Rambling Rhodes

Moving Day

Okay, so, about a month ago or so, my girlfriend's dad got into a car accident, basically crushing his ankle, breaking a hip, and cracking a couple of ribs. For those of us familiar with his horrific driving skills, the accident didn't come as that much of a surprise, although the fact he wasn't wearing his seat belt was a little unexpected. But anyway. The point is, his ability to move around has pretty much been on hold ever since the crash.

While her dad has been receiving medical care, my girlfriend has been made his power of attorney, so she's been running all over the place, trying to figure out her dad's scattered financial dealings, while at the same time visiting him in the hospital at first, and now the interim nursing home where he's undergoing rehabilitation therapy. All of this in addition to her regular job, which means we haven't seen a lot of each other over the past few weeks.

Okay, so that's been the situation.

Now, for those of you who don't already know, Melissa's dad is gay, and in the time I've been dating Melissa, he's had three different boyfriends. His latest boyfriend, Tony, has been on the scene now for about four months or so.

As with the other boyfriends he's seen over the years, Tony struck me as a little bit odd during our first meeting, and my estimation of the man during subsequent meetings has not improved. Something I've noticed about people who may harbor mental instabilities is that those instabilities manifest themselves in subtle little ways that make little warning bells go off in my head, so I approach such people warily, like an unknown dog that seems friendly and wants to be pet, but there's something there telling you to keep your distance.

My suspicions about Tony notwithstanding, he offerred to move down to Rochester from the Cities to help care for Melissa's dad, which sounded great at first, because Melissa's been run ragged. But then little warning bells started going off in my head yet again.

I should note here that Tony receives disability checks because he's suffered from seizures since he was 17. Now, at 39, he augments his monthly disability checks by cleaning a few houses and, I suspect, through the occasional pot sale. Because of the seizures, Tony is not allowed to drive, which meant that, if he was going to move to Rochester, Melissa and I would have to transport the man and any necessary U-Hauls. Which, by the way, Melissa had to pay for the U-Haul rental because Tony couldn't afford such a thing. But, the promise of having in-house care for Melissa's dad provided by Tony made the rental price seem worth it.

So, we arrived at Tony's apartment in the Cities Saturday afternoon to begin the move. Tony greeted us outside and immediately voiced his concern that the U-Haul may not be big enough for his needs. He mentioned something about a "55 gallon," and his three corn plants.

We trudged up the stairs to his apartment, a dimly lit place that looked almost exactly like every college apartment I ever lived in. The air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke, since Tony is a faily heavy smoker. Then, Tony started giving directions, and the directions immediately struck me as incredibly odd.

"You can start by taking those two $200 pictures down," he said. "You can also take that $100 picture and that $400 night stand."

Now, as stated, the apartment had a decidedly dingy quality to it, so hearing dollar amounts ascribed to things that struck me as kind of crappy seemed very bizarre.

After returning from the U-Haul, I found Tony showing Melissa his collection of full cans of beer, which he said were extremely valuable because they were air-tight and factory defects. I decided not to ask for further clarification and instead started moving his collection of roughly 4 gazillion plants. Every plant I picked up came complete with a thorough explanation of what the plant was, how much he paid for it, and why it was special. I thought it would have been far more helpful if Tony was, instead, helping us move stuff rather than explaining what everything was, which I didn't really care much about.

Thankfully, Tony enlisted the help of three people who lived in the downstairs apartment, one of whom was a 16-year-old who--Tony told Melissa in confidence--created a way to make marijuana twice as potent. Which was great and all, but I was more interested in his lifting and moving abilities.

Eventually, Tony trotted out his pride and joy "corn" plants, which weren't really corn plants but some sort of tropical tree-like things with leaves resembling corn leaves. These things were HUGE, over 7 feet in height, and planted in pots the size of five gallon pails.

