-bellies look fat. If your wives and girlfriends had ANY sense at all (not buggery likely, seeing as they picked YOU), they’d leave you right now and go find someone nice who lost nearly five inches off his waist recently, has devilish angular features, twinkling eyes and a trimmed goatee, and is recently single again. Yes.
You know, someone who is a remarkably fine specimen of fifty-one year old man-flesh. All-in-all, a most desirable gentleman – discrete, warm, caring, absolutely hates! walks on the beach.
That type. Yes.
If any young ladies reading this are interested, please write. Snarky or zesty feedback from my audience is always appreciated.
Pen a letter to the author of this tripe here!
There will be no talk whatsoever of sports. None. Bleeeaugh!
Food, champagne, crabs - all subjects for discussion.
Silken garments, books by Nabokov or Wyndham Lewis, or bad habits that are sooooo good. Those too.
Little black cocktail dresses? We can work on that!
Please think of me as a werewolf or vampyre.
Trust me.
I may be a total perv, but I'm NOT into sports.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 18, 2010
CRUNCHY HOT CULINARY CRIME
One week ago was warm and sunny, today there is an autumnal chill in the air. And what I really wanted to eat for lunch, given that in this weather it would have been both delightful and delicious, is not available in San Francisco. Ever. We are benighted.
We have no wall-food.
DEEP-FRIED BIO-HAZARD
Also known as Dutch junk food. Everything goes better with fries.
In particular, I would have loved a frikadel. Or a kroket.
A frikadel (alternate spelling: frikandel) is not the same as the Belgian snack that goes by that name, nor the well-known Scandinavian interpretations. The Dutch frikadel was invented in North-Brabant after the war , so it's something that Brabanders can be proud of ........ although, truth be told, they might prefer that you forget all about the regional connection.
It consists of finely ground meat, spices, meat fat, and paneer meel (very fine breadcrumbs) formed into a sausage shape, rolled in egg white, dusted with more paneer meel, and deep fried. The cooked result is surprisingly tasty.
Juicy hot treify goodness.
One can eat it as is, or with mustard and other condiments. Think of it as a civilized version of a meatloaf.
[You can make a very passable proximile of frikadels by double-grinding marbled meat, mixing it with a lesser quantity of soaked stale bread, a hefty pinch of mace or nutmeg, ground pepper, coriander, etcetera. When a nice stiffish paste is achieved, form into tubes or patties, dip in egg white, dust with fine breadcrumbs, and fry till brown. Experiment and develop your own interpretation.]
The kroket, which is more popular north of the three rivers in the Randstad (Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Utrecht, and points in between), is utterly delicious too. Or just as repulsive - it depends on your attitude.
About fifteen to twenty percent meat or other edible protein blended into béchamel with spices, formed and chilled, double dipped and rolled in coarse breadcrumbs, and nuked in the fry daddy. Hot and crunchy on the outside, molten lava on the inside. It can burn right through the roof of your mouth. For some reason Amsterdam cafes serve it with toast.
"Vreet nooit zult - geen mens weet wat er in zit!"
Never eat headcheese - nobody knows what's in it!
[From a book by Toon Kortooms.]
Both of these delicacies usually contain body parts that normal people do not consider edible.
I've been eating garbage for years.
Frikadel and kroket are the mainstays of wall automats all over Amsterdam, and fry-palaces in the rest of the country. Along with such things as the bami schijf and the nasi schijf (besides many other odd hot miracles).
[Bami schijf: Indonesian spicy fried noodles formed into a disc, breaded, and deep fried. Nasi schijf: Indonesian fried rice treated the same way. Both were earlier incarnated as the Bami bal and the Nasi bal - globular croquettes with those fillings.]
Properly done, deep fried foods need not be particularly fattening - the hot oil sears and seals the outside, and the moisture content of the food will not be replaced by grease. Even French fries, if done properly, will be light and have a pleasant internal fluffiness.
DEEP FRY THAT PUPPY!
Unfortunately American attempts at deep-frying are often ghastly failures. Fries, more often than not, are limp soggy artery cloggers, fish and chips are as perfectly inedible as anything can be, and chicken becomes an oil-soaked monstrosity. The fried fruit pocket pie is darned close to attempted murder, eating the damn thing is on par with shooting engine residue into your arteries.
On the other hand, nothing beats some English "foods" for sheer terrible - consider, if you will, the Spam Fritter. It is made by taking a thick slice of Spam, battering it, and dropping it into a luke-warm oil-bath. The first taste on a cold evening is ...... okay. Well, interesting. Not all that bad. Remember, it's a cold evening. This thing is warm.
It goes downhill from there. By the third bite you will be filled with regret, angst, anomie.
Should you dare finish the horrid lump, you will have made an enemy of your digestive system for life.
Like many other nightmarish things, the Spam fritter is available at English Fish and Chip shops, and from chipper vans. And soon also in the United States. I think we've been waiting for this.
The Dutch, the Belgians, and the Cantonese know how to deep-fry. The rest of the world doesn't. It's as simple as that. Please step away from the Fryolator.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
We have no wall-food.
DEEP-FRIED BIO-HAZARD
Also known as Dutch junk food. Everything goes better with fries.
In particular, I would have loved a frikadel. Or a kroket.
A frikadel (alternate spelling: frikandel) is not the same as the Belgian snack that goes by that name, nor the well-known Scandinavian interpretations. The Dutch frikadel was invented in North-Brabant after the war , so it's something that Brabanders can be proud of ........ although, truth be told, they might prefer that you forget all about the regional connection.
It consists of finely ground meat, spices, meat fat, and paneer meel (very fine breadcrumbs) formed into a sausage shape, rolled in egg white, dusted with more paneer meel, and deep fried. The cooked result is surprisingly tasty.
Juicy hot treify goodness.
One can eat it as is, or with mustard and other condiments. Think of it as a civilized version of a meatloaf.
[You can make a very passable proximile of frikadels by double-grinding marbled meat, mixing it with a lesser quantity of soaked stale bread, a hefty pinch of mace or nutmeg, ground pepper, coriander, etcetera. When a nice stiffish paste is achieved, form into tubes or patties, dip in egg white, dust with fine breadcrumbs, and fry till brown. Experiment and develop your own interpretation.]
The kroket, which is more popular north of the three rivers in the Randstad (Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Utrecht, and points in between), is utterly delicious too. Or just as repulsive - it depends on your attitude.
About fifteen to twenty percent meat or other edible protein blended into béchamel with spices, formed and chilled, double dipped and rolled in coarse breadcrumbs, and nuked in the fry daddy. Hot and crunchy on the outside, molten lava on the inside. It can burn right through the roof of your mouth. For some reason Amsterdam cafes serve it with toast.
"Vreet nooit zult - geen mens weet wat er in zit!"
Never eat headcheese - nobody knows what's in it!
[From a book by Toon Kortooms.]
Both of these delicacies usually contain body parts that normal people do not consider edible.
I've been eating garbage for years.
Frikadel and kroket are the mainstays of wall automats all over Amsterdam, and fry-palaces in the rest of the country. Along with such things as the bami schijf and the nasi schijf (besides many other odd hot miracles).
[Bami schijf: Indonesian spicy fried noodles formed into a disc, breaded, and deep fried. Nasi schijf: Indonesian fried rice treated the same way. Both were earlier incarnated as the Bami bal and the Nasi bal - globular croquettes with those fillings.]
Properly done, deep fried foods need not be particularly fattening - the hot oil sears and seals the outside, and the moisture content of the food will not be replaced by grease. Even French fries, if done properly, will be light and have a pleasant internal fluffiness.
DEEP FRY THAT PUPPY!
Unfortunately American attempts at deep-frying are often ghastly failures. Fries, more often than not, are limp soggy artery cloggers, fish and chips are as perfectly inedible as anything can be, and chicken becomes an oil-soaked monstrosity. The fried fruit pocket pie is darned close to attempted murder, eating the damn thing is on par with shooting engine residue into your arteries.
On the other hand, nothing beats some English "foods" for sheer terrible - consider, if you will, the Spam Fritter. It is made by taking a thick slice of Spam, battering it, and dropping it into a luke-warm oil-bath. The first taste on a cold evening is ...... okay. Well, interesting. Not all that bad. Remember, it's a cold evening. This thing is warm.
It goes downhill from there. By the third bite you will be filled with regret, angst, anomie.
Should you dare finish the horrid lump, you will have made an enemy of your digestive system for life.
Like many other nightmarish things, the Spam fritter is available at English Fish and Chip shops, and from chipper vans. And soon also in the United States. I think we've been waiting for this.
The Dutch, the Belgians, and the Cantonese know how to deep-fry. The rest of the world doesn't. It's as simple as that. Please step away from the Fryolator.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
EAT LIKE AN AMERICAN
I am baffled by the white people I work with. This despite being glow-in-the-dark myself. Some people are just more whity-white. So pale they come from Kansas. And fearfully clutch their little dog Toto in panic at anything remotely diverse.
Such as the things that other people eat.
A long time ago, one of my co-workers, despite being of Italian ancestry, claimed that anything except beef and potatoes gave her heart-burn that lasted for days. Consequently she avoided pizza and pasta dishes, savoury stews, Chinese food, and pretty much anything that had more flavour than cardboard.
She was very sensitive.
I took particular joy in steering departmental lunches towards the exotic during those years. It is with pride and pleasure that I admit that I made the poor dear sick as a dog on curries, enchiladas, tortas, injere & kifto, and kuwaleng itik.
Though she herself has since fled for paler parts of the country, the spirit of her food phobias lives on.
Consider this e-mail sent today to all of us in the office:
Dear Staffmembers,
Please be considerate of others when cooking in the microwave. Especially with fish. If you are warming up fish please put a cover on it as this particular food often gives off an offensive smell to others. Maybe best to leave this for home cooking. Thanks.
THE OFFICE MGR
Please consider the environment before printing this email
----------------------------------------------
GUTTED AND FRIED, IN SPICY SAUCE
What the heck?
No fish?
Perhaps I need to bring in tuna-melts till the end of the month. Or fish-head curry. Fresh mussels and clams - I'm sure I can do those quickly in the micro. The juices, augmented with a little sherry and butter, make lovely sopping for a loaf of French bread.
Or a whole fish, with fresh herbs and chilies, to flash on a plate.
Hypothetical follow-up e-mail:
Dear Staffmembers,
No onions. No cabbage. No garlic. No peanut products.
No meat at all. No carrots. No cheese sauces. No tomato paste.
No spices. No fish paste. No non-standard ingredients. No grease.
No Mexican food. No Chinese food. No Indian food. No ethnic food AT ALL.
No broccoli - Broccoli is not edible.
None of you guys know how to cook, so DON'T!
Please enjoy your lunch of tasty and nutritious rusk (*).
-----THE OFFICE MGR
* Plus a pinch of salt - for that sabor autentico puritano.
Please consider the environment before printing this email
----------------------------------------------
GO BOIL YOURSELF
I promise I will not cook iguana or raccoon in the micro-wave. If you have any other requests, please remember that you are messing with my lunch. That is never a good idea. I am vengeful and vicious. Especially when people interfere with my food. You ain't seen nutting yet.
Do I make a federal case out of your bland palate? Do I kvetch when some noodge decides to nuke popcorn? Did I even say anything when the Lutheran shrimp-girl burnt an entire packet of hotdogs in there one evening? Have I ever bothered mentioning that most of you suburban Neanderthalers have no taste?
Watch it, boy, I know where you work.
Writing this has made me hungry. I wonder what I'll have for lunch.
That's a threat, in case you didn't know.
----------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------
POSTCRIPTUM
I have since received a response from one of the people to whom I sent an angry reaction.
He states:
"Just remember folks, only Doritos are Triangles made in heaven."
Wise words. Baffling, but wise.
Such as the things that other people eat.
A long time ago, one of my co-workers, despite being of Italian ancestry, claimed that anything except beef and potatoes gave her heart-burn that lasted for days. Consequently she avoided pizza and pasta dishes, savoury stews, Chinese food, and pretty much anything that had more flavour than cardboard.
