Newsy Newsiness
Let us travel, you and I, to the sacred online news world of MSNBC.com to make fun of today's headlines.
"Sex Slaves: Europe's Thriving Trade in Drugs, Guns & Women" This begs the question: What the heck am I doing sitting here in America when all the action is overseas? Okay, I'm joking. Mostly. Somehow, I find it entertaining to think of a bunch of proper speaking Brits haggling over a trade.
"I say, Hugh my good boy, I'll trade you even up for that saucy little tart on your arm. Surely I could tempt you with four AK-47s and a few kilos of heroin?"
"Tut tut, Langston. I can't simply hand over Veronica here for such a paltry trade. Throw in a couple crates of grenades and you'll have yourself a deal."
"Good show, Hubert. Good show. You drive a hard bargain. Now, let's go out for tea and crumpets."
According to a Washington Post poll, half of all Americans still feel unsafe following the 9/11 attacks. This just proves to me that pollsters are just getting lazy. Of course we feel unsafe following 9/11. Who the heck wouldn't? For one terrifying day, it seemed as if our world was literally falling down around us. Conflicting news reports abounded about scores of missing aircraft, while we were subjected to that horrifying footage of the second airliner slicing into the second World Trade Center building. Over, and over, and over, and over. So, yes, I feel a tad unsafe. I still go about my daily routine pretty much as usual. I flew to Hawaii over Christmas and to Nashville a couple of weeks ago, but there was an increase in trepidation on my part each time I boarded an airplane. And how does our government respond to our lingering fears? With a friggin color-coded alert system. How stupid is that?
Finally, unemployment in America is now at 6 percent, the highest level since 1994. As a relative newbie to the workforce, this percentage troubles me. Particularly here at IBM, where layoffs are almost a type of game. I like my job as news editor, and I'm a real fan of paychecks, so the prospect of entering the ranks of the unemployed is not at all appealing to me. I guess I'll just have to fall back on my secondary plan to win the lottery and retire at 27, purchase a Hawaiian island, populate it with scantily clad women, and spend the rest of my days eating peeled grapes on the beach. These are my modest goals.
Random Thoughts
Before I do anything else, I must direct your attention to the Lavakan, guaranteed to be your best laugh of the week. I wrote my newspaper column about it and I still chortle when I look at the "before and after" picture. So, anyway. . .
A bit of disturbing trivia. According to my site meter, someone visited my site after doing a Google search on "cunnilingus+tonsilitis." Now, I have no idea why this person is performing such a search, but if he or she is reading this, I prescribe pennicillin, and fast! Someone also came to my site after performing a search on "bush+spewing." I genuinely hope these searches were not done by the same person. *shudder*
Let's do a little quick news searching, and I say quick because, technically, I'm at work and should be doing work-related things, but I've been doing that all day and I think it's only fair that I take a break.
I see that a priest has been arrested for child abuse. I have to ask: what the heck is going on in the Catholic Church? I keep envisioning the widely-hyped meeting between the Pope and American cardinals, with all of them exchanging stories about all the cute kids in their respective congregrations. This whole thing is just demented and sick. Why can't they just hire beret-wearing interns to work off all their lecherous cravings? If it's good enough for our President, it should be good enough for the Catholic Church. How depressing. I'd rather check in with News of the Odd.
"Man Makes Film Based on His Messy Divorce" This sounds like something that would appear as an Onion headline. Is this all that is required to make a movie nowadays? In that case, I have a bunch of movies I'd like to make about my day-to-day existence, including a real-time flick about me getting up in the morning. Of course, my preferred title, "Awakenings," is already taken, so I'd call it "Getting Up: The Ryan Rhodes Story." It wouldn't be very uplifting or interesting, but people could watch me shower, so that should keep their attention.