Finally, we had to move the "55 gallon," which turned out to be an aquarium, except that this particular version was set up as a shallow lake environment, which meant it smelled like crap and, though it was drained, still weighed about as much as a car. Tony pulled a bunch of plants up and out of the mucky bottom and informed us that each plant cost about $50. I was left thinking that I could have pulled them from the bottom of the Mississippi for free.

A final item was wrapped extra careful and put in Melissa's VW Jetta back seat. Without asking, we learned that it was a $500 red jade dragon, whatever the hell that meant.

The plan was for Melissa to drive the U-Haul, while I followed in her Jetta. Tony seemed very anxious when Melissa asked him to ride in the U-Haul with her. Not knowing the Cities as well as she thought Tony did, it seemed like he'd be able to give directions.

As it turns out, the reason Tony appeared so anxious was because he absolutely detests women drivers which, according to Melissa, he mentioned about 12 times on the trip down to Rochester. Although, to be fair, at the end of the journey he mentioned that Melissa was a better driver than he had feared. Also, he believes in God, with the caveat that he thinks God is probably an alien. Melissa also learned that, prior to our arrival that afternoon, Tony had polished off a 12 pack of beer and smoked some pot, which went a long way towards explaining why he wasn't that enthusiastic of a mover.

Additional information offered up by Tony included a mention that he was a black belt in a "martial art that's illegal to teach in America," and that, if you kicked a man in the groin, do so in a upward sweep, because he'll likely pass out before he hits the ground.

There was much, much more, but I think I've provided enough of a background to allow you to postulate the nature of his mental disorder or disorders.

The Other Side of Dating

Tonight, as I channel-surfed my way through the vast wasteland that is modern day television, I happened to come across a commercial for eHarmony.com.

For those not familiar with eHarmony.com, let me just explain that it's an online dating service which touts itself as: "America's #1 relationship site, committed to helping you experience the joy and fulfillment that comes with every successful relationship."

Which is all great, don't get me wrong. Three cheers for successful relationships! But, as I sat there on the couch, wearing a nice butt groove into the cushion, something started to bother me. And then it hit me. . . why does the eHarmony commercial only show the dating SUCCESS stories?

I mean, I have a dating history. Granted, it's not a storied almanac that can rival Casanova or anything like that, but I've done my personal share of the dating thing. And, I'm here to tell you, the success rate of dating--at least in my experience--is entirely overshadowed by the failure rate of dating.

Of course, I eventually met my current girlfriend, Melissa, pretty much entirely by accident, about three years ago, and things have been great between us in that time. But, prior to our meeting, there was a string of dating tragedies that make the sinking of the Titanic seem like a whimsical children's tale.

Which brings me back to eHarmony.com. Even on their Web site, they only list their dating success stories, stories like April and Barry, who were married July 9, 2005, and April says: "When Barry and I started to communicate on eHarmony I could tell that he was someone that I really wanted to meet and talk to. We emailed back and forth for almost 9 months till we met in person. We were engaged on March 7th of this year and I am looking forward to spending the rest of my life with Barry!"

Again, that's great. Three cheers for April and Barry! Still, as happy as I am for April and Barry, I can't help but think, for as many success stories as there are on eHarmony.com, there has to be, at least, about eight times as many disaster stories. And, personally, I'm far more interested in hearing about the disasters. Be honest, if you were surfing eHarmony.com, and you saw a disaster Stories link, you'd click it, wouldn't you? So, being the hypothetical guy I am, I thought I'd provide a couple of hypothetical eHarmony.com disaster stories.

Please note, these are entirely fictional dating disaster stories that in no way reflect my own personal dating disasters. . . as far as you know.

Ronald Clark and Petunia Masters; matched on Nov. 12, 2005. Ronald says: "I know this sounds harsh, but Petunia is, quite possibly, the only human being on the planet able to survive without a functioning brain. I mean, she looks great. She's a jogger. She's very toned and sexy. But, I kid you not, I took her out for dinner and she referred to the menus as 'menoos,' and she talked for 45 minutes about her hair. By the end of the evening, I thought I was going to die of boredom. The saddest part is, I'm sure there's a perfect match out there for Petunia somewhere, and the fact that there's two people like her makes me weep for humanity."