She was very sensitive.
I took particular joy in steering departmental lunches towards the exotic during those years. It is with pride and pleasure that I admit that I made the poor dear sick as a dog on curries, enchiladas, tortas, injere & kifto, and kuwaleng itik.
Though she herself has since fled for paler parts of the country, the spirit of her food phobias lives on.
Consider this e-mail sent today to all of us in the office:
Dear Staffmembers,
Please be considerate of others when cooking in the microwave. Especially with fish. If you are warming up fish please put a cover on it as this particular food often gives off an offensive smell to others. Maybe best to leave this for home cooking. Thanks.
THE OFFICE MGR
Please consider the environment before printing this email
----------------------------------------------
GUTTED AND FRIED, IN SPICY SAUCE
What the heck?
No fish?
Perhaps I need to bring in tuna-melts till the end of the month. Or fish-head curry. Fresh mussels and clams - I'm sure I can do those quickly in the micro. The juices, augmented with a little sherry and butter, make lovely sopping for a loaf of French bread.
Or a whole fish, with fresh herbs and chilies, to flash on a plate.
Hypothetical follow-up e-mail:
Dear Staffmembers,
No onions. No cabbage. No garlic. No peanut products.
No meat at all. No carrots. No cheese sauces. No tomato paste.
No spices. No fish paste. No non-standard ingredients. No grease.
No Mexican food. No Chinese food. No Indian food. No ethnic food AT ALL.
No broccoli - Broccoli is not edible.
None of you guys know how to cook, so DON'T!
Please enjoy your lunch of tasty and nutritious rusk (*).
-----THE OFFICE MGR
* Plus a pinch of salt - for that sabor autentico puritano.
Please consider the environment before printing this email
----------------------------------------------
GO BOIL YOURSELF
I promise I will not cook iguana or raccoon in the micro-wave. If you have any other requests, please remember that you are messing with my lunch. That is never a good idea. I am vengeful and vicious. Especially when people interfere with my food. You ain't seen nutting yet.
Do I make a federal case out of your bland palate? Do I kvetch when some noodge decides to nuke popcorn? Did I even say anything when the Lutheran shrimp-girl burnt an entire packet of hotdogs in there one evening? Have I ever bothered mentioning that most of you suburban Neanderthalers have no taste?
Watch it, boy, I know where you work.
Writing this has made me hungry. I wonder what I'll have for lunch.
That's a threat, in case you didn't know.
----------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------
POSTCRIPTUM
I have since received a response from one of the people to whom I sent an angry reaction.
He states:
"Just remember folks, only Doritos are Triangles made in heaven."
Wise words. Baffling, but wise.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
LOVE APE AND COLLECTIONS ARMADILLO
Very recently I wrote a post which may not have entirely pleased one of my regular readers. No, I shan't describe it for you, you must figure out for yourself which of my many beautiful posts it may have been. I thought it was both poetic and lyrical. But the content was, perhaps, the issue that divided......
The regular reader commented:
"Too much tobacco, too much flesh. I want to hear more about the armadillo and the naughty monkey. "
What can I say about the armadillo and the naughty monkey? The naughty monkey always sides with Savage Kitten, and the armadillo simply hangs around in my cubicle all day.
I suspect that when night falls the armadillo really wakes up and becomes active, as there are several photos of him messing with the desk of my most neurotically neat colleague, disturbing her carefully aligned file folders, chewing her pencils, and tapping away at her keyboard...... besides rooting around her desk-drawers and sniffing disdainfully at the picture of her little son.
He's also sat at the desk of the owner of the company. Photocopied his own butt. Danced provocatively on one of the engineer's desks, and fondled all the awards in the lobby.
The armadillo is no respecter of property. Clearly an anarchist.
Thank heavens the armadillo hasn't figured out how to use the phone yet.
Please imagine him calling up the armadillo phone-sex line in Texas (staffed by those zesty big-plated mamas before they become roadkill) - if he ever did that, we would discover him the next morning looking all blissed out, with a big silly grin all over his face. And drool all over the receiver.
Whatever phone he had used would have to be destroyed.
Oh wait. And never mind. I just sexed the armadillo. He's not a him, but a her.
[Either that or the taxidermist took a "shortcut".]
The monkey, on the other hand, keeps dialing up the SPCA to rat on me. But those are his only calls.
He'll probably never phone 976-LOVEAPE, as he is far too visually inclined. He needs to actually see the thick soft hair on those delicious she-monkey thighs and calves; merely having it described doesn't do diddly for him.
[Besides, I think he actually has some 'gender issues'. He IS wearing one of her silk shirts and a necklace...... ]
I just hope he never discovers porn. Or the Curious George books.
The regular reader commented:
"Too much tobacco, too much flesh. I want to hear more about the armadillo and the naughty monkey. "
What can I say about the armadillo and the naughty monkey? The naughty monkey always sides with Savage Kitten, and the armadillo simply hangs around in my cubicle all day.
I suspect that when night falls the armadillo really wakes up and becomes active, as there are several photos of him messing with the desk of my most neurotically neat colleague, disturbing her carefully aligned file folders, chewing her pencils, and tapping away at her keyboard...... besides rooting around her desk-drawers and sniffing disdainfully at the picture of her little son.
He's also sat at the desk of the owner of the company. Photocopied his own butt. Danced provocatively on one of the engineer's desks, and fondled all the awards in the lobby.
The armadillo is no respecter of property. Clearly an anarchist.
Thank heavens the armadillo hasn't figured out how to use the phone yet.
Please imagine him calling up the armadillo phone-sex line in Texas (staffed by those zesty big-plated mamas before they become roadkill) - if he ever did that, we would discover him the next morning looking all blissed out, with a big silly grin all over his face. And drool all over the receiver.
Whatever phone he had used would have to be destroyed.
Oh wait. And never mind. I just sexed the armadillo. He's not a him, but a her.
[Either that or the taxidermist took a "shortcut".]
The monkey, on the other hand, keeps dialing up the SPCA to rat on me. But those are his only calls.
He'll probably never phone 976-LOVEAPE, as he is far too visually inclined. He needs to actually see the thick soft hair on those delicious she-monkey thighs and calves; merely having it described doesn't do diddly for him.
[Besides, I think he actually has some 'gender issues'. He IS wearing one of her silk shirts and a necklace...... ]
I just hope he never discovers porn. Or the Curious George books.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
LAMENTING MICHAEL JACKSON
Apparently, I was wrong. I had heard from VERY reliable sources that Michael Jackson died screaming "oh no, I'm melting, I'm melting" after being inadvertently splashed with water.
So had several other people (approximately 22% of respondents), but it turns out that such is NOT the case.
I apologize. We were wrong, I admit it, and it SO won't happen again.
Michael Jackson swallowed his nose and choked to death. It was accidental.
This per a decisive 51.50% of respondents.
WRONG TOO!
That means all of you who were certain that he had drowned in a peroxide bath were also wrong (11% of respondents), and you owe his bereaved fans an apology. So do the people who spread the evil rumour that it was direct sunlight that did him in (8.50% of respondents) - he hasn't been out in the sun for years, he has people for that.
The story about the Masonic Murder Plot involving rare allergens woven into his bedsheets, as well as the Neo-Hollywood Diet Theory (4.25% and 2.25% respectively), are also absurd. What WERE you thinking?!?
And you guys who proposed the Clarified Lard Cult theory (0.25% of respondents) are JUST PLAIN NUTS. Absolutely out of your friggen' minds.
Buncha redneck morons.
I shan't even mention the 'Venusian Breeding Programme', the 'Tennessee Younger Sister Support Group', or 'Priestly Recruitment, Inc.' - they aren't statistically important.
Crazy as a loon, but not important.
We know where you all live anyway, just in case you plan to try something later.
THE GOOD NEWS: WE FINALLY GET ELVIS BACK!
Yes, it was hard without him for thirty! two! long! years! - but since we elected Obama, they have changed their opinion of us, and decided to make do with Michael instead. Such a relief. Yay.
So had several other people (approximately 22% of respondents), but it turns out that such is NOT the case.
I apologize. We were wrong, I admit it, and it SO won't happen again.
Michael Jackson swallowed his nose and choked to death. It was accidental.
This per a decisive 51.50% of respondents.
WRONG TOO!
That means all of you who were certain that he had drowned in a peroxide bath were also wrong (11% of respondents), and you owe his bereaved fans an apology. So do the people who spread the evil rumour that it was direct sunlight that did him in (8.50% of respondents) - he hasn't been out in the sun for years, he has people for that.
The story about the Masonic Murder Plot involving rare allergens woven into his bedsheets, as well as the Neo-Hollywood Diet Theory (4.25% and 2.25% respectively), are also absurd. What WERE you thinking?!?
And you guys who proposed the Clarified Lard Cult theory (0.25% of respondents) are JUST PLAIN NUTS. Absolutely out of your friggen' minds.
Buncha redneck morons.
I shan't even mention the 'Venusian Breeding Programme', the 'Tennessee Younger Sister Support Group', or 'Priestly Recruitment, Inc.' - they aren't statistically important.
Crazy as a loon, but not important.
We know where you all live anyway, just in case you plan to try something later.
THE GOOD NEWS: WE FINALLY GET ELVIS BACK!
Yes, it was hard without him for thirty! two! long! years! - but since we elected Obama, they have changed their opinion of us, and decided to make do with Michael instead. Such a relief. Yay.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
THE FULL ELVIS
Years ago, when I was working at a computer company down the peninsula, Savage Kitten thought of me. And sent me an article about chicken-fried bacon strips. As served at a famous eatery in Texas. Her added content was some snide remark about heart-attack on a plate, ooh yummy goodness, smirk.
Thick-cut bacon double dipped, nuked in the fryolator, with a bowl of cream gravy on the side.
Geshmak!
I've never eaten chicken-fried bacon strips (just add ranch dressing and it sounds like the breakfast of champions), the computer company headed down the financial tubes like an out-of-control rollercoaster ("we're crashing, wheeeeee!!!!!"), and Savage Kitten denies ever sending me something like that.
This is the same 'inspired' woman who once, in the middle of a dark night, posted flyers on the doors of the company where I worked three blocks from our apartment, advertising 'Round Rhonda's Snack-o-dise', with menu items like 'deepfried corn and walnut lard balls', 'lobster fritters in bacon & butter goop', and 'sugar-crusted crawdaddy nuggets'.
Eating at Round Rhonda's "make you SLAP yo' momma, Ah garontee!".
Free delivery to retirement homes and incarceration facilities.
I never did get a straight answer out of her about why she did that. Something about "brightening up your day", along with "broadening your colleagues' cultural horizons".
GIVE THEM BREAD AND BANANAS
I have often thought that indeed my coworkers needed cultural horizon expansion.
Daily brightening is probably a good thing too.
Especially during rainy weather.
Lunch options in this neighborhood are gloomy, and limited.
I really really wish that the sandwich joint across the street did peanut butter, banana, honey, and bacon sandwiches. Yes, there are such things - Elvis Presley used to eat them all the time. They were probably a contributing factor to his demise (he exploded like a cholesterol and illegal substance bomb while sitting on the crapper), but lawzy, he musta died happy!
Surely one Full Elvis couldn't hurt? One? Once in a blue moon?
Which means no more than twice a week, at most three times. Four during rainy weather.
On fried bread.
You should probably omit the soda and chips if you are dieting.
Thick-cut bacon double dipped, nuked in the fryolator, with a bowl of cream gravy on the side.
Geshmak!
I've never eaten chicken-fried bacon strips (just add ranch dressing and it sounds like the breakfast of champions), the computer company headed down the financial tubes like an out-of-control rollercoaster ("we're crashing, wheeeeee!!!!!"), and Savage Kitten denies ever sending me something like that.
This is the same 'inspired' woman who once, in the middle of a dark night, posted flyers on the doors of the company where I worked three blocks from our apartment, advertising 'Round Rhonda's Snack-o-dise', with menu items like 'deepfried corn and walnut lard balls', 'lobster fritters in bacon & butter goop', and 'sugar-crusted crawdaddy nuggets'.
