Michele, over at A Small Victory, is conducting another limerick contest. You don't win anything except bragging rights which, for me, is like the best prize ever. The rules:
-- Your limerick must contain the names/site names of at least one blogger.
-- Mentions of multiple bloggers (preferably with links) in your limerick will score you more points.
-- Putting the mentioned bloggers in a comprimising or scandalous position in your limerick gets points, as long as it is done so in a humurous manner, and not meant to intentionally hurt someone.
-- posting the limerick on your blog and linking back to this post will score points.
Getting the blogger(s) you mention in your limerick to link to you gets more points (you must leave a comment here with the link).
-- If you are not a blogger, but participating, you can get handicap points.
-- Mentioning anyone running in the presidential race, or anyone who is thinking about running in the presidential race of 2004 is forbidden.
-- You cannot mention me (Michele) in your limerick.
-- Extra points if you can squeeze in a reference to any of the following: donuts, the Yankees, hockey, Radiohead, menstrual cramps, Hello Kitty, PETA, Jonah Goldberg, NPR, The Village Voice, Google or Fark (that was a very random list, culled from walking through my blogroll and has no meaning, so don't look for it).
-- If you don't follow the standard limerick form, you are disqualified.
My submissions thus far are listed below:
Laurence Simon, the blogger of yore
Has a blog that features cat stories galore
One day Nardo attacked him
While another cat whacked him
Who picked Laurence Simon for the Dead Pool? Score!
The perplexing moonbat blogger, Hesiod
Had a real name of Hank, Bob or Ted
His political mind
Is one of a kind
Who knew that one could blog while brain dead?
James Lileks was writing his Bleat
And he was nude because of the heat.
Just then the phone rang
And Jasper nipped at his wang
Bad dog! That's not a dog treat!
A limerick praising me from Doggerelpundit :
Good Lim'ricks require a good planner,
And Ryan doth write in this manner.
His concepts are clever
His rhyming bad? Never!
(Oh, perhaps a small boost as a scanner)
My response:
Doggerelpundit writes words that do flatter
I'm so happy I couldn't be gladder
In fact, I'm so pleased
My bowels just released
And now here I sit in my own fecal matter.
I sure miss the fake blogger named Puce.
With misspellings he wrote fast and loose.
He was a hit real quick
With his directive to CLICK
And he was a magnet for commenting abuse.
The Instapundit, known as Glenn Reynolds
Spends his time stalking dog kennels
He prefers to eat puppies
That were once owned by yuppies
And spice them with paprika and fennel
Not many people can say that they got hit by a train and survived, but I can. Granted, I didn't get hit seriously or anything. I mean, it wasn't like I was walking down the tracks and got hit head on. If that were the case, well, I'd be dead now, wouldn't I?
No, my brief encounter with the train that hit me was far less serious, although it required a brain fart of staggering proportions on my part. Oh, and it also required the ingestion of vast quantities of beer.
It was the spring of my third year of college. I had just turned 21 a few months prior, and I was revelling in the novelty of being able to purchase alcohol legally from liquor stores. On that particular Saturday, Winona, Minn., was celebrating its annual Spring Fest, which more or less had become a college-wide excuse to get shitfaced by 1 p.m. For the record, that year was the LAST year that Winona allowed Spring Fest. But, anyway.
Following the Spring Fest morning concert, an event that involved students drinking cans of beer as fast as they could and throwing the empty cans at the band, those who could still engage in locomotion staggered their way back to campus. I was part of the exodus. It's funny how so many drunken young people think that repeatedly yelling "Whoo HOO!" somehow constitutes a form of communication. One person let's loose with a "Whoo HOO!" and that's following by several students across the street echoing with their own "Whoo HOO!" Really, what are they Whoo HOOing about?
As I made my way homeward, I remembered a request by my roommate for me to bring home a couple cases of beer, because we were going to have a small party that night. So, I stopped in at a local liquor store and made my purchase. It didn't really dawn on me that I would still have to walk six blocks carrying two cases of beer, but oh well.