Steve Barsh and Gina Florence; matched on Oct. 23, 2005. Gina says: "My. God. One hyphenated word describes Steve. . . self-absorbed. You could tell this guy that there's no 'I' in 'TEAM,' and he'd respond 'no, doll, but there is an 'M' and an 'E'. . . ME.' At the end of our marathon four hour date, I knew all about Steve's high school years, his college years, how people just don't recognize his brilliance, but some day they will, and they'll be sorry. And the name dropping! 'I met so-and-so last week, and I cleaned so-and-so's house last month.' I just wanted to scream! I can't for the life of me figure out how we got matched up. I'm seriously thinking of joining a convent after this dating experience. But, no, I better not, because according to Steve, he's God."

I could come up with more "hypothetical" scenarios, but I'm not going to. Instead, I'll just say congratulations to April and Barry and leave it at that.

And I'll probably be thinking a lot about Scarlett Johansson. I'll be trying to imagine Scarlett Johansson nude. Because a nude Scarlett Johansson would be pretty awesome all around.

Worst. Simpsons. Character. Ever.

Via the good folks at Fraters, I discovered the Simpsomaker. Sad to say, I make a terrible cartoon:

Things That Make Me Laugh #9765

Via Fark. . . of course.

This Blog Is An Equal Opportunity Offender

Via.

Honestly, at this point, I should be surprised that my house ISN'T burned down.

It's BAAAAACK!

Back in 1997 and 1998, during my final year of college, my roommates and I had one television channel, owing to the fact we opted to pay for Internet access instead of cable. And, because Winona is basically located on a sandbar on the Mississippi--in a valley surrounded by towering hills--radio and television broadcasts didn't carry very well. So, we were limited to a fuzzy CBS, and nothing else.

And the news around that time was primarily dominated by two things, as I recall. Number 1 thing was the stock market, which was enjoying unprecedented success, both in the Dow and the NASDAQ. Number 2 thing was something called El Nino which, according to scientists, was responsible for everything from more powerful storms to athlete's foot.

And I've always wondered, since that time, whatever became of El Nino. Well, I need wonder no more!

Bloggerous Suckitus

Yes, my blogging has been sub-par as of late. I apologize to those of you (all none of you) who come here daily, desperate for a morsel of my nonsensical wisdom, only to be disappointed time and time again.

There is no one overriding reason for the lack of compelling blogging. Nay, it is a confluence of reasons, both personal and professional that has kept me from inspired blogging. Rest assured, however, that I have no intention of giving up this odd little hobby. So long as Nick Coleman weilds his clumsy, logic-depleted pen, you can be sure that I'll be here to make fun of him, if for no other reason.

My Fifteen Minutes of Pain

In my Jiu-Jitsu class on Monday night, I was paired up to grapple with this guy.

Mere words are insufficient for conveying the sheer amount of whoop-ass dealt to me. . . and he was holding back.

I am a weak, sad little man.

Another Free Speech Zone Link 'O The Day

Brilliant!

A flea, and a fly, and the flu

I've been taken down by the flu. No word yet as to whether it's the bird flu. Whatever it is, it sucks. Back to the couch and bad afternoon television. Hopefully featuring Lucy Pinder. I'd like to see Lucy Pinder naked. Mmmmm, Lucy Pinder.

Your Free Speech Zone Link 'O The Day

You will laugh until you stop.

FOUND! Dick Cheney's Hunting Journal!

SATURDAY, FEB. 11, 2006

8:13 a.m.--Beautiful day. Light haze. Should be a good day for a hunt, particularly since the area was seeded with nearly 400 quail. I should be able to hit SOMETHING.