Eating at Round Rhonda's "make you SLAP yo' momma, Ah garontee!".
Free delivery to retirement homes and incarceration facilities.
I never did get a straight answer out of her about why she did that. Something about "brightening up your day", along with "broadening your colleagues' cultural horizons".
GIVE THEM BREAD AND BANANAS
I have often thought that indeed my coworkers needed cultural horizon expansion.
Daily brightening is probably a good thing too.
Especially during rainy weather.
Lunch options in this neighborhood are gloomy, and limited.
I really really wish that the sandwich joint across the street did peanut butter, banana, honey, and bacon sandwiches. Yes, there are such things - Elvis Presley used to eat them all the time. They were probably a contributing factor to his demise (he exploded like a cholesterol and illegal substance bomb while sitting on the crapper), but lawzy, he musta died happy!
Surely one Full Elvis couldn't hurt? One? Once in a blue moon?
Which means no more than twice a week, at most three times. Four during rainy weather.
On fried bread.
You should probably omit the soda and chips if you are dieting.
Friday, January 30, 2009
I'M FULL OF SUGAR, NAKED, AND HAPPY!
Until the early nineties, I believed that all ex-marines were gay as a three dollar bill and mad as a hatter.
Now I know better.
GAY MARINES
The first ex-marine I met was 'The Venerable Rood', who lived four doors down on the same floor of a residential hotel as myself. Several years in the Marine Corps had left him with a taste for well-built men, stiff drinks, and tight leather pants. A plurality of all of these defined his life-style. Evenings, in his world, meant spanking. Which one could hear from any corner of the building. The tearful spankee would then be comforted with gin.
A year after that, when I was living in The Bachelors Quarters (a residential hotel for single men), I met G.R., and 'Bert and Ernie'.
Bert and Ernie had first known each other in the Marine Corps. When they got out they moved to San Francisco at the same time, though separately. They always denied that they had a thing going, but they always ended up living in the same building, and could always be found in each other's rooms. No, they didn't do anything in public that might be suspect. They did not go for blatant displays of affection. They didn't betray their praedilections with tenderness or hugs. They were both far too manly for such softness.
Instead, Ernie would visit Bert's room, and while Bert was distracted Ernie would hide a giant foot-and-a-half long pink rubber novelty dildo in Bert's bed. Then, mission accomplished, he would take leave and head back to his own room. Ten minutes later Bert would come roaring down the hallway waving the object, and bang on Ernie's door with it. "Let me in, let me in, you bastard, I don't want to see this ever again!"
A voice would come from behind the locked door, softly averring "Ernie no es acqui, you come back later, gringo". To no avail. The pounding with the pink rubber dildo continued unabated till Ernie relented, and the thing returned to Ernie's chest of drawers.
When Bert left the building, Ernie would sometimes go onto the roof of the building next door, walk over to Ernie's window, let himself in, and hide the dildo again, for Ernie to discover at eleven o'clock when he got off work.
They would occasionally beat each other up, or do laundry together in their boxers. They were banned from several local laundromats.
They now live in Portland.
STRAIGHT MARINES
It wasn't until I met Spanner and Rotorhead that I realized that one could be an ex-marine, yet fully heterosexual.
Spanner played golf with himself when he got off work at three in the morning, practicing his putting on the carpet in the long hallway of the Skyway Hotel. Click, whirrrrrrrr, tink. Click, whirrrrrrrrr, plonk. Dribble dribble dribble. The activity would be punctuated by a beer can being opened, or a swear word exclaimed. And the phrase "you can't escape, you don't get out alive".
This behaviour used to drive Swamiji in the room at the end of the hall to distraction. The first couple of nights, Swamiji came storming out of his room yelling. After Spanner pushed him over several times, Swamiji thought the better of that course of action and eventually moved to another room far from the putting green. The sight of one intoxicated gentleman in baggy boxers altercating with another intoxicated gentleman in a baggy dhoti is now permanently burned in my mind.
Spanner eventually married a woman with five kids and moved to Fremont.
I do not know if he still plays golf.
Rotorhead dated depressive punk girls, collected old radios, and frequently lost his balance due to having been shot out of the sky over Beirut. His inner ear was permanently damaged. Other than that, he was refreshingly normal; he deliberately ignored all the voices in his head.
As he put it, he didn't listen to anybody who didn't speak English, even if they were yelling 'incoming, incoming'.
AND BACK TO GAIETY
G.R., whom I mentioned before telling you about Bert and Ernie, was perhaps the most well-balanced of all the ex-marines. The only behavioural pattern which could possibly be conceived of as even slightly problematic was his early morning custom of marching to the shower entirely naked, hiding his manly bits with a towel held before. Like Lord Drummond (another tenant), he would practice opera under the running water, his deep basso profundo sending Italian lyrics into the airwell; it was a morning ritual much appreciated by other tenants. Folks just like good singing, okay?
Unlike 'The Watersprite', he did not use the wash-basins in the third floor hallway, even if the showers were occupied - he would patiently wait. Humming. Naked. In the hall. Towel in one hand, soap in the other.
He looked imposing at those times, in his tall and be-paunched fuzzy nakedness. He radiated a state of being at peace with the world. His standards were firm and solid. Nudity, cleanliness, and opera went together, and that meant peace of mind. This was obvious.
One day there was a very loud domestic disturbance in the alley next to the hotel.
The showers were occupied, G.R. was waiting his turn, and he was getting more and more agitated by the screeches and wails from outside.
Finally he threw his cigarette down, stomped over to the window overlooking the alley, and screamed "I'm full of sugar, naked, and happy, dagnabbit!"
Shocked silence replaced the screeching and wailing.
Earlier today I was standing outside having a smoke, when the spitting image of G.R. walked by. For a second, I could see him again in my mind, full of sugar, naked and happy.
And I smiled - it was a flashback to the marines.
Now I know better.
GAY MARINES
The first ex-marine I met was 'The Venerable Rood', who lived four doors down on the same floor of a residential hotel as myself. Several years in the Marine Corps had left him with a taste for well-built men, stiff drinks, and tight leather pants. A plurality of all of these defined his life-style. Evenings, in his world, meant spanking. Which one could hear from any corner of the building. The tearful spankee would then be comforted with gin.
A year after that, when I was living in The Bachelors Quarters (a residential hotel for single men), I met G.R., and 'Bert and Ernie'.
Bert and Ernie had first known each other in the Marine Corps. When they got out they moved to San Francisco at the same time, though separately. They always denied that they had a thing going, but they always ended up living in the same building, and could always be found in each other's rooms. No, they didn't do anything in public that might be suspect. They did not go for blatant displays of affection. They didn't betray their praedilections with tenderness or hugs. They were both far too manly for such softness.
Instead, Ernie would visit Bert's room, and while Bert was distracted Ernie would hide a giant foot-and-a-half long pink rubber novelty dildo in Bert's bed. Then, mission accomplished, he would take leave and head back to his own room. Ten minutes later Bert would come roaring down the hallway waving the object, and bang on Ernie's door with it. "Let me in, let me in, you bastard, I don't want to see this ever again!"
A voice would come from behind the locked door, softly averring "Ernie no es acqui, you come back later, gringo". To no avail. The pounding with the pink rubber dildo continued unabated till Ernie relented, and the thing returned to Ernie's chest of drawers.
When Bert left the building, Ernie would sometimes go onto the roof of the building next door, walk over to Ernie's window, let himself in, and hide the dildo again, for Ernie to discover at eleven o'clock when he got off work.
They would occasionally beat each other up, or do laundry together in their boxers. They were banned from several local laundromats.
They now live in Portland.
STRAIGHT MARINES
It wasn't until I met Spanner and Rotorhead that I realized that one could be an ex-marine, yet fully heterosexual.
Spanner played golf with himself when he got off work at three in the morning, practicing his putting on the carpet in the long hallway of the Skyway Hotel. Click, whirrrrrrrr, tink. Click, whirrrrrrrrr, plonk. Dribble dribble dribble. The activity would be punctuated by a beer can being opened, or a swear word exclaimed. And the phrase "you can't escape, you don't get out alive".
This behaviour used to drive Swamiji in the room at the end of the hall to distraction. The first couple of nights, Swamiji came storming out of his room yelling. After Spanner pushed him over several times, Swamiji thought the better of that course of action and eventually moved to another room far from the putting green. The sight of one intoxicated gentleman in baggy boxers altercating with another intoxicated gentleman in a baggy dhoti is now permanently burned in my mind.
Spanner eventually married a woman with five kids and moved to Fremont.
I do not know if he still plays golf.
Rotorhead dated depressive punk girls, collected old radios, and frequently lost his balance due to having been shot out of the sky over Beirut. His inner ear was permanently damaged. Other than that, he was refreshingly normal; he deliberately ignored all the voices in his head.
As he put it, he didn't listen to anybody who didn't speak English, even if they were yelling 'incoming, incoming'.
AND BACK TO GAIETY
G.R., whom I mentioned before telling you about Bert and Ernie, was perhaps the most well-balanced of all the ex-marines. The only behavioural pattern which could possibly be conceived of as even slightly problematic was his early morning custom of marching to the shower entirely naked, hiding his manly bits with a towel held before. Like Lord Drummond (another tenant), he would practice opera under the running water, his deep basso profundo sending Italian lyrics into the airwell; it was a morning ritual much appreciated by other tenants. Folks just like good singing, okay?
Unlike 'The Watersprite', he did not use the wash-basins in the third floor hallway, even if the showers were occupied - he would patiently wait. Humming. Naked. In the hall. Towel in one hand, soap in the other.
He looked imposing at those times, in his tall and be-paunched fuzzy nakedness. He radiated a state of being at peace with the world. His standards were firm and solid. Nudity, cleanliness, and opera went together, and that meant peace of mind. This was obvious.
One day there was a very loud domestic disturbance in the alley next to the hotel.
The showers were occupied, G.R. was waiting his turn, and he was getting more and more agitated by the screeches and wails from outside.
Finally he threw his cigarette down, stomped over to the window overlooking the alley, and screamed "I'm full of sugar, naked, and happy, dagnabbit!"
Shocked silence replaced the screeching and wailing.
Earlier today I was standing outside having a smoke, when the spitting image of G.R. walked by. For a second, I could see him again in my mind, full of sugar, naked and happy.
And I smiled - it was a flashback to the marines.
Monday, November 10, 2008
THE CHRISTMAS LOBSTER IS A RACIST!
On Saturday night Savage Kitten and I retired shortly after dinner. We were both wide awake. Now, a normal person would probably be single-mindedly overjoyed to have an unclothed silky-skinned Cantonese-American female lying next to him...... young, fresh, inviting......
I, however, made the mistake of committing small talk. One of the things I mentioned was the blood-relation several generations ago who threw pork chops at his wife.
This novel information fascinated her. She promptly asked me for details that I did not have (even if I knew the details, I wasn't really interested in divulging them at that time, but no matter).
Were they cooked pork chops? Raw? What kind of chops, and what kind of pig? How large, and how fresh? Juicy? Well-marbled at least?
These seemed to be VERY IMPORTANT considerations to her.
Cantonese-American girls are passionate about food, by the way. Not the kind of passion I was looking for, but that was my mistake.
She wondered whether there was a message on, or in, the chops. Perhaps written on them, in protein-based ink, an endearing message like "I love you", "do me!", or "sauce". This would be starkly visible after cooking. And how did he throw them? Like a Frisbee? An underhand toss? A smart whip of the arm? A casually flick of the wrist?
"Perhaps it was his way of showing affection. No? Maybe a family tradition, or a regional custom?"
Well, no, I don't think it was a family tradition. Really, the person who could've answered all those questions would have been my late brother......
"What, you mean that Tobias was the only one who knew these crucial details? What kind of family doesn't ask about the customs of their own ancestors?!? There are traditions involved, for heaven's sakes!!!"
...
"Really, you should try to find out more about the pork chop thrower. The idea that he was a butcher with an excess of meat just doesn't cut it! What did his wife do in response?"
