April 30, 2007
Baby Jesus Wept
This is the kind of thing that just makes me want to punch dirt.
MINNEAPOLIS -- A half-dozen cities across Minnesota have banned or restricted ultimate fighting as the growing sport that mixes martial arts and street brawling gains popularity.
Got that? It's mixing martial arits and street brawling, eh? Street brawling? What would it take for a reporter filing something like this to actually, you know, research the topic they're reporting? Because, if they did, they might then accurately report that ultimate fighting mixes martial arts--primarily Muay Thai and boxing--with grappling andr jiu-jitsu, fighting disciplines that take some seriously intense and dedicated training to master, whereas street brawling is. . . well, if I have to explain the difference, you're pretty much brain dead.
The sport is likely to draw more restrictions by public officials concerned about safety, unruly crowds and the sport's reputation for lack of regulation.
Public officials who wouldn't know mixed martial arts from a watermelon, who instead react with knee-jerk "restrictions" because Old Grandma Gertie raised "concerns" about safety during a city council meeting consisting of an audience of three people a month ago.
"It's very, very violent," said Tim Sletten, the police chief in Red Wing, which recently prohibited the sport. "It's street fighting in a ring. Until it's regulated and done as safely as possible, I don't want it in Red Wing."
The day I see a street fight that ends in an armbar or a triangle, with one guy tapping out, and the other guy releasing him amiably, Tim Sletten and I can have a nice conversation. Until then, Tim Sletten can go leap off a cliff, in a nice, regulated and safe way.
A ban is also approaching in Willmar, where a resident had hoped to hold an event next month.
"I think that the image people have is that it's street fighting, no-holds-barred, kicking, punching and wrestling," Willmar Mayor Les Heitke said. "People say, 'It's not really a discipline.' Well, it probably is ... but it doesn't come off that way."
What? You're banning something because "it doesn't come off as a discipline?" Well, in that case, why not ban, say, chocolate, because it doesn't come off as a fruit? Jesus Mary Kay.
Willmar Police Chief Jim Kulset said the crowds for ultimate fighting can easily get out of hand. "You get very aggressive entertainment like that, just add alcohol, and it's instant problems," he said.
Add alcohol to knitting and it's instant problems, you gonad. Add alcohol to St. Patrick's Day, and it's instant problems. Add alcohol to football, and you have a typical Sunday in October, as well as instant problems. I wonder if Police Chief Jim Kulset would be okay with ultimate fighting if the venues were alcohol free. Likely not.
While rules vary among venues, ultimate (fighters generally compete in a caged ring in timed rounds. They punch, kick and use submission holds and martial arts moves that take years to perfect.
Wait a minute, wait a minute: I thought it was street fighting and brawling. Now I'm so confused. Which is it? A highly trained discipline, or aimless fist throwing?
Proponents say criticism is overstated and stems largely from ignorance about a competition that has evolved from its anything-goes beginnings into a skilled athletic contest. Done right, it's safer than boxing, they say. What's more, they welcome state oversight.
Proponents sound like a downright rational, logical bunch of people, don't they?
"There's a difference between a sanctioned show, with trained referees and security, and a 'sign-up-and-fight' type of show," said Mike Reilly, who trains fighters in his Bloomington garage.
Seems like a pretty cut and dried difference to me.
Still, an attempt to bring mixed martial arts under supervision of the state Boxing Commission failed, in large part because Reilly and others weren't convinced that commissioners knew enough to regulate the sport.
And since the boxing commission very likely knows jack-shit about ground fighting, I wouldn't want them regulating it, either.
"I think they'll regret it," said state Sen. Dick Day, R-Owatonna, who is on the commission. "Something is going to happen ... and somebody is going to get hurt."
Look, Dick. You listening, Dick? It's called "Ultimate Fighting," so yes, somebody is going to get hurt. In fact, probably during every fight. How many people have gotten hurt during boxing? Oh, A LOT, despite the existence of a boxing commission? Okay then. Boxing averages somewhere along the lines of 11 deaths a year. Ultimate fighting has, I believe, one death chalked up since its inception. So go suck it, Dick.
Only a decade ago, mixed martial arts bouts were taboo in most states, where they were commonly referred to as toughman competitions. U.S. Sen. John McCain called the sport "human cockfighting" and urged states to ban it.