9:20 a.m.--Haven't had much luck yet. Despite having fired 12 rounds, no birds have folded. I'm going to have to get my eyes checked after this I think.

10:02 a.m.--The fellows are having a good laugh at me right now. We scared up a covey of about 30 quail, and everyone folded at least one except for--you guessed it--me. Oh well, there's plenty of time left in the day, and plenty more quail. Like I said, I'm sure I'll shoot something by the end of the day.

11:17 a.m.--That Whittington is going on and on, crooning about his 34th folded quail of the day. Okay, man, jeez, it's impressive, but come on. No luck for me, yet. If I don't get a bird by the end of the morning, I'm calling it quits.

11:57 a.m.--Well, I finally got my bird. A Goddamned crow got in my line of sight just when I pulled the trigger. A crow. A Goddamned crow. The guys are having a good laugh about that one. Now I HAVE to get a quail, just so they forget about that damned crow. I don't think my day could possibly get any worse.

12:30 p.m.--Lunch. One of the guys offered to cook my crow for me. Har-dee-har. Whittington's looking over his pile of dead birds like he's lording over a naked human pyramid or something. Why don't you take a picture, Whittington, it'll last longer. Er, no, scratch that.

1:37 p.m.--Back to the hunt. I swear I folded a quail just now, but we can't find the stupid bird. I know it's around here somewhere, no matter what those mocking assholes are saying. And enough with the "Little Cheney Sure-Shot," line, guys. Honestly, it was barely funny the first time.

2:22 p.m.--Jeebus Christmas. I've fired 120 rounds and only have a Goddamned crow to show for it. Whittington's bagged 62 quail. The man could fire blindfolded and knock a damned bird out of the air. It seems like I'm shooting in every direction EXCEPT at the quail. Just one of those days I guess. Sure is frustrating though.

3:15 p.m.--I can't believe this. Nothing. Not a Goddamned thing (except for that fucking crow). Yeah, I'm saying the F-word now. Might as well. fuck it. At this point, the quail only appear nervous when I'm NOT aiming at them. Whittington's offering to share some of his quail. He's sure being a smarmy little bastard. Big time.

4:31 p.m.--The guys are taunting me mercilessly now. Is it too much to ask to fold one Goddamned quail to shut these guys up? They've got my heart-rate up, and that's never a good thing.

5:20 p.m.--Whittington got ANOTHER ONE. He's a one man Golden Plump slaughterhouse. He's skipping away to get his bird singing "Another one for me/none for the VP." He's hysterical, he is.

5:31 p.m.--I just shot Whittington in the face. More on this later.

6:15 p.m.--I guess he's going to be okay. Thank God for my attendant medical staff. Just for the record, I have to say it was an accident. I know it looks bad in light of everything that transpired today, but it was a genuine accident. The other guys are acting a bit wary around me. God this is embarrassing.

7:12 p.m.--I wonder what the press is going to say about this? Once they understand it was an accident, I'm sure it won't amount to anything.

8:33 p.m.--I just spoke with Whittington. He's groggy from the anesthetic, but he managed a weak, "Ya done shot yahself a lawyer, Veep." He's being a pretty good sport, considering. I can't believe I shot him in the fucking face. It reminds me of that one movie with that Saturday Night Fever actor and a Scripture-quoting black man. . . Pimp Function? Plump Friction? I hate when I can't remember shit like this. Anyway, they shot some guy in the face in the back of a car. That's what this reminds me of. Except with bird shot. And we're older.

9:38 p.m.--Well, there's not much more I can do tonight. Whittington's asleep, and I'm fading fast. What an entirely crappy day this turned out to be. Lights out. Still, I have the oddest feeling that I'm forgetting something though. Meh, can't be that important. PULP FICTION! That's the name of the movie. That must have been what I was forgetting. Now I can get some sleep.

My Olympic Vision

So, the 2006 Winter Olympics are now under way, and Bode Miller's a rebel and Michelle Kwan withdrew from competition and. . . generally Americans don't care much about the Winter Olympics.