The information that the wife of porkchopman was a recluse who kept the shutters closed and the gaslight on all day drew a sneering speculation that pork chops hardly require darkness, and perhaps the woman went around the house gleefully reveling in lardy surfaces.
Savage Kitten made no bones about her opinion that there was a flaw in my character for not wanting to talk about all this at great length.
Early this morning she awoke me with a brilliant idea for a new family tradition. Probably to replace the lost pork chop flinging custom.
THE CHRISTMAS LOBSTER
As she explained it, the Christmas Lobster scuttles around on December 24th to reward good little children with his Generous Claw of Plenty, showering them with sweets and crustaceans. Obviously this is much much better than some fat old pervert in a red bekeshe visiting kinderlech in secret during the night - that merely makes them buy into the patriarchal value system, frightens the very young, and does nothing for people who are not wasps.
The Christmas Lobster, with his Generous Claw of Plenty, is perfect for Cantonese-Americans. Apparently he favours little Cantonese-American girls especially. He is non-threatening.
He also has the Dreadful Claw of Punishment. With which he snips off the heads of bad children.
"So there is a scary side to this after all?"
I guess I should've expected the answer I got to that question.
"Oh no, because all Cantonese little girls are sweet and good, and richly deserving of candies and seafood, and should get EVERYTHING they wish for. The only ones who have anything to fear are little boys. Especially nasty little white boys."
Frankly, I am appalled at the racism. I would've said something, but in the back of my head was the knowledge that if I objected in any way at all, she would use the special relationship that good Cantonese girls have with the Christmas Lobster against me.
There's this thing called the Dreadful Claw of Punishment..........
Santa Claus ain't got nuttin' on this.
Even his reindeer are a bunch of wimps.
I, however, made the mistake of committing small talk. One of the things I mentioned was the blood-relation several generations ago who threw pork chops at his wife.
This novel information fascinated her. She promptly asked me for details that I did not have (even if I knew the details, I wasn't really interested in divulging them at that time, but no matter).
Were they cooked pork chops? Raw? What kind of chops, and what kind of pig? How large, and how fresh? Juicy? Well-marbled at least?
These seemed to be VERY IMPORTANT considerations to her.
Cantonese-American girls are passionate about food, by the way. Not the kind of passion I was looking for, but that was my mistake.
She wondered whether there was a message on, or in, the chops. Perhaps written on them, in protein-based ink, an endearing message like "I love you", "do me!", or "sauce". This would be starkly visible after cooking. And how did he throw them? Like a Frisbee? An underhand toss? A smart whip of the arm? A casually flick of the wrist?
"Perhaps it was his way of showing affection. No? Maybe a family tradition, or a regional custom?"
Well, no, I don't think it was a family tradition. Really, the person who could've answered all those questions would have been my late brother......
"What, you mean that Tobias was the only one who knew these crucial details? What kind of family doesn't ask about the customs of their own ancestors?!? There are traditions involved, for heaven's sakes!!!"
...
"Really, you should try to find out more about the pork chop thrower. The idea that he was a butcher with an excess of meat just doesn't cut it! What did his wife do in response?"
The information that the wife of porkchopman was a recluse who kept the shutters closed and the gaslight on all day drew a sneering speculation that pork chops hardly require darkness, and perhaps the woman went around the house gleefully reveling in lardy surfaces.
Savage Kitten made no bones about her opinion that there was a flaw in my character for not wanting to talk about all this at great length.
Early this morning she awoke me with a brilliant idea for a new family tradition. Probably to replace the lost pork chop flinging custom.
THE CHRISTMAS LOBSTER
As she explained it, the Christmas Lobster scuttles around on December 24th to reward good little children with his Generous Claw of Plenty, showering them with sweets and crustaceans. Obviously this is much much better than some fat old pervert in a red bekeshe visiting kinderlech in secret during the night - that merely makes them buy into the patriarchal value system, frightens the very young, and does nothing for people who are not wasps.
The Christmas Lobster, with his Generous Claw of Plenty, is perfect for Cantonese-Americans. Apparently he favours little Cantonese-American girls especially. He is non-threatening.
He also has the Dreadful Claw of Punishment. With which he snips off the heads of bad children.
"So there is a scary side to this after all?"
I guess I should've expected the answer I got to that question.
"Oh no, because all Cantonese little girls are sweet and good, and richly deserving of candies and seafood, and should get EVERYTHING they wish for. The only ones who have anything to fear are little boys. Especially nasty little white boys."
Frankly, I am appalled at the racism. I would've said something, but in the back of my head was the knowledge that if I objected in any way at all, she would use the special relationship that good Cantonese girls have with the Christmas Lobster against me.
There's this thing called the Dreadful Claw of Punishment..........
Santa Claus ain't got nuttin' on this.
Even his reindeer are a bunch of wimps.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
HOT SAUCE IS A VEGETABLE
When it comes to lunch, the financial district is rather ... ghastly.
Boring. Dreary. Repulsive. Suburbanite. Appallicious.
And treify.
You already knew that that last qualifier doesn't mean too much to me, but I'm just warning you. If you're planning to visit me during working hours, bring your own lunch, please. In fact, bring two - something kosher would really brighten my day.
In the meantime, I have a new favourite lunch.
Two scoops of rice, one scoop of macaroni salad, and chicken curry (with potatoes), from Lee's lunch counter.
Plus a really hefty squirt of Rooster Sauce.
When all you're eating is starch and protein, Rooster Sauce keeps you regular.
Would I lead you mis?
I'm feeling all koosh right now.
Oojah cum spiff.
Boring. Dreary. Repulsive. Suburbanite. Appallicious.
And treify.
You already knew that that last qualifier doesn't mean too much to me, but I'm just warning you. If you're planning to visit me during working hours, bring your own lunch, please. In fact, bring two - something kosher would really brighten my day.
In the meantime, I have a new favourite lunch.
Two scoops of rice, one scoop of macaroni salad, and chicken curry (with potatoes), from Lee's lunch counter.
Plus a really hefty squirt of Rooster Sauce.
When all you're eating is starch and protein, Rooster Sauce keeps you regular.
Would I lead you mis?
I'm feeling all koosh right now.
Oojah cum spiff.
Monday, October 13, 2008
A MIDDLE AGED MAN AND LITTLE CHILDREN
I love children, I really do. Especially when they are between three and five years old. But, lest you now jump to hire me as a baby-sitter, I should mention that there are reasons why people keep me away from their kids.
Some of my friends even send the kids out of town when I visit.
Others just make sure that the kinderlech get no opportunity to talk to me.
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do cars move?"
Me: 'They are desperately trying to get away from their butts.'
It: "Why?"
Me: 'Because they are full of gas - that's why they make those put-put-put sounds as they flee.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why are there no dinosaurs here?"
Me: 'San Francisco is too crowded for them so they all moved to Las Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs eat?"
Me: 'Pizza, extra large, with all the toppings and piled with anchovies, just like everybody else in Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs do?"
Me: 'They work as lounge singers in Las Vegas. They're very popular with old people.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why is the sky blue?"
Me: 'That was the cheapest colour the master of the universe could find when he repainted; it used to be puce.'
It: "What's puce?"
Me: 'Kinda like dog poo.'
It: "What is the master of the universe?"
Me: 'Someone with lots of spare time since the kids all moved away and no longer call.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do we celebrate Jesus' birthday?"
Me: ' 'Cause we're close to Mexico.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did Pooky scratch me?"
Me: 'He thought you were filled with candy, just like your older brother.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did my aunt die?"
Me: 'Spite.'
See, there's a reason people keep their little darlings from talking to me.
I talk back.
This past weekend was fleet-week weekend here in San Francisco. Which always coincides with Columbus Day. This means drunken sailors, lots of goobers, and a loud air-show over the city featuring dare-devil biplanes and the Navy's own obnoxiously loud Blue-Angels. Lordy, I hate the sound of jets roaring overhead. It's a stupid, hubristic display of testicular exhibitionism.
But first, idiots doing loop-de-loops in biplanes.
It: "Uncle BOTH, what's that buzzing?"
Me: 'That's a very rare insect, the Columbus Day mosquito, which only comes one day a year.'
It: "Is it dangerous?"
Me: 'Oh, very. The Indians hate Columbus Day, because it killed so many of them.'
It: "Will it kill us?"
Me: 'No, Boruch Hashem, because we have large blue phallic fly-swatters that fly through the sky and chase it away. If you stare at the sky long enough you'll see them. But until then, you've got to run around in circles very fast so that the Columbus Day mosquitoes can't catch you. It hurts like heck when they do.'
It: "Uncle BOTH, why aren't you running?"
Me: 'Cause I'm not young and juicy but old and knackered - do you see anyone biting me? You, on the other hand.... so soft, so tender, so very very sweet. Quick, there's one right behind you!!! Run! Run! Run! Run faster! And make some noise!'
All things considered, I had a very fine weekend. Even though there is now yet one more kid I'm not allowed to talk to.
At least she'll always be wary of the Blue Angels.
Or other things in the sky.
But mostly Blue Angels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Some of my friends even send the kids out of town when I visit.
Others just make sure that the kinderlech get no opportunity to talk to me.
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do cars move?"
Me: 'They are desperately trying to get away from their butts.'
It: "Why?"
Me: 'Because they are full of gas - that's why they make those put-put-put sounds as they flee.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why are there no dinosaurs here?"
Me: 'San Francisco is too crowded for them so they all moved to Las Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs eat?"
Me: 'Pizza, extra large, with all the toppings and piled with anchovies, just like everybody else in Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs do?"
Me: 'They work as lounge singers in Las Vegas. They're very popular with old people.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why is the sky blue?"
Me: 'That was the cheapest colour the master of the universe could find when he repainted; it used to be puce.'
It: "What's puce?"
Me: 'Kinda like dog poo.'
It: "What is the master of the universe?"
Me: 'Someone with lots of spare time since the kids all moved away and no longer call.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do we celebrate Jesus' birthday?"
Me: ' 'Cause we're close to Mexico.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did Pooky scratch me?"
Me: 'He thought you were filled with candy, just like your older brother.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did my aunt die?"
Me: 'Spite.'
See, there's a reason people keep their little darlings from talking to me.
I talk back.
This past weekend was fleet-week weekend here in San Francisco. Which always coincides with Columbus Day. This means drunken sailors, lots of goobers, and a loud air-show over the city featuring dare-devil biplanes and the Navy's own obnoxiously loud Blue-Angels. Lordy, I hate the sound of jets roaring overhead. It's a stupid, hubristic display of testicular exhibitionism.
But first, idiots doing loop-de-loops in biplanes.
It: "Uncle BOTH, what's that buzzing?"
Me: 'That's a very rare insect, the Columbus Day mosquito, which only comes one day a year.'
It: "Is it dangerous?"
Me: 'Oh, very. The Indians hate Columbus Day, because it killed so many of them.'
It: "Will it kill us?"
Me: 'No, Boruch Hashem, because we have large blue phallic fly-swatters that fly through the sky and chase it away. If you stare at the sky long enough you'll see them. But until then, you've got to run around in circles very fast so that the Columbus Day mosquitoes can't catch you. It hurts like heck when they do.'
It: "Uncle BOTH, why aren't you running?"
Me: 'Cause I'm not young and juicy but old and knackered - do you see anyone biting me? You, on the other hand.... so soft, so tender, so very very sweet. Quick, there's one right behind you!!! Run! Run! Run! Run faster! And make some noise!'
All things considered, I had a very fine weekend. Even though there is now yet one more kid I'm not allowed to talk to.
At least she'll always be wary of the Blue Angels.
Or other things in the sky.
But mostly Blue Angels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 15, 2008
I AM NO LONGER A HOT SEX GAY CAT GIRL VIDEO!
And huzzah to that! For some reason, internet searches for my blog yielded both a hot gay video site, and a manga cat girl pornography site. Both incredibly detailed and content-rich. As well as a page about Dutch protestants, including but not limited to Calvinists, strict Calvinists, very angry Calvinists, and Dutch Calvinists married to Scottish women, farklempt or otherwise, or some such (I didn't stay there very long, so I may be not entirely clear about the content of that site - I do have some standards).