With my purchases in hand, I continued my staggering trek homeward. About midway there, however, I realized that a train was coming. I judged the distance between me and the tracks and the approaching train, and I decided that, if I ran, I could probably make it across. So, I started running. It was at this point that fate intervened on my behalf. One of the cases of beer broke open just as I was reaching the tracks, and I had to stop my quest to beat the train in order to pick up a few loose cans of beer. In retrospect, I probably would have made it had the case not broke open. I probably would have beat the train by several seconds. But, still.
So, as I stood there, waiting for the train to pass by, I got this great idea. I mean, this was a fabulous idea. I noticed that most of the train cars were of the cylindrical variety, and I thought it would be cool to run my hand alongside one of those cylinders. I just couldn't resist the allure.
So, I extended my hand and touched the train, a train that was chugging past at about 40 miles per hour. That's when I realized that those smooth cylindrical train cars also have protruding ladders running up to the top of the cars, and one such ladder was zooming towards my arm at 40 miles per hour.
Realizing my folly, I tried to jerk my arm back to safety, but I wasn't quick enough, and the ladder smacked my fingers with all the force one would expect from a train. The impact spun me halfway around, and it did so so quickly I found myself with no sense of balance whatsoever, so I did a pathetic sort of indian style sit right there in the dirt.
I wish I had a picture of that moment. It was one of those snapshots in time that I'd love to be able to give to my parents sometime in the future after I've become somewhat successful in life. It would be a way of saying, yes, I'm doing all right now, but take a look at THIS. And then I'd show them a picture of me, sitting indian style in the dirt, with two cases of beer next to me (one broken open), staring in wondrous pain at my rapidly expanding right hand that had just been struck by the train slightly blurred by motion behind me.
In the time it takes a college student to shotgun a beer, my hand swelled up to the size of a catcher's mitt. I thought it was going to pop. And the pain! The pain was exquisite! I thought for sure my hand was broken in 4,342 places. It HAD to be.
Still, I had a mission. I had to get two cases of beer three more blocks to my apartment. And I did it! Carrying the broken open case under my left arm, and clutching the intact case in my left hand, I made it the rest of the way home without getting hit by another train or anything.
"Man," said Troy, my roommate, as I practically fell into the entryway. "What the fuck happened to your hand?"
By that time, in addition to being twice its normal size, my hand started to take on a purplish quality. There would be no intimate relations with my right hand for the foreseeable future. Even in class, holding a pencil was a real trick for well over a week. But it wasn't broken, which was astounding to me.
And the moral of the story? Don't get hit by a train, because the train ALWAYS wins.
Well, all my speculation last week about the possibility that Stewartville's favorite oddity would no longer post his puzzling Miscellaneous ads has been discounted. He's back, and in extremely rare form this week. I mean, this time, he made the leap from weird to outright bizarre. But, don't take MY word for it:
FOAMOSTYR. Macheye thermacore styrofoam 9 mos. 28 days inside left knee cap. Lint & fuzz. What is known as 928 adrenaline run in the camouflaging of color white is not white, but camouflaged as red spindles.
What can you say after reading that except, "Jeez."
UPDATE: Out of curiosity, I did a Google search on FOAMOSTYR. No results found. How come I'm not surpised in the least? So, here's your chance to redeem yourself for the failed Simpsons quote game you all refused to play earlier. Your mission: come up with a definition for foamostyr. Come on, let's give this guy a legacy in which he came up with a new word. Do it for schizophrenics everywhere. Crissy Moran. And Crissy Moran again. Crissy Moran naked.
What's your favorite Simpsons quote? And, no fair using Ralph Wiggum's classic "The doctor said I wouldn't have so many nosebleeds if I just kept my fingers out of there." That's too easy.
UPDATE: Or don't. You bunch of lazy, good for nothing, Simpsons hating, grumble grumbles.
Granted, Ronald Reagan was an actor so, technically, an actor has already ruled the world. But, this whole Arnold thing has me pondering a national political theater in which celebrities are a shoo in for elections.
You know, I'm thinking Ben Afleck as a senator and J-Lo as the governor of Missouri.
Is it just me, or it just a tad creepy that Arnold won the California recall election based almost solely on movie catch phrases? As far as I've read, he never really said anything of substance during the debates. He never really showed that he had a grasp of anything even remotely related to the nuances of running a state government. And yet, there he is.