I have several theories as to why Americans don't particularly care about the Winter Olympics, but my leading hypothesis is that, come this time of year, Americans are pretty much sick and tired of winter, so being reminded that it is, in fact, winter, is more than a little annoying. Now, if we were talking about the 2006 Tropical Olympics, I'm betting there would be more interest.

More generally, though, I think America, and maybe the world in general, is losing interest in the Olympics as a whole. Oh, sure, it used to be a venue where the greatest athletes on the planet came together to compete for the coveted gold medal, but that interest has been sullied by countless steroid scandals, furor over questionable judging and the fact that people are running out of jokes that make fun of curling and synchronized swimming.

Therefore, in an effort to save the global institution that is the Olympics, I offer up the following solution: rather than seeking out the greatest athletes in the world to compete in the multitude of Olympic events, let's start picking people at random, right off the street, and give them just three weeks to prepare for competition. I figure that, since reality television is such a hit, this idea will bring viewership by the trillions, which means even aliens from the planets Zaxson and Plobos will be tuning in.

Imagine, if you will, a 100-meter dash consisting of a 26-year-old computer-technician, a 47-year-old NASCAR enthusiast, a 14-year-old middle-school student, a 55-year-old college professor and a 35-year-old sanitation worker. I mean, seriously, who WOULDN'T want to see that? I'd tune in just to see who DIDN'T make it across the finish line.

Better yet, imagine downhill skiing with the same cast of competitors listed above, or even better than that. . . bobsledding! The sheer look of undiluted terror on the faces of average everybodies would be worth its weight in Olympic gold.

Of course, any anticipation that may have preceded the previous Olympic model would be replaced by a looming dread that you may be picked, at random, to compete in the next Olympic cycle. You'd be sitting there, three weeks before the Olympics, and you'd receive a letter in the mail, with the tell-tale five Olympic ring logo in the corner. Oh. . . crap.

Hands sweating, you'd open the terrifying piece of correspondence, hoping beyong hope that you've been selected for the long jump, or curling (not so funny any more, is it?), or spring board diving, only to read the letter and see that you have three weeks to prepare for. . .

A marathon! The skeleton! Platform diving! The tri-athlon!

Over the next three weeks, in addition to frantic training, you'd be hounded by an international press determined to learn as much about you as possible before your public embarrassment and/or serious injury/death.

You'd see Olympic articles start off with paragraphs like: "At 5'4" and 230 pounds, 38-year-old Henry Lewis expresses concerns over his chances in the pole vault." Or: "With her fear of heights well established with her friends, family and therapist, 27-year-old Jessica Sanders will face considerable obstacles when it comes to securing a gold medal in the ski jump."

I'm sure you'll agree that, under my new Olympic model, the Games will be thoroughly enjoyed for generations and generations to come.

At least by those who aren't selected to compete.

Huh. Wow.

So, there's this guy. He heads up a little known organization called Hezbollah. Hezbollah is known for its charitable worldwide work, most notably their sustained effort to provide beach transportation for Israeli Jews. Or, as they like to say it: "drive them into the sea."

Anyhoo, Nasrallah recently gave his opinion about the swirling controversy over the Muhammad cartoon story that's become an international dance sensation. So, what do you think? Do you think Nasrallah liked those cartoons?

Short answer: no.

Long answer:

"Today, we are defending the dignity of our prophet with a word, a demonstration but let Bush and the arrogant world know that if we have to, we will defend our prophet with our blood, not our voices."

Okay, well, that's pretty much your standard boilerplate angry Islamic fundamentalist rant. So that wasn't the part that made my antennae twitch. That came later:

"We want European parliaments to draft laws that ban newspapers from insulting the Prophet. If they don't do this, it means they intend to go on insulting our beliefs," he said.