Oh, for fuck's sake. While ultimate fighting may have it's roots in Toughman, ultimate fighting and toughman competitions are completely separate entities. There's no groundfighting in toughman competitions. There's no Butterbean in ultimate fighting.
But the excitement of the competition, with its well-sculpted athletes and trash-talking personalities, combined with increased regulation and the popularity of the reality TV show "The Ultimate Fighter" has pushed it toward the American mainstream.
Well-sculpted athletes? As opposed to those beer-swilling, armchair-sitting athletes we've come to know and love, I guess. As for "trash-talking," I must be watching the wrong UFC fights. Or maybe I've just been de-sensitized to the trash talk, what with Mike Tyson saying he was going to eat his opponent's babies and chomping on ears.
"Ever since that show started, our phone has been ringing a lot more," said Andy Grahn, program director for the Minnesota martial Arts Academy in Brooklyn Center, which trains about 250 martial arts students and a few fighters.
Ringing a lot more, why? Because of complaints? Because of people interested in training? Why the increased ringing? Are people dialing the wrong number? Are we readers just supposed to come to our own conclusions? What a great, inconclusive quote.
Today, 22 states regulate it with help from athletic commissions, said Marc Ratner, vice president of regulatory affairs for the Ultimate Fighting Championship, the world's largest mixed martial arts promoter.
Good on them.
In Minnesota, responsibility for hosting events and providing medical attention and security is placed on individual clubs, promoters and, often, communities.
Good on them, as well.
Several years ago, West St. Paul, Fridley and Spring Lake Park banned or restricted competitions. Fridley's decision came after a fan was severely beaten in a parking lot during an event at a bar. Police believed that the victim and his assailants had been drinking.
So, let's see if I have this right. A FAN was beaten, IN A PARKING LOT, OUTSIDE of an event. Quick question: how often do drunken parking lot fights happen outside of bars that DON'T host ultimate fighting events? Count me as unsurprised if the answer comes back "Oh, about every night."
"They got on top of him like they do in ultimate fighting and just kept pounding his head," Fridley police Capt. Brian Weierke said. "That's what put him in a coma."
They? As in multiple assailants? Or they, as in gender-neutral singular? And even then, SO WHAT? It was a drunken fight outside of a bar that happened to be hosting an ultimate fighting event. What if it had been a drunken fight outside of a bar that was hosting a Super Bowl gathering? Should the Super Bowl be banned? Or, hey, let's just ban restaurants.
April 27, 2007
April 26, 2007
A Sad Day
The Girl and I ate at our favorite local Asian restaurant earlier this week, Phnom Penh. Turns out, they'll be closing their doors within the next month or so. The Girl and I are totally bummed. Rochester is truly losing a culinary gem.
April 24, 2007
All I Wanna Do, Is Write About Poo
In case you didn’t hear about it, or read about it, or aliens neglected to broadcast it into your brain, singer Sheryl Crow recently put her thinkerator (a.k.a. Her Brain) into high gear to address the world threatening apocalypse of global climate change (a.k.a. Global Warming). Her conclusion?
“I propose a limitation be put on how many squares of toilet paper can be used in any one sitting. Now, I don't want to rob any law-abiding American of his or her God-given rights, but I think we are an industrious enough people that we can make it work with only one square per restroom visit, except, of course, on those pesky occasions where 2 to 3 could be required.”
At this point I feel I should point out, for me, “pesky occasions” can occur two or even three times a day, and let me tell you, two to three squares simply won’t, CAN’T, get the job done.
There’s some debate raging on the Internet—where raging debate tends to go on all the time, no matter how trivial the topic—about whether Crow was joking or not. And for a woman who once crooned “if it makes you happy, it can’t be that baa-aaa-aad,” I think there’s probably a good case to be made she was joking about limiting toilet paper usage, because if there’s one thing that makes me happy, it’s an adequately swabbed backside.
Nevertheless, an idea is an idea is an idea. And, because I eagerly embrace any excuse to dedicate this ThunderJournal to potty talk, I decided to take Ms. Crow’s idea, joking or not, and expand upon it, at least as it applies to the bathroom.