Stupid Thing I Did Last Night: Proof That It's Never Safe to Play With Matches
So, I have this book of matches on my desk that I used to use to light candles, but now I don't have any candles, so the matches aren't used, except for those times when I'm up at 12:30 in the morning bored out of my skull. I pick up the matches, pluck one from the pack and strike it to firey life. I was watching the match burn, when suddenly MSN alerted me that I had new mail. The distraction led to me forgetting that I had a burning match making it's way to my tender fingers. Suddenly, my finger started to burn, so I reacted and dropped the match. I immediately started looking for the match, but I couldn't find it. Suddenly, I became aware that my stomach was experiencing seering hot pain. I should note here that I was only wearing sweatpants at the time. Yep, the stupid match had practically fallen dead center into my navel and ignited the hair on my stomach. Although the whole incident only took about three seconds, hair is one of the most flammable substances next to gasoline. I frantically patted myself out and assessed the damage. So, my once hairy stomach now has a crater of scorched and wispy hair in a one inch radius surrounding my belly button.
Come to think of it, I should make a move about that. "Burning Navel" Sounds like a new alcoholic drink.
Having a ball with News of the Odd
Sometimes, there's nothing of substance in News of the Odd, and other times I'm greeted with a headline like "Player Banned After Testicle Biting." Such a headline demands that I read further. Apparently, an Australian soccer player became entangled with an opponent and "could not breathe." In a "reflex reaction" he chomped down on the opponent's body, unaware that his teeth had clamped down on scrotum. Usually, my first reaction when I can't breath is to signal for help rather than biting the nearest nut sac, but to each his own I guess. "It was a split-second decision," said the strong-jawed Aussie. The biting victim suffered a perforated scrotum (excuse me while I flinch in absolute pain at the thought) and lost some blood, in addition to requiring a tetanus shot. The aspiring scrotum vampire is to undergo counseling before resuming playing.
I've taken more than a few shots to the groin area during my life. Truth be told, one of the most feared games of the elementary schoolyard was a demented exercise known as "Pecker Tag." I hated that game. Through high school sports, however, including football and wrestling, I never met an opponent who eyed my jewels and deigned to chomp them. Rest assured, however, if it had happened, and I was able to free myself from the evil-doer responsible for the deed, the audience would have been witness to the biggest ass kicking in high school sports history. They could have expelled me for all I would have cared. There's simply no place in this world for random scrotum biting. That's just wrong.
Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker.
Dreams and Diversions
Let's talk about nightmares. More specifically, let's talk about my nightmares. Last night, I was beset with nightmares. However, although they seemed totally frightening as my mind conjured them and flashed the images across my subconscious mind, in retrospect they're more humorous than anything else. So, there I was, being attacked by a miniature skeleton covered in blood. Now, did I stop and ask why I was being attacked by a bloody miniature skeleton? No, of course not. At the time, everything made total and complete sense. "I must escape from this deranged bloody miniature skeleton." My earliest memories of nightmares involved me fleeing downstairs from an unknown sense of dread emanating from somewhere upstairs. Just as I reached the last step, I'd be irresistably drawn, tumbling and screaming, by some sort of evil tractor beam, back up the stairs. I hated those nightmares more than any nightmares I've had since. However, I also remember a nightmare where my name was being called from the bathroom closet. I opened the closet and saw an upside-down green head smiling at me, telling me that it "was my new friend." Trusting toddler that I was, I picked up the head and started to take it downstairs to show mom (she always wanted to meet my friends, particularly decapitated green heads). Suddenly, the head bit down hard on my hand and kept gnawing until it was about to fall off, at which point I woke up, terrified to look in the bathroom closet. Most of my modern nightmares involve stupid stuff like bloody miniature skeletons. Well, I have a meeting to attend. Talk about a nightmare.