WHA?! Laws. Banning. newspapers. From. Insulting. The Prophet. He actually said that. And meant it.

Silly Nasrallah, don't you know that newspapers already voluntarily ban themselves? They're one step ahead of you dude.

Cartoonish Logic

This is a longer, more thought out, version of the post I made late last night. Note that it's a combination of thoughts from when I was tired at around 1 a.m. and about five minutes of additional thought during my lunch break here at work, so I apologize if it reads like a competing narrative from Jekyl and Hyde at the same time.

Okay, so, media outlets nationwide are opting not to reprint the Muhammad cartoons that have caused, and are still causing, such a furor worldwide. Keep in mind, we're talking about CARTOONS here. Cartoons like:

And, more humorously:

More can be found online.com/sarticle.php?id=12146">here, if you're interested. They're all pretty tame, really.

Now, far be it for me to suggest bloggers might offer something that media such as newspapers don't or won't, but I just exercised more free speech and freedom of the press than SOME PEOPLE are willing to go.

At this point in the controversy, which began weeks ago, we think there's nothing to be gained by publishing the cartoons. Our wire service stories have described at least a few of the drawings, which are basically political caricatures of Muhammad and pointed commentary about Islamic terrorism.

You see, rather than provide you with a Snickers bar, they'd rather try and explain what a Snickers bar is like. Because they think they're more qualified to provide the Snickers experience. And, really, the expiration date on the Snickers is kind of questionable, so. . .

The cartoons themselves, which are easily accessible on the Web, aren't the story now — it's the violent reaction they've incited.

Oh, sure, the cartoons would PROBABLY give some context, and expose just how batcrap stupid the violent reaction is but, again, they don't think they're all that necessary for providing a complete story. A violent reaction to CARTOONS? Is such a thing possible? Man, could I see the cartoons? No? Why the hell not? IT'S AN IMPORTANT VISUAL PART OF THE STORY! GAH!

Some European newspapers republished the cartoons just to show that the rights of free expression and a free press, regardless of religious or political pressure, is alive and well.

Cool. So, some European newspapers understand freedom of the press better than most American newspapers. We're #2! We're #2!

As a journalist, I can admire that. I also think a strong front-page editorial (without the cartoons) would have made the same point.

Because, as stated, they're more qualified to explain the Snickers experience, apparently.

In any case, we don't see a need to publish the cartoons. If millions of people have been offended by them, or by news reports of them, it seems gratuitous to offend some more.

However, in the case of flag-draped coffins or Abu-Ghraib images, they'll publish those until the year 2067. Which, by the way, although the images of coffins and abuse make me uncomfortable, I believe in the right to publish them. I just object completely to the ridiculous double-standard on display here.

Later on, in response to my pointed commentary, I'm advised to:

see the Wall Street Journal editorial page column regarding the widely reported Muslim "prohibition" on Muhammad imagery.

Okay, so, I don't have acces to the WSJ, but I do understand the "prohibition" on Muhammad imagery, and I also understand it's a bit more complex than some would have you believe right now.

Further, I'm pretty sure the "prohibition" applies to, you know, people of the Islamic faith and not to the worldwide and nationwide news media in general. I certainly didn't see that caveat in the First Amendment. Perhaps we should tweak it to read:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech (unless it could potentially offend Muslims), or of the press (see Muslim canard in the previous free speech mention); or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

All news organizations opting to not run with even one of those cartoons are pretty darned pathetic, in my opinion. If you're squeamish about running a cartoon because you think it could, maybe, possibly, but not very likely, give Achmed down the street the vapors to the point he starts mixing a bath tub molotov cocktail, you probably really need to grow a pair.

This week's column

"Comparison Shopping? What's That?" c. Ryan Rhodes, Feb. 2, 2006

Many moons ago, I asked you, my valued readers, to e-mail in your own
silly anecdotes or column topic suggestions. This, I reasoned, would
serve two purposes. First, it would make this column an interactive
experience between myself and my readers. Second, it would mean that I
could reproduce your e-mails and still say I "wrote" a column.