For starters, as long as we’re talking about conservation here, I’ve always been a strong advocate of the philosophy, “if it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, send it down.” Or, as Ms. Crow might say, “if there’s no paper, let it taper; if there be squares, flush with prayers.” Just holding off from flushing three or four times a day could save all sorts of water, according to a prestigious study conducted just now inside my head. And, as we all know, conserving water saves polar bears.
Continuing on the water conservation theme, I think it’s well past time to address the wasteful practice of hand washing. I mean, COME ON! Be honest; if you’re the only one in a bathroom, you don’t wash your hands anyway. You only wash your hands if there are other people in the bathroom so you don’t look like “that person.” You can admit it. I can’t be the only one. Can I? Never mind. Hand washing should be done away with, regardless, except in particularly “pesky” multi-square instances. According to another prestigious study conducted by my brain, doing away with most hand washing could save, roughly, 48 polar bears.
All of which of course brings me to showering. Is the full body immersion showering practice really necessary? Shouldn’t we just be showering those parts of the body that really need it? For instance, why is there so much emphasis on washing the shoulders in all those body wash and soap commercials? Are the shoulders really that filthy? During a typical day, my shoulders are called into action maybe four or five times. They’re not sweat factories. Mostly, my shoulders function as a staging area for shirt sleeves, which isn’t all that labor-intensive; heck clothes hangers perform the task effortlessly.
Showering, in my opinion, should be limited to the feet, the armpits, the groin and—particularly in view of Ms. Crow’s toilet paper square limit—the behind. We need to scale back our showering considerably, in our quest for water conservation. By way of example, according to yet another prestigious study conducted by my brain, nearly 68 polar bears have been saved so far thanks to France’s self-imposed moratorium on showering. Think about it.
Yes, together, we can save the entire polar bear population, but only with our unspeakably filthy hands raised in unity!
April 20, 2007
LOL!
This article just made my day.
TORONTO - Doris Moore was shocked when her new couch was delivered to her home with a label that used a racial slur to describe the dark brown shade of the upholstery.
The situation was even more alarming for Moore because it was her 7-year-old daughter who pointed out “n----- brown” on the tag.
Kingsoft Corp., a Chinese software company, acknowledged its translation program was at fault and said it was a regrettable error.
I honestly think, in the politically correct, overly sensitive, word squeamish society we live in, the time is ripe for somebody with a wicked sense of humor, to name their child "N-gger Brown," just for the sheer riot of watching people squirm when addressing that kid. I'm telling you, roll call in school alone would be worth attending with a bag of popcorn in hand to watch the show.
April 19, 2007
Constitutional Dipshit
In today's Star-Tribune Letters to the Editor, there's this gem:
Fix our gun policy
It's high time for the United States to join the civilized nations of the world with respect to firearm regulation.
Like in Japan, for example, with some of the strictest gun laws on the planet, where a mayor was gunned down on Tuesdeay?
Why is ours an insane policy patchwork? In part, it is the result of the recency of our pioneer past -- merely a century or two behind us.
What's a couple hundred years? Just a drop in the bucket, really.
But in addition, entities such as the National Rifle Association have deliberately misread the Second Amendment and frightened politicians into doing the same.
Misread it? Really? Please, do tell.
They focus on "The right to keep and bear arms shall not be abridged" and ignore "for the purpose of maintaining a strong militia."
Okay, dipshit, now I'm going to rip you one, because you're trying to apparently rewrite the Constitution. This is what the Constitution says *ahem*:
A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed
This was written over 200 years ago, mind you, a time when commas were very deliberately chosen, and you capitalized "People," to make a very pointed point. The 2nd Amendment is clearly saying, because a well regulated militia is required to secure a country, the People, too, have the right to arm themselves to protect against that militia if the need arises. Those bright, revolutionary men, having just thrown off the shackles of Britsh rule through an ARMED revolution, recognized, if the need for revolution were to arise again, the People would have at least a fighting chance if they were ARMED, so the People's right to bear arms should not be infringed. It's really not that damned hard to understand. We can quibble about the liklihood of an armed revolution when our well-regulated militia of today is equipped with Tomahawk missiles and nukes, but I'd rather have some firepower handy than not in such a scenario.
A wise man recently observed that those who want the privilege should be required to form up once per month for a 50-mile march, carrying the firearm and a 50-pound pack.
RAY WARNER, EDINA
In other words, Ray Warner of Edina is a proponent of military personnel only having the right to be armed, and a populace stripped of its right to protect itself. That's a real wise man you got speaking for you, Ray. You dipshit.
UPDATE: Having just viewed the actual Bill of Rights via a Google image search, I have to admit the "P" in PEOPLE is not, in fact, capitalized. Not sure why I thought it was. Nevertheless, I stand by the interpretation of the Second Amendment.
Monkey Tales
According to an April 18, Associated Press news report out of Antwerp, Belgium, people visiting the Antwerp Zoo are being asked to stop staring at the chimpanzees.
According to the article, “a new set of rules was posted outside the chimp enclosure at the city zoo urging visitors, especially regular daily ones, not to form a bond with a particular male chimp named ‘Cheetah.’ He was raised by humans but is now trying to forge a social bond with the other seven apes at the animal park, a zoo official said Wednesday.”
First off, I think naming a chimpanzee “Cheetah” is a lot more damaging long-term to the animal’s identity development than people staring at him. Secondly, I read that news report and I was left thinking this was ultimately a great new concept for zoos: zoos where you’re not allowed to look at the animals.
Imagine, if you will, walking through a zoo, reading signs describing the animals you’re not allowed to look at. Visitors would have to shuffle through the zoo, their eyes downcast to avoid actually seeing any animals. Eventually, there wouldn’t be any need to even have animals. The zoo could just say, “oh, sure, there are animals; take our word for it.” Personally, I’d open a No-Look Zoo dedicated to extinct animals.
ZOO VISITOR: A dodo bird? Isn’t the dodo extinct?
ME: That’s what makes this exhibit so special; it’s the only dodo left alive on the planet. Just think how honored you are to be standing here in the presence of the last dodo in existence.
ZOO VISITOR: But how do I know? I want to look at it.
ME: Sorry, you know the rules. Now, if you’ll continue on through the zoo, be sure to visit the saber tooth tiger and brontosaurus exhibits. Those are worth the $18 price of admission alone.
All of the preceding nonsense was meant to segue into my own personal “chimpanzee staring” story. I know, I know, EVERYBODY has a “chimpanzee staring” story. “Chimpanzee staring” stories are practically cliché in this age of chimpanzee staring.
During the summer prior to my freshman year of high school, my family took a trip south to Arkansas, and while we were down there we stopped and visited a “safari” type of zoo where you drove your car through the park, staring at animals. Not all of the park was a drive through; some of it was walkthrough, where the animals were in cages.
In one of those cages was the most bored-looking chimpanzees I think I’d ever seen. This chimpanzee just laid there, refusing to do anything interesting for anybody. After about five minutes of staring at the languid beast we moved on down the line.
Suddenly, a great commotion rose up from the cage housing the bored chimpanzee. The cage was rocking back and forth and a great clattering and shrieking could be heard. I went running back to the cage to see what all the fuss was about. When I arrived at the cage, the chimpanzee was clinging to the sides, pushing and pulling at the bars, making the cage rock back and forth.
It was at that point something very unexpected happened. Without warning, I and several other onlookers were sprayed with some sort of warm liquid that originated from the chimpanzee. As you can imagine, I was pretty well horrified, because. . . WHAT WAS THAT LIQUID?!
Great speculation arose among us onlookers who had been doused. Were we just peed on? Was it something else none of us dared to even mention? For his part, the chimpanzee seemed quite pleased with himself, as he was laughing (yes, LAUGHING, or at least mimicking the act of laughing) and clapping his hands.
As we continued our discussion as to what just happened, the chimpanzee once again started raising a royal commotion, clearly trying to bring in another audience for his second act. This time, he managed to attract an even larger group of spectators, including my mother. Those of us who had just been doused wisely stepped back a safe distance.
Once the chimpanzee was satisfied with the size of his audience, he leapt down from the cage and, quick as a cat, drew in a big mouthful of water from his water dish, jumped back to the cage bars, and proceeded to spit the water on his unsuspecting entourage.
For my part, I was greatly relieved, because my fears about what I had been doused with were laid to rest. Chimpanzee water and saliva were, quite honestly, much preferred to the horror scenarios that had been playing in my head up to that point.
And the moral of this story is: chimpanzees like to be stared at, at least in Arkansas.
My Only Post Regarding The VT Shooter
Ryan says: I really don't see the value in NBC showing that video.
Caroline says: I don't either. I'm sure they got that package and the first thing they thought was: "jackpot."
Ryan says: Oh hell yes. Then they wrap the showing of the video within the auspices of "responsible journalism."
Caroline says: Absolutely. I think I just read something yesterday (before the news of the video broke) that NBC was suffering in ratings.
Ryan says: All the major broadcast networks are. newspapers, too.
Ryan says: If they'd just admit they're fishing for an audience, and by extension, money, I'd actually have more respect for them.
Caroline says: No kidding.
Ryan says: Kid should have sent that video "Care Of, Rambling Rhodes." I would have shamelessly promoted it, admitting freely to my greedy priorities.
Caroline says: Yeah, that wouldn't have been scary at all.
Ryan says: Hell, I would have PhotoShopped and played with the lighting for increased dramatic effect.
Caroline says: Yes, there would've been a "poster" of the dirty mushroom behind him on the wall.
Ryan says: Oh, God YES!
Caroline says: This clip brought to you by Ryan's ass.
Ryan says: "Who is the Mushroom Killer?"
Caroline says: Aaaaaaaand now we're going to hell
April 18, 2007
Yes, my ThunderJournaling Sucks This Week
What can I say? Articles due; crown moulding installed in the porch; it's finally spring; in other words, shit's been happening. So, I should resort to lazy YouTube linking. Here's a video of a crazy tough Japanese woman MMA fighter:
On the other hand, she has one loss, where she did get supremely schooled:
NOTE: You may have to register with YouTube for the second video.
April 14, 2007
The Greatest Trick The Devil Ever Pulled. . .
Anyone else notice how "global warming" has magically morphed into "global climate change?"
UPDATE: Yes, someone else noticed.
April 13, 2007
A Giant Step Forward for Women and Race
I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I mean, I spent most of this week positively twisting and turning in my bed at night, unable to sleep. Every time I came close to even remotely dozing off, I heard the words “nappy headed hos” clang in my brain like klaxons.
As I’ve often noted here in the past, I have a responsibility as a marginally humorous ThunderJournalist to have an opinion on everything that makes the news cycle, and if there’s one thing that dominated the news cycle this week, it was Don Imus and his infamous slur against the Rutgers women’s basketball team. As I’m sure most of you were, I was astounded, because seriously. . . who the heck is Don Imus?
Well, it turns out, according to my research, Don Imus is a “Shock Jock,” a term used to denote a radio personality who uses crass jokes and statements intended to push the boundaries of good taste and discourse in the hopes of building a solid listening base. This came as a bit of a surprise to me because, ever since high school football, the term “Shock Jock,” was used to denote an athletic supporter that had been smeared with ICY HOT.
BELATED SIDENOTE TO MY FORMER FOOTBALL TEAMMATES: Ha, ha! Not funny, guys! You know who you are.
Anyway, Don Imus, a “Shock Jock,” who apparently peaked in influence sometime during the Nixon administration, decided to make one last gasp for radio fame by calling the Rutgers women’s basketball team “nappy headed hos,” setting off a firestorm of criticism decrying Imus’s statement as both racially derogative and a slur against women in general.
It was at this point in the drama where I found myself unable to sleep at night because, honestly, Imus’s critics were correct. Surely, the term “nappy headed hos” was going to set back race and gender progress for at least the next decade, if not longer. How could Don Imus have been so thoughtless, so inflammatory? How will women, and black women in particular, be able to recover from this ill-conceived verbal insult to their gender and race?
Perhaps ironically, it was radio itself that put me back at ease, and by the end of the week, I was finally able to fall back asleep. I believe it was the musical group, the “Black Eyed Peas,” who first started me back on the path to nocturnal slumber. I was on my way to work when I heard it, that tribute to gender equality and non-objectification of women: “My Humps.” It was so liberating, so empowering, I found myself singing along:
“What you gon' do with all that junk? All that junk inside that trunk? I'ma get, get, get, get, you drunk, get you love drunk off my hump. What you gon' do with all that *ss? All that *ss inside them jeans? I'm a make, make, make, make you scream Make you scream, make you scream.”