Being no longer listed as a link on pages about hot gay sex or spanking bikini-clad catgirls is a profound cause for celebration!
Not that I object to those people who are searching the internet for hot bottoms or furry spanking accidentally stumbling into my very clean and almost puritanically sex-free blog - heavens no! Their contributions can be staggeringly eloquent! Consider the many comments about panties and wombats that I have received over the past two months - lyrically descriptive of hem-lace, stripes versus patterns, pink-rose-violet versus peach-apricot-saffron. Cotton versus silk. High-waisted, low-waisted, or even barely waisted at all, the merest band of embroidered ribbon connecting front and back. Plus wombats. Such comments penned underneath posts that had naught to do with panties. Or wombats.
I myself have no opinions about panties or wombats, in case you are wondering. I do not wear panties, I have no wombat.
But emmes, the people who really should discover my site on the internet are NOT the panty and wombat fetishists. They have enough destinations on the web already. And we must celebrate their no longer being sent here by the false promises of search engines, or sites with troll-capability but no discrimination.
Thank you for not distracting them from their epic quest.
This site is not about panties.
It is rarely about schoolgirls (including but not limited to megane-ko, neko-mimi, blushing, and nose-bleeds), often about rabbis, and Balkan Sobranie. Plus anger and Dutch things. Basically, Talmud, Torah, the occasional tempting two-dimensional teenager, Treifus gamur, and Tobacco. Please remember that.
TOBACCO INDEX
Being no longer listed as a link on pages about hot gay sex or spanking bikini-clad catgirls is a profound cause for celebration!
Not that I object to those people who are searching the internet for hot bottoms or furry spanking accidentally stumbling into my very clean and almost puritanically sex-free blog - heavens no! Their contributions can be staggeringly eloquent! Consider the many comments about panties and wombats that I have received over the past two months - lyrically descriptive of hem-lace, stripes versus patterns, pink-rose-violet versus peach-apricot-saffron. Cotton versus silk. High-waisted, low-waisted, or even barely waisted at all, the merest band of embroidered ribbon connecting front and back. Plus wombats. Such comments penned underneath posts that had naught to do with panties. Or wombats.
I myself have no opinions about panties or wombats, in case you are wondering. I do not wear panties, I have no wombat.
But emmes, the people who really should discover my site on the internet are NOT the panty and wombat fetishists. They have enough destinations on the web already. And we must celebrate their no longer being sent here by the false promises of search engines, or sites with troll-capability but no discrimination.
Thank you for not distracting them from their epic quest.
This site is not about panties.
It is rarely about schoolgirls (including but not limited to megane-ko, neko-mimi, blushing, and nose-bleeds), often about rabbis, and Balkan Sobranie. Plus anger and Dutch things. Basically, Talmud, Torah, the occasional tempting two-dimensional teenager, Treifus gamur, and Tobacco. Please remember that.
TOBACCO INDEX
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
NO, YOU DO NOT GET MY GOAT
There are times when little nuggets of pure gold appear in the comment section. And even if the gold proves dross, the sparkling portrait of a fevered mind remains. Comments, in a large part, are the collective subconscious of a blog - the ghosts of alternate personalities in a schizophrenic realm.
Consider this sharp retort:
"You ignored the nuts! NEVER..!..! ignore the nuts!"
The same person then went on to write:
"Listen, mister, there is nothing clean about stumping a goat, let me tell you! The entire city of Delhi knows this, from keen personal experience, about which they bally WON'T shut up, and yet they still pursue goats with an avidity and a zest which boggles the mind, staggers the senses, and buggers the imagination! And the goat. The last bit, that is. Bally perverts. And crypto Pakis. Tis a fine tradition. In Delhi."
Followed by:
"And they don't even have boots! Have you ever tried sticking goat trots in your chapplis? Is buggery impossible. Meeeh! Meeeh! Mee-ee-eeeh!"
Under yet another post, he asked:
"Disaster zun rein? Vos disser stranger text alle iz, kanstu es translatieren, sil bus pley? Wir furstain es im gunzer nit, iz allemost looking at vos di Jossip Izrael ez hotter geschrieb. Ja. And a big goat for du!"
GOATS
I should point out at this interval that not a single one of my posts discussed sex with goats. Ever. My blog has veered into odd subjects, and perhaps gone a little bit overboard about certain appetizing fetishes - just a tiny bit - but performing unnatural Texan acts on goats, of either gender, has not been on the programme. The goat stuff is something that particular commenter came up with all by himself. It represents an imaginary sexuality, or a problematic life-style choice. Perhaps either-or and both, approximately and exactly.
More power to him if he's that way inclined.
He may have a thing about goats. And a thing for goats.
I will just have to make sure that my goats do not stray anywhere near him. My goats are by no means ready for any depravity. Not by a long shot.
My goats are still sweet and innocent.
I do not ignore the nuts. I never ignore the nuts.
Consider this sharp retort:
"You ignored the nuts! NEVER..!..! ignore the nuts!"
The same person then went on to write:
"Listen, mister, there is nothing clean about stumping a goat, let me tell you! The entire city of Delhi knows this, from keen personal experience, about which they bally WON'T shut up, and yet they still pursue goats with an avidity and a zest which boggles the mind, staggers the senses, and buggers the imagination! And the goat. The last bit, that is. Bally perverts. And crypto Pakis. Tis a fine tradition. In Delhi."
Followed by:
"And they don't even have boots! Have you ever tried sticking goat trots in your chapplis? Is buggery impossible. Meeeh! Meeeh! Mee-ee-eeeh!"
Under yet another post, he asked:
"Disaster zun rein? Vos disser stranger text alle iz, kanstu es translatieren, sil bus pley? Wir furstain es im gunzer nit, iz allemost looking at vos di Jossip Izrael ez hotter geschrieb. Ja. And a big goat for du!"
GOATS
I should point out at this interval that not a single one of my posts discussed sex with goats. Ever. My blog has veered into odd subjects, and perhaps gone a little bit overboard about certain appetizing fetishes - just a tiny bit - but performing unnatural Texan acts on goats, of either gender, has not been on the programme. The goat stuff is something that particular commenter came up with all by himself. It represents an imaginary sexuality, or a problematic life-style choice. Perhaps either-or and both, approximately and exactly.
More power to him if he's that way inclined.
He may have a thing about goats. And a thing for goats.
I will just have to make sure that my goats do not stray anywhere near him. My goats are by no means ready for any depravity. Not by a long shot.
My goats are still sweet and innocent.
I do not ignore the nuts. I never ignore the nuts.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
SPRINGY ROUND BOTTOMS
In everybody's circle of friends and acquaintances there are few who habitually show up late. Whether it's for a simcha, supper, or an important appointment.
Sometimes, showing up late is a metaphor - they're actually on time, but the train hasn't left the station, the boat is still at the dock, and the elevator is stuck a few floors down from the top.
I have received the following plaintive e-mail from one such person:
Dear xxxxx,
This message is to inform you that you have received a personal invitation from your friend, (mxxxsxxx) to join them at GayGuysChat.com
Please take time to visit them using the following link: GayGuysChat.com
Regards,
GayGuysChat Support
Oh boy. I'm tempted. The sheer amount of havoc I could wreak is staggering. Problem is, I'm not gay. As the sender knows.
He just hasn't quite figured out how to mail an invite from gayguyschat to a limited subsection of his address book yet.
Perhaps I should sweetly inquire whether he needs a few pointers on how to use a computer.
But I probably won't - this is not the first time I have received his kindly gayguyschat invite - he has been sending gayguyschat invites repeatedly to all several hundred people in his address book since January, I think, when the first blistering fire-storms burst out from outraged recipients, some of whom had not heard from him in years.
"You don't call, you don't write, I never hear from you, and this is the first thing I get since I sent you a present on your birthday? Your father and I are very upset!!!"
Or:
"You never congratulated your niece on her graduation, you didn't even send a get-well card after the horrible accident, you ignored your own brother when he was dying of cancah, but this(!) you can send?!?*&*?"
I wonder what gay guys chat about. Straight people? Sex?
Football players?
Football players well-rounded bottoms in tight shiny uniform pants?
I must admit that straight people and sex do indeed interest me - heck, fascinate me no end at times - but football players and their shiny uniformed bottoms are not high on my list of things I really must investigate.
If a football player, even one with a very nice springy round bottom in a tight uniform, were to pass by, I would not break stride.
His very nice springy round bottom (uniformed or otherwise) would remain unpatted, unpinched, unobserved. I would not wax lyrical about its springy roundness afterwards, would write no paeans to its tightly uniformed glory, poetize no lyrics to its pattable and pinchable beauty.
There is only one kind of nice springy round bottom that interests me. It is not discussed at gayguyschat, of that I am certain. Despite the uniform.
Sometimes, showing up late is a metaphor - they're actually on time, but the train hasn't left the station, the boat is still at the dock, and the elevator is stuck a few floors down from the top.
I have received the following plaintive e-mail from one such person:
Dear xxxxx,
This message is to inform you that you have received a personal invitation from your friend, (mxxxsxxx) to join them at GayGuysChat.com
Please take time to visit them using the following link: GayGuysChat.com
Regards,
GayGuysChat Support
Oh boy. I'm tempted. The sheer amount of havoc I could wreak is staggering. Problem is, I'm not gay. As the sender knows.
He just hasn't quite figured out how to mail an invite from gayguyschat to a limited subsection of his address book yet.
Perhaps I should sweetly inquire whether he needs a few pointers on how to use a computer.
But I probably won't - this is not the first time I have received his kindly gayguyschat invite - he has been sending gayguyschat invites repeatedly to all several hundred people in his address book since January, I think, when the first blistering fire-storms burst out from outraged recipients, some of whom had not heard from him in years.
"You don't call, you don't write, I never hear from you, and this is the first thing I get since I sent you a present on your birthday? Your father and I are very upset!!!"
Or:
"You never congratulated your niece on her graduation, you didn't even send a get-well card after the horrible accident, you ignored your own brother when he was dying of cancah, but this(!) you can send?!?*&*?"
I wonder what gay guys chat about. Straight people? Sex?
Football players?
Football players well-rounded bottoms in tight shiny uniform pants?
I must admit that straight people and sex do indeed interest me - heck, fascinate me no end at times - but football players and their shiny uniformed bottoms are not high on my list of things I really must investigate.
If a football player, even one with a very nice springy round bottom in a tight uniform, were to pass by, I would not break stride.
His very nice springy round bottom (uniformed or otherwise) would remain unpatted, unpinched, unobserved. I would not wax lyrical about its springy roundness afterwards, would write no paeans to its tightly uniformed glory, poetize no lyrics to its pattable and pinchable beauty.
There is only one kind of nice springy round bottom that interests me. It is not discussed at gayguyschat, of that I am certain. Despite the uniform.
Monday, July 28, 2008
I'M ON THE RAG AND I'VE GOT A KNIFE!
Actually, I wanted to put a different name on this post. The title above could be seen as deliberately provocative (it is, but I'm denying that), and someone without a sense of humour might take it as offensive and sexist (recommendation: get a life).
What I actually wanted to place in bold letters above this post was:
BAREFOOT JESUS MEDICATED FOOT POWDER ™ ©
The reason for the Barefoot Jesus Medicated Foot Powder caption would have been the comments that I received on some previous posts from a gentleman named Lev.
EXHIBIT NUMBER ONE:
"Where, pray, is the footlong posting about medicated pedal powder? We demand a disquisition!"
EXHIBIT NUMBER TWO:
"I shall not even try to babel-fish what you wrote. It's all double Dutch, isn't it?"
EXHIBIT NUMBER THREE:
"Uom might be a correct spelling in Indonchina, for one of the ethnic languages especially. Ober mir given in gonzen nisht a hoot vos di tribals es pronuntsen voln, un vil konsekvently es vi 'wong' shriebn."
[The only thing that connects these disparate comments is that they are by the same author.]