Well, I waited. And I waited some more. And then I grew a beard. And
then I shaved it off. Daylight savings time came and went. . . twice.
Naturally, I started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I didn't have any
readers. I started to think that maybe my dream of becoming a
nationally syndicated humor columnist and finally meeting Salma Hayek
was maybe a tad too pie in the sky.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, as I stared forlornly at Internet
pictures of Salma Hayek, I saw that I received an e-mail. FROM A
READER! NAMED LYNNE BENEDICT!

"I have a seventh grade son currently enrolled in a required FACS
(Family and Consumer Science) class. He has struggled all year and the
area that tripped him up the most is one for which he is not
genetically predisposed – comparison shopping. I thought you could
have some fun with that."

What Lynne fails to realize is that the comparison shopping gene is,
in fact, a result of the melding of two "X" chromosomes. When two "X"
chromosomes come together to form an XX, it produces a human being
capable of comparison shopping. These human beings are often referred
to as "females."

Alternatively, there is the "Y" chromosome which, when it pairs with
an "X" chromosome, only results in bringing to the table half of the
required genetic instructions for producing a comparison shopper.
These "XY" human beings, also known as "males," are basically slightly
disabled when it comes to shopping in general, to say nothing of
comparison shopping.

I know what I'm talking about here because—although this isn't
something I like talking about, because it's painful—for 30 years now
I've carried the dark secret that I, too, am an XY human being. There,
I said it. Cast your stones if you will, people! I can't comparison
shop! I know the sharp sting of shame Lynne's son feels in his
discriminatory FACS class, where not only is the microscope focused
cruelly on his disability, he's actually graded on it!

The comparison shopping disability manifests itself in different ways
for different XY human beings. When I go into a mall to buy a pair of
jeans, for example, I'll walk right into one store, find a pair of
jeans, and buy them. I know, I know. . . most XX human beings can't
believe it either.

"But Ryan," they'll say. "Don't you know the exact same pair of jeans
is on sale on the other end of the mall for $2 less? Think about what
you're doing! Think of the children!"

Okay, that's an approximation of what I think they say, because,
thanks to my disability, what I actually hear is "But Ryan, don't you.
. . man, she's cute. I could sure go for a cheeseburger right now. I
wonder what time it is. I wonder what Salma Hayek is doing right now."

In an attempt to coach myself out of this shameful disability, I
turned, as I often do, to the Internet, where there are roughly 23
gazillion Web sites that advertise they take the challenge out of
comparison shopping. Some sites even claim to comparison shop
completely for you. Or, at least I think that's what some sites claim,
because I'm always distracted by ads telling me I can win an iPod. And
really, who DOESN'T want to win an iPod?

What was I talking about again? Oh, right, comparison shopping Web
pages, which are. . . hey, is that a picture of Salma Hayek? It IS!
She's hot!

At any rate, I'm still hoping beyond hope that other readers, like
Lynne Benedict, take the initiative and send an e-mail my way at
yossarian9@hotmail.com. And I don't care if you're an XX or an XY
human being, either. I don't discriminate.

My Own Personal Islamic Cartoon

UPDATE: To the e-mailer who stated simply: "Worst. Stickman. Ever.," I can only say that I'm a really sucky artist, and that Microsoft Paint doesn't exactly work in my favor in that regard. I realize turbans aren't supposed to resemble a stack of pancakes. . .

ANOTHER UPDATE: A couple of ACTUAL cartoons that made me laugh.

Of course, my house will probably be torched to the ground when I get home tonight, but I just can't help myself when it comes to freedom of speech.

Ummmmm.

And America is concerned about gay marriage?

Yeah, blogging has sucked as of late, but shifting in the workplace has me all sorts of concerned, to say nothing of concentrating on job searching. Apologies for the suckitude of my bloggerations.

Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker.