New Tapes Show Bin Laden Making New Threats and . . . Zzzzzzz
You know you've fully acclimated to the new reality of terror when a CNN headline reads U.S.: Latest tapes 'cause for concern', and you find it pretty hard to give a damn.
If it weren't for the 9/11 attacks, I'd be relatively certain that all al Queda does is make cheesy home videos and spew threatening rhetoric. Okay, guys, we get it already. Yes, yes, yes, you don't like Americans. Yes, we're fully aware that you're planning new strikes. YES, we're now totally cognizant of all your bat-shit ideals and your loose-knit network of radicals who are so brainwashed they think heaven consists entirely of virgins who actually will break their chastity for lazy and insane men who voluntarily blow themselves up. Now, please, shut up! I don't care any more! I am hereby sticking my fingers deeply in my ears and singing a rendition of LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!
In the latest installment of Al Queda's Most Threatening Home Videos, we're treated to two new releases, one featuring Ayman al-Zawahiri, bin Laden's No. 2 man, as if that's somehow a flattering distinction (the next time I take a #2, I'm going to call it "pinching an al-Zawahiri), and the other tape reportedly features Osama bin Laden himself. You may remember bin Laden from such classic cinematic masterpieces as I Hate America and I Still Hate America.
And how are the political and military geniuses in Washington D.C. responding to these new tapes? You'll be relieved to know that officials said the two messages are "cause for concern" and that the government is in a "period of increased concern" about the threat to the nation. Although unease about new attacks has gone up and down several times since September 11, they said this is "definitely a peak."
Oh, good, our government is responding with a period of increased concern. *whew* I'm glad they're so proactive about notching up the concern. They used to be so stingy with the concern, but now it's definitely at a peak. It's refreshing to see the wheels of government in action. If you were to hang around the steps of the Capitol, I'm sure every face you see will be etched with an increased level of concern. Democrats and Republicans alike will surely be sporting furrowed brows and squinty concerned eyes.
On the tape, which was released Tuesday, the speaker threatens fresh attacks against the United States, its economy and its allies.
The above sentence is a standard addition that is plugged into all news articles regarding newly released al Queda tapes, except that Tuesday is replaced with XXXs. For example, "On the tape, which was released XXX.
Waking Up On the Floor
I don't normally walk in my sleep, although there's a slim chance that, when in unfamiliar surroundings, I'll wander around in unconscious locomotion. Apparently, the new carpet adorning the basement and my room constitutes unfamiliar surroundings, because this morning I awoke on the basement floor without pillows or blankets. Just me, laid out on my back, with my hands clasped across my chest in true coffin-corpse fashion, in the middle of the basement floor, well away from my bedroom. I'd probably still be sleeping there if it weren't for my alarm clock blaring away at 6 a.m.
It's a disconcerting feeling to wake up where you don't expect to wake up. I was thinking, "Ahhhhh, that was a good night's sleep, now it's time for work. . . where the hell am I? I'm on the basement floor? What the fuck?"
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't trust my unconscious mind. What was it thinking? Why would it honestly prefer the basement floor to my nice warm bed?
What the fuck?
"Gambling can be Such a Gamble" c. Ryan Rhodes, April 19, 2001
I'm not an avid gambler, but I'm willing to bet good money that I gamble more than is probably necessary. Any takers?
Actually, I only invest in about two or three lottery tickets a month, and I may visit a casino once every three months or so. However, given the fact that I rarely, very rarely, come away from a gambling experience with more money in my wallet than when I started, I think there's a safe argument to be made that I should stay away from gambling venues all together.
At any given moment of gambling weakness, I may depart from anywhere between $5 and $40. Now, this is not necessarily a large sum of money. Truth be told, I suffer more monetary loss from an impulse purchase at Best Buy or a particularly serious weekend of saloon celebrations (let me just take a moment to congratulate myself on the brilliant method by which I just made drinking at a bar sound almost classy).
Still, when it comes to gambling, there's a nagging burn to the knowledge that I spent up to $40 on, well, absolutely nothing. At least when I purchase an impulse item at Best Buy, I have a CD or a computer game to show for it. Even after a weekend of saloon celebrations, I can at least acknowledge my splitting headache and nausea as some sort of return on my investment. But, with gambling, I had $40, and now I don't. Where did it go? What did I buy? Air?
The more I think about it, the more I realize that it's not the loss of money that irritates me. Rather, it's the fact that I was enticed by the draw of easy money that makes me feel bad. After 26 years, you would think I would know better than to believe there's such a thing as easy money: well, except for hitting my parents up for a few dollars; that's still pretty easy.
However, it is, indeed, the appeal of making easy money that prompts me to buy a lottery card or visit a casino. Even more alluring than the thought of getting something for nothing is the imaginative world I escape into as I think about all the things I'll do if I do get something for nothing.
Take lottery scratch tickets, for example. When I have a considerably long drive ahead of me (anything over an hour is pretty long), I'll swing into the local Kwik Trip and purchase a $5 scratch ticket. I'll then place the little piece of cardboard in the passenger seat and, for the entire drive, I'll just sit and conjure up all sorts of big thoughts about what I would do if I won $100,000. And I would do big things, too. I'd get $100,000 in quarters and give my car the best darned cleaning ever. Or, I'd get all $1 bills and make 100,000 bank deposits. Yeah, that might be fun.
Casino visits, however, are very rarely carefree excursions. These are the big $40 trips that can make or break me. Of course, $40 won't break me financially, but for some reason my stress level jumps 300 percent in a casino. There's something disconcerting about all the whirling lights and bleeps and pings and whistles of the slot machines. It's like I'm immediately surrounded by hundreds of miniature ambulances. That's pretty stressful.
I don't particularly like slot machine gambling, unless I win of course. Overall, slot machines just seem too cold and detached. It's like putting money in the mouth of one of my ex-girlfriends.
Rather, I prefer the human component of roulette or blackjack tables. There's a sense of genuine opportunity when my money is matched against an actual person, a person who makes the same mistakes as I do, or so I hope.
Now, I'm not a very superstitious person, knock on wood, but I notice that little disconcerting personality traits surface the longer I stay at a casino. If I win a hand of blackjack, for example, I'll be sure that my initial stack of chips remains exactly the same until I eventually lose a hand, at which point I'll restack my chips because, obviously, the previous stacking method ran out of luck. Or, if I happen to remember that I scratched my armpit prior to a winning hand, I'll be sure to scratch that same armpit for the following hand. The same rule applies to groin scratches. In retrospect, it's probably a good thing that I don't visit casinos on a regular basis.
Now, given the fact that gambling often leads to an emptier wallet and a plethora of questionable personality traits, I should make a conscious effort to swear off gambling forever.
But, I wouldn't bet on it.
I Don't Understand Large Vehicles
So, I ducked out of work this morning and drove to a local car wash, where I spent $30 to get my vehicle all nice and spiffy clean, because, you see, for the past three weeks I've been driving a bonafide dirtmobile. I just haven't had the time to devote my cleansing abilities to my Cadillac, so dirt in large quantities built up both within and without. Rather than allow even more filth to accumulate, I went the expensive route and had someone else give my car a thorough wash down.
As I was standing there, watching the sloppy, rotating and swishing motions of the soapy cloth strips splash across automobiles as they traversed the cleansing tunnel, I saw the biggest personal vehicle I had every laid eyes on. It was a Cadillac Escalade, an SUV for people who bathe in $100 bills and rinse off in gold confetti. This thing was HUGE. What sick automotive designer could have possibly conjured such a garish road hog? Whoever he was, chances are he has a small penis and is compensating through his automotive design ideas. I sometimes think my Cadillac Eldorado (which I bought only after the grandfather of a good friend of mine passed away and I got a good deal on) is large, but this monstrosity looked like something Gulliver would use to level Lilliputian villages.
So I'm still standing there, mouth agape as the behemoth machine lumbers to a stop and loud fans labor to dry every last inch of the chunk of metal freakishness, when I start to ponder who could possibly own such a vehicle. I was envisioning a pituitary giant, perhaps 8'9" tall, striding forth to claim his vehicle, or perhaps some visiting king from the country of Oilandia. Surely someone of immense stature must own a beastly machine such as this.
I heard a faint voice from behind me, and I turned to see an older gentleman, perhaps 73 years of age, shuffle over to claim his Escalade. What the hell? This frail septuagenarian owns a vehicle 3,000 times his own body mass? I swear, the older people get, the bigger their vehicles get. I'm convinced that most people who reach their 100s simply start driving trains.
After considerable effort, the old man hoisted himself into the driver's seat, strapped himself in, and promptly put the vehicle in reverse, smacking an unsuspecting car wash worker and knocking him to the ground. Without acknowledging his error, grandpa shifted back into drive and steered his way back onto the road, no doubt bound for a grand American adventure.
Or, more than likely, a nap.
How Does One Train a Kamikaze Pilot?
According to a recent news item from my beloved Oddly Enough News, Kamikaze Instructor Meets War Veterans. Now here's a head-scratcher of a question for you: How does one train a kamikaze pilot?
Just by virtue of the fact that the teacher was alive, that would seem that he was, at the very least, a failed kamikaze pilot, not the type of guy you want teaching a class filled with aspiring kamikazes. Granted, it's probably much easier to learn kamikaze techniques from a living teacher than a corpse, but I'd prefer to learn from the best rather than some joker who didn't even have the common decency to slam an airplane into the broadside of a battleship himself. I can just imagine a classroom full of incredulous students.
KAMIKAZE INSTRUCTOR: Now, pay attention class and open your kamikaze manuals to page 36. Read your books carefully because this knowledge could very well save your life one day. . .er. . . I mean. On second thought, let's put our books down and I'll write on the board.
KAMIKAZE STUDENT #1 *whispering to neighbor*: This guy doesn't know what he's talking about. Look at him up there, breathing air, with a pulse. He's no kamikaze pilot.
KAMIKAZE STUDENT #2: I know what you mean. My four brothers all died gloriously last week. Each one of them had more kamikaze knowledge in their little fingers than this guy will ever have.
KAMIKAZE INSTRUCTOR: Is there a problem back there? Maybe you'd like to come up here and teach the class. No? Then I suggest you pay attention. Now, as I was saying, the landing gear must be in a locked position prior to landing and. . . you know what? Now that I think about it, the landing gear really doesn't apply to this class.
KAMIKAZE STUDENT #1: Man, I can't stand this guy. I'd plunge a blade into my abdomen and sever my own internal organs right now if it were up to me. Just get me up in the air so I can crash and explode already. This class is so pointless.
KAMIKAZE INSTRUCTOR: Okay, I've had just about enough of your talking back there. There are some students in this class who really want to learn how to die properly, but you're disrupting everything with all your talk. Maybe you're telling me you want to take a test. Is that it? Well, I can certainly accomodate you.
KAMIKAZE online-porn.jpg">CLASS: *groan*
Pulling Up the Roomie's Carpet
Despite the sexual innuendo inherent in the heading, let me assure you I did not spend last night plucking my roommate's pubic hair. Although, if she were to ask for my assistance in such a task, I would certainly lend a hand, literally. Amy, if you're reading this, I sincerely apologize for the preceeding two sentences.
Nay, last night's festivities, after I went for my five mile run and ingested hearty cuisine from Taco Bell, involved disassembling my room, moving out furniture, and ripping up carpet in preparation for the arrival of new carpet today. That's right, we're getting a whole new basement full of brand new carpet today! I'm so excited, I can barely sit perfectly still and type magazine articles for eight straight hours. Actually, I have trouble doing that every day, but this time I have an excuse.
The basement has been without carpet since Amy had an expensive beaver drainage system installed late in July. For the record, I can't believe this entry has mentioned pubic hair, carpet, Taco Bell and beaver system, yet has nothing to do with sex. My room alone remained carpeted while Amy sought out a good carpet deal.
So, last night, I set about cleaning out my room, a minor nuisance of a task that really didn't take too long, owing primarily to my overall lack of worldly goods. It's a sad testimony to existence when your most valuable posessions are, in order, your car, your computer, your clothes, your bed, and finally, your two pieces of pre-fabricated furniture. I should really get out there and start buying stuff.
Once my room was cleared out, Amy and I set about pulling up the carpet. Now, I knew that the room's previous occupant had owned a dog, but I wasn't prepared for the harsh reminder that wafted to my nostrils when the first corner was pulled up. The stench of long-dormant dog pee singed our faces like flames leaping up from a gasoline fire. The more we rolled the carpet, the more potent the odor became. We also became aware of moldy patches growing on the matting directly below the carpet, sure indicators of a busy canine bladder.
It was then that a chilling realization came over me. This was the same carpet I sat on and ate countless meals while watching television! This was the same carpet on which I did push-ups and sit-ups! This was the same carpet I laid half naked on while getting a massage! The health hazards alone were staggering.
Amy and I carried the pee-laden carpet roll up the stairs and deposited it in the garage, and I hurriedly jaunted to the bathroom to take a much-needed shower.
So, yeah, we're getting new carpet installed today.
Thank God.
Me In Action and Weekend Randomness
There's nothing I like better than seeing pictures of me kicking ass. Actually, there are a lot of things I like better than that, but as I sit here in front of my computer without either a naked female in my bed or a $400 bottle of cognac, I guess pictures of me kicking ass will have to do.
"What the hell is he talking about?" you ask.
"Shut up and let me finish," I respond.
My martial arts studio has updated its Web site to include pictures of little old me demonstrating some techniques. For those of you with an insatiable yen to ogle yet more pictures of my smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness body, you can click here. Then click the Hapkido link and scroll down to the pictures of the guy with the shaved head being mean. That would be me. Great googily moogily I'm good looking. I'm also very modest. There are also some video clips of me kicking ass and getting my ass kicked, but I can't for the life of me figure out how to view the damned things. But enough of this shameless self-promotion.
My girlfriend is an absolute junkie when it comes to the TLC program "Trading Spaces." For those not familiar with the program, let me offer up the two second synopsis: Caffeinated neighbors agree to swap a room in their houses so equally caffeinated interior decorators can come in and put their effeminate touch to the selected room. The neighbors follow the designers orders and they have two days to make the room fit the designer's vision. The rooms are then unveiled, and the neighbors either jump up and down in enthusiastic approval or they sit in a corner and cry. Melissa and I tend to favor the crying reaction, because we're both sadistic like that. Anyway, the show features two carpenters who are ordered around by the designers to produce exquisite furniture in little or not time. One carpenter is a guy named Ty and the other is a girl named Amy. I practically have to unfurl a towel under Melissa whenever Ty is featured just to catch her drool. I'm partial to Amy, because she has titanic breasts and looks damned hot in a tool belt. Well, as I read the Post-Bulletin (Rochester's answer to lazy journalism), I learned that Ty would be speaking at the 2002 Women's Fall Expo at the Mayo Civic Center, right here in Rochester, on Saturday, Oct. 5. I informed Mel of this and suggested we go see Sir Ty. I had never before been to a Women's Expo, owing primarily to my distinction as a male. I guess I enjoyed myself, but I was stunned by just how much of a following Ty has. The expo floor was crammed with women, young and old, who were practically sweating beneath their silks just to get a glimpse of him. I don't think it's too much to ask that I get the same reaction wherever I go, but alas, the female species has yet to acknowledge just how hot I am. The poor lasses. Mel seemed to enjoy herself, and that was the main thing. I also had the opportunity to see the most God-awful hairdo ever to defile a female head. I didn't know who she was, but the poor confused creature actually thought she looked good, when in fact her hair looked like a gigantic, ratty red ostrich nest. Do ostriches make nests? It doesn't matter. If they do, they likely resembe that woman's hair.
Today (Sunday), I played in a 27 hole golf tournament. Now, remember, this is Oct. 6 in Minnesota, a time when, although not necessarily cold, it is definitely not thong weather. Today's Minnesota weather menu featured temperatures soaring to 42 degrees, with complementary winds comparable to an F5 tornado or Oprah Winfrey and Roseanne breaking wind simultaneously. *shudder* What a horrible analogy. Suffice it to say, it was gusty and cold enough to make my final golf tournament of the year a miserable ordeal. And an ordeal it was. My golfing partner, Jim, was foolhardy enough to say, "Well, at least it's not raining." As if on cue, a light drizzle began to fall. Golf balls did not behave as golf balls should today. After seven hours of enduring this maddening cryogenics experiment, I wanted nothing more than to see the Minnesota Twins beat the Oakland Athletics from the warmth of my own home. The Twins won 5 to 4 after a cliffhanger ninth inning. Awesome.