I like meshune comments. They liven things up. Especially when there is an element of sheer gibberancy. Admittedly the quotes above were brutally ripped from their contexts, but they were invested with crystal-clear unbalance to begin with, trust me. Lev saw the train leave the station and ran with it. He is able to take an incidental theme and slam it so sideways that it takes over the field. The ball is fertilized, the penguin is on fire, and the wombat is in the house, so to speak. Wow.
How sad that I cannot lecture at length about medicated footpowder. Even though I obsess about the perfect footpowder - does not clump, feels silken and feathery, has a right balance of cornstarch, silica, calcium, and desiccants, in addition to disinfectants, mold retardants, aloe, and a topical painkiller - I have not much thought about the subject. My only "research" is trying out a bottle whenever I discover a new brand.
[There are several half-empty footpowder containers under my bed which will probably never be used again - the product clumped, or smeared and felt moist, or caked up. Inferior foot powders, not up to snuff. I have extremely high foot powder standards. So far Desenex powder seems the best.]
Powdered feet are happy feet.
Think of it as the confectioner's sugar on a bund cake.
When strangers ask me why my shoes have white dust on the tops, I tell them that I work in the post office.
[The explanation 'Desenex leak' is too 'high-concept' for most people.]
Other than that, I have nothing to say about foot powder.
Sorry, Lev, I cannot help you. Good luck finding a brand of medicated footpowder that meets your needs.
[That deals with exhibit number one. Exhibits two and three were put there merely to illustrate the charming yet contradictory chaos behind Lev's commenting.]
EXPLAINING THE TITLE
The caption which drew your attention in the first place really has to do with the other people at the charity where Savage Kitten volunteers on Sundays. It's a soup kitchen, and some of the folks who help prepare food are not entirely compos mentes or gifted conversationalists. Others are too Christian.
Savage Kitten is not nearly as tolerant of the peccadilloes of her fellow humans as you might have thought - my quirks she accepts because of either fierce lust for my hot middle-aged body or my sheer hug-worthy lovability, and she'll put up with the personalities of lobsters and crawdaddies because they are utterly delicious. Other than that, scant patience. She is not a very sociable person.
That may be why they have her trim the beef at a work station by herself.
One of her Sunday co-workers, however, was fooled by her appearance ('looks like a shy Cantonese girl with no life and a sweet personality'), and being an absolute bulb kept trying to strike up a conversation, several Sundays in row. Previously she had distracted him by handing him trays and telling them where to put them, or asking him to dispose of a pan full of bloody gristle and meat juices......
Yesterday, her patience hit empty and swung into negative. When he came over to talk, she simply snapped "I'm on the rag and I've got a knife!".
He avoided her for the remainder of the shift.
I'm horribly jealous. It's a great line, but no one would believe me if I used it.
Besides which, it wouldn't be quite as effective, as I am not that fierce.
She came back from the soup kitchen wreathed in smiles. Best volunteer Sunday ever.
What I actually wanted to place in bold letters above this post was:
BAREFOOT JESUS MEDICATED FOOT POWDER ™ ©
The reason for the Barefoot Jesus Medicated Foot Powder caption would have been the comments that I received on some previous posts from a gentleman named Lev.
EXHIBIT NUMBER ONE:
"Where, pray, is the footlong posting about medicated pedal powder? We demand a disquisition!"
EXHIBIT NUMBER TWO:
"I shall not even try to babel-fish what you wrote. It's all double Dutch, isn't it?"
EXHIBIT NUMBER THREE:
"Uom might be a correct spelling in Indonchina, for one of the ethnic languages especially. Ober mir given in gonzen nisht a hoot vos di tribals es pronuntsen voln, un vil konsekvently es vi 'wong' shriebn."
[The only thing that connects these disparate comments is that they are by the same author.]
I like meshune comments. They liven things up. Especially when there is an element of sheer gibberancy. Admittedly the quotes above were brutally ripped from their contexts, but they were invested with crystal-clear unbalance to begin with, trust me. Lev saw the train leave the station and ran with it. He is able to take an incidental theme and slam it so sideways that it takes over the field. The ball is fertilized, the penguin is on fire, and the wombat is in the house, so to speak. Wow.
How sad that I cannot lecture at length about medicated footpowder. Even though I obsess about the perfect footpowder - does not clump, feels silken and feathery, has a right balance of cornstarch, silica, calcium, and desiccants, in addition to disinfectants, mold retardants, aloe, and a topical painkiller - I have not much thought about the subject. My only "research" is trying out a bottle whenever I discover a new brand.
[There are several half-empty footpowder containers under my bed which will probably never be used again - the product clumped, or smeared and felt moist, or caked up. Inferior foot powders, not up to snuff. I have extremely high foot powder standards. So far Desenex powder seems the best.]
Powdered feet are happy feet.
Think of it as the confectioner's sugar on a bund cake.
When strangers ask me why my shoes have white dust on the tops, I tell them that I work in the post office.
[The explanation 'Desenex leak' is too 'high-concept' for most people.]
Other than that, I have nothing to say about foot powder.
Sorry, Lev, I cannot help you. Good luck finding a brand of medicated footpowder that meets your needs.
[That deals with exhibit number one. Exhibits two and three were put there merely to illustrate the charming yet contradictory chaos behind Lev's commenting.]
EXPLAINING THE TITLE
The caption which drew your attention in the first place really has to do with the other people at the charity where Savage Kitten volunteers on Sundays. It's a soup kitchen, and some of the folks who help prepare food are not entirely compos mentes or gifted conversationalists. Others are too Christian.
Savage Kitten is not nearly as tolerant of the peccadilloes of her fellow humans as you might have thought - my quirks she accepts because of either fierce lust for my hot middle-aged body or my sheer hug-worthy lovability, and she'll put up with the personalities of lobsters and crawdaddies because they are utterly delicious. Other than that, scant patience. She is not a very sociable person.
That may be why they have her trim the beef at a work station by herself.
One of her Sunday co-workers, however, was fooled by her appearance ('looks like a shy Cantonese girl with no life and a sweet personality'), and being an absolute bulb kept trying to strike up a conversation, several Sundays in row. Previously she had distracted him by handing him trays and telling them where to put them, or asking him to dispose of a pan full of bloody gristle and meat juices......
Yesterday, her patience hit empty and swung into negative. When he came over to talk, she simply snapped "I'm on the rag and I've got a knife!".
He avoided her for the remainder of the shift.
I'm horribly jealous. It's a great line, but no one would believe me if I used it.
Besides which, it wouldn't be quite as effective, as I am not that fierce.
She came back from the soup kitchen wreathed in smiles. Best volunteer Sunday ever.
Friday, July 25, 2008
THEY MUST NOT READ MY BLOG
On a daily basis I receive a fairly large amount of spam e-mail. On the basis of which I can understand what the spambrains think of me. Or at least what they fondly imagine that I am.
PROFILE
I am a short middle-aged bald person with a tiny penis and mediocre breasts, who is passionately interested in Britney Spears naked and the sex-lives of female celebritities. I need more fake watches, university degrees, and designer handbags. Plus excercise equipement, diet pills, and a tummy tuck.
And I want money desperately - hence the lottery e-mails from Europe and bank-account queries from Africa. As well as the circulars telling me to buy this stock now now now before Wall Street discovers it.
Lonely girls in Russia wish to share their vacation photos (I think that's what those are) with me, and I must learn one foreign language right now while I sleep - probably so that I can communicate with my insta-girlfriend in ANY city in the continental United States.
Quite the portrait, eh?
JEEBUS
Oh, and apparently I am a Christian. This according to Amazon, who cannot figure out that someone who buys Toratot (well, chumeshim), commentaries, and biographies of rabbis, as well as much stuff about the Talmud, may, probably, with a certain degree of likelihood, not be passionately committed to the best Christian fiction of 2008.
Echt. And b'emmes.
I am in gonzen not interested in reading about the first tentative married steps of a shy young virgin with Jesus in her heart. The uplift, the end of days, and the mark of the beast are not major themes I look for in romance fiction. Feeling sadness for those who are left behind in massive car-crashes on the freeway, after the heavens rain fire and blood, is not an emotion that figures heavily in my appreciation of paperback novels.
In fact, unlike you I could probably go for weeks without needing the words Christ, sin, Eden, rapture, salvation, Revelations, and The Damned. Normally they do not figure prominently in my vocabulary.
The only prolonged conversation I've had in recent years about Jesus was when I explained to a coworker that Torah study with a friend did not, would not, and never had, involved her dear lord in any way imaginable. Jesus and Torah study do not go hand in hand. They are in fact more or less mutually exclusive. This surprised her, and she barely spoke to me for at least the next two years. I believe she still wonders when I'll burst into flames.
It is a darned good thing that the coworker in question does not read my blog. She might take to wearing garlic and silver if she did.
READ THIS NOW
If many people had read my blog, it would have saved them much time and effort.
Hundreds of people in west-Africa might have realized that all the heartfelt missives they sent me over the years have fallen on deaf eyes. I am not their target audience.
The lonely Russian girls would know that I am only interested if they are petite, have dark hair, and blush prettily.
Amazon would cease telling me about wholesome Protestant novellas.
Various people in major European cities would know that I do not gamble, and have not played any games of chance outside of California.
The sellers of herbal supplements, breast enhancers, and three inch augmentifiers would appreciate that I am an enormous hairy manly man built like a rampaging stallion, and the Christians would grasp the utter nonsense of their ideology.
If you have sent me any of the spam mentioned above, please stop.
I do not need it.
I am only interested in panties, wombats, blushing schoolgirls, and elderly rabbis. Whether you want to sell these to me, or merely show me zesty pictures, is up to you.
PROFILE
I am a short middle-aged bald person with a tiny penis and mediocre breasts, who is passionately interested in Britney Spears naked and the sex-lives of female celebritities. I need more fake watches, university degrees, and designer handbags. Plus excercise equipement, diet pills, and a tummy tuck.
And I want money desperately - hence the lottery e-mails from Europe and bank-account queries from Africa. As well as the circulars telling me to buy this stock now now now before Wall Street discovers it.
Lonely girls in Russia wish to share their vacation photos (I think that's what those are) with me, and I must learn one foreign language right now while I sleep - probably so that I can communicate with my insta-girlfriend in ANY city in the continental United States.
Quite the portrait, eh?
JEEBUS
Oh, and apparently I am a Christian. This according to Amazon, who cannot figure out that someone who buys Toratot (well, chumeshim), commentaries, and biographies of rabbis, as well as much stuff about the Talmud, may, probably, with a certain degree of likelihood, not be passionately committed to the best Christian fiction of 2008.
Echt. And b'emmes.
I am in gonzen not interested in reading about the first tentative married steps of a shy young virgin with Jesus in her heart. The uplift, the end of days, and the mark of the beast are not major themes I look for in romance fiction. Feeling sadness for those who are left behind in massive car-crashes on the freeway, after the heavens rain fire and blood, is not an emotion that figures heavily in my appreciation of paperback novels.
In fact, unlike you I could probably go for weeks without needing the words Christ, sin, Eden, rapture, salvation, Revelations, and The Damned. Normally they do not figure prominently in my vocabulary.
The only prolonged conversation I've had in recent years about Jesus was when I explained to a coworker that Torah study with a friend did not, would not, and never had, involved her dear lord in any way imaginable. Jesus and Torah study do not go hand in hand. They are in fact more or less mutually exclusive. This surprised her, and she barely spoke to me for at least the next two years. I believe she still wonders when I'll burst into flames.
It is a darned good thing that the coworker in question does not read my blog. She might take to wearing garlic and silver if she did.
READ THIS NOW
If many people had read my blog, it would have saved them much time and effort.
Hundreds of people in west-Africa might have realized that all the heartfelt missives they sent me over the years have fallen on deaf eyes. I am not their target audience.
The lonely Russian girls would know that I am only interested if they are petite, have dark hair, and blush prettily.
Amazon would cease telling me about wholesome Protestant novellas.
Various people in major European cities would know that I do not gamble, and have not played any games of chance outside of California.
The sellers of herbal supplements, breast enhancers, and three inch augmentifiers would appreciate that I am an enormous hairy manly man built like a rampaging stallion, and the Christians would grasp the utter nonsense of their ideology.
If you have sent me any of the spam mentioned above, please stop.
I do not need it.
I am only interested in panties, wombats, blushing schoolgirls, and elderly rabbis. Whether you want to sell these to me, or merely show me zesty pictures, is up to you.
Friday, June 20, 2008
THE HALACHA OF NI
Under a post about statuesque nudity, large photogenic untzniusdikke parts, and the marble charms of Venus (or Lady Justicia holding scales, in her more 'accepted' public persona) on Dovbear's blog, serious issues have been hashed out.
From the comment-string:
ATBOTH wrote:
"Oh Knight who still says ni - you must be Jewish, that would explain why, when everyone else in your shul is saying "ecky ecky ecky ecky pikang zoop boing goodemzoo owli zhiv", you stubbornly insist that "ecky ecky ecky ecky pikang zoop boing goodemzoo owli zhiv" is NOT the minhag of the old country, and you don't care what these Gallitzianers or Rumanians do, you will still, like you were taught, in a mesorah all the way from the mountain, say 'ni'.
Kudos. Minhag has the weight of halacha. And the minhag says 'ni'. Punkt.
"Ecky ecky ecky ecky pikang zoop boing goodemzoo owli zhiv" is merely a ridiculous chumrah."
To which TKwhoSN responded:
"TBOTH - Yes, I'm sticking with "Ni". Not only is ""ecky ecky ecky ecky pikang zoop boing goodemzoo owli zhiv"" a recent innovation with no basis in tradition, it's way too long to fit in the "Name" field.
Plus, if you need to pass, I only require one shrubbery. A nice one. Not too expensive. So, it saves you that whole getting a two and placing it beside the first one, only slightly higher so we get the two level effect, etc. Not to mention avoiding having to chop down the tallest tree in the forest with a herring.
Ni really is the best minhag - for everyone, knight or not."
As you can tell, TKwhoSN is a traditionalist, and resists hiddur mitzva.
This stand is supported by Rabban Gamliel, who held that the cost of TWO shrubberies put such a terrible burden on a family that they would abandon (the individual required to present a shrubbery) and flee. Rabban Gamliel says: "Ein zaken b'Cheshvan" [ 'nobody (harvests) a mature shrubbery in (the month of) Cheshvan' ]. Because it is a hardship.
But this is not necessarily a barrier to performing a commandment, and further, when his (Rabban Gamliel’s) children came home after chatzos, they asked their father whether they could recite krias shema. Now, though one cannot gain a kiyum mitzvah d’oraysa, done knowingly in contravention of standards set by Chazal, the children missed the proper time of chatzos only b'ones (unintentionally). And it is suggested that violating a d'rabbanan b'ones should not negate a kiyum d'oraysa.
Rav zeira opines (regarding hiddur mitzva), "by as much as a third".
Rashi explains as follows: 'if a man finds two shrubberies and acquires the nicer one, he should go that third further for the nicer one' - "today we do the mitzva, tomorrow we may be rewarded". What is added on will be repaid (al pi Rashi, Bava Kama 9b).
The Rishonim disagree as to the correct way of fulfilling the mitzva mehadrin min hamehadrin. The Rambam avers that it is supplemental to the preceding level (mehadrin): one should acquire an additional shrubbery for each person, for each occasion that a shrubbery is required. He states that we use the best that we can afford - and this implies a comparative, and hence, it might be argued, TWO (or more) shrubberies!
That presents a machlokes: how many shrubberies are required, and are more (than the basic requirement) permitted?
The Rema also allows one for each person like the Rambam, which is the Ashkenazic minhag (a shrubbery per person) but differs from the Rambam, who held that it was enough if the head of the household presented the shrubberies on behalf of each member of the family - the Rema states that each individual should present his own. The Maharil agrees.
So whereas one point of view holds that there should also be a shrubbery for the person presenting the shrubbery (and a minimum of one additional shrubbery for the household), the practise has been one shrubbery per person.
As is written: "Two is one too many, and three is right out. No more. No less. One shall be the count of your shrubbery, and the number of the shrubbery shall be one. Two shall you not present, nor either present naught, excepting that you then proceed to one. Three is right out. Once the number one, being the first number, be reached, present you then the shrubbery towards the knights".
[Rambam, Sefer Netachim]
Other readers also weighed in.
Yossi said:
"I would have to say that I lean towards "Ni" however there is a lot of persuasive reasoning to the machlokes disputing "Ni" and suggesting that the proper minhag is, in fact, "It!"
One only needs consider the knights' response to that holy word to understand the strong foundation to that contention."
Abe said:
"About 5 years ago, I went to a fundie relative's wedding, much against my better judgement. It took place in a very fancy and expensive catering hall. After the valet took my car, I walked through a gardened walkway to the entrance and noted 2 shrouded figures on both sides of the entrance doors. I was puzzled and took a closer look. I peeked under the shroud and I laughed when I realized that the licentious display was nothing more than a nude statue of Venus in all her feminine charms.
I surmised that the sight of a nude Venus might have deleterious effects on the choson's frame of mind for future kolel study.
On the other hand, the dopey fundies didn't understand that this was also an ancient kabalistic segula for a more productive romp in the bedroom on the happy couple's wedding night. "
The Internet is for Porn said:
" "I surmised that the sight of a nude Venus might have deleterious effects on the choson's frame of mind for future kolel study. "But on the other hand, it might have done wonders for the choson's frame of mind regarding the mitzva of pru urvu!"
We see that the obligation (d'oraisa) of the shrubbery is linked to the mitzva of pru urvu, and while our fathers (may have) had two wives (Yakov, with Rachel and Leah, for instance), it has long been customary for us to have only one spouse. Hence the exactation of TWO shrubberies clearly constitutes a hardship.
No matter your (understandably) keen desire to 'beautify the commandment', you should limit yourself to one.
Ni.
From the comment-string:
ATBOTH wrote:
"Oh Knight who still says ni - you must be Jewish, that would explain why, when everyone else in your shul is saying "ecky ecky ecky ecky pikang zoop boing goodemzoo owli zhiv", you stubbornly insist that "ecky ecky ecky ecky pikang zoop boing goodemzoo owli zhiv" is NOT the minhag of the old country, and you don't care what these Gallitzianers or Rumanians do, you will still, like you were taught, in a mesorah all the way from the mountain, say 'ni'.
Kudos. Minhag has the weight of halacha. And the minhag says 'ni'. Punkt.
"Ecky ecky ecky ecky pikang zoop boing goodemzoo owli zhiv" is merely a ridiculous chumrah."
To which TKwhoSN responded:
"TBOTH - Yes, I'm sticking with "Ni". Not only is ""ecky ecky ecky ecky pikang zoop boing goodemzoo owli zhiv"" a recent innovation with no basis in tradition, it's way too long to fit in the "Name" field.
Plus, if you need to pass, I only require one shrubbery. A nice one. Not too expensive. So, it saves you that whole getting a two and placing it beside the first one, only slightly higher so we get the two level effect, etc. Not to mention avoiding having to chop down the tallest tree in the forest with a herring.
Ni really is the best minhag - for everyone, knight or not."
As you can tell, TKwhoSN is a traditionalist, and resists hiddur mitzva.
This stand is supported by Rabban Gamliel, who held that the cost of TWO shrubberies put such a terrible burden on a family that they would abandon (the individual required to present a shrubbery) and flee. Rabban Gamliel says: "Ein zaken b'Cheshvan" [ 'nobody (harvests) a mature shrubbery in (the month of) Cheshvan' ]. Because it is a hardship.
But this is not necessarily a barrier to performing a commandment, and further, when his (Rabban Gamliel’s) children came home after chatzos, they asked their father whether they could recite krias shema. Now, though one cannot gain a kiyum mitzvah d’oraysa, done knowingly in contravention of standards set by Chazal, the children missed the proper time of chatzos only b'ones (unintentionally). And it is suggested that violating a d'rabbanan b'ones should not negate a kiyum d'oraysa.
Rav zeira opines (regarding hiddur mitzva), "by as much as a third".
Rashi explains as follows: 'if a man finds two shrubberies and acquires the nicer one, he should go that third further for the nicer one' - "today we do the mitzva, tomorrow we may be rewarded". What is added on will be repaid (al pi Rashi, Bava Kama 9b).
The Rishonim disagree as to the correct way of fulfilling the mitzva mehadrin min hamehadrin. The Rambam avers that it is supplemental to the preceding level (mehadrin): one should acquire an additional shrubbery for each person, for each occasion that a shrubbery is required. He states that we use the best that we can afford - and this implies a comparative, and hence, it might be argued, TWO (or more) shrubberies!
That presents a machlokes: how many shrubberies are required, and are more (than the basic requirement) permitted?
The Rema also allows one for each person like the Rambam, which is the Ashkenazic minhag (a shrubbery per person) but differs from the Rambam, who held that it was enough if the head of the household presented the shrubberies on behalf of each member of the family - the Rema states that each individual should present his own. The Maharil agrees.
So whereas one point of view holds that there should also be a shrubbery for the person presenting the shrubbery (and a minimum of one additional shrubbery for the household), the practise has been one shrubbery per person.
As is written: "Two is one too many, and three is right out. No more. No less. One shall be the count of your shrubbery, and the number of the shrubbery shall be one. Two shall you not present, nor either present naught, excepting that you then proceed to one. Three is right out. Once the number one, being the first number, be reached, present you then the shrubbery towards the knights".
[Rambam, Sefer Netachim]
Other readers also weighed in.
Yossi said:
"I would have to say that I lean towards "Ni" however there is a lot of persuasive reasoning to the machlokes disputing "Ni" and suggesting that the proper minhag is, in fact, "It!"
One only needs consider the knights' response to that holy word to understand the strong foundation to that contention."
Abe said:
"About 5 years ago, I went to a fundie relative's wedding, much against my better judgement. It took place in a very fancy and expensive catering hall. After the valet took my car, I walked through a gardened walkway to the entrance and noted 2 shrouded figures on both sides of the entrance doors. I was puzzled and took a closer look. I peeked under the shroud and I laughed when I realized that the licentious display was nothing more than a nude statue of Venus in all her feminine charms.
I surmised that the sight of a nude Venus might have deleterious effects on the choson's frame of mind for future kolel study.
On the other hand, the dopey fundies didn't understand that this was also an ancient kabalistic segula for a more productive romp in the bedroom on the happy couple's wedding night. "
The Internet is for Porn said:
" "I surmised that the sight of a nude Venus might have deleterious effects on the choson's frame of mind for future kolel study. "But on the other hand, it might have done wonders for the choson's frame of mind regarding the mitzva of pru urvu!"
We see that the obligation (d'oraisa) of the shrubbery is linked to the mitzva of pru urvu, and while our fathers (may have) had two wives (Yakov, with Rachel and Leah, for instance), it has long been customary for us to have only one spouse. Hence the exactation of TWO shrubberies clearly constitutes a hardship.
No matter your (understandably) keen desire to 'beautify the commandment', you should limit yourself to one.
Ni.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
DILDO BOB
No, this is not another episode of "this writer's strange obsession with unprintable subject matter". It is not about dildoes. If you came here for that, I am sorry to disappoint you.
This is about bars in San Francisco.
The year after the prohibition against smoking in bars went into effect, the three elderly owners of my favourite watering hole sold the place to a couple whose vitriolic domestic disputes in the bar nearly qualified the place as a cabaret - live shows, quotable lines, and over-the-top stream of consciousness poetry. I held out longer than many patrons, but I eventually found somewhere else to have the occasional drink.
I went to the karaoke bar around another corner. The gay couple that ran that place was more likeable than the two people who ran The White Swallow, and their quarrels were far less public. Many of the loyalists of The White Swallow eventually also started roosting there.