What more powerful antidote to Don Imus’s hateful screed can you ask for? This is a bra-burning, equality-empowering musical powerhouse, and since it hit #3 on the Billboard hot 100 awhile back, I’m sure it found the ears of millions of impressionable young women.
Not to be outdone, I then heard the heartfelt ballad by Akon (with Snoop Dogg) entitled “I wanna love you,” and again I found myself rapping along:
“Money in the air as mo’ fell. Grab you by your coattail, take you to the motel, ho sale. Don’t tell, wont tell, baby say ‘I don’t talk, Dogg unless you told on me’ - oh well. Take a picture wit me, what the flick gon’ do, baby stick to me and I’ma stick on you. If you pick me then I’ma pick on you, d-o-double G and I’m here to put this d*** on you.”
It practically brings a tear to the eye, doesn’t it? Not since Shakespeare penned “Romeo and Juliet” has such a romance been envisioned. And this song held the #1 spot on the Billboard hot 100 for two whole wonderful weeks!
So, to Don Imus, I say “Good bye, you hateful bigot. You and your race/gender stifling rhetoric are not welcome in the public discourse any longer. Don’t forget your hat on the way out the door, Sir!”
And to the Black Eyed Peas and Akon, I say, “Keep spreading the Gospel, dear minstrels. You’re a credit to your craft, and a shining beacon for female and race progress now and into the future!”
Why This Week Was Awesome
This week will go down in history as the week in which the term "nappy headed hos" became the catchphrase of 2007. I expect Hostess to come out with a new snack treat called "Nappy Headed Ho-Hos" within the next couple of months.
Thanks to Don Imus, I can walk down the street loudly and randomly shouting "Nappy headed hos!" and people will automatically blame Don Imus.
April 12, 2007
Keep An Eye On The Ball
This morning, I awoke in my usually groggy state of half-awaredness and went through the morning ritual of poking contacts back into my eyes and jamming a toothbrush into my mouth.
The morning ritual, it occurred to me, was one successive act of facial penetration after another, culminating in the Q-tipping of the ear canals following the shower. It's no wonder I look defeated each morning, what with the abuse I'm about to put my face through all over again.
At any rate, this morning my contacts were giving me more problems than normal. Maybe my eyes were particularly dry, or I just didn't put the contacts in quite right, but for whatever reason, they kept hazing over and trying to eject from my corneas.
Well, as I staggered sleepily and nakedly down the hallway to the bathroom, my right contact finally freed itself, at which point I enacted the patented "freeze, don't move" pose all contact wearers are no doubt familiar with. It's almost an instinctual reaction: you feel a contact flutter free from your eye, and you stop dead short, like you just noticed a Vietnamese booby trap and don't want to trip the wire.
I started wearing contacts when I was back in high school, which was a time in the evolution of contact lens technology when contacts were worth roughly the same as the Crown Jewels. If you lost a contact lens, you were going to find that errant lens if it was the last thing you did. Otherwise, you'd be dooming your parents into indentured servitude for life after they ponied up the dough for another pair. And you could be darned sure your mother would never let you hear the end of it. Maybe I'm projecting here.
Nowadays, contact lenses are practically given away, but old habits die hard. So it was, at 7 a.m. today, I was down on all fours, naked, inspecting the hallway floor like Sherlock Holmes looking for footprints. After about five minutes of intense floor scrutiny, even the cats seemed interested in lending a paw. Finally, I had to concede the lens was nowhere to be seen anywhere on the floor.
Using my powers of deductive reasoning, I came to the conclusion the contact lens must have then attached itself to me. This has happened before. I've found contact lenses clinging to my chest hair, and on my arm, and even once on my chin. Contact lenses can apparently adhere to anything. So, I logically reasoned the contact lens had to be somewhere on my body. But where?
Did I mention I was naked?
Without painting too obvious of a picture, I caught a glimpse of my missing contact lens clinging to my most favorite bodily area.
The question was whether I really wanted to salvage the contact lens at that point, or just crack open a new box and cut my losses. It was one of those defining moments that would help me further understand who I was as a person. Was I a defeatist? Was I a conservationist? Was I wasteful? Or was I clean? Was I the type of guy who could pluck a contact lens off his manhood and put it right back in his eye? Or was I the kind of guy who would shake that contact off into the toilet and opt for a fresh lens?
I'll let you decide what course of action I opted to follow.
April 11, 2007
April 10, 2007
Obligatory Don Imus Post
I don't care what that nappy headed ho said. Just get him off the news cycle already. Jeez.
Oh, wait, the Anna Nicole baby DNA results are supposed to be announced today. That should do it.
UPDATE: Man, I'm good.
April 09, 2007
April 05, 2007
Movie Review
This movie sucks. Turned it off after 30 minutes. You can not maintain a joke like that through an entire movie.
And to all the critics who hailed it as work of comedic genius? Ya'll can go eat a cock.
That is all.
Got Golf
One of the great mistakes I’ve made multiple times in the past was to tell people I golf on occasion. If you would ever like to be surprised by a gift ever again in your life, you must resist the urge to admit to golfing, ever.
I really don’t know what it is about telling people you golf, but I can guarantee you, if you tell someone you golf, you can expect all future gifts from that person to somehow be associated with golfing.
When I mentioned I occasionally golf to my girlfriend’s family four years ago, I had no idea what I had unintentionally set into motion, but come Christmas that first year, I was given more golfing stuff than I honestly knew what to do with.
I was given a little cooler that hooks on to a golf bag for carrying around beverages. I was given golf tees, and golf balls, and a golf towel. Seeing me surrounded by my Christmas loot that year, people would no doubt have thought I was actually good at golf or something, or at least that I play golf a whole lot, when in fact I may get out less than 10 times a season.
In the time that’s passed since then, I been given even more golf balls and golf tees. I’ve received a golf mug, a golf glove, a golf shirt, and a golf beer koozie. Additionally, I’m always asked how my golf game is going, who I golf with, and what my favorite local golf course may be. The answers, in order, are: it’s terrible, whoever will put up with me, and whatever course is easiest.
I can think of no other hobby or pastime that can generate as much predictable gift-giving as golf. For example, I’m also interested in jiu-jitsu, but I have yet—in the last two years of participating in jiu-jitsu classes two to three times a week—to receive a jiu-jitsu related gift, yet the golf stuff keeps pouring in.
Granted, I imagine it’s difficult to find jiu-jitsu related gifts. Whereas golf stores and gift shops are in abundant supply, you can’t just stroll into Jiu-Jitsu -R- Us or Jiu-Jitsu World. I understand that.
Still, I have to wonder how to shut off the golf gift button now that I possess more golf equipment than most golf pro shops. How do I un-register for golf gifts? Are there forms to fill out? Is there a government agency that handles such a process?
I know, I know, as problems rate, this isn’t one very high on the list, but I can’t help but wonder how different my life would be if, instead of saying I golf occasionally, I had said something along the lines of “I really love cash,” or “My primary hobby is collecting cash,” or “Hey, do you have any spare cash you could give me?” If I had simply made that one little life change, my home office would consist of stacks upon stacks of cash, rather than 800 golf tees, 500 golf balls and countless other golf paraphernalia.
So, in conclusion, unless you really enjoy golf and play quite often, don’t tell the gift-giving people in your life that you golf. I won’t be held responsible for what happens if you test this warning I’m offering up to you, free of charge.
Which reminds me. . . do you have any cash you could give me?
ThunderJournal-versary
I've been royally sick this week, hence the non-existent posting, but I would like to note today represents the fifth anniversary of this here ThunderJournal. It was actually started in Februray of 2002, but it wasn't until today in 2002 that my then-officemate, Jen, set me up with an actual working template.
That was back in my Blogspot days. I've been posting fairly regularly ever since, particularly since being moved over to this mu.nu domain, which took place in March of 2004, at which point I became able to post pictures of my own ass, which was my own personal springboard to Internet fame, such as it is.
April 02, 2007
Think Outside The Box
I just saw this on the Rochester Post-Bulletin Web site, and it literally made me laugh myself to near unconsciousness. Am I the only person who thinks in warped ways like this?