I must vent. One of my former college roommates and one of my best friends is a Minnesota State Trooper. He worked the metro area for two years and saw and dealt with enough dregs of society to last a lifetime. His life was threatened and he was attacked by drunks and druggies on a nightly basis. So, when it comes to law enforcement officers, I cut them a whole buttload of slack. If they catch me speeding, I don't try to lie my way out of it. I was speeding, and that's that. So, yesterday, my buddy is on duty (he recently was approved a transfer to Winona County), and he has to respond to a call about a deer that had been hit by a car but was still able to walk. This deer insisted on going back on the interstate as if daring motorists to hit it. Of course, motorists kept opting to swerve and eventually some motorists stopped their vehicles and got out because "they wanted to help the deer." Now, I rarely stop on an freaking interstate, because cars go really fast on the interstate, and I certainly wouldn't expose my frail frame to oncoming traffic in the name of assisting a deer stupid enough to get hit by a car and then stick around for more. And yet, that's exactly what these folks were doing. Imagine if you will, a throng of about 10 morons running around in fields and on the interstate in a surreal game of wildlife tag. What would they have done had they caught the deer? Ride it? Put it in the trunk? I don't know if you're at all familiar with deer hooves, but they're as sharp as scissors and one good kick to the mid-section could disembowel our governor. So, my buddy arrives on the scene and promptly gets his squad car stuck in the median. So, he's not a happy man to start with. He grabs his shotgun and gets out of his car, careful to keep the shotgun hidden alongside his leg, lest the crowd of deer-chasing idiots realize what he's about to do and try to stop him. He yells at everyone to get back to their cars while he trudges across the field to meet personally with the deer. He gets within 25 feet, draws his shotgun, and, two blasts later, Bambi is no more, much to the shock of those watching who had no idea my buddy was carrying a shotgun. Well, now everyone is just horrified and offended, demanding to know why he used such excessive force, as if a wounded deer somehow should at least be read its miranda rights or given a last supper. Everyone wanted to know my buddy's name so they could report his abuse of power and write scathing letters to the editor for any newspaper that may listen. A little reality check, folks. The deer was a danger to traffic. It was wounded, and despite all the cries to save it, the DNR would have arrived later and done the same exact thing. Wounded deer are not tranquilized and carted off to petting zoos. They are destroyed. That's what is done with wounded deer. Get over it, get back in your cars, and stop being so stupid. Deer me, how I do go on.
Welcome to Monday. Blech. I slept until 3 p.m. on Saturday and until 1 p.m. on Sunday, and yet I'm still tired. Why? I believe it's because I tricked my mind and body into believing that they were now on a new schedule that included over 10 hours of sleep and they didn't understand why they had to be up at 8 a.m. today. "But, but why? Why do we have to get up? We don't want to get up. You can't make us. No, no, no, no, no, no!" *press the snooze button* That gives me an idea for a column. Good, because I was kind of worried about coming up with a topic this week.
I mowed the lawn yesterday for the first time this season. It's not my most favorite task in the world, but the smell of freshly cut spring grass is one of the greatest things imaginable. Of course, it took half an hour to get the cranky mower to sputter to life, and I was pulling the starter so hard I jarred the left front wheel loose. It was strangely embarrasing sitting in the driveway, screwing a wheel back on a mower that wouldn't start. But, I pumped the primer a couple of times, cleaned the spark plug connection, and the next pull resulted in a rejuvenated mower. For a guy who barely knows where to pour the oil in his car, this was a major accomplishment.
I fear that I may be becoming cynical. O.K., I've always been a bit cynical. Still, why not be cynical? One of my roommates tonight, Emily, was watching the movie Serendipity, and she said, "I really believe I'll meet the perfect man some day, just like in the movies." I shook my head. Hollywood has spoiled us. We sit in theaters or in front of televisions and we are trained to believe that true love can be found within two hours. That's not to say I don't believe in true love or love at first sight for that matter, but let's be realistic people!! I've dated enough women to know that we, the human species, are a terribly flawed example of evolution. We love ourselves first, and we look for ourselves in those we seek. And that's wrong. We are all unique, and that should be celebrated, yet we seek the gender-opposite equivalent.
I love solitude, yet I'm good with people. I'm organized, but only I understand my organization. I live for human touch, but I have a wide personal space. I hate to work, but if it comes down to it, I'll do everything if it means getting a good job done. I want to save money, but I want to buy everything for my friends and family.
There's a lot more, of course, but what female could match that perfectly? I wonder how many stellar females I have waived in pursuit of the ideal, and I'm spooked to think I may have waived the one.