Granted, we had Jesse "The Mind" Ventura" over here in Minnesota-land, but at least he had some level of political experience prior to our monumental fuck up electing him to our governorship.
I guess I'm glad that it's California's turn to experience the ego of a celebrity intent on pursuing his own agenda of promoting himself, but I certainly don't envy that state. They'll learn, soon enough, what it's like to have an idiot in office.
As for our next president? I'm thinking Clint Eastwood. I think he'd rock.
UPDATE: I should note here, lest I call down the lightning bolts of Zeus from you politically-attuned readers out there, that I'm not making a political judgement here. I'm merely marveling at the apparent power of celebrity status when it comes to modern politics. The Terminator, much like the "The Mind" before him, apparently inspired a turnout of younger, atypical voters. I haven't closely followed the California recall because, well, I don't LIVE there, so there may be more to the election than simply celebrity status. But, from where I sit, that seems to be what most voters recognized, and that just strikes me as creepy.
Having just gargled with new Natural Citrus Listerine, I can now officially say that the taste of Listerine simply cannot be improved. It will alway, ALWAYS, taste like battery acid mixed with pee.
The folks at Listerine have tried to hide the burning taste with mint, and now citrus flavor, but that stinging, burning, battery-acid/pee flavor is always in the background, defying all attempts to mask it.
Don't get me wrong: Listerine works. I mean, anything that tastes THAT awful, and is still marketed as an oral hygiene product, simply HAS to be good for bad breath. But, man, who knew that the road to fresh breath had to go through Listerine? It's just so nasty.
So, last night, I realized I needed toilet paper. I had exhausted my 32 roll horde I purchased many weeks ago. And, because I'm a particularly huge fan of taking a crap at home, I decided to go forth in search of butt wiping goodness.
Of course, any trip I make to the grocery store becomes an "I also need" excursion. Oh, I also need deodorant. I also need detergent. I also need milk. You know, the usual.
Now, normally, I'm not a sucker for advertising. I have my standby brand-name purchases. I always buy Tide, because that's what I've always used. I always buy Charmin, because that's what I always buy. I tend to rotate anti-perspirants, because my pits build up a tolerance so I end up switching brands to confuse them and stop them from leaking sweat beads. Still, I stay pretty loyal to Right Guard.
But, last night, I saw Axe body spray. And then, for some strange reason, I envisioned myself getting on an elevator with a hot chick who just can't resist my manly perfumed body, and she rakes at me with wild lust. You know, just like in the commercial. After that, I wasn't able to control myself. I HAD to have Axe body spray. And I don't mean just one bottle, either. I bought TWO. Different fragrances, of course.
Just for the record, the two fragrances I bought, "Voodoo" and "Tsunami," are quite pleasant.
So far today, I haven't been approached by even one female, let alone seduced on an elevator, but I remain optimistic.
If you don't do the Cheddar X, you should, if for no other reason because it gives you something to post about.
1. Where would you be if you were in a band?
Passed out backstage with a heroine needle protruding from my arm and three hot groupie chicks trying to suck my flaccid wang back to life. I soooo should be a rock star.
2. What compels people to obey the law, the desire to avoid prison or caring for their fellow man? Why? Why not?
I think the majority of human nature embraces order over anarchy as it's simply more conducive to survival that we be civil to one another. Laws, provided the laws are fair, provide structure and balance to human societies and enforce the ideals of right and wrong. The fear of reprisal, such as prison (and the rape awaiting you there) keeps most people in line. Still, I think that speeding ticket I got last Christmas was a total pile of fucking shit.
3. What's your favorite secret trick or shortcut either you can do or you know about?
Well, if I told you, it wouldn't a secret any more, now would it? Stop your prying man. Just stop.
4. There has recently been quite a bit of exposure regarding biased reporting from Iraq. Is it the responsibility of the news agencies to report good news as well as bad news?
Well, yeah, duhhhhhh. To hear the news media tell it, you'd swear the coalition was losing the war, when in fact rebuilding accomplishments occur every day, but you never hear about those. Virtually all hospitals and universities are back in operation, hardly the hallmark of a nation wallowing in a quagmire. By reporting only the negative, and playing it up so monumentally, it just drives the lunatic agenda further and makes them think they're winning. Media organizations have an obligation to report on both sides. That's basic Journalism 101, and it's something the big news media outlets have forgotten in the name of selling stories.
5. What should the age of consent be and why?
Jeez, I know people who are in their 30s who have no business copulating. I guess 18 is as good an age as any. If kids are feeling the itch, chances are they're going to go ahead and do it. Therefore, I think setting an age of consent is not nearly as important as sexual education, so if kids do decide to bump uglies, they're at least armed with the information they need to do it safely. Of course, I'm admittedly biased here, what with my father being a sexual education teacher and all, but I do know that the ultra-religious kids who were pulled out of my father's sex ed classes on theological grounds were also the first ones to get their girlfriends knocked up before they were out of high school, or shortly thereafter. I, however, am now 28 and child and disease free. amazing what a little education and common sense can do for a person.
6. Are you a Stealth Blogger? That is, do you let the people in your life know you blog? If so, why? If not, why not?
All my family members know about my blog, including cousins and aunts and uncles. I don't know if they visit regularly, and frankly I don't care. Actually, I know my parents don't read me any more. Oh well. The girlfriend knows, pretty much all my friends know. What can I say? I'm out there, Jerry, and I'm loving every minute of it.
I don't know how many of you are familiar with the Japanese beetle (or lady bug), but I'm here to tell you that they have control of Minnesota right now. Take several consecutive days of abnormally cold temperatures, stir in an indian summer, and BAM!, we're talking beetle explosion.
I'm not kidding. These bugs were everywhere yesterday. I went for a five mile run, and I had to keep batting the annoying buggers off my shirt. A little known thing about the innocent-looking lady bug: the bastards occasionally bite, and they leave some sort of excrement on white shirts that leave a dark stain. I've decided I don't like lady bugs.
Lazy weekend. I went up to the cities to see Melissa. Upon my arrival, we had sex. If there's one thing a week of absence will do, it will build up a lot of sexual need. I had scarcely entered her apartment before we found ourselves deep in the sheets. Any weekend that begins with sex is bound to be, at least, above par.
Saturday, we went to a Halloween outlet, and I was disappointed at the overall lack of realistic Halloween gear. What can I say? I like creepy shit. As we left the store, however, we came to the realization that the day had become stellar: warm sun, blue sky. So, we broke out the rollerblades and trekked all around the trails traversing the Como Park area. Minnesota is funny that way. You take for granted all the really nice summer days, just assuming you're entitled to them, but when a nice fall day rolls around, you savor it like the last Jolly Rancher in the pack or Kelly Clarkson.
This is going to be a bitch of a winter. Mark my words. Lots of snow. Bitter cold. It shall test the resolve of even the most seasoned Minnesotan. Perhaps I should buy a snowmobile this year.
Speaking of buying things, I'm now in the hunt for a house, or at least a townhome. I want my own place. I want a place that is uniquely mine. I want an office decorated like a Japanese room. I want a bedroom that doesn't also serve as a computer room and living room. I want space. And, damn it, I want a dog.
Last night, I went to bed fairly early for a Sunday evening. 10:30. Come midnight, I awoke with a roaring heart rate. It felt like my heart was trying to burst from my chest and flop around on the carpet. This happens once in awhile, and I'm not sure why, although I suspect sodium intake, or at least something that has to do with my diet for the day, has a lot to do with it (last night was Famous Dave's ribs and fries, so you do the math). It's an incredibly uncomfortable experience. One minute I'm happily sleeping away, the next minute I'm snapping awake, my heart pounding in my chest like I've just sprinted for three miles.
I tried watching television. I tried doing pushups. I tried pretty much everything. Finally, I ended up grabbing a beer and nursing that while I surfed the web. Hey, I figured, beer is a depressant, right? I don't know how solid my reasoning was, but whatever the case, my heart rate subsided after about half a can. Don't look for my name in the medical journals any time soon, but the Rhodes Almanac now specifically states that "Half a can of beer can bring down an out of control heart rate."
I can live with that.