Those two gay men no longer own the place (two other gay men own it now), and while it is still a karaoke bar, the clientele has changed somewhat. One of the loyalists who has stayed, and who enjoys the presence of the younger, hipper, more tattooed crowd that drinks there now, is the person named in the title of this post - a gay man in his seventies with a handlebar moustache, a raspy voice, and a farting dog (which is not allowed in the bar anymore).
Dildo Bob drinks Manhattans, sings off key and out of tune, has an overactive imagination, and is conversationally both a disaster and a toxic-waste dump (he's called 'Dildo Bob' because listening to him, speaking or singing, is a pain in the sphincter). But he's an all-right kind of chap, and once you know him you will recognize this.
GET NAKED
Dildo Bob has a number of lines he yells as encouragement to the singers. One of which is "get naked". When he yells it at young men (that is, anyone under seventy years of age), it also expresses his hope, nay, his desperation, that he might see some fine masculine gootch tonight.
But he yells it at women much more often - he's a gentleman, and believes that the fairer sex need all the encouragement they can get.
It's very sweet of him to do so.
Not everybody appreciates the sheer positivity of his approach. A few weeks ago he yelled it at a woman who sang pretty darn bad. She looked pained, then sang even worse, and when she finished the song she came over to inform him that she did not like what he had yelled. It hurt. It objectified her. It was totally inappropriate!
All of us nearby were smiling like maniacs at this point - it's fun seeing Dildo Bob discomfited. And further: Yelling 'get naked' was sexist, typically male, and deliberately insulting, she felt he was undressing her with his eyes, and using "gender-based judgementalism"...... Bob was starting to look very uncomfortable by now (he probably had no clue what "gender-based judgementalism" could possibly be), and she went on to explain that she had had a mastectomy........
The first person among the listeners to recover from a sudden coughing fit (yes, all of us are smokers) put her hand gently on the woman's shoulder, and explained "hon, Bob's an old queen. He wouldn'ta known about the missin' titty even if you had come up and pressed your chest in his face. He simply wants you to be happy."
So that's basically it. Dildo Bob's advice to you is 'get naked, be happy'.
Promise me you'll at least think about it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This is about bars in San Francisco.
The year after the prohibition against smoking in bars went into effect, the three elderly owners of my favourite watering hole sold the place to a couple whose vitriolic domestic disputes in the bar nearly qualified the place as a cabaret - live shows, quotable lines, and over-the-top stream of consciousness poetry. I held out longer than many patrons, but I eventually found somewhere else to have the occasional drink.
I went to the karaoke bar around another corner. The gay couple that ran that place was more likeable than the two people who ran The White Swallow, and their quarrels were far less public. Many of the loyalists of The White Swallow eventually also started roosting there.
Those two gay men no longer own the place (two other gay men own it now), and while it is still a karaoke bar, the clientele has changed somewhat. One of the loyalists who has stayed, and who enjoys the presence of the younger, hipper, more tattooed crowd that drinks there now, is the person named in the title of this post - a gay man in his seventies with a handlebar moustache, a raspy voice, and a farting dog (which is not allowed in the bar anymore).
Dildo Bob drinks Manhattans, sings off key and out of tune, has an overactive imagination, and is conversationally both a disaster and a toxic-waste dump (he's called 'Dildo Bob' because listening to him, speaking or singing, is a pain in the sphincter). But he's an all-right kind of chap, and once you know him you will recognize this.
GET NAKED
Dildo Bob has a number of lines he yells as encouragement to the singers. One of which is "get naked". When he yells it at young men (that is, anyone under seventy years of age), it also expresses his hope, nay, his desperation, that he might see some fine masculine gootch tonight.
But he yells it at women much more often - he's a gentleman, and believes that the fairer sex need all the encouragement they can get.
It's very sweet of him to do so.
Not everybody appreciates the sheer positivity of his approach. A few weeks ago he yelled it at a woman who sang pretty darn bad. She looked pained, then sang even worse, and when she finished the song she came over to inform him that she did not like what he had yelled. It hurt. It objectified her. It was totally inappropriate!
All of us nearby were smiling like maniacs at this point - it's fun seeing Dildo Bob discomfited. And further: Yelling 'get naked' was sexist, typically male, and deliberately insulting, she felt he was undressing her with his eyes, and using "gender-based judgementalism"...... Bob was starting to look very uncomfortable by now (he probably had no clue what "gender-based judgementalism" could possibly be), and she went on to explain that she had had a mastectomy........
The first person among the listeners to recover from a sudden coughing fit (yes, all of us are smokers) put her hand gently on the woman's shoulder, and explained "hon, Bob's an old queen. He wouldn'ta known about the missin' titty even if you had come up and pressed your chest in his face. He simply wants you to be happy."
So that's basically it. Dildo Bob's advice to you is 'get naked, be happy'.
Promise me you'll at least think about it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, May 29, 2008
MAZZEL TOV, YOU PERVERT
Two of the more socially acceptable fetishes evinced in Japanese Manga and Anime have to do with spectacles and sailor suits.
Spectacles ('megane') are seen by the fans as emphasizing the woman's attractive qualities, accentuating the face and brightening the eyes.
Sailor suits ('seifuku', 'sera-fuku') as worn by high-school girls, well....., I'm not entirely sure what they do. But it's very much like the plaid skirts worn by little Catholic school girls, and subject to the same perverse fantasies. Something about nice thighs, I guess. Plump smooth even-textured and hued feminine leg skin. Delicious.
[There's an entire subdivision of the rag trade vending used seifuku, skirts especially, for role-playing and bed-room fantasies. It is much more wholesome than the sale of used panties in the US, which is baffling and demented - but who am I to judge your foibles?]
For those who wish to see what the fuss is about, here's a link to a totally clean page about seifuku:
http://hontouni.com/taihendesu/?p=577
And here's a link that is just a little bit naughty:
http://animedesho.animeblogger.net/?p=2659
For the spectacle "thing", here's Mizuhara Koyomi (水原 暦), from the series Azumanga Daioh (also totally clean):
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Koyomi_Mizuhara
Please note that Koyomi-chan is not wearing a sailor suit. And gracious doesn't she look adorable. You are probably not surprised to hear that huge (huge!) numbers of lonely teenage men think of her as the perfect date. Without anything perverted in mind, just an all-encompassing otaku loneliness that divorces them from the impossibility of meeting her, or the painful realization that SHE. IS. NOT. A. REAL. PERSON!
[We won't even mention the fact that the typical otaku is a walking conversational disaster zone, nearly incapable of actually speaking to a real woman. Or to any other normal human. Much like a soft-ware engineer, in other words.]
There's also a third fetish, that can combine with either of the two mentioned above: cat ears.
Nekomimi ("cat-ears" - 猫耳) or nekomusume ("cat damsel" - 猫娘) show up only occasionally in manga and anime, but are very often featured in cosplay and fan art collections.
[Put on your cat ears, and remove everything else except that red velvet ribbon around your left thigh - ooooooooooh, now you're "purr-fect"!]
So, to recap: School uniform. Cat ears. Glasses. Seifuku - Nekomimi - Meganeko.
The keys to a healthy sex life.
Now you know.
It's what you've been waiting for your whole life.
Your mother will be so glad that you finally got married.
Spectacles ('megane') are seen by the fans as emphasizing the woman's attractive qualities, accentuating the face and brightening the eyes.
Sailor suits ('seifuku', 'sera-fuku') as worn by high-school girls, well....., I'm not entirely sure what they do. But it's very much like the plaid skirts worn by little Catholic school girls, and subject to the same perverse fantasies. Something about nice thighs, I guess. Plump smooth even-textured and hued feminine leg skin. Delicious.
[There's an entire subdivision of the rag trade vending used seifuku, skirts especially, for role-playing and bed-room fantasies. It is much more wholesome than the sale of used panties in the US, which is baffling and demented - but who am I to judge your foibles?]
For those who wish to see what the fuss is about, here's a link to a totally clean page about seifuku:
http://hontouni.com/taihendesu/?p=577
And here's a link that is just a little bit naughty:
http://animedesho.animeblogger.net/?p=2659
For the spectacle "thing", here's Mizuhara Koyomi (水原 暦), from the series Azumanga Daioh (also totally clean):
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Koyomi_Mizuhara
Please note that Koyomi-chan is not wearing a sailor suit. And gracious doesn't she look adorable. You are probably not surprised to hear that huge (huge!) numbers of lonely teenage men think of her as the perfect date. Without anything perverted in mind, just an all-encompassing otaku loneliness that divorces them from the impossibility of meeting her, or the painful realization that SHE. IS. NOT. A. REAL. PERSON!
[We won't even mention the fact that the typical otaku is a walking conversational disaster zone, nearly incapable of actually speaking to a real woman. Or to any other normal human. Much like a soft-ware engineer, in other words.]
There's also a third fetish, that can combine with either of the two mentioned above: cat ears.
Nekomimi ("cat-ears" - 猫耳) or nekomusume ("cat damsel" - 猫娘) show up only occasionally in manga and anime, but are very often featured in cosplay and fan art collections.
[Put on your cat ears, and remove everything else except that red velvet ribbon around your left thigh - ooooooooooh, now you're "purr-fect"!]
So, to recap: School uniform. Cat ears. Glasses. Seifuku - Nekomimi - Meganeko.
The keys to a healthy sex life.
Now you know.
It's what you've been waiting for your whole life.
Your mother will be so glad that you finally got married.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
OCCUPIES PREMISES IN BUILDING
Yours truly requests credit reports on businesses. It's a fairly standard thing to do - nothing unusual. I'm paid to be a snoop. So are the companies that put together commercial credit reports. Commercial customers have their credit researched. Normal.
Sometimes the credit report isn't worth the paper it's printed on (or would be printed on, if I bothered to print it out).
Especially when all the provider of the credit report can tell me about a business is "OCCUPIES PREMISES IN BUILDING".
OCCUPIES PREMISES IN BUILDING.
Weeee!
Who knew?
OCCUPIES PREMISES IN BUILDING!
I also occupy premises. In a building.
You, dear reader, probably do too.
Occupy premises in building, that is.
Many do. Building, premises, occupy ....... not uncommon.
The credit report provider's customer service chipmunks have tried to argue that this is useful information. Occupies premises in building.
It isn't.
The percentage of our customers who blithely conduct their business out in the field, fragrant hay for a desk and altocumulus for a ceiling, is very small.
Pretty much zip dash diddly. Statistically zilch. Nix im gonzen. Big fat zero. Scrawny anorexic zero. Zero in all worlds, including the ten sefirot. Zero squared, and zero behind the decimal.
How much more zero can it get?' The answer is 'none, none more zero, it can't get none more zero'.
As someone often on premises (in a building), I speak from a basis of familiarity, in this context, with the concept zero.
[Theatrically bangs fist on desk.]
LEAST USEFUL DATA EVER!
Sometimes the credit report isn't worth the paper it's printed on (or would be printed on, if I bothered to print it out).
Especially when all the provider of the credit report can tell me about a business is "OCCUPIES PREMISES IN BUILDING".
OCCUPIES PREMISES IN BUILDING.
Weeee!
Who knew?
OCCUPIES PREMISES IN BUILDING!
I also occupy premises. In a building.
You, dear reader, probably do too.
Occupy premises in building, that is.
Many do. Building, premises, occupy ....... not uncommon.
The credit report provider's customer service chipmunks have tried to argue that this is useful information. Occupies premises in building.
It isn't.
The percentage of our customers who blithely conduct their business out in the field, fragrant hay for a desk and altocumulus for a ceiling, is very small.
Pretty much zip dash diddly. Statistically zilch. Nix im gonzen. Big fat zero. Scrawny anorexic zero. Zero in all worlds, including the ten sefirot. Zero squared, and zero behind the decimal.
How much more zero can it get?' The answer is 'none, none more zero, it can't get none more zero'.
As someone often on premises (in a building), I speak from a basis of familiarity, in this context, with the concept zero.
[Theatrically bangs fist on desk.]
LEAST USEFUL DATA EVER!
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SAINT DINGO
In the aftermath of the crucifixion (accidental second amendment demise) of Saint Dingo recently, the fascist rightwing is excoriating all h...
